VIII. 



OLD ROADS. 



I CANNOT say that I am an admirer of what are com- 

 monly termed improvements, and seldom observe them 

 without a feeling of regret, except in the very depth of 

 the wilderness. More of the beauty of landscape is de- 

 stroyed every year by attempts to beautify it, than by 

 the ignorant woodman who cuts down his trees for the 

 railroad or the ship-yard. There is a certain kind of 

 beauty which ought to be cherished by the people of 

 every land ; but this should be done for the sake of the 

 pleasure derived from the objects that produce it. As 

 soon as we begin to cultivate a garden, or ornament a 

 house or an inclosure, with the hope of dazzling the 

 public eye, at that moment the spell is broken, and all 

 the enchantment vanishes. There is something exceed- 

 ingly delightful in the ornaments that have risen up 

 spontaneously in those grounds, which, after they were 

 once reduced to tillage, have been left for many years, 

 in the primitive hands of nature. Vain are all our at- 

 tempts to imitate these indescribable beauties, such as 

 we find along the borders of an old rustic farm, by an 

 old road-side, or a pasture that is overgrown with spon- 

 taneous shrubbery. 



