THE WOODS. 187 



unspeakable beauty." I am reminded, too, of "The 

 Marshes of Glynn," the 



" Gloom of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven 

 With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven 

 Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs," 



— ah, Lanier was a poet ! Nor must I neglect to men- 

 tion Dr. W. C, Gray's forest musings, nor Mr. John 

 Muir's vivid inspirations on the trees of the Western 

 Sierras, nor the chapter on "The Hills," in "The 

 Forest," by Mr. Stewart Edward White. And the 

 time would fail me to tell as I ought of the travels of 

 Parkman, and the explorations of Stanley in the Congo, 

 and of the "Silva" of Evelyn, and Michaux, and the 

 monumental work of Sargent. 



I have enjoyed these forest descriptions in liter- 

 ature. There are many more such passages, of our 

 day and before it; I have presented but a few of them. 

 Some of the earliest are among the best. Vergil writes 

 in his imagination, you remember, of how the spears 

 of Polydorus grew into trees which shed blood upon 

 being broken. Dante also, in his great vision, saw that 

 the twigs ran blood, and were alive. And so is the 

 forest indeed, in its way, full of beautiful life and joy, 

 which rebuke us at their wanton destruction. 



I leave the old woods with awe and reverence. It 

 has served its purpose. Most of the best trees have 

 been felled, and the oldest of those remaining have 

 staghorns of dead branches at their tops — the minarets, 

 as it were, of a place of worship. The young growth 

 is thick, however, and in time a new forest will spring 

 up in its place, and will no doubt fill the same useful- 



