THE AGE OF THE CEDAR TREE 151 
Before it has accomplished a century, or a century 
and a half of existence, a Dies Ire in the shape of 
snow-storms often overtakes its chances of attaining 
any fame in the annals of a blasted antiquity. Under 
an inflicted weight of such a visitation rather than 
under any disabling weight of age, its boughs and 
branches, with a prelude, crack like the sound of 
great guns, snap off, and so—sic transit gloria mundi— 
the professional beauty of one day becomes the 
wreck of ages of another. It is at such moments as 
these that we recall the words of Tennyson : 
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon, 
. Sighing for Lebanon, dark Cedar? 
And like children crying for the moon, miey. still 
sigh.on, and in vain. 
How well I can remember on a cold winter 
night succeeding in averting such a disaster .to 
a favourite tree, by dislodging from its tabuliform 
branches, with the aid of a fire engine and other chilly 
helpmates, collected masses of fallen snow.. 
The Cedar may, and possibly does, enjoy immunity 
from the shrivelling—not always—effects of lightning, 
but the season of snows—like the whirligig of time— 
makes counter revenges and takes a heavy toll. On 
one day it is accounted the pride and glory of the 
lawn or country-side ; in a few succeeding hours the 
scene may have changed, disastrously changed. 
The storm: may have broken upon it, and there may 
only remain a memory of lost delight amid a débris 
of broken boughs. 
The true Cedars do not enjoy that monoply of 
name that they, de jure and de facto, are entitled 
to. The Greek word «éSpos seems, according to 
Liddell and Scott and other pundits of classical renown, 
to have applied more to the Juniper than the Cedar 
