THE OAK. 



69 



branches^ and flinging its cliequered shade far and 

 near over the verdant sward, is a beautiful object, 

 and irresistibly draws the attention to itself. But 

 it does not carry the mind of the spectator back 

 to past events, — it does not talk with us about 

 bygone ages, and scenes at which no man now 

 living was present. And, if v/e think of its future 

 fate, there is so much of uncertainty about that, 

 so much of doubt as to the length of time for 

 which it is destined to retain its position ; whether 

 it will be laid low by the tempest, or by the vrood- 

 man's axe, and if the latter, to what purposes it 

 may be applied, that the mind can select nothing 

 sufficiently definite to engage itself upon. The 

 tan-yard, the saw-pit, and the baker's oven, are 

 decidedly not subjects to dwell upon; and these, 

 in fact, are the only passages in its history which 

 can be predicted with certainty. But the case is 

 very different with the uncouth monster on whom 

 the destroyer has done all but his utmost. Though 

 but a hollow shell, blasted above, and worm-eaten 

 below, and indebted for its scanty verdure more 

 to ferns and moss than to the feeble relics of life 

 which yet remain in it ; it is a monument of the 

 past more eloquent than buildings the most time- 

 hallowed ; or, save one, than books of the most 

 remote antiquity. It is noii^ a living tree, and it 

 was the same thirty generations back. Yes ! a 

 thousand years ago it was a stately tree : — when 

 the present dynasty commenced it was older than 

 the oldest men then alive, and it has lived through 

 all the stirring events w^hich have taken place from 

 that time to this, connecting the names of Scott 

 and Wordsworth with those of Newton and Mil- 

 ton, and Shakspeare, and these with Caxton and 



