SCARBRO'. 



195 



wind, — now, falling to the ground under the 

 pressure of the rain and the mist, until life's 

 every comfort is destroyed. 



Look into the towns themselves. Not a pro- 

 jection there, is free from soot; not a particle of 

 clean paint is to be seen : — all, all is smoke, — 

 yellow, black and suffocating smoke, which stupifies 

 man's soul the week throughout ; aye, often on our 

 Maker's sacred day of rest. 



Then view the neighbouring fields. There is 

 not one healthy tree, to meet the wandering eye. 

 Those which remain, are sickly, wan and perishing. 

 In a very few years more, not a tree will be alive. 

 Blackened by the rolling smoke, — diseased in bark 

 and branch, they certainly continue to vegetate 

 for a while ; but their death-warrant is signed. 

 Their tops become what is called stag-horned, and 

 they fairly die at last; and when cut into, they 

 shew no appearance of internal decay. Wherefore, 

 their misfortunes must have come upon them from 

 without. There, victims to pernicious vapours, 

 they stand to prove my words. They are beacons 

 of desolation, to warn us advocates for sylvan 

 scenery, that we are in horribly bad company. 

 This is not imagination or mere hear-say. No 

 such thing. I myself have watched the progress 

 of the pest, and suffered through its ravages. Even 



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