There
is the ruin of an enormous oak, which has been so much battered by
time and tempest, that scarce any thing is left; though he says
Christy recollects when, in his boyhood, it was healthy and
nourishing, until it was struck by lightning. It is now a mere trunk,
with one twisted bough stretching up into the air, leaving a green
branch at the end of it. This sturdy wreck is much valued by the
Squire; he calls it his standard-bearer, and compares it to a veteran
warrior beaten down in battle, but bearing up his banner to the last.
He has actually had a fence built round it, to protect it as much as
possible from further injury.
It is with great difficulty that the Squire can ever be brought to
have any tree cut down on his estate. To some he looks with reverence,
as having been planted by his ancestors; to others with a kind of
paternal affection, as having been planted by himself; and he feels a
degree of awe in bringing down, with a few strokes of the axe, what it
has cost centuries to build up. I confess I cannot but sympathize, in
some degree, with the good Squire on the subject. Though brought up in
a country overrun with forests, where trees are apt to be considered
mere encumbrances, and to be laid low without hesitation or remorse,
yet I could never see a fine tree hewn down without concern.
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