and to punish this improvident misconduct, she has reduced these districts to a state of barrenness proportioned to the severity of the system by which they have been exhausted. This, we are persuaded, is the principal, if not the sole, cause of the disappointment which has, in some instances, attended the inclosure of commons. The temptation of five or six crops, obtained at little or no expense, from a virgin soil, proved too strong for the self-denial or the discretion of the cultivator: he scourged the land until he succeeded in completely exhausting its powers; and, with singular ingratitude and inconsistency, he now turns round upon Nature, pours forth lamentations over the barrenness of the soil, and-angry that he cannot have the cake which he has eaten'-exclaims against all attempts to reclaim and improve waste lands. Had these people acted upon the rational principles which experience points out; had they kept their land clean; adopted an ameliorating system of tillage, and made a green crop succeed a white one-no intelligent person will for a moment doubt, that by far the greater proportion of the land last taken into cultivation of the 'poor soils' which the economists tell us have been prematurely and, of course, injuriously forced into tillage,—would have now exhibited a very different appearance.

The Economists of the cockney school seem to conceive of all land fit for tillage, as if it were turned out of the hands of Nature regularly divided into what Mr. Hunt, the Cockney poet, calls 'farmy fields'; according to them, its productive powers were originally just as great as they are now after the revolution of a score of laborious ages. That all the operations of Nature have small beginnings; that she pushes her work forward by steps which are certain, although slow; that she is incessantly engaged in creating soil where none previously existed, and in improving the quality of that which she has already formed-these are philosophical truths which never enter into their calculations.

Nothing can be more truly beautiful in itself, or more deeply interesting to a reflecting mind, than the process by which Nature constantly produces an accession of soil, and an accumulation of vegetable matter to render it fertile. The process is varied so as to be exactly adapted to overcome the obstacles which the circumstances of each particular district present; but although the means employed are infinitely various, the final result is always the same. When the surface of a rock, for instance, becomes first exposed to the atmosphere, it is at once attacked by agents which operate mechanically and chemically. Light calls into activity the latent heat; the pores become, by that means, sufficiently enlarged to admit particles of moisture, which gradually abrade the surface and produce inequalities; upon these inequalities the seeds of lichens are deposited by the atmosphere; these forerunners of

vegetation

vegetation take root, and the fibres by which some sorts of these diminutive plants adhere to the rock, concoct a vegetable acid peculiarly adapted to corrode the substance with which it comes in contact, and increase the inequalities which heat and moisture had already formed. These diminutive plants decay and perish: when decomposed they form a vegetable bed suited to the production of larger plants; or when the surface of the rock happens to present clefts, or natural crevices, they fall into them; and there mingling with fine particles of sand, conveyed thither by the atmosphere, or crumbled by the action of the air from the internal surfaces of the crevices themselves, they form fertile mould, Nature, having advanced thus far in her preparations, makes another forward step. She sows the soil which has been created by the decomposition of vegetable matter, with some of the more perfect plants, which it has now become capable of sustaining. These continue to be produced and decomposed until a soil has been prepared of sufficient depth and richness to bear plants of still higher quality and larger dimensions. The process of Nature acquires accelerated force as it advances towards its consummation. When a sufficient depth of soil has been formed to produce ferns, for instance, these annually decay and die; their decomposed materials gradually form little conical heaps of vegetable mould round the spot on which each plant grew. When this has gone on for a period of sufficient length to spread these cones over a given surface, nature takes another stride: she sows furze, thorns, and briars, which thrive luxuriantly, and by annually shedding their leaves contribute, in the end, to add greatly to both the depth and fertility of the mould. This species constitutes, in truth, the means which nature principally uses in preparing a bed for the growth of the more valuable trees. It is well known that these are the plants which make their first appearance in fallows, or in woods which have been recently cut down. Into the centre of a tuft of brambles, is accidentally carried the seed of the majestic oak; meeting with a congenial soil, it soon vegetates; it is carefully and effectually cherished and protected by its prickly defence, against all injuries from the bite of the animals which roam over the waste. The larger trees having reached a height and size which render shelter unnecessary, destroy their early nurses and protectors, by robbing them of the light and air indispensable for their well being. The thorny plants then retire to the outskirts of the forest, where, in the enjoyment of an abundant supply of light and sun, they continue gradually to extend the empire of their superiors, and make encroachments upon the plain, until the whole district becomes at length covered with magnificent trees. The roots of the larger trees penetrate the soil in all directions: they even find their way

into the crevices of the rocks, filled, as these are already, by decomposed vegetable matter: here they swell and contract, as the heat and moisture increase or diminish. They act like true levers, until they gradually pulverize the earthy materials which they have been able to penetrate. While the roots are thus busy under ground, boring, undermining, cleaving, and crumbling every thing that impedes their progress, the branches and leaves are equally indefatigable overhead. They arrest the volatile particles of vegetable food which float in the atmosphere. Thus fed and sustained, each tree not only increases annually in size, but produces and deposits a crop of fruit and leaves. The fruit becomes the food of animals, or is carried into a spot where it can produce a new plant: the leaves fall around the tree, where they become gradually decomposed, and, in the lapse of ages, make a vast addition to the depth of the vegetable mould; and whilst the decomposition of vegetables makes a gradual addition to the depth of the cultivable soil, another cause, equally constant in operation, contributes to increase its fertility-the produce of the minutest plants serves to subsist myriads of insects; after a brief existence, these perish and decay: their decomposed particles greatly fertilize the vegetable matter with which they happen to mingle. The period at length arrives when the timber having reached its highest measure of growth and perfection, may be cut down, in order that the husbandman may enter upon the inheritance prepared for him by the hand of the all-wise and all-beneficent Author of his existence. Such is the system, which they that have eyes to see may see. Plants which appear worthless in themselves, those lichens, mosses, heaths, ferns, furze, briars, and brooms, in which economists, forsooth! perceive only the symbols of eternal barrenness, —are so many instruments employed by perfect Wisdom in fertilizing new districts for the occupation of future generations of mankind :

The course of Nature is the art of God.'

The wastes of this country, as they have been managed for ages, have been partly taken out of the hands of Nature without having been wholly taken into the hands of man. The constant depasturing of cattle on wastes and commons counteracts the means which Nature makes use of in producing fertility, and, in consequence, greatly retards the period when the soil becomes sufciently deep for agricultural purposes. There is not, perhaps, a heathy waste in England, which would not become a forest, were the commoners restrained from setting their flocks upon it.

It is admitted on all hands that the growth of timber for naval purposes is an object of vital importance to the nation; and great exertions have been already made, and still continue to be made,

in replanting parts of the royal forests, where the timber had been cut down, or fallen into decay. However praiseworthy the object of these exertions, we entertain some doubt whether they are conducted on right principles; we are inclined to suspect that replanting oak trees where oaks have grown before, is as great a blunder in forest economy as sowing wheat immediately after wheat would be considered in rural management. It is a wellknown fact, that wherever trees of any particular species have fallen into decay, other trees of the same species will not naturally thrive for instance, when a forest of firs falls naturally into decay, it is never found to be succeeded by another crop of firs, but by birch, oaks, or other species congenial to the soil which the fir-wood had formed. We are tempted, then, to recommend the Commissioners of Woods and Forests to reconsider the system upon which they now proceed-to regard the ancient forests of the crown in which timber has not only come to perfection but fallen to decay, as so much land prepared by the hand of Nature for the purpose-not of being replanted-but ploughed. It would, we think, be desirable to sell every part of these forests not already covered with thriving plantations, and to vest the proceeds in the purchase of other wastes, which would answer even better for the growth of timber. The crown lands and forests might thus be made the base from which cultivation might be extended over extensive districts; and the office of Woods and Forests take rank as one of the most efficient and important branches of administration. We cannot see any valid objection to conferring upon these commissioners the power of purchasing wastes or commons for the purpose either of being planted or of being allotted and sold for tillage.

The vast plantations which, within the last fifty years, have been spread over the heaths of various districts of this country, are to be considered not only as the sources of enormous future profit to their owners, but as of the highest importance to the public.. In them we behold the most efficient means which could have been adopted towards covering these barren tracts with a depth of soil adequate for the purposes of husbandry. Many of these trees, and more especially the larch, are known to destroy the heath, and to afford a shelter highly favourable to the growth of nutricious grasses. Thus, even without including the timber in the estimate, the land on many great estates has already been, to all intents and purposes, doubled in value ;—and all this is known to few men more thoroughly than to Lord Lowther. Why not follow out the same system on the domains of the crown?

Here, again, we say, it is at least worth a trial. But, indeed, the subject is of too much importance to be dismissed with this incidental notice; and we shall, ere long, recur to it.

ART.

ART. VI.-Isaac Comnenus. A Play. London, 1827.

WE

TE notice this play because it is equally remarkable for originality of conception and sobriety of execution.

Those ages, to recount the revolutions of which, according to Milton, it is not more worth, than to chronicle the wars of kites and crows, flocking and fighting in the air,' are rich in materials for poetry and romance, and more especially for the drama. They abound in striking examples of virtue as well as of enormous wickedness-in great and sudden reverses of fortune-and in circumstances well fitted to excite an intense interest for the fate of individuals, which can rarely be partaken when the wider scene opens, and attention is less fixed upon the personages who pass like shadows over the stage, than upon general concerns and the great course of events. When we come to times of political history, the heroic character disappears, happily for mankind,— the splendid virtues which are called forth in turbulent ages, and which command the admiration of posterity, being_dearly paid for by the generations which witness their display. To a certain degree it may be true, that in this change of society one class of crimes has given place to another. It is nevertheless an improvement in our condition to live under the star of Plutus (if he has one) rather than that of Mars-to be born in the bank-paper age instead of the iron one-to pay taxes rather than black mail-to have our pockets picked rather than our throats cut-and to endure lengthy speeches upon Catholic emancipation rather than be massacred like the Albigenses, hunted down like the Vaudois, or burnt alive for the good of our neighbours' souls, like those martyrs who purchased for us our inheritance of religious liberty.

The dramatists of our silver age (for so that of Lee may be called, rather in reference to the leaden one that followed than to the golden time of Elizabeth and James) went more frequently to romance than to history for their subjects. Calprenade, Mademoiselle Scudery, and her brother, were to them what Sir Walter Scott is to the play-wrights and melodrama-mongers of this generation. They were thus saved the trouble of invention, and no skill was required for insinuating the plot into an audience, the greater part of whom might be supposed to be familiar with the names and circumstances of the story. They followed in this the Horatian precept, not in deference to Horace, but because it was the easiest course for incapacity and ignorance. Had they been better read, they would have known that history is richer than romance in events and characters suited for dramatic representation, and they would have been less in danger of falling into extravagance and bombast, either of action or sentiment, into both which they were misled by their models.

The