Whether timber be more lasting when cut at one time of the season than at another, is not yet determined. The matured wood does not seem to be much affected by the season, continuing nearly equally moist throughout the year; life or action in it, though not quite, being nearly extinct, and little or no circulation remaining; yet the matured wood of the stool of the pine throws out a little resin when the tree is cut down in summer,—perhaps only a mechanical effect of heat and drying. Steeping in water for a considerable time is of far more importance to the duration of timber than any thing depending on the time of the season when it is cut down; steeping causes some acetous {128} change in the timber (easily recognisable by the sense of smelling when any section of it is made), which, judging from the effect the acetous change has to preserve other vegetable matter from putrefaction, is probably of considerable use in preserving the timber from decay, either by rot or worming. The time of cutting, although of considerable importance to the quality and durability of the sap-wood, appears to be of little or none to the matured. The age at which timber may be cut down being uncertain, the height to which it should be trained up of clear stem is not very determinable,—say that the trees are to be allowed to stand till nearly full grown,—as long as the timber continues to retain its strength and toughness when growing in proper soil, that is for hard-wood trees 100 years and upwards, and for pines from two to three hundred. On crowns of eminences and exposed bluffs, particularly when the latitude or altitude is rather high, the soil inferior, or the climate arid, from 15 to 30 feet of clear hole may be as much as can judiciously be attempted; upon plains under common circumstances, from 30 to 50 feet is an attainable stem; in sheltered dales and valleys, they may be trained clean, and without branch, from 50 to 70 feet in altitude; and in cases where soil, situation, {129} and climate, are all propitious, and it is desired that nature’s fullest, grandest, development should be displayed, from 70 to 150 feet, clear of branch, maybe gained. Lewis and Clarke describe a spruce, in a sheltered dell on the river Columbia, which they measured, lying upon the ground, 312 feet long from root to top. We have little belonging to earth more sublime, or which bears home to man a deeper sense of his bodily insignificance, and puny transient being, than an ancient majestic forest, whose luxuriant foliage on high, seems of itself almost a firmament of verdure, supported on lofty moss-covered columns, and unnumbered branched arches,—a scene equally sublime, whether we view it under the coloured and flickering lights and shadows of the summer eve and morning, resounding to the song of the wild life which harbours there,—or under the scattered beams streaming downward at high noontide when all is still,—or in winter storms, when the wild