I will admit that a very good case can be made out in favour of some other objects of natural affection.  For example, a fair apology has been offered by those ambitious persons who have fallen in love with the sea.  But, after all, that is a formless and disquieting passion.  It lacks solid comfort and mutual confidence.  The sea is too big for loving, and too uncertain.  It will not fit into our thoughts.  It has no personality because it has so many.  It is a salt abstraction.  You might as well think of loving a glittering generality like “the American woman.”  One would be more to the purpose.

Mountains are more satisfying because they are more individual.  It is possible to feel a very strong attachment for a certain range whose outline has grown familiar to our eyes, or a clear peak that has looked down, day after day, upon our joys and sorrows, moderating our passions with its calm aspect.  We come back from our travels, and the sight of such a well-known mountain is like meeting an old friend unchanged.  But it is a one-sided affection.  The mountain is voiceless and imperturbable; and its very loftiness and serenity sometimes make us the more lonely.

Trees seem to come closer to our life.  They are often rooted in our richest feelings, and our sweetest memories, like birds, build nests in their branches.  I remember, the last time that I saw James Russell Lowell, (only a few weeks before his musical voice was hushed,) he walked out with me into the quiet garden at Elmwood to say good-bye.  There was a great horse-chestnut tree beside the house, towering above the gable, and covered with blossoms from base to summit,—­a pyramid of green supporting a thousand smaller pyramids of white.  The poet looked up at it with his gray, pain-furrowed face, and laid his trembling hand upon the trunk.  “I planted the nut,” said he, “from which this tree grew.  And my father was with me and showed me how to plant it.”

Yes, there is a good deal to be said in behalf of tree-worship; and when I recline with my friend Tityrus beneath the shade of his favourite oak, I consent in his devotions.  But when I invite him with me to share my orisons, or wander alone to indulge the luxury of grateful, unlaborious thought, my feet turn not to a tree, but to the bank of a river, for there the musings of solitude find a friendly accompaniment, and human intercourse is purified and sweetened by the flowing, murmuring water.  It is by a river that I would choose to make love, and to revive old friendships, and to play with the children, and to confess my faults, and to escape from vain, selfish desires, and to cleanse my mind from all the false and foolish things that mar the joy and peace of living.  Like David’s hart, I pant for the water-brooks.  There is wisdom in the advice of Seneca, who says, “Where a spring rises, or a river flows, there should we build altars and offer sacrifices.”