And though no man ever bore such worries with the equanimity of Scott,
no man ever received less pleasure from the adulation of unknown and
often vulgar and ignorant admirers. His real amusements were his trees
and his friends. "Planting and pruning trees," he said, "I could work
at from morning to night. There is a sort of self-congratulation, a
little tickling self-flattery, in the idea that while you are pleasing
and amusing yourself, you are seriously contributing to the future
welfare of the country, and that your very acorn may send its future
ribs of oak to future victories like Trafalgar,"[42]--for the day of
iron ships was not yet. And again, at a later stage of his
planting:--"You can have no idea of the exquisite delight of a
planter,--he is like a painter laying on his colours,--at every moment
he sees his effects coming out. There is no art or occupation
comparable to this; it is full of past, present, and future enjoyment.
I look back to the time when there was not a tree here, only bare
heath; I look round and see thousands of trees growing up, all of
which, I may say almost each of which, have received my personal
attention.
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