Part 9

There seems to be no very notable difference between the American and European Holly. Selby says of the latter: “The size which the Holly frequently attains in a state of nature, as well as when under cultivation, its beauty and importance in forest and woodland scenery, either as a secondary tree or merely as an underwood shrub, justify our placing it among the British forest trees of the second rank.” He adds: “As an ornamental evergreen, whether in the form of a tree or as an undergrowth, the Holly is one of the most beautiful we possess. The deep green glittering foliage contrasts admirably with the rich coral hue of its berries.”

THE SPIRÆA.

In the month of July the wooded pastures are variegated with little groups of shrubbery full of delicate white blossoms in compound pyramidal clusters, attracting more attention from a certain downy softness in their appearance than from their beauty. These plants have received the name of Spiræa from the spiry arrangement of their flowers. The larger species among our wild plants, commonly known as the Meadow-Sweet, in some places as Bridewort, is very frequent on little tussocks and elevations rising out of wet soil. It is a slender branching shrub, bearing a profusion of small, finely serrate and elegant leaves, extending down almost to the roots, and a compound panicle of white impurpled flowers at the ends of the branches. It is well known to all who are familiar with the wood-scenery of New England, and is seen growing abundantly in whortleberry pastures, in company with the small kalmia and the swamp rose. It is a very free bloomer, lasting from June till September, often blending a few solitary spikes of delicate flowers with the tinted foliage of autumn.

THE HARDHACK.

The flowers of the purple Spiræa, or Hardhack, are conspicuous by roadsides, especially where they pass over wet grounds. It delights in the borders of rustic wood-paths, in lanes that conduct from the enclosures of some farm cottage to the pasture, growing all along under the loose stone-wall, where its crimson spikes may be seen waving in the wind with the nodding plumes of the golden-rod and the blue spikes of the vervain, well known as the “Simpler’s Joy.” The Hardhack affords no less pleasure to the simpler, who has used its flowers from immemorial time as an astringent anodyne. There is no beauty in any part of this plant, except its pale crimson flowers, which are always partially faded at the extremity or unopened at the base, so that a perfect cluster cannot be found. The leaves are of a pale imperfect green on the upper surface and almost white beneath, and without any beauty. The uprightness of this plant, and the spiry form of its floral clusters, has gained it the name of “Steeplebush,” from our church-going ancestors.

THE HAWTHORN.

Few trees have received a greater tribute of praise from poets and poetical writers than the Hawthorn, which in England especially is consecrated to the pastoral muse and to all lovers of rural life. The Hawthorn is also a tree of classical celebrity. Its flowers and branches were used by the ancient Greeks at wedding festivities, and laid upon the altar of Hymen in the floral games of May, with which from the earliest times it has been associated. In England it is almost as celebrated as the rose, and constitutes the most admired hedge plant of that country. It is, indeed, the beauty of this shrub that forms the chief attraction of the English hedge-rows, which are not generally clipped, but allowed to run up and bear flowers. These are the principal beauties of the plant; for its leaves are neither luxuriant nor flowing.

The Hawthorn in this country is not associated with hedge-rows, which with us are only matters of pride and fancy, not of necessity, and their formal clipping causes them to resemble nature only as a wooden post resembles a tree. Our admiration of the Hawthorn, therefore, comes from a pleasant tradition derived from England, through the literature of that country, where it is known by the name of May-bush, from its connection with the floral festivities of May. The May-pole of the south of England is always garlanded with its flowers, as crosses are with holly at Christmas. The Hawthorn is well known in this country, though unassociated with any of our rural customs. Many of its species are indigenous in America, and surpass those of Europe in the beauty of their flowers and fruit. They are considered the most ornamental of the small trees in English gardens.

The flowers of the Hawthorn are mostly white, varying in different species through all the shades of pink, from a delicate blush-color to a pale crimson. The fruit varies from yellow to scarlet. The leaves are slightly cleft, like those of the oak and the holly. The flowers are produced in great abundance, and emit an agreeable odor, which is supposed by the peasants of Europe to be an antidote to poison.

SUMMER WOOD-SCENERY.

I have alluded to a beneficent law of Nature, that causes her to waste no displays of sublimity or beauty by making them either lasting or common. Before the light of morn is sufficient to make any objects distinctly visible, it displays a beauty of its own, beginning with a faint violet, and melting through a succession of hues into the splendor of meridian day. It remains through the day mere white transparent light, disclosing the infinite forms and colors of the landscape, being itself only the cause that renders everything visible. When at the decline of day it fades, just in the same ratio as substantial objects grow dim and undiscernible, this unsubstantial light once more becomes beautiful, painting itself in soft, tender, and glowing tints upon the clouds and the atmosphere. Similar phenomena attend both the opening and the decline of the year. Morning is the spring, with its pale and delicate tints that gradually change into the universal green that marks the landscape in summer, when the characterless brilliancy of noonday is represented on the face of the land. Autumn is emblemized by the departing tints of sunset; and thus the day and the year equally display the beneficence of Nature in the gradual approach and decline of the beauty and the splendor that distinguish them.

The flowering of the forest is the conclusion of the beautiful phenomena of spring, and summer cannot be said to begin until we witness the full expansion of its foliage. In the early part of the season each tree displays modifications of verdure peculiar, not only to the species, but to the individual and the situation, and hardly two trees in the wood are shaded alike. As the foliage ripens, the different shades of green become more thoroughly blended into one universal hue; and this uniformity, when perfected, distinguishes the true summer phase of vegetation. As summer advances, this monotony increases until near its close. The only trees that variegate the prospect are the evergreens, by their darker and more imperfect verdure, and one or two rare species, like the catalpa and ailantus, which display a lighter and more lively green, resembling the verdure of early summer.

It may be said, however, in behalf of summer, that no other season affords so good an opportunity to note the different effects of sun and shade in the foliage of the woods and fields. The leaves of the trees and grass are never so beautiful in their summer dress as they appear during the hour preceding sunset, when we view them with the sun shining obliquely toward us. All foliage is more or less transparent, and the rays of the sun, made slightly golden by the refraction of the atmosphere, communicate a brilliant yellow tinge to the leaves, as they shine through them. The same effects are not produced by reflection; for if we look away from the sun, the foliage and grass present a much less attractive appearance. A few hours after noonday, before the sunlight is yellowed by refraction, we may study these phenomena more minutely. When we look in the direction of the light, as I have just remarked, we see the least variety of light and shade; for as every leaf is an imperfect mirror, the surface of the forest presents a glitter that throws a glazed and whitish appearance over the green of the foliage. The whole is a mere glare, so that the landscape is almost without expression when viewed in this manner, and all the tiresome uniformity of summer verdure is aggravated. The only relief for the eye comes from the shadows of isolated trees and small forest groups as they are cast upon the ground.

Now let us turn our eyes in an opposite direction. To obtain the best view, we should look obliquely toward the sun. Then do we behold a magnificent blending of light and shade; for every mass of foliage has a dark shadow beneath it, forming a more appreciable contrast on account of the intense brilliancy, without glitter, caused by the illumination of every leaf by the sunlight shining through it. Under these circumstances we can once more distinguish species, to some extent, by their colors. We shall soon discover that trees which have a thin corrugated leaf, without gloss, make the most brilliant spectacle when viewed in this manner. Nothing can surpass the foliage of the elm, the lime, the maple, and the birch in this peculiar splendor. But trees like the poplar, the tulip-tree, the oak, and the willow, having a leaf of a firmer texture and less diaphanous, look comparatively dull under the same circumstances.

I would repeat that the true summer phase of wood-scenery is that which succeeds the flowering of the forest, when all the different greens have faded into one dark shade of verdure. There is no longer that marked and beautiful variety which is displayed before the maturity of the leaves. Summer is not, therefore, the painter’s season. It is dull and tame compared even with winter, when regarded as a subject for the brush or the pencil, and especially when compared with spring and autumn. Summer is the time for the observations of the botanist, not for those of the picturesque rambler; for beneath this sylvan mass of monotonous verdure the sods are covered with an endless variety of herbs and flowers, surpassing in beauty those of any other season.

THE OAK.

If the willow be the most poetical of trees, the Oak is certainly the most useful; though, indeed, it is far from being unattended with poetic interest, since the ancient superstitions associated with it have given it an important place in legendary lore. It is not surprising, when we remember the numerous benefits conferred on mankind by the Oak, that this tree has always been regarded with veneration, that the ancients held it sacred to Jupiter, and that divine honors were paid to it by our Celtic ancestors. The Romans, who crowned their heroes with green Oak leaves, entitled the “Civic Crown,” and the Druids, who offered sacrifice under this tree, were actuated by the same estimation of its pre-eminent utility to the human race. When we consider the sturdy form of the Oak, the wide spread of its lower branches, that symbolize protection; the value of its fruit for the sustenance of certain animals; and the many purposes to which the bark, the wood, and even the excrescences of this tree may be applied,—we can easily understand why it is called the emblem of hospitality. The ancient Romans planted it to overshadow the temple of Jupiter; and in the adjoining grove of oaks,—the sacred grove of Dodona,—they sought those oracular responses which were prophetic of the result of any important adventure.

To American eyes, the Oak is far less familiar than the elm as a wayside tree; but in England, where many

“... a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks,”

this tree, formerly associated with the principal religious ceremonies of that country, is now hardly less sacred in the eyes of the inhabitants from their experience of its shelter and its shade, and their ideas of its usefulness in all the arts. The history of the British Isles is closely interwoven with incidents connected with it, and the poetry of Great Britain has derived from it many a theme of inspiration.

The Oak surpasses all other trees, not only in actual strength, but also in that outward appearance by which this quality is manifested. This expression is owing to the general horizontal tendency of its principal boughs, the great angularity of the unions of its smaller branches, the want of flexibility in its spray, and its great size compared with its height, all manifesting power to resist the wind and the storm. Hence it is called the monarch of trees, surpassing all in the qualities of nobleness and capacity. It is the embodiment of strength, dignity, and grandeur. The severest hurricane cannot overthrow it, and, by destroying some of its principal branches, leaves it only with more wonderful proof of its resistance. Like a rock in mid-ocean, it becomes in old age a just symbol of fortitude, parting with its limbs one by one, as they are withered by decay or broken by the gale, but still retaining its many-centuried existence, when, like an old patriarch, it has seen all its early companions removed.

A remarkable habit of the Oak is that of putting forth its lower branches at a wide angle from the central shaft, which rapidly diminishes in size, but does not entirely disappear above the lower junction. No other tree displays more irregularities in its ramification. The beauty of its spray depends on a certain crinkling of the small branches; yet the Oak, which, on account of these angularities, is especially adapted to rude situations, is equally attractive in an open cultivated plain. It forms a singularly noble and majestic standard; and though surpassed by the elm in grace, beauty, and variety of form, an Oak of full size and just proportions would attract more admiration.

The foliage of the Oak may be readily distinguished at all seasons. It comes out in spring in neatly plaited folds, displaying a variety of hues, combined with a general cinereous tint. Hence it is very beautiful when only half developed, having a silvery lustre, intershaded with purple, crimson, and lilac. The leaves, when fully expanded in all the typical oaks, are deeply scalloped in a way which is peculiar to this genus of trees; their verdure is of more than ordinary purity; they are of a firm texture, and glossy upon their upper surface, like evergreen leaves. In midsummer few forest trees surpass the Oak in the beauty of their foliage, or in its persistence after the arrival of frost.

Oak woods possess characters almost as strongly marked as those of a pine wood. They emit a fragrance which is agreeable, though not sweet, and unlike that of other trees. They seldom grow as densely as pines, poplars, and other trees that scatter a multitude of small seeds, and, being soft-wooded, increase with greater rapidity. The Oak is slow in its perpendicular growth, having an obstinate inclination to spread. It has also a more abundant undergrowth than many other woods, because it sends its roots downward into the soil, instead of monopolizing the surface, like the beech. One thing that is apparent on entering an Oak wood is the absence of that uniformity which we observe in other woods. The irregular and contorted growth of individual trees, twisting in many directions, and the want of precision in their forms, are apparent at once. We do not see in a forest of Oaks whole acres of tall slender trees sending upward a smooth perpendicular shaft, as we observe in a wood of beech and poplar. Every tree has more or less of a gnarled growth, and is seldom entirely clear of branches. If the branch of an Oak in a dense assemblage meets an obstruction, it bends itself around and upward until it obtains light and space, or else ceases to grow without decaying, while that of any soft-wooded tree would perish, leaving the trunk smooth, or but slightly defaced.

TREES IN ASSEMBLAGES.

Open groves, fragments of forest, and inferior groups alone are particularly interesting in landscape. An extensive and unbroken wilderness of wood affords but a dreary prospect and an unattractive journey. Its gloomy uniformity tires and saddens the spectator, after some hours’ confinement to it. The primitive state of any densely wooded continent, unmodified by the operations of civilized man, is sadly wanting in those cheerful scenes which are now so common in New England. Nature must be combined with art, or rather with the works of man’s labor, and associated with human life, to be deeply interesting. It is not necessary, however, that the artificial objects in a landscape should possess a grand historical character to awaken our sympathies. Humble objects, indeed, are the most consonant with nature’s aspects, because they manifest no ludicrous endeavor to rival them. A woodman’s hut in a clearing, a farmer’s cottage on some half-cultivated slope, a saw-mill, or even a mere sheepfold, awakens a sympathetic interest, and enlivens the scene with pastoral and romantic images.

A great part of the territory of North America is still a wilderness; but the forests have been so extensively invaded that we see the original wood only in fragments, seldom forming unique assemblages. Especially in the Western States, the woods are chiefly sections of the forest, scattered in and around the spacious clearings, without many natural groups of trees to please the eye with their spontaneous beauty. They surround the clearing with palisades of naked pillars, unrelieved by any foliage below their summits. They remind me of city houses which have been cut asunder to widen an avenue, leaving their interior walls exposed to sight. These fragments of forest, and the acres of stumps in the recent clearings, are the grand picturesque deformity of the newly settled parts of the country. But when a wall of these forest palisades, a hundred feet in height, bounds the plain for miles of prospect, it forms a scene of unexceptionable grandeur.

It is chiefly in the old States that we see anything like a picturesque grouping of trees. There the wood assumes the character of both forest and grove, displaying a beautiful intermixture of them, combined with groups of coppice and shrubbery. Thickets generally occupy the low grounds, and coppice the elevations. The New England system of farming has been more favorable to the picturesque grouping of wood, and other objects, than that of any other part of the country. At the South, where agriculture is carried on in large plantations, we see spacious fields of tillage, and forest groups of corresponding size. But the small, independent farming of New England has produced a charming variety of wood, pasture, and tillage, so agreeably intermixed that we are never weary of looking upon it. The varied surface of the land has increased these advantages, producing an endless succession of those limited views which we call picturesque.

When a considerable space is covered with a dense growth of tall trees, the assemblage represents overhead an immense canopy of verdure, supported by innumerable pillars. No man could enter one of these dark solitudes without a deep impression of sublimity, especially during a general stillness of the winds. The voices of solitary birds, and other sounds peculiar to the woods, exalt this impression. Indeed, the grandeur and solemnity of a magnificent wood are hardly surpassed by anything else in nature. A very slight sound, during a calm, in one of these deep woods, has a distinctness almost startling, like the ticking of a clock in a vast hall. These feeble sounds afford us a more vivid sense of the magnitude of the place, and of its deep solemnity, than louder sounds, which are attended with a confused reverberation. The foliage, spread out in a continuous mass over our heads, produces the effect of a ceiling, and represents the roof of a vast temple.

In an open grove we experience different sensations. Here pleasantness and cheerfulness are combined, though a sense of grandeur may be excited by some noble trees. In a grove, the trees in general are well developed, having room enough to expand to their normal proportions. We often see their shadows cast separately upon the ground, which is green beneath them as in an orchard. If we look upon this assemblage from an adjoining eminence, we observe a variety of outlines by which we may identify the different species. A wild wood is sometimes converted into a grove by clearing it of its undergrowth and removing the smaller trees. Such an assemblage displays but few of the charms of a natural grove. A cleared wild wood yields shade and coolness; but the individual trees always retain their gaunt and imperfect shapes.

Artificial plantations display the characters of a grove; but all spontaneous growths are bordered and more or less interspersed with underwood. Hence a limited growth of forest, like a wooded island, surrounded by water or by a meadow, surpasses any artificial plantation as a picturesque and beautiful feature of landscape. The painter finds in these spontaneous collections of wood an endless variety of grouping and outline for the exercise of his art; and the botanist discovers, in their glens and hollows, hundreds of species that would perish in an open grove. Some woods are distinguished by a superfluity, others, like fir and beech woods, by a deficiency of undergrowth, and this differs in botanical characters as well as in quantity, according to the predominant species in the wood. In all woods, however, shrubbery is more abundant on the borders than in the interior. This border-growth contributes more than anything else to harmonize wood and field. It is the outside finish and native embellishment of every spontaneous assemblage of trees.

A wood in a valley between two open hills does not darken the prospect as if it covered the hills, though, if it be continuous, it hides the form of the ground. But when it has come up in scattered groups on a wide plain, without the interference of art, it surpasses every other description of wood-scenery. An assemblage of trees on a hillside is called a “hanging wood,” because it seems to overhang the valley beneath it. Thus situated it forms oppositions of a very striking sort, by lifting its summits into the sunshine while it deepens the shadows that rest upon the valley. Wood on steep declivities is an interesting sight, especially if an occasional opening reveals to us the precipitous character of the ground, and shows the difficulties which the trees have overcome in their struggle for life. Some of our pleasure comes from the evident utility of such a wood. We see at once that a rocky steep could not be occupied by any other vegetation, except under the protection of the trees, and that trees alone could resist the force of occasional torrents; that without them the ground would be barren, ugly, and profitless, and difficult and dangerous to those who should attempt to climb it.

THE WHITE OAK AND OTHER SPECIES.