Part 8

The rose has long disputed with the lily her claim to rank as Queen of Beauty, nor is the rivalry likely to be decided in favour of either so long as human tastes differ. Howbeit, if the two claimants ever appeal to the arbitrament of war, the rose will have the advantage of big battalions, for her great clan far outnumbers that of the lilies and many of them are formidably armed. There would, indeed, be some mighty blanks in our fields and gardens if the great natural order of Rosaceæ were banned; for not only should we lose the enormous and ever-increasing variety of the rose itself and its hybrids, but the spiræas, the cinquefoils, the cotoneasters, the so-called laurels (which are not laurels at all, but evergreen plums), wherewith we deck our pleasure-grounds, would disappear also, and with them the plums, cherries, peaches, apples, pears, strawberries, and raspberries would be among the exiles, for all these and many more are families in this vast order.

Yet would not the disappearance of any of them work such a change in British landscape, as it would suffer if we were to lose the hawthorn, which is also a member of the rose order. It is the most beautiful native flowering tree we possess, for the laburnum, the horse chestnut, and the catalpa must be written off as exotics, though, happily, they have proved most successful colonists.

Not long ago I was driving out from New York to visit Mr. Roosevelt in Long Island. My companion and cicerone was one who gained more than the common measure of esteem while he was American Ambassador in London. When I expressed to him warmly my admiration for the masses of _Cornus florida_ which formed the undergrowth of the woods bordering our route, and which (it was in May) were displaying their snowy blossoms in endless drifts and wreaths: "Very beautiful," he said; "but I would rather have your British hawthorn blossom with its fragrance."

This was high testimony from one in whose country Professor Sargent has enumerated no fewer than one hundred and forty-three distinct American species of _Cratægus_ or hawthorn, many of which produce beautiful flowers; but none of those which I have seen are equal to the single species indigenous to the British Isles--_Cratægus oxyacantha_. In saying a single species, I am aware that later botanists have distinguished as a species a form found on the Continent and in the midland and south-eastern English counties; but Bentham and Hooker admitted this only as a variety.

In Scotland we always speak of hawthorn blossom, but in England you shall never hear that term, for there they call it May blossom, yet you may seldom find it in bloom till near the end of that month. In Brand's _Antiquities_ (1777) it is stated that "it was an old custom in Suffolk in most of the farmhouses that any servant who could bring in a branch of hawthorn in full blossom on the 1st of May was entitled to a dish of cream for breakfast. This custom is now disused, not so much from the reluctance of the masters to give the reward, as from the inability of the servants to find the white thorn in flower." The reason for this is to be sought in a change, not in the flowering season, but in the calendar; the old style during the eighteenth century being twelve days in arrear of the new style, so that May Day was equivalent to what is now 12th May. It will be remembered that, while the new style was enacted in Scotland by James VI.'s Privy Council in 1600, it was not until 1751 that an Act of Parliament caused it to be adopted in England, which did the Suffolk peasants out of all chance of cream for breakfast.

One of the many admirable virtues of the hawthorn is its indifference to soil and situation. Give it light and free air, and it will flower as freely on the shingle of a wind-swept beach, where it crouches along the stones to escape the blast, as it does in a fat English pasture, a villa garden, or a Highland glen. The most remarkable grove of ancient hawthorns known to me is to be seen in the Phoenix Park, Dublin. It is a sight never to be forgotten when these trees, many of them (speaking from recollection) 40 feet high, are laden in June with their snowy wreaths. There are many hawthorns of greater height in other districts, notably one at Lenchford, in Worcestershire, whereof the dimensions in 1875 were recorded in the _Gardeners' Chronicle_ as 60 feet high and 9 feet in girth.

The hawthorn is a long-lived tree. It was not until after the middle of the nineteenth century that Maxwell's Thorn disappeared from the banks of the Dryfe in a flood. It was under this tree that, according to local tradition, John Lord Maxwell, the Warden, lay wounded after the fatal encounter with the Johnstones on Dryfe Sands, 6th December, 1593. Eight hundred of his men are said to have perished, and the old lord, "a tall man," says Spottiswoode (vol. ii. 446), "and heavy in armour, was in the chase overtaken and stricken from his horse." William Johnston of Kirkhill was his assailant; who, according to some accounts, contented himself with hewing off the Warden's hand, in order to claim the reward offered by his chief to any man who should bring it to him. As Maxwell lay bleeding under the thorn tree, a lady came on the scene--some say it was the lady of Lochwood herself, the Chief's wife, others that it was the wife of James Johnston of Kirkton. Whichever it was, she belonged to the militant party of her sex, if it be true, as alleged, that she knocked out the Warden's brains with the tower keys that hung at her girdle. In justice to the dame it should be mentioned that a few nights previously Lord Maxwell had burnt down Lochwood Tower, declaring that "he would give the Lady Johnston light to set her hood!" Moreover, he had offered the gift of a farm to anyone who should bring him the head of the laird of Lochwood, who, being in arms against the Warden, was technically the King's rebel. Maxwell's Thorn, as aforesaid, ceased to exist sixty years ago, but a young tree was planted in its place, which doubtless will be venerated by generations unborn as the original.

The kindly nature of the hawthorn and the simple nature of its cultural requirements have caused everybody to be familiar with the beautiful red and pink, single and double, varieties which have been raised and widely distributed. There is a variety with scarlet berries which I have only seen in the park at Newton Don, near Kelso. Beautiful as are the common red haws upon which fieldfares, redwings, and other winter visitors mainly depend for provender, this scarlet fruited variety is a much more brilliant object at the dullest time of the year. The variety with yellow haws is no improvement on the type.

Phillips in his _Sylva Florifera_ (1823) states that "a variety has been discovered in a hedge near Bampton, Oxfordshire, which produces white berries." This variety, if it ever existed, appears to have been lost. He also commits himself to the statement that "the fruit of this tree are called haws, from whence the name hawthorn"; which proves that a man may be an excellent botanist and a bad etymologist. In Middle English "hawe" meant a hedge, and also ground enclosed by a hedge. It was in the latter sense that Chaucer wrote in the _Canterbury Tales_:

And eke there was a polkat [polecat] in his hawe.

The tree got the name of hawthorn, _i.e._ hedgethorn, because it has no rival as a hedge plant.

And this brings us to consider what is the economic value of the hawthorn. It has become indispensable for hedges, which are as inseparable from a foreigner's impressions of English landscape as poplars are from French country scenery, and as date palms are from that of Egypt.

Green fields of England! wheresoe'er Across the watery waste we fare, Your image in our hearts we bear, Green fields of England, everywhere.

But the fields would not be so green, they would not indeed stamp themselves on the memory as fields at all, were it not for the hedges that mark them off. In Scotland hedges are not so universal, the preference being given to stone dykes, where the necessary material lies to hand, or, alas, to barbed wire, which, effective though it be as a fence, prevails to vulgarise the fairest scenery. Dr. Walker states in his _Essays of Natural History_ (1812) that Cromwell's soldiers first planted, or taught the Scots to plant hedges in East Lothian and Perthshire. They learnt the planting all right, but not, it would appear, the subsequent management; for, except in the Lothians, it is the exception to see hedges rightly tended. The plants are allowed to straggle and to be browsed bare below by cattle, when the gaps are repaired by running a wire through them. Far more admirable is the craft of the English hedger, who knows how to make a beautiful and durable fence by plashing and binding.

The timber of hawthorn possesses more merit than is usually assigned to it; in fact, there cannot be said that there is any market for it, owing, probably, to the rough state in which it is almost invariably grown. But it is hard and heavy, with a fine grain, taking a good polish. Some of the wood-cuts in back numbers of the _Gardeners' Chronicle_ were engraved on hawthorn; but Mr. Elwes, who has experimented practically with every British wood, considers that boxwood is of superior texture.

In the good times of old, when men strove more earnestly to cut each other's throats than, as at the present day, to catch each other's votes, every Highland clan has a distinctive badge consisting of a sprig of some common plant whereby friend might be known from foe. The small sept of Ogilvie chose the hawthorn.

No tree or plant has lent its name more freely to denominate places. The Norsemen are responsible for _Thorn-ey_ on the left bank of the tidal Thames, to which the Saxons, forgetting that _ey_ is good Norse for "island," extended the name pleonastically to Thorney Island, and then came Edward the Confessor to obliterate both names by building on the island the abbey and church--the West Minster.

Countless are the places called Thornton, Thornhill, Thornbury, etc., in England, all named from the hawthorn--the thorn of thorns; while in Scotland, besides romantic Hawthornden, and in Ireland, the Gaelic word _sceach_ or _scitheog_ (_th_ silent) occurs in almost every parish in some form or other--Skeog, Skeagh, Skate, Drumskeog, Tullynaskeagh, etc.

A foreign relative of the hawthorn may be mentioned here as being more worthy of consideration as a timber tree, and, besides, being exceedingly ornamental, namely, _Cotoneaster frigida_. Most people are familiar with the genus _Cotoneaster_ in the form of shrubs of modest stature, producing quantities of red berries; and in gardener's dictionaries, etc., one reads that this Himalayan species grows about 10 feet high. If it did no more than that, it would be well worth planting for the sake of its woolly cymes of white flowers in July and the extraordinary profusion of scarlet berries which follows them; yet, even so, it could not claim notice among forest trees. In fact, it promises to outstrip the hawthorn in height. Some of mine have reached a height of 40 feet already, at an age of fifty years, and if care is bestowed on timely pruning in youth, the wood is straight, clean and very hard. It has not yet been put to any economic use, so far as known to me, but I have a notion it will prove fine material for the heads of golf clubs.

The Rowan and its Relatives

There is no group of trees whereof the scientific nomenclature has become so hopelessly confused as the _Pomaceæ_, a sub-order of the vast rose order. The group itself divides itself naturally into seven sub-groups or sections, which some botanists treat as independent species; but British foresters need to concern themselves with only five of these sections--namely (1) _Sorbus_, the rowan; (2) _Aria_, the whitebeam; (3) _Hahnia_, the wild service tree; (4) _Pyrophorum_, the pears; and (5) _Malus_, the apples.

Some people may feel impatient with these niceties of classification, and declare that popular names serve all useful purpose; but many of these trees are very beautiful, well deserving the attention of planters, who are sure to be disappointed in being served with the wrong species unless they are at the pains to know exactly what they order from nurserymen, and are able to identify the plants when they get them.

The rowan tree (_Pyrus aucuparia_) is of humble stature, seldom exceeding 40 feet; nevertheless, we should be losers if it disappeared from our woodlands, not only because of its beauty and the delicious diet which it affords to birds, but because of the peculiar veneration with which, in primitive times, it became invested in Northern Europe. The Norsemen held it to be a holy tree, consecrated to Thor, and their faith in its protective virtues became deeply implanted in the folk-lore of our own country.

Rowan-tree and red thread Gar the witches come ill-speed.

It has been suggested that the singular expression, "Aroint, thee, witch!" occurring nowhere in English literature except in _Macbeth_, Act 1, sc. 3, is a corruption of "A rountree, witch!" but the late Professor Skeat sternly refused to entertain that explanation. Anyhow, so long as belief in witchcraft endured in this country, a branch of rowan was esteemed a sure protection against evil spells. In many a Scottish byre a bunch of rowan may still be seen suspended, and a common feature in cottage garden plots consists of a couple of rowan saplings planted before the door, with their tops plaited together to form an arch, so that comers and goers shall thereby derive protection against witchcraft by passing under the tutelary boughs.

In Strathspey it used to be the custom to cause all sheep and lambs to pass through a hoop of rowan wood on the 1st of May, and flocks and herds were driven to the summer shieling with a rod of the same wood. In some parts of England the rowan is still called the "witchen." Evelyn wrote of it under that name, and said that in his day (1620-1706) the tree was reputed so sacred in Wales "as that there is not a churchyard without one of them planted in it; so on a certain day in the year everybody religiously wears a cross made of the wood."

By the by, let no lover of woodland ever speak of a mountain ash when he means a rowan. That is a silly name, for the rowan has no affinity with the ash, and although it may be found growing in the Highlands at a height of more than 2,000 feet, yet it is just as much at home anywhere between that altitude and the seaboard. We need not be ashamed of having borrowed the name "rowan" from the Norsemen, for there is a strong Scandinavian strain in our island blood. The Swedes spell it _ronn_, the Norwegians _rogn_, and the Icelanders _reynir_.

The chief claim which the rowan has upon our affection is its autumnal beauty. If the birds would only suffer its scarlet berries to hang a little longer than is their wont, no British tree could match it in brilliancy of fall. It is widely distributed over northern and central Europe, and is established in Iceland, whither it was perhaps carried long ago by pious Norsemen, for it does not occur in America. Little use is now made of its timber, which is very hard, heavy, and tough; so much so that in old days it was reckoned as only second to the yew for bow-making. It is mentioned in the Act 8 Elizabeth c. x. as "witch-hazel," among the woods whereof every bowyer dwelling in London was to keep fifty bows ready in stock.

Among the place-names into which the Gaelic name for the rowan--_caorunn_--enters may be mentioned Attachoirinn in Islay, Barwhirran in Wigtownshire, and Leachd a' chaorruin in Corrour Forest.

The rowan cannot be confounded with any other species of this family, nor with any of the numerous hybrids which have arisen therein, for it is easily distinguished by its pinnate leaves, consisting of eleven to fifteen leaflets set herring-bone fashion on a midrib about 6 inches long. Except the true service (_Pyrus sorbus_) all the other species carry entire leaves, lobed in some species, but never pinnate. The true service tree, though believed not to be indigenous to Great Britain, grows readily there, though it is not planted so often as it deserves to be, both on account of its beautiful and useful timber and of the excellent fruit which it bears profusely, qualities which cause it to be very extensively cultivated in France. It is also a highly ornamental tree, as those may testify who have visited Vevay in autumn and admired the brightness of fruit and foliage in the avenues of service trees planted there. I do not know of any specimens in Scotland, but there are several fine service trees from 45 to 65 feet high in English parks; none, however, remaining equal in stature to one at Melbury Court, Dorsetshire, which has now departed, but was recorded by Loudon as being 82 feet high in 1830, with a girth of 9 feet 9 inches. The fruit varies much in quality; the better flavoured kinds being highly esteemed by the French peasantry. Evelyn says, "It is not unpleasant; of which, with new wine and honey, they make a _conditum_ of admirable effect to corroborate the stomach." Those who wish to plant this tree had best go to a French nurseryman and order it under the name of _Cormier_ or _Sorbus domestica_.

The wild service (_P. torminalis_) will attain a height of 70 or 80 feet if it is given a fair chance, which it seldom gets from us. Its chief recommendation is its handsome foliage, the leaves being deeply lobed. They turn a fine orange colour in autumn, but the fruit adds nothing to the display, being brown when ripe. For ornamental purposes the whitebeam (_P. aria_) is far preferable to the wild service, owing to the snowy whiteness of the young shoots and undersides of the leaves. The fruit, moreover, is bright red; but this is of the less moment, inasmuch as birds devour it so soon as it is ripe. By far the noblest of all the _Sorbus_ group is the Himalayan _Pyrus vestita_ (also known as _Sorbus nepalensis_). Its broadly oval, pointed leaves are very large, thickly clothed with white wool when young, remaining white on the undersides until late autumn, when they turn to a clear yellow. The clusters of white flowers are very woolly, and are followed by large round red fruits. It is an exceedingly handsome and stately tree, and ought to be better known in this country than it is at present; but much disappointment has been incurred through the vicious practice followed by nurserymen of grafting it high upon the rowan, a tree of much inferior bulk. The result is that the scion, flourishing vigorously for a few seasons, outgrows the stock, which cannot carry up enough sap to supply the wants of the more robust species. It is pathetic to see the leaves endeavouring to unfold, but failing to do so. There is then nothing for it but to root the whole affair up, and procure seedlings, or, at least, plants grafted _low_ on the British stock, which, if deeply planted, enable the scions to throw out roots of their own.

Leaving _Sorbus_--the rowans--let us glance at _Malus_--the apples; and among the fourteen species, all more or less distinguished by the loveliness of their blossom, confine our attention to the wild crab, parent of all our cultivated varieties. Of all the floral displays of British springtide, there is none more exquisite than an old crab in full flower, standing in a sea of blue hyacinths. It says little for our intelligence that, while we are ready to spend lavishly in the purchase of foreign trees and shrubs, many of very doubtful merit, none of us seem to think the crab-tree worth anything except as a stock for grafting orchard apples on.

Nevertheless, the crab has valuable qualities besides its beauty. "Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves," shouts the porter of King Henry's palace, "and strong ones. I'll scratch your heads!" (_K. Henry VIII._, Act v. sc. 3). Those golfers who have passed their meridian surely remember that crab was reckoned the only material for club-heads in the old days of hard "gutties." But there was no great store of crab-trees in the land; so when golfers began to become like the sand of the sea for multitude the supply ran out, and club-masters carved the heads out of beech. A tougher substitute has now been found in the American persimmon (_Diospyros_), but methinks our native crab would hold its own with any other wood if it were still to be had.

Probably the largest crab-tree in Scotland (if it still stands) is one at Kelloe, in Berwickshire, which Sir R. Christison measured in 1876, and found to be 50 feet high and 8 feet in girth.

The wild pear (_Pyrus communis_) is much more rare in Britain than the crab-tree, being found only in the southern English counties, and even there it is difficult to decide whether any pear tree is really wild or only a relic of cultivation. The timber of the pear, whether wild or cultivated, is very beautiful, and is one of the choicest for carved work; whereof a fine example may be seen among the panels in Windsor Castle.

The Gean Tree, or Wild Cherry

In discoursing about the hawthorn, I assigned to it the first place for beauty of blossom among our native trees, but in holding that supremacy it has a dangerous rival in the gean, or wild cherry, which, to quote John Evelyn's eulogy, "will thrive into stately trees, beautified with blossoms of a surprising whiteness, greatly relieving the sedulous bees and attracting birds." In truth, the verdict upon the rivalry of the hawthorn and the gean must be "honours easy," for if the fragrance of the first turns the scale in its favour in spring, the gean scores heavily in autumn through the gorgeous hues of its fading foliage, no other British tree, if it be not the rowan, equalling it in sunset splendour. Nor is the flower of the gean without a fragrance--more delicate and less powerful than that of the hawthorn. Elwes tells how the late Mr. Foljambe, of Osberton, when old and quite blind, used to cause his son to lead him out among the cherry trees when they were in blossom, that he might enjoy their scent.

Doubts have been expressed whether the gean tree can be claimed as truly indigenous, many writers (my friend Canon Ellacombe among others) accepting Pliny's statement (lib. xv. cap. 25) that the cherry was unknown in Italy till Lucullus introduced it from Asia Minor after his victory over Mithridates (B.C. 84), and that it was taken by the Romans into Britain. In support of this view may be cited the absence of any name for the cherry in old Gaelic, the modern word, _sirist_, being merely an adaptation of the Latin _cerasus_, just as _an Siosalach_--the Chisholm--is a rendering of the Norman name Cecil. The Scottish name "gean" does not help us, being borrowed from the French _guigne_. Nevertheless, Dr. Henry follows Bentham and Hooker in regarding the wild cherry as undoubtedly indigenous in parts of Great Britain.

Lucullus, indeed--proverbial for his love of good things--may well have brought to Italy some of the cultivated varieties of the cherry; but the wild tree seems to have established itself as far north as Bergen in Norway, in which province there exists a large wood purely of cherry trees; and Wilkomm reported in 1887 having found semi-fossil remains of the gean in Swedish peat mosses; wherefore let us give ourselves the benefit of the doubt and claim this pretty tree as a native of British soil. Anyhow, it is thoroughly at home in these islands, reproducing itself readily both by seed and suckers, wherever it gets a chance; and no tree should be made more welcome in our woodlands, both on account of its beauty and utility.