Part 2

Lightness is a characteristic of beauty in a tree; for though there are beautiful trees of a heavy, as well as of a light form, yet their extremities must in some parts be separated, and hang with a degree of looseness from the fulness of the foliage, which occupies the middle of the tree, or the whole will only be a large bush. From position, indeed, and contrast, heaviness, though in itself a deformity, may be of singular use in the composition both of natural and of artificial landscape.

A tree must be well balanced to be beautiful, for it may have form and lightness, and yet lose its effect from not being properly poised; though occasionally beauty may be found in an unbalanced tree, yet this must be caused by some peculiarity in its situation. For instance, when hanging over a rock, if altogether unpoised, it may be beautiful; or bending over a road, its effect may be good.

We have often admired the massy trunk of an aged forest oak; and Gilpin says he frequently examined the varied tints which enriched its furrowed stem. The genuine bark of an oak is ash-coloured, though it is not easy to distinguish this, from the quantity of moss which overspreads it; for we suppose every oak has more or less of these picturesque appendages. About the roots there is a green velvet moss, which is found in a greater degree to occupy the hole of the beech, though its beauty and brilliancy lose much when in decay. As the trunk rises, you see the brimstone colour taking possession in patches. Of this there are two principal kinds: a smooth sort, which spreads like a scurf over the bark, and a rougher sort, which hangs in little rich knots and fringes. This sometimes inclines to an olive hue, and occasionally to a light-green. Intermixed with these mosses is frequently found a species perfectly white. Here and there, a touch of it gives lustre to the trunk, and has its effect; yet, on the whole, it is a nuisance, for as it generally begins to thrive when the other mosses begin to wither, it is rarely accompanied with any of the more beautiful species of its kind. This is a sure sign that the vigour of the tree is declining. There is another species of a dark brown colour, inclining to black; another of an ashy colour; and another of a dingy yellow. Touches of red are also observable, and occasionally, though rarely, a bright yellow, which is like a gleam of sunshine. These add a great richness to the trees, and when blended harmoniously, as they commonly are, the rough and furrowed trunk of an oak, thus adorned, is an object which will long detain the picturesque eye.

These and other incidental appendages to a tree are greatly subservient to the uses of the pencil, and the poet will now and then deign to deck his trees with these ornaments. He sometimes calls into being some mighty agent, as guardian of the woods, who cries out,

From Jove I am the Power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower. I nurse my saplings tall; and cleanse their rind From vegetating filth of every kind; And all my plants I save from nightly ill Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill.

The blasted tree adds much to effect, both in artificial and natural landscape. In some scenes it is nearly essential. When the dreary heath is spread before the eye, and ideas of wildness and desolation are required, what more suitable accompaniment can be imagined, than the blasted oak, ragged, scathed, and leafless, shooting its peeled white branches athwart the gathering blackness of some rising storm?

As when heaven's fire Hath scathed the forest oak, or mountain pine, With singed top its stately growth, though bare, Stands on the blasted heath.

--beneath that oak, Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke Of Heaven's own thunder--yet it proudly heaves A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves-- As though it dared the elements.

Neale.

Ivy also gives great richness to an old trunk, both by its stem, which often winds round it in thick, hairy, irregular volumes; and by its leaf, which either decks the furrowed bark, or creeps among the branches, or carelessly hangs from them. It unites with the mosses, and other furniture of the trees, in adorning and enriching it.

The tribes of mosses, lichens, and liver-worts, are all parasitical; it is doubted whether the ivy is or not. The former, however, are absolute retainers. The character of the ivy, too, has been misrepresented, if his feelers have not some other purpose than that of enabling him to show his attachment to his patient supporter. Shakspeare asserts that he makes a property of him:

He was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And sucked my verdure out.

Besides these there are others which are sustained entirely by their own means. Among them we may distinguish the black and white briony. The berries of many of these little plants are variously coloured in the different stages of their growth--yellow, red, and orange. All these produce their effect. The feathered seeds of the traveller's joy are also ornamental. The wild honeysuckle comes within this class; and it fully compensates for any injury it may do by the compression of the young branches, by its winding spiral coils, and by the beauty and fragrance of its flowers:

With clasping tendrils it invests the branch, Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon, And fragrant chaplet; recompensing well The strength it borrows with the grace it lends.

In warm climates, where vines are the spontaneous offspring of nature, nothing can have a more pleasing effect than the forest-tree adorned with their twisting branches, hanging in rich festoons from bough to bough, and laden with fruit,--

the clusters clear Half through the foliage seen.

In England, the hop we consider the most beautiful appendage of the hanging kind. In its rude natural state, indeed, twisting carelessly round the branches of trees, it has as good an effect as the vine. Its leaf is similar; and though its bunches are not so beautiful as the clusters of the vine, it is more accommodating, hangs more loosely, and is less extravagant in its growth.

The motion of trees is one source of considerable beauty. The waving heads of some, and the undulation of others, give a continual variety to their forms. In nature this is certainly a circumstance of great beauty:

Things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what stirs not;

and this also affords the chequered shade, formed under it by the dancing of the sunbeams among its playing leaves. This circumstance is of a very amusing nature, and is capable of being beautifully wrought up in poetry:

The chequered earth seems restless as a flood Brushed by the winds. So sportive is the light, Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance, Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick, And darkening and enlightening (as the leaves Play wanton) every part.

The clump of trees next occupies our attention. The term, says Gilpin, has rather a relative meaning, as no rule of art hath yet prescribed what number of trees form a clump. Near the eye we should call three or four trees a clump, and at the same time, in distant or extensive scenery, we should apply the same term to any smaller detached portion of wood, though it may be formed of hundreds of trees. But though the term admits not of exact definition, we will endeavour to make the ideas contained under it as distinct as possible.

We distinguish, then, two kinds of clumps, the smaller and the larger; confining the former chiefly to the foreground, and considering the latter as a distant ornament.

With respect to the former, we apprehend its chief beauty arises from contrast in the parts. We shall attempt to enumerate some of the sources whence the beauty of contrast is produced. Three trees, or more, standing in a line, are formal, but in the natural wood this formality is rarely found. And yet even three trees in a line will be greatly assisted by the lines of the several trunks taking different directions; and by the various forms, distances, and growth of the trees.

If three trees do not stand in a line, they must of course stand in a triangle, which produces a great variety of pleasing forms. And if a fourth tree be added, it stands beautifully near the middle of the triangle, of whatever form the triangle may be. If the clump consist of more trees than four, a still greater variety among the stems will of course take place; double triangles, and other pleasing shapes, all of which may be seen exemplified in every wood of natural growth.

The branches are not less the source of contrast than the stem. To be picturesque, they must intermingle with each other without heaviness; they must hang loosely, but yet with varied looseness on every side; and if there be one head or top of the tree above another, there may be two or three subordinate, according to the size of the clump.

Different kinds of trees, in the same clump, often occasion a beautiful contrast. There are few trees which will not harmonize with trees of another kind; though it may be that contrasts the most simple and beautiful are produced by the various modes of growth in the same species. Two or three oaks, intermingling their branches together, have often a very pleasing effect. The beech, when fully grown, is commonly (in a luxuriant soil at least), so heavy, that it seldom blends happily, either with its own kind or any other. The silver fir, too, is a very unaccommodating tree, as also all the other firs, and indeed every kind of tree that tapers to a point. The pine race, however, being clump-headed, unite well in composition. With these also the Scotch fir leagues, from little knots of which we often see beautiful contrasts arise. When they are young and luxuriant, especially if any number of them above four or five are planted together, they generally form a heavy murky spot, but as they acquire age this heaviness goes off, the inner branches decay, the outer branches hang loosely and negligently, and the whole has frequently a good effect, unless they have been planted too closely. It may be doubted how far deciduous trees mingle well in a clump with evergreens; and yet, occasionally, from the darkness of the fir contrasting agreeably with the sprightly green of a deciduous tree just coming into leaf, a natural good effect of light and shade is produced.

Contrasts arise, again, from the mixture of trees of unequal growth, from a young tree united with an old one, a stunted tree with a luxuriant one, and sometimes from two or three trees, which in themselves are ill-shaped, but when combined are pleasing. Inequalities of all these kinds are what chiefly give nature's planting a superiority over art.

The form of the foliage is another source of contrast. In one part, where the branches intermingle, the foliage will be interwoven and close; in another, where the boughs of each tree hang separately, the appearance will be light and easy.

But whatever beauty these contrasts exhibit, the effect is altogether lost if the clump be not well balanced. If no side preponderate so as to offend the eye, it is enough, and unless the clump have sustained some external injury, it is seldom deficient in point of balance. Nature generally conducts the stems and branches in such easy forms, wherever there is an opening, and fills up all with such nice contrivance, and with so much picturesque irregularity, that we rarely wish for an amendment in her works. So true is this, that you may not take away a tree from a clump without infallibly destroying the balance which can never again be restored.

When the clump grows larger, it becomes qualified only as a remote object, combining with vast woods, and forming a part of some extensive scene, either as a first, a second, or a third distance.

The great use of the larger clump is to lighten the heaviness of a continued distant wood, and connect it gently with the plain, that the transition may not be too abrupt. All we wish to find in a clump of this kind is proportion and general form.

With respect to proportion, the detached clump must not encroach too much on the dignity of the wood it aids, but must observe a proper subordination. A large tract of country covered with wood, will admit several of these auxiliary clumps, of different dimensions. But if the wood be of a smaller size, the clumps must also be smaller and fewer.

As the clump becomes larger and recedes in the landscape, all the pleasing contrasts we expected in the smaller clumps are lost, and we are satisfied with a general form. No regular form is pleasing. A clump on the side of a hill, or in any situation where the eye can more easily investigate its shape, must be circumscribed by an irregular line; in which the undulations, both at the base and summit of the clump, should be strongly marked, as the eye has probably a distinct view of both. But if seen only on the top of a hill, or along the distant horizon, a little variation in the line which forms the summit, so as to break any disagreeable regularity there, will be sufficient.

As a large tract of wood requires a few large clumps to connect it gently with the plain, so these large clumps themselves require the same service from a single tree, or a few trees, according to their size.

The Copse, the Glen, and the open Grove next demand our notice.

The Copse is a species of scenery composed generally of forest-trees, intermixed with brushwood, which latter is periodically cut down in twelve, thirteen, or fourteen years. In its dismantled state, nothing can be more forlorn. The area is covered with bare roots and knobs, from which the brushwood has been cut; while the forest-trees, intermingled among them, present their ragged stems, despoiled of all their lateral branches, which the luxuriance of the surrounding thickets had choked. The copse, however, soon repairs the injury it has thus suffered. One winter only sees its disgrace. The following summer produces luxuriant shoots; and two summers more restore it almost to perfect beauty.

It is of little moment what species of wood composes the copse; for we do not expect from it scenes of picturesque beauty, but are satisfied if it yields us a shady sequestered path, which it generally furnishes in great perfection. It is among the luxuries of nature, to retreat into the cool recesses of the full-grown copse from the severity of a meridian sun, and to be serenaded by the humming insects of the shade, whose continuous song has a more refreshing sound than the buzzing vagrant fly, which wantons in the glare of day, and, as Milton expresses it,

----winds her sultry horn.

In distant landscape the copse hath seldom any effect. The beauty of a wood in a distant view arises in some degree from its tuftings which break and enrich the lights, but chiefly from its contrast with the plain, and from the grand shapes and forms, occasioned by the retiring and advancing parts of the forest, which produce vast masses of light and shade, and give effect to the whole.

These beauties appear rarely in the copse. Instead of that rich and tufted bed of foliage, which the distant forest exhibits, the copse presents a meagre and unaccommodating surface. It is age which gives the tree its tufted form, and the forest its effect. A nursery of saplings produces it not, and the copse is little more, nor does the intermixture of full-grown trees assist the appearance. Their clumpy heads blend ill with the spiry tops of the juniors. Neither have they any connection with each other. The woodman's judgment is shown in leaving the timber-trees at proper intervals, that they may neither hinder each other's growth, nor the growth of the underwood. But the woodman does not pretend to manage his trees with a view to picturesque beauty; and from his management, it is impossible they should produce a mass of light and shade. Besides, the copse forms no contrast with the plain, nor presents those beautiful projections and recesses which the skirts of the forest exhibit. A copse is a plot of ground, proportioned off for the purpose of nurturing wood. Of course it must be fenced from cattle; and these fences, which are in themselves disgusting, generally form the copse into a square, or some other regular figure; so that we have not only a deformity, but a want also of a connecting tie between the wood and the plain. Instead of a softened undulating line, we have a harsh fence.

The best effect which the copse produces, is on the lofty banks of the river; this may be seen particularly on the Wye. In navigating such a river, the deficiencies of this mode of scenery, as you view it upwards from a boat, are lost; and in almost every state it has a good effect. While it enriches the bank, its uncouth shape, unless the fence is too much in view, and all its other unpleasant appearances, are concealed.

When a winding walk is carried through a copse, which must necessarily in a few years, even in point of picturesque beauty, be given to the axe, shall the whole be cut down together? Or shall a border be left, as is sometimes done, on each side of the walk?

This is a difficult question; but Gilpin thinks it should all go together. Unless the border you leave be very broad, it will have no effect, even at present. You will see through it; it will appear meagre, and will never unite happily with the neighbouring parts when they begin to grow; at least, it ought not to stand longer than two years. The rest of the copse will then be growing beautiful, and the border may be dispensed with till it is replaced. But the way, decidedly, is to cut down all together. In a little time it will recover its beauty.

We now proceed to the Glen. A wide and open space between hills, is called a vale. If it be of smaller dimensions, we call it a valley. But when this space is contracted to a chasm, it becomes a glen.

A glen, therefore, is commonly the offspring of a mountainous country; though sometimes found elsewhere, with its usual accompaniments of woody banks, and a rivulet at the bottom. The glen may be more or less contracted. It may form one single sweep, or its deviations may be irregular. The wood may consist of full-grown trees, or of underwood, or of a mixture of both. The path winding through it may run along the upper or the lower part. Or the rivulet may foam among rocks, or murmur among pebbles;--it may form transparent pools, overhung with wood;--or, which is frequently the case, it may be invisible, and an object only of the ear. All these circumstances are capable of an infinite variety.

The beauties of the internal parts of the glen consist chiefly in the glades, or openings, which are found in it. If the whole were a thicket, little beauty would result. Unlike the copse, its furniture is commonly of a fortuitous growth, and escapes those periodical defalcations to which the copse is subject, and generally exhibits more beautiful scenery. It abounds with frequent openings. The eye is carried down, from the higher grounds, to a sweep of the river--or to a little gushing cascade--or to the face of a fractured rock, garnished with hanging wood--or perhaps to a cottage, with its scanty area of lawn falling to the river on one side, and sheltered by a clump of oaks on the other; while the smoke, wreathing behind the trees, disperses and loses itself as it gains the summit of the glen. Or, still more beautifully, the eye breaks out at some opening, perhaps into the country, enriched with all the varieties of distant landscape--plains and woods melting together--a winding river--blue mountains--or perhaps some bay of the sea, with a little harbour and shipping.

As an object of distance also, the woody glen has often a good effect--climbing the sides of mountains, breaking their lines, and giving variety to their bleak and barren sides.

From the glen we hasten to the open Grove, which is composed of trees arising from a smooth area, and consisting either of pines or of the deciduous race. Beautiful groves of both may be seen. That of the pine will always be dry, as it is the peculiar quality of its leaves to imbibe moisture: but in lightness, variety, and general beauty, that of deciduous trees excels. If, however, you wish your grove to be in the gloomy style, the pine race will serve your purpose best.

The open grove rarely makes a picturesque appearance. It may, indeed, have the effect of other woods in distant scenery; for the trees of which it is formed need not be separated from each other, as in the copse, but, being well massed together, may receive beautiful effects of light. When we enter its recesses, it is not so well calculated to please. There it wants variety, and that not only from the smoothness of the surface, but from the uniformity of the furniture--at least if it be an artificial scene, in which the trees, having been planted in a nursery, grow all alike, with upright stems. And yet a walk, upon a velvet turf, winding at pleasure among these natural columns, whose twisting branches at least admit some variety, with a spreading canopy of foliage over the head, is pleasing, and in hot weather refreshing. Sometimes we find the open grove of natural growth; it is then more various and irregular, and becomes, of course, a more pleasing scene. And yet, when woods of this kind continue, as they sometimes do, in unpeopled countries, through half a province, they become tiresome, and prove that it is not wood, but variety of landscape, that delights the eye. The pleasing tranquillity of groves hath ever been in high repute among the innocent and refined part of mankind:

Groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moonbeam sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light he wants For meditation.

Indeed, no species of landscape is so fitted for meditation. The forest attracts the attention by its grandeur, and the park scene by its beauty; while the paths through copses, dells, and thickets, are too close, devious, interrupted, and often too beautiful to allow the mind to be at perfect ease. But the uniform sameness of the grove leaves the eye disengaged; and the feet wandering at pleasure, where they are confined by no path, want little direction. The mind, therefore, undisturbed, has only to retire within itself. Hence the philosopher, the devotee, the poet, all retreated to these quiet recesses; and,

from the world retired, Conversed with angels and immortal forms.

In classic times, the grove was the haunt of gods; and in the days of Nature, before art had introduced a kind of combination against her, men had no idea of worshipping God in a temple made with hands. The _templum nemorale_ was the only temple he knew.

In the resounding wood, All vocal beings hymned their equal God.

And to this idea, indeed, one of the earliest forms of the artificial temple seems to have been indebted. Many learned men have thought the Gothic arch of our cathedral churches was an imitation of the natural grove. It arises from a lofty stem, or from two or three stems, if they be slender; which being bound together, and spreading in every direction, cover the whole roof with their ramifications. In the close recesses of the beechen grove, we find this idea the most complete. The lofty, narrow aisle--the pointed arch--the clustered pillar, whose parts separating without violence, diverge gradually to form the fretted roof--find there perhaps their earliest archetype. Bryant has wrought out this idea in a beautiful fragment, entitled "God's First Temples:"