Chapter XI: Preface (4)

We observe occasionally other motions which I have not described, such as the uniform bending of the whole tree. In a strong current of wind, tall and slender trees especially attract our attention by bending over uniformly like a plume. This habit is often seen in the white birch, a tree that in its usual assemblages takes a plumelike form. When a whole grove of white birches is seen thus bending over in one direction from the action of a brisk wind, they seem like a procession of living forms. In a storm we watch with peculiar interest the bending forms of certain tall elms, such as we often see in clearings, with their heads bowed down almost to the ground by the force of the tempest. It is only the waves of the ocean and the tossing of its billows that can afford us so vivid an impression of the sublimity of a tempest as the violent swaying of a forest and the roaring of the winds among the lofty tree-tops.

The motions of an assemblage of trees cannot be observed except from a stand that permits us to look down upon the surface formed by their summits. We should then perceive that pines and firs, with all the stiffness of their branches, display a great deal of undulating motion. These undulations or wavy movements are particularly graceful in a grove of hemlocks, when they are densely assembled without being crowded. It is remarkable that one of the most graceful of trees belongs to a family which are distinguished by their stiffness and formality. The hemlock, unlike other firs and spruces, has a very flexible spray, with leaves also slightly movable, which are constantly sparkling when agitated by the wind. If we look down from an opposite point, considerably elevated, upon a grove of hemlocks when they are exposed to brisk currents of wind, they display a peculiar undulating movement of the branches and foliage, made more apparent by the glitter of their leaves.

The surface of any assemblage of trees when in motion bears a close resemblance to the waves of the sea. But hemlocks represent its undulations when greatly agitated, without any broken lines upon its surface. Other firs display in their motions harsher angles and a somewhat broken surface of the waves. We see the tops of these trees and their extreme branches awkwardly swaying backwards and forwards, and forming a surface like that of the sea when it is broken by tumultuous waves of a moderate height. The one suggests the idea of tumult and contention; the other, that of life and motion combined with serenity and peace.

THE TULIP-TREE.

The Tulip-tree is pronounced by Dr. Bigelow “one of the noblest trees, both in size and beauty, of the American forest.” It certainly displays the character of immensity,—a quality not necessarily allied with those features we most admire in landscape. It is not very unlike the Canada poplar, and is designated by the name of White Poplar in the Western States. The foliage of this tree has been greatly extolled, but it has the heaviness which is apparent in the foliage of the large-leaved poplars, without its tremulous habit. The leaves, somewhat palmate in their shape, are divided into four pointed lobes, the middle rib ending abruptly, as if the fifth lobe had been cut off. The flowers, which are beautiful, but not showy, are striped with green, yellow, and orange. They do not resemble tulips, however, so much as the flowers of the abutilon and althea.

This tree is known in New England rather as an ornamental tree than as a denizen of the forest. Its native habitats are nearly the same with those of the magnolia, belonging to an allied family. There is not much in the proportions of this tree to attract our admiration, except its size. But its leaves are glossy and of a fine dark green, its branches smooth, and its form symmetrical. It is a tree that agrees very well with dressed grounds, and its general appearance harmonizes with the insipidity of artificial landscape. It is wanting in the picturesque characters of the oak and the tupelo, and inferior in this respect to the common trees of our forest.

THE MAGNOLIA.

The Magnolia, though, excepting one species, a stranger to New England soil, demands some notice. Any one who has never seen the trees of this genus in their native soil can form no correct idea of them. I would not say, however, that they would fall short of his conceptions of their splendor. When I first beheld one of the large magnolias, though it answered to my previous ideas of its magnificence, I thought it a less beautiful tree than the Southern cypress, and less picturesque than the live-oak, the black walnut, and some other trees I saw there. The foliage of the Magnolia is very large and heavy, and so dark as to look gloomy. It is altogether too sombre a tree in the open landscape, and must add to the gloom of any wood which it occupies, without yielding to it any other striking character.

There are several species of Magnolia cultivated in pleasure-grounds, the selection being made from those bearing a profusion of flowers. The only one that grows wild in New England is of small stature, sometimes called the Beaver-tree. It inhabits a swamp near Gloucester, about twenty miles from Boston. This place is its northern boundary. The flowers are of a dull white, without any beauty, but possessed of a very agreeable fragrance, causing them to be in great demand. The Magnolia wood is annually stripped both of flowers and branches, and the trees will probably be extirpated before many years by this sort of vandalism.

THE LOCUST.

The waysides in the Middle States do not contain a more beautiful tree than the Locust, with its profusion of pinnate leaves and racemes of flowers that fill the air with the most agreeable odors. In New England the Locust is subject to the ravages of so many different insects that it is commonly stinted in its growth, its branches withered and broken, and its symmetry destroyed. But the deformities produced by the decay of some of its important limbs cannot efface the charm of its fine pensile foliage. In winter it seems devoid of all those proportions we admire in other trees. It rears its tall form, withered, shapeless, and deprived of many valuable parts, without proportional breadth, and wanting in any definite character of outline. Through all the early weeks of spring we might still suppose it would never recover its beauty. But May hangs on those withered boughs a green drapery that hides all their deformity; she infuses into their foliage a perfection of verdure that no other tree can rival, and a beauty in the forms of its leaves that renders it one of the chief ornaments of the groves and waysides. June weaves into this green leafage pendent clusters of flowers of mingled brown and white, filling the air with fragrance, and enticing the bee with odors as sweet as from groves of citron and myrtle.

The finely cut and delicate foliage of the Locust and its jewelled white flowers, hanging gracefully among its dark green leaves, yield it a peculiar style of beauty, and remind us of some of the finer vegetation of the tropics. The leaflets, varying in number from nine to twenty-five on a common stem, have a singular habit of folding over each other in wet and dull weather and in the night, thus displaying a sensitiveness that is remarkable in all the acacia family. The Locust is not highly prized by landscape gardeners, who cannot reconcile its defects to their serpentine walks and their velvety lawns. But I am not sure that the accidental deformities of the Locust may not contribute to its picturesque attractions, when, for example, from its furrowed and knotted trunk a few imperfect limbs project, and suspend over our heads a little canopy of the finest verdure.

Phillips says of the Locust, that, when planted in shrubberies, it becomes the favorite resort of the nightingale, to avail itself of the protection afforded by its thorns. There are many other small birds that seek the protection of thorny bushes for their nests. On the borders of woods, a barberry or hawthorn bush is more frequently selected by the catbird and the yellow-throat than any other shrub. I have observed that the indigo-bird shows a remarkable attachment to the Locust, attracted, perhaps, by some favorite insect that lives upon it. The only nests of this bird I have ever discovered were in the branches of the Locust. It is worthy of notice, that, notwithstanding its rapid and thrifty growth in favorable situations, this tree never occupies exclusively any large tracts of country. It is found only in small groups, scattered chiefly on the outside of woods containing different species. The foliage of the Locust, like that of other leguminous plants, is very fertilizing to the soil, causing the grassy turf that is shaded by this tree to be always green and luxuriant.

THE HONEY LOCUST.

The Honey Locust is not an uncommon tree in the enclosures of suburban dwellings, and by the waysides in many parts of the country. Some of them have attained a great height, overtopping all our shade-trees except the elm and the oak. This tree in June bears flowers without any beauty, hanging from the branches in small greenish aments. The outer bark peels from the trunk, like that of the shellbark hickory. The thorns investing the trunk as well as the boughs are very singular, consisting of one long spine with two and sometimes more shorter ones projecting out of it, like two little branches, near its base. Three is the prevailing number of these compound thorns. Hence the name of Three-Thorned Acacia applied to the Honey Locust.

This tree bears some resemblance to the common Locust; but its leaflets are smaller, and of a lighter green. It is not liable, however, to the attacks of insects, and is seen, therefore, in all its normal and beautiful proportions. It displays much of the elegance of the tropical acacias in the minute division and symmetry of its compound leaves. These are of a light and brilliant green, and lie flat upon the branches, giving them a fan-like appearance, such as we observe in the hemlock. Though its principal branches are given out at an acute angle, many of them are horizontal, extending outwards with frequent contortions. The Honey Locust derives its name from the sweetness of the pulp that envelops the seeds contained in their large flat pods. This tree is not an uncommon hedge plant in Massachusetts, but it is not found in the New England forest. Its native region is the wide valley between the Alleghanies and the Mississippi River.

RELATIONS OF TREES TO THE ATMOSPHERE.

I have not much faith in the science of ignorant men; for the foundations of all knowledge are laid in books; and those only who have read and studied much can possess any considerable store of wisdom. But there are philosophers among laboring swains, whose quaint observations and solutions of nature’s problems are sometimes worthy of record. With these men of untutored genius I have had considerable intercourse, and hence I oftener quote them than the learned and distinguished, whom I have rarely met. The ignorant, from want of knowledge, are always theorists; but genius affords its possessor, how small soever his acquisitions, some glimpses of truth which may be entirely hidden from the mere pedant in science. My philosophic friend, a man of genius born to the plough, entertained a theory in regard to the atmosphere, which, though not strictly philosophical, is so ingenious and suggestive that I have thought an account of it a good introduction to this essay.

My friend, when explaining his views, alluded to the well-known fact that plants growing in an aquarium keep the water supplied with atmospheric air—not with simple oxygen, but with oxygen chemically combined with nitrogen—by some vital process that takes place in the leaves of plants. As the lungs of animals decompose the air which they inspire, and breathe out carbonic-acid gas, plants in their turn decompose this deleterious gas, and breathe out pure atmospheric air. His theory is that the atmosphere is entirely the product of vegetation, and that nature has no other means of composing it; that it is not simply a chemical, but a vital product; and that its production, like its preservation, depends entirely on plants, and would be impossible without their agency. But as all plants united are not equal in bulk to the trees, it may be truly averred that any series of operations or accidents that should deprive the earth entirely of its forests would leave the atmosphere without a source for its regeneration.

The use of the foliage of trees in renovating the atmosphere is not, I believe, denied by any man of science. This theory has been proved to be true by experiments in vital chemistry. The same chemical appropriation of gases and transpiration of oxygen is performed by all classes of vegetables; but any work in the economy of nature assigned to vegetation is the most effectually accomplished by trees. The property of foliage that requires carbonic-acid gas for its breathing purposes, and causes it to give out oxygen, is of vital importance; and it is hardly to be doubted that a close room well lighted by the sun would sustain its healthful atmosphere a longer time, if it were filled with plants in leaf, but not in flower, and occupied by breathing animals, than if the animals occupied it without the plants.

But there is another function performed by the foliage of trees and herbs in which no chemical process is involved,—that of exhaling moisture into the atmosphere after it has been absorbed by the roots. Hence the humidity of this element is greatly dependent on foliage. A few simple experiments will show how much more rapidly and abundantly this evaporation takes place when the soil is covered with growing plants than when the surface is bare. Take two teacups of equal size and fill them with water. Place them on a table, and insert into one of them cuttings of growing plants with their leaves, and let the other stand with water only. In a few hours the water will disappear from the cup containing the plants, while that in the other cup will not be sensibly diminished. Indeed, there is reason to believe that gallons of water might be evaporated into the air by keeping the cup containing the cuttings always full, before the single gill contained in the other cup would disappear. If a few cuttings will evaporate a half-pint of water in twelve hours, we can imagine the vast quantity constantly exhaled into the atmosphere by a single tree. The largest steam-boiler in use, kept constantly boiling, would not probably evaporate more water than one large elm in the same time.

We may judge, from our experiment with the cuttings, that a vastly greater proportion of moisture would be exhaled into the atmosphere from any given surface of ground when covered with vegetation, than from the same amount of uncovered surface, or even of standing water. Plants are indeed the most important existing agents of nature for conveying the moisture of the earth into the air. The quantity of transpiring foliage from a dense assemblage of trees must be immense. The evaporation of water from the vast ocean itself is probably small compared with that from the land which it surrounds. And there is reason to believe that the water evaporated from the ocean would not produce rain enough to sustain vegetation, if by any accident every continent and island were deprived of its trees. The whole earth would soon become a desert. I would remark, in this place, that trees are the agents by which the superfluous waters of the ocean, as they are supplied by rivers emptying into it, are restored to the atmosphere and thence again to the surface of the earth. Trees pump up from great depths the waters as they ooze into the soil from millions of subterranean ducts ramifying in all directions from the bed of the ocean.

THE HOLLY.

As the hawthorn is consecrated to vernal festivities, the Holly is sacred to those of winter, and the yew to those attending the burial of the dead. In Europe, from the earliest ages, the Holly has been employed for the decoration of churches during Christmas. The poets have made it a symbol of forethought, because its leaves are saved from the browsing of animals by the thorns that surround them; and the berries, concealed by its prickly foliage, are preserved for the use of the winter birds. The Holly is found only in the southern parts of New England. In Connecticut it is common, and in the Middle and Southern States it is a tree of third magnitude. The leaves of the Holly are slightly sinuate or scalloped, and furnished at each point with short spines. It not only retains its foliage in the winter, but it loses none of that brilliancy of verdure that distinguishes it at other seasons.

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.

The most important, though not the largest, of the American trees of the Oak family, and the one that is most like the English tree, is the American White Oak. It puts forth its branches at a comparatively small height, not in a horizontal direction, like the white pine, but extending to great length with many a crook, and presenting the same knotted and gnarled appearance for which the English oak is celebrated. Individual trees of this species differ so widely in their ramification that it would be difficult to select any one as the true type. Some are without a central shaft, being subdivided at a small height into numerous large branches, diverging at rather a wide angle from a common point of junction, like the elm. Others send up their trunk nearly straight to the very summit of the tree, giving out lateral branches from all points almost horizontally. There is a third form that seems to have no central shaft, because it is so greatly contorted that it can only be traced among its subordinate branches by the most careful inspection. The stature of the White Oak, when it has grown in an isolated situation, is low, and it has a wider spread than any other American tree.

The leaves of the White Oak are marked by several oblong, rounded lobes, without deep sinuosities. They turn to a pale chalky red in the autumn, remain on the tree all winter, and fall as the new foliage comes out in the spring. The tree may be readily distinguished from other oaks by the light color and scaly surface of the bark, without any deep corrugations. In Massachusetts very few standard White Oaks have escaped the axe of the “timberer,” on account of the great demand for the wood of this species. Were it not for the protection afforded by men of wealth to oaks in their own grounds, all the large standards would soon be utterly destroyed. Democracy, though essential to republican liberty, is fatal to all objects which are valuable for their poetic or picturesque qualities. It has no foresight, and no sentimental reverence for antiquity. It perceives the value of an object for present use; but it disdains to look forward to the interest of a coming generation. In regard to nature, what is called progress in America is only another name for devastation. How great soever the political evil of large estates, it is evident that in proportion to their multiplication will be the increased protection afforded to our trees and forests, as well as to the birds and quadrupeds that inhabit them.

THE SWAMP OAK.

The Swamp Oak bears resemblance in many points to the White Oak; but it has less breadth, and abounds in strangling branches growing from the trunk just below the junction of the principal boughs. This gnarled and contorted growth is one of the picturesque appendages of the Swamp Oak, distinguishing it from all the other species, and rendering it an important feature in a wild and rugged landscape. This cluster does not, like the vinery of the elm, clothe the whole extent of the bole, but resembles an inferior whorl of branches below the principal head. Above it, the tree forms rather a cylindrical head, and the principal branches are short compared with those of other oaks.

The leaves of this tree bear some resemblance to those of the chestnut. They are almost entire, and bluntly serrated, rather than scalloped. They are of a slightly reddish green when mature, and turn to a leather-color in the autumn. Trees of this species are at the present time very prominent objects of the landscape in Eastern Massachusetts, where they are very frequent in half-cleared lands that lie only a little above the sea level and contain considerable clay. The Swamp Oak in some favorable soils attains great size; but in New England, though an interesting object in scenery, it is only a tree of second magnitude. The Chestnut Oak is not uncommon around New Bedford and many other parts of New England, but it is not an inhabitant of the woods near Boston.

THE RED OAK.

The Red Oak is the largest of the genus belonging to American woods, and the least useful for any purposes except those of shade and ornament. It is very regular and well proportioned, having a remarkably wide spread, and branches comparatively but little contorted. It is taller than the white oak, and does not branch so near the ground; but it possesses in a high degree that expression of majesty for which the oak is celebrated. The scarcity of trees of this species by our roadsides is remarkable, since they display the union of so many of the qualities which are desirable in a shade-tree. The Red Oak thrives well on a poor soil, and grows with great rapidity; its foliage is very beautiful, and deeply cleft, like that of the scarlet oak, though larger, and its reddish-purple tints in the autumn are hardly inferior. Perhaps the scarcity of oaks in general by the wayside is owing to the peculiar shape of their roots, which extend to a great depth in the soil, and render the trees very difficult to be transplanted. Hence the wayside oaks are such as have come up spontaneously in the places they occupy, and were there when the road was laid out.

THE SCARLET OAK.

The Scarlet Oak in many points resembles the one I have just described. Like the red oak, its branches are regular and comparatively free from contortions, and the quality of its timber is inferior. The leaves are distinguished from those of all other species by their deep sinuosities, being almost like the skeletons of a leaf, the lobes terminating in narrow teeth with long sharp points. This tree is greatly admired in landscape, and on large estates it is constantly preserved as an ornament. Its chief attraction is the bright color of its autumn foliage; but the fine gloss and deep verdure of its leaves in summer are very beautiful. It turns in autumn to a dark crimson, not a scarlet, as the name would imply. It could not justly be named scarlet, save when it is brightened by sunshine, which adds to all crimson foliage a little gold. But as the oaks are very late in assuming their autumnal tints, and are not in their brightest condition until the maples have faded, the Scarlet Oak, when it has attained its full splendor, is the most beautiful tree of the forest.

There are certain trees which we do not highly value in landscape as single individuals, while they attract our attention in assemblages. Our hills, for example, in some parts of the country, are nearly covered with a growth of Scrub Oak, or Bear Oak. They are not ornamental as single trees, and they are prone to usurp the whole ground, excluding that charming variety of shrubs which constitutes the beauty of our half-wooded hills.

THE BLACK OAK.

It is not my intention to enumerate all the species of this genus; but I must give a passing notice to the Black Oak, because it is a common and very large tree in favorable situations. It has been named Black Oak on account of the very dark color of its outer bark; and Yellow Oak,—a name quite as common as the other,—from the yellow color of its inner bark, which produces the _quercitron_ used by dyers. It may also have been so called from the yellowish leather-color of its leaves in the autumn, resembling the color of a dry oak-leaf. Many large trees of this species are found in the New England States. In Kentucky it is named Black Jack, and constitutes the principal timber of those extensive tracts called Oak Barrens.

THE LAUREL.

Of the Laurel, so celebrated in the romance of classical literature, there are only two species in the New England States,—the Benzoin and the Sassafras. But those two shrubs, being deciduous, are not associated in the minds of the people with the true Laurel. They have given this name to the Kalmia, which is evergreen and bears a superficial resemblance to the Laurel of the poets. A curious fact is related by Phillips, in his “Sylva Florifica,” of the Laurel, which may not be out of place in these pages. In the Middle Ages, favorite poets, who were generally minstrels, were crowned with wreaths of Laurel branches containing the berries; and this custom was imitated in colleges, when they conferred a degree upon graduating students. “Students,” says Phillips, “who have taken their degrees at the Universities, are called _bachelors_, from the French _bachelier_, which is derived from the Latin _baccalaureus_,—a laurel-berry. These students were not allowed to marry, lest the duties of husband and father should take them from their literary pursuits; and in time all single men were called bachelors.”

THE SASSAFRAS.

The Sassafras-tree is usually a shrub in this part of the country, abounding in almost all woods, and very generally sought for the pleasant aromatic savor of the bark. Occasionally I have seen the Sassafras growing to the height of a middle-sized tree in Massachusetts, but it rarely attains such dimensions except in the Middle and Southern States. All the large trees in this region have perished, and I have not seen one since my boyhood, when there were many of them. I am therefore led to believe that the changes in our climate consequent upon the general clearing of the forest, whatever their general effects may be, have not been favorable to the Sassafras, which has become extinct as a tree in this latitude.

The Sassafras often attains the height of sixty feet in the Southern States, and nearly forty feet in the country round Philadelphia. The leaves, when young, are downy, very deeply lobed, mucilaginous, and aromatic. The flowers are greenish, inconspicuous, and only slightly fragrant. The berries are of a bright blue color, and are the favorite food of some small birds. On account of its agreeable aromatic properties, the Sassafras became known to the Europeans at an early period, and was very generally employed in medicine. At present it is simply used as an aromatic stimulant. Gerard calls it the ague-tree, and it was believed to be efficacious in the cure of many diseases. There is a tradition that the odors of the Sassafras, wafted from the American shore, led Columbus to believe that land was near, and encouraged him and his mutinous crew to persevere on their voyage.

THE BENZOIN.

The Benzoin is never more than a middle-sized shrub, sometimes, though rarely, attaining the height of eight or ten feet. It is not branching, but sends up its long stems, like some of the dwarf willows, directly from the root, without assuming a tree form. We often find these long branches covered with foliage from the root to the extremity. The leaves are of a handsome ovate form, and are highly aromatic, but differ essentially from the Sassafras in their odor. The berries have been used as spice for culinary purposes.

CLIPPED HEDGE-ROWS.

No art connected with gardening has been so generally ridiculed in modern times as the topiary art, or that of vegetable sculpture. It is certainly not worthy of defence; and yet it seems to me quite as rational to cut out a figure in box or yew, as to shear the branches of a hedge-row to reduce it to architectural proportions. I cannot see why vegetable architecture is any more rational than vegetable sculpture. I cannot see why those persons who admire a clipped hedge-row should object to an “Adam and Eve in yew,” or a “Green Dragon in box,” nor why those who are willing to torture a row of shrubbery by this Procrustean operation should not be pleased with a “Noah’s Ark in holly,” or an “old maid-of-honor in wormwood,” as described in Pope’s satire. Of the two operations, I consider the one that still maintains its ground in popular taste the most senseless. “An old maid-of-honor in wormwood” would at least have the merit of being ridiculous; but a clipped hedge-row is simply execrable, without affording any amusement.

TREES AS ELECTRIC AGENTS.