Chapter XVI: Preface (9)

Our attention is not so often directed to the beauty of trees in their denuded state, as when they are dressed in foliage and adorned with flowers and fruit. But when we consider that for six months of the year all the deciduous trees, constituting the greater part of the woods, are leafless, we cannot regard their appearance at this time as an unimportant study. When trees are in leaf their primary qualities as objects in landscape are apparent; but many secondary points of beauty are almost entirely hidden under this mass of foliage. In winter, when the whole frame of the tree is exposed to view, the delicate sculpture, the forms, the angles, and the divergences of their branches, present to sight an infinite variety of picturesque appearances.

There are certain trees, however, which are almost ugly in winter, though very beautiful in their summer dress. We see nothing attractive in the horse-chestnut, the sumach, the catalpa, and the ash, in their denuded state, when the coarseness and deformity of their spray become their salient points. Of these the horse-chestnut and the catalpa are not surpassed in beauty when they are in flower, nor the sumach in its autumnal dress, nor the ash either in summer or autumn. There is as great a variety in the style of the frame and framework of different trees as in the forms and colors of their leaves and flowers. Indeed, in some respects, trees are a more interesting study in their denuded state than when dressed in foliage. In this condition single trees become more special objects of attention than assemblages. Yet it is in winter that we perceive to the best advantage the characters of a forest vista. As we pass under the interlacing branches of the trees, we observe that peculiar arch formed by the meeting and contact of those on opposite sides of an avenue. We see this appearance only in a wide avenue, where the trees have grown since it was laid out. In the pathless wood, or in a path made through the forest after the trees have attained maturity, they have no well-formed lateral branches, and display above our heads only a formless canopy.

We may observe in the spray of different trees an invariable correspondence with some of their other characters. Nut-bearers, for example, have a coarser spray than small seed-bearers; trees with large or compound leaves, than those with small or simple foliage; and trees with opposite, than those with alternate branches. Hence the oak and the hickory have a coarser spray than the birch and the elm, and the large-leaved poplar than the slender-leaved willow; the ash, with compound leaves, than the maple with simple leaves, though both have opposite branches. But if a tree bears a large nut, with leaves compound and branches opposite, like the horse-chestnut, it has no spray at all. The beech-tree, however, having a very small nut, has a fine and elegant spray, not surpassed by any tree of the forest. The opposite character of the smaller branches of certain trees is never continued in the larger divisions. But the angularity of the boughs of the oak is repeated in its angular spray, and the gracefulness of the principal branches of the elm, the birch, and the lime is traced through all their minute subdivisions.

All these phenomena are interesting subjects of observation in winter wood-scenery. But the geometric beauty of the spray of trees is hardly less remarkable than its different colors. A maple wood, for example, is gray; a poplar wood is greenish olive; a wood consisting chiefly of limes, black birches, and cherry-trees has a dark shade. These differences of coloring, as seen in masses, when viewing the wood from an elevated stand, often excite the surprise of spectators; for it is only the most careful observers who have noticed this variety of shades. In many assemblages of wood that consist of an evenly promiscuous combination of species, we observe no such picturesque marks of distinction. But in all unique assemblages, of which our land affords very frequent examples, the differences between a maple, a poplar, a willow, and a lime grove are respectively very striking. The study of these shades is of considerable importance to the painter who should wish to give a true representation of a winter landscape, with reference chiefly to its wood.

Some of my most delightful wood rambles have been taken in the winter, which has always seemed to me less a season of melancholy than autumn. The sadness we feel while the leaves are falling around us and the light of noon seems but an ominous twilight passes away after these changes are completed; we resume our cheerfulness, and look forward in pleasant anticipation of spring. I have never allowed the winter to interfere with my rambling, save when the cold was intense, the weather wet or stormy, or the snow too deep for pedestrian excursions. These difficulties are seldom in the way for more than a fourth part of the season. When the snow has been hardened by repeated freezing and thawing so as to bear our footsteps, or when the ground is bare, a winter walk affords positive pleasure. At such times I have often passed a day in the woods, not only to enjoy the physical pleasure of air and exercise and the sweet odors of the pines, but also to note the changes in the face of nature, and the manners and habits of the few remaining birds and quadrupeds.

One of the most noted circumstances attending a winter ramble in the woods is their silence. But this silence is an aid to thought as well as observation, and gives importance to every sound, as the white snow gives prominence to visual objects. When the winter sun is bright and the chilly atmosphere is calm, we may listen to the distant village hum with a sensation of melody; and we catch the gurgling sounds of streams under the glistening ice, and the voices of jubilant echoes, that send back in the general stillness every sound that penetrates their secret shell. The crumpling of the hardened snow under our feet produces a tone that silence alone could turn to music; and the rustling of every zephyr seems like a living note in this solitude. The occasional voices of winter birds have a charm hardly less delightful than the melodies of June, when every note is but the part of a general chorus. In winter we listen to sounds because they are few. Even the lowing of herds is musical, reminding us that our present solitude is encompassed by life and civilization.

The wood is no longer a green recess, a temple of leafy beauty, a sanctuary of shade, an orchestra of melodious voices. There is perhaps less solemnity within it than when it is darkened by overarching foliage. The sun shines into it and renders some little nooks more cheerful than at any other season. I have often lingered in one of these sunny retreats to watch the chickadees and woodpeckers, that never fail to appear in sight, diligently exploring every branch of the neighboring trees. It is pleasant to woo this solitude when thus enlivened by the sun, to saunter along the turfy wood-paths, still green with clumps of moss and lycopodium, to look up into the lofty trees which have parted with their shade, observing the sculptured elegance of their limbs and the intricate beauty of their spray; pondering on the rare carvings of their bark, broken into many geometrical forms, and the curious devices of nature displayed in the incrustations upon their surface.

Sometimes a solitary evergreen stands in our way, shedding upon the hoary wood some of the greenness of summer. We should know but half of what is open to observation if we never visited the forest in the winter, and we should miss one of the most remarkable features of a winter landscape if the coniferous evergreens were absent from it. Sad and sombre as they appear when the deciduous trees are putting forth their light green leaves, they are great heighteners of the beauty of a winter scene, and are more valuable than any other woods as a protection from wind and cold.

THE LARCH.

The Larch, though one of the coniferous trees, is not an evergreen. It is generally known in this country as the Hacmatack, a name given it by the Indians. In favorable situations it attains a great height, though we are familiar with it as a tree of but ordinary size and stature. Its branches are very numerous, and irregularly disposed at right angles with the main stem, and not in very apparent whorls. The terminal branches are small and numerous, making considerable spray, but without much character. The American and the European Larch do not differ in their manner of putting forth their larger branches, nor in their botanical characters. They are distinguished, however, by an important difference in the style of their secondary branches. The European tree has a graceful hanging spray, drooping perpendicularly from its horizontal boughs, and swinging in the wind like that of the Norway spruce. The American tree has a shorter spray, not in the least pendent, with an appearance of more sturdiness, and less formality of outline. It displays, therefore, less of that beauty which is caused by flowing lines; on the other hand, it exhibits more firmness in its general aspect, and is a more stately tree. I prefer the American Larch because it departs further from that primness which distinguishes the coniferous trees. As it increases in height, it loses its tapering summit, and forms a head of flattened and irregular shape.

The Larch bears no part in romantic history. Neither the ancient poets nor historians say much about it. Hence it is probable that it was not abundant in the forests of the southern part of Europe in the days of Homer and Virgil. Even its importance in furnishing the most durable wood for naval purposes is a discovery of modern times, and not until a very late period was it employed as an ornamental tree. The Larch is reputed in Europe to surpass all other trees as a fertilizer of the soil by the decomposition of its foliage. Another of its advantages, when used for plantations, is its thrifty habit on lofty sites, having a more elevated range than any other tree of equal importance. Gilpin remarks of the European tree: “It claims the Alps and the Apennines for its native country, where it thrives in higher regions of the air than any other tree of its consequence is known to do, hanging over rocks and precipices which have never been visited by human feet. Often it is felled by some Alpine peasant and thrown athwart some yawning chasm, where it affords a tremendous passage from cliff to cliff, while the cataract, roaring many fathoms below, is seen only in surges of rising vapor.”

The American Larch tends to uniformity of shape when young and to variety when old. Yet the fine pyramidal forms of the young trees, and the fantastic and irregular shapes of those of older growth, are equally characteristic. The foliage is of a light green with a bluish tinge, turning to a deep orange in November, just before it falls. The bright crimson cones of the Larch, that appear in June, may be reckoned among its minor beauties. This tree is more abundant in Maine and New Hampshire than in any other part of the United States, though even there it is scarce compared with other conifers. Above the St. Lawrence, however, as far as Hudson’s Bay, it forms assemblages of several miles in extent.

THE HEMLOCK.

The Hemlock is confessedly one of the most beautiful of the coniferous evergreens, though rather narrow in its dimensions. The principal branches are small and short with very slender terminations, in which it differs from all the other spruces. The multitude of these slender sprays, and their rows of soft delicate leaves, cause those beautiful undulations that characterize the foliage of this tree when moved by the wind. The leaves, of a light green on their upper surface and of a silvery whiteness beneath, are arranged in a row on each side of the branchlets. But while those of the other spruces are sessile, those of the Hemlock have slender footstalks, yielding them a slight mobility. The spangled glitter of the foliage is caused by a slightly tremulous motion of the terminal sprays.

In a deep wood the Hemlock shows some very important defects. There it forms a shaft from fifty to eighty feet in height without any diminution of its size, until near the summit, where it tapers suddenly, forming a head of foliage that projects considerably above the general level of the forest. The trunk is covered with dead branches projecting from it on all sides, causing it to wear a very unsightly appearance; and when the tree is sawed into boards, they are found to extend directly through the sapwood of the tree, making a hole in it as round as if it were bored with an auger. This is caused by the continued growth of the trunk of the tree after the decay of its branches, every year forming a new circle round the branch, but not inosculating with it, as in other trees.

The full beauty of the Hemlock is displayed on the edge of a wood, or on a plain where it has grown without impediment, feathering down to the ground. Here we observe how much less formal it is in shape than other conifers. When there are no gaps in its ramification, the numerous branches are mostly in close contact at their extremities, so that, when viewed from the outside of the wood, it seems nearly one uninterrupted mass of foliage, hiding the interior of the tree almost entirely from sight. In its perfection, when it has enjoyed an isolated growth, without any mechanical accident to mar its symmetry, it presents a fine tapering form without stiffness, and a mass of glittering foliage with which that of but few other trees is comparable.

The branches of the Hemlock are very numerous, perfectly horizontal, and remarkable for the absence of those regular whorls that distinguish other trees of this genus. They are put forth irregularly from all parts of the trunk, turning from their horizontal position gracefully upward, drooping a little at their termination, and endowed with great flexibility. The branches are minutely subdivided, forming with their leaves a flat surface, somewhat like the compound pinnate leaves of the cicuta, or poison hemlock. From this resemblance it undoubtedly obtained its name. These branches lie one above another, each bending over at its extremities upon the surface of those below, like the feathers upon the wings of a bird.

The bark of the Hemlock is of a reddish brown, divided by furrows that separate it into scales. The young trees have a smooth bark, like that of the balsam fir. The cones are very small, numerous, and pendent, of a fine crimson color when they first appear, attached to the ends of the branches, and arriving at maturity in the autumn. The Hemlock occupies all kinds of soil, though trees of a large size are found only where it is deep and fertile. It is fond of moisture, often extending its graceful boughs from the summits of granitic rocks and declivities wet with perpetual springs. “The Hemlock is natural to the coldest regions of America, and begins to appear about Hudson’s Bay, near Lake St. John; in the neighborhood of Quebec it fills the forests, and in Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, the States of Maine and Vermont, and a considerable part of New Hampshire, it constitutes three fourths of the evergreen woods. Further south it is less common, and in the Middle and Southern States it is seldom seen, except on the Alleghanies.”

PINE WOODS.

I have often thought of the pleasure I should feel on entering a forest of tree-ferns, and observing their elegant fronds spread out above my head, displaying a form of vegetation never witnessed except in a tropical country. Yet I doubt whether an assemblage of tree-ferns, a grove of magnolias, or an island of palms could equal a forest of pines in the expression of grandeur and solemnity. A pine wood possesses characters entirely unique, and affects us with sensations which nothing else in nature seems capable of inspiring. Whether this arises from the contrast between the light outside and the darkness within,—a certain harmonious blending of cheerfulness and gloom,—or from the novelty of the whole scene, there comes up from every deep recess and shadowy arbor, every dripping dell, every mossy fountain, and every open glen throughout the wood, an indescribable charm. Notwithstanding the darkness of its interior, and the sombre character of its dense masses of evergreen foliage, as seen from without,—whence the name of _black timber_, which has been applied to it,—yet the shade and shelter it affords, and the sentiment of grandeur it inspires, cause it to be allied with the most profound and agreeable sensations.

In a pine wood Nature presents one of her most remarkable features; and there is so much that is healthful and delightful in its emanations, and in the atmosphere that is diffused around it, that she has not denied its benefits to any clime. Pines are found in every latitude save the equatorial region, where the broad-leaved palms supply the same enduring shade. Even there pines are distributed over the mountains at a height corresponding with the northern temperate zone. Nature has spread these trees widely over the earth, that the inhabitants of the sunny South and the inhospitable North may equally derive benefit from their protection and their products. There is not a region this side of the equator, where a man may not kneel down under the fragrant shade of a pine wood, and thank the Author of nature for this beneficent gift.

In New England the white pine usually predominates in our evergreen woods, mixed in greater or less degree with pitch-pine and fir. In the gracefulness of its foliage, in its lofty stature and the beautiful symmetry of its wide-spread branches, the white pine exceeds all other species. But the balsamic fragrance that is so agreeable to travellers when journeying over the sandy tracts of some parts of New England comes from the more homely pitch-pine. These odors greet our senses at all seasons, but chiefly during the prevalence of a still south-wind, and are in a different manner almost as charming as a beautiful prospect.

In a dense pine wood we observe certain peculiarities of light and shade seldom seen in a deciduous wood. The foliage that forms the canopy over our heads is so closely woven, that, wherever an opening occurs, the light pours into it with distinct outlines of shadow, very much as it shines into a dark room through a half-opened shutter. These sudden gleams of light, blending with the all-pervading shadow in which we are involved, deepen all our sensations, and cause us to feel a little of that religious awe which is inspired when passing under the interior arches of a cathedral. The presence of a group of deciduous trees always becomes apparent at some distance before we reach it, by the flickering lights among their loose foliage, and a general brightness and cheerfulness in the space occupied by the group.

There are many other agreeable circumstances connected with a pine wood. The foliage that drops from the trees, after the new growth of leaves has been put forth, covers the ground with a smooth brown matting, as comfortable to the footsteps as a gravel walk, while it savors only of nature. The acicular foliage of the pine is so hard and durable, that in summer we always find the last year’s crop lying upon the ground in a state of perfect soundness, and under it that of the preceding year only partially decayed. This bed of foliage is so compact as to prevent the growth of underbrush; and it keeps the space open under the trees, whose tall shafts resemble pillars rising out of the floor of a magnificent temple. Hence a pine wood is pleasantly accessible to the rambler and the student of nature; and the absence of a woody undergrowth permits many plants of a peculiar character to thrive upon this carpeted ground. The purple cypripedia is common here, pushing up its leaves through this mass of decayed foliage, and displaying its beautiful inflated blossoms like some bright flower of a fairer clime. Mushrooms of various species and of divers fantastic shapes are frequent as we pass, some spreading out their hoods like a parasol, some with a dragon-like aspect, others perfectly globular, all having a great diversity of hues. In the deeper wood, where there is no sunshine to green the sprouting herbs, appears that rare genus of plants resembling the pale and sickly slaves of the mine,—the grotesque and singular monotropa.

In an old pine wood our attention is diverted by the great variety of lichens that incrust the bark of the trees and hang from their boughs. Many rare species decorate the trees with their tufts, circles, and protuberances, and their curiously painted dots and patches. All green herbs, however, are checked in their growth by the darkness of the wood. The verdure of a pine wood is chiefly over our heads; there is but little under our feet. But the few plants whose habits permit them to grow here are the more conspicuous because they are not mingled with a crowded assemblage of different species. Hence the little creeping michella, with its checkered green leaves, its twin flowers resembling heath-blossoms, and its scarlet fruit, is very beautiful, clustering at the roots of some tall pine, or garlanding some prostrate tree covered with mosses that mark its decay.

In the Southern States, extensive regions called “pine barrens” form a very conspicuous part of the scenery. Their growth at the present time is seldom so dense as that of a Northern pine wood. Whole forests are so thinly set that you may drive some miles through them on horseback. Still in these pine barrens there is the same breathing of solemnity that makes a Northern pine wood so impressive. The tall, gaunt, and grotesque forms of the trees, the flat, interminable plains which they occupy, the dark drapery of moss that hangs from their boughs, their silence and solitude and their primitive wildness, yield the scene an expression of melancholy grandeur that cannot be described. Occasionally a log-hut varies the prospect, as primitive in its appearance as the wood.

The pine barrens of the Southern States are celebrated as healthful retreats for the inhabitants of the seaports, whither they resort in summer to escape the prevailing fevers. They are generally of a mixed character, consisting of the Northern pitch-pine, the long-leaved pine, and a few other species, intermixed with the Southern cypress, occasional red maples, and a few other deciduous trees. Pines, however, constitute the dominant growth; but the trees are, for the most part, widely separated, so that the surface is green with herbs and grasses, and often covered with flowers. The thinness of these woods may be attributed to the practice, for two centuries past, of tapping the trees for turpentine, causing their gradual decay. Their tall forms and branchless trunks show that they obtained their principal growth in a dense wood.

The first visit I made to the pine barrens was after a long ride by railroad through the plains of North Carolina. It was night; and I often looked from the car windows into the darkness, made still more affecting by the sight of the tall pines that raised their heads almost into the clouds, like monsters watching the progress of our journey. The prospect was rendered almost invisible by the darkness that gave prominence to the dusky forms of the trees as they were pictured against the half-luminous sky. At length the day began to break, and the morning beams revealed to my sight an immense wilderness of giant spectres. The cars made a pause at this hour, allowing the passengers to step outside; and while absorbed in the contemplation of this desolate region, suddenly the loud and mellow tones of the mocking-bird came to my ears, and, as if by enchantment, reversed the character of my thoughts. The desert, no longer a solitude, inspired me with emotions of unspeakable delight. Morning never seemed so lovely as when the rising sun, with his golden beams and lengthened shadows, was greeted by this warbling salutation, as from some messenger of light who seemed to announce that Nature over all scenes has extended her beneficence, and to all regions of the earth dispenses her favors and her smiles.

At the end of my journey I took a stroll into the wood. It was in the month of June, when vegetation was in its prime, before it was seared by the summer drought. Many beautiful shrubs were conspicuous with their flowers, though the wood contained but a small proportion of shrubby undergrowth. During my botanical rambles in this wood, I was struck with the multitude of flowers in its shady arbors, seeming the more numerous to me as I had previously confined my observations to Northern woods. The phlox grew here in all its native delicacy, where it had never known the fostering hand of man. Crimson rhexias—called by the inhabitants deerweed—were distributed among the grassy knolls, like clusters of picotees. Variegated passion-flowers were conspicuous on the bare white sand that checkered the green surface, displaying their emblematic forms on their low repent vines, and reminding the wanderer in these solitudes of that faith which was founded on humility and crowned with martyrdom. Here too the spiderwort of our gardens, in a meeker form of beauty and a paler radiance, luxuriated under the protection of the wood. I observed also the predominance of luxuriant vines, indicating our near approach to the tropics, rearing themselves upon the tall and naked shafts of the trees, some, like the bignonia, in a full blaze of crimson, others, like the climbing fern, draping the trees in perennial verdure.

THE FIR.

The Fir and the spruce are readily distinguished from the pine by their botanical characters and by those general marks which are apparent to common observers. They have shorter leaves than the pine, not arranged in fascicles, but singly and in rows along the branch. The cones of the American species are smaller than those of the pine, and they ripen their seeds every year; their lateral branches are smaller and more numerous, and are given out more horizontally. They are taller in proportion to their spread, and more regularly pyramidal in their outlines. The principal generic distinction between the Fir and the spruce is the manner in which they bear their cones; those of the Fir stand erect upon their branch, while those of the spruce are suspended from it. Botanists have lately separated the spruce from the Fir, which they describe under the generic name of Picea. As my descriptions of trees are physiognomical rather than botanical, I shall have no occasion to adopt or to reject this innovation. The spruces, however, are always described by travellers as firs. Whenever they speak of Fir woods, they include in them both the Fir and the spruce.

THE BALSAM FIR.

This tree is the American representative of the silver fir of Europe, but is inferior to it in all respects. The silver fir is one of the tallest trees on the continent of Europe, remarkable for the beauty of its form and foliage, and for the value of its timber. The American tree is inferior to it in height, in density of foliage, in longevity, and in the durability of its wood. Both trees, however, display the same general characters to observation, having a bluish-green foliage, with a silvery under surface, closely arranged upon the branches, that curve gracefully upward at the extremities. The secondary branches have the same upward curvature, never hanging down in the formal manner of the Norway spruce. There is an airiness in its appearance that is quite charming, and to a certain extent makes amends for its evident imperfections. When the Balsam Fir is young, it is very neat and pretty; but as it advances in years it becomes bald, and displays but little foliage except on the extremities of the branches. This is a remarkable defect in many of this family of trees. European writers complain of it in the silver fir. It is observed in the hemlock, except in favorable situations, and in the black spruce, but in a less degree in the white and Norway spruces.

THE SPRUCE.

The Spruce, which is indigenous in New England, comprehends the White and the Black Spruce and the Hemlock. The etymology of this word is worthy of notice. Evelyn says, “For masts (speaking of firs), those from Prussia, which we call Spruce, and Norway are the best.” The word seems to be a corruption of “Pruse,” meaning Prussian. I have formerly thought that the name was applied to this tree to distinguish it from others of the same family which display less of this formal symmetry; but the fir proper is certainly more _spruce_ in its shape than the more flowing Spruce Fir.

THE WHITE SPRUCE.

The White Spruce is less common as an ornamental tree than the Norway spruce, which is preferred as more rapid growing and stately. But the points of difference seem to me very much in favor of the White Spruce. We may distinguish them by the following marks. The White Spruce is not so tall as the European tree, and its cones are very much smaller, though both are pendent. But what is most remarkable is their different mode of branching. The principal branches of each are given out at right angles, with this apparent difference only, that the whorls are more widely separated in the Norway spruce, the distance seeming to be proportional to the comparative length or height of the trees. The leaves of the Norway spruce grow only on the top and two sides of the branch, those of the American spruce cover its whole circumference, being almost cylindrical.

But the most remarkable difference is observed in the disposition of the secondary branches. The Norway spruce suspends them almost perpendicularly from its horizontal boughs. Those of the American tree are tufted, not pendulous, but merely drooping a little at their extremities. This gives the whole mass a more sturdy appearance, and takes away some of that formality which is so tiresome in the Norway spruce. For we should bear in mind, that, although hanging foliage is supposed to be less formal than the opposite, it is not invariably so. The drooping foliage of the elm and the hemlock is graceful, but that of the Norway spruce resembles an artificial arrangement, and reminds me of garments hanging upon a patent clothes-line. I think the tufted mode of growth of the American spruces would be generally preferred to the formal drooping foliage of the Norway spruce and European larch.

THE BLACK SPRUCE.

The Black Spruce is a taller and larger tree in its native forest than the white spruce; but the latter, when planted in pleasure-grounds, makes a more beautiful standard than the other, which is apt to grow scraggy and defective, like the balsam fir. There is some difficulty in distinguishing the two American species, until they have been repeatedly examined and compared, though they do not differ from each other so obviously as they both differ from the Norway spruce. In the white spruce the trunk tapers more rapidly, the bark of the recent branches is lighter colored, the cones are smaller and more elongated, the leaves have more of a glaucous hue, they are also longer and less numerous, and do not form so perfect a cylinder by closely surrounding the branch, as in the Black Spruce.

Notwithstanding their similarity, it is the Black Spruce alone that produces the essential oil for the manufacture of beer. This species is also much more valuable for its timber. Emerson remarks that the leaves and scales of all the pine family, in which are included the spruce and the fir, are so disposed as to form spirals in two directions.

THE NORWAY SPRUCE.

The Norway Spruce is very favorably known in this part of the country as an ornamental tree. It is described by European writers as the tallest tree of the European forest, except the silver fir. In this country no trees of this species have attained any great altitude, having been all planted within a space of fifty years. Occasionally we behold a solitary individual that may have attained about half of its possible height, but the most do not exceed twenty or thirty feet. In certain situations no man could help admiring the beauty and majesty of these trees, when, for example, they border an extensive field, dividing it, as it were, from the roadside, as may be seen on the southern borders of the Observatory ground in Cambridge. But as a boundary for a garden or enclosure the trees of all this family are too gloomy. The Norway Spruce would be more valuable to plant for its timber than our native species, because it is more rapid in its growth and would produce a greater length of shaft in a given number of years. But the two American spruces are more beautiful trees, as would be apparent to any one who should compare them when growing together.

THE NORTHERN CYPRESS.

The Northern Cypress, or White Cedar, is a more stately tree than the juniper, but it is never seen by our waysides; it will thrive only in swampy soils. This is the tree that covers those extensive morasses known as cedar swamps, which are, perhaps, the best examples extant of the primitive forest. The White Cedar is not often called the Cypress in New England, and in general appearance, and especially in the style of its foliage, bears but little resemblance to the Southern Cypress; but its similarity to the juniper is very striking. It is a taller tree than the European Cypress. By some botanists it is classed with the arbor-vitæ.

This tree is not confined to inland moors, but is often found upon marshes which are overflowed by the tide of the ocean. Cedar swamps are common in all the maritime parts of the country. In many of them in New England the trees are so closely set that it is difficult to traverse them. Their wetness presents another obstacle to the traveller, except in winter, when the water is frozen, or in the driest part of summer. In these swamps there is a covering, in some parts, of bog-moss, from six inches to a foot deep, always charged with moisture, in which are embedded several half-parasitic plants, such as the white orchis. The White Cedar constitutes with the southern cypress the principal timber of the Great Dismal Swamp, and is the last tree, except the red maple, which is discovered when travelling through an extensive morass.

Michaux remarks that in the Southern swamps which are occupied by the Northern and Southern Cypress, the former “are observed to choose the centre of the swamps, and the southern cypresses the circumference.” In the region of the southern cypress the cedar swamps are skirted by the tupelo and the red maple. There is but little superficial resemblance between the two cypresses. The foliage of the Northern tree is evergreen. “Each leaf,” says Michaux, “is a little branch numerously subdivided, and composed of small, acute, imbricated scales, on the back of which a minute gland is discovered with the lens. In the angle of these ramifications grow the flowers, which are scarcely visible, and which produce very small rugged cones of a greenish tint, that change to bluish towards the fall, when they open to release the fine seeds.”

THE SOUTHERN CYPRESS.

We have read more perhaps of the Southern Cypress than of any other American tree; but what we have read relates to some of its peculiarities, such as the stumps that grow up among the perfect trees, and of which, in the economy of nature, it is difficult to discover the advantages. We have read also of the immense gloomy swamps that are shaded by trees of this species; of the long mosses, called the “garlands of death,” that hang from their branches, rendering the scene still more gloomy. But from all our reading we should not discover what is immediately apparent to our observation, when we see this tree, that it is one of the most beautiful of the forest.

The Southern Cypress is beginning to be prized here as an ornamental tree, and the few standards in the enclosures of suburban estates will convince any one that no species has been brought from the South that surpasses it in elegance and beauty. The larch, which is a favorite ornamental tree, will not compare with it, though there is some superficial resemblance between it and the American larch. They are both deciduous; and their foliage is brighter in the summer than that of other conifers. The leaves of the deciduous Cypress are of the most delicate texture, of a light green, and arranged in neat opposite rows, like those of the hemlock, on the slender terminal branches.

Michaux remarks that the banks of the Indian River, a small stream in Delaware, are the northern boundary of the deciduous Cypress. He says it occupies an area of more than fifteen hundred miles. The largest trees are found in the swamps that contain a deep, miry soil, with a surface of vegetable mould, renewed every year by floods. Some of these trees are “one hundred and twenty feet in height, and from twenty-five to forty feet in circumference at the conical base, which, at the surface of the earth, is always three or four times as large as the continued diameter of the trunk. In felling them the negroes are obliged to raise themselves upon scaffolds five or six feet from the ground. The base is usually hollow for three quarters of its bulk.” The conical protuberances for which this tree is remarkable come from the roots of the largest trees, particularly of those in very wet soils. “They are,” says Michaux, “commonly from eighteen to twenty-four inches in height, and sometimes from four to five feet in thickness. They are always hollow, smooth on the surface, and covered with a reddish bark like the roots, which they resemble also in the softness of their wood. They exhibit no signs of vegetation, and I have never succeeded in obtaining shoots by wounding their surface and covering them with earth. No cause can be assigned for their existence. They are peculiar to the Cypress, and begin to appear when it is twenty or twenty-five feet in height. They are made use of only by the negroes for beehives.”

The leaves of the Cypress seem like pinnate leaves, with two rows of leaflets. Their tint is of a light and very bright green, which gives the tree a liveliness, when in full foliage, that is displayed but by few other trees. But as the foliage is deciduous, and as the branches in its native swamps are covered by long tresses of black moss, when it has shed its leaves nothing in nature can present a more gloomy appearance. In a dense wood, the foliage is very thin, giving rise to the name of the Bald Cypress, so that it is only on the outside of the forest that the tree can be considered beautiful. Its spray is of as fine a texture as the leaves. When the tree is young it is pyramidal, but the old trees are invariably flattened at the top.

The wood of this tree, though soft, is very durable, fine grained, and of a reddish color, and is extensively used for the same purposes for which the wood of the white pine is employed.

THE JUNIPER.

The Juniper is an historical tree, and has been the subject of many interesting traditions,—supposed by the ancients to yield a shade that was injurious to human life; the emblem of faith, because its heart is always sound; the bearer of fruit regarded as a panacea for all diseases, and a magic charm which was thrown on the funeral pile to protect the spirit of the dead from evil, and bound with the leaves to propitiate the deities by their incense. It is not improbable that the superstitious notions respecting the power of its fruit to heal diseases gave origin to the use of it in the manufacture of certain alcoholic liquors; and it is a remarkable fact that universal belief in its virtues as a panacea should have attached to a plant which is now used for no important medical purpose whatever save the flavoring of gin!

The Juniper, very generally called the Red Cedar, and known in many places as the Savin, is well known to all our people, and is associated with the most rugged scenery of our coast. On all our rocky hills which have been stripped of their original growth the Juniper springs up as if it found there a soil congenial to its wants. On the contrary, the soil is very poorly adapted to it, for the tree never attains a good size in these situations. Its presence there may be attributed to the birds that feed in winter upon its fruit, and scatter its seeds while in quest of dormant insects among the sods. As we journey southward, we find this tree in perfection in New Jersey and Maryland; and in all the Atlantic States south of Long Island Sound the Junipers are large and thrifty trees.

On our barren hills, near the coast, where they are so common as to be the most conspicuous feature of certain regions, they display a great variety of shapes and grotesque peculiarities of outline. Yet the normal shape of this tree is a perfect spire. When it presents this form, it is, in the true sense of the word, a beautiful object. Even its rusty-green foliage gives variety to the hues of the landscape, and heightens by contrast the verdure of other trees. This effect is the more remarkable at midsummer, when the green of the different trees has become nearly uniform in its shades. At this time the mixture of the duller tints of the Juniper is very agreeable.

The Juniper is very full of branches, irregularly disposed at a small angle with the trunk, forming an exceedingly dense mass of foliage. A singular habit of this tree is that of producing tufts of branches with foliage resembling that of the prostrate Juniper, as if a branch of that shrub had been ingrafted upon it. The berries, which are abundant in the fertile trees, are of a light bluish color, and afford a winter repast to many species of birds, particularly the waxwing. The branches, when their extremities are brought into contact with the soil, readily take root. Hence we sometimes find a clump of small trees gathered like children around the parent tree.

The trunk of this tree diminishes so rapidly in size as to lose its value for many purposes to which the wood is adapted; but this rapid diminution in diameter is one of its picturesque properties, and the cause in part of that spiry form which is so much admired in this tree. The lateral branches, always inserted obliquely, diminish in size proportionally with the decrease of the trunk. The Juniper is first discovered on Cedar Island in Lake Champlain, and, south of this latitude, extends all along the coast to the Cape of Florida, and along the shores of the Gulf of Mexico.

THE ARBOR-VITÆ.

The American Arbor-Vitæ is a small tree growing very much in the spiry form of the juniper, but narrower in the lower part. It is like the juniper also in its numerous and irregularly disposed branches. It is not seen in the woods near Boston; and it is rare even in cultivated grounds, where the Siberian Arbor-Vitæ, on account of its superior foliage, is preferred. The American tree grows abundantly in high northern latitudes. It is remarkable, with its kindred species, for the flattened shape of its leaves; and in its native woods it is hardly ever without a mixture of yellow and faded leaves interspersed with the green and healthy foliage. The terminal branch invested by the leaflets—resembling scales, and not a true leaf—constitutes this fan-like appendage, resembling the frond of a fern. The leaves have the flavor and odor of tansy.

In Maine the Arbor-Vitæ, next to the black spruce and hemlock, is more frequent than any other of the evergreens. It delights in cold, damp soils, and abounds on the rocky shores of streams and lakes. It sometimes constitutes a forest of several acres, with but a slight intermixture of other trees, predominating in proportion to the wetness of the soil. In the driest parts of these bogs we find the black spruce, the hemlock, the red birch, and, rarely, a few white pines.

THE YEW.

In Great Britain the Yew is one of the most celebrated of trees, the one that is generally consecrated to burial-grounds, and that most frequently overshadows the graves of the dead. It is a tree of second magnitude, and remarkable for its longevity. The American Yew is seldom anything more than a prostrate shrub, resembling branches of fir spreading over the ground. It is said, however, that although it is a creeping shrub on the Atlantic coast, it becomes a tree on the coast of the Pacific; in like manner the alder, which is a shrub here, becomes a tree in Oregon and California.

In New England, the Yew is a solitary tree, growing among deciduous trees as if it required their protection. It never constitutes a forest either here or in Europe. It seems to love the shade, and when it is not under the protection of trees, it is found on the shady sides of hills, and in moist, clayey soils, but never on sandy plains. I shall not speak of the romantic customs associated with the European Yew; but the absence of this tree deprives us of a very romantic feature in landscape.

THE WHITE PINE.

The pines in general have not the formality that distinguishes the fir and the spruce. They seldom display so much of a pyramidal shape as we observe in a symmetrical fir. Their leaves are longer, and their branches not so regularly given out in whorls. They are also more generally round-headed when old; their leaves are in small fascicles, containing from two to five, while those of the fir are arranged singly along the branch or round it. The pine contains a greater quantity of turpentine than any other family of resinous trees, and many of the species are of the highest value in the mechanic arts. In the New England States three species only are known, and of these two only are common.

The most remarkable of this family of trees, and the one that comes nearest the fir in symmetry and formality, is the White Pine. But though like the fir in symmetry, it resembles it the least in all other qualities, having the most flexibility of foliage of all the pines, and bearing its leaves in fives. The White Pine, according to Michaux, “is the loftiest and most valuable of the productions of the North American forest. Its summit is seen at an immense distance, aspiring to heaven, far above the heads of the surrounding trees.”

At first sight of a full-grown and well-proportioned White Pine we are struck with its evident adaptedness to all purposes of shade and shelter, in its wide-spread, horizontal branches, and in its silken tufted foliage. It is not impenetrable to sunshine, but admits it in constant flickering beams of light; and we perceive immediately that there is no other tree in whose shade it would be more agreeable to recline on a hot summer’s day, or under whose protection we might obtain a greater amount of comfort in winter. The uniform arrangement of its branches in whorls, forming a series of stages one above another, its tasselled foliage in long, silky tufts at the ends of the branches, and its symmetrical outline, constitute in the most obvious sense a beautiful tree. These tufts, though not pendulous, have none of the stiff bristling appearance of the other pines; and their verdure is of a sober, not a sombre tint, though rather dull in lustre.

The symmetry or formality which some writers condemn in the style of this tree is not of a disagreeable kind, like that of the Norway spruce. It is combined both with majesty and grace, and increases the grandeur of its appearance, like the architectural proportions of a temple in which grandeur could not be produced without symmetry. This tree has much of the amplitude so remarkable in the cedar of Lebanon. Hence the look of primness, which the firs always retain, is counteracted by its nobleness and altitude. It is combined also with a certain negligent habit of its leafy robes, that softens its dignity into grace, and causes it to wear its honors like one who feels no constraint under their burden.

The White Pine has no legendary history. Being an American tree, it is celebrated neither in poetry nor romance. It is associated with no classical images, like the oak, nor with sacred literature, like the cedar of Lebanon. It has no poetic history and no reputation save what it may have derived from the easy motion of its foliage, the gentle sweep of its smaller branches, its terebinthine odors, and its pleasant, romantic shade. It has no factitious charms, but depends on its own intrinsic merits for the pleasure it affords either the sight or the mind. In New England, the White Pine contributes more than any other evergreen to give character to our scenery. It is seen both in large and small assemblages and in clumps, but not often as a solitary standard. We see it in our journeys projecting over eminences that are encircled by old roads, shading the traveller from the sun and protecting him from the wind. We have sat under its fragrant shade, in our pedestrian tours, when weary with heat and exercise we sought its coolness, and blessed it as one of the guardian deities of the wood. We are familiar with it in all pleasant, solitary places; and in our evening rambles we have listened underneath its boughs to the notes of the green warbler, who selects it for his abode, and has caught a plaintive tone from the winds that sweep through its long sibilant leaves.

The White Pine is a tree that harmonizes with all situations, rude or cultivated, level or abrupt. On the side of a hill it adds grandeur to the declivity, and yields a sweeter look of tranquillity to the green pastoral meadow. It gives a darker frown to the projecting cliff, and a more awful uncertainty to the mountain pass or the craggy ravine. Over desolate scenery it spreads a cheerfulness that detracts nothing from its power over the imagination, while it relieves it of its terrors, by presenting a green bulwark of defence against the wind and the storm. Nothing can be more picturesque in scenery than the occasional groups of White Pines on the bald hills of our New England coast, elsewhere too often a dreary waste of homely bush and brier.

Such are its picturesque characters. It may also be regarded as a true symbol of benevolence. Under its outspread roof, numerous small animals, nestling in the bed of dry leaves that cover the ground, find shelter and repose. The squirrel feeds upon the kernels obtained from its cones; the hare browses upon the trefoil and the spicy foliage of the hypericum, which are protected in its shade, and the fawn reposes on its brown couch of leaves, unmolested by the outer tempest. From its green arbors the quails are often roused in midwinter, where they feed upon the berries of the michella and the spicy wintergreen. Nature, indeed, seems to have designed this tree to protect her living creatures both in summer and winter.

The geographical limits of the White Pine are not very extensive. It is confined to northern regions, but does not extend so far north as the red pine or the fir. In the Southern and Middle States it is seen only in the Alleghany range; but it constitutes the principal timber of the pine forests of Canada and the New England States, which Loudon says are “the most extensive in the world.” The _débris_ of granite affords the best soil for the coniferous trees, but the White Pine is seldom found in marshes. The tree that bears the nearest resemblance to it is the Lambert pine of California, to which our tree approximates in size. Michaux measured two trunks near the banks of the Kennebec, one of which was one hundred and fifty-four feet in length, and fifty-four inches in diameter; the other, one hundred and forty-two feet in length, and forty-four inches in diameter.

THE PITCH PINE.