Chapter IX: Preface (2)

Hence the Weeping Willow never fails to please the sight even of the most insensible observer. Whether we see it waving its long branches over some pleasure-ground, overshadowing the gravel walk and the flower garden, or watching over a tomb in the graveyard, where the warm hues of its foliage yield cheerfulness to the scenes of mourning, or trailing its floating branches, like the tresses of a Naiad, over some silvery lake or stream, it is in all cases a beautiful object, always poetical, always picturesque, and serves by its alliance with what is hallowed in romance to bind us more closely to nature.

It is not easy to imagine anything of this character more beautiful than the spray of the Weeping Willow. Indeed, there is no other tree that is comparable with it in this respect. The American elm displays a more graceful bend of all the branches that form its hemispherical head; and there are several weeping birches which are very picturesque when standing by a natural fountain on some green hillside. The river maple is also a theme of constant admiration, from the graceful flow of its long branches that droop perpendicularly when laden with foliage, but partly resume their erect position in winter, when denuded. But the style of all these trees differs entirely from that of the Weeping Willow, which in its peculiar form of beauty is unrivalled in the whole vegetable kingdom.

It is probable that the drooping trees acquired the name of “weeping,” by assuming the attitude of a person in tears, who bends over and seems to droop. This is the general attitude of affliction in allegorical representations. But this habit is far from giving them a melancholy expression, which is more generally the effect of dark sombre foliage. Hence the yew seems to be a more appropriate tree for burial-grounds, if it be desirable to select one of a sombre appearance. The bending forms of vegetation are universally attractive, by emblemizing humility and other qualities that excite our sympathy. All the drooping plants, herbs, trees, and shrubs are poetical, if not picturesque. Thus lilies, with less positive beauty, are more interesting than tulips.

A peculiar type of the drooping tree is seen in the fir, whose lower branches bend downwards, almost without a curve, from their junction with the stem of the tree. This drooping is caused by the weight of the snow that rests upon the firs during the winter in their native northern regions. There is a variety of the beech, and another of the ash, which has received the appellation of _weeping_, from an entire inversion of the branches, both large and small. Such trees seem to me only a hideous monstrosity, and I never behold them without some disagreeable feelings, as when I look upon a deformed animal.

VERNAL WOOD-SCENERY.

All the seasons display some peculiar beauty that comes from the tints as well as the forms of vegetation. Even the different months have their distinguishing shades of light and color. Nature, after the repose of winter, very slowly unfolds her beauties, and is not lavish in the early months of any description of ornament. Day by day she discloses the verdure of the plain, the swelling buds with their lively and various colors, and the pale hues of the early flowers. She brings along her offerings one by one, leading from harmony to harmony, as early twilight ushers in the ruddy tints of morn. We perceive both on the earth and in the skies the forms and tints that signalize the revival of Nature, and every rosy-bosomed cloud gives promise of approaching gladness and beauty.

By the frequent changes that mark the aspect of the year we are preserved at all times in a condition to receive pleasure from the outward forms of Nature. Her tints are as various as the forms of her productions; and though spring and autumn, when the hues of vegetation are more widely spread and yield more character to the landscape, are the most remarkable for their general beauty, individual objects in summer are brighter and more beautiful than any that can be found at other times. In the early part of the year, Nature tips her productions with softer hues, that gradually ripen into darker shades of the same color, or into pure verdure. By pleasant and slow degrees she mingles with the greenness of the plain the hues of the early flowers, and spreads a charming variety of warm and mellow tints upon the surface of the wood.

In treating of vernal tints, I shall refer chiefly to effects produced, without the agency of flowers, by that general coloring of the leaves and spray which may be considered the counterpart of the splendor of autumn. In the opening of the year many inconspicuous plants are brought suddenly into notice by their lively contrast with the dark and faded complexion of the ground. The mosses, lichens, and liverworts perform, therefore, an important part in the limning of the vernal landscape. On the bald hills the surfaces of rocks that project above the soil, and are covered with these plants, are brighter than the turf that surrounds them, with its seared grasses and herbage. They display circles of painted lichens, varying from an olive-gray to red and yellow, and tufts of green mosses which surpass the fairest artificial lawn in the perfection of their verdure. Many of the flowerless plants are evergreen, especially the ferns and lycopodiums, and nearly all are earlier than the higher forms of vegetation in ripening their peculiar hues.

The first remarkable vernal tinting of the forest is manifest in the spray of different trees. As soon as the sap begins to flow, every little twig becomes brightened on the surface, as if it had been glossed by art. The swelling of the bark occasioned by the flow of sap gives the whole mass a livelier hue. This appearance is very evident in the peach-tree, in willows and poplars, in the snowy mespilus, and in all trees with a long and slender spray. Hence the ashen green of the poplar, the golden green of the willow, and the dark crimson of the peach-tree, the wild rose, and the red osier, are perceptibly heightened by the first warm days of spring. Nor is this illumination confined to the species I have named; for even the dull sprays of the apple-tree, the cherry, the birch, and the lime, are dimly flushed with the hue of reviving life. As many of the forest trees display their principal beauty of form while in their denuded state, this seasonal polish invites our attention, particularly to those with long and graceful branches.

The swelling buds, which are for the most part very highly colored, whether they enclose a leaf or a flower, add greatly to this luminous appearance of the trees. These masses of innumerable buds, though mere colored dots, produce in the aggregate a great amount of color. This is apparent in all trees as soon as they are affected by the warmth of the season. But as vegetation comes forward, the flower-buds grow brighter and brighter, till they are fully expanded, some in the form of fringes, as in most of our forest trees, others, as in our orchard trees, in clusters of perfect flowers. This drapery of fringe, seldom highly colored, but containing a great variety of pale shades, that hangs from the oak, the birch, the willow, the alder, and the poplar, is sufficient to characterize the whole forest, and forms one of the most remarkable phenomena of vernal wood-scenery.

It is generally supposed that the beauties of tinted foliage are peculiar to autumn. I do not recollect any landscape painting in which the tints of spring are represented. All the paintings of colored leaves are sketches of autumnal scenes, or of the warm glow of sunlight. Yet there is hardly a tree or a shrub that does not display in its opening leaves a pale shade of the same tints that distinguish the species or the individual tree at the time of the fall of the leaf. The birch and the poplar imitate in their half-developed leaves the yellow tints of their autumnal dress, forming a yellow shade of green. The tender leaves of the maple and of the different oaks are all greenish purple of different shades. On the other hand, the foliage of trees that do not change their color in the autumn displays only a diluted shade of green, in its half-unfolded state. This remark, however, is not universal in its application; for we see the lilac, that appears in autumn without any change, coming out in the spring with dark impurpled foliage.

Green cannot, therefore, be said to characterize a vernal landscape. It belongs more especially to summer. The prevailing color of the forest during the unfolding of the leaf, when viewed from an elevated stand, is a cinereous purple, mingled with an olivegreen. The flowers of the elm, of a dark maroon, and the crimson flowers of the red maple, coming before their leaves, are an important element in the earliest hues of the wood. The red maple, especially, which is the principal timber of the swamps in all the southern parts of New England, yields a warm and ruddy glow to the woods in spring, hardly less to be admired than its own bright tints in October. Green hues, which become, day by day, more apparent in the foliage, do not predominate until summer has arrived and is fully established.

It is only in the spring that the different species of the forest can be identified by their colors at distances too great for observing their botanical characters. A red-maple wood is distinguished by the very tinge that pervades the spray, when the trees are so far off that we cannot see the forms of their branches and flowers, as if the ruddy hues of morning illuminated the whole mass. A grove of limes would be known by their dark-colored spray, approaching to blackness; an assemblage of white birches by that of a chocolate-color diverging from their clean white shafts. A beechen grove would manifest a light cinereous color throughout, mixed with a pale green as the foliage appears.

THE HORSE-CHESTNUT.

The Horse-Chestnut I would compare with the locust on account of their difference, not their resemblance. Like the locust, it is remarkable for the beauty of its flowers, though even in this respect the trees are of an opposite character; the one bears them in upright pyramids, the other in pendent racemes. Those of the locust are half closed and modest in their colors of white and brown; those of the Horse-Chestnut are wide open and somewhat flaring, though of a delicate rose-color and white. While in blossom the tree is unsurpassed in its beautiful display of flowers, that “give it the appearance of an immense chandelier covered with innumerable girandoles.”

After all, we can bestow very little praise upon the Horse-Chestnut, except for its flowers. The foliage of the tree displays neither lightness, nor elegance, nor brilliancy of verdure, nor autumnal tinting, nor any flowing beauty of outline. On the contrary, it is homely and heavy, though it affords a very deep shade. Indeed, when we view a Horse-Chestnut from a moderate distance, the arrangement of its leaves give it a very pleasing tufted appearance, unlike what we see in any other species. George Barnard says of it; “This cannot be called a picturesque tree, its shape being very formal; but the broad masses of foliage, although too defined and unbroken to be agreeable to the painter, are grand and majestic when seen in an avenue or in groups.”

As a shade-tree, or a tree for avenues and pleasure-grounds, none would deny the merits of the Horse-Chestnut; but when denuded it is a miserable-looking object, with its terminal branches resembling drumsticks, its primness without grace, and its amplitude without grandeur. The birds seldom build their nests among its branches, which are too wide apart to afford them protection or accommodation; for this tree is absolutely without any spray. Its fruit, which is borne in great abundance, sustains neither bird nor quadruped, nor is it profitable for man. Hence it has always been regarded by poets and moralists as a symbol of extravagance and waste.

THE CATALPA.

The Catalpa, though an American tree, is not indigenous in New England, nor farther north than Philadelphia. It is allied, in its botanical characters, to the bignonia, one of the most magnificent of the American flowering vines, which in Virginia and the Carolinas climbs the trunks of the loftiest trees, and, rising to a hundred feet or more, completely encompasses them with flowers of rare beauty and foliage of the finest green. The Catalpa requires notice here, because it is not uncommon in our gardens and pleasure-grounds, and it is becoming more and more general as a wayside tree. It is remarkable as a late bloomer, putting forth its large panicles of white flowers late in July, when those of other trees and shrubs have mostly faded, and covering the tree so thickly as almost to conceal its dense mass of foliage. The leaves are very large, but flowing, heart-shaped, and of a light and somewhat yellowish green. The Catalpa is not yet very common; but it is one of those rare productions which is never seen without being admired.

FORMS AND EXPRESSION OF TREES.

The different forms of trees, and their endless variety of foliage and spray, have, from the earliest times, been favorite studies of the painter and the naturalist. Not only has each species certain distinguishing marks, but their specific characters are greatly modified in individual trees. The Psalmist compares a godly man to a tree that is planted by rivers of water, whose leaf shall not wither,—seeing in the stateliness and beauty of such a tree an emblem of the noble virtues of the human heart. Trees are distinguished by their grandeur or their elegance, by their primness or their grace, by the stiffness of their leaves and branches or by their waving and tremulous motions. Some stand forth as if in defiance of the wind and the tempest; others, with long drooping branches, find security in bending to the gale, like the slender herbs in the meadow.

Trees are generally classed as landscape ornaments, according to their general outlines. “Some trees ascend vertically,” says St. Pierre, “and having arrived at a certain height, in an air perfectly unobstructed, fork off in various tiers, and send out their branches horizontally, like an apple-tree; or incline them towards the earth, like a fir; or hollow them in the form of a cup, like the sassafras; or round them into the shape of a mushroom, like the pine; or straighten them into a pyramid, like the poplar; or roll them as wool upon the distaff, like the cypress; or suffer them to float at the discretion of the winds, like the birch.” These are the normal varieties in the shape of trees. Others may be termed accidental, like those of the tall and imperfectly developed trees, which have been cramped by growing in dense assemblages, and of the pollards that have issued from the stumps and roots of other trees.

Trees are generally wanting in that kind of beauty which we admire in a vase, or an elegant piece of furniture. They have more of those qualities we look for in a picture and in the ruder works of architecture. Nature is neither geometrical nor precise in her delineations. She betrays a design in all her works, but never casts two objects in the same mould. She does not paint by formulas, nor build by square and compass, nor plant by a line and dibble; she takes no note of formal arrangements, or of the “line of beauty,” or of direct adaptation of means to ends. She shakes all things together, as in a dice-box, and as they fall out there they remain, growing crooked or straight, mean or magnificent, beautiful or ugly, but adapted by the infinite variety of their forms and dispositions to the wants and habits of all creatures.

The beauty of trees is something that exists chiefly in our imagination. We admire them for their evident adaptation to purposes of shade and shelter. Some of them we regard as symbols or images of a fine poetic sentiment. Such are the slender willows and poplars, that remind us of grace and refinement, becoming the emblems of some agreeable moral affection, or the embodiment of some striking metaphor. Thus Coleridge personifies the white birch as the “Lady of the Woods,” and the oak by other poets is called the monarch, and the ash the Venus of the forest. The weeping willow, beautiful on account of its graceful spray, becomes still more so when regarded as the emblem of sorrow. The oak, in like manner, is interesting as the symbol of strength and fortitude. A young fir-tree always reminds us of primness; hence the name of spruce, which is applied to many of the species, is a word used to express formality. The cedar of Lebanon would be viewed by all with a certain romantic interest, on account of the frequent mention of it in Holy Writ, as well as for its nobleness of dimensions and stature.

It is with certain interesting scenes in the romance of travel that we associate the palms of the tropics. They have acquired singular attractions by appearing frequently in scenes that represent the life and manners of the simple inhabitants of the equatorial regions. We see them in pictures bending their fan-like heads majestically over the humble hut of the Indian, supplying him at once with milk, bread, and fruit, and affording him the luxury of their shade. They emblemize the beneficence of nature, which, by means of their products, supplies the wants of man before he has learned the arts of civilized life.

Writers in general apply the term “picturesque” to trees which are devoid of symmetry and very irregular in their outlines, either crooked from age or from some natural eccentricity of growth. Thus the tupelo is so called, to distinguish it from round-headed and symmetrical or beautiful trees. This distinction is not very precise; but it is sanctioned by general use, and answers very well for common purposes of vague description. I shall use the words in a similar manner, not adhering to the distinction as philosophical. Indeed, it is impossible to find words that will clearly express a complex idea. Words are very much like tunes played on a jew’s-harp; the notes intended to be given by the performer are accompanied by the louder ring of the key-note of the instrument, making it difficult to detect the notes of the tune, except in the hands of an extraordinary performer.

Nature has provided against the disagreeable effects that would result from the dismemberment of trees, by giving to those which are the most common a great irregularity of outline, admitting of disproportion without deformity. Symmetry in the forms of natural objects becomes wearisome by making too great a demand upon the attention required for observing the order and relations of the different parts. But if the objects in the landscape be irregular, both in their forms and their distribution, we make no effort to attend to the relations of parts to the whole, because no such harmony is indicated. Such a scene has the beauty of repose. The opposite effect is observed in works of architecture, in which irregularity puzzles the mind to discover the mutual relations of parts, and becomes disagreeable by disturbing our calculations and disappointing our curiosity. The charm of art is variety combined with uniformity; the charm of nature is variety without uniformity. Nature speaks to us in prose, art in verse.

Though we always admire a perfectly symmetrical oak or elm, because such perfection is rare, it will be admitted that the irregular forms of trees are more productive of agreeable impressions on the mind. The oak, one of the most interesting of all trees, is, in an important sense, absolutely ugly, especially when old age has increased its picturesque attractions. Indeed, if we could always reason correctly on the subjects of our consciousness, we should find that a very small part of that complex quality which we call beauty yields any organic pleasure to the sight. The charm of most of the objects in this category exists only in our imaginations. In trees and the general objects of the landscape we look neither for symmetry nor proportion; the absence of these qualities is, therefore, never disagreeable. It is the nonfulfilment of some expectation, or the apparently imperfect supply of some important want, that offends the sight, as when a conspicuous gap occurs in some finely proportioned work of art.

THE LILAC.

The Lilac, though not one of our native trees, has become so generally naturalized in our fields and gardens as hardly to be distinguished from them except by its absence from the forest. It is common in all waste lands that were formerly the sites of ancient dwelling-houses, marking the spot where the garden was situated by its irregular clumps; for when neglected it does not assume the shape of a tree, but forms an assemblage of long stems from one spreading root, like the barberry and the sumach. Under favorable conditions it is a very handsome tree, seldom rising above twelve or fifteen feet, but displaying a round head, and covered in its season with a profusion of flowers, unfolding their beautiful pyramidal clusters regularly on the last week in May. The color of these flowers is perfectly unique, having given the name by which painters distinguish one of their most important tints. The foliage of this tree is not remarkable, except for the regular heart shape of the leaves. It displays no tints in the autumn, but falls from the tree while its verdure remains untarnished.

The Lilac is still cultivated and prized in all our country villages. But its praise is seldom spoken in these days, for Fashion, who refuses to acknowledge any beauty in what is common, discarded this tree as soon as it became domesticated in humble cottage gardens. Even the rose would long ago have been degraded from its ancient honors by this vulgar arbiter of taste, if it had not been multiplied into hundreds of varieties, permitting one after another to take its turn in monopolizing to itself those praises which are due to the primitive rose.

THE BARBERRY.

All the inhabitants of New England are familiar with the common Barberry, one of those humble objects of the landscape that possess great merit with little celebrity. It is allied in picturesque scenery with the whortleberry and the bramble. We see it in hilly pastures, upon soils less primitive than those occupied by the vaccinium, though it is not uncommon as an under-shrub in many of our half-wooded lands. I have not yet been able to obtain a definite idea of the nature of those qualities that entitle a plant to the praises of florists and landscape gardeners, since we find them admiring the ugly mahonia more than the common Barberry, and the glutinous and awkward rose-acacia more than the common locust. The praises of the Barberry have not been spoken; but if our landscape were deprived of this shrub, half the beauty of our scenery would be wanting in many places. Its flowers hanging from every spray in golden racemes, arranged all along in the axils of the leaves from the junction of the small branches to their extremities, always attract attention. But though elegant and graceful, they are not so conspicuous as the scarlet fruit in autumn. There is not in our fields a more beautiful shrub in October, when our rude New England hills gleam with frequent clumps of them, following the courses of the loose stone walls and the borders of rustic lanes. Even after it is stripped of its fruit, the pale red tints of its foliage render it still an attractive object in the landscape.

THE MISSOURI CURRANT.

Among the flowering shrubs which are universally admired for the fragrance and beauty of their early blossoms, the Missouri Currant deserves more than a passing mention. Though introduced into New England since the beginning of the present century, it has become a universal favorite in our gardens, where it is cultivated chiefly for the agreeable odor of its flowers, resembling that of cloves, and penetrating the air on all still days in May. This shrub has a small leaf with irregular pointed lobes, turning to a pale crimson in autumn. The flowers are in small racemes like those of the common garden currant, but brighter in their hues, which are of a golden yellow, and producing only a few large berries of a pure shining black. This species is chiefly prized for its flowers, and is not cultivated for its fruit.

THE CEANOTHUS, OR JERSEY TEA.

The Ceanothus was formerly well known to the people of the United States under the name of Jersey Tea. Its leaves were extensively used as an imitation tea during the Revolution. They seem to possess no decided medicinal qualities, being somewhat astringent, slightly bitter, but not aromatic. It has been learned from experience that the aromatic plants, by constant use as teas, will pall upon the appetite, and injuriously affect digestion; while those which are slightly bitter, but wanting in aroma, like the China tea plant, may be used without seriously affecting the health for an indefinite space of time. I believe it may also be stated as a maxim, that those plants whose properties are sufficiently active to be used as medicines have never been long employed by any people as substitutes for tea.

The flowers of the Ceanothus are white, in full and elegant clusters, without any formality of shape, having a downy appearance, always attracting attention, not so much by their beauty as by their delicacy and their profusion. This plant is abundant in New England, flowering in June on the borders of dry woods.

FOLIAGE.

Foliage is the most conspicuous of the minute productions of nature. To the leaves of trees we look, not only for the gratification of our sense of beauty, but as the chief source of grateful shade and of the general charms of summer. They are the pride of trees no less than their flowers, and the cause of healthful freshness in the atmosphere. They afford concealment to small birds and quadrupeds, they give color to the woods, and yield constant pleasure to the sight without any weariness. It is remarkable that we always trace with delight the forms of leaves in other objects of nature,—in the frostwork on our windows, in the lichens that cover the rocks in the forest, in the figures on a butterfly’s wing. Especially in art do we admire the imitation of foliage. It is, indeed, the source of half the beauty of this earth; for it constitutes the verdure of field and lawn, as well as of woods. Flowers are partial in their distribution, but foliage is universal, and is the material with which nature displays countless forms of beauty, from the small acicular leaves of the delicate heath plant, to the broad pennons of the banana, that float like banners over the hut of the negro.

With the putting forth of leaves we associate the most cheerful and delightful of seasons. In their plaited and half-unfolded condition and in their lighter hues we behold the revival of spring, and in their full development and perfected verdure the wealth, the ripeness, and the joyful fruition of summer. The different colors they assume are indeed the true dials of the year; pale shades of all denote its vernal opening; dark and uniform shades of green mark the summer; and those of gold, crimson and russet the autumn; so that by the leaves alone we might determine the month of the year. They form a delightful groundwork both for fruit and for flowers, harmonizing with each and making no discord with any hues of vegetation. If we consider leaves only as individual objects, they will not compare with flowers either in beauty of form or color. A single leaf seldom attracts a great deal of attention; but leaves in the aggregate are so important a part of the beauty of Nature, that she would not possess any great attraction for the sight without them. A cactus, though admired as a curiosity, and as the parent of magnificent flowers, is on account of its leafless habit but a miserable object; and we can imagine how forlorn must be the scenery of those Peruvian regions where the different species of cactus are the principal forms of vegetation.

It is very general to admire foliage in proportion as it is dense and capable of affording an impenetrable shade; but however desirable this may be to yield us a pleasant retreat on a summer noon, the beauty of a tree is not much improved by this quality. At a distance it presents a lumpish and uniform mass, with but little character; while a tree with moderately thin foliage, so thin as to be penetrated by the flickering sunshine, often discovers a great deal of character, by permitting the forms of the branches to be traced through its shadows. When I sit under a tree, I want to see the blue sky faintly glimmering through the leaves, and to view their forms on its clear surface when I look upwards. I would dispense with a profusion of shade, if it could be obtained only by shutting these things out from observation. Hence I always feel a sensation of gladness when rambling in a birchen grove, in which the small thin foliage and airy spray of the trees permit the sun and shade to meet and mingle playfully around my path.

The lumpish character of the foliage of large-leaved trees, like the tulip and magnolia, is perceptible at almost any distance, causing them to appear like green blots upon the landscape. The small-leaved trees, on the contrary, exhibit a certain neatness of spray, which immediately affects the eye with a sensation of beauty. This appearance is beautifully exemplified in the beech. Some of the large-leaved trees, however, possess a kind of formality that renders them very attractive. Such is the horse-chestnut, that spreads out its broad palmate leaves with their tips slightly drooping, like so many parasols held one above another. People have learned to admire large and broad foliage from descriptions of the immense size of tropical leaves, and by associating them with the romance of a voluptuous climate. The long pennon-like leaves of the banana and the wide fronds of the fan palm naturally excite the imagination of the inhabitant of the North.

The form of leaves, no less than their size, has a great share in their general effects, even when viewed from a distant point, where their outlines cannot be discriminated. If they are deeply cleft, like those of the river maple and the scarlet oak, or finely pinnate, like those of the locust and the mountain ash, we perceive a light, feathery appearance in the whole mass, before we are near enough to distinguish the form of individual leaves. This quality is apparent in the honey locust as far off as the tree can be identified. Hence the forms of leaves do not produce all their effect upon a near view; but in ornamental designs in the fine arts the delineations of foliage alone are considered. In the tracery of fenestral architecture, leaves are a very general and favorite ornament; and in photographic pictures of single leaves, the beauty of their outlines becomes more evident than in nature.

The most remarkable quality of foliage is color; and all will admit that green is the only color that would not produce weariness and final disgust. Omitting what may be said of autumn tints, the different shades of green in the forest, both while the foliage is ripening and after its maturity, constitute a very important distinction of individuals and species. Pure green is rarely found in any kind, except in its early stage of ripeness. The foliage of trees, when fully matured, is slightly tinged with brown or russet, and on the under side with white or blue. Painters, therefore, seldom use unalloyed green in their foliage; for even if they would represent its appearance in early summer, when its verdure is nearly pure, the effects of sunshine and shade upon the green forest can be produced only by a liberal mixture of the warm tints of orange and yellow when the sunshine falls upon it, and of purple and violet when it is in shadow.

If I were to select an example of what seems to me the purest green of vegetation, I should point to grass when smoothly shorn, as in a well-dressed lawn, so that the leaf only remains. By comparing the verdure of different trees with this example, we shall find it generally of a darker shade and inferior purity. The only trees of our soil that seem to me lighter, when in leaf, than grass, are the plane and the catalpa. We must observe trees on a cloudy day to distinguish the different shades of their foliage with precision. In such a state of the atmosphere they are all equally favored by the light; while, if the sun shines upon them, their verdure is modified according to the direction in which it is viewed.

That kind of foliage to which the epithet “silver” is usually applied is a very general favorite; but it is admired only because it is rare. I cannot believe, if the two kinds were equally common, that the silver leaf would be preferred to the green; for this is the color that affords the most enduring satisfaction. The white poplar is the most remarkable example of silver foliage. The river maple has less of this quality, though it seems to be one of the points for which it is admired. Nature displays but very little variegated foliage among her wild productions, except in the spring and autumn. It is evidently an abnormal habit; hence we find this variegation chiefly in those plants which have been modified by the cultivator’s art, and it seldom constitutes a specific mark of distinction.

In our studies of foliage we must not overlook the grasses, which are composed almost entirely of leaves. They contribute as much to the beauty of landscape as the verdure of trees, and collectively more than flowers. We need only a passing thought to convince us how tame and lifeless the landscape would be, though every hill were crowned with flowers, and every tree blossomed with gay colors, if there were no grasses or some kind of herbage to take their place. Hence the superior beauty of Northern landscape compared with the general scenery of tropical regions. There are more individual objects in a Southern land which are curious and beautiful, but its want of green fields soon renders its scenery wearisome.

There is also an interest attached to hills and meadows covered with green herbage, and pastured by flocks and herds, that comes from our sympathies and imagination, and causes the verdure of grass, when outspread upon their surface, to possess a moral or relative beauty displayed by few other natural objects. There is nothing else in landscape to be compared with it, and nearly all outdoor scenes would be cold and insipid without it. It expresses the fertility of the soil; it tells of gentle showers that have not been wanting; and it becomes thereby the symbol of providential care, the sign of pastoral abundance and rural prosperity. We find the grasses only where nature has made the greatest provision for the comfort and happiness of man and animals. All the beauties and bounties of springtime and harvest gather round them; the dews of morning glisten upon them like stars in the heavens; the flowers are sprinkled upon them like gems in beautiful tapestry; the little brooks ripple through them with sounds that are always cheerful, and flash in the sunlight as they leap over their bending blades. The merry multitudes of the insect race gain from them shelter and subsistence, and send up an unceasing chorus of merry voices from their verdure, which is a beautiful counterpart of the blue of heaven.

It may be truly said that no splendor of flowers or of the foliage of trees would make amends for the absence of grass. Distant hills and plains may be made beautiful by trees alone; but all near grounds require this velvety covering to render them grateful to the sight or interesting to the mind. This is the picturesque view of the subject; but in the eyes of a botanist grass is almost infinite in its attractions. In every field or pasture that offers its tender blades to the grazing herds, there are multitudes of species, beside the thousands of herbs and flowers and ferns and mosses which are always blended with them, and assist in composing their verdure. What seems to the eyes of a child a mere uniform mass of green is an assemblage of different species that would afford study for a lifetime. Grasses, though minute objects, are vast in their assemblages; but if we reflect on the phenomena of nature, we shall not consider the least thing any less admirable than the greatest. The same amount of wonderful mechanism is indicated in a spear of herdsgrass as in the bamboo that exceeds in height the trees of our forest; and the little cascade that falls over the pebbles in our footpath is as admirable to one who regards it as evincing the power of nature, as the Falls of Niagara.

THE TUPELO.

The old town of Beverly, which was a part of Salem during the era of witchcraft, abounds, like other townships on the northern coast of Massachusetts Bay, in rugged and romantic scenery. On one of the bald hills of this town, a pond fed by a spring near the top of the hill served as a watering-place for the flocks that were pastured there. The only tree on this elevation of bare granite, interspersed with little meadows of thin soil, covered with sweet-fern and whortleberry-bushes, stood on the brink of this pond. It was an ancient Tupelo, and attracted the attention of every visitor by the singular manner in which it spread its long branches in a crooked and horizontal direction over this emerald pool. It became the wonder of all that the tree should adopt such an eccentricity of habit, hardly showing a single branch on the land side, and bending over the water like an angler sitting at his task. It was evident that it had never been trimmed into this shape by artificial means. Many people, therefore, believed that its grotesque appearance had some connection with witchcraft, and that the witches who were hanged upon it had caused all the branches to wither and fall on the side that held the victims.

This tree has, I believe, no representative on the old continent; and though there are several species in the United States, only one is found in New England. Here it is one of the most remarkable trees as a picturesque object in landscape. Indeed, there is no other tree, not excepting the oak, that will compare with it in certain eccentricities of habit. It has received a variety of names in different parts of the country, being called “Swamp Hornbeam,” from the toughness of its wood; “Umbrella Tree,” from a peculiar habit of some individuals to become flattened and slightly convex at the top. Among our country people it is known as the “Wild Pear,” from a fancied resemblance between its foliage and that of the common pear-tree. The resemblance seems to consist only in the size and gloss of its leaves. In the Middle and Southern States it is called the “Sour Gum,” to distinguish it from the “Sweet Gum,” or _Liquidambar_. The name of Tupelo was given it by the aboriginal inhabitants.

The shapes assumed by the Tupelo are exceedingly grotesque, though it is frequently as regular in its growth as our most symmetrical trees. It is sometimes quite erect, extending its branches horizontally and pretty equally on all sides, but generally forming a more or less flattened top. More frequently the Tupelo displays no symmetry of any kind, extending its branches mostly on one side, and often putting forth two or three branches greatly beyond all the others. Many of these are considerably twisted, inclining downward from a horizontal position, not with a curve like those of the elm, but straight, like those of the spruce, though without any of its formality. The spray is very different from that of other trees. Every important branch is covered all round, at top, bottom, and sides, with short twigs, at right angles with the branch. Some of the swamp oaks resemble the Tupelo in fantastic shape, but they never have a flattened top.

The Tupelo is the very opposite of the ash in its general characters; the one is precisely regular in its habits, the other eccentric and grotesque. The leaves and small branches of the ash are opposite, those of the Tupelo alternate; the one has a coarse, the other a finely divided spray: so that there are no two trees of the forest so entirely unlike. It is remarkable that an isolated situation, which is favorable to symmetry and good proportions in other trees, increases the specific peculiarities of the Tupelo. If it has stood alone and sent forth its branches without restraint, it then displays the most grotesque irregularity, showing that its normal habit of growth is eccentric.

The foliage of the Tupelo is remarkable for its fine glossy verdure. The leaves are oval, narrowing toward the stem and rounded at the extremity. The flowers are greenish and inconspicuous, borne in minute umbels on the end of a long peduncle. They produce small berries of a deep blue color, containing a hard stone. This tree is one of the brightest ornaments of our forest in autumn; the fine green color of its foliage attracts our attention in summer, and in winter its grotesque forms, rising out of the shallow meres, yield a romantic interest to these solitary places. It is not well adapted to dressed grounds, but harmonizes only with rude, desolate, and wild scenery.

THE HORNBEAM.

The Hornbeams, of which in New England there are two species belonging to a different genus, are small trees, rather elegant in their shape, and remarkable for the toughness and hardness of their wood. The American Hornbeam, or Blue Beech, is distinguished by its fluted trunk, which, as Emerson describes it, “is a short irregular pillar, not unlike the massive reeded columns of Egyptian architecture, with projecting ridges, which run down from each side of the lower branches. The branches are irregular, waving or crooked, going out at various but large angles, and usually from a low point on its trunk.” Old Gerard remarks concerning the English Hornbeam: “The wood or timber is better for arrows and shafts, pulleys for mills, and such like devices, than elm or witch-hazel; for in time it waxeth so hard that the toughness and hardness of it may rather be compared to horn than to wood; and therefore it was called Hornbeam.”

The foliage of the American Hornbeam resembles that of black birch, neatly corrugated, of a delicate verdure in summer, and assuming a fine tint of varying crimson and scarlet in the autumn. The name of Blue Beech was applied to it from the similarity of its branches to the common beech-tree, while their surface is bluish instead of an ashen color. Though existing in every part of the country, it is not abundant anywhere, and is not in any tract of woodland the principal timber. It is most conspicuous on the borders of woods, by the sides of roads lately constructed. The scarcity of trees of this species near old roadsides has been caused by the value of their timber, which is cut for mechanical purposes wherever it may be found. The wood of this tree is used for levers, for the spokes of wheels, and for nearly all other purposes which require extreme hardness of the material used.

THE HOP HORNBEAM.

The Hop Hornbeam is a very different tree from the one just described, resembling it only in the toughness of its wood, whence the name of Lever-Wood has been very generally applied to it. This tree is rarely seen by the wayside. Those only know it whose occupation has led them to seek it for its service in the arts, or those who have examined it in their botanical rambles. It is a small tree, that affects the habit of the elm in its general appearance, of the birch in its inflorescence, and of the beech in the upward tendency of its small branches. It is so much like the elm in the style of its foliage, in the fine division and length of its slender spray, and in the color and appearance of its bark, that it might easily be mistaken for a small elm, without any of its drooping habit. It does not, like the elm, however, break into any eccentric modes of growth. A striking peculiarity of this tree is the multitude of hop-like capsular heads that contain the seeds.

INSECURITY OF OUR FORESTS.

The American continent is so vast, and so large a part of it is still covered with wood, that men are not ready to believe there is any danger of exterminating its forests. Supposing them to be inexhaustible, they are entirely indiscriminate in their method of clearing them, and treat them as if they were of no importance further than they subserve the present wants of the community. They are either reckless or ignorant of their indispensable uses in the economy of nature, and seem purposely to shut their eyes to facts and principles in relation to them which are well known to men of science. Our people look upon the forests as valuable only so far as they supply material for the arts and for fuel, for the construction of houses, ships, and public works; and as there is not much danger of immediately exhausting the supplies for these purposes, the public mind remains quiet, while certain operations are going forward which, if not soon checked by some very powerful restraint, will, before the lapse of another century, reduce half this wide continent to a desert. The science of vegetable meteorology deserves more consideration than it has yet received from our professors of learning. This, if fully explained, would teach men some of the fearful consequences that would ensue if a country were entirely disrobed of its forests, and their relations to birds, insects, and quadrupeds would explain the impossibility of ever restoring them. Man has the power, which, if exercised without regard to the laws of nature, may, at no very distant period, render this earth uninhabitable by man. In his eagerness to improve his present condition, and his senseless grasp for immediate advantages, he may disqualify the earth for a human abode.

This matter has been strangely overlooked by legislators in the several States, though frequently discussed by naturalists and philosophical writers. In spite of the warnings the people have received from learned men, very little thought has been given to the subject. How few persons suspect that in less than a century the greatest affliction this country is doomed to suffer may be caused by the destruction of its forests! Springs once full all the year will be dry every summer and autumn; small rivers will desert their channels; once profitable mill-privileges will cease to be of any value; every shower will produce inundations; every summer will be subject to pernicious droughts. The preservation of the forests in a certain ratio over our whole territory ought to be the subject of immediate legislation in all the States. It is not a part of the plan of this work, however, to treat of woods as a subject of political economy, but rather to prompt our wise men to protect them by statute, by showing our dependence on them for our existence.

It has been said that the intelligence of an educated and civilized community like our own ought to save the country from this evil. But it is our civilization that has created the very danger that threatens us. A country, while it remains in the possession of barbarians, is never disforested. It is a false assurance that the general intelligence of the community will secure them from this danger, unless they have studied the causes of it. A literary and even a scientific education, as popularly conducted, does not imply any great amount of this kind of knowledge. The intelligence of our people would undoubtedly prepare them to understand the subject when explained to them by some one who has made it his special study; but reading does not acquaint a person with facts contained only in books which he never reads, though his habit of reading only for amusement may keep him ignorant of many things which he would otherwise learn from observation. The subject of this essay is not sufficiently exciting to obtain a hearing from the public in a lecture-room. Every avenue of popular information is so greatly obstructed by objects designed only to afford amusement, that science and philosophy, save those branches which some eloquent work has rendered fashionable, have but very little chance to be heard. Even among our literary classes, if you speak of trees and woods, there is only an occasional individual of eccentric habits who seems capable of taking any other than an æsthetic view of their relations to human wants.

But it will be said, if a liberal education does not supply men with the right kind of knowledge on this point, certainly our _practical men_ will understand it. They, I admit, would see at once how much money could be made by cutting down all the trees in any given tract of forest; but they are not the men to be consulted respecting the advantage of any scheme that does not promise to be a profitable investment of capital. Our practical men are the very individuals from whose venal hands it is necessary to protect our forests by legislation. In France, where great evils have followed the destruction of woods, laws have been enacted for restoring and preserving them in certain situations. These laws, however, originated, not with practical men, but with Napoleon III., who obtained his views from men of science. Our people have less knowledge of this subject than the Europeans, who have been compelled to study it by the presence of evils which the Americans are just beginning to experience.

The sentiment of the American public seems to have been excited in favor of trees individually considered, rather than forests. People look upon trees as their friends; and more indignation is generally caused by the felling of a single large tree standing in an open field or by the roadside, than by the destruction of whole acres of woods. Our love of trees is a sort of passion; but we need yet to learn that a wood on a steep hillside is of more importance than as many standards as there are trees in the same wood, scattered upon a plain. This æsthetic sentiment seems to be the only conservative principle that has yet produced any considerable effect in preserving trees and groves. It often extends to groups of trees, and sometimes to large assemblages, especially on estates which have remained through several generations in the possession of one family. But generally the avarice or the necessity of our farmers has been more powerful to devastate, than the taste and sentiment of others to preserve our woods.

I have long been persuaded that, unless the governments of the several States should make this a subject of special legislation, the security of our forests must depend on men of large property in land. Men of wealth, if not learned, are generally in communication with men of learning, from whom they may obtain a knowledge of vegetable meteorology, and not being obliged, by pecuniary necessity, to cut down their woods, will, from a sense of their importance in the economy of nature, become their preservers. The wealth and taste of certain families in every town and village will save a great many trees, groves, and fragments of forest. But if our law-makers neglect to legislate for this end, we must look to the possessors of immense estates, the lords of whole townships, for the preservation of any large tracts of forest.

ORCHARD TREES.