Book: Atlantic Monthly, Volume 6, Issue 35, September, 1860

V >> Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Volume 6, Issue 35, September, 1860




The White Pine is a tree that harmonizes with all situations, rude
and cultivated, level and abrupt. On the side of the mountain it adds
grandeur to the declivity, and gives a look of sweeter tranquillity to
the green pastoral meadow. It yields a darker frown to the projecting
cliff, and a more awful uncertainty to the mountain-pass or the hollow
ravine. Amid 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 to defend us from the elements.
Nothing can be more cheerful in scenery than the occasional groups of
Pines which have come up spontaneously on the bald hills near our coast,
elsewhere a dreary waste of gray rocks, stunted shrubbery, and prostrate
Juniper. In the forest the White Pine constitutes the very sanctuary of
Nature, its tall pillars extending into the clouds, and its broad canopy
of foliage mixing with the vapors that descend in the storm.

Such are its picturesque aspects: but in a figurative light it may be
regarded as a true symbol of benevolence. Under its outspread roof,
thousands of otherwise unprotected animals, nestling in the bed of dry
leaves which it has spread upon the ground, find shelter and repose. The
squirrel subsists upon the kernels obtained from its cones; the rabbit
browses upon the Trefoil and the spicy foliage of the Hypericum which
are protected in its conservatory of shade; and the fawn reposes on its
brown couch of leaves, unmolested by the outer tempest. From its green
arbors the quails may be roused in midwinter, when they resort thither
to find the still sound berries of the Mitchella and the Wintergreen.
Nature, indeed, seems to have designed this tree to protect the animal
creation, both in summer and winter, and I am persuaded that she has not
conferred upon them a more beneficent gift.

As an object of sight, the White Pine is free from some of the defects
of the Fir and Spruce, having none of their stiffness of foliage and
inflexibility of spray, that cause them to resemble artificial objects.
It has the symmetry of the Fir, joined with a certain flowing grace that
assimilates it to the deciduous trees. With sufficient amplitude to
conceal a look of primness that often arises from symmetry, we observe a
certain negligent flowing of its leafy robes that adds to its dignity a
grace which is apparent to all. It seems to wear its honors like one who
feels no constraint under their burden; and when smitten by a tempest,
it bids no defiance to the gale, bending to its wrath, but securely
resisting its power.

Of the American coniferous trees, the Hemlock is of the next importance,
being, perhaps, in its perfection, a more beautiful tree than the White
Pine, or than any other known evergreen. It is far less formal in its
shape than other trees of the same family. Its branches, being slender
and flexible, do not project stiffly from the shaft; they bend slightly
at their terminations, and are easily moved by the wind; and as they are
very numerous, and covered with foliage, we behold in the tree a dense
mass of glittering verdure, not to be seen in any other tree of the
forest.

The Hemlock is unknown as a shade-tree; it is seldom seen by the
road-side, except on the edge of a wood, and not often in cultivated
grounds. The want of success usually attending the transplantation of it
from the woods has prevented the general adoption of it as an ornamental
tree. The Hemlock, when transplanted from the wood, is almost sure to
perish; for Nature will not allow it to be desecrated by any association
with Art. She reserves it for her own demesnes; and if you would possess
one, you must go to its native spot and plant your garden around it,
and take heed, lest, by disturbing its roots, you offend the deity
who protects it. Some noble Hemlocks are occasionally seen in rude
situations, where the cultivator's art has not interrupted their
spontaneous growth; and the poet and the naturalist are inspired with a
more pleasing admiration of their beauty, because they have seen them
only where the solitary birds sing their wild notes, and where the heart
is unmolested by the crowding tumult of human settlements.

The Pitch Pine has neither grace nor elegance, and though it is allied
botanically to the pyramidal trees, it approaches the shape of the
round-headed trees. There is a singular ruggedness about it; and when
bristling all over with the stiff foliage that sometimes covers it from
the extremities of the branches down almost to the roots, it cannot fail
to attract observation. Trees of this species, for the most part too
rough and homely to please the eye, are not generally valued as objects
in the landscape; but there is a variety in their shape that makes
amends for their want of comeliness, and gives them a marked importance.
We do not in general sufficiently appreciate the value of homely objects
among the scenes of Nature,--which are, indeed, the ground-work of all
charming scenery, and set off to advantage the beauty of more comely
things. They prepare us, by increasing our susceptibility, to feel more
keenly the force of beauty in other objects. They give rest and relief
to the eye, after it has experienced the stimulating effects of
beautiful forms and colors, which would soon pall upon the sense; and
they are interesting to the imagination, by leaving it free to dress the
scene with the wreaths of fancy.

It is from these reflections that I have been led to prize many a homely
tree as possessing a high value, by exalting the impressions of beauty
which we derive from other trees, and by relieving Nature of that
monotony which would attend a scene of unexceptional beauty. This
monotony is apparent in almost all dressed grounds of considerable
extent. We soon become entirely weary of the ever-flowing lines of
grace and elegance, and the harmonious blending of forms and colors
introduced by art. On the same principle we may explain the difficulty
of reading with attention a whole volume on one subject, written in
verse. We are soon weary of luxuries; and when we have been strolling in
grounds laid out with gaudy flower-beds, the tired eye, when we go out
into the fields, rests with serene delight upon rough pastures bounded
by stone walls, and hills clothed with lichens and covered with
boulders.

The homely Pitch Pine serves this important purpose of relief in the
landscapes of Nature. Trees of this species are abundant in sandy
levels, in company with the slender and graceful White Birch, "The Lady
of the Woods," as the poet Coleridge called it. From these Pines proceed
those delightful odors which are wafted to our windows by a mild south
wind, not less perceptible in winter than in summer, and which are in a
different manner as charming as a beautiful prospect.

The Juniper, or Red Cedar, known in some places as the Savin, is another
homely tree that gives character to New England scenery. It is one of
the most frequent accompaniments of the bald hills near certain parts
of our coast, giving them a peculiar aspect of desolation. This tree
acquires larger dimensions and a fuller and fairer shape in the Middle
and Southern States. There the Junipers are beautiful trees, having a
finer verdure than they ever acquire at the North. But the Juniper, with
all its imperfections, its rugged form, and its inferior verdure, is not
to be contemned; and it possesses certain qualities and features which
ought to be prized hardly less than beauty. Its sombre ferruginous green
adds variety to our wood-scenery at all times, and by contrast serves to
make the foliage of other trees the more brilliant and conspicuous.
In the latter part of summer, when the woods have acquired a general
uniformity of verdure, the Junipers enliven the face of Nature by
blending their duller tints with the fading hues of the fully ripened
foliage. Thus will an assemblage of brown and gray clouds soften and at
the same time enliven the deep azure of the heavens.

In this sketch, I have omitted to describe many important trees,
especially those which have but little individuality of character,
leaving them to be the subject of another essay concerning Trees in
Assemblages. I have likewise said nothing here of those species which
are commonly distinguished as flowering trees. But I must not omit,
while speaking of the pyramidal trees, to say a word concerning the
Larch, which has some striking points of form and habit. Like the
Southern Cypress, it differs in its deciduous character from other
coniferous trees: hence both are distinguished by the brilliancy of
their verdure in the early part of summer, when the other evergreens are
particularly sombre; but they are leafless in the winter. The Larch is
beautifully pyramidal in its shape when young. In the vigor of its years
it tends to uniformity, and to variety when it is old. Indeed, an aged
Larch is often as rugged and fantastic as an old Oak. The American and
European Larches differ only in the longer flowing foliage and the
larger cones of the latter. Among the minor beauties of both species may
be mentioned the bright crimson cones that appear in June and resemble
clusters of fruit. The Larch is a Northern tree, being in its perfection
in the latitude of Maine. It seems to delight in the coldest situations,
and, like the Southern Cypress, is found chiefly in low swamps.

There are not many trees that assume the shape of an obelisk, or a long
spire; but Nature, who presents to our eyes an ever-charming variety of
forms as well as hues, in the objects of her creation, has given us the
figure of the obelisk in the Chinese Juniper, in the Balsam Fir, in the
Arbor-Vitae, and lastly in the Lombardy Poplar, which may be offered to
exemplify this class of forms. The Lombardy Poplar is interesting to
thousands who were familiar with it in their youth, as an ornament
to road-sides and village inclosures. It was formerly a favorite
shade-tree, and still retains its privileges in many old-fashioned
places. A century ago great numbers of Poplars were planted on the
village way-sides, in front of dwelling-houses, on the borders of public
grounds, and particularly on the sides of lanes and avenues leading to
houses situated at a short distance from the high-road. Hence a row
of these trees becomes suggestive at once of the approach to some old
mansion or country-seat, which has now, perhaps, been converted into a
farm-house, having exchanged its proud honors of wealth for the more
simple and delightful appurtenances of rustic independence.

Some of these ancient rows of Poplars are occasionally seen in old
fields, where almost all traces of the habitation which they were
intended to grace are obliterated. There is a melancholy pleasure
in surveying these humble ruins, whose history would illustrate the
domestic habits of our ancestors. The cellar of the old house is now
a part of the pasture-land, and its form can be traced by the simple
swelling of the turf. Sumachs and Cornel-bushes have usurped the
place of the exotic shrubbery in the old garden; and the only ancient
companions of the Poplars, now remaining, are here and there a
straggling Lilac or Currant-bush, a tuft of Houseleek, and perhaps,
under the shelter of some dilapidated wall, the White Star of Bethlehem
is seen meekly glowing in the rude society of the wild-flowers.

The Lombardy Poplar, which was formerly a favorite way-side ornament,
a sort of idol of the public, and, like many another idol, exalted to
honors that exceeded its merits, fell suddenly into unpopularity and
disgrace. After having been admired and valued as if its leaves were all
emeralds and its buds apples of gold, it was spurned and ridiculed and
everywhere cut down as a cumberer of the ground. The faults attributed
to it did not belong to the tree, but were the effects of the climate
into which it had been removed. It was brought from the sunny vales of
Italy, where it had been delicately reared by the side of the Orange and
the Myrtle, and transplanted into the cold climate of New England. The
tender constitution of this tree could not endure our rude winters;
and every spring witnessed the decay of a large portion of its small
branches. Hence it became prematurely aged, and in its decline carried
with it the marks of its infirmities.

But, with all these imperfections, the Lombardy Poplar was more worthy
of the honors it received from our predecessors than of its present
disrepute. It is one of the fairest of trees, in the vigor of its health
and the greenness of its youth. But nearly all the old Poplars are
extirpated, and but few young trees are coming up to supply their
places. While I am now writing, I see from my window the graceful spire
of one solitary tree, towering above the surrounding objects in the
landscape, and yielding to the view something of an indescribable charm.
There it stands, the symbol of decayed reputation, in its old age still
retaining the primness of its youth; neither drooping in its infirmities
under the weight of their burden, nor losing in its desertedness the
fine lustre of its foliage; and in its disgrace still bearing itself
proudly, as if conscious that its former honors were deserved, and
not forgetting that dignity which becomes one who has fallen without
dishonor.

There is no other tree that so pleasantly adorns the sides of narrow
lanes and avenues, or so neatly accommodates itself to limited
inclosures. Its foliage is dense and of the liveliest green, tremulous,
and making delicate music to the light fingers of every breeze; its
terebinthine odors scent the soft vernal wind that enters your open
windows with the morning sunshine; its branches, always tending upward,
closely gathered together, and slenderly formed, afford a harbor to the
singing-birds, who revel among them as a favorite resort; and its long
tapering spire, that points to heaven, gives an air of cheerfulness and
religious tranquillity to village scenery.

Of the drooping trees, the Weeping Willow is the most conspicuous
example, unless we except the American Elm; but a remarkable difference
may be observed in the drooping character of these two trees. In the Elm
we perceive a general arching or curvature of all its branches, from
their points of junction with the tree to their extremities; so that two
rows of Elms, meeting over an avenue, would represent, more nearly than
any other trees disposed in the same manner, the vault of a Gothic arch.
A double row of Weeping Willows would make no such figure by the meeting
of their branches. The Weeping Willow extends its long arms in lines
more nearly straight, not originating, as in the Elm, for the most part,
from one common centre of junction, but joining the shaft of the tree at
different points;--hence the drooping character of this tree is observed
only in its long, slender, and terminal spray.

The Weeping Willow is one of the most poetical of trees, being
consecrated to the Muse by the part which has been assigned it in many
a scene of romance, and by its connection with events recorded in
Holy Writ. It is invested with a poetical interest by its symbolical
representation of sorrow in the pendulous character of its spray, by
its fanciful uses as a garland for disappointed lovers, and by the
employment of it in burying-grounds, and in pictures as drooping over
graves. We remember it in sacred history by its association with the
rivers of Babylon, with the tears of the Children of Israel, and with
the forsaken harps of their sorrowing minstrels, who hung them upon its
branches. It is distinguished by the graceful beauty of its outlines,
its light-green delicate foliage, its sorrowing attitude, and its gently
waving spray, all in sweet accordance with its picturesque, poetic, and
Scriptural associations.

Hence the Weeping Willow never fails to give pleasure to the sight even
of the most insensible observer. There are not many whose minds are so
obtuse as to be blind to its peculiarly graceful attitude and motions,
and every one is familiar with its history, as recorded in poetry and
romance, all the incidents of which have served to elevate it above any
association with fashion or vulgarity. When we see it waving its long
branches neatly over some private inclosure, overshadowing the gravelled
walk and the flower-garden,--or watching pensively over the graves of
the dead, where the light hues of its foliage help to soften the glowing
fancies which are apt to arise from our meditations among the tombs,--or
on some wide common, giving solace to the passing traveller, and
inviting the playful children to its shade,--or trailing its sweeping
spray, like the tresses of a Naiad, over some silvery pond or gently
flowing stream,--it is in all cases a delightful object, always
picturesque, always soothing, inspiring, and sacred to memory, and
serving, by its alliance with what is hallowed in literature, to bind us
more closely to Nature.

Above all the trees of the New World, the Elm deserves to be considered
the sovereign tree of New England. It is abundant both in field and
forest, and forms the most remarkable feature in our cleared and
cultivated grounds. Though the Elm is found in almost all parts of the
country, in no other is it so conspicuous as in the Northeastern States,
where, from the earliest settlement of the country, it has been planted
as a shade-tree, and has been valued as an ornament above the proudest
importations from a foreign clime. It is the most remarkable of the
drooping trees except the Willow, which it surpasses in stateliness and
in the variety of its growth.

When I look upon a noble Elm,--though I feel no disposition to contemn
the studies of those who examine its flowers and fruit with the
scrutinizing eye of science, or the calculations of those who consider
only its practical use--it is to me an object of pleasing veneration. I
look upon it as the embodiment of some benign intention of Providence,
who has adapted it in numerous ways to the wants of his creatures. While
admiring its grace and its majesty, I think of the great amount of human
happiness and of comfort to the inferior animals of which it has been
the blessed instrument. How many a happy assemblage of children and
young persons has been, during the past century, repeatedly gathered
under its shade, in the sultry noons of summer! How many a young
May-queen has been crowned under its roof, when the greensward was just
daisied with the early flowers of spring! And how many a weary traveller
has rested from his journey in its benevolent shade, and from a state of
weariness and vexation, when o'erspent by heat and length of way, has
subsided into one of quiet thankfulness and content!

Though the Elm has never been consecrated by the Muse, or dignified
by making a figure in the paintings of the old masters, the native
inhabitant of New England associates its varied forms with all that is
delightful in the scenery of his own land or memorable in its history.
He has beheld many a noble avenue formed of Elms, when standing in rows
in the village, or by the rustic road-side. He has seen them extending
their broad and benevolent arms as a protection over many a spacious old
farm-house and many an humble cottage, and equally harmonizing with all.
They meet his sight in the public grounds of the city, with their ample
shade and flowing spray, inviting him to linger under their pleasant
umbrage in summer; and in winter he has beheld them among the rude hills
and mountains, like spectral figures keeping sentry among their passes,
and, on the waking of the year, suddenly transformed into towers of
luxuriant verdure and beauty. Every year of his life has he seen the
beautiful Hang-Bird weave his pensile habitation upon the long and
flexible branches of the Elm, secure from the reach of every living
creature. From its vast dome of interwoven branches and foliage he has
listened to the songs of the earliest and the latest birds; and under
its shelter he has witnessed many a merry-making assemblage of children,
employed in the sportive games of summer.

To a native of New England, therefore, the Elm has a value more nearly
approaching that of sacredness than any other tree. Setting aside the
pleasure derived from it as an object of visual beauty, it is intimately
associated with the familiar scenes of home and the events of his
early life. In my own mind it is pleasingly allied with those old
dwelling-houses which were built in the early part of the last century,
and form one of the marked features of New England home architecture
during that period. They are known by their broad and ample, but
low-studded rooms, their numerous windows with small panes, their single
chimney in the centre of the roof that sloped down to the lower story in
the back part, and in their general unpretending appearance, reminding
one vividly of that simplicity of life which characterized our people
before the Revolution. Their very homeliness is delightful, by leaving
the imagination free to dwell upon their pleasing suggestions. Not many
of these charming old houses are now extant: but whenever we see one,
we are almost sure to find it accompanied by its Elm, standing upon the
green open space that slopes up to it in front, and waving its long
branches in melancholy grandeur over the venerable habitation which it
seems to have taken under its protection, while it droops with sorrow
over the infirmities of its old companion of a century.

The Elm is remarkable for the variety of forms which it assumes in
different situations. Often it has a drooping spray only when it has
attained a large size; but it almost invariably becomes subdivided
into several equal branches, diverging from a common centre, at a
considerable elevation from the ground. One of these forms is that of a
vase: the base being represented by the roots of the tree that project
above the soil and join the trunk,--the middle by the lower part of
the principal branches, as they swell out with a graceful curve, then
gradually diverge, until they bend downward and form the lip of the
vase, by their circle of terminal branches. Another of its forms is that
of a vast dome, as represented by those trees that send up a single
shaft to the height of twenty feet or more, and then extend their
branches at a wide divergency and to a great length. The Elms which are
remarkable for their drooping character are usually of this shape.
At other times the Elm assumes the shape of a plume, presenting a
singularly fantastical appearance. It rises upwards, with an undivided
shaft, to the height of fifty feet or more, without a limb, and bending
over with a gradual curve from about the middle of its height to its
summit, which is sometimes divided into two or three terminal branches.
The whole is covered from its roots to its summit with a fringe
of vine-like twigs, extremely slender, twisted and irregular, and
resembling a parasitic growth. Sometimes it is subdivided at the usual
height into three or four long branches, which are wreathed In the same
manner, and form a compound plume.

These fantastic forms are very beautiful, and do not impress one with
the idea of monstrosity, as we are affected by the sight of a Weeping
Ash. Though the Elm has many defects of foliage, and is destitute of
those fine autumnal tints which are so remarkable in some other trees,
it is still almost without a rival in the American forest. It presents a
variety in its forms not to be seen in any other tree,--possessing the
dignity of the Oak without its ruggedness, and uniting the grace of the
slender Birch with the lofty grandeur of the Palm and the majesty of the
Cedar of Lebanon.

Of the parasol-trees the North furnishes no true examples, which are
witnessed only in the Palms of the tropics. Not many of our inhabitants
have seen these trees in their living beauty; but all have become so
familiar with them, as they are represented in paintings and engravings,
that they can easily appreciate their effect in the sunny landscapes of
the South. There they may be seen bending over fields tapestried with
Passion-Flowers and verdurous with Myrtles and Orange-trees, and
presenting their long shafts to the tendrils of the Trumpet Honeysuckle
and the palmate foliage of the Climbing Fern. But the slender Palms,
when solitary, afford but little shade. It is when they are standing in
groups, their lofty tops meeting and forming a uniform umbrage, that
they afford any important protection from the heat of the sun.

In pictures of tropical scenery we see these trees standing on the
banks of a stream, or in the vicinity of the sea, near some rude hut
constructed of Bamboo and thatched with the broad leaves of the Fan
Palm. In some warm countries Nature affords the inhabitants an almost
gratuitous subsistence from the fruit of the different Palms,--a
plantation of Dates and Cocoa-nuts supplying the principal wants of the
owner and his family, during the life of the trees. But the Palm is not
suggestive of the arts, for the South is not the region of the highest
civilization. Man's intelligence is greatest in those countries in which
he is obliged to struggle with difficulties sufficient to require the
constant exercise of the mind and body to overcome them. Science and Art
have built their altars in the region of the Oak, and in valleys which
are annually whitened with snow, where labor invigorates the frame, and
where man's contention with the difficulties presented by the elements
sharpens his ingenuity and strengthens all his facilities. Hence, while
the Oak is the symbol of hospitality and of the arts to which it has
given its aid, the Palm symbolizes the voluptuousness of a tropical
clime and the indolence of its inhabitants.

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