ceases, for whereas the beech, under favourable conditions, soars aloft
to a stature of 130 or 140 feet, the hornbeam seldom exceeds half
that height. Moreover, while the beech is distinguished among all our
forest growths by its smoothly cylindrical trunk, the stem of the
hornbeam is always fluted and ridged, often very deeply.
Of the eighteen species of _Carpinus_ known to botanists, only one, the
common hornbeam, is indigenous in the British Isles, and there only in
the southern parts of England, Oxford and Norfolk being about its
northern limit, corresponding roughly with that of the nightingale. But
whereas the nightingale cannot be seduced into sojourn beyond its
hereditary bounds, the hornbeam flourishes freely when planted in any
part of the United Kingdom suitable for tree growth. On the Continent it
has a very wide range, extending through Central and Northern Europe
into Asia Minor, but it has not been found wild in Spain, Portugal, or
Sicily.
As a timber producer its chief value in this country has almost gone
since the substitution of coal for wood as fuel became general. In
former times the trees were grown as pollards, and regularly cut for
firewood, evidence of that industry being still to be seen in the
condition of the hornbeams in Epping Forest and other places in Kent,
Herts, and Essex. The timber, says Elwes, "is the hardest, heaviest, and
toughest of our native woods"; but it is useless for outdoor work, being
as perishable as beech when exposed to weather. It still competes with
foreign woods in the piano maker's trade, its firm texture, resembling
that of ivory or horn, rendering it excellent for fine action work. But
as the slow growth of the tree and the imports of foreign woods are
prohibitive of any prospect of profit to the British planter, the only
service to which the hornbeam can be usefully put in this country is the
production of firewood and the formation of hedges.
Nor can the hornbeam claim high rank as an ornamental tree, though fine
specimens may be seen in many English and a few Scottish parks. Elwes
mentions Cobham Park, Kent, as containing hundreds of hornbeams from 70
to 80 feet high, and quotes Sir Hugh Beevor as authority for one 100
feet high and 9 feet 8 inches in girth at High Wycombe, Bucks. I have
never seen a hornbeam of that size; the largest with which I have made
personal acquaintance being one at Gordon Castle, which Loudon described
as being 54 feet high in 1837. Sixty-seven years later it had added only
14 feet to its stature, Elwes having found it to be 68 feet high in
1904, with a girth of 8 feet.
The Alder
Of the three species of alder indigenous to Europe, namely _Alnus
incana_, _A. cordata_ and _A. glutinosa_, only the last named succeeded
in establishing itself in the British Isles after the retreat of the
ice-field; though the other two grow readily enough when planted in this
country.
"Alnus, the alder," wrote John Evelyn, "is of all other the most
faithful lover of waterie and boggie places, and those most despis'd
weeping parts or water-galls of forests." It has never been a popular
tree, either with foresters, poets, or landscape gardeners, yet it has
the merit of clothing ground which will not satisfy the wants of any
other lofty growth, thriving in swamps too sour even for the willow.
"Where do you put your brown tree?" is said to have been asked by one
artist of the Georgian era of another; and the rounded outline and
sombre foliage of a mature alder must have served many of the old school
of landscape painters in their conventional compositions.
The alder neither contributes tender verdure to the gaiety of spring nor
brilliant tints to the splendour of autumn; dull rifle green is the
livery donned in April, remaining unchanged till the frosts of late
October. Nor does this melancholy tree gladden the waterside with any
brightness of blossom; the male and female catkins, appearing before the
leaves, are dull, brownish yellow; beautiful objects under a lens, but
contributing little to cheer the wayfarer, save as being sure harbingers
of summer days. These flowers are followed by cones, which are green at
first, but, turning black when ripe, only serve to deepen the gloom.
Nevertheless, an alder copse in February and early March has a quiet
beauty all its own. The smooth twigs are glazed with a waxy secretion
and the swelling buds are plum-coloured, which the level sun-rays light
up into a charming purplish bloom. Many a time when in pursuit of spring
salmon I have enjoyed the sight of a bevy of old blackcocks busy among
the branches of the alders, whereof the buds and catkins provide them
with provender during the hungriest months of the year.
There are about five-and-twenty known species of alder, all bearing a
considerable family likeness, and none exceeding in stature our only
native species, _Alnus glutinosa_. Of this, many specimens might be
mentioned between 70 and 90 feet high, though it is often difficult or
impossible to obtain right measurement owing to the trees growing beside
rivers or lakes. The most remarkable alder wood known to me is at
Kilmacurragh, in County Wicklow. In the old spacious days the ground it
occupies was a deer park. The trees are ancient, but not very lofty,
from 50 to 60 feet high; but many of them have clean boles up to 30 or
40 feet and girth from 8 to 10 feet. One of them had a girth of 11 feet
4 inches in 1906. In the swampier parts of the wood, some of the trees
have got bowed; their trunks present a curious appearance from being
densely covered with pennyroyal (_Cotyledon umbilicus_). There can be
little doubt that this grove is a fragment of the primæval Irish forest.
There are some very fine alders beside the Gade in Cassiobury Park,
Herts, one of which Dr. Henry made out to be 85 feet high, with a girth
of 11 feet 6 inches; but these dimensions were exceeded by an alder 90
feet high with a girth of 11 feet 4 inches at Betchworth Park, Surrey,
and by one at Enville Park, Stourbridge, 87 feet high, with a girth of 8
feet 2 inches.
In Scotland the tallest measured by him was at Scone--66 feet high by 6
feet 3 inches in girth; but no doubt there are bigger alders than that
north of the Tweed, though it might not be possible to match a shapely
tree measured in 1904 at Churchill, Co. Armagh, which stood 94 feet
high, girthing 6 feet 4 inches, and having a clean bole of 60 feet.
The aforesaid tree at Scone is of the cut-leaved variety, a sport which,
originating in France, and being planted in De la Berlière's garden near
Saint-Germain, says Loudon, became the parent of all that are now to be
found. It is certainly more ornamental than the common form, the leaves
being divided half-way to the midrib into three to six segments on each
side.
The alder is not rated high among us as a timber tree, though good boles
are sometimes in request, for what precise purpose I cannot tell. Mr.
Elwes states that he sold three hundred alders standing for £100, which
he reckoned to be at the rate of 4d. or 5d. a cubic foot. This must be
considered an excellent return from land that was fit for no other crop.
Clogmakers take alder of suitable size as readily as birch, giving as
much as £40 an acre for coppice, which will be fit for cutting again in
twenty years. One of the most picturesque scenes in forestry is a summer
encampment of clog-cutters.
In Scotland probably the demand for alder for making herring barrels
would be steady and inexhaustible, were there any regularity in the
supply; but in this, as in other British forest products, so much
uncertainty is caused by the haphazard and capricious felling practised
by landowners in general, that the trade derives its supplies of staves
from abroad. For outdoor purposes, the timber is far too perishable
under vicissitudes of wet and dry; but for piles under water it is most
durable. Evelyn states, without quoting his authority, that the Rialto
at Venice is founded upon alder piles. For three hundred years charcoal
made from alder was more highly esteemed than that from any other wood
for making gunpowder; but modern explosives have caused it to be in less
request nowadays.
There may be some trout-fishers who have not learnt that an effective
way of taking the objectionable glitter from a gut cast is to draw it
two or three times through an alder leaf. Evelyn says that such leaves
afford great relief to footsore travellers if laid within the stocking.
In his _Sylva Florifera_ (1823), Henry Phillips admits us to a glimpse
into the domestic economy of our great-grandmothers, who had to contend
with certain difficulties from which modern households are happily
exempt. "The good housewife," he says, "is not unacquainted with a
property in the leaves [of alder], with which she strews her chambers
before sweeping, for, when fresh, they are covered with a glutinous
liquor that entangles fleas like birds in birdlime."
The English name "alder" has been disguised by the addition of the _d_.
It was _alr_ in Anglo-Saxon, _r_ taking the place of the Latin _n_ in
_alnus_, which is preserved in the French _aune_. In one form or another
it exists in all Teutonic dialects; we, in Scotland, retain very closely
the Anglo-Saxon sound when we speak of "eller," though we have allowed
the intrusive _d_ to slip into Elderslie, the paternal home of William
Wallace. This tree has given rise to countless place-names; in
England--Alresford on the Itchen, Allerton (eight or nine
times), Allerdale, Ellerbeck, Ellerburn, Ellerton, and so on; in
Scotland--Allershaw in Lanarkshire, Allerton in Cromarty, Allers near
Glasgow, Allerbeck in Dumfriesshire, Ellerrigs, Argyllshire; Ellerslie,
in several counties, etc. I incline to think that the frequent and
puzzling name Elrig or Eldrig may be associated with alders.
In Gaelic the alder is called _fearn_, which appears in a multitude of
place-names, such as Balfern, Glenfarne, Farnoch, Fearn, Fernie, and
Fernaig. The consonant _f_ being liable in Gaelic to be silenced by
aspiration, the descriptive name _amhuinn-fhearn_, alder river, has been
worn down into Nairn, and probably some, at least, of the numerous
streams called Earn or Erne derive their titles from a similar
contraction.
Among the exotic species of alder I only know of one worth attention for
ornamental purposes, to wit, the heart-leaved alder (_A. cordata_);
which, being found indigenous only in Corsica and Southern Italy, might
scarcely be expected to take kindly to our humid climate. It does so,
however, growing as vigorously as our native alder, and proving somewhat
more decorative. The leaves are of a shining, dark green with lighter
undersides, and the cones are at least an inch long, carried erect.
The grey alder (_A. incana_) has nothing to recommend it; except,
perhaps, to Norwegian anglers, who know how the fieldfares nest among
its thickets in garrulous colonies. It is not easy to understand how the
British Isles have missed having this species as a native, for it is
very widely distributed over Europe from the shores of the Arctic Ocean
on the north to Servia and the Apennines on the south. It is also spread
widely over the northern United States and Canada.
[Illustration: TULIP TREE
AT WADHAM COLLEGE, OXFORD]
[Illustration: TULIP TREE (_Liriodendron tulipifera_)
AT ALBURY PARK, SURREY
Height 96 ft., girth 11 ft. 8 in.]
The Tulip Tree
The tulip tree (_Liriodendron tulipifera_) is descended from an
extremely remote ancestry, and remains one of the stateliest denizens of
the North American river valleys, ranging from 150 to 190 feet high. The
form of its leaves is unique among those of forest trees, being lyrate,
ending in two pointed or rounded lobes considerably longer than the
midrib. Ruskin declared it to be the only leaf which did not display one
form or other of a Gothic arch--round or pointed. These leaves turn a
beautiful clear yellow in autumn, and in summer the flowers, in size and
shape like those of a tulip, attract numbers of bees. If only they were
a little more gaily painted, the tulip tree would be among the showiest
of park trees; but the petals are of a dull greenish white, with a
splash of orange at the base of the interior of each, where one can't
see it--unless one happens to be a bee.
However, its flowers apart, a well-grown tulip tree is a beautiful
object at all seasons, owing, in winter, to the tracery of its smooth,
grey branches--in summer, to its rich, bright green foliage, and in
autumn to the splendour of its decay.
It was probably brought to England in the reign of Henry VIII. or
Elizabeth by one of those botanists--Tradescant or another--who quietly
pursued their useful labours while Christians were hurrying each other
to the stake, and politicians were chopping off the heads of
inconvenient opponents.
In lofty towers let Pallas take her rest,
Whilst shady groves of all things please us best.
In the following century Evelyn said "the tulip tree grows very well
with the curious amongst us to a considerable stature. I wish we had
more of them." Given deep, generous soil and suitable shelter, this fine
tree might develop in England proportions equal to those it attains in
its native forests, where, says Elwes, it reaches "a height of 160 to
190 feet, with a straight trunk 8 to 10 feet in diameter, clear of
branches for 80 to 100 feet from the ground." But its requirements in
soil and shelter are imperative; it is a greedy feeder, and its branches
are too friable to stand violent winds. Meet conditions have been
secured at Woolbeding, already mentioned as the site of the loftiest
plane in Britain. The tulip tree there has reached a height of 105 feet,
with a girth of 17 feet. Another, of equal height, but less girth, is
reported from Strathfieldsaye, which I must have missed when I was
there, for I have no note about it.
In Scotland, the largest tulip tree I have seen is one at the Hirsel, in
Berwickshire. Loudon mentioned it in 1837 as being 100 years old and 20
feet in girth, but when I saw it last, some fifteen years ago, it was
failing in the upper storey, though it still had some vigorous foliage.
It is said to bear flowers every year; though Lord Barrymore tells me
that in his famous arboretum on Fota Island, Cork Harbour, the tulip
tree grows well, 87 feet high and 11 feet 7 inches in girth, but never
flowers. Probably, like the Oriental plane, it demands hotter summers
than we can give it in the north and west. In the southern counties of
England it blossoms abundantly, and occasionally ripens seed.
Tulip tree timber is not of the first quality. Professor Sargent
describes it as light, soft, and brittle. Nevertheless, it is much used
in America for interior work and boatbuilding, and is imported by
English merchants under the name of yellow poplar or canary-wood. Mr.
Elwes, who had a fine collection of different kinds of timber made into
furniture and panels, says it closely resembles magnolia wood, which is
not to be wondered at, seeing that the tulip tree belongs to the order
Magnoliaceæ.
Few people plant tulip trees nowadays, more's the pity; for they are far
more decorative than many of the conifers which have gone so far to
thrust deciduous trees out of fashion. It grieved me some years ago to
see a Spanish silver fir (_Abies pinsapo_), one of the least majestic of
its family, planted as the memorial of a royal visit to a fine English
demesne; it grieves me still when I reflect how little chance it has of
thriving on a shaven lawn.
The Hawthorn
"Gives not the hawthorn-bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich-embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?
O, yes, it doth--a thousandfold it doth."
(_Third Henry VI._ act ii. sc. 5.)
[Illustration: MAY BLOSSOM (_Cratægus oxyacantha_)]
The rose has long disputed with the lily her claim to rank as Queen of
Beauty, nor is the rivalry likely to be decided in favour of either so
long as human tastes differ. Howbeit, if the two claimants ever appeal
to the arbitrament of war, the rose will have the advantage of big
battalions, for her great clan far outnumbers that of the lilies and
many of them are formidably armed. There would, indeed, be some mighty
blanks in our fields and gardens if the great natural order of Rosaceæ
were banned; for not only should we lose the enormous and
ever-increasing variety of the rose itself and its hybrids, but the
spiræas, the cinquefoils, the cotoneasters, the so-called laurels (which
are not laurels at all, but evergreen plums), wherewith we deck our
pleasure-grounds, would disappear also, and with them the plums,
cherries, peaches, apples, pears, strawberries, and raspberries would be
among the exiles, for all these and many more are families in this vast
order.
[Illustration: FRUIT OF HAWTHORN (_Cratægus oxyacantha_)]
Yet would not the disappearance of any of them work such a change in
British landscape, as it would suffer if we were to lose the hawthorn,
which is also a member of the rose order. It is the most beautiful
native flowering tree we possess, for the laburnum, the horse chestnut,
and the catalpa must be written off as exotics, though, happily, they
have proved most successful colonists.
Not long ago I was driving out from New York to visit Mr. Roosevelt in
Long Island. My companion and cicerone was one who gained more than the
common measure of esteem while he was American Ambassador in London.
When I expressed to him warmly my admiration for the masses of _Cornus
florida_ which formed the undergrowth of the woods bordering our route,
and which (it was in May) were displaying their snowy blossoms in
endless drifts and wreaths: "Very beautiful," he said; "but I would
rather have your British hawthorn blossom with its fragrance."
This was high testimony from one in whose country Professor Sargent has
enumerated no fewer than one hundred and forty-three distinct American
species of _Cratægus_ or hawthorn, many of which produce beautiful
flowers; but none of those which I have seen are equal to the single
species indigenous to the British Isles--_Cratægus oxyacantha_. In
saying a single species, I am aware that later botanists have
distinguished as a species a form found on the Continent and in the
midland and south-eastern English counties; but Bentham and Hooker
admitted this only as a variety.
In Scotland we always speak of hawthorn blossom, but in England you
shall never hear that term, for there they call it May blossom, yet you
may seldom find it in bloom till near the end of that month. In Brand's
_Antiquities_ (1777) it is stated that "it was an old custom in Suffolk
in most of the farmhouses that any servant who could bring in a branch
of hawthorn in full blossom on the 1st of May was entitled to a dish of
cream for breakfast. This custom is now disused, not so much from the
reluctance of the masters to give the reward, as from the inability of
the servants to find the white thorn in flower." The reason for this is
to be sought in a change, not in the flowering season, but in the
calendar; the old style during the eighteenth century being twelve days
in arrear of the new style, so that May Day was equivalent to what is
now 12th May. It will be remembered that, while the new style was
enacted in Scotland by James VI.'s Privy Council in 1600, it was not
until 1751 that an Act of Parliament caused it to be adopted in England,
which did the Suffolk peasants out of all chance of cream for breakfast.
One of the many admirable virtues of the hawthorn is its indifference to
soil and situation. Give it light and free air, and it will flower as
freely on the shingle of a wind-swept beach, where it crouches along
the stones to escape the blast, as it does in a fat English pasture, a
villa garden, or a Highland glen. The most remarkable grove of ancient
hawthorns known to me is to be seen in the Phoenix Park, Dublin. It is
a sight never to be forgotten when these trees, many of them (speaking
from recollection) 40 feet high, are laden in June with their snowy
wreaths. There are many hawthorns of greater height in other districts,
notably one at Lenchford, in Worcestershire, whereof the dimensions in
1875 were recorded in the _Gardeners' Chronicle_ as 60 feet high and 9
feet in girth.
The hawthorn is a long-lived tree. It was not until after the middle of
the nineteenth century that Maxwell's Thorn disappeared from the banks
of the Dryfe in a flood. It was under this tree that, according to local
tradition, John Lord Maxwell, the Warden, lay wounded after the fatal
encounter with the Johnstones on Dryfe Sands, 6th December, 1593. Eight
hundred of his men are said to have perished, and the old lord, "a tall
man," says Spottiswoode (vol. ii. 446), "and heavy in armour, was in the
chase overtaken and stricken from his horse." William Johnston of
Kirkhill was his assailant; who, according to some accounts, contented
himself with hewing off the Warden's hand, in order to claim the reward
offered by his chief to any man who should bring it to him. As Maxwell
lay bleeding under the thorn tree, a lady came on the scene--some say it
was the lady of Lochwood herself, the Chief's wife, others that it was
the wife of James Johnston of Kirkton. Whichever it was, she belonged to
the militant party of her sex, if it be true, as alleged, that she
knocked out the Warden's brains with the tower keys that hung at her
girdle. In justice to the dame it should be mentioned that a few nights
previously Lord Maxwell had burnt down Lochwood Tower, declaring that
"he would give the Lady Johnston light to set her hood!" Moreover, he
had offered the gift of a farm to anyone who should bring him the head
of the laird of Lochwood, who, being in arms against the Warden, was
technically the King's rebel. Maxwell's Thorn, as aforesaid, ceased to
exist sixty years ago, but a young tree was planted in its place, which
doubtless will be venerated by generations unborn as the original.
The kindly nature of the hawthorn and the simple nature of its cultural
requirements have caused everybody to be familiar with the beautiful red
and pink, single and double, varieties which have been raised and widely
distributed. There is a variety with scarlet berries which I have only
seen in the park at Newton Don, near Kelso. Beautiful as are the common
red haws upon which fieldfares, redwings, and other winter visitors
mainly depend for provender, this scarlet fruited variety is a much more
brilliant object at the dullest time of the year. The variety with
yellow haws is no improvement on the type.
Phillips in his _Sylva Florifera_ (1823) states that "a variety has been
discovered in a hedge near Bampton, Oxfordshire, which produces white
berries." This variety, if it ever existed, appears to have been lost.
He also commits himself to the statement that "the fruit of this tree
are called haws, from whence the name hawthorn"; which proves that a man
may be an excellent botanist and a bad etymologist. In Middle English
"hawe" meant a hedge, and also ground enclosed by a hedge. It was in the
latter sense that Chaucer wrote in the _Canterbury Tales_:
And eke there was a polkat [polecat] in his hawe.
The tree got the name of hawthorn, _i.e._ hedgethorn, because it has no
rival as a hedge plant.
And this brings us to consider what is the economic value of the
hawthorn. It has become indispensable for hedges, which are as
inseparable from a foreigner's impressions of English landscape as
poplars are from French country scenery, and as date palms are from that
of Egypt.
Green fields of England! wheresoe'er
Across the watery waste we fare,
Your image in our hearts we bear,
Green fields of England, everywhere.