WOODLAND GLEANINGS.
"Attractive is the Woodland scene,
Diversified with trees of every growth--
Alike yet various....
* * * * *
No tree in all the grove but has its charms."
WOODLAND GLEANINGS:
BEING AN ACCOUNT OF
BRITISH FOREST-TREES,
INDIGENOUS AND INTRODUCED.
[Illustration]
SECOND EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED,
WITH SIXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS.
LONDON:
ADAM SCOTT, CHARTERHOUSE SQUARE.
1853.
GLASGOW:
W. G. BLACKIE AND CO., PRINTERS,
VILLAFIELD.
ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE SECOND EDITION.
To those who live in the country, or repair to it from our cities and
towns for recreation or recruitment of health, we trust this will be an
acceptable book, especially if they are unacquainted with Forest-trees.
Our aim has been to produce a volume that will convey general and
particular information respecting the timber-trees chiefly cultivated in
the United Kingdom, to induce further inquiry respecting them, and to
impart a new interest to the Woodland. To effect this we have briefly
given their history and description, together with their botanical
characters, remarks from our best authors on their habits and ornamental
properties, on the usual mode of their cultivation, and on the value or
utility of their timber. We have also introduced accounts of such
remarkable trees as we considered of sufficient note to interest the
general reader.
It has been objected that a few species, not recognised as Forest-trees,
have been included in this work; such as the Hawthorn, Holly,
Mountain-Ash, and Wild Cherry. But as these have been likewise admitted
into a subsequent work of greater pretensions, the reason there given
by its author will be here equally sufficient:--"That though aware of
the secondary rank of these trees in point of dimensions, when compared
with the greater denizens of the Forest, he felt that the prominent
station they occupy in the ornamental and picturesque departments of our
native Sylvia, was sufficient to compensate for this defect, and to
entitle them to the situation in which they have been placed."
That the thirty-two species particularly described may be the more
readily identified, and their botanical characters more easily
understood, there has been given a well executed wood-cut representation
of the usual growth and representation of each tree, and another of the
leaves, flowers, and fruit.
_July 1, 1853._
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1. Alder 41
2. Leaves and Catkins 43
3. Ash 47
4. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 51
5. Beech 55
6. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 59
7. Birch 63
8. Leaves and Catkins 65
9. Cedar of Lebanon 69
10. Foliage, Cone, &c. 73
11. Chestnut 77
12. Leaves, Catkins, &c. 79
13. Elm 82
14. Leaves and Flowers 85
15. Hawthorn 92
16. Leaves, Blossom, and Fruit 95
17. Hazel 98
18. Leaves, Catkins, and Nuts 100
19. Holly 103
20. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 105
21. Hornbeam 109
22. Leaves, Catkins, and Fruit 111
23. Horse-Chestnut 114
24. Leaves, Flowers, &c. 117
25. Larch 122
26. Foliage, Catkins, &c. 125
27. Lime, or Linden 132
28. Leaves and Flowers 135
29. Maple 139
30. Leaves, Flowers, and Seeds 141
31. Mountain-Ash 145
32. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 147
33. Mulberry 152
34. Leaves and Fruits 155
35. Oak 158
36. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 161
37. Oriental Plane 189
38. Leaves, and Globes of Flowers 191
39. Occidental Plane 196
40. Leaves and Flowers 199
41. Poplar 201
42. (White) Leaves, Flowers, and Catkins 203
43. Scotch Fir or Pine 207
44. Foliage, Catkins, Cones, &c. 209
45. Silver Fir 217
46. Foliage and Cones 219
47. Spruce Fir 222
48. Foliage and Cones 225
49. Sycamore 227
50. Leaves, Flowers, and Samaræ 229
51. Walnut 233
52. Leaves, Catkins, and Nuts 235
53. Weymouth Pine 239
54. Foliage, Cones, &c. 241
55. Whitebeam 243
56. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 245
57. Wild Black Cherry 247
58. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 249
59. Wild Service 253
60. Leaves and Flowers 255
61. Willow 257
62. (Crack) Leaves and Catkins of _S. fragilis_ 263
63. Yew 269
64. Foliage, Leaves, and Fruit 271
INTRODUCTION.
The forest teems
With forms of majesty and beauty; some,
As the light poplar, wave with every sigh
Of zephyr, and some scarcely bend their heads
For very mightiness, when wintry storms
Are maddening the sea!
Carrington.
Delightful Edlington! how we love to saunter up and down the broad and
verdant pathway that traverses thy wild domain. There, amid the deep
imbosomed thickets, we feel that we are in "the haunts of
meditation"--we feel that these are, indeed,
The scenes where ancient bards th' inspiring breath
Ecstatic felt;
And wish that the kind muses that them inspired would cast their united
mantles over us, and aid us to sing the beauties of the woodland. But no
friendly spirit deigns to tune our lyre; we are condemned to dull prose,
and are permitted only here and there to call in some bard of old to aid
our feeble efforts. Woodland! yea, the very name seems to revive
recollections of delightful solitude--of calm and holy feelings, when
the world has been, for the time, completely banished from its
throne--the throne of the human heart, which, alas! it too commonly
occupies. O, how agreeable and pleasant is the woodland, when the trees
are half clad with their green attire! How refreshing is the appearance
of the tender leaf-bud, emerging from its sheath, just visible upon the
dingy gray branches, those of one tree being generally a little in
advance of others! We have never yet met with that insensate being whose
heart is not elated at the sight. And to look, at this time, upon the
vast assemblage of giant trees, whose skeleton, character, and figure
may now be plainly traced. The dense foliage does not obscure them now,
but they are beheld in all their majesty. "If the contrast of gray and
mossy branches," says Howitt, "and of the delicate richness of young
leaves gushing out of them in a thousand places be inexpressibly
delightful to behold, that of one tree with another is not the less so.
One is nearly full clothed; another is mottled with gray and green,
struggling, as it were, which should have the predominance, and another
is still perfectly naked. The pines look dim dusky amid the lively hues
of spring. The abeles are covered with their clusters of alliescent and
powdery leaves and withering catkins; and beneath them the pale spathes
of the arum, fully expanded and displaying their crimson clubs,
presenting a sylvan and unique air."
In Sweden, the budding and leafing of the birch-tree is considered as a
directory for sowing barley; and as there is something extremely
sublime and harmonious in the idea, we flatter ourselves an account of
it here will be acceptable.
Mr. Harold Barck, in his ingenious dissertation upon the foliation of
trees, informs us, that Linnæus had, in the most earnest manner,
exhorted his countrymen to observe, with all care and diligence, at what
time each tree expanded its buds and unfolded its leaves; imagining, and
not without reason, that his country would, some time or other, reap
some new and perhaps unexpected benefit from observations of this kind
made in different places.
As one of the apparent advantages, he advises the prudent husbandman to
watch, with the greatest care, the proper time for sowing; because this,
with the Divine assistance, produces plenty of provision, and lays the
foundation of the public welfare of the state, and of the private
happiness of the people. The ignorant farmer, tenacious of the ways and
customs of his ancestors, fixes his sowing season generally to a month,
and sometimes to a particular week, without considering whether the
earth be in a proper state to receive the seed; from whence it
frequently happens, that what the sower sowed with sweat, the reaper
reaps with sorrow. The wise economist should therefore endeavour to fix
upon certain signs, whereby to judge of the proper time for sowing. We
see trees open their buds and expand their leaves, from whence we
conclude that spring approaches, and experience supports us in the
conclusion; but nobody has as yet been able to show us what trees
Providence has intended should be our calendar, so that we might know on
what day the countryman ought to sow his grain. No one can deny but that
the same power which brings forth the leaves of trees, will also make
the grain vegetate; nor can any one assert that a premature sowing will
always, and in every place, accelerate a ripe harvest. Perhaps,
therefore, we cannot promise ourselves a happy success by any means so
likely, as by taking our rule for sowing from the leafing of trees. We
must for that end observe in what order every tree puts forth its leaves
according to its species, the heat of the atmosphere, and the quality of
the soil. Afterwards, by comparing together the observations of the
several years, it will not be difficult to determine from the foliation
of the trees, if not certainly, at least probably, the time when annual
plants ought to be sown. It will be necessary, likewise, to remark what
sowings made in different parts of the spring produce the best crops, in
order that, by comparing these with the leafing of trees, it may appear
which is the most proper time for sowing.
The temperature of the season, with respect to heat and cold, drought
and wet, differing in every year, experiments made one year cannot, with
certainty, determine for the following. They may assist, but cannot be
conclusive. The hints of Linnæus, however, constitute a universal rule,
as trees and shrubs, bud, leaf, and flower, shed their leaves in every
country, according to the difference of the seasons.
Mr. Stillingfleet is the only person that has made correct observations
upon the foliation of the trees and shrubs of this kingdom. The
following is his calendar, which was made in Norfolk, in 1765:--
1 Honeysuckle January 15
2 Gooseberry March 11
3 Currant " 11
4 Elder " 11
5 Birch April 1
6 Weeping Willow " 1
7 Raspberry " 3
8 Bramble " 3
9 Briar " 4
10 Plum " 6
11 Apricot " 6
12 Peach " 6
13 Filbert " 7
14 Sallow " 7
15 Alder " 7
16 Sycamore " 9
17 Elm " 10
18 Quince " 10
19 Marsh Elder " 11
20 Wych Elm " 12
21 Mountain-Ash " 13
22 Hornbeam " 13
23 Apple-tree " 14
24 Abele " 16
25 Chestnut " 16
26 Willow " 17
27 Oak " 18
28 Lime " 18
29 Maple " 19
30 Walnut " 21
31 Plane " 21
32 Black Poplar " 21
33 Beech " 21
34 Acacia Robinia " 21
35 Ash " 22
36 Carolina Poplar " 22
In different years, and in different soils and expositions, these trees
and shrubs vary as to their leafing; but they are invariable as to their
succession, being bound down to it by nature herself. A farmer,
therefore, who would use this sublime idea of Linnæus, should diligently
mark the time of budding, leafing, and flowering of different plants. He
should also put down the days on which his respective grains were sown;
and, by comparing these two tables for a number of years, he will be
enabled to form an exact calendar for his spring corn. An attention to
the discolouring and falling of the leaves of plants, will assist him
in sowing his winter grain, and teach him how to guess at the approach
of winter. Towards the end of September, which is the best season for
sowing wheat, he will find the leaves of various trees as follows:--
Plane-tree, tawny.
Oak, yellowish green.
Hazel, yellow.
Sycamore, dirty brown.
Maple, pale yellow.
Ash, fine lemon.
Elm, orange.
Hawthorn, tawny yellow.
Cherry, red.
Hornbeam, bright yellow.
There is a certain kind of genial warmth which the earth should enjoy at
the time the seed is sown. The budding, leafing, and flowering of
plants, seem to indicate this happy temperature of the earth.
Appearances of this sublime nature may be compared to the writing upon
the wall, which was seen by many, but understood by few. They seem to
constitute a kind of harmonious intercourse between God and man, and are
the silent language of the Deity.
Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail!
Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks!
Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep!
Delicious is your shelter to the soul!
Yes, indeed, the woodland is an ever-pleasant place. There we may couch
ourselves upon the mossy bank, and listen to the murmuring "brook that
bubbles by," or to the sweet sounds that issue from
Every warbling throat
Heard in the tuneful woodlands.
Yea, truly,
There, plunged amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down,
Attentive, in his airy mood,
To every murmur of the wood;
The bee in yonder flowery nook,
The chidings of the headlong brook,
The green leaf shivering in the gale,
The warbling hills, the lowing vale,
The distant woodman's echoing stroke,
The thunder of the falling oak.
Carlos Wilcox sings so sweetly of vernal melody in the forest, that we
shall favour our readers with his song:
With sonorous notes
Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet,
All chanted in the fulness of delight,
The forest rings. Where, far around enclosed
With bushy sides, and covered high above
With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks,
Like pillars rising to support a roof,
It seems a temple vast, the space within
Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody.
Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct,
The merry mocking-bird together links
In one continued song their different notes,
Adding new life and sweetness to them all:
Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields
Frequents the stony wall, and briery fence,
Here chirps so shrill that human feet approach
Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries,
Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat,
Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree;
But oft, a moment after, re-appears,
First peeping out, then starting forth at once
With a courageous air, yet in his pranks
Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far
Till left unheeded.
As the summer advances, forest-trees assume a beautiful variety. The
Oak has "spread its amber leaves out in the sunny sheen;" the ash, the
maple, the beech, and the sycamore are each clad in delicate vestures of
green; and the dark perennial firs are enlivened and enriched by the
young shoots and the cones of lighter hue.
"In the middle of summer," observes Howitt, "it is the very carnival of
Nature, and she is prodigal of her luxuries." It is luxury to walk
abroad, indulging every sense with sweetness, loveliness, and harmony.
It is luxury to stand beneath the forest side, when all is still and
basking, at noon; and to see the landscape suddenly darken, the black
and tumultuous clouds assemble as at a signal; to hear the awful thunder
crash upon the listening ear; and then, to mark the glorious bow rise on
the lurid rear of the tempest, the sun laugh jocundly abroad, and every
bathed leaf and blossom fair,
Pour out its soul to the delicious air.
But of the seasons autumn is the most pleasant for a woodland ramble.
The depth of gloom, the silence, the wild cries that are heard flitting
to and fro; the falling leaves already rustling to the tread, and
strewing the forest walk, render it particularly pleasant. "And then
those breaks; those openings; those sudden emergings from shadow and
silence to light and liberty; those unexpected comings out to the skirts
of the forest, or to some wild and heathy tract in the very depth of the
woodlands! How pleasant is the thought of it!" The appearance of woods
in autumn is indeed more picturesque, and more replete with incidental
beauty than at any season of the year. So evident is this, that painters
have universally chosen it as the season of landscape. The leafy surface
of the forest is then so varied, and the masses of foliage are yet so
full, that they allow the artist great latitude in producing his tints,
without injuring the breadth of his lights.
--The fading, many-coloured woods,
Shade deepening over-shade, the country round
Imbrown; a varied umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue, from wan declining green
To sooty dark.
Of all the hues of autumn, those of the oak are commonly the most
harmonious. In an oaken wood, you see every variety of green and brown,
owing either to the different exposure of the tree, the difference of
the soil, or its own nature. In the beechen grove, this variety is not
to be found. In early autumn, when the extremities of the trees are
slightly tinged with orange, it may be partially produced; but late the
eye is usually fatigued with one deep monotonous shade of orange, though
perhaps it is the most beautiful among all the hues of autumn. And this
uniformity prevails wherever the ash and elm abound, though of a
different hue; and, indeed, no fading foliage excepting that of the oak,
produces harmony of colouring.
Even when the beauty of the landscape has departed, the charms of autumn
may remain. When the raging heat of summer is abated, and ere the
rigours of winter are set in, there are frequent days of such heavenly
temperature, that every mind must feel their effect. Thomson thus
describes a day of this kind:
The morning shines
Serene, in all its dewy beauties bright,
Unfolding fair the last autumnal day,
O'er all the soul its sacred influence breathes;
Inflames imagination, through the breast
Infuses every tenderness, and far
Beyond dim earth exalts the swelling thought.
We now proceed to give a detailed notice of some of the component parts
of the woodland scenery, beginning with the single tree.
We feel no hesitation in calling a tree the grandest and most beautiful
of all the various productions of the earth. In respect to its grandeur,
nothing can compete with it; for the everlasting rocks and lofty
mountains are parts of the earth itself. And though we find great
beauty--beauty at once perceptible and ever-varying, and consequently
more universally felt and appreciated--among plants of an inferior
order--among shrubs and flowers, yet these latter may be considered
beautiful rather as individuals, for as they are not adapted to form the
arrangement of composition in landscape, nor to receive the effect of
light and shade, they must give place in point of beauty--of picturesque
beauty at least--to the form, and foliage, and ramification of the tree.
The tree, however, we do not place in competition with animal life. "The
shape, the different coloured furs, the varied and spirited attitudes,
the character and motion, which strike us in the animal creation, are
unquestionably beyond still life in its most pleasing appearance." With
regard to trees, nature has been more liberal to them in point of
variety, than even to its living forms. "Though every animal is
distinguished from its fellow, by some little variation of colour,
character, or shape; yet in all the larger parts, in the body and limbs,
the resemblance is generally exact. In trees, it is just the reverse:
the smaller parts, the spray, the leaves, the blossom, and the seed, are
the same in all trees of the same kind; while the larger parts, from
which the most beautiful varieties result, are wholly different." For
instance, you never see two oaks with the same number of limbs, the same
kind of head, and twisted in the same form.
When young, trees, like striplings, shoot into taper forms. There is a
lightness and an airiness about them, which is pleasing; but they do not
spread and receive their just proportions, until they have attained
their full growth.
There is as much difference, too, in trees--that is, in trees of the
same kind--in point of beauty, as there is in human figures. The limbs
of some are set on awkwardly, their trunks are disproportioned, and
their whole form is unpleasing. The same rules, which establish elegance
in other objects, establish it in these. There must be the same harmony
of parts, the same sweeping line, the same contrast, the same ease and
freedom. A bough, indeed, may issue from the trunk at right angles, and
yet elegantly, as it frequently does in the oak; but it must immediately
form some contrasting sweep, or the junction will be awkward.
Generally speaking, trees when lapped and trimmed into fastidious
shapes, become ugly and displeasing. Thus clipped yews, lime hedges, and
pollards, being rendered unnatural in form, are disagreeable; though
sometimes a pollard produces a good effect, when Nature has been
suffered, after some years, to bring it again into shape.
Lightness is a characteristic of beauty in a tree; for though there are
beautiful trees of a heavy, as well as of a light form, yet their
extremities must in some parts be separated, and hang with a degree of
looseness from the fulness of the foliage, which occupies the middle of
the tree, or the whole will only be a large bush. From position, indeed,
and contrast, heaviness, though in itself a deformity, may be of
singular use in the composition both of natural and of artificial
landscape.
A tree must be well balanced to be beautiful, for it may have form and
lightness, and yet lose its effect from not being properly poised;
though occasionally beauty may be found in an unbalanced tree, yet this
must be caused by some peculiarity in its situation. For instance, when
hanging over a rock, if altogether unpoised, it may be beautiful; or
bending over a road, its effect may be good.
We have often admired the massy trunk of an aged forest oak; and Gilpin
says he frequently examined the varied tints which enriched its
furrowed stem. The genuine bark of an oak is ash-coloured, though it is
not easy to distinguish this, from the quantity of moss which
overspreads it; for we suppose every oak has more or less of these
picturesque appendages. About the roots there is a green velvet moss,
which is found in a greater degree to occupy the hole of the beech,
though its beauty and brilliancy lose much when in decay. As the trunk
rises, you see the brimstone colour taking possession in patches. Of
this there are two principal kinds: a smooth sort, which spreads like a
scurf over the bark, and a rougher sort, which hangs in little rich
knots and fringes. This sometimes inclines to an olive hue, and
occasionally to a light-green. Intermixed with these mosses is
frequently found a species perfectly white. Here and there, a touch of
it gives lustre to the trunk, and has its effect; yet, on the whole, it
is a nuisance, for as it generally begins to thrive when the other
mosses begin to wither, it is rarely accompanied with any of the more
beautiful species of its kind. This is a sure sign that the vigour of
the tree is declining. There is another species of a dark brown colour,
inclining to black; another of an ashy colour; and another of a dingy
yellow. Touches of red are also observable, and occasionally, though
rarely, a bright yellow, which is like a gleam of sunshine. These add a
great richness to the trees, and when blended harmoniously, as they
commonly are, the rough and furrowed trunk of an oak, thus adorned, is
an object which will long detain the picturesque eye.
These and other incidental appendages to a tree are greatly subservient
to the uses of the pencil, and the poet will now and then deign to deck
his trees with these ornaments. He sometimes calls into being some
mighty agent, as guardian of the woods, who cries out,
From Jove I am the Power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower.
I nurse my saplings tall; and cleanse their rind
From vegetating filth of every kind;
And all my plants I save from nightly ill
Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill.
The blasted tree adds much to effect, both in artificial and natural
landscape. In some scenes it is nearly essential. When the dreary heath
is spread before the eye, and ideas of wildness and desolation are
required, what more suitable accompaniment can be imagined, than the
blasted oak, ragged, scathed, and leafless, shooting its peeled white
branches athwart the gathering blackness of some rising storm?
As when heaven's fire
Hath scathed the forest oak, or mountain pine,
With singed top its stately growth, though bare,
Stands on the blasted heath.
--beneath that oak,
Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke
Of Heaven's own thunder--yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves--
As though it dared the elements.
Neale.
Ivy also gives great richness to an old trunk, both by its stem, which
often winds round it in thick, hairy, irregular volumes; and by its
leaf, which either decks the furrowed bark, or creeps among the
branches, or carelessly hangs from them. It unites with the mosses, and
other furniture of the trees, in adorning and enriching it.
The tribes of mosses, lichens, and liver-worts, are all parasitical; it
is doubted whether the ivy is or not. The former, however, are absolute
retainers. The character of the ivy, too, has been misrepresented, if
his feelers have not some other purpose than that of enabling him to
show his attachment to his patient supporter. Shakspeare asserts that he
makes a property of him:
He was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,
And sucked my verdure out.
Besides these there are others which are sustained entirely by their own
means. Among them we may distinguish the black and white briony. The
berries of many of these little plants are variously coloured in the
different stages of their growth--yellow, red, and orange. All these
produce their effect. The feathered seeds of the traveller's joy are
also ornamental. The wild honeysuckle comes within this class; and it
fully compensates for any injury it may do by the compression of the
young branches, by its winding spiral coils, and by the beauty and
fragrance of its flowers:
With clasping tendrils it invests the branch,
Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon,
And fragrant chaplet; recompensing well
The strength it borrows with the grace it lends.
In warm climates, where vines are the spontaneous offspring of nature,
nothing can have a more pleasing effect than the forest-tree adorned
with their twisting branches, hanging in rich festoons from bough to
bough, and laden with fruit,--
the clusters clear
Half through the foliage seen.
In England, the hop we consider the most beautiful appendage of the
hanging kind. In its rude natural state, indeed, twisting carelessly
round the branches of trees, it has as good an effect as the vine. Its
leaf is similar; and though its bunches are not so beautiful as the
clusters of the vine, it is more accommodating, hangs more loosely, and
is less extravagant in its growth.
The motion of trees is one source of considerable beauty. The waving
heads of some, and the undulation of others, give a continual variety to
their forms. In nature this is certainly a circumstance of great beauty:
Things in motion sooner catch the eye
Than what stirs not;
and this also affords the chequered shade, formed under it by the
dancing of the sunbeams among its playing leaves. This circumstance is
of a very amusing nature, and is capable of being beautifully wrought up
in poetry:
The chequered earth seems restless as a flood
Brushed by the winds. So sportive is the light,
Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dance,
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
And darkening and enlightening (as the leaves
Play wanton) every part.
The clump of trees next occupies our attention. The term, says Gilpin,
has rather a relative meaning, as no rule of art hath yet prescribed
what number of trees form a clump. Near the eye we should call three or
four trees a clump, and at the same time, in distant or extensive
scenery, we should apply the same term to any smaller detached portion
of wood, though it may be formed of hundreds of trees. But though the
term admits not of exact definition, we will endeavour to make the ideas
contained under it as distinct as possible.
We distinguish, then, two kinds of clumps, the smaller and the larger;
confining the former chiefly to the foreground, and considering the
latter as a distant ornament.
With respect to the former, we apprehend its chief beauty arises from
contrast in the parts. We shall attempt to enumerate some of the sources
whence the beauty of contrast is produced. Three trees, or more,
standing in a line, are formal, but in the natural wood this formality
is rarely found. And yet even three trees in a line will be greatly
assisted by the lines of the several trunks taking different directions;
and by the various forms, distances, and growth of the trees.
If three trees do not stand in a line, they must of course stand in a
triangle, which produces a great variety of pleasing forms. And if a
fourth tree be added, it stands beautifully near the middle of the
triangle, of whatever form the triangle may be. If the clump consist of
more trees than four, a still greater variety among the stems will of
course take place; double triangles, and other pleasing shapes, all of
which may be seen exemplified in every wood of natural growth.
The branches are not less the source of contrast than the stem. To be
picturesque, they must intermingle with each other without heaviness;
they must hang loosely, but yet with varied looseness on every side; and
if there be one head or top of the tree above another, there may be two
or three subordinate, according to the size of the clump.
Different kinds of trees, in the same clump, often occasion a beautiful
contrast. There are few trees which will not harmonize with trees of
another kind; though it may be that contrasts the most simple and
beautiful are produced by the various modes of growth in the same
species. Two or three oaks, intermingling their branches together, have
often a very pleasing effect. The beech, when fully grown, is commonly
(in a luxuriant soil at least), so heavy, that it seldom blends happily,
either with its own kind or any other. The silver fir, too, is a very
unaccommodating tree, as also all the other firs, and indeed every kind
of tree that tapers to a point. The pine race, however, being
clump-headed, unite well in composition. With these also the Scotch fir
leagues, from little knots of which we often see beautiful contrasts
arise. When they are young and luxuriant, especially if any number of
them above four or five are planted together, they generally form a
heavy murky spot, but as they acquire age this heaviness goes off, the
inner branches decay, the outer branches hang loosely and negligently,
and the whole has frequently a good effect, unless they have been
planted too closely. It may be doubted how far deciduous trees mingle
well in a clump with evergreens; and yet, occasionally, from the
darkness of the fir contrasting agreeably with the sprightly green of a
deciduous tree just coming into leaf, a natural good effect of light and
shade is produced.
Contrasts arise, again, from the mixture of trees of unequal growth,
from a young tree united with an old one, a stunted tree with a
luxuriant one, and sometimes from two or three trees, which in
themselves are ill-shaped, but when combined are pleasing. Inequalities
of all these kinds are what chiefly give nature's planting a superiority
over art.
The form of the foliage is another source of contrast. In one part,
where the branches intermingle, the foliage will be interwoven and
close; in another, where the boughs of each tree hang separately, the
appearance will be light and easy.
But whatever beauty these contrasts exhibit, the effect is altogether
lost if the clump be not well balanced. If no side preponderate so as to
offend the eye, it is enough, and unless the clump have sustained some
external injury, it is seldom deficient in point of balance. Nature
generally conducts the stems and branches in such easy forms, wherever
there is an opening, and fills up all with such nice contrivance, and
with so much picturesque irregularity, that we rarely wish for an
amendment in her works. So true is this, that you may not take away a
tree from a clump without infallibly destroying the balance which can
never again be restored.
When the clump grows larger, it becomes qualified only as a remote
object, combining with vast woods, and forming a part of some extensive
scene, either as a first, a second, or a third distance.
The great use of the larger clump is to lighten the heaviness of a
continued distant wood, and connect it gently with the plain, that the
transition may not be too abrupt. All we wish to find in a clump of this
kind is proportion and general form.
With respect to proportion, the detached clump must not encroach too
much on the dignity of the wood it aids, but must observe a proper
subordination. A large tract of country covered with wood, will admit
several of these auxiliary clumps, of different dimensions. But if the
wood be of a smaller size, the clumps must also be smaller and fewer.
As the clump becomes larger and recedes in the landscape, all the
pleasing contrasts we expected in the smaller clumps are lost, and we
are satisfied with a general form. No regular form is pleasing. A clump
on the side of a hill, or in any situation where the eye can more easily
investigate its shape, must be circumscribed by an irregular line; in
which the undulations, both at the base and summit of the clump, should
be strongly marked, as the eye has probably a distinct view of both. But
if seen only on the top of a hill, or along the distant horizon, a
little variation in the line which forms the summit, so as to break any
disagreeable regularity there, will be sufficient.
As a large tract of wood requires a few large clumps to connect it
gently with the plain, so these large clumps themselves require the same
service from a single tree, or a few trees, according to their size.
The Copse, the Glen, and the open Grove next demand our notice.
The Copse is a species of scenery composed generally of forest-trees,
intermixed with brushwood, which latter is periodically cut down in
twelve, thirteen, or fourteen years. In its dismantled state, nothing
can be more forlorn. The area is covered with bare roots and knobs, from
which the brushwood has been cut; while the forest-trees, intermingled
among them, present their ragged stems, despoiled of all their lateral
branches, which the luxuriance of the surrounding thickets had choked.
The copse, however, soon repairs the injury it has thus suffered. One
winter only sees its disgrace. The following summer produces luxuriant
shoots; and two summers more restore it almost to perfect beauty.
It is of little moment what species of wood composes the copse; for we
do not expect from it scenes of picturesque beauty, but are satisfied if
it yields us a shady sequestered path, which it generally furnishes in
great perfection. It is among the luxuries of nature, to retreat into
the cool recesses of the full-grown copse from the severity of a
meridian sun, and to be serenaded by the humming insects of the shade,
whose continuous song has a more refreshing sound than the buzzing
vagrant fly, which wantons in the glare of day, and, as Milton expresses
it,
----winds her sultry horn.
In distant landscape the copse hath seldom any effect. The beauty of a
wood in a distant view arises in some degree from its tuftings which
break and enrich the lights, but chiefly from its contrast with the
plain, and from the grand shapes and forms, occasioned by the retiring
and advancing parts of the forest, which produce vast masses of light
and shade, and give effect to the whole.
These beauties appear rarely in the copse. Instead of that rich and
tufted bed of foliage, which the distant forest exhibits, the copse
presents a meagre and unaccommodating surface. It is age which gives the
tree its tufted form, and the forest its effect. A nursery of saplings
produces it not, and the copse is little more, nor does the intermixture
of full-grown trees assist the appearance. Their clumpy heads blend ill
with the spiry tops of the juniors. Neither have they any connection
with each other. The woodman's judgment is shown in leaving the
timber-trees at proper intervals, that they may neither hinder each
other's growth, nor the growth of the underwood. But the woodman does
not pretend to manage his trees with a view to picturesque beauty; and
from his management, it is impossible they should produce a mass of
light and shade. Besides, the copse forms no contrast with the plain,
nor presents those beautiful projections and recesses which the skirts
of the forest exhibit. A copse is a plot of ground, proportioned off for
the purpose of nurturing wood. Of course it must be fenced from cattle;
and these fences, which are in themselves disgusting, generally form the
copse into a square, or some other regular figure; so that we have not
only a deformity, but a want also of a connecting tie between the wood
and the plain. Instead of a softened undulating line, we have a harsh
fence.
The best effect which the copse produces, is on the lofty banks of the
river; this may be seen particularly on the Wye. In navigating such a
river, the deficiencies of this mode of scenery, as you view it upwards
from a boat, are lost; and in almost every state it has a good effect.
While it enriches the bank, its uncouth shape, unless the fence is too
much in view, and all its other unpleasant appearances, are concealed.
When a winding walk is carried through a copse, which must necessarily
in a few years, even in point of picturesque beauty, be given to the
axe, shall the whole be cut down together? Or shall a border be left, as
is sometimes done, on each side of the walk?
This is a difficult question; but Gilpin thinks it should all go
together. Unless the border you leave be very broad, it will have no
effect, even at present. You will see through it; it will appear meagre,
and will never unite happily with the neighbouring parts when they begin
to grow; at least, it ought not to stand longer than two years. The
rest of the copse will then be growing beautiful, and the border may be
dispensed with till it is replaced. But the way, decidedly, is to cut
down all together. In a little time it will recover its beauty.
We now proceed to the Glen. A wide and open space between hills, is
called a vale. If it be of smaller dimensions, we call it a valley. But
when this space is contracted to a chasm, it becomes a glen.
A glen, therefore, is commonly the offspring of a mountainous country;
though sometimes found elsewhere, with its usual accompaniments of woody
banks, and a rivulet at the bottom. The glen may be more or less
contracted. It may form one single sweep, or its deviations may be
irregular. The wood may consist of full-grown trees, or of underwood, or
of a mixture of both. The path winding through it may run along the
upper or the lower part. Or the rivulet may foam among rocks, or murmur
among pebbles;--it may form transparent pools, overhung with wood;--or,
which is frequently the case, it may be invisible, and an object only of
the ear. All these circumstances are capable of an infinite variety.
The beauties of the internal parts of the glen consist chiefly in the
glades, or openings, which are found in it. If the whole were a thicket,
little beauty would result. Unlike the copse, its furniture is commonly
of a fortuitous growth, and escapes those periodical defalcations to
which the copse is subject, and generally exhibits more beautiful
scenery. It abounds with frequent openings. The eye is carried down,
from the higher grounds, to a sweep of the river--or to a little gushing
cascade--or to the face of a fractured rock, garnished with hanging
wood--or perhaps to a cottage, with its scanty area of lawn falling to
the river on one side, and sheltered by a clump of oaks on the other;
while the smoke, wreathing behind the trees, disperses and loses itself
as it gains the summit of the glen. Or, still more beautifully, the eye
breaks out at some opening, perhaps into the country, enriched with all
the varieties of distant landscape--plains and woods melting together--a
winding river--blue mountains--or perhaps some bay of the sea, with a
little harbour and shipping.
As an object of distance also, the woody glen has often a good
effect--climbing the sides of mountains, breaking their lines, and
giving variety to their bleak and barren sides.
From the glen we hasten to the open Grove, which is composed of trees
arising from a smooth area, and consisting either of pines or of the
deciduous race. Beautiful groves of both may be seen. That of the pine
will always be dry, as it is the peculiar quality of its leaves to
imbibe moisture: but in lightness, variety, and general beauty, that of
deciduous trees excels. If, however, you wish your grove to be in the
gloomy style, the pine race will serve your purpose best.
The open grove rarely makes a picturesque appearance. It may, indeed,
have the effect of other woods in distant scenery; for the trees of
which it is formed need not be separated from each other, as in the
copse, but, being well massed together, may receive beautiful effects of
light. When we enter its recesses, it is not so well calculated to
please. There it wants variety, and that not only from the smoothness of
the surface, but from the uniformity of the furniture--at least if it be
an artificial scene, in which the trees, having been planted in a
nursery, grow all alike, with upright stems. And yet a walk, upon a
velvet turf, winding at pleasure among these natural columns, whose
twisting branches at least admit some variety, with a spreading canopy
of foliage over the head, is pleasing, and in hot weather refreshing.
Sometimes we find the open grove of natural growth; it is then more
various and irregular, and becomes, of course, a more pleasing scene.
And yet, when woods of this kind continue, as they sometimes do, in
unpeopled countries, through half a province, they become tiresome, and
prove that it is not wood, but variety of landscape, that delights the
eye. The pleasing tranquillity of groves hath ever been in high repute
among the innocent and refined part of mankind:
Groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve
The moonbeam sliding softly in between
The sleeping leaves, is all the light he wants
For meditation.
Indeed, no species of landscape is so fitted for meditation. The forest
attracts the attention by its grandeur, and the park scene by its
beauty; while the paths through copses, dells, and thickets, are too
close, devious, interrupted, and often too beautiful to allow the mind
to be at perfect ease. But the uniform sameness of the grove leaves the
eye disengaged; and the feet wandering at pleasure, where they are
confined by no path, want little direction. The mind, therefore,
undisturbed, has only to retire within itself. Hence the philosopher,
the devotee, the poet, all retreated to these quiet recesses; and,
from the world retired,
Conversed with angels and immortal forms.
In classic times, the grove was the haunt of gods; and in the days of
Nature, before art had introduced a kind of combination against her, men
had no idea of worshipping God in a temple made with hands. The _templum
nemorale_ was the only temple he knew.
In the resounding wood,
All vocal beings hymned their equal God.
And to this idea, indeed, one of the earliest forms of the artificial
temple seems to have been indebted. Many learned men have thought the
Gothic arch of our cathedral churches was an imitation of the natural
grove. It arises from a lofty stem, or from two or three stems, if they
be slender; which being bound together, and spreading in every
direction, cover the whole roof with their ramifications. In the close
recesses of the beechen grove, we find this idea the most complete. The
lofty, narrow aisle--the pointed arch--the clustered pillar, whose parts
separating without violence, diverge gradually to form the fretted
roof--find there perhaps their earliest archetype. Bryant has wrought
out this idea in a beautiful fragment, entitled "God's First Temples:"
The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,
And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back
The sound of anthems,--in the darkling wood,
Amidst the cool and silence he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
That, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven,
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless Power
And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore
Only among the crowd, and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least,
Here in the shadow of this aged wood,
Offer one hymn--thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in his ear.