found, we must seek them where we can, and consider them, when found, as
matters of curiosity, and pay them a due respect. And yet, we should
suppose, they are not so frequently found here in a state of nature as
in more uncultivated countries. In the forests of America, and other
scenes, they have filled the plains from the beginning of time; and
where they grow so close, and cover the ground with so impervious a
shade that even a weed can scarce rise beneath them, the single tree is
lost. Unless it stand on the outskirt of the wood, it is circumscribed,
and has not room to expand its vast limbs as nature directs. When we
wish, therefore, to find the most sublime sylvan character, the Oak, the
elm, or the ash, in perfection, we must not look for it in close, thick
woods, but standing single, independent of all connections, as we
sometimes find it in our own forests, though oftener in better protected
places, shooting its head wildly into the clouds, spreading its arms
towards every wind of heaven:
--The Oak
Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm.
He seems indignant, and to feel
The impression of the blast with proud disdain;
But, deeply earth'd, the unconscious monarch owes
His firm stability to what he scorns:
More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above.
Again, we are told that the foliage of the Oak is
Tenacious of the stem, and firm against the wind.
The shade of the Oak-tree has been a favourite theme with British poets.
Thomson, speaking of Hagley Park, the seat of his friend Littleton,
calls it the British Tempe, and describes him as courting the muse
beneath the shade of solemn Oaks:
--There, along the dale
With woods o'erhung, and shagged with mossy rocks,
Whence on each hand the gushing waters play,
And down the rough cascade white dashing fall,
Or gleam in lengthened vista through the trees,
You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade
Of solemn Oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts,
Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand,
And pensive listens to the various voice
Of rural peace: the herds, the flocks, the birds,
The hollow whispering breeze, the plaint of rills,
That, purling down amid the twisted roots
Which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake
On the soothed ear.
Wordsworth also mentions the fine broad shade of the spreading Oak:
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
Stood, and, from its enormous breadth of shade,
Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence, in our rustic dialect, was called
The clipping tree: a name which yet it bears.
The Oaks of Chaucer are particularly celebrated, as the trees under
which
--The laughing sage
Caroll'd his moral song.
They grew in the park at Donnington Castle, near Newbury, where Chaucer
spent his latter life in studious retirement. The largest of these trees
was the King's Oak, and carried an erect stem of fifty feet before it
broke into branches, and was cut into a beam five feet square. The next
in size was called the Queen's Oak, and survived the calamities of the
civil wars in King Charles's time, though Donnington Castle and the
country around it were so often the scenes of action and desolation. Its
branches were very curious: they pushed out from the stem in several
uncommon directions, imitating the horns of a ram, rather than the
branches of an Oak. When it was felled, it yielded a beam forty feet
long, without knot or blemish, perfectly straight, four feet square at
the butt end, and near a yard at the top. The third of these Oaks was
called Chaucer's, of which we have no particulars; in general only we
are told, that it was a noble tree, though inferior to either of the
others. Not one of them, we should suppose, from this account, to be a
tree of picturesque beauty. A straight stem, of forty or fifty feet, let
its head be what it will, can hardly produce a picturesque form.
Close by the gate of the water-walk at Magdalen College, Oxford, grew an
Oak, which, perhaps, stood there a sapling when Alfred the Great founded
the University. This period only includes a space of nine hundred years,
which is no great age for an Oak. It is a difficult matter indeed, to
ascertain the age of a tree. The age of a castle, or abbey, is an object
of history: even a common house is recorded by the family that built it.
All these objects arrive at maturity in their youth, if we may so speak;
but the tree, gradually completing its growth, is not worth recording in
the early part of its existence. It is then only a common tree; and
afterwards, when it becomes remarkable for its age, all memory of its
youth is lost. This tree, however, can almost produce historical
evidence for the age assigned to it. About five hundred years after the
time of Alfred, William of Wainfleet, Dr. Stukely tells us, expressly
ordered his college to be founded near the Great Oak; and an Oak could
not, we think, be less than five hundred years of age to merit that
title, together with the honour of fixing the site of a college. When
the magnificence of Cardinal Wolsey erected that handsome tower which is
so ornamental to the whole building, this tree might probably be in the
meridian of its glory, or rather, perhaps, it had attained a green old
age. But it must have been manifestly in its decline at that memorable
period when the tyranny of James gave the Fellows of Magdalen so noble
an opportunity of withstanding bigotry and superstition. It was
afterwards much injured in Charles II.'s time, when the present walks
were laid out. The roots were disturbed, and from that period it rapidly
declined, and became reduced by degrees to little more than a mere
trunk. The faithful records of history have handed down its ancient
dimensions. Through a space of sixteen yards on every side from its
trunk, it once flung its boughs; and then its magnificent pavilion could
have sheltered with ease three thousand men; though, in its decayed
state, it could for many years do little more than shelter some luckless
individual, whom the drenching shower had overtaken in his evening walk.
In the summer of the year 1788, this magnificent ruin fell to the
ground, alarming the College with its rushing sound. It then appeared
how precariously it had stood for many years. Its grand tap-root was
decayed, and it had hold of the earth only by two or three roots, of
which none was more than a couple of inches in diameter. From a part of
its ruin a chair has been made for the President of the College, which
will long continue its memory.
Near Worksop grew an Oak, which, in respect both to its own dignity and
the dignity of its situation, deserves honourable mention. In point of
grandeur, few trees equalled it. It overspread a space of ninety feet
from the extremities of its opposite boughs. These dimensions will
produce an area capable, on mathematical calculation, of covering a
squadron of two hundred and thirty-five horse. The dignity of its
station was equal to the dignity of the tree itself. It stood on a point
where Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire, and Derbyshire unite, and spread its
shade over a portion of each. From the honourable station of thus fixing
the boundaries of three large counties, it was equally respected through
the domains of them all, and was known far and wide by the honourable
distinction of the Shire-Oak, by which appellation it was marked among
cities, towns, and rivers, in all the larger maps of England.
Gilpin gives us a singular account of an Oak-tree that formerly stood in
the New Forest, Hampshire, against which, according to tradition, the
arrow of Sir Walter Tyrrell glanced which killed William Rufus.
According to Leland, and Camden from him, this tree stood at a place
called Througham, where a chapel was erected to the king's memory. But
there is now not any place of that name in the New Forest, nor the
remains or remembrance of any chapel. It is, however, conjectured that
Througham might be what is at present called Fritham, where the
tradition of the country seems to have fixed the spot with more
credibility than the tree. It is probable that the chapel was only some
little temporary oratory, which, having never been endowed, might very
soon fall into decay: but the tree, we may suppose, would be noticed at
the time by everybody who lived near it, and by strangers who came to
see it; and it is as likely that it never could be forgotten afterwards.
Those who regard a tree as an insufficient record of an event so many
centuries back, may be reminded that seven hundred years (and it is
little more than that since the death of Rufus) is no extraordinary
period in the existence of an Oak. About one hundred years ago, however,
this tree had become so decayed and mutilated, that it is probable the
spot would have been completely forgotten if some other memorial had not
been raised. Before the stump, therefore, was eradicated, Lord Delaware,
who occupied one of the neighbouring lodges, caused a triangular stone
to be erected, on the three sides of which the following inscriptions
are engraved:--
I.
Here stood the Oak-tree, on which an arrow, shot by Sir Walter
Tyrrel at a stag, glanced, and struck King William II., surnamed
Rufus, in the breast, of which stroke he instantly died, on the 2d
of August, 1100.
II.
King William II., being thus slain, was laid on a cart belonging to
one Purkess, and drawn from hence to Winchester, and buried in the
Cathedral Church of that city.
III.
That the spot where an event so memorable happened, might not
hereafter be unknown, this stone was set up by John Lord Delaware,
who has seen the tree growing in this place.
Lord Delaware here asserts plainly that he had seen the Oak-tree; and as
he resided much near the place, there is reason to believe that he had
other grounds for the assertion besides the mere tradition of the
country. That matter, however, rests on his authority.
Gilpin likewise gives us the following account of the Cadenham Oak, in
the New Forest, which was remarkable for putting forth its buds in the
depth of winter. Cadenham is a village about three miles from Lyndhurst,
on the road to Salisbury:--
"Having often heard of this Oak, I took a ride to see it on December 29,
1781. It was pointed out to me among several other Oaks, surrounded by a
little forest stream, winding round a knoll on which they stood. It is a
tall straight plant, of no great age, and apparently vigorous, except
that its top has been injured, from which several branches issue in the
form of pollard shoots. It was entirely bare of leaves, as far as I
could discern, when I saw it, and undistinguishable from the other Oaks
in its neighbourhood, except that its bark seemed rather smoother,
occasioned, I apprehended, only by frequent climbing.
"Having had the account of its early budding confirmed on the spot, I
engaged one Michael Lawrence, who kept the White Hart, a small alehouse
in the neighbourhood, to send me some of the leaves to Vicar's Hill, as
soon as they should appear. The man, who had not the least doubt about
the matter, kept his word, and sent me several twigs on the morning of
January 5, 1782, a few hours after they had been gathered. The leaves
were fairly expanded, and about an inch in length. From some of the buds
two leaves had unsheathed themselves, but in general only one.
"Through what power in nature this strange premature vegetation is
occasioned, I believe no naturalist can explain. I sent some of the
leaves to one of the ablest botanists we have, Mr. Lightfoot, author of
the _Flora Scotica_, and was in hopes of hearing something satisfactory
on the subject. But he is one of those philosophers who are not ashamed
of ignorance where attempts at knowledge are mere conjecture. He assured
me he neither could account for it in any way, nor did he know of any
other instance of premature vegetation, except the Glastonbury thorn.
The philosophers of the forest, in the meantime, account for the thing
at once, through the influence of old Christmas day, universally
believing that the Oak buds on that day, and that only. The same opinion
is held with regard to the Glastonbury thorn, by the common people of
the west of England. But, without doubt, the vegetation there is
gradual, and forwarded or retarded by the mildness or severity of the
weather. One of its progeny, which grew in the gardens of the Duchess
Dowager of Portland, at Bulstrode, had its flower-buds perfectly formed
so early as December 21, 1781, which is fifteen days earlier than it
ought to flower, according to the vulgar prejudice.
"This early spring, however, of the Cadenham Oak, is of very short
duration. The buds, after unfolding themselves, make no farther
progress, but immediately shrink from the season and die. The tree
continues torpid, like other deciduous trees, during the remainder of
the winter, and vegetates again in the spring, at the usual season. I
have seen it in full leaf in the middle of summer, when it appeared,
both in its form and foliage, exactly like other Oaks.
"I have been informed that another tree, with the same property of early
vegetation, has lately been found near the spot where Rufus's monument
stands. If this be the case, it seems in some degree to authenticate the
account which Camden gives us of the scene of that prince's death; for
he speaks of the premature vegetation of that very tree on which the
arrow of Tyrrel glanced, and the tree I now speak of, if it really
exist, though I have no sufficient authority for it, might have been a
descendant of the old Oak, and hence inherited its virtues.
"It is very probable, however, there may be other Oaks in the forest
which may likewise have the property of early vegetation. I have heard
it often suspected, that people gather buds from other trees and carry
them, on old Christmas day, to the Oak at Cadenham, from whence they
pretend to pluck them; for that tree is in such repute, and resorted to
annually by so many visitants, that I think it could not easily supply
all its votaries without some foreign contributions. Some have accounted
for this phenomenon by supposing that leaves have been preserved over
the year by being steeped in vinegar. But I am well satisfied this is
not the case. Mr. Lightfoot, to whom I sent the leaves, had no such
suspicion."
* * * * *
In the _Salisbury Journal_, January 10, 1781, the following paragraph
appeared:--
"In consequence of a report that has prevailed in this country for
upwards of two centuries, and which by many has been almost considered
as a matter of faith, that the Oak at Cadenham, in the New Forest,
shoots forth leaves on every old Christmas day, and that no leaf is ever
to be seen on it, either before or after that day, during the winter; a
lady, who is now on a visit in this city, and who is attentively curious
in every thing relative to art or nature, made a journey to Cadenham on
Monday, the 3d instant, purposely to inquire, on the spot, about the
production of this famous tree. On her arrival near it, the usual guide
was ready to attend her; but on his being desired to climb the Oak, and
to search whether there were any leaves then on it, he said it would be
to no purpose, but that if she would come on the Wednesday following
(Christmas day), she might certainly see thousands. However, he was
prevailed on to ascend, and on the first branch which he gathered
appeared several fair new leaves, fresh sprouted from the buds, and
nearly an inch and a half in length. It may be imagined that the guide
was more amazed at this premature production than the lady; for so
strong was his belief in the truth of the whole tradition, that he would
have pledged his life that not a leaf was to have been discovered on
any part of the tree before the usual hour.
"But though the superstitious part of this ancient legend is hence
confuted, yet it must be allowed there is something very uncommon and
curious in an Oak constantly shooting forth leaves at this unseasonable
time of the year, and that the cause of it well deserves the
philosophical attention of the botanist. In some years there is no doubt
that this Oak may show its first leaves on the Christmas morning, as
probably as on a few days before; and this perhaps was the case in the
last year, when a gentleman of this neighbourhood, a nice and critical
observer, strictly examined the branches, not only on the Christmas
morn, but also on the day prior to it. On the first day not a leaf was
to be found, but on the following every branch had its complement,
though they were then but just shooting from the buds, none of them
being more than a quarter of an inch long. The latter part of the story
may easily be credited--that no leaves are to be seen on it after
Christmas day--as large parties yearly assemble about the Oak on that
morning, and regularly strip every appearance of a leaf from it."
At Elderslie, near Paisley, upon a little knoll, there stood, near the
end of the last century, the ruins of an Oak, which was supposed to be
the largest tree that ever grew in Scotland. The trunk was then wholly
decayed and hollow, but it was evident, from what remained, that its
diameter could not have been less than eleven or twelve feet. As to its
age, we can only conjecture, from some circumstances, that it is most
likely a tree of great antiquity. The little knoll whereon it stands is
surrounded by a swamp, over which a causeway leads to the tree, or
rather to a circle which seems to have run round it. The vestiges of
this circle, as well as the causeway, bear a plain resemblance to those
works which are commonly attributed to the Druids, so that this tree was
probably a scene of worship consecrated by these heathen priests. But
the credit of it does not depend on the dubious vestiges of Druid
antiquity. In a latter scene of greater importance (if tradition ever be
the vehicle of truth) it bore a large share. When the illustrious and
renowned hero, William Wallace, roused the spirit of the Scotch nation
to oppose the tyranny of Edward, he frequently chose the solitude of
Torwood as a place of rendezvous for his army. There he concealed his
numbers and his designs, sallying out suddenly on the enemy's garrisons,
and retreating as suddenly when he feared to be overpowered. While his
army lay in those woods, the Oak which we are now commemorating was
commonly his head-quarters. There the hero generally slept, its hollow
trunk being sufficiently capacious, not only to afford shelter to
himself, but also to many of his followers. This tree has ever since
been known by the name of Wallace tree.
In the enclosure known as the Little Park, in Windsor Forest, there is
still standing the supposed Oak immortalized by Shakspeare as the scene
of Hern the hunter's exploits:--
--An old tale goes, that Hern the hunter,
Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest,
Doth all the winter time, at still of midnight,
Walk round about this Oak, with ragged horns;
And then he blasts the trees, destroys the cattle,
Makes the milch cow yield blood, and shakes a chain
In hideous, dreadful manner.
_Merry Wives_, iv. 3.
This tree measures about twenty-four feet in circumference, and is yet
vigorous, which somewhat injures its historical credit. For though it is
evidently a tree advanced in years, and might well have existed in the
time of Elizabeth, it seems too strong and vigorous to have been a
proper tree, in that age, for Hern the hunter to have danced round.
Fairies, elves, and that generation of people, are universally supposed
to select the most ancient and venerable trees to gambol under; and the
poet who should describe them dancing under a sapling, would show very
little acquaintance with his subject. That this tree could not be called
a venerable tree two centuries ago is evident, because it can scarcely
assume that character even now. And yet an Oak, in a soil it likes, will
continue so many years in a vigorous state, that we must not lay more
stress on this argument than it will fairly bear. It may be added,
however, in its favour, that a pit, or ditch, is still shown near the
tree, as Shakspeare describes it, which may have been preserved with the
same veneration as the tree itself.
There is an Oak in the grounds of Sir Gerrard Van Neck, at Heveningham,
in Suffolk, which carries us likewise into the times of Elizabeth. But
this tree brings its evidence with it--evidence which, if necessary,
might carry it into the Saxon times. It is now falling fast into the
decline of years, and every year robs it more of its honours. But its
trunk, which is thirty-five feet in circumference, still retains its
grandeur, though the ornaments of its boughs and foliage are much
reduced. But the grandeur of the trunk consists only in appearance; it
is a mere shell. In Queen Elizabeth's time it was hollow, and from this
circumstance the tree derives the honour of being handed down to
posterity. That princess, who from her earliest years loved masculine
amusements, used often, it is said, in her youth, to take her stand in
this tree and shoot the deer as they passed. From that time it has been
known by the name of Queen Elizabeth's Oak.
The Swilcar Oak, in the Forest of Needwood, in Staffordshire, was
measured about 1771, and found to be nineteen feet in girth at six feet
from the ground; and when measured in 1825 it was twenty-one feet four
inches and a half in circumference at the same height from the ground.
This proves that the tree is slowly increasing, having gained two feet
four inches in fifty-four years, and yet it is known, by historical
documents, to be six hundred years old. Though in decay it is still a
fine, shapely, characteristic tree. It stands in an open lawn,
surrounded by extensive woods. In a poem entitled _Needwood Forest_ the
author thus addresses it:--
Hail! stately Oak, whose wrinkled trunk hath stood,
Age after age, the sovereign of the wood:
You, who have seen a thousand springs unfold
Their ravelled buds, and dip their flowers in gold--
Ten thousand times yon moon relight her horn,
And that bright eye of evening gild the morn,--
* * * * *
Yes, stately Oak, thy leaf-wrapped head sublime
Ere long must perish in the wrecks of time;
Should, o'er thy brow, the thunders harmless break,
And thy firm roots in vain the whirlwinds shake,
Yet must thou fall. Thy withering glories sunk,
Arm after arm shall leave thy mouldering trunk.
The Cowthorpe, or Coltsthorpe Oak, near Wetherby, in Yorkshire, had its
principal branch rent off by a storm in the year 1718, when it was
accurately measured, and found to contain more than five tons of timber.
Previous to this mutilation, its branches are said to have extended over
half an acre of ground. At three feet from the ground, this most
gigantic of all trees is sixteen yards, or forty-eight feet, and close
to the root it is twenty-six yards, or seventy-eight feet, in girth! Its
principal limb projects forty-eight feet from the trunk. It is still in
wonderful preservation, though its foliage is thin. It has been called
the King of the British Sylva, and, indeed, it deserves the title, and
proud we may be of such a king.
There were two trees in Yardley Forest, called Gog and Magog, which
demand our notice on account of one of them having been celebrated by
the muse of Cowper. The scenery in which they stood is hallowed by his
shade. He was fond of indulging his melancholy minstrel musings among
the woodland scenery there. Gog, the larger of these two Oaks, measured
thirty-eight feet round at the roots, and was twenty-eight feet in
circumference at three feet from the ground. It was fifty-eight feet
high, and contained one thousand six hundred and sixty-eight feet seven
inches of solid timber. Magog was only forty-nine feet in height; but
its circumference was fifty-four feet four inches at the ground, and
thirty-one feet three at three feet high. These two trees were near each
other, and although a good deal bared at the top by age, they were very
picturesque. We shall quote here the whole of Cowper's Address to the
"Yardley Oak"; from which it would appear that only one of them then
remained:--