From earliest times, trees have served and interested man. Primitive man
found trees to be a source of food, fuel, clothing, and building
material. In the dim, distant past certain trees were considered sacred
as the habitat of woodland deities. Today, some giants of the forest are
known for their great age and as landmarks; they are often associated
with historical events.
The first portion of this pamphlet was published in the FORT WAYNE
SENTINEL on July 11, 1891, and describes historic trees of the Colonial
and Revolutionary periods. Grammar, spelling, and punctuation have been
changed to correspond with current usage. The second part was written by
the Library Staff; stories of notable trees of the Old Northwest are
related.
The Boards and the Staff of the Public Library of Fort Wayne and Allen
County present this publication in the hope that it will prove
entertaining and informative to citizens of the Summit City.
There has been no Methuselah since the flood. Man seldom lives longer
than one hundred years. Only the elephant and the tortoise feebly
imitate the longevity of the antediluvians. But there are living things
that outlive them all—things far more stately than the tallest man or
largest quadruped—living things that were companions of the gray beards
before the flood and lived to bless their grandchildren.
The only living links between us and the remote past are trees—grand old
trees with clustering memories like trailing vines. In the shadows of
the dark forest, in the light of the lofty hills, in the warmth and
beauty of the broad plains of the great globe, they stand in matchless
dignity. But they are few. They are patriarchs of the vegetable kingdom,
receiving the homage of myriads of children. With what mute eloquence do
they address us? With what moving pathos do the trees of Olivet
discourse of Jesus, his “beautiful life and sublime death”? How the
cedars of Lebanon talk of Solomon and Hiram, and the great temple of
Jerusalem! In our own country and in our own time, ancient trees have
been, and still are, intimately connected with our history as colonies
and as a nation; they command the reverence of every heart.
Probably the most ancient of these living links connecting the present
and the past was the Big Tree that stood on the bank of the Genesee
River, near the village of Geneseo, New York. When first seen by the
white man, it was the patriarch of the Geneseo Valley and was so revered
by the Senecas that they named their village “Big Tree.” It also gave
name to an eminent Seneca chief, who was the friend of Washington and
his cause. During a great flood in the Geneseo Valley in 1857, the Big
Tree was swept away and buried in the bottom of Lake Ontario. The trunk
measured twenty-five feet, nine inches in circumference.
Probably next in age to the Big Tree was the famous Charter Oak in the
city of Hartford, Connecticut. It was standing at the height of its
glory and was estimated to be six hundred years old when the seeds of
the commonwealth were planted there. Connected with it is a curious
episode. When James II ascended the English throne, he took measures to
suppress the growth of free government in America; he sent over Edmond
Andros to take away the charters from the colonies and to rule over them
as governor general. Connecticut refused to give up her charter. When
Andros attempted to seize it during a night session of the Assembly,
Captain Wadsworth bore the charter away and secreted it in a hollow of
the old oak. After James II had been deposed and Andros had been
banished from New England, the charter was taken from its hiding place
and the government re-established. On a stormy night in August, 1854,
the old oak was prostrated.
In the Kensington area of Philadelphia, an old elm stood until 1810,
known as Penn’s Treaty Tree, because under it the renowned Quaker made
his compact with the Indians. “I will not do as the Marylanders did,
that is, call you children or brothers only,” said Penn, addressing the
Indians, “for parents are apt to whip their children too severely, and
brothers sometimes will differ; neither will I compare the friendship
between us to a chain for the rain may rust it or a tree may fall and
break it, but I will consider you as the same flesh and blood with the
Christians, and the same as if one man’s body were to be divided into
two parts.”
Until 1860 a venerable willow tree stood in New York City and it has an
interesting history. When Alexander Pope, the English poet, built his
villa at Twickenham, he planted a small twig that a friend had sent him
from Smyrna. This little twig of the Salix babylonica, or weeping
willow, became the parent of all its kind in England and in the United
States. One of the British officers who came to Boston in 1775 to crush
the American Revolution carried with him a twig from Pope’s willow to
plant on American soil. The twig was presented to John Parke Custis,
Washington’s stepson, and was planted at Abingdon, Virginia. In 1790
General Gates planted a shoot from it on his farm on Manhattan Island,
where it became in time a beautiful willow, the grandchild of Pope’s
willow at Twickenham.
Soon after the great conflict for American independence had begun,
Washington was appointed Commander in Chief of the continental forces;
on July 2, 1775, he took up his headquarters at Cambridge,
Massachusetts. The following morning he proceeded to a great elm tree at
the north end of Cambridge Common and drawing his sword, he formally
took command of the army. The old elm tree was known afterward as
Washington’s Elm.
[Illustration: Penn’s Treaty Tree]
Near the dividing line between North and South Carolina stood a famous
tulip tree, marking the spot where the Americans defeated a part of Lord
Cornwallis’ army in October, 1780. Because ten Tories were hanged from
its branches after the battle, the tree was called afterward the Tory
Tulip Tree.
Until about 1852, a majestic pine tree stood by the highway between the
villages of Fort Edward and Sandy Hill (now Hudson Falls) on the Hudson
in upstate New York. Upon its trunk was carved “Jane McCrea, 1777.” The
inscription memorialized the tragic fate of Jane McCrea. The daughter of
a New Jersey clergyman, she moved, after her father’s death, to her
brother’s home near Fort Edward. Here she became engaged to a neighbor’s
son. He was a loyalist who entered the army of Burgoyne. In 1777, Jane
was captured by Indians and was killed instantly when a bullet intended
for the savages pierced her heart. Her lover purchased the locks of his
beloved, deserted the army, and retired to Canada, where he bewailed his
betrothed’s fate until the end of his life.
In 1779 Washington sent Mad Anthony Wayne to storm the fort on Stony
Point in the Hudson highlands. When asked by Washington whether he could
carry the fort, Wayne replied: “I’ll storm hell if you will only plan
it!” Under a black walnut tree, in the stillness of the night, Wayne
gave orders to his men, and as stealthily as tigers they approached the
fort and surprised it. In the early morning Wayne wrote to the Commander
in Chief, “The fort and garrison and Colonel Johnston are ours.” The
walnut tree has perished.
[Illustration: a black walnut tree at Stony Point]
Near Seaconnet, Rhode Island, stood a venerable sycamore tree, the only
great tree left in that section of the state by the British when they
evacuated it in October, 1779. Seaconnet Channel was the scene of one of
the most dashing exploits of the War of Independence. The British had
blocked the channel with the warship, “Pigot,” which was armed with
twelve eight-pounders and ten swivels. Captain Silas Talbot undertook
the capture of the “Pigot.” Embarking sixty men on the coasting schooner
“Hawke” which was armed with only three three-pounders and small arms,
he sailed under cover of darkness. Grappling the enemy, he boarded,
drove the crew below, coiled the cables over the hatchway to secure his
prisoners, and carried off his prize to Stonington.
In Charleston until 1849 there was a beautiful magnolia tree which
spread its branches over more than two hundred square feet. Under this
tree General Benjamin Lincoln held a council in 1780 to determine
whether Charleston, then besieged by Sir Henry Clinton, should be
evacuated. It was resolved to remain, but a few weeks later the
Americans surrendered to the British, who had been reinforced by Lord
Cornwallis.
At Lake Drummond in the Dismal Swamp in Virginia, there is a tall tree
under which Washington is reputed to have passed a night in Colonial
times.
When Thomas Moore, the Irish poet, visited Norfolk in 1834, he heard the
story of a young man who became mentally unbalanced on the death of his
beloved. Refusing to admit her death, he believed that she was living
deep within the swamp. Under that impression he wandered into its
solitudes and perished. Moore used this legend as the basis for his
touching ballad “The Lake of the Dismal Swamp,” which commences:
“They made her a grave, too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she’s gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.
And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I’ll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near.”
The last of our historical trees is a white oak in the eastern part of
the village of Flushing on Long Island a few miles from New York. George
Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends, preached under it in 1672,
and afterward it was held in deep regard by the Quakers.