commixtures in life, in times so highly enlightened as the present, when
many ancient prejudices are gradually flitting away, as reason and
science dawn on mankind, we should meet with so few, comparatively
speaking, who have any knowledge of, or take the least interest in
natural history; or if the subject obtain a moment’s consideration, it
has no abiding place in the mind, being dismissed as the fitting employ
of children and inferior capacities. But the natural historian is
required to attend to something more than the vagaries of butterflies,
and the spinnings of caterpillars; his study, considered abstractedly
from the various branches of science which it embraces, is one of the
most delightful occupations that can employ the attention of reasoning
beings: a beautiful landscape, grateful objects, pleasures received by
the eye or the senses, become the common property of all who can enjoy
them, being in some measure obvious to every one; but the naturalist
must reflect upon hidden things, investigate by comparison, and testify
by experience, and living amidst the wonders of creation, it becomes his
occupation to note and proclaim such manifestations of wisdom or
goodness as may be perceived by him. And perhaps none of the amusements
of human life are more satisfactory and dignified, than the
investigation and survey of the workings and ways of Providence in this
created world of wonders, filled with his never-absent power: it
occupies and elevates the mind, is inexhaustible in supply, and, while
it furnishes meditation for the closet of the studious, gives to the
reflections of the moralizing rambler admiration and delight, and is an
engaging companion, that will communicate an interest to every rural
walk. We need not live with the humble denizens of the air, the tenants
of the woods and hedges, or the grasses of the field; but to pass them
by in utter disregard, is to neglect a large portion of rational
pleasure open to our view, which may edify and employ many a passing
hour, and by easy gradations will often become the source whence flow
contemplations of the highest orders. Young minds cannot, I should
conceive, be too strongly impressed with the simple wonders of creation
by which they are surrounded: in the race of life they may be passed by,
the occupation of existence may not admit attention to them, or the
unceasing cares of the world may smother early attainments—but they can
never be injurious—will give a bias to a reasoning mind, and tend, in
some after-thoughtful, sobered hour, to comfort and to soothe. The
little insights that we have obtained into nature’s works are many of
them the offspring of scientific research; and partial and uncertain as
our labors are, yet a brief gleam will occasionally lighten the darksome
path of the humble inquirer, and give him a momentary glimpse of hidden
truths: let not then the idle and the ignorant scoff at him who devotes
an unemployed hour,—
“No calling left, no duty broke,”
to investigate a moss, a fungus, a beetle, or a shell, in “ways of
pleasantness, and in paths of peace.” They are all the formation of
Supreme Intelligence, for a wise and a worthy end, and may lead us by
gentle gradations to a faint conception of the powers of infinite
wisdom. They have calmed and amused some of us worms and reptiles, and
possibly bettered us for our change to a new and more perfect order of
being.
We yet possess two forest trees, beautiful and unmutilated! An oak in
Shellard’s lane has escaped the woodman’s ax, the hedger’s bill: it
stands on the side of the waste, and has long afforded shade and shelter
to an adjoining farm-house. These circumstances, and not being valuable
as a timber tree, may have contributed to its preservation: its
hamadryad is left alone in the land to mourn her lost companions. This
tree is not mentioned as being at all comparable with the gigantic
productions of the kind that we have accounts of, and perhaps by many
would be passed by unnoticed; yet it is deserving of some regard, from
the vegetable powers that have existed, and still continue in its trunk.
The bole, at some very distant period, by accident or design, appears to
have lost its leading shoot, and in consequence has thrown out several
collateral branches: three remain, which have now grown into trees
themselves existing in full vigor, and constituting a whole of much
beauty. It is a characteristic specimen of an oak, with all the
corrugations, twistings, furrows, and irregularities, which this tree
with a free growth generally exhibits; expanding its three vigorous arms
to the Sun of Heaven with a pendent, easy dignity, that seems like an
enjoyment of unrestrained liberty. We have no good criterion to regulate
our judgment with regard to the age of trees of considerable antiquity.
In young ones the rings of the wood will often afford a reasonable
ground for opinion; but in old trees these marks are absorbed, obscured,
or uncertainly formed, so as to be no sufficient guide. In particular
cases, such as inclosure of waste or other lands, formation of parks and
plantations, the times of planting are sufficiently recorded; but
generally speaking, neither oral tradition, nor written testimony,
remains to indicate the period when a tree sprang up. This oak, however,
from all the signs of age that it retains, must have existed as a
sapling at some very distant day, and is the most undoubted relic of
antiquity in the vegetable world that we possess.
The elm, and the beech, in age, frequently present very decided vestiges
of a former day; but the oak of centuries has impressed upon it
indelible characters of antiquity, and is a visible _vetustum
monumentum_. The wreathings and contortions of its bark, even its once
vigorous, but now sapless limbs, with their bare and bleached summits,
stag-headed and erect, maintain a regality of character which perfectly
indicates the monarch of the forest, and which no other tree assumes. We
have many accounts in different authors of the prodigious size which the
oak has attained in England; but most of the trees, that have arrived at
any vast circumference, seem, like this our village oak, to have lost
their leaders when young, and hence are short in the but: yet we have
records of aspiring timber trees of this species of astonishing
magnitude, though perhaps none of them exceed those mentioned by Evelyn,
cut down near Newberry in Berkshire, one of which ran fifty feet clear
without a knot, and cut clean timber five feet square at the base; its
consort gave forty feet of clear, straight timber, squaring four feet at
its base, and nearly a yard at the top. The “lady oak,” mentioned by Sir
E. Harley, produced a but of forty feet, and squared five feet
throughout its whole length, thus producing twenty tons of timber, a
mass of surprising grandeur! But the most magnificent oak ever known to
have grown in England was probably that dug out of Hatfield bog: it was
a hundred and twenty five feet in length, twelve in diameter at the
base, ten in the middle, and six at the smaller end, where broken off;
so that the but for sixty feet squared seven feet of timber, and four
its entire length. Twenty pounds were offered for this tree.[13] This
extraordinary vegetable should have been preserved in some museum, as
unequalled in ancient, unapproachable in modern days; exceeding in
magnitude even that famous larch brought to Rome in the reign of
Tiberius,[14] and reserved as a curiosity for many years, which was one
hundred and twenty feet long, and two feet in diameter its whole length.
Indigenous, flourishing, and inured to all the caprices of our climate
as the oak is, yet it produces its fruit very precariously, and at times
sparingly, like a plant of exotic origin; which does not appear to have
been the case formerly, when such herds of swine were maintained by the
produce of our woods alone, and grants from manorial lords for
permission thus to feed them were recorded with care as valuable
obtainments.
The cause of infertility in indigenous trees can arise from no defect of
construction in the organs of fructification, but from some obstruction,
perversion, redundancy, or vitiation of the natural powers; which is
particularly manifested by the faculty which they possess at one period
of producing fruit, and their impotency at another. This imbecility from
one cause or another probably influences at periods every tree or herb
that springs from the earth; but in regard to the oak, the most general
and probable cause of its sterility is suspended circulation. This is
more immediately brought to notice from our custom of barking the timber
of this tree in the spring. At times our barkers go on rapidly with
their work; yet in a few hours a frost, or a sharp wind, will put an
entire stop to their operations, in consequence of the cessation of the
flow of sap, which is followed by the adhesion of the bark to the wood.
Whenever this nutriment ceases to be supplied, the immature and tender
germen must languish; and if the supply be long suspended, it must
perish from deficiency of food. That such is the natural effect of
spring frosts and sudden chills, more injurious probably to the fruit in
this immature state, from its greater delicacy, than when it is more
developed, is reasonable to suppose: how far a change of seasons may
have taken place to accomplish the injury alluded to, more commonly now
than in former periods, we have no criterion for proving; but if
failures of the acorn crop took place as frequently in times when
swine’s flesh was mostly the diet of the middle and lower classes of
people as they do now, the privations of our forefathers were severe
indeed.
An interesting volume might be formed, entitled the “History of the
Oak.” The first mention that we know of this tree is that ancient of
days, the “oak of Mamre,” under which Abraham sat in the heat of the
day; and that it was an oak, one of the fathers, Eusebius, tells us, as
it remained an object of veneration even in the time of Constantine. We
would note all the celebrated querci of antiquity; the use, value,
strength, duration, &c., of its timber; the infinite variety of purposes
to which its various parts are applied by the mechanic, the dyer, the
artisan; the insects, which amount to hundreds of species, that live and
have their being on the oak; the vegetables it nourishes, ferns,
lichens, mosses, agarics, boleti, &c.; the sawdust, apples, gallnuts,
acorns, leaves, and innumerable et cetera of Britain’s guardian tree.
However highly the Druids might venerate the oak, and make it the emblem
and residence of their deity, yet the intrinsic value of this tree was
unknown to our remote forefathers. All their knowledge of its virtues
was probably included in its uses for building, its acorns for their
swine, and, perhaps, its bark for preserving the skins which they used.
Modern ingenuity and necessity have brought its various qualities into
notice, or our oak would have received such honors, as in days of
darkness were conferred upon inanimate things: Attica considered the
olive as the gift of her tutelary goddess, and some benevolent saint
would have been lauded and hymned, for having endowed the oak of Britain
with such extensive virtues for the good of mankind.
The other tree, that I mentioned above as one of our boasts, is a wych
or broad-leaved elm[15] (ulmus montana), standing near the turnpike
road. This very fine and stately tree was saved, when the merciless ax
levelled all its companions, at the solicitation of a lady now no more,
and remains a testimony of her good taste, the civility of the agent,
and the ornament of our village. When in youth, this species presents a
character decidedly different from the common elm (ulmus campestris).
Its branches at times are so strong as to be nearly equal in size with
the main stem that supports them, and loaded with such a profusion of
foliage, that the sprays become pendent, and give the idea of luxuriance
with weakness, of a growth beyond strength; advancing in age, its arms
and sprays become less pensile, as the leaves are smaller and less
burdensome; yet they hang commonly in large heavy masses, like what we
formerly were accustomed to see in the aquatintas of Jukes, and the
prints of that period. It can however occasionally assume the appearance
of elegance and lightness, and is usually less aspiring and more
branching than the common elm; its dense foliage yields a fine shade for
cattle, and it deserves even on this account, if it possessed no other
merit, a more general cultivation. The wych elm, though a rare tree in
some counties, seems more extensively spread over England than the other
species, and adventures farther to the north. Ray tells us, on the
authority of Aubrey, that the common elm, so called, is scarcely found
indigenous northward of Lincolnshire, whereas this species is found even
in Scotland. Our soil is very favorable to the growth of both species.
The wych elm affords a tough and valuable wood for the wheeler and the
mill-wright; the bark from the young limbs is stripped off in long
ribands, and often used, especially in Wales, for securing thatch, and
for various bindings and tyings, to which purpose its flexible and tough
nature renders it well adapted. Gerard says, that arrows were made from
the wood of this tree, and he lived at a period when he could well
ascertain the fact, during the reign of Elizabeth and her predecessor,
before fire-arms had superseded this truly British weapon: he was in the
younger part of his life gardener to the great Lord Burleigh. That the
wych elm, when permitted, will attain large dimensions, is manifest by
the size of several we have observed in many places; but that gigantic
one, which grew in Staffordshire, exceeds in magnitude any other of this
species which we ever heard of. It required the labor of two men for
five days to fell it; it was forty yards in length, with a diameter of
seventeen feet at the but; yielding eight pair of naves, and eight
thousand, six hundred, and sixty feet of boards, the sawing of which
cost 10_l._ 17_s._ It contained ninety-seven tons of timber. As Evelyn
says, “this was certainly a goodly tree!” The etymology of this tree
seems to be unknown, and different authors, who mention it, spell it,
accordingly, various ways: Evelyn calls it wich, and witch; Gilpin,
wich; others, wych; Bacon, weech. The foliage of the young trees of this
elm are the favorite food of the larvæ of the Buff-tip-moth, (Phal.
Bucephala), for though they likewise feed upon the young leaves of the
oak, and the lime, yet they give the preference to those of this tree;
when so feeding, it will always be known by their rejectments on the
earth beneath, which when the larvæ are in any number, may be noticed by
very unattentive persons. This caterpillar, when nearly fed for its
change, becomes heavy, and commonly falls to the earth from the spray,
and we can see them crawling along the paths, or even upon the clothes
of persons that have walked under the trees where they have fed: though
this creature is very often found in considerable numbers throughout the
summer and autumn, yet by reason of some fatality, the moth is by no
means so common an insect as might be expected from the profusion of its
larvæ.
We have no indigenous tree that suffers from the advance of the winter
season so early as the wych elm. A few others may manifest its approach
nearly as soon, but they become augmented in splendor by a touch of the
frosty air, not ruined and denuded like our elm, which contributes no
grandeur, no beauty, to our autumnal scenery, as its leaves curl up,
become brown, and flutter from their sprays, when growing in exposed
situations, as early often as the middle of September, by constitutional
mechanism alone, even before the beech or the maple seems sensibly
affected by the cold. This character of itself marks a difference from
the common elm, which preserves its verdure, except from accidental
causes, long after this period; and then, when its season arrives, the
foliage becomes tinged with a fine, mellow, yellow hue, contributing a
full share with other trees to the character and splendor of autumn. The
wych elm may occasionally be desirable in the few days that our northern
summer requires its deep shades, but will not otherwise afford pleasure
or beauty in the shrubbery or the park as an ornamental tree, as its
leafless sprays announce too early the unwelcome termination of our
floral year, and its sober russet foliage is scattered at our feet
without preparation or a parting smile.
Trees in full foliage have long been noted as great attractors of
humidity, and a young wych elm in full leaf affords a good example of
this supposed power; but in the winter of the year, when trees are
perfectly denuded, this faculty of creating moisture about them is
equally obvious, though not so profusely. A strongly marked instance of
this was witnessed by me, when ascending a hill in the month of March.
The weather had previously been very fine and dry, and the road in a
dusty state; but a fog coming on, an ash tree hanging over the road was
dripping with water so copiously, that the road beneath was in a puddle,
when the other parts continued dry, and manifested no appearance of
humidity. That leaves imbibe moisture by one set of vessels and
discharge them by another, is well-known; but these imbibings are never
discharged in falling drops: the real mystery was, the fog in its
progress was impeded by the boughs of the tree, and gradually collected
on the exposed side of them, until it became drops of water, whereas the
surrounding country had only a mist flying over it. Thus in fact the
tree was no attractor, but a condenser; the gate of a field will in the
same manner run down with water on the one side, and be dry on the
other; as will a stick, or a post, from the same cause. It is upon this
principle that currents of air will be found under trees in summer, when
little is perceived in open places; and the under leaves and sprays will
be curled and scorched at times, when the parts above are uninjured. The
air in its passage being stopped and condensed against the foliage of
the tree, it accordingly descends along its surface or front, and
escapes at the bottom, where there are no branches or leaves to
interrupt its progress. In winter there is little to impede the breeze
in its course, and it passes through; consequently at this season the
air under a tree is scarcely more sensibly felt than in the adjoining
field.
It may be observed, that in the spring of the year the herbage under
trees is generally more vivid and luxuriant, than that which is beyond
the spread of the branches: this may be occasioned, in some instances,
by cattle having harbored there, and the ground becoming in consequence
more manured; but it will be found likewise manifestly verdant and
flourishing where no such accessory could have enriched it, and is, I
apprehend, in general, chiefly owing to the effects of the driving fogs
and mists, which cause a frequent drip beneath the tree, not experienced
in other places, and thus in a manner keep up a perpetual irrigation and
refreshment of the soil, and promote the decomposition of the foliage
beneath, which being drawn into the earth by worms, contributes to the
verdure by the nutriment they yield.
The foliage of trees and plants, by its amazing profusion, variety, and
beauty, must ever have been, as it is now, a subject of admiration and
delight, is perhaps full as deserving of notice, and at times even more
to be regarded, than the blossoms which accompany it. Let us take only
one yard square upon the first verdant ditch-bank in spring, and the
variation of form and character which will there be presented may
probably exceed general imagination; but the object of all this
extraordinary diversity is concealed, with the many other mysteries of
creation: yet we have such an ascendant thirst for information upon the
causes and nature of the things about us, as to render it an apparent
inherent principle of the mind, inducing it to gratitude and love. From
information in all the works of Providence arises, as a necessary
consequence, admiration, and an exalted sense of supreme intelligence
and goodness. Without the desire of knowing the designs and processes of
things, no investigation would be bestowed, and we should remain in
ignorance of all but the bare facts, and gross perceptions of creation;
nor can it be questioned but that the more extensive our acquaintance is
with the objects of Providence, in such proportions must our convictions
be of his justice, wisdom, and power.
The great utility of foliage, and its agency in accomplishing the
requirements of the plant and its products, are well known; and we can
form some comprehension of the vast supply that is required by a tree,
when we view its foliage, each leaf being employed in receiving and
transmitting gases from the air in certain proportions to the plant:
these great operations having been effected during the summer months,
and this agency of the leaves finished, they fall to the ground, not as
a useless encumbrance, but to convey a large portion of fresh soil
peculiarly fitted for the nutriment of vegetation. Should they remain in
any quantity beneath the tree, they appear to be injurious to the
smaller herbage, but they are more generally dispersed as they part from
the sprays by the gales of autumn, which whirl them along in crowds to
the hedges, trenches, and ditches around: here they accumulate and
decay, furnishing, in conjunction with other vegetable decompositions, a
very nutritive earth, as is manifest by the wild plants growing in those
situations, for notwithstanding all the obstructions of shade, thorns,
and briers, they are generally found in great luxuriance or health. This
earth in time crumbled by frosts, and washed by rains into the ditches
from the banks, becomes accumulated there, and we collect it, compost it
with other matters, and use it as a beneficial dressing for our
cultivated lands: many of these leaves, however, remain near the tree,
and soon communicate their virtues to the herbage: some are consumed by
natural consequences, others are attacked by small fungi, which break
their surfaces, admit moisture, and facilitate decay; the worm now
seizes them as his portion, and having fed upon a part, draws the
remainder into the earth, where a rapid separation of the parts takes
place, and they are received through the roots into vegetable
circulation anew; and thus the beautiful foliage which has been so
pleasing during our summer months, supplied the tree with sustenance to
increase its magnitude, and all the requisites demanded by its fruits
and products—has glowed perhaps with splendor, and been our admiration
in the decline of the year, now returns to the soil, not to encumber it,
but to administer health and vigor to a new series of vegetation, and
circulate in combinations hidden from any human perception.
By a very wise appointment, peculiar propensities have been bestowed
upon the vegetable world, greatly assimilating to the tastes and
inclinations of the animated tribes. Beasts and insects feed on
particular plants, and reject others, and the delight of one is
disgusting to another. So, some plants, not having the power of
locomotion, will thrive only in certain compounded soils, aspects, and
situations, evincing a similar tendency to preference of nourishment as
do the sensitive tribes; and some districts, that vary a little in their
component parts or position from those adjoining, will present an
individual or a race that is not found in another: the common product of
the North or of the East is treasured in the Herbarium of the southern
or western botanist; we can boast but few, yet we have some of these
capricious children of the soil.