In the early part of my life, one of my favorite resorts during my
rambles was a green lane bordered by a rude stone-wall, leading through
a vista of overarching trees, and redolent always with the peculiar
odors of the season. At the termination of this rustic by-road,—a fit
approach to the dwelling of the wood-nymphs,—there was a gentle rising
ground, forming a small tract of tableland, on which a venerable Weeping
Willow stood,—a solitary tree overlooking a growth of humble shrubs,
once the tenants of an ancient garden. The sight of this tree always
affected me with sadness mingled with a sensation of grandeur. This old
solitary standard, with a few rose-bushes and lilacs beneath its
umbrage, was all that remained on the premises of an old mansion-house
which had long ago disappeared from its enclosure. Thus the Weeping
Willow became associated in my memory, not with the graveyard or the
pleasure-ground, but with these domestic ruins, the sites of old
homesteads whose grounds had partially reverted to their primitive state
of wildness.
Of all the drooping trees the Weeping Willow is the most remarkable,
from the perfect pendulous character of its spray. It is also
consecrated to the Muse by the part which has been assigned to it in
many a scene of romance, and by its connection with pathetic incidents
recorded in Holy Writ. It is invested with a moral interest by its
symbolical representation of sorrow, in the drooping of its terminal
spray, by its fanciful use as a garland for disappointed lovers, and by
the employment of it in burial-grounds and in funereal paintings. We
remember it in sacred history, associating it with the rivers of Babylon
and with the tears of the children of Israel, who sat down under the
shade of this tree and hung their harps upon its branches. It is
distinguished by the graceful beauty of its outlines, its light green
delicate foliage, its sorrowing attitude, and its flowing drapery.
Hence the Weeping Willow never fails to please the sight even of the
most insensible observer. Whether we see it waving its long branches
over some pleasure-ground, overshadowing the gravel walk and the flower
garden, or watching over a tomb in the graveyard, where the warm hues of
its foliage yield cheerfulness to the scenes of mourning, or trailing
its floating branches, like the tresses of a Naiad, over some silvery
lake or stream, it is in all cases a beautiful object, always poetical,
always picturesque, and serves by its alliance with what is hallowed in
romance to bind us more closely to nature.
It is not easy to imagine anything of this character more beautiful than
the spray of the Weeping Willow. Indeed, there is no other tree that is
comparable with it in this respect. The American elm displays a more
graceful bend of all the branches that form its hemispherical head; and
there are several weeping birches which are very picturesque when
standing by a natural fountain on some green hillside. The river maple
is also a theme of constant admiration, from the graceful flow of its
long branches that droop perpendicularly when laden with foliage, but
partly resume their erect position in winter, when denuded. But the
style of all these trees differs entirely from that of the Weeping
Willow, which in its peculiar form of beauty is unrivalled in the whole
vegetable kingdom.
It is probable that the drooping trees acquired the name of “weeping,”
by assuming the attitude of a person in tears, who bends over and seems
to droop. This is the general attitude of affliction in allegorical
representations. But this habit is far from giving them a melancholy
expression, which is more generally the effect of dark sombre foliage.
Hence the yew seems to be a more appropriate tree for burial-grounds, if
it be desirable to select one of a sombre appearance. The bending forms
of vegetation are universally attractive, by emblemizing humility and
other qualities that excite our sympathy. All the drooping plants,
herbs, trees, and shrubs are poetical, if not picturesque. Thus lilies,
with less positive beauty, are more interesting than tulips.
A peculiar type of the drooping tree is seen in the fir, whose lower
branches bend downwards, almost without a curve, from their junction
with the stem of the tree. This drooping is caused by the weight of the
snow that rests upon the firs during the winter in their native northern
regions. There is a variety of the beech, and another of the ash, which
has received the appellation of _weeping_, from an entire inversion of
the branches, both large and small. Such trees seem to me only a hideous
monstrosity, and I never behold them without some disagreeable feelings,
as when I look upon a deformed animal.