The different forms of trees, and their endless variety of foliage and
spray, have, from the earliest times, been favorite studies of the
painter and the naturalist. Not only has each species certain
distinguishing marks, but their specific characters are greatly modified
in individual trees. The Psalmist compares a godly man to a tree that is
planted by rivers of water, whose leaf shall not wither,—seeing in the
stateliness and beauty of such a tree an emblem of the noble virtues of
the human heart. Trees are distinguished by their grandeur or their
elegance, by their primness or their grace, by the stiffness of their
leaves and branches or by their waving and tremulous motions. Some stand
forth as if in defiance of the wind and the tempest; others, with long
drooping branches, find security in bending to the gale, like the
slender herbs in the meadow.
Trees are generally classed as landscape ornaments, according to their
general outlines. “Some trees ascend vertically,” says St. Pierre, “and
having arrived at a certain height, in an air perfectly unobstructed,
fork off in various tiers, and send out their branches horizontally,
like an apple-tree; or incline them towards the earth, like a fir; or
hollow them in the form of a cup, like the sassafras; or round them into
the shape of a mushroom, like the pine; or straighten them into a
pyramid, like the poplar; or roll them as wool upon the distaff, like
the cypress; or suffer them to float at the discretion of the winds,
like the birch.” These are the normal varieties in the shape of trees.
Others may be termed accidental, like those of the tall and imperfectly
developed trees, which have been cramped by growing in dense
assemblages, and of the pollards that have issued from the stumps and
roots of other trees.
Trees are generally wanting in that kind of beauty which we admire in a
vase, or an elegant piece of furniture. They have more of those
qualities we look for in a picture and in the ruder works of
architecture. Nature is neither geometrical nor precise in her
delineations. She betrays a design in all her works, but never casts two
objects in the same mould. She does not paint by formulas, nor build by
square and compass, nor plant by a line and dibble; she takes no note of
formal arrangements, or of the “line of beauty,” or of direct adaptation
of means to ends. She shakes all things together, as in a dice-box, and
as they fall out there they remain, growing crooked or straight, mean or
magnificent, beautiful or ugly, but adapted by the infinite variety of
their forms and dispositions to the wants and habits of all creatures.
The beauty of trees is something that exists chiefly in our imagination.
We admire them for their evident adaptation to purposes of shade and
shelter. Some of them we regard as symbols or images of a fine poetic
sentiment. Such are the slender willows and poplars, that remind us of
grace and refinement, becoming the emblems of some agreeable moral
affection, or the embodiment of some striking metaphor. Thus Coleridge
personifies the white birch as the “Lady of the Woods,” and the oak by
other poets is called the monarch, and the ash the Venus of the forest.
The weeping willow, beautiful on account of its graceful spray, becomes
still more so when regarded as the emblem of sorrow. The oak, in like
manner, is interesting as the symbol of strength and fortitude. A young
fir-tree always reminds us of primness; hence the name of spruce, which
is applied to many of the species, is a word used to express formality.
The cedar of Lebanon would be viewed by all with a certain romantic
interest, on account of the frequent mention of it in Holy Writ, as well
as for its nobleness of dimensions and stature.
It is with certain interesting scenes in the romance of travel that we
associate the palms of the tropics. They have acquired singular
attractions by appearing frequently in scenes that represent the life
and manners of the simple inhabitants of the equatorial regions. We see
them in pictures bending their fan-like heads majestically over the
humble hut of the Indian, supplying him at once with milk, bread, and
fruit, and affording him the luxury of their shade. They emblemize the
beneficence of nature, which, by means of their products, supplies the
wants of man before he has learned the arts of civilized life.
Writers in general apply the term “picturesque” to trees which are
devoid of symmetry and very irregular in their outlines, either crooked
from age or from some natural eccentricity of growth. Thus the tupelo is
so called, to distinguish it from round-headed and symmetrical or
beautiful trees. This distinction is not very precise; but it is
sanctioned by general use, and answers very well for common purposes of
vague description. I shall use the words in a similar manner, not
adhering to the distinction as philosophical. Indeed, it is impossible
to find words that will clearly express a complex idea. Words are very
much like tunes played on a jew’s-harp; the notes intended to be given
by the performer are accompanied by the louder ring of the key-note of
the instrument, making it difficult to detect the notes of the tune,
except in the hands of an extraordinary performer.
Nature has provided against the disagreeable effects that would result
from the dismemberment of trees, by giving to those which are the most
common a great irregularity of outline, admitting of disproportion
without deformity. Symmetry in the forms of natural objects becomes
wearisome by making too great a demand upon the attention required for
observing the order and relations of the different parts. But if the
objects in the landscape be irregular, both in their forms and their
distribution, we make no effort to attend to the relations of parts to
the whole, because no such harmony is indicated. Such a scene has the
beauty of repose. The opposite effect is observed in works of
architecture, in which irregularity puzzles the mind to discover the
mutual relations of parts, and becomes disagreeable by disturbing our
calculations and disappointing our curiosity. The charm of art is
variety combined with uniformity; the charm of nature is variety without
uniformity. Nature speaks to us in prose, art in verse.
Though we always admire a perfectly symmetrical oak or elm, because such
perfection is rare, it will be admitted that the irregular forms of
trees are more productive of agreeable impressions on the mind. The oak,
one of the most interesting of all trees, is, in an important sense,
absolutely ugly, especially when old age has increased its picturesque
attractions. Indeed, if we could always reason correctly on the subjects
of our consciousness, we should find that a very small part of that
complex quality which we call beauty yields any organic pleasure to the
sight. The charm of most of the objects in this category exists only in
our imaginations. In trees and the general objects of the landscape we
look neither for symmetry nor proportion; the absence of these qualities
is, therefore, never disagreeable. It is the nonfulfilment of some
expectation, or the apparently imperfect supply of some important want,
that offends the sight, as when a conspicuous gap occurs in some finely
proportioned work of art.
[Illustration: LILAC.]