“The earliest chant,” says Momsen, “in the view of the Romans, was that
which the trees sang to themselves, in the green solitudes of the
forest. The whisperings and pipings of the _favorable spirit_ in the
grove were repeated by the singer, with the accompaniment of the pipe.”
Certain trees belonging to the sacred groves gave oracular sounds, which
were interpreted by musicians, and received by all men with faith and
reverence. From the earliest ages men have listened to sounds from trees
as music and as the voice of some deity, affording auguries of future
events; for, as they reasoned, if a deity speaks to us, what sounds
would be a more appropriate medium of communication than those of the
trees which formed their temples and their altars? The sanctity
attributed to certain groves by the ancients was probably owing to some
peculiar sounds emitted by the trees, no less than to the grandeur and
impressiveness of their assemblages.
Every tree, when swept by the winds, gives a sound in harmony with the
character of its leaves and spray. The sounds from the lofty branches of
firs and pines remind the listener of the murmuring of waters, and
inspire the most agreeable sensations. How often have I sat under the
shade of a pine wood, and listened to the fancied roaring of the distant
waves of the sea, as the winds passed through their foliage. When the
breeze commences, we hear the first soft rippling of the waves; as it
increases, succeeding waves of fuller swell flow tremulously upon the
strand, and as the wind subsides melt into silence as they recede from
the shore. Other trees produce very different sounds. The colors of
their leaves, and the glittering lights from their more or less
refractive surfaces, do not differ more than the modifications of sound
drawn from them by the passing winds. Every tree is a delicate musical
instrument, that reminds us of the character of the tree and the season
of the year, from the mellow soothing tones of willow leaves in summer
to the sharp rustling of the dry oak-leaf that tells of the arrival of
winter.
The sounds from trees are a very important part of the music of nature;
but their agreeableness comes rather from certain emotions they awaken
than from the melody of their tones. Nature has accommodated her gifts
to our wants and sensibilities, so that her beneficence is never so
apparent as in the pleasures we derive from the most common objects. If
we are afflicted with grief or wearied with care, we flee to the groves
to be soothed by the quiet of their solitudes, and by the sounds from
their boughs which are tuned to every healthful mood of the mind. Among
the thousand strings that are swept by the winds, there is always a
chord in unison with our feelings; and while each strain comes to the
ear with its accordant vibration, the mind is healed of its disquietude
by sounds that seem like direct messages of peace from the guardian
deities of the wood.
We find in the works of Ossian frequent allusions to the sounds from
trees, to heighten the effect of his descriptions. As the “Spirit of the
Mountain,” he addresses the wind that bends the oaks, and gives out that
deep melancholy sound that precedes a storm, “when Temora’s woods shake
with the blast of the inconstant winds.” He speaks of the “sons of song”
as having gone to rest, while his own voice remains, like the feeble
sounds of the forest, when the winds are laid. When the aged oak of
Morven bends over the stream, its sounds are mournful, like those of a
harp when swept by the wind. According to Ossian, it is the oak that
blends its music with the sounds of lamentation, and sings the dirges of
departed heroes. And the bard declares that he will cease to mourn for
them only when the music of the oak shall no longer be heard in the
groves of echoing Cona.
When a strong wind prevails, the leaves of all trees are put in motion,
and their sounds cannot be distinguished; and during a storm the roar of
winds among their branches is almost deafening. This is the grand chorus
of the elements; but the sounds that affect us most agreeably are such
as come from light movements of the wind and harmonize with the warbling
and chirping of birds. It is the aspen that gives out those lulling
melodies that spring from the gentle gales of summer. When we are
sitting at an open window on a still evening, or sauntering in a wood,
or musing in the shade of a quiet nook, when the wind is so calm that
the hum of the invisible insect-swarms, hovering in the air, is plainly
audible, then is the trembling motion of the aspen leaves peculiarly
significant of the serenity of the elements. They produce a
tranquillizing sound, associated with rest in the languor of noonday, or
with watching in the still hours of a summer night.
When the quiet of the atmosphere begins to yield to the movements of a
rising tempest, the aspen, by its excessive agitation, gives prophetic
warning of its approach. Often, in a sultry evening, the first notice I
have received of a rising thunder-storm came from the increased
trepidation of an aspen that stood before my window. So delicate and
sensitive is the foliage of this tree that it is excited to action by
atmospheric changes before that of any other tree is moved. Thus, while
the rustling of the aspen leaf, when gentle, indicates the tranquillity
of summer weather, there is likewise an expression of melancholy in its
tones when more severely agitated, that forebodes a general stirring of
the winds as they come up from the gathering-place of the storm.
I have spoken only of those sounds from trees which are caused by the
action of the winds upon their leaves and branches. But there are
incidental sounds belonging to the woods, which are modified so as to
produce feelings awakened by no other situation. It is in the deep
stillness of the forest, and over spacious and uninhabited plains, that
we feel most sensibly the peculiar effect of bells, whether it be the
solemn peal of a bell from a church tower or the tinkle of a cow-bell
that reminds us of simple rural life. The ordinary toll of bells is much
more impressive than a chime in these solitudes, because the artificial
melody of the chime does not so agreeably harmonize with natural sounds.
In winter the sounds from trees, except in a pine wood, are greatly
modified by the absence of foliage. It is at this season, therefore,
that we pay the most attention to incidental sounds. When the snow upon
the ground has been hardened by repeated freezing and thawing, I have
often chosen this occasion for winter rambling in the woods. The
loneliness inspired by their seclusion is never so keenly felt as at
this season, when there are but few sounds from birds and insects. Then
does the stroke of the woodman’s axe affect us with the most cheerful
emotions. It reminds us of the presence of other human beings in the
wood, and enlivens the solitude, as the sight of a little cottage in a
wilderness affords the traveller a sensation of the joys of home.