There are not many trees that take the shape of a long spire; but
Nature, who presents to our eyes an ever-charming variety of forms as
well as colors, has given us this figure in the arbor-vitæ, the juniper,
and the Lombardy Poplar. This was the species which was cultivated by
the Romans, the classic Poplar of Rome and Athens. To this tree Ovid
alludes when he describes the resinous drops from the Poplar as the
tears of Phæton’s sisters, who were transformed into poplars. Smith
says: “Groves of poplar and willow exhibit this phenomenon, even in
England, in hot calm weather, when drops of clear water trickle from
their leaves like a slight shower of rain.”
The Lombardy Poplar is interesting to thousands in this country, who
were familiar with it in their youth as an ornament of roadsides,
village lanes, and avenues. It was once a favorite shade-tree, and still
retains its privileges in some ancient homesteads. A century ago, great
numbers of Lombardy Poplars were planted by village waysides, in front
of dwelling-houses, on the borders of public grounds, and particularly
in avenues leading to houses that stand at some distance from the high
road. A row of these trees is even now suggestive of an approach to some
old mansion, that still retains its primitive simplicity.
[Illustration: LOMBARDY POPLAR.]
Great numbers of Lombardy Poplars were destroyed at the beginning of
this century, from the notion that they generated a poisonous worm or
caterpillar. But some of these ancient rows of poplars are occasionally
seen in old fields where almost all traces of the habitation they
accompanied are gone. There is a melancholy pleasure in surveying these
humble ruins, whose history would illustrate many of the domestic habits
of our ancestors. The cellar of the old house is now a part of the
pasture land; and its form may be dimly traced by an angular depression
of the surface. Sumachs and cornel-bushes have supplanted the exotic
shrubbery in the old garden; and the only ancient companions of the
Poplar now remaining are a few straggling lilacs, some tufts of
houseleek, and perhaps, under the shade of a dilapidated fence, the
white Star of Bethlehem is seen meekly glowing in the rude society of
the wild flowers.
But the Lombardy Poplar, once a favorite wayside ornament, a sort of
idol of the public, and, like many another idol, exalted to honors
beyond its merits, fell suddenly into contempt and neglect. After having
been admired by every eye, it was spurned and ridiculed, and cut down in
many places as a cumberer of the ground. The faults attributed to it
were not specific defects of the tree, but were caused by a climate
uncongenial to its nature. It was brought from the sunny clime of Italy,
where it had flourished by the side of the orange and myrtle, and
transplanted to the snowy plains of New England. The tender habit of the
tree made it incapable of enduring our winters; and every spring
witnessed the decay of many of its small branches. It became prematurely
aged, and in its decline carried with it the marks of its infirmities.
With all these imperfections, it was more worthy of the honors it
received from our predecessors than of its present neglect. It is one of
the fairest of trees in the greenness of its youth, far surpassing any
other poplar in its shape and in the density and general beauty of its
foliage; but nearly all these old trees are gone, and few of the same
species are coming up to supply their places. While I am writing, I see
from my window the graceful spire of one solitary tree, towering above
the surrounding objects of the landscape. It stands there, the symbol of
decayed reputation; in its old age still retaining the primness of its
youth, neither drooping under its infirmities nor losing in its
decrepitude the fine lustre of its foliage. In its disgrace, it still
bears itself proudly, as if conscious that its former honors were
deserved, and not forgetting the dignity that becomes one who has fallen
without dishonor.
There is no other tree that so pleasantly adorns the sides of narrow
lanes and avenues, or so neatly accommodates itself to limited
enclosures. Its foliage is dense and of the liveliest verdure, making
delicate music to the soft touch of every breeze. Its terebinthine odors
scent the vernal gales that enter our open windows with the morning sun.
Its branches, always turning upwards and closely gathered together,
afford a harbor to the singing birds, that make them a favorite resort;
and its long, tapering spire, that points to heaven, gives an air of
cheerfulness and religious tranquillity to village scenery.