I have often thought of the pleasure I should feel on entering a forest
of tree-ferns, and observing their elegant fronds spread out above my
head, displaying a form of vegetation never witnessed except in a
tropical country. Yet I doubt whether an assemblage of tree-ferns, a
grove of magnolias, or an island of palms could equal a forest of pines
in the expression of grandeur and solemnity. A pine wood possesses
characters entirely unique, and affects us with sensations which nothing
else in nature seems capable of inspiring. Whether this arises from the
contrast between the light outside and the darkness within,—a certain
harmonious blending of cheerfulness and gloom,—or from the novelty of
the whole scene, there comes up from every deep recess and shadowy
arbor, every dripping dell, every mossy fountain, and every open glen
throughout the wood, an indescribable charm. Notwithstanding the
darkness of its interior, and the sombre character of its dense masses
of evergreen foliage, as seen from without,—whence the name of _black
timber_, which has been applied to it,—yet the shade and shelter it
affords, and the sentiment of grandeur it inspires, cause it to be
allied with the most profound and agreeable sensations.
In a pine wood Nature presents one of her most remarkable features; and
there is so much that is healthful and delightful in its emanations, and
in the atmosphere that is diffused around it, that she has not denied
its benefits to any clime. Pines are found in every latitude save the
equatorial region, where the broad-leaved palms supply the same enduring
shade. Even there pines are distributed over the mountains at a height
corresponding with the northern temperate zone. Nature has spread these
trees widely over the earth, that the inhabitants of the sunny South and
the inhospitable North may equally derive benefit from their protection
and their products. There is not a region this side of the equator,
where a man may not kneel down under the fragrant shade of a pine wood,
and thank the Author of nature for this beneficent gift.
In New England the white pine usually predominates in our evergreen
woods, mixed in greater or less degree with pitch-pine and fir. In the
gracefulness of its foliage, in its lofty stature and the beautiful
symmetry of its wide-spread branches, the white pine exceeds all other
species. But the balsamic fragrance that is so agreeable to travellers
when journeying over the sandy tracts of some parts of New England comes
from the more homely pitch-pine. These odors greet our senses at all
seasons, but chiefly during the prevalence of a still south-wind, and
are in a different manner almost as charming as a beautiful prospect.
In a dense pine wood we observe certain peculiarities of light and shade
seldom seen in a deciduous wood. The foliage that forms the canopy over
our heads is so closely woven, that, wherever an opening occurs, the
light pours into it with distinct outlines of shadow, very much as it
shines into a dark room through a half-opened shutter. These sudden
gleams of light, blending with the all-pervading shadow in which we are
involved, deepen all our sensations, and cause us to feel a little of
that religious awe which is inspired when passing under the interior
arches of a cathedral. The presence of a group of deciduous trees always
becomes apparent at some distance before we reach it, by the flickering
lights among their loose foliage, and a general brightness and
cheerfulness in the space occupied by the group.
There are many other agreeable circumstances connected with a pine wood.
The foliage that drops from the trees, after the new growth of leaves
has been put forth, covers the ground with a smooth brown matting, as
comfortable to the footsteps as a gravel walk, while it savors only of
nature. The acicular foliage of the pine is so hard and durable, that in
summer we always find the last year’s crop lying upon the ground in a
state of perfect soundness, and under it that of the preceding year only
partially decayed. This bed of foliage is so compact as to prevent the
growth of underbrush; and it keeps the space open under the trees, whose
tall shafts resemble pillars rising out of the floor of a magnificent
temple. Hence a pine wood is pleasantly accessible to the rambler and
the student of nature; and the absence of a woody undergrowth permits
many plants of a peculiar character to thrive upon this carpeted ground.
The purple cypripedia is common here, pushing up its leaves through this
mass of decayed foliage, and displaying its beautiful inflated blossoms
like some bright flower of a fairer clime. Mushrooms of various species
and of divers fantastic shapes are frequent as we pass, some spreading
out their hoods like a parasol, some with a dragon-like aspect, others
perfectly globular, all having a great diversity of hues. In the deeper
wood, where there is no sunshine to green the sprouting herbs, appears
that rare genus of plants resembling the pale and sickly slaves of the
mine,—the grotesque and singular monotropa.
In an old pine wood our attention is diverted by the great variety of
lichens that incrust the bark of the trees and hang from their boughs.
Many rare species decorate the trees with their tufts, circles, and
protuberances, and their curiously painted dots and patches. All green
herbs, however, are checked in their growth by the darkness of the wood.
The verdure of a pine wood is chiefly over our heads; there is but
little under our feet. But the few plants whose habits permit them to
grow here are the more conspicuous because they are not mingled with a
crowded assemblage of different species. Hence the little creeping
michella, with its checkered green leaves, its twin flowers resembling
heath-blossoms, and its scarlet fruit, is very beautiful, clustering at
the roots of some tall pine, or garlanding some prostrate tree covered
with mosses that mark its decay.
In the Southern States, extensive regions called “pine barrens” form a
very conspicuous part of the scenery. Their growth at the present time
is seldom so dense as that of a Northern pine wood. Whole forests are so
thinly set that you may drive some miles through them on horseback.
Still in these pine barrens there is the same breathing of solemnity
that makes a Northern pine wood so impressive. The tall, gaunt, and
grotesque forms of the trees, the flat, interminable plains which they
occupy, the dark drapery of moss that hangs from their boughs, their
silence and solitude and their primitive wildness, yield the scene an
expression of melancholy grandeur that cannot be described. Occasionally
a log-hut varies the prospect, as primitive in its appearance as the
wood.
The pine barrens of the Southern States are celebrated as healthful
retreats for the inhabitants of the seaports, whither they resort in
summer to escape the prevailing fevers. They are generally of a mixed
character, consisting of the Northern pitch-pine, the long-leaved pine,
and a few other species, intermixed with the Southern cypress,
occasional red maples, and a few other deciduous trees. Pines, however,
constitute the dominant growth; but the trees are, for the most part,
widely separated, so that the surface is green with herbs and grasses,
and often covered with flowers. The thinness of these woods may be
attributed to the practice, for two centuries past, of tapping the trees
for turpentine, causing their gradual decay. Their tall forms and
branchless trunks show that they obtained their principal growth in a
dense wood.
The first visit I made to the pine barrens was after a long ride by
railroad through the plains of North Carolina. It was night; and I often
looked from the car windows into the darkness, made still more affecting
by the sight of the tall pines that raised their heads almost into the
clouds, like monsters watching the progress of our journey. The prospect
was rendered almost invisible by the darkness that gave prominence to
the dusky forms of the trees as they were pictured against the
half-luminous sky. At length the day began to break, and the morning
beams revealed to my sight an immense wilderness of giant spectres. The
cars made a pause at this hour, allowing the passengers to step outside;
and while absorbed in the contemplation of this desolate region,
suddenly the loud and mellow tones of the mocking-bird came to my ears,
and, as if by enchantment, reversed the character of my thoughts. The
desert, no longer a solitude, inspired me with emotions of unspeakable
delight. Morning never seemed so lovely as when the rising sun, with his
golden beams and lengthened shadows, was greeted by this warbling
salutation, as from some messenger of light who seemed to announce that
Nature over all scenes has extended her beneficence, and to all regions
of the earth dispenses her favors and her smiles.
At the end of my journey I took a stroll into the wood. It was in the
month of June, when vegetation was in its prime, before it was seared by
the summer drought. Many beautiful shrubs were conspicuous with their
flowers, though the wood contained but a small proportion of shrubby
undergrowth. During my botanical rambles in this wood, I was struck with
the multitude of flowers in its shady arbors, seeming the more numerous
to me as I had previously confined my observations to Northern woods.
The phlox grew here in all its native delicacy, where it had never known
the fostering hand of man. Crimson rhexias—called by the inhabitants
deerweed—were distributed among the grassy knolls, like clusters of
picotees. Variegated passion-flowers were conspicuous on the bare white
sand that checkered the green surface, displaying their emblematic forms
on their low repent vines, and reminding the wanderer in these solitudes
of that faith which was founded on humility and crowned with martyrdom.
Here too the spiderwort of our gardens, in a meeker form of beauty and a
paler radiance, luxuriated under the protection of the wood. I observed
also the predominance of luxuriant vines, indicating our near approach
to the tropics, rearing themselves upon the tall and naked shafts of the
trees, some, like the bignonia, in a full blaze of crimson, others, like
the climbing fern, draping the trees in perennial verdure.