Part 22

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.

THE LOMBARDY POPLAR.

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.

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.

THE ASPEN.

All lovers of nature admire the Aspen on account of its name, which, like that of the willow, is poetical, both from its musical sound and from association. There is no tree more celebrated in emblematical literature than the Aspen. Its sensitiveness to the least movement of the wind, its restless motions, as if some morbid occasion of disquiet unceasingly attended it, have given it a place in the poetry of all nations. But setting aside its symbolical meanings, its suggestions of fickleness and caprice, of levity and irresolution, of impatience and instability, and the use that has been made of it in satirical writings to symbolize the “inconstant temper of woman,” the beauty and motion of its foliage alone would always attract admiration. As the Aspen is the only tree whose leaf trembles when the wind is apparently calm, its gentle rustling is always associated with still summer weather.

THE GREAT AMERICAN ASPEN.

The Great American Aspen is a remarkable tree. In height it is unsurpassed by any of the poplars, though there is little about it that is attractive except its great height and its peculiar foliage. It is seldom of large dimensions, and it is without symmetry or elegance in its ramification. Its branches seem to have a straggling growth, not extending so widely, nor at so acute an angle, as those of the poplar. Its foliage is its principal ornament. This would be very dense if it were not for the scarcity of small branches, which are so far apart as to give the tree a meagre appearance, even when full of leaves. The leaf is beautiful, being round ovate, deeply serrate, and put in motion by the slightest breeze. As a standard the Great Aspen is not highly prized. It is easily broken by the wind, and is without symmetry,—a necessary quality in a tree of the poplar tribe, which possesses none of the properties of grandeur. But when the trees of this species form a dense wood, they are unsurpassed in the beauty of their perfectly straight shafts, with their smooth, greenish bark extending upward to an immense height without a branch. The Great Aspen is very common in the woods of Maine and New Hampshire, where the second growth of timber predominates.

The specific name of this tree, grandidentata, always affected me ludicrously, when I considered that it was applied to it merely from the deep indentations on the edge of its serrate leaves. Excelsa would be a more appropriate name for the species, on account of its superior height.

THE SMALL AMERICAN ASPEN.

This tree resembles the great aspen in almost every particular except size. It is a very common tree in our woods, but is so little esteemed that it has received no protection and is seldom planted by our roadsides. It is found chiefly in copses on the sides of some gravelly bank, growing almost alone, with a few cherry-trees and white birches, and an undergrowth of brambles and whortleberry-bushes. It is often abundant on little dry elevations that rise above an oak wood standing on a clay level. It is remarkable for its slenderness of habit and the smoothness of its pale-green bark, which becomes whitish and rough as the tree grows old. Its principal defect is the thinness of its foliage and spray; its small branches are few and far apart, and its leaves small and sparse. Yet the beauty of each individual leaf is unrivalled. It is heart-shaped, finely serrate, and when young is fringed with a soft, silky, and purple down. It would be difficult to select a branch from any other tree, when in leaf, so beautiful as a spray of the Small Aspen.

I do not understand the botanical difference between the Aspen and the poplar, except that the former includes certain species that possess in an exaggerated degree the family characteristic of a tremulous leaf. The Aspen, however, is the proverbial tree, the tree of romance and fable. Hence we regard it with more interest, though in America the two aspens fall short of the poplars in almost every point of elegance and beauty.

RELATIONS OF TREES TO POETRY AND FABLE.

From the earliest period of history, mankind have looked upon trees and woods with veneration, regarding them as special gifts of the gods to the human race. The ancient priests and philosophers used them as their places of retirement, both for the study of wisdom and the services of religion. Hence arose that early custom of planting trees in circles, forming a kind of amphitheatre, for religious assemblies. The teachers of philosophy used the same circular groves. These were held in the greatest reverence; and no man dared to commit the sacrilegious act of cutting down any part of them or defacing any of the trees. By means of these circular groves, wise and holy men obtained that seclusion and quiet which it was not easy to find in towns and cities. They were both schools and chapels, devoted to religion and philosophy. Hence the often-quoted remark of Pliny that “the groves were the first temples of the gods.”

It is not improbable that many of the ancient superstitions relating to trees and groves originated with wise men, who believed that such holy fears alone would restrain the people from devastating the whole earth by the destruction of trees. Science now supplies mankind with rational motives for their preservation, in place of the religious scruples of ancient communities. I am inclined to believe that many a rational principle has been advocated by wise men under the guise of theology. The druidical priesthood foresaw that the oak, from the superior value of its timber, could not be saved from the woodman’s axe except by certain ceremonies on their part that should render it sacred in the eyes of the people. To impress this idea of its sanctity upon their minds, they made use of its leaves and branches to consecrate all important private or public transactions.

In still more ancient times, the priests adopted the expedient of dedicating to some one of the gods, particularly to Jupiter, certain woods and groves, which were thenceforth held in veneration by all men, including even invading armies, whose chiefs, while respecting neither the lives nor the property of the enemy, held these consecrated groves sacred and inviolable. Hunting was forbidden within them by this superstition, and its injunctions were in all cases religiously observed. It is even asserted that the wild animals in these sacred groves had become so tame, from the permanent security they enjoyed, that they did not flee from the presence of man.

Many persons formerly believed that trees felt the stroke of the woodman’s axe, which disturbed the repose of some resident spirit. The ancient Greeks supposed certain trees to be inhabited by wood-nymphs, and that these deities uttered groans when the axe was laid upon the tree. These sounds gave origin to the sacred oracle of Dodona. There were two kinds of nymphs supposed to inhabit trees,—an inferior class that lived during the life of the tree, and died when it perished; and a superior class, like the dryads, who could pass at will from one tree to another. “One might fill a volume,” says Evelyn, “with the history of groves that were violated by wicked men who came to untimely ends; especially those upon which the mistletoe grew, than which nothing was reputed more sacred.”

The custom of planting a tree at the birth of a child has prevailed among certain nations from the earliest times, and is still observed in some parts of Europe. Connected with this custom was the idea that the fate of the child was mysteriously associated with that of the natal tree, which created the strongest motives, arising from parental affection, to preserve the tree, and on the part of the child to protect it when he attained his manhood. Nothing is more evident than the beneficial tendency of all these superstitions, at an early age of the world, when men were not wise enough to be governed by the principles of reason and science.

The ancients placed the Naiad and her fountain in the shady arbor of trees, whose foliage gathers the waters of heaven into her fount and preserves them from dissipation. From their dripping shades she distributed the waters which she garnered from the skies over the plain and the valley; and the husbandman, before he learned the marvels of science, worshipped the beneficent Naiad, who drew the waters of her fountain from heaven, and from her sanctuary in the forest showered them upon the arid glebe, and gave new verdure to the plain. After science had explained to us the law by which these supplies of moisture are preserved by the trees, the Naiad still remained a sacred theme of poetry. We would not remove the drapery of foliage that protects her fountain, nor drive her into exile by the destruction of the trees, through which she holds mysterious commerce with the skies, and preserves our fields from drought.

Evelyn says: “Innumerable are the testimonies I might produce concerning the inspiring and sacred influence of groves from the ancient poets and historians. Here the noblest raptures have been conceived; and in the walks and shades of trees poets have composed verses which have animated men to glorious and heroic actions. Here orators have made their panegyrics, historians their grave relations; and here profound philosophers have loved to pass their lives in repose and contemplation.”

As man is nomadic before he is agricultural, and a maker of tents and wigwams before he is a builder of houses and temples, in like manner he is an architect and an idolater before he becomes a student of wisdom. He is a sacrificer in temples and a priest at their altars before he is a teacher of philosophy and an interpreter of nature. After the perfection of mechanical science, a higher state of mental culture succeeds, causing us to see all nature invested with beauty, and fraught with imaginative charms, adding new wonders to our views of creation and new dignity to life. Man learns now to regard trees in other relations beside their capacity to supply his physical and mechanical wants. He looks upon them as the principal ornaments of the landscape, and as the conservatories in which nature preserves certain plants and small animals and birds that will thrive only under their protection, and those insect hosts that charm the student with their beauty and excite his wonder by their mysterious instincts. Science has built an altar under the trees, and delivers thence new oracles of wisdom, teaching men how they are mysteriously wedded to the clouds, and are the instruments of their beneficence to the earth.

It is difficult to estimate how great a part of all that is cheerful and delightful in the recollections of our life is associated with trees. They are allied with the songs of morn, with the quiet of noonday, with social gatherings under the evening sky, and with the beauty and attractiveness of every season. Nowhere does nature look more lovely, or the sounds from birds and insects affect us more deeply, than under their benevolent shade. Never does the blue sky look more serene than when its dappled azure glimmers through their green trembling leaves. Their recesses, which in the early ages were the temples of religion and science, are still the favorite resorts of the studious, the scenes of sport for the active and adventurous, and the very sanctuary of peaceful seclusion for the contemplative and sorrowful.

In our early years we are charmed with the solitude of groves, with the flowers that dwell in their nooks, with the living creatures that sport among their branches, and with the birds that convey to us by their notes a share of their own indefinable happiness. Nature has made use of trees to wed our minds to the love of homely scenes, and to make us satisfied with life. How many recollections of village merry-makings, of rural sports and pastimes, of the frolics of children and of studious recreation, come to us when we sit down under some old familiar tree that stands in the open field or by the wayside! Trees are among the most poetic objects of creation. Every wood teems with legends of mythology and romance; every tree is vocal with music; and their flowers and fruits do not afford more luxury to the sense than delight to the mind. Trees have their roots in the ground; but they send up their branches toward the skies, and are so many supplicants to Heaven for blessings on the earth.