PINE WOODS.
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.