Читать книгу Trees and Shrubs for English Gardens - E. T. Cook - Страница 19

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The budding spring, the ripening summer, the outpoured riches of harvest, appeal to all, physically if not spiritually. But to hundreds of people a winter landscape is dreary beyond expression. They never dream of going into a garden during the dark months; to them its silent lessons are but a dead-letter, nor would they ever wake to the beauty of bare boughs nor pause to note the strange glow of withered Fern fronds in the grey gloom of a foggy day. We are not wholly free from blame in this matter in so far as our gardens are concerned, for spring and summer and autumn all have their share in the garden plan, while winter, too often, stands apart uncared for and unclothed. Yet how much may be done by the right grouping of beautiful trees and shrubs to make the winter garden harmonious and inviting.

"You see, it takes a deal of insight to know what's a-going to be," was a remark, half-apologetic, half-regretful, often made by an old gardener of a school now gone by, when matters horticultural went somewhat athwart of his calculations. The words recur to mind as containing a germ of truth beyond the meaning of the speaker. It has been well said with regard to deeper matters that foresight must spring from insight, and it may be taken also as a foundation principle of good gardening. For just in proportion as we use our faculties of insight and foresight will our gardens grow, more or less, into a perfect expression of our sense of the ever-changeful, never-ending beauty of Nature.

It must be no cursory glance given to get rid of an unwelcome duty. We must look deep into the meaning of things as they are—a meaning which never lies wholly on the surface—before we can forecast them as they are going to be, and such insight rarely comes by intuition. The seeing eye is given only to a few, though with some it is but sleep-holden and needs no more than to be awakened.

The things that are and the things that are to be. Let us take the thought as company and try to glean some of Nature's own lessons of fitness. How instinctively we seek, for a winter ramble, the shelter of the woodland copse, which is not far distant from any English country habitation. The broad grass drive is hoar with frosty rime in the shadow of the bushes and crisp under foot. Under the trees the ground on either side is carpeted with Ivy. The lithe, trailing stems, wreathed with their shining, taper-fingered leaves, so exquisitely pencilled, are cushioned on the soft, feathery moss, or twine in and out amongst the Hazel stocks, or creep at will up the nearest tree trunk. One can scarcely look at Ivy on a winter's day without a thrill of admiration, especially this woodland sort, for, mark it well, Nature never encourages the coarse-leaved Ivy of common cultivation within her domains. How perfect in its grace is this fine-leaved Ivy, how utterly content with its surroundings, how resolutely cheerful, be the circumstances of weather or situation what they may! Clinging lowly to the ground or mounting to the topmost branch of some tall Pine, it is equally at home, and why should we not agree with that good naturalist, Charles Waterton, in his assertion that forest tree was never injured by its clasping stems? An English plant for our English climate, it may be used to make beautiful an unsightly building, to clothe a decaying tree stump, as bush or border or mantle, in a hundred different ways, yet it is never out of character, and never touches a jarring note.

Then those tall Hollies, see how dauntlessly they stand up above the undergrowth of Hazel. How living and warm, in their ruddy glow, are the clustering berries in the glint of the fearless leaves. For expedience sake, their lower branches have been trimmed away, and greatly we gain by it, for otherwise that lovely contrast of their ashen-grey stems would be hidden from our eyes; but over yonder a fine old Holly tree stands alone, which axe and knife have left untouched, and how graceful is the curven sweep of its feathering boughs. No foreign evergreen can excel it for symmetry of form or winter garniture of leaf and fruit. Life is astir, too, in the brown twigs of the Hazel bushes. The infant year is not more than a week or two old, yet already the tasselled catkins are swinging in the lightest rustle of the sighing wind, and begin to lift up their tiers of small woolly cowls to set free the yellow pollen-dust. And so we may go on our way, and, at every turn, some rugged Yew, or clump of red-stemmed Scotch Fir, or tapering Spruce with hanging russet cones, will stay our steps, and if we look and listen, they will tell us in their own way the story of their perfect fitness for our homely English landscape. Or, if we chance to be in one of the chalky districts of the South Downs, we may come upon Box, the ever young, as it was called of yore, or Juniper, in its bloom of silver grey, as precious as any, to add to the tale of our best native evergreens.

Now it is to a wise choice of evergreens and to their rightful placing that we must look for the basis of our content in the winter garden. The insight of our forefathers foresaw the solid comfort of the rampart of Yew which was fostered of old in many a manor-house garden. It caused them to fence about their dwellings on north and east with a belt of sturdy timber trees, to meet and ward off in their pliant strength the roughest winter gales. It planned the sheltered nut-walk and the pleached alley and the cosy settle, carved out of the thick Box bushes, on the grassy verge of the bowling-green. They took of the materials at hand, and many have since their day blessed the foresight which planted, not only for themselves, but for their children's children. That they were not blind to the rare beauty of foreign trees many a magnificent Cedar of Lebanon and massive Holm Oak or deciduous tree—like the fine Tulip trees at Mackery End, beloved of Charles Lamb—bear noble testimony to this hour.

Nothing, perhaps, in the wide range of garden beauty is more pictorial than an ancient Cedar, dusky and glaucous, with cavernous shadows, holding upright the smooth, pale-brown, rounded cones on its flattened branches, or some grand Silver Fir standing alone in its solemn symmetrical beauty, or even, as may now and then be seen, though rarely, some stately Araucaria, wind-sheltered, whose radiating branches sweep down upon the greensward. Others there are, no less pictorial perhaps, nor even less exacting, for none can do without the shelter of a good position, such as the Stone Pines, with corrugated trunk and green spreading head; or again, the graceful fragrant Cypress (C. lawsoniana) of more recent date, with its slender pyramidal growth and drooping feathery branches, taking on at the close of winter the ruby-red of the catkins which tell of the coming of the small, bloom-powdered cones.

The desperate hurry, the incessant crowding out of the times in which we live, give little encouragement to the sentiment of planting for posterity, yet some such planting is continually being done. This much must be said, that the last fifty years have seen the introduction of numberless fine trees and shrubs, the fitness of which for our climate time alone could test. During that period in England, the Mammoth tree of the Yosemite Valley (Sequoia gigantea) has been planted in its thousands, and by irony of fate, the giant not seldom finds itself cramped within the limits of a half-acre plot. But leaving out the question of space, it is a tree utterly unsuited to our northern climate, unless under exceptional circumstances, as its scorched and fretted branches on the windward side sufficiently prove; while in itself it is not nearly so grand or suggestive as its near-of-kin, the beautiful Californian Redwood (S. sempervirens).

Ah! that burning question of space, how it comes between us and our highest garden aspirations! Have we not all seen the Deodar or the Araucaria trying to exist in a narrow, twelve-foot forecourt, and smiled, if we have not rather been ready to weep, over the crass absurdity of its position? But such mistakes are made every day. Let us think, then, before we plant, of the things that are going to be, and take prudent counsel with ourselves.

Our garden resources, nowadays, are beyond all calculation greater than those of our forefathers, and we rejoice and are glad because of it; but we should let nothing oust from our affections the hardy trees and shrubs, native and naturalised, that are at home in our climate, beautiful in themselves and invaluable in their fitness to give shelter to the more fastidious immigrants from other latitudes.

Shelter, in fact, is as the keynote to the winter garden. Beauty is killed when leaves that should be green and smiling are bruised and brown, when boughs that should be perfect in grace and curve are twisted and tortured. We may be very sure, too, that such symptoms of discomfort in our gardens will re-act in disquiet on ourselves, whereas the mere sight of tree or bush standing firm in its green bravery through storm and stress tends, it may be unawares, to brace and uplift. Even the familiar Laurel, good as it is when suitably placed, and used not too freely, is constantly scathed and disfigured in damp or low-lying localities. For the same reason, it is doubtful whether Rhododendrons should be planted within range of our windows. Most of them, in severe weather, frightened before they are hurt, put on a melancholy air and droop of leaf which is apt to send a shiver through any shrinking mortal whose vitality is already low enough.

The bare boughs of winter, on the contrary, are never depressing. They sleep, but it is not the sleep of death; they rest, but while they are resting, we feel that the mystery of life silently works out the fulfilment of the promise of re-awakening. Meanwhile, before the veil of leafage hides so much else that is beautiful from our eyes, we see the things that are, tree trunks in all their majesty of girth and column and fencing bark, the net-work of budding spray, each after its kind distinct, yet each in its own form perfect. Even in mid-winter, the brown gummy buds of the Horse Chestnuts begin to swell at the ends of the swaying boughs, and the Ash-buds, as they make ready to burst their bonds, put on a deeper hue.

The Beeches keep their silken green tight shut within their scale-bound points, and will not let it unfold an hour too soon; but look at the lovely colouring, now silvern, now golden green, of the Lichen-stains on the smooth grey bark. Contrast it with the deeply-chiselled ribs of the Sweet Chestnut, the rugged armour-plates of the Oak, the thin white tissue of the dainty Silver Birch. It is this diversity, these contrasts, which make up the charm of winter, while the sombre green of Fir and Yew intermingling with the leafless trees gives just the touch of warmth and comfort which winter lacks. If any of these bless our gardens with their gracious presence, let us hesitate long before any trivial inconvenience tempts us into doing away with them. A single group of Silver Birches, one spreading Beech, a clump of Scotch Fir, with a stretch of grass beneath them, is more precious to look out upon in the winter garden than all the borders and rockeries that can be devised. Urge as we may, however, for their own sake, the fitness and constant delight of our native trees and evergreen shrubs, we plead for them, no less, because by their well-advised use our sheltered gardens may become congenial abiding-places for the strangers we may invite within our gates.

Do we profit as much as we might by the wealth of garden beauty, in the way of trees and shrubs, which for every intent and purpose lies within our reach?

Take Magnolias, for example. They are not sub-tropical trees, as we are apt to think, but fairly hardy, and the Laurel Magnolia, so well known as a beautiful covering for a south wall, is seldom enough seen in standard form. Yet it is one of the most stately of evergreen trees, and it would be hard to find one more worthy of a good position, sheltered from north and easterly winds. The whole outline of the tree is noble, with its broad, shining, russet-backed leaves, a delight to look upon in winter—nor is it shy, when full-grown, of bearing in late summer its scented ivory-white lily-cups. It is too much, however, to expect the lovely-sculptured, crimson-flushed cones, which in warmer climates than ours open about November to disclose their hanging scarlet seeds. Some of the deciduous Magnolias, too, such as the fine Chinese Yulan (M. conspicua) and the bushy white-flowered Japanese species (M. stellata), are full of interest, even while lifeless. All through the winter we may watch the gradual filling out of the hairy, conical flower-bracts, until at length, in very early spring, the impatient buds can contain themselves no longer, and all too soon, sometimes, push them off altogether that they may creep out of their prison bands.

Every one has his private calendar, and reckons the seasons by a computation of his own, but we may safely say that four long months, if no more, separate the falling of the leaf from its coming again. Perhaps we ought not to include Magnolias amongst hibernal flowers, though the trees are often white with blossom before the Larch is green; but the list of shrubs which bloom, or are bright with coloured fruit during those four months, would surprise most people who think of winter only as the dead season. The boughs of Sea Buckthorn are loaded with orange berries. Clusters of scarlet peep out of the fresh green of the Skimmia bushes and, so long as the birds do not find them out, Pernettya carries a crop of purple and crimson and pink fruit more showy than the modest white flowers of summer. When November days are growing dark, Coronilla, in sheltered spots, puts forth its pale clustering yellow flowers. Winter Jasmine, if the flowering branches are not ruthlessly pruned away in autumn, covers its long green shoots with golden stars. The evergreen Clematis (C. calycina) is never happier than when clinging to some terrace balustrade where it may have a little kindly shelter, which it repays by wreathing the stone-work with garlands of finely-cut bronzed foliage, hung with creamy freckled bells. More than one kind of hardy Heath, if grown in spreading masses, will deck the garden with sheets of colour the whole winter through.

The Chinese Honeysuckle (L. Standishii) arrays itself in its fragile white flowers as early as January. Witch Hazels hang their bare branches with twisted petals of gold or amber or, sometimes (as in Hamamelis zuccariniana), borrow the pale-green tint of the under wing of a brimstone butterfly. Soon after Christmas, Mezereon flushes into rosy purple, and bushes of Winter-sweet (Chimonanthus fragrans), independent of a wall (as few people know), will breathe out its perfume from leafless branches studded over with waxen-yellow flowers. It is strange how many of these winter-blooming plants keep their leaves well out of harm's way, brave as their flowers may be. But so it is, and so we learn that if we would gain their fullest winter beauty, we must group them with evergreen shrubs as foil or background.

And what store there is of these to choose from, not green only, but colour-tinged—Berberis of many kinds, the shining ordered leaf-rows of Azara, the purple tints of Mahonia and Gaultheria, the bronze of Andromeda buds, the deep dull green of Osmanthus, the wine red of Leucothoë, the pearl grey of Atriplex, and a hundred more will respond to our beck and call. Only we must choose with judgment, for whether our lot is cast in north or south, in the black east or soft caressing west, makes all the difference to our choosing. Only be sure that more important still than climate are the wind-breaks we can plan, and the shelter we may contrive. Yet when we are in doubt we can always come back with satisfaction to the quick-growing hardiest shrubs and find in them some fit setting for our garden picture. The slender angled branches of green Broom, the rigid spiny Furze, scented Rosemary, or hoary Lavender—all will lend their varied tints and attributes as we need them. And if a pool or stream only gives us opportunity, what can surpass the winter colouring of osier twigs—golden and crimson and olive, mirrored in still water or broken into a thousand reflections by the ripple of a running brook?

Perhaps, amongst all the wealth of winter evergreen shrubs the rank of those which show variegation is too much exaggerated. Popular as they are, the effect is not always good, unless more than ordinary care is taken in their placing. Some few, like the best golden and silver Hollies, are very beautiful, though not all of these are improvements upon the finest green forms. No variegated shrub, probably, is more universally grown than the Aucuba, and it has excellent points; it is hardy in constitution, handsome in outline, and bold of leaf. By ill-luck, as it happened, more than a hundred years ago, the spotted variety was sent home first from Japan, and became domiciled in English gardens and rooted in English affections before the far more worthy green species made its entry.

It is but a private opinion and not given as dogma that it might possibly be a distinct gain to gardens, large and small, if the spotted Aucuba were practically banished and the true green-leaved forms—some of which are generally beautiful when well set with large coral berries—allowed to take its place. The variegated Oleaster (Elæagnus pungens), a remarkably fine shrub when taken by itself, sadly disturbs the repose and dignity of the garden outlook in winter, though doubtless positions might be found in which it would harmonise with its surroundings.

We need only con over, mentally, all the more familiar examples of shrub variegation to find, probably, that we should do as well without a goodly proportion of them, though we may frankly admit some to be very handsome. The secret of our discontent, possibly, lies in the fact that variegation in plants that are normally green is not, in its essence, a sign of health but of wasting sickness. In any case, whatever our feelings may be on this particular point, it is well worth while to weigh the merits of each shrub, variegated or green, before we plant it, not only individually, but in relation to its neighbourhood to other garden associates, and more especially with regard to its winter aspect.

Mr. Bean writes as follows about the winter beauty of trees and shrubs: "Even in November and December there are trees and shrubs that brighten the garden with their coloured bark and fruits. Although not abundant, the members of this class are not used so extensively as they might be.

"Among Willows, for instance, there are the golden and red-barked varieties of Salix vitellina. These, though scarcely ever seen, are capable, when properly treated, of producing bright warm effects that are especially charming from November to February. When allowed to grow naturally this Willow—known popularly as the Golden Osier—forms a graceful tree of large size. Its twigs have a golden or red tinge, according to the variety, but on fully-grown trees these twigs are not large, and as it is, of course, the bark of the preceding summer's growth only that is coloured no very marked colour effect is produced. To obtain a really bright patch of colour it is necessary to plant these Willows in goodly-sized groups and to prune them hard back every spring. By treating them in this way a great cluster of long, wand-like growths is made every year, the bark over the whole of which becomes a bright yellow or red as winter approaches. An effective group is produced by mixing the red and yellow-barked varieties.

"Another striking Willow is Salix daphnoides. The young bark of this species is covered with a thick glaucous or vivid blue-white 'bloom.' S. acutifolia is similarly distinguished, though not quite so markedly. Different from any of these Willows, too, is the variety of S. triandra, with purplish-brown bark. To bring out fully the ornamental qualities of these Willows they should be treated as advised for Salix vitellina. All these Willows are especially charming near the edge of water. Not only are their moisture-loving propensities satisfied, but their beauty is doubled by reflection in the water.

"Somewhat similar to the Willows in the character of their bark, but useful in being adapted for drier situations, are the Cornels (Cornus). The best of the genus in this connexion are Cornus alba and its variety sibirica. They produce bark which for one or two seasons remains a bright red during the time the branches are leafless. A group of Cornus alba, with Chionodoxa Luciliæ or Winter Aconite planted thickly beneath, gives a very pleasing bit of colour early in the year. A yellow-barked form of Cornus stolonifera, known as flaviramea, deserves mention.

"Several shrubs are notable for the particularly bright green of their bark. The forms of Kerria japonica and Neillia are very bright during the winter on this account, but still more effective is a near ally, Stephanandra Tanakæ, a comparatively new shrub, also from Japan, but of little value in any other respect. Finally, I may mention the Rubuses with white stems. As in Salix daphnoides, the bark is covered with the waxy secretion known as 'bloom,' and of a blue-tinted white. Some six or seven species of Rubus have this character. Of those obtainable from nurseries, R. biflorus, a Himalayan species often to be had from dealers under the erroneous name of Rubus leucodermis, is the best. Dr. A. Henry has introduced a Chinese species, Rubus lasiostylus, which is even better than biflorus; the bloom is more distinctly blue, and the stems sturdier and more self-supporting. The species is, however, an extremely rare one in cultivation. It is scarcely necessary to repeat how essential it is that these Brambles and Cornels should be planted in bold groups.

"Among trees the most noteworthy as regards the colour of their bark are the Birches. The beauty of the Common White Birch has not been overlooked by planters. A single specimen or a few grouped together make a bright winter picture when associated with evergreens. The Canoe Birch of North America (Betula papyrifera) has a bark of an even purer white than our native species. The Yellow Birch (B. lutea) shows warm orange-brown tints on the more recently exposed surfaces of its bark. The bark of the River Birch (B. nigra) is not brightly coloured, being of a dull dark brown, but it gives the tree a notably curious aspect owing to the way it stands out from the trunk and branches in great ragged-looking flakes.

A WITCH HAZEL IN FLOWER: HAMAMELIS JAPONICA VAR. ZUCCARINIANA.