The Oak exceeds all other trees, not only in actual strength, but also in that outward appearance by which this quality is manifested.  This expression is due to the general horizontal spread of its principal boughs, the peculiar angularity of the unions of its small branches, the want of flexibility in its spray, and its great size when compared with its height, all manifesting its power to resist the wind and the storm.  Hence it is regarded as the monarch of trees, surpassing all in those qualities that indicate nobleness and capacity.  It is the emblem of strength, dignity, and grandeur:  the severest hurricane cannot overthrow it, and, by destroying some of its branches, leaves it only with more wonderful proofs of its resistance.  Like the rock that rises in mid-ocean, it becomes in its old age a just symbol of fortitude, parting with its limbs one by one, as they are broken by the gale or withered by decay; but still retaining its many-centuried existence, when, like an old patriarch, it has seen all its early companions removed.

Standard Oaks are comparatively rare in the New England States, and not many adorn our way-sides and inclosures, which are mostly shaded by Elms, Limes, Maples, and Ash-trees.  The scarcity of Oaks in these places is attributable in some degree to the peculiar structure of their roots, which extend downwards to a great depth in the soil, causing them to be difficult of transplantation.  It is owing in still greater measure to the value of Oak-wood for ship-timber,—­especially as those full-grown trees which have sprung up by the road-sides, and the noble pasture Oaks, contain the greatest number of those joints which are in special demand for ship-building.  Year after year, therefore, has witnessed the gradual disappearance of these venerable trees, which the public should have protected from the profane hands of the “timberer,” by forcing him to procure his materials from the forest.  The community needs to be taught that a standard tree of good size and well-developed proportions is of more value for its shade, and as an object in the landscape, than a whole acre of trees in the middle of a wood.

One of the most majestic trees in the American forest is the Chestnut, remarkable, like the Oak, for its broad extent of shade.  In some parts of the country it is one of the most common standards in the field and pasture, having been left unmolested on account of the value of its fruit and the comparative inferiority of its timber.  The foliage of this tree is dense and flowing, and peculiar in its arrangement.  The leaves are clustered in stars of from five to seven, on short branches that grow from one of greater length.  Hence, at a little distance, the whole mass of foliage seems to consist of tufts, each containing a tassel of long pointed leaves, drooping divergently from a common centre.  The flowers come out from the centre of these leaves in the same manner, and by their silvery green lustre give a pleasing variety to the darker verdure of the whole mass.  “This is the tree,” says Gilpin, “which graces the landscapes of Salvator Rosa.  In the mountains of Calabria, where Salvator painted, the Chestnut flourished.  There he studied it in all its forms, breaking and disposing of it in a thousand beautiful shapes, as the exigencies of his composition required.”