Flowers And Flower-Gardens Part 9

She hath left you all her walks, Her private arbors and new planted orchards On this side Tiber. She hath left them you And to your heirs for ever; common pleasures To walk abroad and recreate yourselves.

They contain a large Palm-house built in 1848.[036] The extent of gla.s.s for covering the building is said to be 360,000 square feet. My Mahomedan readers in Hindostan, (I hope they will be numerous,) will perhaps be pleased to hear that there is an ornamental mosque in these gardens. On each of the doors of this mosque is an Arabic inscription in golden characters, taken from the Koran. The Arabic has been thus translated:--

LET THERE BE NO FORCE IN RELIGION.

THERE IS NO OTHER G.o.d EXCEPT THE DEITY.

MAKE NOT ANY LIKENESS UNTO G.o.d.

The first sentence of the translation is rather ambiguously worded. The sentiment has even an impious air: an apparent meaning very different from that which was intended. Of course the original text _means_, though the English translator has not expressed that meaning--"Let there be no force _used_ in religion."

When William Cobbett was a boy of eleven years of age he worked in the garden of the Bishop of Winchester at Farnham. Having heard much of Kew gardens he resolved to change his locality and his master. He started off for Kew, a distance of about thirty miles, with only thirteen pence in his pocket. The head gardener at Kew at once engaged his services. A few days after, George the Fourth, then Prince of Wales, saw the boy sweeping the lawns, and laughed heartily at his blue smock frock and long red knotted garters. But the poor gardener's boy became a public writer, whose productions were not exactly calculated to excite the merriment of princes.

Most poets have a painter's eye for the disposition of forms and colours. Kent's practice as a painter no doubt helped to make him what he was as a landscape-gardener. When an architect was consulted about laying out the grounds at Blenheim he replied, "you must send for a landscape-painter:" he might have added--"_or a poet_."

Our late Laureate, William Wordsworth, exhibited great taste in his small garden at Rydal Mount. He said of himself--very truly though not very modestly perhaps,--but modesty was never Wordsworth's weakness--that nature seemed to have fitted him for three callings--that of the poet, the critic on works of art, and the landscape-gardener.

The poet's nest--(Mrs. Hemans calls it 'a lovely cottage-like building'[037])--is almost hidden in a rich profusion of roses and ivy and jessamine and virginia-creeper. Wordsworth, though he pa.s.sionately admired the shapes and hues of flowers, knew nothing of their fragrance.

In this respect knowledge at one entrance was quite shut out. He had possessed at no time of his life the sense of smell. To make up for this deficiency, he is said (by De Quincey) to have had "a peculiar depth of organic sensibility of form and color."

Mr. Justice Coleridge tells us that Wordsworth dealt with shrubs, flower-beds and lawns with the readiness of a practised landscape-gardener, and that it was curious to observe how he had imparted a portion of his taste to his servant, James Dixon. In fact, honest James regarded himself as a sort of Arbiter Elegantiarum. The master and his servant often discussed together a question of taste. Wordsworth communicated to Mr. Justice Coleridge how "he and James" were once "in a puzzle" about certain discolored spots upon the lawn. "Cover them with soap-lees," said the master. "That will make the green there darker than the rest," said the gardener. "Then we must cover the whole." "That will not do," objects the gardener, "with reference to the little lawn to which you pa.s.s from this." "Cover that," said the poet. "You will then,"

replied the gardener, "have an unpleasant contrast with the foliage surrounding it."

Pope too had communicated to his gardener at Twickenham something of his own taste. The man, long after his master's death, in reference to the training of the branches of plants, used to talk of their being made to hang "_something poetical_".

It would have grieved Shakespeare and Pope and Shenstone had they antic.i.p.ated the neglect or destruction of their beloved retreats.

Wordsworth said, "I often ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them. This little wild flower, _Poor Robin_, is here constantly courting my attention and exciting what may be called a domestic interest in the varying aspect of its stalks and leaves and flowers." I hope no Englishman meditating to reside on the grounds now sacred to the memory of a national poet will ever forget these words of the poet or treat his cottage and garden at Rydal Mount as some of Pope's countrymen have treated the house and grounds at Twickenham.[038] It would be sad indeed to hear, after this, that any one had refused to spare the _Poor Robins_ and _wild geraniums_ of Rydal Mount. Miss Jewsbury has a poem descriptive of "the Poet's Home." I must give the first stanza:--

WORDSWORTH'S COTTAGE.

Low and white, yet scarcely seen Are its walls of mantling green; Not a window lets in light But through flowers cl.u.s.tering bright, Not a glance may wander there But it falls on something fair; Garden choice and fairy mound Only that no elves are found; Winding walk and sheltered nook For student grave and graver book, Or a bird-like bower perchance Fit for maiden and romance.

Another lady-poet has poured forth in verse her admiration of

THE RESIDENCE OF WORDSWORTH.

Not for the glory on their heads Those stately hill-tops wear, Although the summer sunset sheds Its constant crimson there: Not for the gleaming lights that break The purple of the twilight lake, Half dusky and half fair, Does that sweet valley seem to be A sacred place on earth to me.

The influence of a moral spell Is found around the scene, Giving new shadows to the dell, New verdure to the green.

With every mountain-top is wrought The presence of a.s.sociate thought, A music that has been; Calling that loveliness to life, With which the inward world is rife.

His home--our English poet's home-- Amid these hills is made; Here, with the morning, hath he come, There, with the night delayed.

On all things is his memory cast, For every place wherein he past, Is with his mind arrayed, That, wandering in a summer hour, Asked wisdom of the leaf and flower.

L.E.L.

The cottage and garden of the poet are not only picturesque and delightful in themselves, but from their position in the midst of some of the finest scenery of England. One of the writers in the book ent.i.tled '_The Land we Live in_' observes that the bard of the mountains and the lakes could not have found a more fitting habitation had the whole land been before him, where to choose his place of rest. "Snugly sheltered by the mountains, embowered among trees, and having in itself prospects of surpa.s.sing beauty, it also lies in the midst of the very n.o.blest objects in the district, and in one of the happiest social positions. The grounds are delightful in every respect; but one view--that from the terrace of moss-like gra.s.s--is, to our thinking, the most exquisitely graceful in all this land of beauty. It embraces the whole valley of Windermere, with hills on either side softened into perfect loveliness."

Eustace, the Italian tourist, seems inclined to deprive the English of the honor of being the first cultivators of the natural style in gardening, and thinks that it was borrowed not from Milton but from Ta.s.so. I suppose that most genuine poets, in all ages and in all countries, when they give full play to the imagination, have glimpses of the truly natural in the arts. The reader will probably be glad to renew his acquaintance with Ta.s.so's description of the garden of Armida. I shall give the good old version of Edward Fairfax from the edition of 1687. Fairfax was a true poet and wrote musically at a time when sweetness of versification was not so much aimed at as in a later day.

Waller confessed that he owed the smoothness of his verse to the example of Fairfax, who, as Warton observes, "well vowelled his lines."

THE GARDEN OF ARMIDA.

When they had pa.s.sed all those troubled ways, The Garden sweet spread forth her green to shew; The moving crystal from the fountains plays; Fair trees, high plants, strange herbs and flowerets new, Sunshiny hills, vales hid from Phoebus' rays, Groves, arbours, mossie caves at once they view, And that which beauty most, most wonder brought, No where appear'd the Art which all this wrought.

So with the rude the polished mingled was, That natural seem'd all and every part, Nature would craft in counterfeiting pa.s.s, And imitate her imitator Art: Mild was the air, the skies were clear as gla.s.s, The trees no whirlwind felt, nor tempest's smart, But ere the fruit drop off, the blossom comes, This springs, that falls, that ripeneth and this blooms.

The leaves upon the self-same bough did hide, Beside the young, the old and ripened fig, Here fruit was green, there ripe with vermeil side; The apples new and old grew on one twig, The fruitful vine her arms spread high and wide, That bended underneath their cl.u.s.ters big; The grapes were tender here, hard, young and sour, There purple ripe, and nectar sweet forth pour.

The joyous birds, hid under green-wood shade, Sung merry notes on every branch and bow, The wind that in the leaves and waters plaid With murmer sweet, now sung and whistled now; Ceased the birds, the wind loud answer made: And while they sung, it rumbled soft and low; Thus were it hap or cunning, chance or art, The wind in this strange musick bore his part.

With party-coloured plumes and purple bill, A wondrous bird among the rest there flew, That in plain speech sung love-lays loud and shrill, Her leden was like humane language true; So much she talkt, and with such wit and skill, That strange it seemed how much good she knew; Her feathered fellows all stood hush to hear, Dumb was the wind, the waters silent were.

The gently budding rose (quoth she) behold, That first scant peeping forth with virgin beams, Half ope, half shut, her beauties doth upfold In their dear leaves, and less seen, fairer seems, And after spreads them forth more broad and bold, Then languisheth and dies in last extreams, Nor seems the same, that decked bed and bower Of many a lady late, and paramour.

So, in the pa.s.sing of a day, doth pa.s.s The bud and blossom of the life of man, Nor ere doth flourish more, but like the gra.s.s Cut down, becometh wither'd, pale and wan: O gather then the rose while time thou hast, Short is the day, done when it scant began; Gather the rose of love, while yet thou may'st Loving be lov'd; embracing, be embrac'd.

He ceas'd, and as approving all he spoke, The quire of birds their heav'nly tunes renew, The turtles sigh'd, and sighs with kisses broke, The fowls to shades unseen, by pairs withdrew; It seem'd the laurel chaste, and stubborn oak, And all the gentle trees on earth that grew, It seem'd the land, the sea, and heav'n above, All breath'd out fancy sweet, and sigh'd out love.

_G.o.dfrey of Bulloigne_

I must place near the garden of Armida, Ariosto's garden of Alcina.

"Ariosto," says Leigh Hunt, "cared for none of the pleasures of the great, except building, and was content in Cowley's fashion, with "a small house in a large garden." He loved gardening better than he understood it, was always shifting his plants, and destroying the seeds, out of impatience to see them germinate. He was rejoicing once on the coming up of some "capers" which he had been visiting every day, to see how they got on, when it turned out that his capers were elder trees!"

THE GARDEN OF ALCINA.

'A more delightful place, wherever hurled, Through the whole air, Rogero had not found; And had he ranged the universal world, Would not have seen a lovelier in his round, Than that, where, wheeling wide, the courser furled His spreading wings, and lighted on the ground Mid cultivated plain, delicious hill, Moist meadow, shady bank, and crystal rill;

'Small thickets, with the scented laurel gay, Cedar, and orange, full of fruit and flower, Myrtle and palm, with interwoven spray, Pleached in mixed modes, all lovely, form a bower; And, breaking with their shade the scorching ray, Make a cool shelter from the noon-tide hour.

And nightingales among those branches wing Their flight, and safely amorous descants sing.

'Amid red roses and white lilies _there_, Which the soft breezes freshen as they fly, Secure the cony haunts, and timid hare, And stag, with branching forehead broad and high.

These, fearless of the hunter's dart or snare, Feed at their ease, or ruminating lie; While, swarming in those wilds, from tuft or steep, Dun deer or nimble goat disporting leap.'

_Rose's Orlando Furioso_.

Spenser's description of the garden of Adonis is too long to give entire, but I shall quote a few stanzas. The old story on which Spenser founds his description is told with many variations of circ.u.mstance and meaning; but we need not quit the pages of the Faerie Queene to lose ourselves amidst obscure mythologies. We have too much of these indeed even in Spenser's own version of the fable.

THE GARDEN OF ADONIS.

Great enimy to it, and all the rest That in the Gardin of Adonis springs, Is wicked Time; who with his scythe addrest Does mow the flowring herbes and goodly things, And all their glory to the ground downe flings, Where they do wither and are fowly mard He flyes about, and with his flaggy wings Beates downe both leaves and buds without regard, Ne ever pitty may relent his malice hard.

But were it not that Time their troubler is, All that in this delightful gardin growes Should happy bee, and have immortall blis: For here all plenty and all pleasure flowes; And sweete Love gentle fitts emongst them throwes, Without fell rancor or fond gealosy.

Franckly each paramour his leman knowes, Each bird his mate; ne any does envy Their goodly meriment and gay felicity.

There is continual spring, and harvest there Continuall, both meeting at one tyme: For both the boughes doe laughing blossoms beare.

And with fresh colours decke the wanton pryme, And eke attonce the heavy trees they clyme, Which seeme to labour under their fruites lode: The whiles the ioyous birdes make their pastyme Emongst the shady leaves, their sweet abode, And their trew loves without suspition tell abrode.

Right in the middest of that Paradise There stood a stately mount, on whose round top A gloomy grove of mirtle trees did rise, Whose shady boughes sharp steele did never lop, Nor wicked beastes their tender buds did crop, But like a girlond compa.s.sed the hight, And from their fruitfull sydes sweet gum did drop, That all the ground, with pretious deaw bedight, Threw forth most dainty odours and most sweet delight.