"The valley stretching belowIs white with blossoming Apple trees, as if touched with lightest snow."
"The valley stretching belowIs white with blossoming Apple trees, as if touched with lightest snow."
Thoreau described an era of luxury as one in which men cultivate the Apple and the amenities of the garden. He thought it indicated relaxed nerves to read gardening books, and he regarded gardening as a civil and social function, not a love of nature. He tells of his own love for freedom and savagery—and he found what he so deemed at WaldenPond. I am told his haunts are little changed since the years when he lived there; and I had expected to find Walden Pond a scene of much wild beauty, but it was the mildest of wild woods; it seemed to me as thoroughly civilized and social as an Apple orchard.
Old Hand-power Cider Mill.
Old Hand-power Cider Mill.
Thoreau christened the Apple trees of his acquaintance with appropriate names in thelingua vernacula: the Truant's Apple, the Saunterer's Apple, December Eating,Wine of New England, the Apple of the Dell in the Wood, the Apple of the Hollow in the Pasture, the Railroad Apple, the Cellar-hole Apple, the Frozen-thawed, and many more; these he loved for their fruit; to them let me add the Playhouse Apple trees, loved solely for their ingeniously twisted branches, an Apple tree of the garden, often overhanging the flower borders. I recall their glorious whiteness in the spring, but I cannot remember that they bore any fruit save a group of serious little girls. I know there were no Apples on the Playhouse Apple trees in my garden, nor on the one in Nelly Gilbert's or Ella Partridge's garden. There is no play place for girls like an old Apple tree. The main limbs leave the trunk at exactly the right height for children to reach, and every branch and twig seems to grow and turn only to form delightful perches for children to climb among and cling to. Some Apple trees in our town had a copy of an Elizabethan garden furnishing; their branches enclosed tree platforms about twelve feet from the ground, reached by a narrow ladder or flight of steps. These were built by generous parents for their children's playhouses, but their approach of ladder was too unhazardous, their railings too safety-assuring, to prove anything but conventional and uninteresting. The natural Apple tree offered infinite variety, and a slight sense of daring to the climber. Its possibility of accident was fulfilled; untold number of broken arms and ribs—juvenile—were resultant from falls from Apple trees.
Pressing out Cider in Old Hand Mill.
Pressing out Cider in Old Hand Mill.
One of Thoreau's Apples was the Green Apple (Malus viridis, orCholera morbifera puerelis delectissima). I know not for how many centuries boys (and girls too) have eaten and suffered from green apples. A description was written in 1684 which might have happened any summer since; I quote it with reminiscent delight, for I have the same love for the spirited relation that I had in my early youth when I never, for a moment, in spite of the significant names, deemed the entire book anything buta real story; the notion thatPilgrim's Progresswas an allegory never entered my mind.
"Now there was on the other side of the wall aGarden. And some of the Fruit-Trees that grew in the Garden shot their Branches over the Wall, and being mellow, they that found them did gather them up and oft eat of them to their hurt. SoChristiana'sBoys,as Boys are apt to do, beingpleas'dwith the Trees didPlashthem and began to eat. Their Mother did also chide them for so doing, but still the Boys went on. NowMatthewthe Eldest Son ofChristianafell sick.... There dwelt not far from thence one Mr.Skillan Ancient and well approved Physician. So Christiana desired it and they sent for him and he came. And when he was entered the Room and a little observed the Boy he concluded that he was sick of the Gripes. Then he said to his Mother,What Diet has Matthew of late fed upon?Diet, said Christiana,nothing but which is wholesome. The Physician answered,This Boy has been tampering with something that lies in his Maw undigested.... Then said Samuel,Mother, Mother, what was that which my brother did gather up and eat. You know there was an Orchard and my Brother did plash and eat. True, my child, said Christiana,naughty boy as he was. I did chide him and yet he would eat thereof."
"Now there was on the other side of the wall aGarden. And some of the Fruit-Trees that grew in the Garden shot their Branches over the Wall, and being mellow, they that found them did gather them up and oft eat of them to their hurt. SoChristiana'sBoys,as Boys are apt to do, beingpleas'dwith the Trees didPlashthem and began to eat. Their Mother did also chide them for so doing, but still the Boys went on. NowMatthewthe Eldest Son ofChristianafell sick.... There dwelt not far from thence one Mr.Skillan Ancient and well approved Physician. So Christiana desired it and they sent for him and he came. And when he was entered the Room and a little observed the Boy he concluded that he was sick of the Gripes. Then he said to his Mother,What Diet has Matthew of late fed upon?Diet, said Christiana,nothing but which is wholesome. The Physician answered,This Boy has been tampering with something that lies in his Maw undigested.... Then said Samuel,Mother, Mother, what was that which my brother did gather up and eat. You know there was an Orchard and my Brother did plash and eat. True, my child, said Christiana,naughty boy as he was. I did chide him and yet he would eat thereof."
The realistic treatment of Mr. Skill and Matthew's recovery thereby need not be quoted.
An historic Apple much esteemed in Connecticut and Rhode Island, and often planted at the edge of the flower garden, is called the Sapson, or Early Sapson, Sapson Sweet, Sapsyvine, and in Pennsylvania, Wine-sap. The name is a corruption of the old English Apple name, Sops-o'-wine. It is a charminglittle red-cheeked Apple of early autumn, slightly larger than a healthy Crab-apple. The clear red of its skin perfuses in coral-colored veins and beautiful shadings to its very core. It has a condensed, spicy, aromatic flavor, not sharp like a Crab-apple, but it makes a better jelly even than the Crab-apple—jelly of a ruby color with an almost wine-like flavor, a true Sops-of-wine. This fruit is deemed so choice that I have known the sale of a farm to halt for some weeks until it could be proved that certain Apple trees in the orchard bore the esteemed Sapsyvines.
Under New England and New York farm-houses was a cellar filled with bins for vegetables and apples. As the winter passed on there rose from these cellars a curious, earthy, appley smell, which always seemed most powerful in the best parlor, the room least used. How Schiller, who loved the scent of rotten apples, would have rejoiced! The cellar also contained many barrels of cider; for the beauty of the Apple trees, and the use of their fruit as food, were not the only factors which influenced the planting of the many Apple orchards of the new world; they afforded a universal drink—cider. I have written at length, in my books,Home Life in Colonial DaysandStage-Coach and Tavern Days, the history of the vogue and manufacture of cider in the new world. The cherished Apple orchards of Endicott, Blackstone, Wolcott, and Winthrop were so speedily multiplied that by 1670 cider was plentiful and cheap everywhere. By the opening of the eighteenth century it had wholly crowdedout beer and metheglin; and was the drink of old and young on all occasions.
Old Horse-lever Cider Mill.
Old Horse-lever Cider Mill.
At first, cider was made by pounding the Apples by hand in wooden mortars; then simple mills were formed of a hollowed log and a spring board. Rude hand presses, such as are shown onpages 198and200, were known in 1660, and lingered to our own day. Kalm, the Swedish naturalist, saw ancient horse presses (like the one depicted onthis page) in use in the Hudson River Valley in 1749. In autumn the whole country-side was scented with the sour, fruity smell from these cider mills; and the gift of a draught of sweet cider to any passer-by was as ample and free as of water from the brookside. The cider when barrelled and stored for winter was equally free to all comers, as well it mightbe, when many families stored a hundred barrels for winter use.
"Straining off" the Cider.
"Straining off" the Cider.
The Washingtonian or Temperance reform which swept over this country like a purifying wind in the first quarter of the nineteenth century, found many temporizers who tried to exclude cider from the list of intoxicating drinks which converts pledged themselves to abandon. Some farmers who adopted this much-needed movement against the all-prevailing viceof drunkenness received it with fanatic zeal. It makes the heart of the Apple lover ache to read that in this spirit they cut down whole orchards of flourishing Apple trees, since they could conceive no adequate use for their apples save for cider. That any should have tried to exclude cider from the list of intoxicating beverages seems barefaced indeed to those who have tasted that most potent of all spirits—frozen cider. I once drank a small modicum of Jericho cider, as smooth as Benedictine and more persuasive, which made a raw day in April seem like sunny midsummer. I afterward learned from the ingenuous Long Island farmer whose hospitality gave me this liqueur that it had been frozen seven times. Each time he had thrust a red-hot poker into the bung-hole of the barrel, melted all the watery ice and poured it out; therefore the very essence of the cider was all that remained.
It is interesting to note the folk customs of Old England which have lingered here, such as domestic love divinations. The poet Gay wrote:—
"I pare this Pippin round and round again,My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain.I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,Upon the grass a perfect L. is read."
"I pare this Pippin round and round again,My shepherd's name to flourish on the plain.I fling th' unbroken paring o'er my head,Upon the grass a perfect L. is read."
I have seen New England schoolgirls, scores of times, thus toss an "unbroken paring." An ancient trial of my youth was done with Apple seeds; these were named for various swains, then slightly wetted and stuck on the cheek or forehead, while we chanted:—
"Pippin! Pippin! Paradise!Tell me where my true love lies!"
"Pippin! Pippin! Paradise!Tell me where my true love lies!"
The seed that remained longest in place indicated the favored and favoring lover.
With the neglect in this country of Saints' Days and the Puritanical frowning down of all folk customs connected with them, we lost the delightful wassailing of the Apple trees. This, like many another religious observance, was a relic of heathen sacrifice, in this case to Pomona. It was celebrated with slight variations in various parts of England; and was called an Apple howling, a wassailing, a youling, and other terms. The farmer and his workmen carried to the orchard great jugs of cider or milk pans filled with cider and roasted apples. Encircling in turn the best bearing trees, they drank from "clayen-cups," and poured part of the contents on the ground under the trees. And while they wassailed the trees they sang:—
"Here's to thee, old Apple tree!Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,And whence thou mayst bear Apples enow!Hats full! caps full,Bushel—Bushel—sacks full,And my pockets full too."
"Here's to thee, old Apple tree!Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,And whence thou mayst bear Apples enow!Hats full! caps full,Bushel—Bushel—sacks full,And my pockets full too."
Another Devonshire rhyme ran:—
"Health to thee, good Apple tree!Well to bear pocket-fulls, hat-fulls,Peck-fulls, bushel bag-fulls."
"Health to thee, good Apple tree!Well to bear pocket-fulls, hat-fulls,Peck-fulls, bushel bag-fulls."
The wassailing of the trees gave place in America to a jovial autumnal gathering known as an Apple cut,an Apple paring, or an Apple bee. The cheerful kitchen of the farm-house was set out with its entire array of empty pans, pails, tubs, and baskets. Heaped-up barrels of apples stood in the centre of the room. The many skilful hands of willing neighbors emptied the barrels, and with sharp knives or an occasional Apple parer, filled the empty vessels with cleanly pared and quartered apples.
When the work was finished, divinations with Apple parings and Apple seeds were tried, simple country games were played; occasionally there was a fiddler and a dance. An autumnal supper was served from the three zones of the farm-house: nuts from the attic, Apples from the pantry, and cider from the cellar. The apple-quarters intended for drying were strung on homespun linen thread and hung out of doors on clear drying days. A humble hillside home in New Hampshire thus quaintly festooned is shown in the illustrationopposite page 208—a characteristic New Hampshire landscape. When thoroughly dried in sun and wind, these sliced apples were stored for the winter by being hung from rafter to rafter of various living rooms, and remained thus for months (gathering vast accumulations of dust and germs for our blissfully ignorant and unsqueamish grandparents) until the early days of spring, when Apple sauce, Apple butter, and the stores of Apple bin and Apple pit were exhausted, and they then afforded, after proper baths and soakings, the wherewithal for that domestic comestible—dried Apple pie. The Swedish parson, Dr. Acrelius, writing home to Sweden in 1758an account of the settlement of Delaware, said:—
"Apple pie is used throughout the whole year, and when fresh Apples are no longer to be had, dried ones are used. It is the evening meal of children. House pie, in country places, is made of Apples neither peeled nor freed from their cores, and its crust is not broken if a wagon wheel goes over it."
"Apple pie is used throughout the whole year, and when fresh Apples are no longer to be had, dried ones are used. It is the evening meal of children. House pie, in country places, is made of Apples neither peeled nor freed from their cores, and its crust is not broken if a wagon wheel goes over it."
I always had an undue estimation of Apple pie in my childhood, from an accidental cause: we were requested by the conscientious teacher in our Sunday-school to "take out" each week without fail from the "Select Library" of the school a "Sabbath-school Library Book." The colorless, albeit pious, contents of the books classed under that title are well known to those of my generation; even such a child of the Puritans as I was could not read them. There were two anchors in that sea of despair,—but feeble holds would they seem to-day,—the first volumes ofQueechyandThe Wide, Wide World. With the disingenuousness of childhood I satisfied the rules of the school and my own conscience by carrying home these two books, and no others, on alternate Sundays for certainly two years. The only wonder in the matter was that the transaction escaped my Mother's eye for so long a time. I read only isolated scenes; of these the favorite was the one wherein Fleda carries to the woods for the hungry visitor, who was of the English nobility, several large and toothsome sections of green Apple pie and cheese. The prominence given to that Apple piein that book and in my two years of reading idealized it. On a glorious day last October I drove to New Canaan, the town which was the prototype of Queechy. Hungry as ever in childhood from the clear autumnal air and the long drive from Lenox, we asked for luncheon at what was reported to be a village hostelry. The exact counterpart of Miss Cynthia Gall responded rather sourly that she wasn't "boarding or baiting" that year. Humble entreaties for provender of any kind elicited from her for each of us a slice of cheese and a large and truly noble section of Apple pie, the very pie of Fleda's tale, which we ate with a bewildered sense as of a previous existence. This was intensified as we strolled to the brook under the Queechy Sugar Maples, and gathered there the great-grandchildren of Fleda's Watercresses, and heard the sound of Hugh's sawmills.
Drying Apples.
Drying Apples.
Six hundred years ago English gentlewomen and goodwives were cooking Apples just as we cook them now—they even had Apple pie. A delightful recipe of the fourteenth century was for "Appeluns for a Lorde, in opyntide." Opyntide was springtime; this was, therefore, a spring dish fit for a lord.
Apple-moy and Apple-mos, Apple Tansy, and Pommys-morle were delightful dishes and very rich food as well. The word pomatum has now no association withpomum, but originally pomatum was made partly of Apples. In an old "Dialog between Soarness and Chirurgi," written by one Dr. Bulleyne in the days of Queen Elizabeth, is found this question and its answer:—
"Soarness.How make you pomatum?"Chirurgi.Take the fat of a yearly kyd one pound, temper it with the water of musk-roses by the space of foure dayes, then take five apples, and dresse them, and cut them in pieces, and lard them with cloves, then boyl them altogeather in the same water of roses in one vessel of glasse set within another vessel, let it boyl on the fyre so long tyll it all be white, then wash them with the same water of muske-roses, this done kepe it in a glasse and if you will have it to smell better, then you must put in a little civet or musk, or both, or ambergrice. Gentil women doe use this to make theyr faces fayr and smooth, for it healeth cliftes in the lippes, or in any places of the hands and face."
"Soarness.How make you pomatum?
"Chirurgi.Take the fat of a yearly kyd one pound, temper it with the water of musk-roses by the space of foure dayes, then take five apples, and dresse them, and cut them in pieces, and lard them with cloves, then boyl them altogeather in the same water of roses in one vessel of glasse set within another vessel, let it boyl on the fyre so long tyll it all be white, then wash them with the same water of muske-roses, this done kepe it in a glasse and if you will have it to smell better, then you must put in a little civet or musk, or both, or ambergrice. Gentil women doe use this to make theyr faces fayr and smooth, for it healeth cliftes in the lippes, or in any places of the hands and face."
With the omission of the civet or musk I am sure this would make to-day a delightful cream; but there is one condition which the "gentil woman" of to-day could scarcely furnish—the infinite patience and leisure which accompanied and perfected all such domestic work three centuries ago. A pomander was made of "the maste of a sweet Apple tree being gathered betwixt two Lady days," mixed with various sweet-scented drugs and gums and Rose leaves, and shaped into a ball or bracelet.
The successor of the pomander was the Clove Apple, or "Comfort Apple," an Apple stuck solidly with cloves. In country communities, one was given as an expression of sympathy in trouble or sorrow. Visiting a country "poorhouse" recently, we were shown a "Comfort-apple" which had been sent to one of the inmates by a friend; for even paupers have friends.
"Taffaty tarts" were of paste filled with Apples sweetened and seasoned with Lemon, Rose-water, and Fennel seed. Apple-sticklin', Apple-stucklin, Apple-twelin, Apple-hoglin, are old English provincial names of Apple pie; Apple-betty is a New England term. The Apple Slump of New England homes was not the "slump-pye" of old England, which was a rich mutton pie flavored with wine and jelly, and covered with a rich confection of nuts and fruit.
Ancient Apple Picker, Apple Racks, Apple Parers, Apple-butter Kettle, Apple-butter Paddle, Apple-butter Stirrer, Apple-butter Crocks.
Ancient Apple Picker, Apple Racks, Apple Parers, Apple-butter Kettle, Apple-butter Paddle, Apple-butter Stirrer, Apple-butter Crocks.
In Pennsylvania, among the people known as the Pennsylvania Dutch, the Apple frolic was universal. Eachneighbor brought his or her own Apple parer. This people make great use of Apples and cider in their food, and have many curious modes of cooking them. Dr. Heilman in his paper on "The Old Cider Mill" tells of their delicacy of "cider time" called cider soup, made of equal parts of cider and water, boiled and thickened with sweet cream and flour; when ready to serve, bits of bread or toast are placed in it. "Mole cider" is made of boiling cider thickened to a syrup with beaten eggs and milk. But of greatest importance, both for home consumption and for the market, is the staple known as Apple butter. This is made from sweet cider boiled down to about one-third its original quantity. To this is added an equal weight of sliced Apples, about a third as much of molasses, and various spices, such as cloves, ginger, mace, cinnamon or even pepper, all boiled together for twelve or fifteen hours. Often the great kettle is filled with cider in the morning, and boiled and stirred constantly all day, then the sliced Apples are added at night, and the monotonous stirring continues till morning, when the butter can be packed in jars and kegs for winter use. This Apple butter is not at all like Apple sauce; it has no granulated appearance, but is smooth and solid like cheese and dark red in color. Apple butter is stirred by a pole having upon one end a perforated blade or paddle set at right angles. Sometimes a bar was laid from rim to rim of the caldron, and worked by a crank that turned a similar paddle. A collection of ancient utensilsused in making Apple butter is shown onpage 211; these are from the collections of the Bucks County Historical Society.Opposite page 214is shown an ancient open-air fireplace and an old couple making Apple butter just as they have done for over half a century.
In New England what the "hired man" on the farm called "biled cider Apple sass," took the place of Apple butter. Preferably this was made in the "summer kitchen," where three kettles, usually of graduated sizes, could be set over the fire; the three kettles could be hung from a crane, or trammels. All were filled with cider, and as the liquid boiled away in the largest kettle it was filled from the second and that from the third. The fresh cider was always poured into the third kettle, thus the large kettle was never checked in its boiling. This continued till the cider was as thick as molasses. Apples (preferably Pound Sweets or Pumpkin Sweets) had been chosen with care, pared, cored, and quartered, and heated in a small kettle. These were slowly added to the thickened cider, in small quantities, in order not to check the boiling. The rule was to cook them till so softened that a rye straw could be run into them, and yet they must retain their shape. This was truly a critical time; the slightest scorched flavor would ruin the whole kettleful. A great wooden, long-handled, shovel-like ladle was used to stir the sauce fiercely until it was finished in triumph. Often a barrel of this was made by our grandmothers, and frozen solid for winter use. The farmer and "hired men" ateit clear as a relish with meats; and it was suited to appetites and digestions which had been formed by a diet of salted meats, fried breads, many pickles, and the drinking of hot cider sprinkled with pepper.
Emerson well named the Apple the social fruit of New England. It ever has been and is still the grateful promoter and unfailing aid to informal social intercourse in the country-side; but the Apple tree is something far nobler even than being the sign of cheerful and cordial acquaintance; it is the beautiful rural emblem of industrious and temperate home life. Hence, let us wassail with a will:—
"Here's to thee, old Apple tree!Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,And whence thou mayst bear Apples enow!"
"Here's to thee, old Apple tree!Whence thou mayst bud, and whence thou mayst blow,And whence thou mayst bear Apples enow!"
Making Apple Butter.
Making Apple Butter.
GARDENS OF THE POETS
"The chief use of flowers is to illustrate quotations from the poets."
AAll English poets have ever been ready to sing English flowers until jesters have laughed, and to sing garden flowers as well as wild flowers. Few have really described a garden, though the orderly distribution of flowers might be held to be akin to the restraint of rhyme and rhythm in poetry.
All English poets have ever been ready to sing English flowers until jesters have laughed, and to sing garden flowers as well as wild flowers. Few have really described a garden, though the orderly distribution of flowers might be held to be akin to the restraint of rhyme and rhythm in poetry.
Shakespeare Border at Hillside.
Shakespeare Border at Hillside.
It has been the affectionate tribute and happy diversion of those who love both poetry and flowers to note the flowers beloved of various poets, and gather them together, either in a book or a garden. The pages of Milton cannot be forced, even by his most ardent admirers, to indicate any intimate knowledge of flowers. He certainly makes some very elegant classical allusions to flowers and fruits, and some amusingly vague ones as well. "The Flowers of Spenser," and "A Posy from Chaucer," are the titles of most readable chapters inA Garden of Simples, but the allusions and quotations from both authors are pleasing and interesting,rather than informing as to the real variety and description of the flowers of their day. Nearly all the older English poets, though writing glibly of woods and vales, of shepherds and swains, of buds and blossoms, scarcely allude to a flower in a natural way. Herrick was truly a flower lover, and, as the critic said, "many flowers grow to illustrate quotations from his works." The flowers named of Shakespeare have been written about in varied books,Shakespeare's Garden,Shakespeare's Bouquet,Flowers from Stratford-on-Avon, etc. These are easily led in fulness of detail, exactness of information, and delightful literary quality by that truly perfect book, beloved of all garden lovers,The Plant Lore and Garden Craft of Shakespeare, by Canon Ellacombe. Ofit I never weary, and for it I am ever grateful.
Shakespeare Gardens, or Shakespeare Borders, too, are laid out and set with every tree, shrub, and flower named in Shakespeare, and these are over two hundred in number. A distinguishing mark of the Shakespeare Border of Lady Warwick is the peculiar label set alongside each plant. This label is of pottery, greenish-brown in tint, shaped like a butterfly, bearing on its wings a quotation of a few words and the play reference relating to each special plant. Of course these words have been fired in and are thus permanent. Pretty as they are in themselves they must be disfiguring to the borders—as all labels are in a garden.
In the garden at Hillside, near Albany, New York, grows a green and flourishing Shakespeare Border, gathered ten years ago by the mistress of the garden. I use the terms green and flourishing with exactness in this connection, for a great impression made by this border is of its thriving health, and also of the predominance of green leafage of every variety, shape, manner of growth, and oddness of tint. In this latter respect it is infinitely more beautiful than the ordinary border, varying from silvery glaucous green through greens of yellow or brownish shade to the blue-black greens of some herbs; and among these green leaves are many of sweet or pungent scent, and of medicinal qualities, such as are seldom grown to-day save in some such choice and chosen spot. There is less bloom in this Shakespeare Border than in our modern flower beds,and the flowers are not so large or brilliant as our modern favorites; but, quiet as they are, they are said to excel the blossoms of the same plants of Shakespeare's own day, which we learn from the old herbalists were smaller and less varied in color and of simpler tints than those of their descendants. At the first glance this Shakespeare Border shines chiefly in the light of the imagination, as stirred by the poet's noble words; but do not dwell on this border as a whole, as something only to be looked at; read the pages of this garden, dwell on each leafy sentence, and you are entranced with its beautiful significance. It was not gathered with so much thought, and each plant and seed set out and watched and reared like a delicate child, to become a show place; it appeals for a more intimate regard; and we find that its detail makes its charm.
Such a garden as this appeals warmly to anyone who is sensitive to the imaginative element of flower beauty. Many garden makers forget that a flower bed is a group of living beings—perhaps of sentient beings—as well as a mass of beautiful color. Modern gardens tend far too much toward the display of the united effect of growing plants, to a striving for universal brilliancy, rather than attention to and love for separate flowers. There was refreshment of spirit as well as of the senses in the old-time garden of flowers, such as these planted in this Shakespeare Border, and it stirred the heart of the poet as could no modern flower gardens.
Long Border at Hillside.
Long Border at Hillside.
The scattering inflorescence and the tiny size of the blossoms give to this Shakespeare Border an unusualaspect of demureness and delicacy, and the plants seem to cling with affection and trust to the path of their human protector; they look simple and confiding, and seem close both to nature and to man. This homelike and modest quality is shown, I think, even in the presentation in black and white given onpage 216andopposite page 218, though it shows still more in the garden when the wide range of tint of foliage is added.
A most appropriate companion of the old flowers in this Shakespeare Border is the sun-dial, which is an exact copy of the one at Abbotsford, Scotland. It bears the mottoΕΡΧΕΤΑΙ ΓΑΡ ΝΥΞmeaning, "For the night cometh." It was chosen by Sir Walter Scott, for his sun-dial, as a solemn monitor to himself of the hour "when no man can work." It was copied from a motto on the dial-plate of the watch of the great Dr. Samuel Johnson; and it is curious that in both cases the wordΓΑΡshould be introduced, for it is not in the clause in the New Testament from which the motto was taken. It is a beautiful motto and one of singular appropriateness for a sun-dial. The pedestal of this sun-dial is of simple lines, but it is dignified and pleasing, aside from the great interest of association which surrounds it.
The Beauty of Winter Lilacs.
The Beauty of Winter Lilacs.
I had a happy sense, when walking through this garden, that, besides my congenial living companionship, I had the company of some noble Elizabethan ghosts; and I know that if Shakespeare and Jonson and Herrick were to come to Hillside, they would find the garden so familiar to them; they would greetthe plants like old friends, they would note how fine grew the Rosemary this year, how sweet were the Lady's-smocks, how fair the Gillyflowers. And Gerarde and Parkinson would ponder, too, over all the herbs and simples of their own Physick Gardens, and compare notes. Above all I seemed to see, walking soberly by my side, breathing in with delight the varied scents of leaf and blossom, that lover and writer of flowers and gardens, Lord Bacon—andnot in the disguise of Shakespeare either. For no stronger proofs can be found of the existence of two individualities than are in the works of each of these men, in their sentences and pages which relate to gardens and flowers.
This fair garden and Shakespeare Border are loveliest in the cool of the day, in the dawn or at early eve; and those who muse may then remember another Presence in a garden in the cool of the day. And then I recall that gem of English poesy which always makes me pitiful of its author; that he could write this, and yet, in his hundreds of pages of English verse, make not another memorable line:—
"A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot;Rose plot,Fringed pool,Ferned grot,The veriest school of Peace;And yet the foolContends that God is not in gardens.Not in gardens! When the eve is cool!Nay, but I have a sign.'Tis very sure God walks in mine."
"A Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot;Rose plot,Fringed pool,Ferned grot,The veriest school of Peace;And yet the foolContends that God is not in gardens.Not in gardens! When the eve is cool!Nay, but I have a sign.'Tis very sure God walks in mine."
Shakespeare Borders grow very readily and freely in England, save in the case of the few tropical flowers and trees named in the pages of the great dramatist; but this Shakespeare Border at Hillside needs much cherishing. The plants of Heather and Broom and Gorse have to be specially coddled by transplanting under cold frames during the long winter months in frozen Albany; and thus they find vast contrast to their free, unsheltered life in Great Britain.
Garden of Mrs. Frank Robinson, Wakefield, Rhode Island.
Garden of Mrs. Frank Robinson, Wakefield, Rhode Island.
Persistent efforts have been made to acclimate both Heather and Gorse in America. We have seen how Broom came uninvited and spread unasked on the Massachusetts coast; but Gorse and Heather have proved shy creatures. On the beautiful island of Naushon the carefully planted Gorse may be found spread in widely scattered spots and also on the near-by mainland, but it cannot be said to have thrived markedly. The Scotch Heather, too, has been frequently planted, and watched and pushed, but it is slow to become acclimated. It is not because the winters are too cold, for it is found in considerable amount in bitter Newfoundland; perhaps it prefers to live under a crown.
Modern authors have seldom given their names to gardens, not even Tennyson with his intimate and extended knowledge of garden flowers. A MaryHowitt Garden was planned, full of homely old blooms, such as she loves to name in her verse; but it would have slight significance save to its maker, since no one cares to read Mary Howitt nowadays. In that charming book,Sylvana's Letters to an Unknown Friend(which I know were written to me), the author, E. V. B., says, "The very ideal of a garden, and the only one I know, is found in Shelley'sSensitive Plant." With quick championing of a beloved poet, I at once thought of the radiant garden of flowers in Keats's heart and poems. Then I reread theSensitive Plantin a spirit of utmost fairness and critical friendliness, and I am willing to yield the Shelley Garden to Sylvana, while I keep, for my own delight, my Keats garden of sunshine, color, and warmth.
That Keats had a profound knowledge and love of flowers is shown in his letters as well as his poems. Only a few months before his death, when stricken with and fighting a fatal disease, he wrote:—
"How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world impress a sense of its natural beauties upon me! Like poor Falstaff, though I do not babble, I think of green fields. I muse with greatest affection on every flower I have known from my infancy—their shapes and colors are as new to me as if I had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the happiest moments of my life."
"How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world impress a sense of its natural beauties upon me! Like poor Falstaff, though I do not babble, I think of green fields. I muse with greatest affection on every flower I have known from my infancy—their shapes and colors are as new to me as if I had just created them with a superhuman fancy. It is because they are connected with the most thoughtless and the happiest moments of my life."
Near the close of hisEndymionhe wrote:—
"Nor much it grievesTo die, when summer dies on the cold sward.Why, I have been a butterfly, a lordOf flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor roses;My kingdom's at its death, and just it isThat I should die with it."
"Nor much it grievesTo die, when summer dies on the cold sward.Why, I have been a butterfly, a lordOf flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor roses;My kingdom's at its death, and just it isThat I should die with it."
In the summer of 1816, under the influence of a happy day at Hampstead, he wrote that lovely poem, "I stood tiptoe upon a little hill." After a description of the general scene, a special corner of beauty is thus told:—
"A bush of May flowers with the bees about them—Ah, sure no bashful nook could be without them—And let a lush Laburnum oversweep them,And let long grass grow round the roots to keep themMoist, cool, and green; and shade the VioletsThat they may bind the moss in leafy nets.A Filbert hedge with Wild-brier over trim'd,And clumps of Woodbine taking the soft wind,Upon their summer thrones...."
"A bush of May flowers with the bees about them—Ah, sure no bashful nook could be without them—And let a lush Laburnum oversweep them,And let long grass grow round the roots to keep themMoist, cool, and green; and shade the VioletsThat they may bind the moss in leafy nets.A Filbert hedge with Wild-brier over trim'd,And clumps of Woodbine taking the soft wind,Upon their summer thrones...."
Then come these wonderful lines, which belittle all other descriptions of Sweet Peas:—
"Here are Sweet Peas, on tiptoe for a flight,With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all thingsTo bind them all about with tiny wings."
"Here are Sweet Peas, on tiptoe for a flight,With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all thingsTo bind them all about with tiny wings."
Keats states in his letters that his love of flowers was wholly for those of the "common garden sort," notfor flowers of the greenhouse or difficult cultivation, nor do I find in his lines any evidence of extended familiarity with English wild flowers. He certainly does not know the flowers of woods and fields as does Matthew Arnold.
The Parson's Walk.
The Parson's Walk.
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table says: "Did you ever hear a poet who did not talk flowers? Don't you think a poem which for the sake of being original should leave them out, would be like those verses where the letteraore, or some other, is omitted? No; they will bloom over and over again in poems as in the summer fields, to the end of time, always old and always new." The Autocrat himself knew well a poet who never talked flowers in his poems, a poet beloved of all other poets,—Arthur Hugh Clough,—though he loved and knew all flowers. From Matthew Arnold's beautiful tribute to him, are a few of his wonderful flower lines, cut out from their fellows:—
"Through the thick Corn the scarlet Poppies peep,And round green roots and yellowing stalks I seePale blue Convolvulus in tendrils creep,And air-swept Lindens yieldTheir scent, and rustle down their perfumed showersOf bloom...,* * * * *"Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on,Soon will the Musk Carnations break and swell.Soon shall we have gold-dusted Snapdragon,Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell,And Stocks in fragrant blow."
"Through the thick Corn the scarlet Poppies peep,And round green roots and yellowing stalks I seePale blue Convolvulus in tendrils creep,And air-swept Lindens yieldTheir scent, and rustle down their perfumed showersOf bloom...,
* * * * *
"Soon will the high midsummer pomps come on,Soon will the Musk Carnations break and swell.Soon shall we have gold-dusted Snapdragon,Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell,And Stocks in fragrant blow."
Oh, what a master hand! Where in all English verse are fairer flower hues? And where is a more beautiful description of a midsummer evening, than Arnold's exquisite lines beginning:—
"The evening comes; the fields are still;The tinkle of the thirsty rill."
"The evening comes; the fields are still;The tinkle of the thirsty rill."
Dr. Holmes was also a master in the description of garden flowers. I should know, had I never been told save from his verses, just the kind of a Cambridge garden he was reared in, and what flowers grew in it. Lowell, too, gives ample evidence of a New England childhood in a garden.
The gardens of Shenstone'sSchoolmistressand of Thomson's poems come to our minds without great warmth of welcome from us; while Clare's lines are full of charm:—
"And where the Marjoram once, and Sage and Rue,And Balm, and Mint, with curl'd leaf Parsley grew,And double Marigolds, and silver Thyme,And Pumpkins 'neath the window climb.And where I often, when a child, for hoursTried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,As Lady's Laces, everlasting Peas,True-love-lies-bleeding, with the Hearts-at-easeAnd Goldenrods, and Tansy running high,That o'er the pale tops smiled on passers by."
"And where the Marjoram once, and Sage and Rue,And Balm, and Mint, with curl'd leaf Parsley grew,And double Marigolds, and silver Thyme,And Pumpkins 'neath the window climb.And where I often, when a child, for hoursTried through the pales to get the tempting flowers,As Lady's Laces, everlasting Peas,True-love-lies-bleeding, with the Hearts-at-easeAnd Goldenrods, and Tansy running high,That o'er the pale tops smiled on passers by."
A curious old seventeenth-century poet was the Jesuit, René Rapin. The copy of his poem entitledGardenswhich I have seen, is the one in my daughter's collection of garden books; it was "English'd by the Ingenious Mr. Gardiner," and published in 1728. Hallam in hisIntroduction to the Literature of Europegives a capital estimate of this long poem of over three thousand lines. I find them pretty dull reading, with much monotony of adjectives, and very affected notions for plant names. I fancy he manufactured all his tedious plant traditions himself.
Garden of Mary Washington.
Garden of Mary Washington.
A pleasing little book entitledDante's Gardenhas collected evidence, from his writings, of Dante's love of green, growing things. The title is rather strained, since he rarely names individual flowers, and only refers vaguely to their emblematic significance. I would have entitled the bookDante's Forest, since he chiefly refers to trees; and the Italian gardens of his days were of trees rather than flowers. There are passages in his writings which have led some of his worshippers to believe that his childhood was passed in a garden; but these references are very indeterminate.
The picture of a deserted garden, with its sad sentiment has charmed the fancy of many a poet. Hood, a true flower-lover, wrote this jingle in hisHaunted House:—