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CHAPTER XII
Climbers

The originator of the "Mansion House" was compelled to obey literally the scripture injunction and "build upon a rock." A substratum of that safe "foundation" lay directly beneath the site chosen for his home and must have been hewn or exploded out previous to the placing of its corner stone. Consequently within a good foot or more of the house there is found but a thin layer of soil, where climbers may not obtain a foothold. I had formerly great success with perennial vines and creepers, among them may be counted Bignonia Radicans (Trumpet Creeper), "Baltimore Belle" (rose), Matrimony (now nearly obsolete), which I once trained with yellow Flowering Currant over the entire length and breadth of a veranda. This method of growing the Currant I claim as entirely my own. We latticed the piazza with copper wire, and its combination with the Matrimony (or "Tea Vine") was most effective and made a very dense screen. My Prairie Rose was also a marked success. So was my Hop Vine, my Scarlet Honeysuckle, and a pink climbing rose given me by a neighbor. I cannot recall its name, but well remember how it ran riot over an entire lattice, arched over the long French window in my first parlor, and how the June west wind blew its petals in from the raised window, in scented showers, about the parlor floor.

Among the annual vines I have had fine Coboea Scandens – climbing like "Jack's bean" to the very top of things. With Moonflower I have failed, although I soaked the big seed over night and sowed with great care. It is an exquisite flower, and I have seen it brought into beautiful bloom. The common native Morning Glory, which "grows and takes no care," as a matter of course does well with all.

Not so the Japanese (Ipomoea Imperialis). Lured by the seedsman's pictures of this wonder, year after year I waste good money on seed packets of that disappointing flower. My seed germinates after a fashion and sometimes I get a flower or two a trifle larger than those on the native vines, but about the same in color. Three summers ago I potted a seedling and gave it a small trellis. To my great delight it bore a few precious flowers of cerulean hue daintily striped with white. Thus encouraged I still include Japanese Morning Glories in my list of annuals, ordering them from one seedsman after another, if, peradventure, I might hit the man who furnishes the marvels which I have read about – the fluted, fringed, and rainbow-hued, the bona fide Ipomoea Imperialis.

When, fifteen years ago, after a long absence, I went for a summer outing to my native town it was the time of Honeysuckles – the evening air was loaded with their perfume, for there not to have a Honeysuckle is to be poor indeed.

Glad was I to walk in the June moonlight and again revel in the dear familiar odor. When I again left my old home I bore with me three thrifty roots of this lovely vine given me by kind friends. These were carefully planted in a sheltered corner of our Cambridge garden. From that hour I have had Honeysuckles to spare. Grown to big precious vines the three came with us to this garden, where they now cover four wooden trellises, a bit of the garden wall, and an irregular arch at the end of our piazza. Their runners have supplied the entire neighborhood with young vines, twelve of which have already come into bloom, not counting one in Malden and another in Chelsea. Last winter in common with many others I suffered a partial loss of my Honeysuckles from winter-killing. The roots were, however, still intact, and, though we missed their full bloom, their foliage is now (middle of August) as fine as ever.

It is but lately that I have learned that the Honeysuckle and the Woodbine of England are one and the same.

The English Honeysuckle blooms monthly; the Japanese Honeysuckle is not a monthly bloomer. It blossoms with the June roses, and sometimes bears a spray or two of bloom in late autumn. It differs in other ways from the English – has not its pink shading nor its dainty scent. Milton, in Lycidas, calls it "the well-attired Woodbine" – perhaps this is because of its continuous flowering. The oriental variety has in this day superseded the English. More rapid in growth and easier of culture it falls in with the hurrying sentiment of the time. It has been my good fortune to possess in my day three English Honeysuckles —now, mine are all Japanese. The poets, from Chaucer down to Wordsworth, have sung the praises of the Woodbine.

The elder poet drew his image of constant affection from the clinging nature of the Woodbine (or "bind") and its enduring hold on the wedded tree. Contrary to the habit of most other vines the Honeysuckle follows, in its windings, the sun.

The Weigelia, a shrub belonging to the Honeysuckle family, was introduced from China, and is named after Weigel, a German naturalist.

Here end my hints in regard to the selection and culture of such everyday herbaceous plants, shrubs, annuals, and vines as are attainable to the garden-lover of moderate means. Many rarer specimens are (as a matter of course) within reach of one with a longer purse, who holds (with me) that Victor Hugo "hit the nail on the head" when he paradoxically asserted that "the beautiful is as useful as the useful, perhaps more so."

To me one of the beautiful uses of flowers is to cut them for interior decoration.

Our grandmothers had no vocation for out-of-door life. A garden was to them a place to "grow things" in, to work and walk in, but to sit in? never! All the same the big "bowpots" were duly filled, and although less artistically arranged than the vases of today, were a part of the housewife's plan of living, and bore witness to the divine truth that "man cannot live by bread alone."

Lafcadio Hearn tells us that "to the Japanese the arranging of a bough of blossoms is a serious act of life. That the placing of flowers is indeed an exact science, to the study of which a man may devote seven years, even fourteen years, before he will be acknowledged a master."

As a rule avoid painted china vases in arranging cut flowers. Let the vase be artistic in shape and well adapted to the flowers it holds, but never so gay in color as to rival them. Single flowers arrange best, and, as a general rule, put each variety in a glass by itself. Roses, Nasturtiums, and Sweet Peas seem especially well-suited to table decoration. They are all "good enough to eat."

CHAPTER XIII
Gardens "in Spain"

The poorest of us have our "castles in Spain." Why not have our gardens? Such a garden I have "in my mind's eye," but before I make bold to describe this airy creation (which, for lack of leisure and "hard cash," is doomed never to materialize) let me explain that my garden in Spain is not purely ornamental; that its beds and walks, although tastefully laid out, are strictly devoted to "the useful," to culinary and medicinal ends. In earlier times our Materia Medica (including though it did the unsavory pills and potions now become somewhat out of date) pinned its faith largely to Nature's ready-to-hand specifics. "Simples," as these herbs were then called (probably in contradistinction to the complex preparations of the doctor), were even in our own generation zealously gathered by our grandmothers; and I well remember the time when to be without dried herbs – Boneset, Hoarhound, Wormwood, Motherwort, Catnip, and Gentian – was to be shiftless indeed.

In laying out this imaginary garden plot I have covered a good half acre of rich soil, which I have, in fancy, divided into pretty beds of various size and shape, with neat intersecting gravel walks. There I have sown or planted such herbs as once hung in generous bunches, drying leisurely, in all respectable garrets, when such minor ailments as "flesh is heir to" were cured on the spot and only on alarming occasions the doctor, with his pill boxes, his blisters, and lancet, called in.

Various are the uses and virtues of these medicinal herbs. "Gentian," says an old herbalist, "will worke admirable cures for the stomache and lungs. It is also a special counter-poison against any poison, as against the violence of a mad dog's tooth."

Modern physicians find one species of Gentian soporific and use it to procure sleep for the weary sufferer. G. Latea is the Gentian of commerce, and is used as a tonic. The old herbalists commend the Common Centaury as a cure for jaundice and ague, and tell us that an infusion of the plant removes freckles. Of Jacob's Ladder (a plant of the genus Smilax) Pliny tells us that the name by which it is known to us is derived from Polimis (war), because two kings having each claimed the merit of discovering the great uses of the herb had recourse to arms to settle the disputed question.

The old "Simplers" (herbalists) commend Penny Royal tea as a remedy for coughs and colds – "goode and wholesome for the lungs" – and add that "a garlande of the plant worn about the heade will cure giddeness."

Foxglove (Digitalis) was praised by old herbalists for its various medicinal uses, "divers having been cured thereby of falling sickness." Later, skillful practitioners have discovered its power over the action of the heart, and Digitalis has come to be a highly-valued medicine.

Common Vervain rivals the Mistletoe in its occult usages. "Many old wives' fables tending to witchcraft and sorcerie," says Gerarde, "are written of Vervayne."

"The Druids," according to Pliny, often used Vervain in "casting lots, telling fortunes, and foreshadowing future national events." Its gathering was attended with peculiar ceremonies. "It was to be sought for at the rising of the great Dog-star, and when plucken an offering of honeycomb was to be made to the Earth as a recompense for depriving her of so goodly an herb." The ancients believed that "if the hall or dining chamber be sprinkled with the water wherein Vervain lay steeped all that sate at the table should be very pleasant, and make merry more jocundly."

The Romans considered it a sacred plant, placing it in the hands of ambassadors who were about to enter on important embassies; and the floors of their houses were rubbed with Vervain to drive away evil spirits. In England, at a later time, the plant was called "Holy herb," and had its superstitious usages intimating a belief in its magical properties. Of late years it is there tied round the neck as a charm to cure ague.

Vervain is still believed to possess great medicinal virtues, and is described as a remedy for thirty different maladies. It had of old the expressive name of "Simpler's Joy."

The Verbena tribe of this plant is cultivated in our gardens for its showy clusters of pink, purple, white, and dazzling scarlet blossoms, and the Lemon variety for its delicately fragrant leaves.

According to the old "Simplers" "the roote of the Caraway may be eaten like the parsnip, and helpeth digestion and strengtheneth the stomaches of ancient (aged) people exceedingly, and they need not make a whole meal of them neither."

In some countries Angelica is (we are told) called by a name signifying the "Holy Ghost." In ancient times its leaf stalks were blanched like those of celery and eaten as a salad, or they were dried and preserved as a sweet-meat, "Candied Angelica." The Laplander believes that the use of Angelica prolongs life, and chews it as he would do tobacco.

The Highlanders have the same opinion of the virtues of Lovage. The simplers have advised "gentlewomen" "to nourse it up in their kitchen gardens to helpe their own family and their poore neighbors that are faire remote from phisitions and Chirurgeons." They also affirm that "if a man carry about him Angelica root the witches doe have no power over him."

The nourishment in the roots of wild herbs has often kept the Indian tribes from starvation in times of scarcity of game, when they had to depend on these and on crows, eagles, and devil fish to sustain life while awaiting the "coming of the salmon," that in fishing time leaped in prodigious numbers in their rivers.

I remember reading of an especially providential instance where in a region desolated by grasshoppers the people were, for the time, sustained on the roots of herbs which these greedy cormorants had, necessarily, left intact.

For an interesting and exhaustive treatment of this branch of botanical information the reader is referred to Anna Pratt's "British Flowering Plants," a work from which much of my own knowledge has been obtained.

"If," says an old writer, "I shoulde set down all the sortes of herbes that are usually gathered for sallets I should not only speake of garden herbes, but of many herbes which grow wilde in the fieldes, or else be but weedes in a garden."

George Herbert, in his "Priest to the Temple," while enumerating the duties of the parson and his family, thus writes: "For salves his wife seeks not the city, but prefers her gardens and fields before all outlandish gums; and surely hyssop, valerian, adder's tongue, melilot, and St. John's-wort, made into a salve, and elder, comfrey, and smallage made into poultice, have done great and rare cures." And he piously adds: "In curing of any, the Parson and his family, use to premise with prayer; for this is to cure like a parson, and this raiseth the action from the Shop to the Church."

Catmint or Catnip is the "New Wine" of the Grimalkin family. It is said that it is not intoxicating to them until its odor is perceptible to their smell by breaking or bruising the plant.

Catnip is fabled to make the most gentle human beings fierce and wrathful, and it is related of a certain pusillanimous hangman that he only gained courage to perform the duties of his wretched vocation by chewing catnip root.

One who experimented with Catnip as an incitement to ferocity assures us that "for 24 hours after a dose of this root she retained a perfect equanimity of temper and feeling."

But enough space has already been given to the healing herbs that plant themselves in my Garden in Spain, and now let me tell you of the dear little imaginary beds devoted to my sweet-scented "pot-herbs." In these I please myself with tending Coriander, Mint, Anise, and Cumin, Dill, Lovage, Thyme, Lavender, Angelica, Sweet Sicily, Rosemary, Comfrey, Fennel, Sweet Basil, Penny Royal, and Balm.

Here, too, may be found less poetical herbs of solid worth in the cuisine – as Sage, Parsley, Summer Savory, Sweet Marjoram, and so on. Many fragrant pot-herbs are dear to my heart simply from long association, others are widely distinguished by historical eminence.

Coriander has the especial claim of "long descent." Its pedigree dates back to the time of the Egyptian Pharaohs, and it is possibly coeval with the Sphinx and the pyramids. It would seem to have been in common use among the Hebrews at the time of their exodus from Egypt, as Moses, in the Book of Numbers, tells us that Manna was in appearance like Coriander seed. It is said to have been in use by the ancients both as a condiment and a medicine. In our day it forms an ingredient in Curry powder, and is used in confectionery.

Mint, Rue, and Cumin have each a delightful flavor of antiquity. The tithe or tax upon these ancient herbs paid so scrupulously by the Pharisees bears testimony to their commercial value full nineteen centuries ago. To think of these miserable hypocrites having mint-sauce to their "spring lamb" and, possibly, "peppermint creams" to their dessert! It is, however, good to know that the dear little babies of the time were privileged with anise seed tea in the stress of colic. How bitter-flavored cumin served them I cannot say, but it is to be hoped that these "Scribes and Pharisees" (whom even their imitators frankly anathematize) what time they had "spring feelin's" were not let off with homemade decoctions of innocent "Simples," but were mercilessly dosed, by the "Holy Land" doctors, with nasty potions of Senna and Salts.

Lavender, Rosemary, Basil, and Sweet Marjoram have all been celebrated in verse. Keats has sent cold shivers down our backs with his gruesome story of "Isabella" and her flower-pot of Sweet Basil, with its ghastly hiding:

 
"And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new moon she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten'd it with tears unto the core."
 

Sweet Marjoram in England produces its fragrant blossom at such elevations as to have gained the pretty name "Joy of the Mountains." Shakespeare has added interest to it by making it the password in the tragedy of "King Lear."

In fancy one can see the faithful Edgar with his mutilated father, the duke, climbing to the "dread summit of that chalky bourn," and hear Edgar saying to his father:

"Hark! do you hear the sea?"

"The swete marjoroms," says an old writer, "are not only much used to please the outward senses in nosegaies, and in the windows of houses, as also in swete powders, swete bags, and swete washing waters, but are also of much use in physick, to comfort the inward members."

Caraway calls up the cookies dear to childhood, and a spray of green Fennel brings back, as if by touch of the enchanter's wand – "Minister Garner" in the old meetin'-house under the big "sounding board" (relentless as fate) pursuing his theme to the bitter end, while seated, in the pen-like box pew, beside our devout grandmother, we tone ourselves down to the solemn occasion, with no higher aspiration than the wish to be butterflies sailing gayly in the outside sunshine. Virtue has, at last, its reward. At about the minister's soporific "fifthly" our grandmother catches herself nodding. Opening her roomy black silk workbag she gives herself a saving nibble of fennel and passes a delicious spray of this spicy herb to each of her three grandchildren.

Dear old grandma! a full half century ago her soul went home to God, yet still I recall my childish picture of her angel sweeping with wide wings the blue eternal spaces, with never-withering sprays of fennel in her hand.

One lingers lovingly over these pretty "Herbs O' Grace," of which the half has not here been told. But, already it is time to write finis at the end of this vagary – "My Garden in Spain."

CHAPTER XIV
The Cerebral Processes of Plants

I find it good to think of plants as mysterious fellow-existences, about which the half is not yet known – to speculate on their psychological properties – on what has been called "The cerebral processes of plants."

Darwin has thus expressed himself on this interesting question:

"It has," he says, "always pleased me to exalt plants in the scale of organized beings, and I therefore felt especial pleasure in showing how many and what admirably well-adapted movements the tip of a root possesses… It was impossible in accordance with the principle of evolution," he goes on to say, "to account for climbing plants having been developed in so many widely different groups, unless all plants possess some slight power of movement of an analogous kind. This I proved to be the case."

In his "Power of Movement in Plants" he still farther expresses this conviction: "The tips of all young growing parts of the higher plants continually revolve, bowing successively towards every point of the compass." And he declares that "it is hardly an exaggeration to say that the tip of the radicle endowed with such diverse kinds of sensitiveness and having the power to direct the movements of the adjoining parts, acts like the brain of one of the lower animals, the brain being seated within the anterior end of the body, receiving impressions from the sense-organs and directing the several movements."

Great truths gain ground by inches. This assumption of the great scientist is not yet generally admitted, although, as I think, well established by experimental proof. An interesting paper in "Forest and Garden," prepared by T. D. Ingersoll of Erie, Pennsylvania, and entitled "Signs of Intelligence in a Madeira Vine."

I here copy verbatim:

"Two or three years ago I began, without any great seriousness, an experiment on some Madeira Vines, which presently began to prove more interesting than was anticipated. Before this my attention had been attracted to peculiar movements made by this plant in the course of its spiral ascent of a stick. If allowed to grow a few inches above the support the extremity of the plant will sway backward and forward a few hours and then will enter upon a regular revolving movement, always from right to left, or contrary to the direction in which the hands of a watch move. One revolution consumes about three hours. One of my plants began to grow on April first, and at the end of fourteen days was twelve inches tall and showing signs of uneasiness – now bending away from a vertical position and again standing nearly upright. On the 16th it was eighteen inches high, and, being too top-heavy to stand erect, it began to fall away from the pot, which stood upon a table, towards the floor. This was done gradually and apparently with conscious care. It seemed to feel at times that it was letting itself down too fast, when it would stop with a jerk, like a nodding child half asleep. When near the floor it began describing ellipses, about three inches in diameter, with its upturned extremity. On the 19th it was twenty-six inches in length, and would describe a crescent-shaped loop, seventeen inches in length by six inches in breadth, in about two hours. On the 23d it was three feet four inches long, revolving with less regularity, and at times drooped as if weary or discouraged in trying to find something upon which it might entwine itself. Thus far no opportunity had been given the plant to climb, since it was desirable to see what it would do to meet the absence of some support. On the 26th a new route of traverse was undertaken at 6 a. m., and at nine o'clock the extremity, which was near the floor at the left side of the pot, had described a circle six inches in diameter. It then slowly swept around to the right side and made another irregular circle, and then returned to the left side of the pot; these movements occupied just twelve hours. The track of the tip of the vine was carefully traced with a pencil upon a sheet of paper laid beneath it, and the entire line of traverse measured no less than six feet nine inches. During the evening the plant became quiet, and probably remained so all night. At 10 a. m. the next day, however, it began pointing its tip in various directions, and at noon assumed the form of a corkscrew, about four inches long, which posture it retained until night and then straightened out. On May first the vine was lifted and tied to a vertical support – a large thread – where it remained entirely quiescent for two days. Then it began growing again as if it had recovered from what had been for six days a condition near the point of death.

"Another vine was observed carefully during several days of cloudy weather. It uncoiled itself from the stick and reached away toward the light at an angle with the horizon of forty-five degrees. It was carefully recoiled about its stick, but after it had grown some three inches more it unwound itself and stood away toward the window as before. Time after time during the continuance of the cloudy weather it was brought back to its support but invariably left it. Then followed a fortnight of bright sunny weather, during which the vine showed no disposition to escape from its stick or stop its twining growth. Attempts were made to induce another plant to twine in the direction opposite to its normal one, but no ingenuity could deceive the plant as to its proper course. All the experiments seemed to show how much like an animal was the plant in its sensitiveness, not only to changes of light and temperature, but to harsh treatment. Whenever restrained or forced, no matter how tenderly, out of its natural method of growth, all progress was retarded and the health of the vine disturbed in a marked degree. Plants seem to be creatures of feeling and the similarity of movement and apparent purpose between them and the lower orders of animals are used to strengthen their theory by those who hold to the doctrine of the identity of life in the two kingdoms."

Dr. Dwight, in his paper in "Scribner's" entitled "Right-handedness" still further develops the theory of brain power in plants. "The spiral growth," says this writer, "of a graceful climbing plant, at first sight, suggests nothing like right or left-handedness, but the analogy when once seen is very striking. As the young plant begins its upward course it is clear that to make the coils which it is its nature to describe, it must either turn to the right or left. It might be supposed that its deviation to either side is the result of an accident, but this is impossible, for, though the individual plants of some kinds do twine indiscriminately to either side, some only curl to the right and others to the left. More remarkable still, some species twist in the opposite direction to that of the larger families to which they belong, and finally, sometimes a particular plant grows the wrong way. This is analogous to being left-handed."

From Mrs. Pratt's "Flowering Plants of England" I take this account of the curious movements of the seed-vessel of the "Musk Stork's Bill."

It is a relation of Mr. Mallet of Dublin of his personal observation of the capsule movements of this remarkable flower. "Each seed," says the writer, "of which there are five to each flower, is enclosed in a carpel, attached by its upper extremity to a tail or awn, which possesses the most wonderful hygrometric sensibility, as, indeed, does every other part of the plant. These five awns lie in grooves in the receptacle of the flowers, and this receptacle is central to and is the axis of all parts of the flower and the fruit.

"When the whole system has arrived at a certain point of aridity the awns, which are provided with an exquisite power of torsion, hoist themselves out from their grooves and at the same moment a number of downy filaments, hidden in the back or inward face of the awns, bristle forth; they all now become detached and fall to the ground. But here they still continue to twist, and from the position in which they always lie keep tumbling over and over, and thus receding from the parent plant until at length they become perfect balloons, ready to be wafted away by every zephyr."

The theory that "plants can see," or, at any rate, manage to find food and support by some special sense, which the unscientific mind cannot better name than to call it sight, has been corroborated in the "Rural Press" by Mrs. King, who thus describes her husband's observation of this interesting habit on the part of a creeping plant in India:

"He was sitting on the veranda, with one foot up against a large pillar near to which grows a kind of convolvulus. Its tendrils were leaning over into the veranda, and, to Robert's surprise, he presently noticed that they were visibly turning toward his leg. He remained in the same position and in less than an hour the tendrils had laid themselves over his leg.

"This was in the early morning, and when at breakfast he told me of this discovery we determined to make further experiments. When we went out into the veranda the tendrils had turned their heads back to the railing in disgust. We got a pole and leaned it up against the pillar quite twelve inches from the nearest sprays of convolvulus.