Part 11 (1/2)

I shall now exhibit two paintings of bowers. I begin with one from Spenser.

A BOWER

And over him Art stryving to compayre With Nature did an arber greene dispied[041]

Framed of wanton yvie, flouring, fayre, Through which the fragrant eglantine did spred His p.r.i.c.kling armes, entrayld with roses red, Which daintie odours round about them threw And all within with flowers was garnished That, when myld Zephyrus emongst them blew, Did breathe out bounteous smels, and painted colors shew

And fast beside these trickled softly downe A gentle streame, whose murmuring wave did play Emongst the pumy stones, and made a sowne, To lull him soft asleepe that by it lay The wearie traveiler wandring that way, Therein did often quench his thirsty head And then by it his wearie limbes display, (Whiles creeping s...o...b..r made him to forget His former payne,) and wypt away his toilsom sweat.

And on the other syde a pleasaunt grove Was shott up high, full of the stately tree That dedicated is t'Olympick Iove, And to his son Alcides,[042] whenas hee In Nemus gayned goodly victoree Theirin the merry birds of every sorte Chaunted alowd their cheerful harmonee, And made emongst themselves a sweete consort That quickned the dull spright with musicall comfort.

_Fairie Queene, Book 2 Cant. 5 Stanzas 29, 30 and 31._

Here is a sweet picture of a ”shady lodge” from the hand of Milton.

EVE'S NUPTIAL BOWER.

Thus talking, hand in hand alone they pa.s.s'd On to their blissful bower. It was a place Chosen by the sov'reign Planter, when he framed All things to man's delightful use, the roof Of thickest covert was inwoven shade, Laurel and myrtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf, on either side Acanthus, and each odorous bushy shrub, Fenced up the verdant wall, each beauteous flower Iris all hues, roses, and jessamine, Rear'd high their flourish'd heads between, and wrought Mosaic, under foot the violet, Crocus, and hyacinth, with rich inlay Broider'd the ground, more colour'd than with stone Of costliest emblem other creature here, Beast, bird, insect, or worm, durst enter none, Such was their awe of man. In shadier bower More sacred and sequester'd, though but feign'd, Pan or Sylva.n.u.s never slept, nor nymph Nor Faunus haunted. Here, in close recess, With flowers, garlands, and sweet smelling herbs, Espoused Eve deck'd first her nuptial bed, And heavenly quires the hymenean sung

I have already quoted from Leigh Hunt's ”Stories from the Italian poets”

an amusing anecdote ill.u.s.trative of Ariosto's ignorance of botany. But even in these days when all sorts of sciences are forced upon all sorts of students, we often meet with persons of considerable sagacity and much information of a different kind who are marvellously ignorant of the vegetable world.

In the just published Memoirs of the late James Montgomery, of Sheffield, it is recorded that the poet and his brother Robert, a tradesman at Woolwich, (not Robert Montgomery, the author of 'Satan,'

&c.) were one day walking together, when the trader seeing a field of flax in full flower, asked the poet what sort of corn it was. ”Such corn as your s.h.i.+rt is made of,” was the reply. ”But Robert,” observes a writer in the _Athenaeum_, ”need not be ashamed of his simplicity.

Rousseau, naturalist as he was, could hardly tell one berry from another, and three of our greatest wits disputing in the field whether the crop growing there was rye, barley, or oats, were set right by a clown, who truly p.r.o.nounced it wheat.”

Men of genius who have concentrated all their powers on some one favorite profession or pursuit are often thus triumphed over by the vulgar, whose eyes are more observant of the familiar objects and details of daily life and of the scenes around them. Wordsworth and Coleridge, on one occasion, after a long drive, and in the absence of a groom, endeavored to relieve the tired horse of its harness. After torturing the poor animal's neck and endangering its eyes by their clumsy and vain attempts to slip off the collar, they at last gave up the matter in despair. They felt convinced that the horse's head must have swollen since the collar was put on. At last a servant-girl beheld their perplexity. ”La, masters,” she exclaimed, ”you dont set about it the right way.” She then seized hold of the collar, turned it broad end up, and slipped it off in a second. The mystery that had puzzled two of the finest intellects of their time was a very simple matter indeed to a country wench who had perhaps never heard that England possessed a Shakespeare.

James Montgomery was a great lover of flowers, and few of our English poets have written about the family of Flora, the sweet wife of Zephyr, in a more genial spirit. He used to regret that the old Floral games and processions on May-day and other holidays had gone out of fas.h.i.+on.

Southey tells us that in George the First's reign a grand Florist's Feast was held at Bethnall Green, and that a carnation named after his Majesty was _King of the Year_. The Stewards were dressed with laurel leaves and flowers. They carried gilded staves. Ninety cultivators followed in procession to the sound of music, each bearing his own flowers before him. All elegant customs of this nature have fallen into desuetude in England, though many of them are still kept up in other parts of Europe.

Chaucer who dearly loved all images a.s.sociated with the open air and the dewy fields and bright mornings and radiant flowers makes the gentle Emily,

That fairer was to seene Than is the lily upon his stalkie greene,

rise early and do honor to the birth of May-day. All things now seem to breathe of hope and joy.

Though long hath been The trance of Nature on the naked bier Where ruthless Winter mocked her slumbers drear And rent with icy hand her robes of green, That trance is brightly broken! Glossy trees, Resplendent meads and variegated flowers Flash in the sun and flutter in the breeze And now with dreaming eye the poet sees Fair shapes of pleasure haunt romantic bowers, And laughing streamlets chase the flying hours.

D.L.R.

The great describer of our Lost Paradise did not disdain to sing a

SONG ON MAY-MORNING.

Now the bright Morning star, Day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose Hail bounteous-May, that dost inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale do boast thy blessing.

Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee and wish thee long.

Nor did the Poet of the World, William Shakespeare, hesitate to

Do observance to a morn of May.