THE HERB GARDEN
"To have nothing here but Sweet Herbs, and those only choice ones
too, and every kind its bed by itself."
--DESIDERIUS ERASMUS, 1500.
In Montaigne's time it was the custom to dedicate special chapters of
books to special persons. Were it so to-day, I should dedicate this
chapter to the memory of a friend who has been constantly in my mind
while writing it; for she formed in her beautiful garden, near our
modern city, Chicago, the only perfect herb garden I know,--a garden
that is the counterpart of the garden of Erasmus, made four centuries
ago; for in it are "nothing but Sweet Herbs, and choice ones too, and
every kind its bed by itself." A corner of it is shown on page 108. This
herb garden is so well laid out that I will give directions therefrom
for a bed of similar planting. It may be placed at the base of a grass
bank or at the edge of a garden. Let two garden walks be laid out, one
at the lower edge, perhaps, of the bank, the other parallel, ten,
fifteen, twenty feet away. Let narrow paths be left at regular intervals
running parallel from walk to walk, as do the rounds of a ladder from
the two side bars. In the narrow oblong beds formed by these paths plant
solid rows of herbs, each variety by itself, with no attempt at
diversity of design. You can thus walk among them, and into them, and
smell them in their concentrated strength, and you can gather them at
ease. On the bank can be placed the creeping Thyme, and other
low-running herbs. Medicinal shrubs should be the companions of the
herbs; plant these as you will, according to their growth and habit,
making them give variety of outline to the herb garden.
[Illustration: Herb Garden at White Birches, Elmhurst, Illinois.]
There are few persons who have a strong enough love of leaf scents, or
interest in herbs, to make them willing to spend much time in working in
an herb garden. The beauty and color of flowers would compensate them,
but not the growth or scent of leafage. It is impossible to describe to
one who does not feel by instinct "the lure of green things growing,"
the curious stimulation, the sense of intoxication, of delight, brought
by working among such green-growing, sweet-scented things. The maker of
this interesting garden felt this stimulation and delight; and at her
city home on a bleak day in December we both revelled in holding and
breathing in the scent of tiny sprays of Rue, Rosemary, and Balm which,
still green, had been gathered from beneath fallen leaves and stalks in
her country garden, as a tender and grateful attention of one herb lover
to another. Thus did she prove Shakespeare's words true even on the
shores of Lake Michigan:--
"Rosemary and Rue: these keep
Seeming and savor all the winter long."
There is ample sentiment in the homely inhabitants of the herb garden.
The herb garden of the Countess of Warwick is called by her a Garden of
Sentiment. Each plant is labelled with a pottery marker, swallow-shaped,
bearing in ineradicable colors the flower name and its significance.
Thus there is Balm for sympathy, Bay for glory, Foxglove for sincerity,
Basil for hatred.
A recent number of _The Garden_ deplored the dying out of herbs in old
English gardens; so I think it may prove of interest to give the list of
herbs and medicinal shrubs and trees which grew in this friend's herb
garden in the new world across the sea.
Arnica, Anise, Ambrosia, Agrimony, Aconite.
Belladonna, Black Alder, Betony, Boneset or Thorough-wort, Sweet
Basil, Bryony, Borage, Burnet, Butternut, Balm, _Melissa
officinalis_, Balm (variegated), Bee-balm, or Oswego tea, mild,
false, and true Bergamot, Burdock, Bloodroot, Black Cohosh,
Barberry, Bittersweet, Butterfly-weed, Birch, Blackberry,
Button-Snakeroot, Buttercup.
Costmary, or Sweet Mary, Calamint, Choke-cherry, Comfrey,
Coriander, Cumin, Catnip, Caraway, Chives, Castor-oil Bean,
Colchicum, Cedronella, Camomile, Chicory, Cardinal-flower,
Celandine, Cotton, Cranesbill, Cow-parsnip, High-bush Cranberry.
Dogwood, Dutchman's-pipe, Dill, Dandelion, Dock, Dogbane.
Elder, Elecampane, Slippery Elm.
Sweet Fern, Fraxinella, Fennel, Flax, Fumitory, Fig, Sweet Flag,
Blue Flag, Foxglove.
Goldthread, Gentian, Goldenrod.
Hellebore, Henbane, Hops, Horehound, Hyssop, Horseradish,
Horse-chestnut, Hemlock, Small Hemlock or Fool's Parsley.
American Ipecac, Indian Hemp, Poison Ivy, wild, false, and blue
Indigo, wild yellow Indigo, wild white Indigo.
Juniper, Joepye-weed.
Lobelia, Lovage, Lavender Lemon Verbena, Lemon, Mountain Laurel,
Yellow Lady's-slippers, Lily of the Valley, Liverwort, Wild
Lettuce, Field Larkspur, Lungwort.
Mosquito plant, Wild Mint, Motherwort, Mullein, Sweet Marjoram,
Meadowsweet, Marshmallow, Mandrake, Mulberry, black and white
Mustard, Mayweed, Mugwort, Marigold.
Nigella.
Opium Poppy, Orange, Oak.
Pulsatilla, Pellitory or Pyrethrum, Red Pepper, Peppermint,
Pennyroyal, False Pennyroyal, Pope-weed, Pine, Pigweed, Pumpkin,
Parsley, Prince's-pine, Peony, Plantain.
Rhubarb, Rue, Rosemary, Rosa gallica, Dog Rose.
Sassafras, Saxifrage, Sweet Cicely, Sage (common blue), Sage (red),
Summer Savory, Winter Savory, Santonin, Sweet Woodruff, Saffron,
Spearmint, wild Sarsaparilla, Black Snakeroot, Squills, Senna,
St.-John's-Wort, Sorrel, Spruce Fir, Self-heal, Southernwood.
Thorn Apple, Tansy, Thyme, Tobacco, Tarragon.
Valerian, Dogtooth Violet, Blue Violet.
Witchhazel, Wormwood, Wintergreen, Willow, Walnut.
Yarrow.
[Illustration: Garden at White Birches. Elmhurst, Illinois.]
It will be noted that some common herbs and medicinal plants are
missing; there is, for instance, no Box; it will not live in that
climate; and there are many other herbs which this garden held for a
short time, but which succumbed under the fierce winter winds from Lake
Michigan.
It is interesting to compare this list with one made in rhyme three
centuries ago, the garland of herbs of the nymph Lelipa in Drayton's
_Muse's Elyzium_.
"A chaplet then of Herbs I'll make
Than which though yours be braver,
Yet this of mine I'll undertake
Shall not be short in savour.
With Basil then I will begin,
Whose scent is wondrous pleasing:
This Eglantine I'll next put in
The sense with sweetness seizing.
Then in my Lavender I lay
Muscado put among it,
With here and there a leaf of Bay,
Which still shall run along it.
Germander, Marjoram and Thyme,
Which used are for strewing;
With Hyssop as an herb most prime
Here in my wreath bestowing.
Then Balm and Mint help to make up
My chaplet, and for trial
Costmary that so likes the Cup,
And next it Pennyroyal.
Then Burnet shall bear up with this,
Whose leaf I greatly fancy;
Some Camomile doth not amiss
With Savory and some Tansy.
Then here and there I'll put a sprig
Of Rosemary into it,
Thus not too Little nor too Big,
'Tis done if I can do it."
[Illustration: Garden of Manning Homestead, Salem, Massachusetts.]
Another name for the herb garden was the olitory; and the word herber,
or herbar, would at first sight appear to be an herbarium, an herb
garden; it was really an arbor. I have such satisfaction in herb
gardens, and in the herbs themselves, and in all their uses, all their
lore, that I am confirmed in my belief that I really care far less for
Botany than for that old-time regard and study of plants covered by the
significant name, Wort-cunning. Wort was a good old common English word,
lost now in our use, save as the terminal syllable of certain
plant-names; it is a pity we have given it up since its equivalent,
herb, seems so variable in application, especially in that very trying
expression of which we weary so of late--herbaceous border. This seems
an architect's phrase rather than a florist's; you always find it on the
plans of fine houses with gardens. To me it annihilates every
possibility of sentiment, and it usually isn't correct, since many of
the plants in these borders are woody perennials instead of annuals;
any garden planting that is not "bedding-out" is wildly named "an
herbaceous border."
Herb gardens were no vanity and no luxury in our grandmothers' day; they
were a necessity. To them every good housewife turned for nearly all
that gave variety to her cooking, and to fill her domestic
pharmacopoeia. The physician placed his chief reliance for supplies on
herb gardens and the simples of the fields. An old author says, "Many an
old wife or country woman doth often more good with a few known and
common garden herbs, than our bombast physicians, with all their
prodigious, sumptuous, far-fetched, rare, conjectural medicines." Doctor
and goodwife both had a rival in the parson. The picture of the country
parson and his wife given by old George Herbert was equally true of the
New England minister and his wife:--
"In the knowledge of simples one thing would be carefully observed,
which is to know what herbs may be used instead of drugs of the
same nature, and to make the garden the shop; for home-bred
medicines are both more easy for the parson's purse, and more
familiar for all men's bodies. So when the apothecary useth either
for loosing Rhubarb, or for binding Bolearmana, the parson useth
damask or white Rose for the one, and Plantain, Shepherd's Purse,
and Knot-grass for the other; and that with better success. As for
spices, he doth not only prefer home-bred things before them, but
condemns them for vanities, and so shuts them out of his family,
esteeming that there is no spice comparable for herbs to Rosemary,
Thyme, savory Mints, and for seeds to Fennel and Caraway.
Accordingly, for salves, his wife seeks not the city, but prefers
her gardens and fields before all outlandish gums."
Simples were medicinal plants, so called because each of these vegetable
growths was held to possess an individual virtue, to be an element, a
simple substance constituting a single remedy. The noun was generally
used in the plural.
You must not think that sowing, gathering, drying, and saving these
herbs and simples in any convenient or unstudied way was all that was
necessary. Not at all; many and manifold were the rules just when to
plant them, when to pick them, how to pick them, how to dry them, and
even how to keep them. Gervayse Markham was very wise in herb lore, in
the suited seasons of the moon, and hour of the day or night, for herb
culling. In the garret of every old house, such as that of the Ward
Homestead, shown on page 116, with the wreckage of house furniture, were
hung bunches of herbs and simples, waiting for winter use.
The still-room was wholly devoted to storing these herbs and
manufacturing their products. This was the careful work of the house
mistress and her daughters. It was not intrusted to servants. One book
of instruction was entitled, _The Vertuouse Boke of Distyllacyon of the
Waters of all Manner of Herbs_.
Thomas Tusser wrote:--
"Good huswives provide, ere an sickness do come,
Of sundrie good things in house to have some,
Good aqua composita, vinegar tart,
Rose water and treacle to comfort the heart,
Good herbes in the garden for agues that burn,
That over strong heat to good temper turn."
[Illustration: Under the Garret Eaves of the Ward Homestead. Shrewsbury,
Massachusetts.]
Both still-room and simple-closet of a dame of the time of Queen
Elizabeth or Queen Anne had crowded shelves. Many an herb and root,
unused to-day, was deemed then of sovereign worth. From a manuscript
receipt book I have taken names of ingredients, many of which are
seldom, perhaps never, used now in medicine. Unripe Blackberries, Ivy
berries, Eglantine berries, "Ashen Keys," Acorns, stones of Sloes,
Parsley seed, Houseleeks, unripe Hazelnuts, Daisy roots, Strawberry
"strings," Woodbine tops, the inner bark of Oak and of red Filberts,
green "Broom Cod," White Thorn berries, Turnips, Barberry bark, Dates,
Goldenrod, Gourd seed, Blue Lily roots, Parsnip seed, Asparagus roots,
Peony roots.
From herbs and simples were made, for internal use, liquid medicines
such as wines and waters, syrups, juleps; and solids, such as conserves,
confections, treacles, eclegms, tinctures. There were for external use,
amulets, oils, ointments, liniments, plasters, cataplasms, salves,
poultices; also sacculi, little bags of flowers, seeds, herbs, etc., and
pomanders and posies.
That a certain stimulus could be given to the brain by inhaling the
scent of these herbs will not be doubted, I think, by the herb lover
even of this century. In the _Haven of Health_, 1636, cures were
promised by sleeping on herbs, smelling of them, binding the leaves on
the forehead, and inhaling the vapors of their boiling or roasting. Mint
was "a good Posie for Students to oft smell." Pennyroyal "quickened the
brain by smelling oft." Basil cleared the wits, and so on.
The use of herbs in medicine is far from being obsolete; and when we
give them more stately names we swallow the same dose. Dandelion bitters
is still used for diseases caused by an ill-working liver. Wintergreen,
which was universally made into tea or oil for rheumatism, appears now
in prescriptions for the same disease under the name of Gaultheria.
Peppermint, once a sovereign cure for heartburn and "nuralogy," serves
us decked with the title of Menthol. "Saffern-tea" never has lost its
good standing as a cure for the "jarnders." In country communities
scores of old herbs and simples are used in vast amounts; and in every
village is some aged man or woman wise in gathering, distilling, and
compounding these "potent and parable medicines," to use Cotton Mather's
words. One of these gatherers of simples is shown opposite page 120, a
quaint old figure, seen afar as we drive through country by-roads, as
she bends over some dense clump of weeds in distant meadow or pasture.
In our large city markets bunches of sweet herbs are still sold; and
within a year I have seen men passing my city home selling great bunches
of Catnip and Mint, in the spring, and dried Sage, Marjoram, and other
herbs in the autumn. In one case I noted that it was the same man,
unmistakably a real countryman, whom I had noted selling quail on the
street, when he had about forty as fine quail as I ever saw. I never saw
him sell quail, nor herbs. I think his customers are probably all
foreigners--emigrants from continental Europe, chiefly Poles and
Italians.
The use of herbs as component parts of love philters and charms is a
most ancient custom, and lingered into the nineteenth century in country
communities. I knew but one case of the manufacture and administering
of a love philter, and it was by a person to whom such an action would
seem utterly incongruous. A very gentle, retiring girl in a New England
town eighty years ago was deeply in love with the minister whose church
she attended, and of which her father was the deacon. The parson was a
widower, nearly of middle age, and exceedingly sombre and reserved in
character--saddened, doubtless, by the loss of his two young children
and his wife through that scourge of New England, consumption; but he
was very handsome, and even his sadness had its charm. His house, had
burned down as an additional misfortune, and he lived in lodgings with
two elderly women of his congregation. Therefore church meetings and
various gatherings of committees were held at the deacon's house, and
the deacon's daughter saw him day after day, and grew more desperately
in love. Desperate certainly she was when she dared even to think of
giving a love philter to a minister. The recipe was clearly printed on
the last page of an old dream book; and she carried it out in every
detail. It was easy to introduce it into the mug of flip which was
always brewed for the meeting, and the parson drank it down
abstractedly, thinking that it seemed more bitter than usual, but
showing no sign of this thought. The philter was promised to have effect
in making the drinker love profoundly the first person of opposite sex
whom he or she saw after drinking it; and of course the minister saw
Hannah as she stood waiting for his empty tankard. The dull details of
parish work were talked over in the usual dragging way for half an
hour, when the minister became conscious of an intense coldness which
seemed to benumb him in every limb; and he tried to walk to the
fireplace. Suddenly all in the room became aware that he was very ill,
and one called out, "He's got a stroke." Luckily the town doctor was
also a deacon, and was therefore present; and he promptly said, "He's
poisoned," and hot water from the teakettle, whites of eggs, mustard,
and other domestic antidotes were administered with promptitude and
effect. It is useless to detail the days of agony to the wretched girl,
during which the sick man wavered between life and death, nor her
devoted care of him. Soon after his recovery he solemnly proposed
marriage to her, and was refused. But he never wavered in his love for
her; and every year he renewed his offer and told his wishes, to be met
ever with a cold refusal, until ten years had passed; when into his
brain there entered a perception that her refusal had some extraordinary
element in it. Then, with a warmth of determination worthy a younger
man, he demanded an explanation, and received a confession of the
poisonous love philter. I suppose time had softened the memory of his
suffering, at any rate they were married--so the promise of the love
charm came true, after all.
[Illustration: A Gatherer of Simples.]
Amos Bronson Alcott was another author of Concord, a sweet philosopher
whom I shall ever remember with deepest gratitude as the only person who
in my early youth ever imagined any literary capacity in me (and in that
he was sadly mistaken, for he fancied I would be a poet). I have read
very faithfully all his printed writings, trying to believe him a great
man, a seer; but I cannot, in spite of my gratitude for his flattering
though unfulfilled prophecy, discover in his books any profound signs of
depth or novelty of thought. In his _Tablets_ are some very pleasant, if
not surprisingly wise, essays on domestic subjects; one, on "Sweet
Herbs," tells cheerfully of the womanly care of the herb garden, but
shows that, when written--about 1850--borders of herbs were growing
infrequent.
One great delight of old English gardens is never afforded us in New
England; we do not grow Lavender beds. I have of course seen single
plants of Lavender, so easily winter-killed, but I never have seen a
Lavender bed, nor do I know of one. It is a great loss. A bed or hedge
of Lavender is pleasing in the same way that the dress of a Quaker lady
is pleasing; it is reposeful, refined. It has a soft effect at the edge
of a garden, like a blue-gray haze, and always reminds me of doves. The
power of association or some inherent quality of the plant, makes
Lavender always suggest freshness and cleanliness.
We may linger a little with a few of these old herb favorites. One of
the most balmy and beautiful of all the sweet breaths borne by leaves or
blossoms is that of Basil, which, alas! I see so seldom. I have always
loved it, and can never pass it without pressing its leaves in my hand;
and I cannot express the satisfaction, the triumph, with which I read
these light-giving lines of old Thomas Tusser, which showed me why I
loved it:--
"Faire Basil desireth it may be hir lot
To growe as the gilly flower trim in a pot
That Ladies and Gentils whom she doth serve
May help hir as needeth life to preserve."
An explanation of this rhyme is given by _Tusser Redivivus_: "Most
people stroak Garden Basil which leaves a grateful smell on the hand and
he will have it that Stroaking from a fair lady preserves the life of
the Basil."
This is a striking example of floral telepathy; you know what the Basil
wishes, and the Basil knows and craves your affection, and repays your
caress with her perfume and growth. It is a case of mutual attraction;
and I beg the "Gentle Reader" never to pass a pot or plant of Basil
without "stroaking" it; that it may grow and multiply and forever retain
its relations with fair women, as a type of the purest, the most
clinging, and grateful love.
One amusing use of Basil (as given in one of my daughter's old Herbals)
was intended to check obesity:--
"TO MAKE THAT A WOMAN SHALL EAT OF NOTHING THAT IS SET UPON THE
TABLE:--Take a little green Basil, and when Men bring the Dishes to
the Table put it underneath them that the Woman perceive it not; so
Men say that she will eat of none of that which is in the Dish
whereunder the Basil lieth."
I cannot understand why so sinister an association was given to a pot of
Basil by Boccaccio, who makes the unhappy Isabella conceal the head of
her murdered lover in a flower pot under a plant of Basil; for in Italy
Basil is ever a plant of love, not of jealousy or crime. One of its
common names is _Bacia, Nicola_--Kiss me, Nicholas. Peasant girls always
place Basil in their hair when they go to meet their sweethearts, and an
offered sprig of Basil is a love declaration. It is believed that
Boccaccio obtained this tale from some tradition of ancient Greece,
where Basil is a symbol of hatred and despair. The figure of poverty was
there associated with a Basil plant as with rags. It had to be sown with
abuse, with cursing and railing, else it would not flourish. In India
its sanctity is above all other herbs. A pious Indian has at death a
leaf of Basil placed in his bosom as his reward. The house surrounded by
Basil is blessed, and all who cherish the plant are sure of heaven.
Mithridate was a favorite medicine of our Puritan ancestors; there were
various elaborate compound rules for its manufacture, in which Rue
always took a part. It was simple enough in the beginning, when King
Mithridates invented it as an antidote against poison: twenty leaves of
Rue pounded with two Figs, two dried Walnuts and a grain of salt; which
receipt may be taken _cum grano salis_. Rue also entered into the
composition of the famous "Vinegar of the Four Thieves." These four
rascals, at the time of the Plague in Marseilles, invented this vinegar,
and, protected by its power, entered infected houses and carried away
property without taking the disease. Rue had innumerable virtues. Pliny
says eighty-four remedies were made of it. It was of special use in case
of venomous bites, and to counteract "Head-Ach" from over indulgence in
wine, especially if a little Sage were added. It promoted love in man
and diminished it in woman; it was good for the ear-ache, eye-ache,
stomach-ache, leg-ache, back-ache; good for an ague, good for a surfeit;
indeed, it would seem wise to make Rue a daily article of food and thus
insure perpetual good health.
The scent of Rue seems never dying. A sprig of it was given me by a
friend, and it chanced to lie for a single night on the sheets of paper
upon which this chapter is written. The scent has never left them, and
indeed the odor of Rue hangs literally around this whole book.
Summer Savory and Sweet Marjoram are rarely employed now in American
cooking. They are still found in my kitchen, and are used in scant
amount as a flavoring for stuffing of fowl. Many who taste and like the
result know not the old-fashioned materials used to produce that flavor,
and "of the younger sort" the names even are wholly unrecognized.
Sage is almost the only plant of the English kitchen garden which is
ordinarily grown in America. I like its fresh grayness in the garden. In
the days of our friend John Gerarde, the beloved old herbalist, there
was no fixed botanical nomenclature; but he scarcely needed botanical
terms, for he had a most felicitous and dextrous use of words. "Sage
hath broad leaves, long, wrinkled, rough, and whitish, like in roughness
to woollen cloth threadbare." What a description! it is far more vivid
than the picture here shown. Sage has never lost its established place
as a flavoring for the stuffing for ducks, geese, and for sausages; but
its universal employment as a flavoring for Sage cheese is nearly
obsolete. In my childhood home, we always had Sage cheese with other
cheeses; it was believed to be an aid in digestion. I had forgotten its
taste; and I must say I didn't like it when I ate it last summer, in New
Hampshire.
[Illustration: Our Friend, John Gerarde.]
Tansy was highly esteemed in England as a medicine, a cosmetic, and a
flavoring and ingredient in cooking. It was rubbed over raw meat to keep
the flies away and prevent decay, for in those days of no refrigerators
there had to be strong measures taken for the preservation of all
perishable food. Its strong scent and taste would be deemed intolerable
to us, who can scarce endure even the milder Sage in any large quantity.
A good folk name for it is "Bitter Buttons." Gerarde wrote of Tansy, "In
the spring time, are made with the leaves hereof newly sprung up, and
with Eggs, cakes or Tansies, which be pleasant in Taste and goode for
the Stomach."
[Illustration: Sage.]
"To Make a Tansie the Best Way," I learn from _The Accomplisht Cook_,
was thus:--
"Take twenty Eggs, and take away five whites, strain them with a
quart of good sweet thick Cream, and put to it a grated nutmeg, a
race of ginger grated, as much cinnamon beaten fine, and a penny
white loaf grated also, mix them all together with a little salt,
then stamp some green wheat with some tansie herbs, strain it into
the cream and eggs and stir all together; then take a clean
frying-pan, and a quarter of a pound of butter, melt it, and put in
the tansie, and stir it continually over the fire with a slice,
ladle, or saucer, chop it, and break it as it thickens, and being
well incorporated put it out of the pan into a dish, and chop it
very fine; then make the frying-pan very clean, and put in some
more butter, melt it, and fry it whole or in spoonfuls; being
finely fried on both sides, dish it up and sprinkle it with
rose-vinegar, grape-verjuyce, elder-vinegar, cowslip-vinegar, or
the juyce of three or four oranges, and strow on a good store of
fine sugar."
To all of this we can say that it would certainly be a very good
dish--without the Tansy. Another mediaeval recipe was of Tansy, Feverfew,
Parsley, and Violets mixed with eggs, fried in butter, and sprinkled
with sugar.
The Minnow-Tansie of old Izaak Walton, a "Tanzie for Lent," was made
thus:--
"Being well washed with salt and cleaned, and their heads and tails
cut off, and not washed after, they prove excellent for that use;
that is being fried with the yolks of eggs, the flowers of cowslips
and of primroses, and a little tansy, thus used they make a dainty
dish."
The name Tansy was given afterward to a rich fruit cake which had no
Tansy in it. It was apparently a favorite dish of Pepys. A certain
derivative custom obtained in some New England towns--certainly in
Hartford and vicinity. Tansy was used to flavor the Fast Day pudding.
One old lady recalls that it was truly a bitter food to the younger
members of the family; Miss Shelton, in her entertaining book, _The Salt
Box House_, tells of Tansy cakes, and says children did not dislike
them. Tansy bitters were made of Tansy leaves placed in a bottle with
New England rum. They were a favorite spring tonic, where all physicians
and housewives prescribed "the bitter principle" in the spring time.
No doubt Tansy was among the earliest plants brought over by the
settlers; it was carefully cherished in the herb garden, then spread to
the dooryard and then to farm lanes. As early as 1746 the traveller Kalm
noted Tansy growing wild in hedges and along roads in Pennsylvania. Now
it extends its sturdy growth for miles along the country road, one of
the rankest of weeds. It still is used in the manufacture of proprietary
medicines, and for this purpose is cut with a sickle in great armfuls
and gathered in cartloads. I have always liked its scent; and its
leaves, as Gerarde said, "infinitely jagged and nicked and curled"; and
its cheerful little "bitter buttons" of gold. Some old flowers adapt
themselves to modern conditions and look up-to-date; but to me the
Tansy, wherever found, is as openly old-fashioned as a betty-lamp or a
foot-stove.
[Illustration: Tansy.]
On July 1, 1846, an old grave was opened in the ancient "God's Acre"
near the halls of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts. This
grave was a brick vault covered with irregularly shaped flagstones about
three inches thick. Over it was an ancient slab of peculiar stone,
unlike any others in the cemetery save those over the graves of two
presidents of the College, Rev. Dr. Chauncy and Dr. Oakes. As there were
headstones near this slab inscribed with the names of the
great-grandchildren of President Dunster, it was believed that this was
the grave of a third President, Dr. Dunster. He died in the year 1659;
but his death took place in midwinter; and when this coffin was opened,
the skeleton was found entirely surrounded with common Tansy, in seed, a
portion of which had been pulled up by the roots, and it was therefore
believed by many who thought upon the matter that it was the coffin and
grave of President Mitchell, who died in July, 1668, of "an extream
fever." The skeleton was found still wrapped in a cerecloth, and in the
record of the church is a memorandum of payment "for a terpauling to
wrap Mr. Mitchell." The Tansy found in this coffin, placed there more
than two centuries ago, still retained its shape and scent.
This use of Tansy at funerals lingered long in country neighborhoods in
New England, in some vicinities till fifty years ago. To many older
persons the Tansy is therefore so associated with grewsome sights and
sad scenes, that they turn from it wherever seen, and its scent to them
is unbearable. One elderly friend writes me: "I never see the leaves of
Tansy without recalling also the pale dead faces I have so often seen
encircled by the dank, ugly leaves. Often as a child have I been sent to
gather all the Tansy I could find, to be carried by my mother to the
house of mourning; and I gathered it, loathing to touch it, but not
daring to refuse, and I loathe it still."
Tansy not only retains its scent for a long period, but the "golden
buttons" retain their color; I have seen them in New England parlors
forming part of a winter posy; this, I suppose, in neighborhoods where
Tansy was little used at funerals.
[Illustration: Garden of Mrs. Abraham Lansing, Albany, New York.]
If an herb garden had no other reason for existence, let me commend it
to the attention of those of ample grounds and kindly hearts, for a
special purpose--as a garden for the blind. Our many flower-charities
furnish flowers throughout the summer to our hospitals, but what
sweet-scented flowers are there for those debarred from any sight of
beauty? Through the past summer my daughters sent several times a week,
by the generous carriage of the Long Island Express Company, boxes of
wild flowers to any hospital of their choice. What could we send to the
blind? The midsummer flowers of field and meadow gratified the sight,
but scent was lacking. A sprig of Sweet Fern or Bayberry was the only
resource. Think of the pleasure which could be given to the sightless by
a posy of sweet-scented leaves, by Southernwood, Mint, Balm, or Basil,
and when memory was thereby awakened in those who once had seen, what
tender thoughts! If this book could influence the planting of an herb
garden for the solace of those who cannot see the flowers of field and
garden, then it will not have been written in vain.