men, best; and yet the same axe which murdered Anne Bulleyn, was used to
revenge herself on him. The bloody task took three strokes, which so
enraged the multitude, (who loved Essex) that they would have torn the
executioner to pieces, had not the soldiers prevented them. Mr. Hutton,
in his "Journey to London," observes, that "their vengeance ought to
have been directed against the person who caused him to use it." What
her reflections were on these two bloody acts when on her death-bed, we
scarcely know. A modern writer on horticulture, nearly concludes a very
pleasing work, by enumerating (with slight historical notices) the
several plants cultivated in our gardens. He thus concludes his account
of one:--"Queen Elizabeth, in her last illness, eat little but Succory
Pottage." Mr. Loudon says it is used "as a fodder for cattle." The
French call it Chicoree _sauvage_. Her taste must have been something
like her heart. Poor Mary eat no supper the night previous to _her_ last
illness. Had it been possible for Elizabeth to have read those pages of
Robertson, which paint the long succession of calamities which befel
Mary, and the insolence and brutality she received from Darnley, and
which so eloquently plead for her frailties, perhaps even these pages
would not have softened her bloody disposition, which she seems to have
inherited from that insolent monster, her father. "Mary's sufferings
(says this enchanting historian) exceed, both in degree and duration,
those tragical distresses which fancy has feigned, to excite sorrow and
commiseration; and while we survey them, we are apt altogether to forget
her frailties; we think of her faults with less indignation, and approve
of our tears as if they were shed for a person who had attained much
nearer to pure virtue. With regard to the queen's person, all
contemporary authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of
countenance, and elegance of shape, of which the human form is capable.
Her hair was black, though, according to the fashion of that age, she
frequently borrowed locks, and of different colours. Her eyes were a
dark grey; her complexion was exquisitely fine, and her hands and arms
remarkably delicate, both as to shape and colour. Her stature was of an
height that rose to the majestic. She danced, she walked, and she rode
with equal grace. She sung, and played upon the lute with uncommon
skill."
[69] I will merely give this brief extract as one out of many of great
force and beauty, from his _Salmonia_:--"If we look with wonder upon the
great remains of human works, such as the columns of Palmyra, broken in
the midst of the desert, the temples of Paestum, beautiful in the decay
of twenty centuries, or the mutilated fragments of Greek sculpture in
the Acropolis of Athens, or in our own Museum, as proofs of the genius
of artists, and power and riches of nations now past away, with how much
deeper feeling of admiration must we consider those grand monuments of
nature, which mark the revolutions of the globe; continents broken into
islands; one land produced, another destroyed; the bottom of the ocean
become a fertile soil; whole races of animals extinct; and the bones and
exuviae of one class covered with the remains of another, and upon the
graves of past generations--the marble or rocky tomb, as it were, of a
former animated world--new generations rising, and order and harmony
established, and a system of life and beauty produced, as it were, out
of chaos and death; proving the infinite power, wisdom, and goodness, of
the GREAT CAUSE OF ALL BEING!" I must trespass on my reader, by again
quoting from _Salmonia_:--"I envy no quality of the mind or intellect in
others; not genius, power, wit, or fancy; but if I could choose what
would be most delightful, and I believe most useful to me, I should
prefer _a firm religious belief_ to every other blessing; for it makes
life a discipline of goodness--creates new hopes, when all earthly hopes
vanish; and throws over the decay, the destruction of existence, the
most gorgeous of lights; awakens life even in death, and from corruption
and decay calls up beauty and divinity: makes an instrument of torture
and of shame the ladder of ascent to Paradise; and, far above all
combinations of earthly hopes, calls up the most delightful visions of
palms and amaranths, the gardens of the blest, the security of
everlasting joys, where the sensualist and the sceptic view only gloom,
decay, annihilation, and despair!"
[70] In this delightful essay, he says, "the most exquisite delights of
sense are pursued, in the contrivance and plantation of gardens, which,
with fruits, flowers, shades, fountains, and the music of birds that
frequent such happy places, seem to furnish all the pleasures of the
several senses."
[71] Mr. Johnson, in his History of English Gardening, admirably
confirms this conflagration argument, by quoting the opinion or
testimony of the celebrated Goethe.
[72] To this interesting subject is devoted, a part of Mr. Loudon's
concise and luminous review "Of the Rise, Progress, and Present State of
Gardening in the British Isles;" being chapter iv. of his Encyclopaedia.
[73] Perhaps there are few pages that more awfully paint the sacredness
of this spot, than page 36 in the fifth edition of Dr. Alison's Essays
on Taste.
[74] I do not mean to apply to the hospitable table of this reverend
gentleman, the lines of Peter Pindar:--
One cut from _venison_, to the heart can speak,
Stronger than ten quotations from the _Greek_.
[75] I cannot prevent myself from quoting a very small portion of the
animated address of another clergyman, the Rev. J. G. Morris, as
chairman to the Wakefield Horticultural Society. I am certain each one
of my readers will blame me for not having inserted the whole of this
eloquent appeal. I copy it from the Gardener's Magazine for August,
1828:--"Conscious that I possessed no qualifications to fit me for the
task, and feeling that it ill became me to assume it, as I am as yet
nearly a stranger amongst you; aware, too, that I should be surrounded
by individuals so much more eligible, inasmuch as they are eminently
gifted with botanical science and practical knowledge, the result of
their horticultural pursuits and facilities, of which I am quite devoid;
I wished and begged to decline the proffered honour. It appears,
however, that my entreaties are not listened to, and that your kindness
and partiality persist in selecting for your chairman one so inadequate
to the situation. Gentlemen, I take the chair with much diffidence; but
I will presume to say, that, in the absence of other qualities, I bring
with me a passionate love for plants and flowers, for the sweets and
beauties of the garden, and no inconsiderable fondness for its more
substantial productions. Gardening, as a recreation and relaxation from
severer studies and more important avocations, has exquisite charms for
me; and I am ready, with old _Gerarde_, to confess, that 'the principal
delight is in the mind, singularly enriched with the knowledge of these
visible things; setting forth to us the invisible wisdom and admirable
workmanship of Almighty God.' With such predilections, you will easily
give me credit, gentlemen, for participating with this assembly in the
sincerest wishes for the complete and permanent establishment of a
society amongst us, whose object shall be to promote, in the surrounding
district, the introduction of different sorts of flowers, culinary
vegetables, fruits, improved culture and management generally, and _a
taste_ for botany as a science. These are pursuits, gentlemen, combining
at once health and innocence, pleasure and utility. Wakefield and its
vicinity appear to possess facilities for the accomplishment of such a
project, inferior to no district within this great palatinate, indeed,
little inferior to any in the kingdom. The country is beautiful and
charmingly varied, and, from the diversity of soil, suited to varied
productions; the whole thickly interspersed with seats and villas of
persons of opulence, possessing their conservatories, hot-houses, and
stoves, their orchards, flower and kitchen gardens: whilst few towns can
boast (as Wakefield can) of so many gardens within its enclosure,
cultivated with so much assiduity and skill, so much taste and deserved
success. Seven years ago, I had the honour to originate a similar
project in Preston, in Lancashire, and with the happiest success. In
that borough, possessing far less advantages than Wakefield offers, a
horticultural society was established, which, in its four annual
meetings, assembles all the rank and fashion of a circuit of more than
ten miles, and numbers more than a hundred and twenty subscribers to its
funds. Those who have not witnessed the interesting sight, can form but
a faint idea of the animating scene which is presented in a spacious and
handsome room, tastefully adorned with the choicest exotics from various
conservatories, and the more choice, because selected with a view to
competition: decorated with the varied beauties of the parterre, vieing
with each other in fragrance, hue, and delicacy of texture; whilst the
tables groan under the weight of delicious fruits and rare vegetables in
endless variety, the joint produce of hot-houses, stoves, orchards, and
kitchen gardens. Figure to yourselves, gentlemen, this elysium, graced
by some hundreds of our fair countrywomen, an absolute galaxy of
animated beauty, and that music lends its aid, and you will agree with
me that a more fascinating treat could hardly be devised. New flowers,
new fruits, recent varieties of those of long standing and established
character for excellence, are thus introduced, in lieu of those whose
inferiority is no longer doubtful. New culinary vegetables, or, from
superior treatment or mode of culture, rendered more salubrious and of
exquisite flavour, will load the stalls of our market-gardeners. I call
upon you, then, gentlemen, for your zealous support. Say not that you
have no gardens, or that your gardens are inconsiderable, or that you
are no cultivators; you are all interested in having good and delicious
fruits, nutritious and delicate culinary vegetables, and in procuring
them at a reasonable rate, which will be the results of improved and
successful cultivation. At our various exhibitions, let each contribute
that in which he excels, and our object will be attained. Gentlemen, I
fear I have trespassed too long on your patience and indulgence. I will
just urge one more motive for your warm support of our intended society;
it is this: that, by diffusing a love of plants and gardening, you will
materially contribute to the comfort and happiness of the laborious
classes; for the pleasure taken in such pursuits forms an
unexceptionable relaxation from the toils of business, and every hour
thus spent is subtracted from the ale-house and other haunts of idleness
and dissipation."
[76] In the grounds of _Hagley_, were once inscribed these lines:--
Here Pope!--ah, never must that tow'ring mind
To his loved haunts, or dearer friend return;
What art, what friendships! oh! what fame resign'd:
In yonder glade I trace his mournful urn.
[77] At Holm-Lacey is preserved a sketch, in crayons, by Pope, (when on
a visit there) of Lord Strafford by Vandyke. It is well known that Pope
painted Betterton in oil colours, and gave it to Lord Mansfield. The
noble lord regretted the loss of this memorial, when his house was
consumed at the time of the disgraceful and ignorant riots.
[78] Sir Joshua Reynolds used to tell the following anecdote relative to
Pope.--"When Reynolds was a young man, he was present at an auction of
very scarce pictures, which attracted a great crowd of _connoisseurs_
and others; when, in the moment of a very interesting piece being put
up, Mr. Pope entered the room. All was in an instant, from a scene of
confusion and bustle, a dead calm. The auctioneer, as if by instinct,
suspended his hammer. The audience, to an individual, as if by the same
impulse, rose up to receive the poet; and did not resume their seats
till he had reached the upper end of the room."
A similar honour was paid to the Abbe Raynal, whose reputation was such,
that the Speaker of the House of Commons observing _him_ among the
spectators, suspended the business of the house till he had seen the
eloquent historian placed in a more commodious seat. It is painful to
relate, that this powerful writer, and good man, who narrowly escaped
the guillotine, expired in a garret, in extreme poverty, at the age of
eighty-four; the only property he left being one assignat of fifty
livres, worth not threepence in ready money. Perhaps one might have
applied the following anecdote (told by Dr. Drake in his Literary Hours)
to Abbe Raynal:--"A respectable character, having long figured in the
gay world at Paris, was at length compelled to live in an obscure
retreat in that city, the victim of severe misfortunes. He was so
indigent, that he subsisted only on an allowance from the parish. Every
week bread was sent to him sufficient for his support, and yet at
length, he demanded more. On this the curate sent for him. 'Do you live
alone?' said the curate. 'With whom, sir, is it possible I should live?
I am wretched, since I thus solicit charity, and am abandoned by all the
world.' 'But, sir, if you live alone, why do you ask for more bread than
is sufficient for yourself?' The other at last, with great reluctance,
confessed that he had a dog. The curate desired him to observe, that he
was only the distributor of the bread that belonged to the poor, and
that it was absolutely necessary that he should dispose of his dog. 'Ah,
sir!' exclaimed the poor man, weeping, 'and if I lose my dog, who is
there then to love me?' The good pastor took his purse, and giving it to
him, 'take this, sir,' said he; 'this is mine--this I _can_ give.'"
[79] How applicable are Gray's lines to Lord Byron himself, now!
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this _neglected_ spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire!--
[80] Mr. Bowles, in some stanzas written since the death of Byron, thus
feelingly apostrophizes his noble spirit:--
But I will bid th' Arcadian cypress wave,
Pluck the green laurel from Peneus' side,
And pray thy spirit may such quiet have
That not one thought unkind be murmur'd o'er thy grave.
[81] Perhaps one motive (no doubt there were numberless others) that
_might_ have induced Mr. Mason thus to honour the memory of Pope,
----_letting cold tears bedew his silver urn_,
_might_ have been from the recollection of his attachment to what
equally charmed Mr. Mason--the love of gardens.
[82] I know not whether Milton's portrait should have been here noticed.
In a note to the eloquent, the talented, and graceful "Discours
d'Installation, prononce par M. le Vicomte H. de Thury, president de la
Societe d'Horticulture de Paris," it is beautifully observed, that
"Personne n'a mieux decrit ce delicieux jardin que Milton. Les Anglais
regardent comme le type de tous les jardins paysagers, et pittoresques,
la description que fait Milton du jardin d'Eden, et qui atteste que se
sublime genie etoit egalement poete, peintre et paysagiste." As I have
sought for the portraits of Mr. George Mason, and of Mr. Whateley, and
have noticed those of Launcelot Brown, and Mr. Walpole, Mr. Cradock, M.
R. P. Knight and Sir U. Price, who were all _paysagists_; surely our
great and severe republican was one.
The Prince de Ligne speaks thus of Milton:--"les vers enchanteurs de ce
Roi des poetes, et des _jardiniers_.
I do not know that every one will agree with Switzer in the concluding
part of what he says of Milton, in the History of Gardening, prefixed to
his Iconologia:--"But although things were in this terrible combustion,
we must not omit the famous Mr. John Milton, one of Cromwell's
Secretaries; who, by his excellent and never-to-be-equalled poem of
Paradise Lost, has particularly distinguished gardening, by taking that
for his theme; and shows, that though his eyes deprived him of the
benefit of seeing, yet his mind was wonderfully moved with the
philosophy, innocence, and beauty of this employ; his books, though
mixed with other subjects, being a kind of a philosophical body of
gardening, as well as divinity. Happy man! _had his pen been employed on
no other subject_."
It must be needless reminding my reader, that Mr. Walpole's powerful pen
has taken care that our mighty poet, (who "on evil days, though fallen,
and with darkness and solitude compassed round,") shall not be
_defrauded of half his glory_.
It is gratifying to remark, that an edition of Paradise Lost is now
announced for publication, in which the zeal of its spirited proprietors
has determined, that every word shall be printed in letters of gold. The
sanction of some of our most distinguished divines, and men of high
rank, evince the pride with which we all acknowledge the devout zeal and
mighty powers of the blind poet.
[83] Mr. Garrick's fondness for ornamental gardening, induced him finely
to catch at this invention, in his inimitable performance of Lord
Chalkstone.
[84] Dr. Pulteney relates this anecdote of Mr. Miller: "He was the only
person I ever knew who remembered to have seen Mr. Ray. I shall not
easily forget the pleasure that enlightened his countenance, it so
strongly expressed the _Virgilium tantum vidi_, when, in speaking of
that revered man, he related to me that incident of his youth." I regret
that Mr. Ray only meditated a work to have been entitled _Horti_ Angliae.
Had he written it, I should have felt a singular pride in introducing
his valued name in the present imperfect volume.
[85] The generous minded reader will be gratified by referring to the
kind tribute, paid to the memory of Shenstone, by Mr. Loudon, at p. 76
of his Encyclopaedia. Of this Encyclopaedia, Mr. Johnson, in his History
of Gardening, thus speaks:--"Taken as a whole, it is the most complete
book of gardening ever published;"--and that, with the exception of
chymistry, "every art and science, at all illustrative of gardening, are
made to contribute their assistance."
[86] In his "Unconnected Thoughts" he admires the _Oak_, for "its
majestic appearance, the rough grandeur of its bark, and the wide
protection of its branches: a large, branching, aged oak, is, perhaps,
the most venerable of all inanimate objects."
[87] Tea was the favourite beverage of Dr. Johnson. When Hanway
pronounced his anathema against it, Johnson rose in defence of it,
declaring himself "in that article a hardened sinner, having for years
diluted my meals with the infusion of that fascinating plant; my
tea-kettle has had no time to cool; with tea I have solaced the midnight
hour, and with tea welcomed the morning." Mr. Pennant was a great lover
of tea; a hardy honest Welch parson, on hearing that he usually retired
in the afternoon to his summer-house to enjoy that beverage, was moved
with indignation, that any thing weaker than ale or wine should be drunk
there; and calling to mind the good hunting times of old, passionately
exclaimed, "his father would have scorned it."
[88] Sir Uvedale thus expresses his own sensations when viewing some of
these plantations:--"The inside fully answers to the dreary appearance
of the outside; of all dismal scenes it seems to me the most likely for
a man to hang himself in; he would, however, find some difficulty in the
execution, for amidst the endless multitude of stems, there is rarely a
single side branch to which a rope could be fastened. The whole wood is
a collection of tall naked poles.... Even its gloom is without
solemnity; it is only dull and dismal; and what light there is, like
that of hell,
_Serves only to discover scenes of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades._"
[89] This observation confirms what Sir U. Price so pointedly enforces
throughout the whole of his causticly sportive letter to Mr. Repton:
"that the best landscape painters would be the best landscape gardeners,
were they to turn their minds to the practical part; consequently, a
study of their works, the most useful study to an improver."--And that
"Van Huysum would be a much better judge of the merits and defects of
the most dressed scene--of a mere flower garden,--than a gardener."
[90] Mr. Browne was not an author; yet the title of the present volume
is "On the Portraits of English _Authors_ on Gardening." Neither was old
Bridgman nor Kent _authors_ on this subject; still I could not prevail
on myself to pass over such names in total silence.
[91] Mr. Clive resided at Moreton-Say, near Market-Drayton. He was a
prebend of Westminster. Integrity marked every action of his life. In
his village, scarcely a poor man existed. His kindness and benevolence
to the poor, could only be equalled by his friendly hospitality and kind
feeling to the more affluent in his neighbourhood:
_Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,
Follow thee up to joy and bliss for ever._
Miss Seward thus concludes one of her letters to him:--"I wish none were
permitted to enter the lists of criticism but those who feel poetic
beauty as keenly as yourself, and who have the same generous desire that
others should feel it." I mention Mr. Clive with gratitude, from a
recollection of kindnesses received from him at a very early period of
my life, and which were of such a nature, as could not fail to animate
the mind of a young man to studious exertions. Archdeacon Plimley (now
the truly venerable Archdeacon Corbet, and who has been so long an
honour to his native county), in his Agricultural Survey of Shropshire,
respectfully introduces Mr. Clive's name; and when he addressed his
charge to the diocese of Hereford, in 1793, one really cannot but apply
to Mr. Clive, what he so eloquently enforces in that charge to each
clergyman:--"to cultivate a pure spirit within their own bosoms; to be
in every instance the right-hand neighbour to each parishioner; their
private adviser, their public monitor, their example in christian
conduct, their joy in health, their consolation in sickness." In the
same vault with Mr. Archdeacon Clive, lies buried Robert Lord Clive,
conqueror of _Plassy_: on whose death appeared these extempore lines, by
a man of distinction, a friend to Lord Clive:--
Life's a surface, slippery, glassy,
Whereon tumbled Clive of Plassy;
All the wealth the east could give,
Brib'd not death to let him live:
There's no distinction in the grave
'Twixt the nabob and the slave.
His lordship's death, in 1774, was owing to the same cause which
hastened that of the most worthy of men, Sir Samuel Romilly--from
shattered and worn out nerves;--from severe study in the latter, and
from the burning climate of the east in the former. Had Lord Clive lived
a few years longer, he would have enriched the whole neighbourhood round
his native spot. His vigorous, ardently-gifted, and penetrating mind,
projected plantations and other improvements, that could only have been
conceived by such minds as Olivier de Serres, or by Sully, or by our own
Evelyn. He was in private life beloved. He was generous, social and
friendly; and if ever charity to the poor warmed the breast of any
mortal, it warmed that of Lord Clive. Few men had more kind affections
than Lord Clive.
[92] The following passage from a favourite book of Dr. Darwin's, (the
System of Nature, by Linnaeus) will well apply to that searching and
penetrating mind, which so strongly possessed him through life.--"How
small a part of the great works of nature is laid open to our eyes, and
how many things are going on in secret which we know nothing of! How
many things are there which this age first was acquainted with! How many
things that we are ignorant of will come to light when all memory of us
shall be no more! for nature does not at once reveal all her secrets. We
are apt to look on ourselves as already admitted into the sanctuary of
her temple; we are still only in the porch." How full of grace, of
tenderness, and passion, is that elegy, which he composed the night he
feared a life he so passionately loved (Mrs. Pole, of Radburn,) was in
imminent danger, and when he dreamed she was dead:
Stretch'd on her sable bier, the grave beside,
A snow-white shroud her breathless bosom bound,
O'er her white brow the _mimic lace_ was tied,
And loves, and virtues, hung their garlands round.
From these cold lips did softest accents flow?
Round that pale mouth did sweetest dimples play?
On this dull cheek the rose of beauty blow,
And those dim eyes diffuse celestial rays?
Did this cold hand unasking want relieve,
Or wake the lyre to every rapturous sound?
How sad, for other's woes, this breast could heave!
How light this heart, for other's transport, bound!