with bright-plumaged birds from the East. Here, too, were often
enclosures for wild beasts, much prized by the lord of the castle, to
whom they may have been proffered as peace-offerings, or as friendly
gifts from some neighbouring lord. Strange beasts were royal gifts;
for kings, we read, made such offerings to each other. Even as early
as the ninth century, Haroun al Raschid sent an elephant to
Charlemagne. It was brought to Aix-la-Chapelle by Isaac the Jew, and
survived its long walk seven years, and it would be interesting to
know by what route it journeyed thither in those days. These private
zoological gardens may possibly account for the comparative
accuracy with which the early miniaturists painted such beasts as
lions, bears, and leopards, which otherwise they might have had no
chance of studying.
One of the greatest delights of the garden was the bower in which the
warm months were passed. Here meals were taken, and merry pastimes
enjoyed, as long as daylight lasted. Hither came tumblers and
dancing-girls, and sometimes performing animals. A poor captive bear
would be made to stumble over the rough roads for miles in order to go
through its grotesque antics before some joyous company of dames and
gallants. But spring and youth was the time to be gay, and nothing
came amiss to these light-hearted folk.
The bower was also the "privy playing place," and all care was taken
to make its leafy screen grow close and thick. Perhaps one of the most
interesting references to a green arbour--interesting because of the
romance which was the cause of its mention--is in a poem by King James
I. of Scotland, telling of sad years in prison, which ended in love
and liberty. James, whilst still a young man, was imprisoned in
Windsor Castle, and writing to solace himself with something more
tangible than the mere contemplation of his beloved one, and to while
away time, describes the garden with "herbere green," which he saw
through the barred window of his prison-house. Leaning his head
against the cold stone wall, by night he gazed at the stars, by day
at the garden. And weary and woe-begone as he was, he says, "to look,
it did me good."
Now there was made fast by the tower wall
A garden fair, and in the corners set
A herbere green, with wands so long and small
Railed all about: and so with trees close set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knit
That no one though he were near walking by
Might there within scarce any one espy.
* * * * *
So thick the branches and the leafage green.
Beshaded all the alleys that there were,
And 'midst of ev'ry herbere might be seen
The sharp and green sweet-scented juniper,
Growing so fair with branches here and there,
That, as it seemed to any one without,
The branches spread the herbere all about.
* * * * *
And on the slender green-leaved branches sat
The little joyous nightingales, and sang
So loud and clear, the carols consecrat
To faithful love.[45]
[45] _King's Quair_, verse 31 _seq._
This "garden fair" was the scene of the romance which solaced this
royal prisoner, and helped him to bear his irksome lot, and to be able
to exclaim, after nearly eighteen years' captivity--a captivity since
boyhood:
Thanks be to the massive castle wall,
From which I eagerly looked forth and leant.
Looking from his window he espied, notwithstanding "hawthorne hedges"
and "beshaded alleys," Lady Johanna Beaumont (whom he wedded on his
release) walking in the garden. Neither poet nor historian tells how
they found means to communicate with one another, but tradition,
which is sometimes twin-brother to truth, has handed down the story of
a go-between who conveyed missives and tokens.
[Illustration: _Photo. Brückmann._
RHENISH MASTER.
C. 1420, Frankfort Hist. Mus.
_To face page 185._]
In the accompanying picture we see a corner of a mediæval garden,
hemmed round with castle wall. In it the artist has adapted an
everyday scene to a religious purpose, by giving my lady a crown, and
the baby an aureole, to suggest the Holy Mother and Child, whilst one
of the gentlemen-in-waiting is provided with wings, so as to make him
more in harmony with such saintly company. But this is only what might
have been seen on any bright morning in late spring or summer, in some
castle pleasaunce. My lady reads a book, whilst her maidens amuse
themselves, one holding a psaltery on which the child tinkles, to its
evident delight and wonderment; another, with a perverted sporting
instinct, seems to be trying to catch fish with a ladle (note the
usual little channelled way, on which a bird is perched, refreshing
itself), whilst a third is picking fruit. The three squires are
doubtless talking of the chase, for, in my lady's presence, love would
hardly be their theme. And all around are beautiful flowers--roses,
lilies, and irises. Over against the enclosing wall is the usual bank
of earth, faced with wood to keep it the necessary height, and planted
with many flowers. This raised portion enabled those in the garden to
get a view over the surrounding country, and to have a point of
outlook in case of attack. It also served as a seat; for at
intervals, between the flowers and sweet-scented herbs, portions were
covered with turf.
[Illustration: _Photo. Macbeth._
HARL. MS. 4425, BRIT. MUS.
_To face page 186._]
Of all the flowers in the garden the rose "red and pale" was the
greatest favourite, and many different sorts were planted there. To so
many purposes were they put, and so great was the demand for them,
that large quantities of roses frequently served as the payment of
vassals to their lord. They were used for strewing the floor at the
wedding-feast, or at the entertaining of some great baron. The fresh
petals were sprinkled over the surface of the water in the bath, and
were distilled to make the rose-water with which the knights and
ladies washed their hands and faces when they left their
much-curtained beds. Further, they were specially prized for garlands,
the making of which was one of the favourite occupations of the ladies
of the Middle Ages. Dante, who sums up the spirit of the Middle Ages
from the simplest reality to the sublimest ideal, alludes to garlands
and garland-making as amongst the joys of the Earthly Paradise. In his
poet's vision of the pageant of the Church Militant he sees the last
company wreathed with red roses, emblems to him of Charity or Love.
Boccaccio, in a more mundane atmosphere and a less august assemblage,
also introduces us to this mediæval love of garlands. In a preamble to
one of his tales he gives a dainty picture of the manners and pastimes
of the gay folk of his day. Of the merry company, which his fancy
makes to quit plague-stricken Florence for the country, where they
tell stories to prevent monotony, he relates that, after dining in the
cool shade, and before the story-telling begins, "the gentlemen walked
with the ladies into a goodly garden, making chaplets and nosegays of
divers flowers, and singing silently to themselves." Both sexes wore
them on festive occasions, and in summer young girls wore no
head-covering save a garland. The knight at the tournament decked his
helm with a chaplet of some chosen flower, deftly woven by the fair
one in whose name he made venture; and many a merry company, wreathed
with flowers or foliage, rode forth on May-day, with trumpets and
flutes, to celebrate the festival.
Another favourite flower for garlands was the cornflower, as we learn
from the poets, who tell of ladies dancing the carole (a popular dance
in which all moved slowly round in a circle, singing at the same
time), their heads crowned with garlands of cornflower. Violets and
periwinkles, and meadow flowers, white, red, and blue, were also
gathered to indulge this pretty fancy.
The gillyflower is another flower frequently mentioned. This name has
been applied to various flowers, but originally it belonged to the
carnation, and was used for such in Shakespeare's time. In the _Roman
de la Rose_ it is called the gillyflower-clove, thus definitely
defining it. One of its virtues, according to an old writer, was "to
comfort the spirites by the sence of smelling," and also "to be of
much use in ornament." But indeed most flowers were not only used for
chaplets, and for strewing on the floor, but were also painted on the
chamber walls, and embroidered on the hangings, to serve in winter
days as sweet memories and as sweeter hopes.
Apparently the earliest records of gardens, after Roman times, date
from the ninth century, and are mostly to be found amongst monastic
archives. A garden was an important, and even essential, annex of a
monastery, not only because of the "herbularis" or physic garden, from
the herbs of which the monks compounded salves and potions for the
wounded knight or the plundered wayfarer who might take shelter within
its protecting walls, but also because of the solace which the shady
trees and the gay flowers brought to the sick, for a monastery was
generally a hospital as well. St. Bernard of Clairvaux, speaking of an
abbey garden, gives a charming picture of one of these cloistered
pleasaunces for the sick and the aged. He says:
Within the enclosure of this wall many and various trees,
prolific in various fruits, constitute an orchard resembling
a wood, which, being near the cell of the sick, lightens the
infirmities of the brethren with no moderate solace, while
it affords a spacious walking place to those who walk and a
sweet place for reclining to those who are overheated. Where
the orchard terminates the garden begins. Here also a
beautiful spectacle is exhibited to the infirm brethren:
while they sit upon the green margin of the huge basin, they
see the little fishes playing under the water and
representing a military encounter by swimming to meet each
other.
This warlike note seems strange and almost discordant in the midst of
the peace of the cloister; but many, before seeking shelter there, had
been doughty knights, and St. Bernard, man of the world as he was,
would realise that even this mimic warfare might bring diversion to
their tranquil seclusion.
What a contrast to all this joy in the Middle Ages in gardens and
flowers are the sober reflections of Marcus Aurelius! Philosopher as
he was, he would have us learn from plants the lesson of cause and
effect, the continuity of life. He says:
The destruction of one thing is the making of another; and
that which subsists at present is, as it were, the seed of
succession, which springs from it. But if you take seed in
the common notion, and confine it to the field or the
garden, you have a dull fancy.
It is with a sense of relief that we turn from the thoughts which a
garden suggests to this stoic, to those not less profound, though
perhaps more simple, of a Chinese writer of the fourth century:
Ah, how short a time it is that we are here! Why then not
set our hearts at rest, ceasing to trouble whether we remain
or go? What boots it to wear out the soul with anxious
thoughts? Let me stroll through the bright hours as they
pass in my garden among my flowers.
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.
End of Project Gutenberg's Of Six Mediæval Women, by Alice Kemp-Welch