For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the
flowers appear on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is
come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
_The Song of Solomon_.
* * * * *
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty, Thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair; Thyself how wondrous then!
_Milton_.
* * * * *
Soft roll your incense, herbs and fruits and flowers,
In mingled clouds to HIM whose sun exalts
Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints.
_Thomson_.
A taste for floriculture is spreading amongst Anglo-Indians. It is a
good sign. It would be gratifying to learn that the same refining taste
had reached the Natives also--even the lower classes of them. It is a
cheap enjoyment. A mere palm of ground may be glorified by a few radiant
blossoms. A single clay jar of the rudest form may be so enriched and
beautified with leaves and blossoms as to fascinate the eye of taste. An
old basket, with a broken tile at the top of it, and the root of the
acanthus within, produced an effect which seemed to Calimachus, the
architect, "the work of the Graces." It suggested the idea of the
capital of the Corinthian column, the most elegant architectural
ornament that Art has yet conceived.
Flowers are the poor man's luxury; a refinement for the uneducated. It
has been prettily said that the melody of birds is the poor man's music,
and that flowers are the poor man's poetry. They are "a discipline of
humanity," and may sometimes ameliorate even a coarse and vulgar nature,
just as the cherub faces of innocent and happy children are sometimes
found to soften and purify the corrupted heart. It would be a delightful
thing to see the swarthy cottagers of India throwing a cheerful grace on
their humble sheds and small plots of ground with those natural
embellishments which no productions of human skill can rival.
The peasant who is fond of flowers--if he begin with but a dozen little
pots of geraniums and double daisies upon his window sills, or with a
honeysuckle over his humble porch--gradually acquires a habit, not only
of decorating the outside of his dwelling and of cultivating with care
his small plot of ground, but of setting his house in order within, and
making every thing around him agreeable to the eye. A love of
cleanliness and neatness and simple ornament is a moral feeling. The
country laborer, or the industrious mechanic, who has a little garden to
be proud of, the work of his own hand, becomes attached to his place of
residence, and is perhaps not only a better subject on that account, but
a better neighbour--a better man. A taste for flowers is, at all events,
infinitely preferable to a taste for the excitements of the pot-house or
the tavern or the turf or the gaming table, or even the festal board,
especially for people of feeble health--and above all, for the poor--who
should endeavor to satisfy themselves with inexpensive pleasures.[001]
In all countries, civilized or savage, and on all occasions, whether of
grief or rejoicing, a natural fondness for flowers has been exhibited,
with more or less tenderness or enthusiasm. They beautify religious
rites. They are national emblems: they find a place in the blazonry of
heraldic devices. They are the gifts and the language of friendship and
of love.
Flowers gleam in original hues from graceful vases in almost every
domicile where Taste presides; and the hand of "nice Art" charms us with
"counterfeit presentments" of their forms and colors, not only on the
living canvas, but even on our domestic China-ware, and our mahogany
furniture, and our wall-papers and hangings and carpets, and on our
richest apparel for holiday occasions and our simplest garments for
daily wear. Even human Beauty, the Queen of all loveliness on earth,
engages Flora as her handmaid at the toilet, in spite of the dictum of
the poet of 'The Seasons,' that "Beauty when unadorned is adorned the
most."
Flowers are hung in graceful festoons both in churches and in ball-rooms.
They decorate the altar, the bride-bed, the cradle, and the bier.
They grace festivals, and triumphs, and processions; and cast a glory on
gala days; and are amongst the last sad honors we pay to the objects of
our love.
I remember the death of a sweet little English girl of but a year old,
over whom, in her small coffin, a young and lovely mother sprinkled the
freshest and fairest flowers. The task seemed to soften--perhaps to
sweeten--her maternal grief. I shall never forget the sight. The
bright-hued blossoms seemed to make her oblivious for a moment of the
darkness and corruption to which she was so soon to consign her priceless
treasure. The child's sweet face, even in death, reminded me that the
flowers of the field and garden, however lovely, are all outshone by
human beauty. What floral glory of the wild-wood, or what queen of the
parterre, in all the pride of bloom, laughing in the sun-light or
dancing in the breeze, hath a charm that could vie for a single moment
with the soft and holy lustre of that motionless and faded human lily? I
never more deeply felt the force of Milton's noble phrase "_the human
face divine_" than when gazing on that sleeping child. The fixed placid
smile, the smoothly closed eye with its transparent lid, the air of
profound tranquillity, the simple purity (elevated into an aspect of
bright intelligence, as if the little cherub already experienced the
beatitude of another and a better world,) were perfectly angelic--and
mocked all attempt at description. "Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!"
O flower of an earthly spring! destined to blossom in the eternal
summer of another and more genial region! Loveliest of lovely
children--loveliest to the last! More beautiful in death than aught
still living! Thou seemest now to all who miss and mourn thee but a sweet
name--a fair vision--a precious memory;--but in reality thou art a more
truly living thing than thou wert before or than aught thou hast left
behind. Thou hast come early into a rich inheritance. Thou hast now a
substantial existence, a genuine glory, an everlasting possession, beyond
the sky. Thou hast exchanged the frail flowers that decked thy bier for
amaranthine hues and fragrance, and the brief and uncertain delights of
mortal being for the eternal and perfect felicity of angels!
I never behold elsewhere any of the specimens of the several varieties
of flowers which the afflicted parent consigned to the hallowed little
coffin without recalling to memory the sainted child taking her last
rest on earth. The mother was a woman of taste and sensibility, of high
mind and gentle heart, with the liveliest sense of the loveliness of all
lovely things; and it is hardly necessary to remind the reader how much
refinement such as hers may sometimes alleviate the severity of sorrow.