Some way back in this diary I was unwise enough to inveigh against that
“pleasant herb called Vanity,” especially in its relation to gardens. A
greater error I now feel there could not be, and I am convinced that if
we only took care to cultivate a sufficient supply of it, it would not
only be a satisfaction in itself, but an immense stimulus to the
successful cultivation of all other desirable plants.
This is not, I am aware, the general view. The general idea being that
the herb in question is a mere weed, one that will not only grow
everywhere, and at all seasons, but that grows the most luxuriantly upon
the poorest soil. Now this is certainly not the case. What amount of it
is grown in other gardens I cannot say, no report--or only a very
indirect one--being forwarded to any of the regular gardening
periodicals. That there are poor varieties of it I am willing to admit,
but a really good “strain” is always worth securing, if it can be done
legitimately, and so I am sure every successful gardener would be the
first to say. So convinced do I feel of its value that there are many
succulent, and quite wholesome vegetables, that I would gladly see
thrown away in order to make room for more of it!
That admirable essayist, and, from his own account, horticulturist also,
Sir Thomas Browne, evidently grew a good deal of it in _his_ garden,
though with the odd humour that prevails amongst its cultivators, he
imagined that he had very little, in fact none at all. Here is the
_Religio Medici_, so I have only to turn to his panegyric of it, a
panegyric all the more satisfactory because he apparently intended it to
be the reverse. Perhaps though, as Mr. Pepys would say, “That was in
mirth.”
“I thank God amongst those millions of vices I do inherit and hold from
Adam, I have escaped this one.” [Millions of vices! now may heaven help
thee, Sir Thomas! however one must remember that he was a rhetorician.]
“Those petty acquisitions, and reputed perfections, that advance and
elevate the conceits of other men, add no feather unto mine. I have seen
a grammarian tower and plume himself over a single line in Horace, and
show more pride in the construction of one ode, than the Author in the
composure of the whole book. For my own part, besides the jargon and
patois of several provinces, I understand no less than six languages;
yet I protest I have no higher conceit of myself than had our fathers
before the confusion of Babel, when there was but one language in the
world, and none to boast himself either linguist or critick. I have not
only seen several countries, beheld the nature of their climes, the
chorography of their provinces, topography of their cities, but
understand their several laws, customs, and policies; yet cannot all
this persuade the dullness of my spirit unto such an opinion of myself
as I behold in nimbler and conceited heads, that never looked a degree
beyond their nests. I know the names, and somewhat more, of all the
constellations in my horizon; yet I have seen a prating mariner, that
could only name the Pointers, and the North star, out-talk me, and
conceit himself a whole sphere above me. I know most of the plants of my
country, and of those about me, yet....”
Nay Sir Thomas, dear Sir Thomas, let me not follow thee longer in this
vein, else might one of the devoutest of thy followers lose some share
of that devoutness! I hastily ruffle thy pages over, feeling certain
before long of coming upon thee in a worthier one.
* * * * *
I have been longer over my search than I expected, having set my heart
upon finding one particular passage, which I failed to do, a fact
hardly to be wondered at, since, as it turned out, there was no copy of
_The Garden of Cyrus_ in the house. I have found it however, at last,
safely hidden, like a sprig of myrtle, in the tight embrace of an
ancient notebook.
“But the quincunx of heaven runs low, and ’tis time to close the first
parts of knowledge. We are unwilling to spin out our awaking thoughts
into the phantasms of sleep, which often continueth precogitations,
making cables, and cobwebs, and wildernesses of handsome graves. Beside
Hippocrates hath spoke so little, and the oneirocritical (!) masters
have left such frigid interpretations from plants, that there is little
encouragement to dream of Paradise itself. Nor will the sweetest
delights of gardens afford much comfort in sleep; wherein the dullness
of that sense shakes hands with delectable odours; and, though in the
bed of Cleopatra, can hardly with any delight raise up the ghost of a
rose.
“Night, which Pagan theology could make the daughter of Chaos, affords
no advantage to the description of order, although no lower than that
mass can we derive its genealogy. All things began in order, so shall
they end, and so shall they begin again; according to the Ordainer of
order, and of the mystical mathematicks of the city of heaven.
“Though Somnus in Homer be sent to rouse up Agamemnon, I find no such
effects in these drowsy approaches of sleep. To keep our eyes open
longer were but to act our Antipodes. The huntsmen are up in America,
and they are already past their first sleep in Persia. But who can be
drowsy at that hour which freed us from everlasting sleep? or have
slumbering thoughts at that time when sleep itself must end, and, as
some conjecture, all shall awake again?”
* * * * *
Most melodious of rhetoricians, and most whimsical of prose-poets, I bid
you a good-night. For by a coincidence which you would be the first to
appreciate, twelve o’clock is striking even as I copy your last line,
and I light a bedroom candle with the sound of those dim
prognostications, and thunderous conjectures of yours still ringing
sonorously about my ears. They do not alarm me, however; nay I would
gladly carry them with me past the ivory gate. For, as you yourself
say----
“Happy are they that go to bed with grand music like Pythagoras, or have
ways to compose the fantastical spirit, whose unruly wanderings take off
inward sleep, filling our heads with St. Anthony’s visions, or the
dreams of Lipara, in the sober chambers of rest.”