HIGH STREET GARDEN,
IN HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT.
Flowers! Flowers! the poetry of earth,
Impulsive, pure, and wild,
With what a strange delight they fill
The wandering, mirthful child.
It clasps their leaflets close awhile,
Then strews them wide around,
For life hath many a joy to spare
Along its opening bound.
The maiden twines them in her hair,
And mid that shining braid,
How fair the violet's eye of blue,
And the faint rose-bud's shade,
Upon her polished neck they blush,
In her soft hand they shine,
And better crown those peerless charms
Than all Golconda's mine.
Above the floating bridal veil
The white Camella rears
Its innocent and tranquil eye,
To calm young beauty's fears;
And even when hoary Age recalls
The memories of that hour,
Blent with the heaven-recorded vow
Will gleam that stainless flower.
The matron fills her crystal vase
With gems that summer lends,
Or groups them round the festal board
To greet her welcome friends.
Her husband's eye is on the skill
With which she decks his bower,
And dearer is his praise to her
Than earth's most precious flower
Frail gifts we call them, prone to fade,
Ere the brief spring is o'er,
Though down the smitten strong man falls
Returning never more:
Time wears away the arch of rock,
And rends the ancient throne,
Yet back they come, unchanged as when
On Eden's breast they shone.
How passing beautiful they are
On youth's unclouded plain,
And yet we scarcely know their worth
Till life is in its wane;
Then grows their love a deeper thing,
As our lone pathway tends
Down mid the withering plants of hope,
And graves of buried friends.
Like ready comforters they bend,
If sorrow pales the cheek,
And to the sad, desponding heart,
An angel's message speak;
While to the listening mourner's ear
They fondly seem to say,
The words of those departed ones
Who sleep in mouldering clay.
We nurse them in our casement warm
When winter rule the year,
And see them raise their graceful form,
The darkest day to cheer;
Amid our folded shroud they glow,
When death hath had his will,
And o'er our pillow in the dust
They spring, and blossom still.
Yes, o'er the cradle-bed they creep,
With rich and sweet perfume,
Around the marriage-altar twine,
And cheer the darksome tomb,
They whisper to the faithful dead,
With their fresh, vernal breath,
That such his rising hour shall be,
Through Him who conquered death.
The beautiful domain, known by the name of the High Street Garden, in Hartford, comprises sixteen acres, and is laid out with great taste and adaptation to the nature of the soil and surface. Spacious walks are so arranged as to give effect to the elegance of the parterres, and seats skilfully disposed, under spreading shades, where the visitant may rest, and enjoy the surrounding attractions.
Among endless varieties of flowers, three hundred families of the queenly rose, with carnations of every shade and hue, diffuse the richest fragrance in their respective seasons. Partially encompassed by a fine hedge, and approached by steps cut in the turf, is a small circular piece of water, where the broad leaves, and pure petals of the water-lily expand themselves, and around whose margin, vases of the hydrangia luxuriate. The fairest annual flowering plants, shrubs, ornamental trees, foreign and domestic fruits, with a large and splendid green-house, adorn this delightful spot, which, by the liberality of its proprietor. Dr. E. W. Bull, is freely open both to the inhabitants, and to strangers, with only the restriction which their own good sense and good feeling ought to suggest and enforce, of not defacing or injuring, what they come to admire.
It is the opinion of many lovers of flowers, that their cultivation must necessarily be expensive of both time and money. We are authorized by the owner of this noble garden, to say, that it need not be so. His original purchase of what has since become a possession which the most accomplished florist might covet, was only a few hundred feet, made twenty years since, when just entering on commercial business. Though he had at that time no capital to spare, he felt that daily exercise among the plants that he loved, would be beneficial to his health, and resolved on the establishment of such a system. For this, his first investment in land, he gave six notes, payable in the same number of years.
"These notes," he says, "then troubled me much, as I doubted whether I should be able to pay them at maturity. But at the expiration of six years, I had cancelled them all, and this encouraged me to enlarge my domain to the amount of thousands instead of hundreds. As it was necessary for me to apply myself continually to business, during business hours, I then adopted a plan of early rising, which I have ever since persevered in. My practice for years, was to be at the garden, from half past three to six in the morning, and this gave me an opportunity, in the best and most quiet part of the day, unnoticed, to visit the grounds and mature my plans for their extension and improvement. My custom, for a few years past, has been to rise in summer at half-past four, reaching the garden, after breakfast, at six, and regulating my stay there, so as to return precisely at nine, ready to attend to the business of my store."
Can any stronger example be adduced, that a love of flowers, when under the control of a spirit of order and punctuality, may be an appropriate relaxation from the pressure of mercantile care, and perfectly consistent with its prosperous pursuit? May it not also be fraught with collateral benefits of a still higher order? Suppose only the habit of early rising, to be thus acquired and confirmed. What an important addition would two or three hours daily, be to the actual limits of a brief span of life.
Horticulture has long been pronounced by physiologists, salutary to health, and cheerfulness of spirits; and if he who devotes a portion of his leisure to the nurture of the lovely things of nature, benefits himself, he who beautifies a garden for the eye of the community, should surely be counted a public benefactor. He instils into the bosom of the care-worn, the sorrowful, or the selfish, thoughts that heal like a medicine. He cheers the languid, desponding invalid, and brightens the eye of the child, with a more intense happiness.
If simply the admiration of plants and flowers, has a tendency to refine the character, their actual culture must have a more powerful and abiding influence. It takes the form of an affection. The seed which we have sown, the blossom we have nursed, the tree of our own planting, under whose shadow we sit with delight, are to us as living and loving friends. In proportion to the care we have bestowed on them, is the warmth of our regard. They are gentle and persuasive teachers of His goodness, who causeth the sun to shine, and the dews to distil, who forgetteth not amid the ice and snows of winter, the tender, buried vine, and calleth forth the germ long hidden from the eye of man, to vernal splendor or autumnal fruitage.
A love of the beautiful things of Nature, has been sometimes assumed as a criterion of the health of the mind. Those who are under the habitual influence of evil tempers, do not approximate to the spirit and language of flowers. In vain do they reach forth their sweet, clustering blossoms,—envy, hatred, and malice are beyond the reach of such charmers, "charm they never so wisely." But he, who amid the care and weariness of life, finds daily an interval or a disposition to commune with the dew-fed children of Heaven, to devise their welfare, and shelter their purity, has not yet been injured by the fever of political strife, the palsy of the heart, or the eating gangrene of the inordinate desire of riches.
In many other countries, we see the love of flowers, a far more pervading and decided sentiment than in our own. "In Germany," says a female tourist, "garlands of flowers are continually used as tributes of friendship, and parting gifts. Let not these things be accounted trifles. They are, in fact, matters of importance, inasumuch as everything that draws heart to heart, and mind to mind, that contributes even in a remote degree to unite human beings in kind and affectionate remembrance, is of great consequence. Among the working classes, much might be done for the improvement of their morals, habits and manners, by encouraging them to use their few periods of leisure, for the cultivation of flowers. The difference between two poor families, one loving flowers, and the other, ardent spirits, would, at the end of twelve months, be very striking. It may be said, all cannot have gardens. True. But all may have a few flowers in their windows. More than this, a little wooden balcony might be easily made on the outside of every window. To our own sex, flowers are a boon beyond price. The lady who is fond of her garden, and delights in the cultivation of it, will not seek abroad for expensive pleasures. Home is every thing to her, and if her husband is wise enough to encourage this taste, it will be for his happiness."
The description of the rose-harvest at the Hague, and the flower-markets in other parts of Holland, by Davezac, seems instinct with the very breath and spirit of those gems of creation.
"The harvest of roses draws to the fields, near the Hague, where they are cultivated, throngs of visitants. In the month of May, nothing can be imagined more beautiful, than the aspect of these rose-fields. The air, filled with the sweetest emanations, makes you aware of your approach to them before you come in sight, surrounded as they are, by thick, live hedges, intended to guard the young buds from the inclement winds. An air of festival spread all around, proclaims that this is no vulgar field-work. Hundreds of young girls, dressed as if for a village holiday, commence the gathering with appropriate songs. The first time I witnessed this novel harvest, it seemed like a dream. I became doubtful, whether I stood on Batavian ground. The ethereal sweetness inhaled in every breeze, the earth covered as it were, with a green carpet, embroidered with roses, the melodious voices of so many young and beautiful girls, would have indeed wafted the imagination to the milder regions of Greece or Italy, but that the azure eyes, and golden hair of the pretty Rosières, proclaimed them of the Norman race. These roses, gathered in Holland, strange as it may appear, are shipped to Constantinople, destined to return to Europe, so concentrated by chemical art, that the perfume of 10,000 is often used by a lady, to scent her embroidered handkerchief. The roses are packed up in large hogsheads, and in alternate layers of flowers and salt, pressed with great force." "At Amsterdam, Utrecht, Rotterdam, the Hague, but above all at Harlaem, the floral city, crowds of all classes of society, assemble at the flower-markets, which are held twice a week. There the rich attends, to make exclusively his own, by purchase, the rubies, the emeralds, the sapphires of the vegetable kingdom, formed in the depths of the earth, by the slow elaboration of ages; but the humble violet and rose are taken to the home of the poor, to light the gloom of his lowly shed."
If the admiration of what is beautiful in Nature, tends to refine and elevate, that for what is graceful and good in manners and character, might seem to be a step towards their acquisition. "Our taste declines with our merits," said a philosopher of other times. Was his position correct? May taste in any degree be admitted as a test of mental or moral integrity?
"Taste," says a fine writer, "is of all attainments the most easily perceived, yet the most difficult to describe." Its more common modifications, as they are seen in the style of dress, furniture, or arrangements of a household, seem to prove an innate perception of delicacy, a sense of propriety, or a principle of adaptation, which, though not entitled to rank with the severe conclusions of an accurate judgment in matters of higher import, are still in our sex no slight accomplishments, or trifling indications of character. When manifested in graceful movement, or manners, elegance of language, and correct appreciation of the fine arts, it serves as a sort of historical index, pointing to the influence of refined society, education, or such means of improvement, as are seldom accessible in solitude and obscurity. It aids in decyphering the drama in which the individual has moved, or the use made of opportunities, or that inherent strength of the self-taught, which vanquishing obstacles, possesses itself of the fruits, without the usual process of cultivation.
Taste, when drawn into strong sympathy with the beautiful things of nature, cheers the hours of sickness, or decline, and glows even amid the icy atmosphere of death. Combined with a vivid imagination it colors like a passion-tint, the whole of existence, and if surrounding scenes are devoid of its favorite objects, peoples for itself a world of ideal beauty. How touchingly did Mrs. Hemans exclaim, as she drew near the close of life: "I really think the pure passion for flowers, the only one which long sickness leaves untouched with its chilling influence. Often, during this weary illness of mine, have I looked upon new books with perfect apathy, when if a friend has sent me but a few flowers, my heart has leaped up to their dreamy hues and odors, with a sudden sense of renovated childhood, which seems one of the mysteries of our being."
And almost the last tone of her sweet lyre, ere it was crushed by death, perpetuated her love of flowers.
"Welcome, O pure and lovely forms, again
Unto the shadowy stillness of my room!
For not alone ye bring a joyous train
Of summer-thoughts, attendant on your bloom,
Visions of freshness, of rich bowery gloom,
Of the low murmurs, filling mossy dells,
Of stars, that look down on your folded bells,
Through dewy leaves, of many a wild perfume,
Greeting the wanderer of the hill and grove
Like sudden music; more than this ye bring—
Far more; ye whisper of the all-fostering love
Which thus hath clothed you, and whose dove-like wing
Broods o'er the sufferer drawing fevered breath,
Whether his lingering couch be that of life or death."
Many instances might be quoted where the true love of Nature has softened asperity of temper, and contributed to the growth of charity towards mankind. Vulgar minds seem not capable of appreciating its pleasures, and the vicious have perverted its purity. The mercenary and the miser suppress it. Hoarded gold monopolizes their devotion. Milton, in portraying Mammon, represents him before his fall from bliss, with eyes and thoughts
"Forever downward bent, admiring more
The riches of Heaven's pavement, trodden gold,
Than aught divine or holy."
Dark passions, and debasing crimes destroy the fine edge of the soul, and corrode it like a canker. Admitting therefore, that a pure taste for the beautiful in nature, is among the tests of mental and moral welfare, we shall prize it not only as a source of pleasure, but an ally of virtue and of piety. Shall we not then seek to multiply the objects which it is legitimate and healthful to admire? Shall we not familiarize our children with the harmony of color, the melody of sound, the symmetry of architecture, the delights of eloquence, and the charms of poetry? The fragrant flower, the whitening harvest, the umbrageous grove, the solemn mountain, the mighty cataract, are they not all teachers, or text-books in the hands of the Great Teacher?
Err they not, therefore, who consider a taste for the charms of Nature, a waste of time? The railroad machinery of a jarring world, bridging its abysses, and tunneling the rocks of political ambition, her steamboats rushing to the thousand marts of wealth, silence with their roaring funnels, its still, small voice. But let it be heard by those who meditate at eventide when the rose closes its sweet lips, and the tired babe is lulled on the breast of its mother. Let it be a companion to those, who in the morning prime walk forth amid the dewy fields, loving the beauty of the lily, which Omnipotence stooped to clothe, and from whose bosom, as from a scroll of Heaven, the Redeemer of man taught listening multitudes, the lesson of a living faith.