into Europe by the Argonauts, from the island of the same name in the Pontus Euxinus. From the river Phasis in Colchis, these voyagers are reported to have first introduced pheasants, though many writers contend that the whole expedition was fabulous, and that all the bright imaginings and poetical embellishments lavished upon the Golden Fleece, resolve themselves into the simple and not very dignified fact of spreading sheep-skins across the torrents that flowed from Mount Caucasus, to arrest the particles of gold brought down by the waters. Our own crusades, however irrational their object, were attended with many beneficial results, not only introducing us to the knowledge of Saracenic architecture, but supplying our European gardens with many of the choicest Oriental productions. While we are on the subject of the crusades, let us not omit to notice this Planta Genista, or broom, said to have been adopted in those wars as a heraldic bearing, and ultimately to have furnished a name to our noble English family the Plantagenets. Next to it is the Arbutus, the most graceful and beautiful of all plants, and nearly singular in bearing its flowers and strawberry-like fruit at the same time, although the flowrets be but the germ of the next year's fruit. Virgil seems to have been very partial to this elegant shrub. By its side is a small plant of that particular Ilex, or holm oak, on which, in the south of Europe, more especially in Crete, are found those little insects, or worms, called kermes, whence a brilliant scarlet die is extracted, and which are so rapidly reproduced, that they often afford two crops in a year. From these small worms the French have derived the word vermeil, and we our vermillion, though the term is a misnomer, as the genuine vermillion is a mineral preparation. The Junipertree need not detain us long, now that its berries are no longer used for flavouring gin, the distillers substituting for that pur pose oil of turpentine, which, though it nearly resembles the berries in flavour, possesses none of their valuable qualities. Box and Arbor vitæ, those treasures of our ancient gardeners, may also exclaim that their occupation is nearly gone, since the taste for verdant sculpture is exploded, and giants, animals, monsters, coats of arms, and peacocks, no longer startle us at every turn.* Yews also, which, from their being so easily tonsile, were invaluable for forming mazes, now only retain their station in our church-yards, where they were originally ordered to be planted This false taste, however, may boast the sanction of a most classical age. Pliny, in the description of his Tuscan Villa, might be supposed to be portray ing some of the worst specimens of the art of gardening which our own country exhibited in King William's time, dwelling, with apparent pleasure, on box-trees cut into monsters, animals, letters, and the names of the master and artificer; with the usual appendages of slopes, terraces, water-spouts, rectangular walks, and the regular alternations by which "half the garden just reflects the other." by law, that, upon occasion, their tough branches might afford a ready supply of bows. But this Laurel cannot be so easily dismissed; it is literally and truly an evergreen, for classical associations assure to it an imperishable youth and freshness. Into this tree was Daphne metamorphosed when she fled from Apollo in the vale of Tempe; with these leaves did the enamoured god bind his brows, and decree that it should be for ever sacred to his divinity, since when, as all true poets believe, it has been an infallible preservative against lightning ;—and from tufted bowers of this plant did the Delphic girls rush out upon Mount Parnassus, when, with music, dancing, and enthusiastic hymns, they celebrated the festival of the god of day. A wreath of laurel was the noblest reward to which virtue and ambition aspired, before the world became venal, and fell down to worship the golden calf. Cæsar wore his, it is said, to hide a defect; and our modern kings have little better plea for their crowns, from the Tartar dandy down to Ferdinand the embroiderer. Yonder is the Laurus, or bay-tree, a garland of whose leaves was deemed their noblest recompense by ancient poets; but our modern Laureates, not even content with the addition of a hundred pounds and a but of sack, must have pensions and snug little sinecures besides. Virgil places Anchises in Elysium, in a grove of sweet-scented bays. Those three shrubs planted close together are the Privet, and two varieties of Holly, so placed that their black, yellow, and red berries might be intermixed: the Misletoe, with its transparent pearls, would have formed a beautiful addition; but it is a parasite, and requires larger trees to support it. On New Year's day the ancient Druids went out to seek this plant with hymns, ceremonies, and rejoicings, distributing it again among the people as something sacred and auspicious. Two or three hundred years since this young plant, which has only lately been added to the garden, may become a majestic Cypress it is of very slow growth, and still slower decay, on which account the ancients used it for the statues of their gods. The gates of St. Peter's church at Rome, made of this wood, had lasted, from the time of Constantine, eleven hundred years, as fresh as new, when Pope Eugenius IV. ordered gates of brass in their stead. Some will have it that the wood gophir, of which Noah's ark was made, was cypress. Plato preferred it to brass for writing his laws on; the Athenians, according to Thucydides, buried their heroes in coffins of this wood, and many of the Egyptian mummy chests are found of the same material. The beautiful youth who killed Apollo's favourite stag, was metamorphosed into this tree.-Those taller trees at the back of the plantation are Firs and Pines, sacred in the olden time to Pan. Unacquainted with brandy, the ancients used to tap these trees for a species of turpentine to fortify and preserve their wines, whence the Bacchanalian Thyrsùs was always terminated with a fir cone. Our garden cannot boast a single Pinaster; but there is a noble one on the lawn of the Episcopal Palace at Fulham, whence these large flakes of smooth bark were lately peeled off, and, by subdividing them into thin laminæ, they may be written on like so many sheets of paper, without the smallest preparation. For this purpose they were used by the ancients, who also formed a papyrus from the bark of the mulberry-tree, whence the Latin word liber signified both the bark of a tree, and a book; and the term folium, a leaf, was on the same account equally applied to both. From liber comes libellus, a little book; and hence have we derived our Libel law, with all its difficulties and anomalous inflictions. Who would have thought that, amid all the delightful associations of our garden, the Attorney General would have popped his gown and wig upon our thoughts from behind the peaceful bark of a pine? Leaving these evergreens, let us for a moment take a seat beneath this beautiful Plane, a tree which was brought originally from the Levant to Rome, and formed such a favourite decoration in the villas of her greatest orators and statesmen, that we read of their irrigating them with wine instead of water. Pliny affirms, that no tree defends more effectually from the heat of the sun in summer, nor admits its rays more kindly in the winter. Its introduction into England is generally ascribed to Lord Bacon, who planted a noble parcel of them at Verulam. Nor can I gaze through its branches upon the blue benignant heavens, without participating that enthusiasm of natural religion, by which Bacon himself was actuated, when he occasionally walked forth in a gentle shower without any covering on his head, in order, as he said, that he might feel the spirit of the universe descending upon him. Mention is made of a plane-tree growing at a villa of the Emperor Caligula, whose hollow trunk was capacious enough to contain ten or twelve persons at dinner, with their attendants; but the most celebrated upon record is that, with which Xerxes was so much smitten, that he halted his whole army for some days to admire it; collecting the jewels of his whole court to adorn it; neglecting all the concerns of his grand expedition, while he passionately addressed it as his mistress, his minion, his goddess; and, when he finally tore himself away, causing a representation of it to be stamped on a gold medal, which he continually wore about his neck. Some interesting reflections will be suggested by the mere nomenclature of plants, if we attend to a few of the more common sorts, as we stray along the borders, and through the green-house. This little elegant flower, with its hoar and dark green leaves and golden crown, has had two sponsors, having first been honoured with the name of Parthenis, imparted to it VOL. I. No. 5.-1821. 3 P by the Virgin Goddess, until Artemisia, the wife of Mausolus, adopted it, and ordered that it should bear her own. The columns, and obelisks, and towers of the far-famed mausoleum built by this queen have gradually crumbled, until they have become so effectually mingled with the dust, that even the site of one of the wonders of the world is utterly unknown; while this fragile flower, immutable and immortal, continues precisely the same as when her youthful fingers first pruned its leaves in the windows of her palace. In this Teucrium, or tree germander, we recognise the name of King Teucer, who first introduced it among his Phrygian subjects, as well as the worship of Cybele, and the dances of the Corybantes. Black Hellebore, or melampodium, is not very inviting in its associations, if we merely consider its dangerous qualities; but it possesses an historical interest, when we recollect, that with this plant Melampus cured the mad daughters of King Prætus, and received the eldest in marriage for his reward. Euphorbia commemorates the physi cian of Juba, a Moorish prince; and Gentiana immortalizes a King of Illyria.* These references might be extended among ancient names to the end of our walk; but we will now advert to a few of the more modern derivations. Tournefort gave to this scarlet jasmine the name of Bignonia, in honour of Abbot Bignon, Librarian to Louis XIV. The Browallia demissa and elata record a botanist of humble origin, who afterwards became Bishop of Upsal; and the French, by a Greek pun upon Buonaparte's name, introduced a Calomeria into their botanical catalogue, although it has now probably changed its name with the dynasty. Linnæus, in his Critica Botanica, has, in several instances, drawn a fanciful analogy between botanists and their appropriate plants; but as it might be tedious to go more minutely into this subject, the reader can refer to the same authority from which we have already quoted. Other motives than the natural and laudable one of commemorating distinguished botanists, have sometimes influenced the bestowal of names upon plants, and satire and irony have occasionally intruded themselves into the sanctuary of science. "Buffonia tenuifolia is well known to be a satire on the slender botanical pretensions of the great French zoologist; as the Hillia parasitica of Jacquin, though perhaps not meant, is an equally just one upon our pompous Sir John Hill. I mean not to approve of such satires. They stain the purity of our lovely science. If a botanist does not deserve commemoration, let him sink peaceably into oblivion. It savours of malignity to make his crown a crown of thorns; and if the application be unjust, it is truly diabolical."t * See Smith's Introduction to Botany, p. 374. † Ibid. p. 382. But see! this Convolvulus begins to shut up its flowers, a sure indication of approaching rain; and the Calendula pluvialis, commonly called the poor man's weather-glass, has already closed its petals in anticipation of an April shower. These barometers of nature are seldom mistaken; the big drops are already falling around us;-run, run, let us seek the shelter of the house, and at our next walk we will take the opposite side of the garden, in the hope of gleaning some reflections from its variegated borders. H. STANZAS, EXCITED BY SOME REFLECTIONS ON THE PRESENT STATE OF GREECE. Greece! glorious Greece! what art thou but a name? The once victorious voice of all thy fame, Which awed the world, now trembles in a sigh; And I will sing thy glory's lullaby For I have loved thee, Greece,and o'er the lyre the wire, Yes! I have loved thee-and my youthful soul Till my breast thrill'd with all the patriot's rage, Where art thou, Athens, and what art thou now? Of faded flowers, my heart alone can see- E. B. B. |