The Folk lore of Plants - T. F. Thiselton Dyer
And in some parts of the Continent churches are adorned at
Christmas-tide with the amaranth, as a symbol "of that immortality to
which their faith bids them look."
Grass, from its many beneficial qualities, has been made the emblem of
usefulness; and the ivy, from its persistent habit of clinging to the
heaviest support, has been universally adopted as the symbol of
confiding love and fidelity. Growing rapidly, it iron clasps:--
"The fissured stone with its entwining arms,
And embowers with leaves for ever green,
And berries dark."
According to a Cornish tradition, the beautiful Iseult, unable to endure
the loss of her betrothed--the brave Tristran--died of a broken heart,
and was buried in the same church, but, by order of the king, the two
graves were placed at a distance from each other. Soon, however, there
burst forth from the tomb of Tristran a branch of ivy, and another from
the grave of Iseult; these shoots gradually growing upwards, until at
last the lovers, represented by the clinging ivy, were again united
beneath the vaulted roof of heaven.[2]
Then, again, the cypress, in floral language, denotes mourning; and, as
an emblem of woe, may be traced to the familiar classical myth of
Cyparissus, who, sorrow-stricken at having skin his favourite stag, was
transformed into a cypress tree. Its ominous and sad character is the
subject of constant allusion, Virgil having introduced it into the
funeral rites of his heroes. Shelley speaks of the unwept youth whom no
mourning maidens decked,
"With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,
The love-couch of his everlasting sleep."
And Byron describes the cypress as,
"Dark tree! still sad when other's grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead."
The laurel, used for classic wreaths, has long been regarded
emblematical of renown, and Tasso thus addresses a laurel leaf in the
hair of his mistress:--
"O glad triumphant bough,
That now adornest conquering chiefs, and now
Clippest the bows of over-ruling kings
From victory to victory.
Thus climbing on through all the heights of story,
From worth to worth, and glory unto glory,
To finish all, O gentle and royal tree,
Thou reignest now upon that flourishing head,
At whose triumphant eyes love and our souls are led."
Like the rose, the myrtle is the emblem of love, having been dedicated
by the Greeks and Romans to Venus, in the vicinity of whose temples
myrtle-groves were planted; hence, from time immemorial,
"Sacred to Venus is the myrtle shade."
This will explain its frequent use in bridal ceremonies on the
Continent, and its employment for the wedding wreath of the Jewish
damsel. Herrick, mindful of its associations, thus apostrophises Venus:--
"Goddess, I do love a girl,
Ruby lipp'd and toothed like pearl;
If so be I may but prove
Lucky in this maid I love,
I will promise there shall be
Myrtles offered up to thee."
To the same goddess was dedicated the rose, and its world-wide
reputation as "the flower of love," in which character it has been
extolled by poets in ancient and modern times, needs no more than
reference here.
The olive indicates peace, and as an emblem was given to Judith when she
restored peace to the Israelites by the death of Holofernes.[3]
Shakespeare, in "Twelfth Night" (Act i. sc. 5), makes Viola say:--"I
bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my
hand; my words are as full of peace as of matter." Similarly, the palm,
which, as the symbol of victory, was carried before the conqueror in
triumphal processions, is generally regarded as denoting victory. Thus,
palm-branches were scattered in the path of Christ upon His public entry
into Jerusalem; and, at the present day, a palm-branch is embroidered on
the lappet of the gown of a French professor, to indicate that a
University degree has been attained.[4]
Some flowers have become emblematical from their curious
characteristics. Thus, the balsam is held to be expressive of
impatience, because its seed-pods when ripe curl up at the slightest
touch, and dart forth their seeds, with great violence; hence one of its
popular names, "touch-me-not." The wild anemone has been considered
indicative of brevity, because its fragile blossom is so quickly
scattered to the wind and lost:--
"The winds forbid the flowers to flourish long,
Which owe to winds their name in Grecian song."
The poppy, from its somniferous effects, has been made symbolic of sleep
and oblivion; hence Virgil calls it the Lethean poppy, whilst our old
pastoral poet, William Browne, speaks of it as "sleep-bringing poppy."
The heliotrope denotes devoted attachment, from its having been supposed
to turn continually towards the sun; hence its name, signifying the
_sun_ and _to turn_. The classic heliotrope must not be confounded with
the well-known Peruvian heliotrope or "cherry-pie," a plant with small
lilac-blue blossoms of a delicious fragrance. It would seem that many of
the flowers which had the reputation of opening and shutting at the
sun's bidding were known as heliotropes, or sunflowers, or turnesol.
Shakespeare alludes to the,
"Marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping."
And Moore, describing its faithful constancy, says:--
"The sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she did when he rose."
Such a flower, writes Mr. Ellacombe, was to old writers "the emblem of
constancy in affection and sympathy in joy and sorrow," though it was
also the emblem of the fawning courtier, who can only shine when
everything is right. Anyhow, the so-called heliotrope was the subject of
constant symbolic allusion:--
"The flower, enamoured of the sun,
At his departure hangs her head and weeps,
And shrouds her sweetness up, and keeps
Sad vigils, like a cloistered nun,
Till his reviving ray appears,
Waking her beauty as he dries her tears."[5]
The aspen, from its tremulous motion, has been made symbolical of fear.
The restless movement of its leaves is "produced by the peculiar form of
the foot-stalks, and, indeed, in some degree, the whole tribe of poplars
are subject to have their leaves agitated by the slightest breeze."[6]
Another meaning assigned to the aspen in floral language is scandal,
from an old saying which affirmed that its tears were made from women's
tongues--an allusion to which is made in the subjoined rhyme by P.
Hannay in the year 1622:--
"The quaking aspen, light and thin,
To the air quick passage gives;
Resembling still
The trembling ill
Of tongues of womankind,
Which never rest,
But still are prest
To wave with every wind."
The almond, again, is regarded as expressive of haste, in reference to
its hasty growth and early maturity; while the evening primrose, from
the time of its blossoms expanding, indicates silent love--refraining
from unclosing "her cup of paly gold until her lowly sisters are rocked
into a balmy slumber." The bramble, from its manner of growth, has been
chosen as the type of lowliness; and "from the fierceness with which it
grasps the passer-by with its straggling prickly stems, as an emblem
of remorse."
Fennel was in olden times generally considered an inflammatory herb, and
hence to eat "conger and fennel" was to eat two high and hot things
together, which was an act of libertinism. Thus in "2 Henry IV." (Act
ii. sc. 4), Falstaff says of Poins, "He eats conger and fennel."
Rosemary formerly had the reputation of strengthening the memory, and on
this account was regarded as a symbol of remembrance. Thus, according to
an old ballad:--
"Rosemary is for remembrance
Between us day and night,
Wishing that I may always have
You present in my sight."
And in "Hamlet," where Ophelia seems to be addressing
Laertes, she says (Act iv. sc. 5):--
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance."
Vervain, from time immemorial, has been the floral symbol of
enchantment, owing to its having been in ancient times much in request
for all kinds of divinations and incantations. Virgil, it may be
remembered, alludes to this plant as one of the charms used by an
enchantress:--
"Bring running water, bind those altars round
With fillets, with vervain strew the ground."
Parsley, according to floral language, has a double signification,
denoting feasting and death. On festive occasions the Greeks wore
wreaths of parsley, and on many other occasions it was employed, such as
at the Isthmian games. On the other hand, this plant was strewn over the
bodies of the dead, and decked their graves.
"The weeping willow," as Mr. Ingram remarks, "is one of those natural
emblems which bear their florigraphical meaning so palpably impressed
that their signification is clear at first sight." This tree has always
been regarded as the symbol of sorrow, and also of forsaken love. In
China it is employed in several rites, having from a remote period been
regarded as a token of immortality. As a symbol of bitterness the aloe
has long been in repute, and "as bitter as aloes" is a proverbial
expression, doubtless derived from the acid taste of its juice. Eastern
poets frequently speak of this plant as the emblem of bitterness; a
meaning which most fitly coincides with its properties. The lily of the
valley has had several emblems conferred upon it, each of which is
equally apposite. Thus in reference to the bright hopeful season of
spring, in which it blossoms, it has been regarded as symbolical of the
return of happiness, whilst its delicate perfume has long been
indicative of sweetness, a characteristic thus beautifully described
by Keats:--
"No flower amid the garden fairer grows
Than the sweet lily of the lowly vale,
The queen of flowers."
Its perfect snow-white flower is the emblem of purity, allusions to
which we find numerously scattered in the literature of the past. One of
the emblems of the white poplar in floral language is time, because its
leaves appear always in motion, and "being of a dead blackish-green
above, and white below," writes Mr. Ingram, "they were deemed by the
ancients to indicate the alternation of night and day." Again, the
plane-tree has been from early times made the symbol of genius and
magnificence; for in olden times philosophers taught beneath its
branches, which acquired for it a reputation as one of the seats of
learning. From its beauty and size it obtained a figurative meaning; and
the arbutus or strawberry-tree (_Arbutus unedo_) is the symbol of
inseparable love, and the narcissus denotes self-love, from the story of
Narcissus, who, enamoured of his own beauty, became spell-bound to the
spot, where he pined to death. Shelley describes it as one of the
flowers growing with the sensitive plant in that garden where:--
"The pied wind flowers and the tulip tall,
And narcissi, the fairest among them all,
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess,
Till they die at their own dear loveliness."
The sycamore implies curiosity, from Zacchaeus, who climbed up into this
tree to witness the triumphal entry of Christ into Jerusalem; and from
time immemorial the violet has been the emblem of constancy:--
"Violet is for faithfulness,
Which in me shall abide,
Hoping likewise that from your heart
You will not let it hide."
In some cases flowers seem to have derived their symbolism from certain
events associated with them. Thus the periwinkle signifies "early
recollections, or pleasures of memory," in connection with which
Rousseau tells us how, as Madame Warens and himself were proceeding to
Charmattes, she was struck by the appearance of some of these blue
flowers in the hedge, and exclaimed, "Here is the periwinkle still
in flower."
Thirty years afterwards the sight of the periwinkle in flower carried
his memory back to this occasion, and he inadvertently cried, "Ah, there
is the periwinkle." Incidents of the kind have originated many of the
symbols found in plant language, and at the same time invested them with
a peculiar historic interest.
Once more, plant language, it has been remarked, is one of those binding
links which connects the sentiments and feelings of one country with
another; although it may be, in other respects, these communities have
little in common. Thus, as Mr. Ingram remarks in the introduction to his
"Flora Symbolica" (p. 12), "from the unlettered North American Indian to
the highly polished Parisian; from the days of dawning among the mighty
Asiatic races, whose very names are buried in oblivion, down to the
present times, the symbolism of flowers is everywhere and in all ages
discovered permeating all strata of society. It has been, and still is,
the habit of many peoples to name the different portions of the year
after the most prominent changes of the vegetable kingdom."
In the United States, the language of flowers is said to have more
votaries than in any other part of the world, many works relative to
which have been published in recent years. Indeed, the subject will
always be a popular one; for further details illustrative of which the
reader would do well to consult Mr. H.G. Adams's useful work on the
"Moral Language and Poetry of Flowers," not to mention the constant
allusions scattered throughout the works of our old poets, such as
Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Drayton.
Footnotes:
1. Introduction, p. 12.
2. Folkard's "Plant Legends," p. 389.
3. See Judith xv. 13.
4. "Flower-lore," pp. 197-8.
5. "Plant-lore of Shakespeare."
6. "Flower-lore," p. 168.
CHAPTER XV.
FABULOUS PLANTS.
The curious traditions of imaginary plants found amongst most nations
have partly a purely mythological origin. Frequently, too, they may be
attributed to the exaggerated accounts given by old travellers, who,
"influenced by a desire to make themselves famous, have gone so far as
to pretend that they saw these fancied objects." Anyhow, from whatever
source sprung, these productions of ignorance and superstition have from
a very early period been firmly credited. But, like the accounts given
us of fabulous animals, they have long ago been acknowledged as
survivals of popular errors, which owed their existence to the absence
of botanical knowledge.
We have elsewhere referred to the great world tree, and of the primitive
idea of a human descent from trees. Indeed, according to the early and
uncultured belief of certain communities, there were various kinds of
animal-producing trees, accounts of which are very curious. Among these
may be mentioned the vegetable lamb, concerning which olden writers have
given the most marvellous description. Thus Sir John Maundeville, who in
his "Voyage and Travel" has recorded many marvellous sights which either
came under his notice, or were reported to him during his travels, has
not omitted to speak of this remarkable tree. Thus, to quote his
words:--"There groweth a manner of fruit as though it were gourdes; and
when they be ripe men cut them in two, and men find within a little
beast, in flesh, in bone, and blood--as though it were a little lamb
withouten wolle--and men eat both the fruit and the beast, and that is a
great marvel; of that fruit I have eaten although it were wonderful; but
that I know well that God is marvellous in His works." Various accounts
have been given of this wondrous plant, and in Parkinson's "Paradisus"
it is represented as one of the plants which grew in the Garden of Eden.
Its local name is the Scythian or Tartarian Lamb; and, as it grows, it
might at a short distance be taken for an animal rather than a vegetable
production. It is one of the genus Polypodium; root decumbent, thickly
clothed with a very soft close hoal, of a deep yellow colour. It is also
called by the Tartars "Barometz," and a Chinese nickname is "Rufous
dog." Mr. Bell, in his "Journey to Ispahan," thus describes a specimen
which he saw:--"It seemed to be made by art to imitate a lamb. It is
said to eat up and devour all the grass and weeds within its reach.
Though it may be thought that an opinion so very absurd could never find
credit with people of the meanest understanding, yet I have conversed
with some who were much inclined to believe it; so very prevalent is the
prodigious and absurd with some part of mankind. Among the more sensible
and experienced Tartars, I found they laughed at it as a ridiculous
fable." Blood was said to flow from it when cut or injured, a
superstition which probably originated in the fact that the fresh root
when cut yields a tenacious gum like the blood of animals. Dr. Darwin,
in his "Loves of the Plants," adopts the fable thus:--
"E'en round the pole the flames of love aspire,
And icy bosoms feel the sacred fire,
Cradled in snow, and fanned by arctic air,
Shines, gentle Barometz, the golden hair;
Rested in earth, each cloven hoof descends,
And round and round her flexile neck she bends.
Crops of the grey coral moss, and hoary thyme,
Or laps with rosy tongue the melting rime,
Eyes with mute tenderness her distant dam,
Or seems to bleat a vegetable lamb."
Another curious fiction prevalent in olden times was that of the
barnacle-tree, to which Sir John Maundeville also alludes:--"In our
country were trees that bear a fruit that becomes flying birds; those
that fell in the water lived, and those that fell on the earth died, and
these be right good for man's meat." As early as the twelfth century
this idea was promulgated by Giraldus Cambrensis in his "Topographia
Hiberniae;" and Gerarde in his "Herball, or General History of Plants,"
published in the year 1597, narrates the following:--"There are found
in the north parts of Scotland, and the isles adjacent, called Orcades,
certain trees, whereon do grow small fishes, of a white colour, tending
to russet, wherein are contained little living creatures; which shells,
in time of maturity, do open, and out of them grow those little living
things which, falling into the water, do become fowls, whom we call
barnacles, in the north of England brant-geese, and in Lancashire
tree-geese; but the others that do fall upon the land perish, and do
come to nothing." But, like many other popular fictions, this notion was
founded on truth, and probably originated in mistaking the fleshy
peduncle of the barnacle (_Lepas analifera_) for the neck of a goose,
the shell for its head, and the tentacula for a tuft of feather. There
were many versions of this eccentric myth, and according to one
modification given by Boece, the oldest Scottish historian, these
barnacle-geese are first produced in the form of worms in old trees, and
further adds that such a tree was cast on shore in the year 1480, when
there appeared, on its being sawn asunder, a multitude of worms,
"throwing themselves out of sundry holes and pores of the tree; some of
them were nude, as they were new shapen; some had both head, feet, and
wings, but they had no feathers; some of them were perfect shapen fowls.
At last, the people having this tree each day in more admiration,
brought it to the kirk of St. Andrew's, beside the town of Tyre, where
it yet remains to our day."
Du Bartas thus describes the various transformations of this bird:--
"So, slowe Bootes underneath him sees,
In th' ycie iles, those goslings hatcht of trees;
Whose fruitful leaves, falling into the water,
Are turn'd, they say, to living fowls soon after.
So, rotten sides of broken ships do change
To barnacles; O transformation change,
'Twas first a green tree, then a gallant hull,
Lately a mushroom, now a flying gull."
Meyer wrote a treatise on this strange "bird without father or mother,"
and Sir Robert Murray, in the "Philosophical Transactions," says that,
"these shells are hung at the tree by a neck, longer than the shell, of
a filmy substance, round and hollow and creased, not unlike the windpipe
of a chicken, spreading out broadest where it is fastened to the tree,
from which it seems to draw and convey the matter which serves for the
growth and vegetation of the shell and the little bird within it. In
every shell that I opened," he adds, "I found a perfect sea-fowl; the
little bill like that of a goose, the eyes marked; the head, neck,
breast, wing, tail, and feet formed; the feathers everywhere perfectly
shaped, and the feet like those of other water-fowl." The Chinese have a
tradition of certain trees, the leaves of which were finally changed
into birds.
With this story may be compared that of the oyster-bearing tree, which
Bishop Fleetwood describes in his "Curiosities of Agriculture and
Gardening," written in the year 1707. The oysters as seen, he says, by
the Dominican Du Tertre, at Guadaloupe, grew on the branches of trees,
and, "are not larger than the little English oysters, that is to say,
about the size of a crown-piece. They stick to the branches that hang in
the water of a tree called Paretuvier. No doubt the seed of the oysters,
which is shed in the tree when they spawn, cleaves to those branches, so
that the oysters form themselves there, and grow bigger in process of
time, and by their weight bend down the branches into the sea, and then
are refreshed twice a day by the flux and reflux of it." Kircher speaks
of a tree in Chili, the leaves of which brought forth a certain kind of
worm, which eventually became changed into serpents; and describes a
plant which grew in the Molucca Islands, nicknamed "catopa," on account
of its leaves when falling off being transformed into butterflies.
Among some of the many other equally wonderful plants may be mentioned
the "stony wood," which is thus described by Gerarde:--"Being at Rugby,
about such time as our fantastic people did with great concourse and
multitudes repair and run headlong unto the sacred wells of Newnam
Regis, in the edge of Warwickshire, as unto the Waters of Life, which
could cure all diseases." He visited these healing-wells, where he,
"found growing over the same a fair ash-tree, whose boughs did hang over
the spring of water, whereof some that were seare and rotten, and some
that of purpose were broken off, fell into the water and were all turned
into stone. Of these, boughs, or parts of the tree, I brought into
London, which, when I had broken into pieces, therein might be seen that
the pith and all the rest was turned into stones, still remaining the
same shape and fashion that they were of before they were in the water."
Similarly, Sir John Maundeville notices the "Dead Sea fruit"--fruit
found on the apple-trees near the Dead Sea. To quote his own words:--
"There be full fair apples, and fair of colour to behold; but whoso
breaketh them or cutteth them in two, he shall find within them coals
and cinders, in token that by the wrath of God, the city and the land
were burnt and sunken into hell." Speaking of the many legendary tales
connected with the apple, may be mentioned the golden apples which Hera
received at her marriage with Zeus, and placed under the guardianship of
the dragon Ladon, in the garden of the Hesperides. The northern Iduna
kept guarded the sacred apples which, by a touch, restored the aged gods
to youth; and according to Sir J. Maundeville, the apples of Pyban fed
the pigmies with their smell only. This reminds us of the singing apple
in the fairy romance, which would persuade by its smell alone, and
enable the possessor to write poetry or prose, and to display the most
accomplished wit; and of the singing tree in the "Arabian Nights," each
leaf of which was musical, all the leaves joining together in a
delightful harmony.
But peculiarities of this kind are very varied, and form an extensive
section in "Plant-lore;"--very many curious examples being found in old
travels, and related with every semblance of truth. In some instances
trees have obtained a fabulous character from being connected with
certain events. Thus there was the "bleeding tree."[1] It appears that
one of the indictments laid to the charge of the Marquis of Argyll was
this:--"That a tree on which thirty-six of his enemies were hanged was
immediately blasted, and when hewn down, a copious stream of blood ran
from it, saturating the earth, and that blood for several years was
emitted from the roots." Then there is the "poet's tree," which grows
over the tomb of Tan-Sein, a musician at the court of Mohammed Akbar.
Whoever chews a leaf of this tree was long said to be inspired with
sweet melody of voice, an allusion to which is made by Moore, in "Lalla
Kookh:":--"His voice was sweet, as if he had chewed the leaves of that
enchanted tree which grows over the tomb of the musician Tan-Sein."
The rare but occasional occurrence of vegetation in certain trees and
shrubs, happening to take place at the period of Christ's birth, gave
rise to the belief that such trees threw out their leaves with a holy
joy to commemorate that anniversary. An oak of the early budding species
for two centuries enjoyed such a notoriety, having been said to shoot
forth its leaves on old Christmas Day, no leaf being seen either before
or after that day during winter. There was the famous Glastonbury thorn,
and in the same locality a walnut tree was reported never to put forth
its leaves before the feast of St. Barnabas, the 11th June. The monkish
legend runs thus: Joseph of Arimathaea, after landing at no great
distance from Glastonbury, walked to a hill about a mile from the town.
Being weary he sat down here with his companions, the hill henceforth
being nicknamed "Weary-All-Hill," locally abbreviated into "Werral."
Whilst resting Joseph struck his staff into the ground, which took root,
grew, and blossomed every Christmas Day. Previous to the time of Charles
I a branch of this famous tree was carried in procession, with much
ceremony, at Christmas time, but during the Civil War the tree was
cut down.