"White Umbrellas of Elder."
"I know a bank whereon the Wild Thyme blows"—it is not in old England, but on Long Island; the dense clusters of tiny aromatic flowers form a thick cushioned carpet under our feet. Lord Bacon says in his essay on Gardens:—
"Those which perfume the air most delightfully, not passed by as the rest, but being trodden upon and crushed are three: that is, Burnet, Wild Thyme, and Water-Mints. Therefore you are to set whole alleys of them, to have the pleasure when you walk or tread."
Here we have an alley of Thyme, set by nature, for us to tread upon and enjoy, though Thyme always seems to me so classic a plant, that it is far too fine to walk upon; one ought rather to sleep and dream upon it.
Great bushes of Elder, another flower of witchcraft, grow and blossom near my Thyme bank. Old Thomas Browne, as long ago as 1685 called the Elder bloom "white umbrellas"—which has puzzled me much, since we are told to assign the use and knowledge of umbrellas in England to a much later date; perhaps he really wrote umbellas. Now it is a well-known fact—sworn to in scores of old herbals, that any one who stands on Wild Thyme, by the side of an Elder bush, on Midsummer Eve, will "see great experiences"; his eyes will be opened, his wits quickened, his vision clarified; and some have even seen fairies, pixies—Shakespeare's elves—sporting over the Thyme at their feet.
I shall not tell whom I saw walking on my Wild Thyme bank last Midsummer Eve. I did not need the Elder bush to open my eyes. I watched the twain strolling back and forth in the half-light, and I heard snatches of talk as they walked toward me, and I lost the responses as they turned from me. At last, in a louder voice:—
He. "What is this jolly smell all around here? Just like a mint-julep! Some kind of a flower?"
She. "It's Thyme, Wild Thyme; it has run into the edge of the lawn from the field, and is just ruining the grass."
He (stooping to pick it). "Why, so it is. I thought it came from that big white flower over there by the hedge."
She. "No, that is Elder."
He (after a pause). "I had to learn a lot of old Arnold's poetry at school once, or in college, and there was some just like to-night:—
"'The evening comes—the fields are still,
The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Unheard all day, ascends again.
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
And from the Thyme upon the height,
And from the Elder-blossom white,
And pale Dog Roses in the hedge,
And from the Mint-plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night air blows
The perfume which the day foregoes—
And on the pure horizon far
See pulsing with the first-born star
The liquid light above the hill.
The evening comes—the fields are still.'"
Then came the silence and half-stiffness which is ever apt to follow any long quotation, especially any rare recitation of verse by those who are notoriously indifferent to the charms of rhyme and rhythm, and are of another sex than the listener. It seems to indicate an unusual condition of emotion, to be a sort of barometer of sentiment, and the warning of threatening weather was not unheeded by her; hence her response was somewhat nervous in utterance, and instinctively perverse and contradictory.
She. "That line, 'The liquid light above the hill,' is very lovely, but I can't see that it's any of it at all like to-night."
He (stoutly and resentfully). "Oh, no! not at all! There's the field, all still, and here's Thyme, and Elder, and there are wild Roses!—and see! the moon is coming up—so there's your liquid light."
She. "Well! Yes, perhaps it is; at any rate it is a lovely night. You've read Lavengro? No? Certainly you must[Pg 308] have heard of it. The gipsy in it says: 'Life is sweet, brother. There's day and night, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all sweet things; there is likewise a wind on the heath.'"
He (dubiously). "That's rather queer poetry, if it is poetry—and you must know I do not like to hear you call me brother."