Old-Time Gardens, Newly Set Forth

by Alice Morse Earle

The use of herbs as component parts of love philters and charms is a most ancient custom, and lingered into the nineteenth century in country communities. I knew but one case of the manufacture and administering of a love philter, and it was by a person to whom such an action would seem utterly incongruous. A very gentle, retiring girl in a New England town eighty years ago was deeply in love with the minister whose church she attended, and of which her father was the deacon. The parson was a widower, nearly of middle age, and exceedingly sombre and reserved in character—saddened, doubtless, by the loss of his two young children and his wife through that scourge of New England, consumption; but he was very handsome, and even his sadness had its charm. His house, had burned down as an additional misfortune, and he lived in lodgings with two elderly women of his congregation. Therefore church meetings and various gatherings of committees were held at the deacon's house, and the deacon's daughter saw him day after day, and grew more desperately in love. Desperate certainly she was when she dared even to think of giving a love philter to a minister. The recipe was clearly printed on the last page of an old dream book; and she carried it out in every detail. It was easy to introduce it into the mug of flip which was always brewed for the meeting, and the parson drank it down abstractedly, thinking that it seemed more bitter than usual, but showing no sign of this thought. The philter was promised to have effect in making the drinker love profoundly the first person of opposite sex whom he or she saw after drinking it; and of course the minister saw Hannah as she stood waiting for his empty tankard. The dull details of parish work were talked over in the usual dragging way for half an hour, when the minister became conscious of an intense coldness which seemed to benumb him in every limb; and he tried to walk to the fireplace. Suddenly all in the room became aware that he was very ill, and one called out, "He's got a stroke." Luckily the town doctor was also a deacon, and was therefore present; and he promptly said, "He's poisoned," and hot water from the teakettle, whites of eggs, mustard, and other domestic antidotes were administered with promptitude and effect. It is useless to detail the days of agony to the wretched girl, during which the sick man wavered between life and death, nor her devoted care of him. Soon after his recovery he solemnly proposed marriage to her, and was refused. But he never wavered in his love for her; and every year he renewed his offer and told his wishes, to be met ever with a cold refusal, until ten years had passed; when into his brain there entered a perception that her refusal had some extraordinary element in it. Then, with a warmth of determination worthy a younger man, he demanded an explanation, and received a confession of the poisonous love philter. I suppose time had softened the memory of his suffering, at any rate they were married—so the promise of the love charm came true, after all.

A Gatherer of Simples.

Amos Bronson Alcott was another author of Concord, a sweet philosopher whom I shall ever remember with deepest gratitude as the only person who in my early youth ever imagined any literary capacity in me (and in that he was sadly mistaken, for he fancied I would be a poet). I have read very faithfully all his printed writings, trying to believe him a great man, a seer; but I cannot, in spite of my gratitude for his flattering though unfulfilled prophecy, discover in his books any profound signs of depth or novelty of thought. In his Tablets are some very pleasant, if not surprisingly wise, essays on domestic subjects; one, on "Sweet Herbs," tells cheerfully of the womanly care of the herb garden, but shows that, when written—about 1850—borders of herbs were growing infrequent.

One great delight of old English gardens is never afforded us in New England; we do not grow Lavender beds. I have of course seen single plants of Lavender, so easily winter-killed, but I never have seen a Lavender bed, nor do I know of one. It is a great loss. A bed or hedge of Lavender is pleasing in the same way that the dress of a Quaker lady is pleasing; it is reposeful, refined. It has a soft effect at the edge of a garden, like a blue-gray haze, and always reminds me of doves. The power of association or some inherent quality of the plant, makes Lavender always suggest freshness and cleanliness.

We may linger a little with a few of these old herb favorites. One of the most balmy and beautiful of all the sweet breaths borne by leaves or blossoms is that of Basil, which, alas! I see so seldom. I have always loved it, and can never pass it without pressing its leaves in my hand; and I cannot express the satisfaction, the triumph, with which I read these light-giving lines of old Thomas Tusser, which showed me why I loved it:—

"Faire Basil desireth it may be hir lot
To growe as the gilly flower trim in a pot
That Ladies and Gentils whom she doth serve
May help hir as needeth life to preserve."

An explanation of this rhyme is given by Tusser Redivivus: "Most people stroak Garden Basil which leaves a grateful smell on the hand and he will have it that Stroaking from a fair lady preserves the life of the Basil."