Flowers And Flower-Gardens Part 12

With what a light heart and eager appet.i.te did I enter the little breakfast parlour of which the gla.s.s-doors opened upon a bright green lawn, variegated with small beds of flowers! The table was spread with dewy and delicious fruits from our own garden, and gathered by fair and friendly hands. Beautiful and luscious as were these garden dainties, they were of small account in comparison with the fresh cheeks and cherry lips that so frankly accepted the wonted early greeting. Alas!

how that circle of early friends is now divided, and what a change has since come over the spirit of our dreams! Yet still I cherish boyish feelings, and the past is sometimes present. As I give an imaginary kiss to an "old familiar face," and catch myself almost unconsciously, yet literally, returning imaginary smiles, my heart is as fresh and fervid as of yore.

A lapse of fifteen years, and a distance of fifteen thousand miles, and the glare of a tropical sky and the presence of foreign faces, need not make an Indian Exile quite forgetful of home-delights. Parted friends may still share the light of love as severed clouds are equally kindled by the same sun. No number of miles or days can change or separate faithful spirits or annihilate early a.s.sociations. That strange magician, Fancy, who supplies so many corporeal deficiencies and overcomes so many physical obstructions, and mocks at s.p.a.ce and time, enables us to pa.s.s in the twinkling of an eye over the dreary waste of waters that separates the exile from the scenes and companions of his youth. He treads again his native sh.o.r.e. He sits by the hospitable hearth and listens to the ringing laugh of children. He exchanges cordial greetings with the "old familiar faces." There is a resurrection of the dead, and a return of vanished years. He abandons himself to the sweet illusion, and again

Lives over each scene, and is what he beholds.

I must not be too egotistically garrulous in print, or I would now attempt to describe the various ways in which I have spent a summer's day in England. I would dilate upon my noon-day loiterings amidst wild ruins, and thick forests, and on the shaded banks of rivers--the pic-nic parties--the gipsy prophecies--the twilight homeward walk--the social tea-drinking, and, the last scene of all, the "rosy dreams and slumbers light," induced by wholesome exercise and placid thoughts.[050] But perhaps these few simple allusions are sufficient to awaken a train of kindred a.s.sociations in the reader's mind, and he will thank me for those words and images that are like the keys of memory, and "open all her cells with easy force."

If a summer's day be thus rife with pleasure, scarcely less so is a day in winter, though with some little drawbacks, that give, by contrast, a zest to its enjoyments. It is difficult to leave the warm morning bed and brave the external air. The fireless grate and frosted windows may well make the stoutest shudder. But when we have once screwed our courage to the sticking place, and with a single jerk of the clothes, and a brisk jump from the bed, have commenced the operations of the toilet, the battle is nearly over. The teeth chatter for a while, and the limbs s.h.i.+ver, and we do not feel particularly comfortable while breaking the ice in our jugs, and performing our cold ablutions amidst the sharp, gla.s.s-like fragments, and wiping our faces with a frozen towel. But these petty evils are quickly vanquished, and as we rush out of the house, and tread briskly and firmly on the hard ringing earth, and breathe our visible breath in the clear air, our strength and self-importance miraculously increase, and the whole frame begins to glow.

The warmth and vigour thus acquired are inexpressibly delightful. As we re-enter the house, we are proud of our intrepidity and vigour, and pity the effeminacy of our less enterprising friends, who, though huddled together round the fire, like flies upon a sunny wall, still complain of cold, and instead of the bloom of health and animation, exhibit pale and pinched and discolored features, and hands cold, rigid, and of a deadly hue. Those who rise with spirit on a winter morning, and stir and thrill themselves with early exercise, are indifferent to the cold for the rest of the day, and feel a confidence in their corporeal energies, and a lightness of heart that are experienced at no other season.

But even the timid and luxurious are not without their pleasures. As the shades of evening draw in, the parlour twilight--the closed curtains--and the cheerful fire--make home a little paradise to all.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in

_Cowper_.

The warm and cold seasons of India have no charms like those of England, but yet people who are guiltless of what Milton so finely calls "a sullenness against nature," and who are willing, in a spirit of true philosophy and piety, to extract good from every thing, may save themselves from wretchedness even in this land of exile. While I am writing this paragraph, a bird in my room, (not the Caubul songster that I have already alluded to, but a fine little English linnet,) who is as much a foreigner here as I am, is pouring out his soul in a flood of song. His notes ring with joy. He pines not for his native meadows--he cares not for his wiry bars--he envies not the little denizens of air that sometimes flutter past my window, nor imagines, for a moment, that they come to mock him with their freedom. He is contented with his present enjoyments, because they are utterly undisturbed by idle comparisons with those experienced in the past or antic.i.p.ated in the future. He has no thankless repinings and no vain desires. Is intellect or reason then so fatal, though sublime a gift that we cannot possess it without the poisonous alloy of care? Must grief and ingrat.i.tude inevitably find entrance into the heart, in proportion to the loftiness and number of our mental endowments? Are we to seek for happiness in ignorance? To these questions the reply is obvious. Every good quality may be abused, and the greatest, most; and he who perversely employs his powers of thought and imagination to a wrong purpose deserves the misery that he gains. Were we honestly to deduct from the ills of life all those of our own creation, how trifling, in the majority of cases, the amount that would remain! We seem to invite and encourage sorrow, while happiness is, as it were, forced upon us against our will. It is wonderful how some men pertinaciously cling to care, and argue themselves into a dissatisfaction with their lot. Thus it is really a matter of little moment whether fortune smile or frown, for it is in vain to look for superior felicity amongst those who have more "appliances and means to boot," than their fellow-men. Wealth, rank, and reputation, do not secure their possessors from the misery of discontent.

As happiness then depends upon the right direction and employment of our faculties, and not on worldly goods or mere localities, our countrymen might be cheerful enough, even in this foreign land, if they would only accustom themselves to a proper train of thinking, and be ready on every occasion to look on the brighter side of all things.[051] In reverting to home-scenes we should regard them for their intrinsic charms, and not turn them into a source of disquiet by mournfully comparing them with those around us. India, let Englishmen murmur as they will, has some attractions, enjoyments and advantages. No Englishman is here in danger of dying of starvation as some of our poets have done in the inhospitable streets of London. The comparatively princely and generous style in which we live in this country, the frank and familiar tone of our little society, and the general mildness of the climate, (excepting a few months of a too sultry summer) can hardly be denied by the most determined malcontent. The weather is indeed too often a great deal warmer than we like it; but if "the excessive heat" did not form a convenient subject for complaint and conversation, it is perhaps doubtful if it would so often be thought of or alluded to. But admit the objection. What climate is without its peculiar evils? In the cold season a walk in India either in the morning or the evening is often extremely pleasant in pleasant company, and I am glad to see many sensible people paying the climate the compliment of treating it like that of England. It is now fas.h.i.+onable to use our limbs in the ordinary way, and the "Garden of Eden"[052] has become a favorite promenade, particularly on the evenings when a band from the Fort fills the air with a cheerful harmony and throws a fresher life upon the scene. It is not to be denied that besides the mere exercise, pedestrians at home have great advantages over those who are too indolent or aristocratic to leave their equipages, because they can cut across green and quiet fields, enter rural by-ways, and enjoy a thousand little patches of lovely scenery that are secrets to the high-road traveller. But still the Calcutta pedestrian has also his gratifications. He can enjoy no exclusive prospects, but he beholds upon an Indian river a forest of British masts--the n.o.ble s.h.i.+pping of the Queen of the Sea--and has a fine panoramic view of this City of Palaces erected by his countrymen on a foreign sh.o.r.e;--and if he is fond of children, he must be delighted with the numberless pretty and happy little faces--the fair forms of Saxon men and women in miniature--that crowd about him on the green sward;--he must be charmed with their innocent prattle, their quick and graceful movements, and their winning ways, that awaken a tone of tender sentiment in his heart, and rekindle many sweet a.s.sociations.

SONNETS,

WRITTEN IN EXILE.

I.

Man's heart may change, but Nature's glory never;-- And while the soul's internal cell is bright, The cloudless eye lets in the bloom and light Of earth and heaven to charm and cheer us ever.

Though youth hath vanished, like a winding river Lost in the shadowy woods; and the dear sight Of native hill and nest-like cottage white, 'Mid breeze-stirred boughs whose crisp leaves gleam and quiver, And murmur sea-like sounds, perchance no more My homeward step shall hasten cheerily; Yet still I feel as I have felt of yore, And love this radiant world. Yon clear blue sky-- These gorgeous groves--this flower-enamelled floor-- Have deep enchantments for my heart and eye.

II.

Man's heart may change, but Nature's glory never, Though to the sullen gaze of grief the sight Of sun illumined skies may _seem_ less bright, Or gathering clouds less grand, yet she, as ever, Is lovely or majestic. Though fate sever The long linked bands of love, and all delight Be lost, as in a sudden starless night, The radiance may return, if He, the giver Of peace on earth, vouchsafe the storm to still This breast once shaken with the strife of care Is touched with silent joy. The cot--the hill, Beyond the broad blue wave--and faces fair, Are pictured in my dreams, yet scenes that fill My waking eye can save me from despair.

III.

Man's heart may change, but Nature's glory never,-- Strange features throng around me, and the sh.o.r.e Is not my own dear land. Yet why deplore This change of doom? All mortal ties must sever.

The pang is past,--and now with blest endeavour I check the ready tear, the rising sigh The common earth is here--the common sky-- The common FATHER. And how high soever O'er other tribes proud England's hosts may seem, G.o.d's children, fair or sable, equal find A FATHER'S love. Then learn, O man, to deem All difference idle save of heart or mind Thy duty, love--each cause of strife, a dream-- Thy home, the world--thy family, mankind.

D.L.R.

For the sake of my home readers I must now say a word or two on the effect produced upon the mind of a stranger on his approach to Calcutta from the Sandheads.

As we run up the Bay of Bengal and approach the dangerous Sandheads, the beautiful deep blue of the ocean suddenly disappears. It turns into a pale green. The sea, even in calm weather, rolls over soundings in long swells. The hue of the water is varied by different depths, and in pa.s.sing over the edge of soundings, it is curious to observe how distinctly the form of the sands may be traced by the different shades of green in the water above and beyond them. In the lower part of the bay, the crisp foam of the dark sea at night is instinct with phosphoric l.u.s.tre. The s.h.i.+p seems to make her way through galaxies of little ocean stars. We lose sight of this poetical phenomenon as we approach the mouth of the Hooghly. But the pa.s.sengers, towards the termination of their voyage, become less observant of the changeful aspect of the sea.

Though amused occasionally by flights of sea-gulls, immense shoals of porpoises, apparently tumbling or rolling head over tail against the wind, and the small sprat-like fishes that sometimes play and glitter on the surface, the stranger grows impatient to catch a glimpse of an Indian jungle; and even the swampy tiger-haunted Saugor Island is greeted with that degree of interest which novelty usually inspires.

At first the land is but little above the level of the water. It rises gradually as we pa.s.s up further from the sea. As we come still nearer to Calcutta, the soil on sh.o.r.e seems to improve in richness and the trees to increase in size. The little cl.u.s.ters of nest-like villages snugly sheltered in foliage--the groups of dark figures in white garments--the cattle wandering over the open plain--the emerald-colored fields of rice--the rich groves of mangoe trees--the vast and magnificent banyans, with straight roots dropping from their highest branches, (hundreds of these branch-dropped roots being fixed into the earth and forming "a pillared shade"),--the tall, slim palms of different characters and with crowns of different forms, feathery or fan-like,--the many-stemmed and long, sharp-leaved bamboos, whose thin pliant branches swing gracefully under the weight of the lightest bird,--the beautifully rounded and bright green peepuls, with their burnished leaves glittering in the suns.h.i.+ne, and trembling at the zephyr's softest touch with a pleasant rustling sound, suggestive of images of coolness and repose,--form a striking and singularly interesting scene (or rather succession of scenes) after the monotony of a long voyage during which nothing has been visible but sea and sky.

But it is not until he arrives at a bend of the river called _Garden Reach_, where the City of Palaces first opens on the view, that the stranger has a full sense of the value of our possessions in the East.

The princely mansions on our right;--(residences of English gentry), with their rich gardens and smooth slopes verdant to the water's edge,--the large and rich Botanic Garden and the Gothic edifice of Bishop's College on our left--and in front, as we advance a little further, the countless masts of vessels of all sizes and characters, and from almost every clime,--Fort William, with its gra.s.sy ramparts and white barracks,--the Government House, a magnificent edifice in spite of many imperfections,--the substantial looking Town Hall--the Supreme Court House--the broad and ever verdant plain (or _madaun_) in front--and the n.o.ble lines of buildings along the Esplanade and Chowringhee Road,--the new Cathedral almost at the extremity of the plain, and half-hidden amidst the trees,--the suburban groves and buildings of Kidderpore beyond, their outlines softened by the haze of distance, like scenes contemplated through colored gla.s.s--the high-sterned budgerows and small trim bauleahs along the edge of the river,--the neatly-painted palanquins and other vehicles of all sorts and sizes,--the variously-hued and variously-clad people of all conditions; the fair European, the black and nearly naked Cooly, the clean-robed and lighter-skinned native Baboo, the Oriental n.o.bleman with his jewelled turban and kincob vest, and costly necklace and twisted c.u.mmerbund, on a horse fantastically caparisoned, and followed in barbaric state by a train of attendants with long, golden-handled punkahs, peac.o.c.k feather chowries, and golden chattahs and silver sticks,--present altogether a scene that is calculated to at once delight and bewilder the traveller, to whom all the strange objects before him have something of the enchantment and confusion of an Arabian Night's dream. When he recovers from his surprise, the first emotion in the breast of an Englishman is a feeling of national pride. He exults in the recognition of so many glorious indications of the power of a small and remote nation that has founded a splendid empire in so strange and vast a land.

When the first impression begins to fade, and he takes a closer view of the great metropolis of India--and observes what miserable straw huts are intermingled with magnificent palaces--how much Oriental filth and squalor and idleness and superst.i.tion and poverty and ignorance are a.s.sociated with savage splendour, and are brought into immediate and most incongruous contact with Saxon energy and enterprize and taste and skill and love of order, and the amazing intelligence of the West in this nineteenth century--and when familiarity breeds something like contempt for many things that originally excited a vague and pleasing wonder--the English traveller in the East is apt to dwell too exclusively on the worst side of the picture, and to become insensible to the real interest, and blind to the actual beauty of much of the scene around him. Extravagant astonishment and admiration, under the influence of novelty, a strong re-action, and a subsequent feeling of unreasonable disappointment, seem, in some degree, natural to all men; but in no other part of the world, and under no other circ.u.mstances, is this peculiarity of our condition more conspicuously displayed than in the case of Englishmen in India. John Bull, who is always a grumbler even on his own sh.o.r.es, is sure to become a still more inveterate grumbler in other countries, and perhaps the climate of Bengal, producing la.s.situde and low spirits, and a yearning for their native land, of which they are so justly proud, contribute to make our countrymen in the East even more than usually unsusceptible of pleasurable emotions until at last they turn away in positive disgust from the scenes and objects which remind them that they are in a state of exile.

"There is nothing," says Hamlet, "either good or bad, but thinking makes it so." At every change of the mind's colored optics the scene before it changes also. I have sometimes contemplated the vast metropolis of England--or rather _of the world_--mult.i.tudinous and mighty LONDON--with the pride and hope and exultation, not of a patriot only, but of a cosmopolite--a man. Its grand national structures that seem built for eternity--its n.o.ble inst.i.tutions, charitable, and learned, and scientific, and artistical--the genius and science and bravery and moral excellence within its countless walls--have overwhelmed me with a sense of its glory and majesty and power. But in a less admiring mood, I have quite reversed the picture. Perhaps the following sonnet may seem to indicate that the writer while composing it, must have worn his colored spectacles.

LONDON, IN THE MORNING.

The morning wakes, and through the misty air In sickly radiance struggles--like the dream Of sorrow-shrouded hope. O'er Thames' dull stream, Whose sluggish waves a wealthy burden bear From every port and clime, the pallid glare Of early sun-light spreads. The long streets seem Unpeopled still, but soon each path shall teem With hurried feet, and visages of care.

And eager throngs shall meet where dusky marts Resound like ocean-caverns, with the din Of toil and strife and agony and sin.

Trade's busy Babel! Ah! how many hearts By l.u.s.t of gold to thy dim temples brought In happier hours have scorned the prize they sought?

D.L.R.

I now give a pair of sonnets upon the City of Palaces as viewed through somewhat clearer gla.s.ses.

VIEW OF CALCUTTA.

Here Pa.s.sion's restless eye and spirit rude May greet no kindred images of power To fear or wonder ministrant. No tower, Time-struck and tenantless, here seems to brood, In the dread majesty of solitude, O'er human pride departed--no rocks lower O'er ravenous billows--no vast hollow wood Rings with the lion's thunder--no dark bower The crouching tiger haunts--no gloomy cave Glitters with savage eyes! But all the scene Is calm and cheerful. At the mild command Of Britain's sons, the skilful and the brave, Fair palace-structures decorate the land, And proud s.h.i.+ps float on Hooghly's breast serene!

D.L.R.

SONNET, ON RETURNING TO CALCUTTA AFTER A VOYAGE TO THE STRAITS OF MALACCA.

Umbrageous woods, green dells, and mountains high, And bright cascades, and wide cerulean seas, Slumbering, or snow-wreathed by the freshening breeze, And isles like motionless clouds upon the sky In silent summer noons, late charmed mine eye, Until my soul was stirred like wind-touched trees, And pa.s.sionate love and speechless ecstasies Up-raised the thoughts in spiritual depths that lie.

Fair scenes, ye haunt me still! Yet I behold This sultry city on the level sh.o.r.e Not all unmoved; for here our fathers bold Won proud historic names in days of yore, And here are generous hearts that ne'er grow cold, And many a friendly hand and open door.

D.L.R.

There are several extremely elegant customs connected with some of the Indian Festivals, at which flowers are used in great profusion. The surface of the "sacred river" is often thickly strewn with them. In Mrs.

Carsh.o.r.e's pleasing volume of _Songs of the East_[053] there is a long poem (too long to quote entire) in which the _Beara Festival_ is described. I must give the introductory pa.s.sage.

"THE BEARA FESTIVAL.

"Upon the Ganges' overflowing banks, Where palm trees lined the sh.o.r.e in graceful ranks, I stood one night amidst a merry throng Of British youths and maidens, to behold A witching Indian scene of light and song, Crowds of veiled native loveliness untold, Each streaming path poured duskily along.

The air was filled with the sweet breath of flowers, And music that awoke the silent hours, It was the BEARA FESTIVAL and feast When proud and lowly, loftiest and least, Matron and Moslem maiden pay their vows, With impetratory and votive gift, And to the Moslem Jonas bent their brows.

_Each brought her floating lamp of flowers_, and swift A thousand lights along the current drift, Till the vast bosom of the swollen stream, Glittering and gliding onward like a dream, Seems a wide mirror of the starry sphere Or more as if the stars had dropt from air, And in an earthly heaven were s.h.i.+ning here, And far above were, but reflected there Still group on group, advancing to the brink, As group on group retired link by link; For one pale lamp that floated out of view Five brighter ones they quickly placed anew; At length the slackening mult.i.tudes grew less, And the lamps floated scattered and apart.

As stars grow few when morning's footsteps press When a slight girl, shy as the timid halt, Not far from where we stood, her offering brought.

Singing a low sweet strain, with lips untaught.

Her song proclaimed, that 'twas not many hours Since she had left her childhood's innocent home; And now with Beara lamp, and wreathed flowers, To propitiate heaven, for wedded bliss had come"

To these lines Mrs. Carsh.o.r.e (who has been in this country, I believe, from her birth, and who ought to know something of Indian customs) appends the following notes.

"_It was the Beara festival_." Much has been said about the Beara or floating lamp, but I have never yet seen a correct description. Moore mentions that Lalla Rookh saw a solitary Hindoo girl bring her lamp to the river. D.L.R. says the same, whereas the Beara festival is a Moslem feast that takes place once a year in the monsoons, when thousands of females offer their vows to the patron of rivers.

"_Moslem Jonas_" Khauj Khoddir is the Jonas of the Mussulman; he, like the prophet of Nineveh, was for three days inside a fish, and for that reason is called the patron of rivers."

I suppose Mrs. Carsh.o.r.e alludes, in the first of these notes, to the following pa.s.sage in the prose part of Lalla Rookh:--

"As they pa.s.sed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank whose employment seemed to them so strange that they stopped their palanquins to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthern dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream: and was now anxiously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. Lalla Rookh was all curiosity;--when one of her attendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent that often, in the dusk of evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights, like the Oton-Jala or Sea of Stars,) informed the Princess that it was the usual way, in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous; but if it went s.h.i.+ning down the stream, and continued to burn till entirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain.