The poorest of us have our "castles in Spain." Why not have our gardens? Such a garden I have "in my mind's eye," but before I make bold to describe this airy creation (which, for lack of leisure and "hard cash," is doomed never to materialize) let me explain that my garden in Spain is not purely ornamental; that its beds and walks, although tastefully laid out, are strictly devoted to "the useful," to culinary and medicinal ends. In earlier times our Materia Medica (including though it did the unsavory pills and potions now become somewhat out of date) pinned its faith largely to Nature's ready-to-hand specifics. "Simples," as these herbs were then called (probably in contradistinction to the complex preparations of the doctor), were even in our own generation zealously gathered by our grandmothers; and I well remember the time when to be without dried herbs—Boneset, Hoarhound, Wormwood, Motherwort, Catnip, and Gentian—was to be shiftless indeed.

In laying out this imaginary garden plot I have covered a good half acre of rich soil, which I have, in fancy, divided into pretty beds of various size and shape, with neat intersecting gravel walks. There I have sown or planted such herbs as once hung in generous bunches, drying leisurely, in all respectable garrets, when such minor ailments as "flesh is heir to" were cured on the spot and only on alarming occasions the doctor, with his pill boxes, his blisters, and lancet, called in.

Various are the uses and virtues of these medicinal herbs. "Gentian," says an old herbalist, "will worke admirable cures for the stomache and lungs. It is also a special counter-poison against any poison, as against the violence of a mad dog's tooth."

Modern physicians find one species of Gentian soporific and use it to procure sleep for the weary sufferer. G. Latea is the Gentian of commerce, and is used as a tonic. The old herbalists commend the Common Centaury as a cure for jaundice and ague, and tell us that an infusion of the plant removes freckles. Of Jacob's Ladder (a plant of the genus Smilax) Pliny tells us that the name by which it is known to us is derived from Polimis (war), because two kings having each claimed the merit of discovering the great uses of the herb had recourse to arms to settle the disputed question.

The old "Simplers" (herbalists) commend Penny Royal tea as a remedy for coughs and colds—"goode and wholesome for the lungs"—and add that "a garlande of the plant worn about the heade will cure giddeness."

Foxglove (Digitalis) was praised by old herbalists for its various medicinal uses, "divers having been cured thereby of falling sickness." Later, skillful practitioners have discovered its power over the action of the heart, and Digitalis has come to be a highly-valued medicine.

Common Vervain rivals the Mistletoe in its occult usages. "Many old wives' fables tending to witchcraft and sorcerie," says Gerarde, "are written of Vervayne."

"The Druids," according to Pliny, often used Vervain in "casting lots, telling fortunes, and foreshadowing future national events." Its gathering was attended with peculiar ceremonies. "It was to be sought for at the rising of the great Dog-star, and when plucken an offering of honeycomb was to be made to the Earth as a recompense for depriving her of so goodly an herb." The ancients believed that "if the hall or dining chamber be sprinkled with the water wherein Vervain lay steeped all that sate at the table should be very pleasant, and make merry more jocundly."

The Romans considered it a sacred plant, placing it in the hands of ambassadors who were about to enter on important embassies; and the floors of their houses were rubbed with Vervain to drive away evil spirits. In England, at a later time, the plant was called "Holy herb," and had its superstitious usages intimating a belief in its magical properties. Of late years it is there tied round the neck as a charm to cure ague.

Vervain is still believed to possess great medicinal virtues, and is described as a remedy for thirty different maladies. It had of old the expressive name of "Simpler's Joy."

The Verbena tribe of this plant is cultivated in our gardens for its showy clusters of pink, purple, white, and dazzling scarlet blossoms, and the Lemon variety for its delicately fragrant leaves.

According to the old "Simplers" "the roote of the Caraway may be eaten like the parsnip, and helpeth digestion and strengtheneth the stomaches of ancient (aged) people exceedingly, and they need not make a whole meal of them neither."

In some countries Angelica is (we are told) called by a name signifying the "Holy Ghost." In ancient times its leaf stalks were blanched like those of celery and eaten as a salad, or they were dried and preserved as a sweet-meat, "Candied Angelica." The Laplander believes that the use of Angelica prolongs life, and chews it as he would do tobacco.

The Highlanders have the same opinion of the virtues of Lovage. The simplers have advised "gentlewomen" "to nourse it up in their kitchen gardens to helpe their own family and their poore neighbors that are faire remote from phisitions and Chirurgeons." They also affirm that "if a man carry about him Angelica root the witches doe have no power over him."

The nourishment in the roots of wild herbs has often kept the Indian tribes from starvation in times of scarcity of game, when they had to depend on these and on crows, eagles, and devil fish to sustain life while awaiting the "coming of the salmon," that in fishing time leaped in prodigious numbers in their rivers.

I remember reading of an especially providential instance where in a region desolated by grasshoppers the people were, for the time, sustained on the roots of herbs which these greedy cormorants had, necessarily, left intact.

For an interesting and exhaustive treatment of this branch of botanical information the reader is referred to Anna Pratt's "British Flowering Plants," a work from which much of my own knowledge has been obtained.

"If," says an old writer, "I shoulde set down all the sortes of herbes that are usually gathered for sallets I should not only speake of garden herbes, but of many herbes which grow wilde in the fieldes, or else be but weedes in a garden."

George Herbert, in his "Priest to the Temple," while enumerating the duties of the parson and his family, thus writes: "For salves his wife seeks not the city, but prefers her gardens and fields before all outlandish gums; and surely hyssop, valerian, adder's tongue, melilot, and St. John's-wort, made into a salve, and elder, comfrey, and smallage made into poultice, have done great and rare cures." And he piously adds: "In curing of any, the Parson and his family, use to premise with prayer; for this is to cure like a parson, and this raiseth the action from the Shop to the Church."

Catmint or Catnip is the "New Wine" of the Grimalkin family. It is said that it is not intoxicating to them until its odor is perceptible to their smell by breaking or bruising the plant.

Catnip is fabled to make the most gentle human beings fierce and wrathful, and it is related of a certain pusillanimous hangman that he only gained courage to perform the duties of his wretched vocation by chewing catnip root.

One who experimented with Catnip as an incitement to ferocity assures us that "for 24 hours after a dose of this root she retained a perfect equanimity of temper and feeling."

But enough space has already been given to the healing herbs that plant themselves in my Garden in Spain, and now let me tell you of the dear little imaginary beds devoted to my sweet-scented "pot-herbs." In these I please myself with tending Coriander, Mint, Anise, and Cumin, Dill, Lovage, Thyme, Lavender, Angelica, Sweet Sicily, Rosemary, Comfrey, Fennel, Sweet Basil, Penny Royal, and Balm.

Here, too, may be found less poetical herbs of solid worth in the cuisine—as Sage, Parsley, Summer Savory, Sweet Marjoram, and so on. Many fragrant pot-herbs are dear to my heart simply from long association, others are widely distinguished by historical eminence.

Coriander has the especial claim of "long descent." Its pedigree dates back to the time of the Egyptian Pharaohs, and it is possibly coeval with the Sphinx and the pyramids. It would seem to have been in common use among the Hebrews at the time of their exodus from Egypt, as Moses, in the Book of Numbers, tells us that Manna was in appearance like Coriander seed. It is said to have been in use by the ancients both as a condiment and a medicine. In our day it forms an ingredient in Curry powder, and is used in confectionery.

Mint, Rue, and Cumin have each a delightful flavor of antiquity. The tithe or tax upon these ancient herbs paid so scrupulously by the Pharisees bears testimony to their commercial value full nineteen centuries ago. To think of these miserable hypocrites having mint-sauce to their "spring lamb" and, possibly, "peppermint creams" to their dessert! It is, however, good to know that the dear little babies of the time were privileged with anise seed tea in the stress of colic. How bitter-flavored cumin served them I cannot say, but it is to be hoped that these "Scribes and Pharisees" (whom even their imitators frankly anathematize) what time they had "spring feelin's" were not let off with homemade decoctions of innocent "Simples," but were mercilessly dosed, by the "Holy Land" doctors, with nasty potions of Senna and Salts.

Lavender, Rosemary, Basil, and Sweet Marjoram have all been celebrated in verse. Keats has sent cold shivers down our backs with his gruesome story of "Isabella" and her flower-pot of Sweet Basil, with its ghastly hiding:

Sweet Marjoram in England produces its fragrant blossom at such elevations as to have gained the pretty name "Joy of the Mountains." Shakespeare has added interest to it by making it the password in the tragedy of "King Lear."

In fancy one can see the faithful Edgar with his mutilated father, the duke, climbing to the "dread summit of that chalky bourn," and hear Edgar saying to his father:

"Hark! do you hear the sea?"

"The swete marjoroms," says an old writer, "are not only much used to please the outward senses in nosegaies, and in the windows of houses, as also in swete powders, swete bags, and swete washing waters, but are also of much use in physick, to comfort the inward members."

Caraway calls up the cookies dear to childhood, and a spray of green Fennel brings back, as if by touch of the enchanter's wand—"Minister Garner" in the old meetin'-house under the big "sounding board" (relentless as fate) pursuing his theme to the bitter end, while seated, in the pen-like box pew, beside our devout grandmother, we tone ourselves down to the solemn occasion, with no higher aspiration than the wish to be butterflies sailing gayly in the outside sunshine. Virtue has, at last, its reward. At about the minister's soporific "fifthly" our grandmother catches herself nodding. Opening her roomy black silk workbag she gives herself a saving nibble of fennel and passes a delicious spray of this spicy herb to each of her three grandchildren.

Dear old grandma! a full half century ago her soul went home to God, yet still I recall my childish picture of her angel sweeping with wide wings the blue eternal spaces, with never-withering sprays of fennel in her hand.

One lingers lovingly over these pretty "Herbs O' Grace," of which the half has not here been told. But, already it is time to write finis at the end of this vagary—"My Garden in Spain."