He will work you any Flower to the life, as like it
as if it grew in the very place;
and being a delicate perfumer
he will give it you his perfect and natural Savour.
— from Sir Gyles Goosecappe, by George Chapman
Lawyers claim Shakespeare was a lawyer, doctors think he was medically trained, actors assume he was a thespian, soldiers, sailors, and astronomers all claim a kindred spirit. So it should be no surprise that knowledgeable gardeners think the Bard’s extensive use of botanical references would qualify him as a Master Gardener.
Playwright Ben Jonson, Shakespeare’s eulogist of sorts, said he was “not of an Age, but for all Time.” He might have added, “for all professions.” Ben’s 1623 prognostication proved true enough—the immortal Bard’s work and wit are probably more popular and pored over than those of any other writer throughout history.
Just as Shakespeare’s words have fallen on fertile ground, so are they fertile ground themselves for a bounty of botany. Professional horticulturalists, gardening hobbyists, and nature lovers in general all share a fascination for the vast array of flowers, fruits, grains, grasses, seeds and weeds, plants and trees, herbs, spices, and vegetables sprouting in Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets—roughly 175 specific mentions, with even more general references and commentary on planting, pruning, growing, grafting, weeding, seeding, folklore galore, and tributes, naturally:
. . . tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones and good in every thing
Even the sinister side of plants—dangerous poisons, painful nettles and thorns, or the threatening approach of Birnam Wood—holds thrall.
I will not be afraid of death and bane,
Till Birnam forest come to Dunsinane.
Casual mentions of plants are interlaced everywhere; the bane tucked in the above quotation is a succinct rhyme but also no doubt a truncated version of either Wolfsbane or Henbane, deadly poisons perfectly at home in the dark world that is Macbeth.
THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT ELIZABETH . . .
Perhaps this fertile ground owes more to the reign of Elizabeth than to anything else. Her ascension to the throne in 1558 marked a sort of steadying of the severe pendulum swings put in motion by her father, Henry VIII, when he broke with the church in Rome. That shock was still reverberating through the populace when first the Evangelion Edward VI, then his Catholic sister, who became known as Bloody Mary, succeeded in stretching the country to the extremes of religious fervor. The highly educated, peaceable, and pleasure-loving Elizabeth stayed that pendulum insomuch as she could. She seeded England with a passion for learning; poetry fused with the classics flourished, and the new entertainment of plays. Publishing went into overdrive, first with translations of popular material from Europe, which included botany books, then with homegrown versions in just about every genre. Which is why this era is known as the Early Modern period, because it is essentially the community from which our current society springs. In short, she created a culture in which investigation, discovery, experimentation, and creativity blossomed. A sort of garden plan to foster a Renaissance at any time.
THE BIRTH OF BOTANICALS
Shakespeare’s relationship to plants illustrates an expansive awareness of botany coupled with a colloquial familiarity. That, grafted with his unmatched skill for creating metaphorical connections and interweaving substantive philosophy, made for some of the most memorable lines in literature. It is interesting to note that the nascent variety of botanical and herbal books of the period were in Latin or Greek—so showing off your garden was a way to flaunt your smarts. As Queen Elizabeth’s reign progressed, lust for more knowledge and know-how about plants steadily rose, and vernacular garden books entered the market in ever-increasing numbers: William Turner, considered the father of scientific botany in England, had a hit with his A New Herball. Thomas Hill’s Profitable Arte of Gardening in 1563, Hugh Platt’s Floraes Paradis [in English but poshed up with a Latin title], A niewe Herball from botanist Henry Lyte in 1578, Thomas Tusser’s 1557 A Hundreth Good Pointes of Husbandrie swelled to an alarming Five Hundred Pointes . . . by 1573—all best-sellers. A quarto copy of A Treatise of The Arte of Graffing and Planting Trees was so popular it went into five reprints. “Green desire,” with its promise of status, beauty, order, and magic, was rampant.
The Newe Jewell of Health, a translation of Swiss botanist Conrad Gesner’s work, was proffered by the sixteenth-century physician George Baker. He, in turn, wrote the foreword for a 1597 book that is considered a primary source for Shakespeare’s extensive botanical knowledge: John Gerard’s Herball, or Generall Historie of Plantes.
The Herball remained unsurpassed for decades; even when apothecary John Parkinson’s comprehensive Theatrum Botanicum came along, in 1640, it was not entirely supplanted. The innate charm, pervasive information, personal experience, and hat-tips to poetry woven throughout Gerard’s Herball made it a pleasant companion as well as an authoritative source; it is a primary resource for this book. Baker, in his prefatory dedication, expresses amazement at the compendious nature of the tome:
The Author of this book, his great pains,
his no less expenses in travelling far and near for the attaining of his
skill have been extraordinary . . . not only to have them brought, but
hath procured by his excellent knowledge to have them growing in his garden, . . .
for there shall you see all manner of strange trees, herbs, roots, plants, flowers
and other such rare things, that it would make a man wonder how one of his degree,
not having the purse of a number, could ever accomplish the same.
I protest upon my conscience, I do not think for the
knowledge of Plants, that he is inferior to any . . .
An ideal resource for Shakespeare. And in fact, there may be direct proof that this is true. One researcher found some curious anomalies in the “Song of Spring,” a.k.a. “Cuckoo’s Song,” in Love’s Labour’s Lost:
. . . And Ladie-smockes all silver white,
And Cuckow-buds of yellow hew . . .
Scholars over the years have assumed that many of the plant, and especially flower, names in Shakespeare must be local Warwickshire vernacular [which proved untrue] or his own coinages, but this researcher noted the song was wrong: “Ladie-smockes are pale lilac not silver-white” and “Cuckow-buds are not yellow!” Turning to Gerard’s Herball for insight, he found in chapter 18, Book II: “Of wilde water cresses or Cuckow flowers” there are six varieties, “all but one are termed ladie smockes. The 5th variety is described as follows: 5. Milke white Ladie smockes hath stalkes rising immediately from the roote, . . . The flowers growe at the top, made of fower leaves of a yellowish colour.” Gerard describes habitat and flowering time: “These kinds of Cuckowe flowers, grow not so much in waters as they do in moist medowes . . . flower for the most part in Aprill and Maie, when the Cucowe doth begin to sing her pleasant notes without stammering.” He then lists their foreign names, and “in English Cuckowe flowers . . . [but] at the Namptwich in Cheshire where I had my beginning, Ladie smockes, which hath given me cause to christen it after my countrie fashion.” Illustrating that Shakespeare’s unique terms come directly out of Gerard. In her engaging A Shakespearean Botanical, renowned garden author Margaret Willes posits the possibility of acquaintance between playwright and botanist, because Gerard records finding a double-form “butterflower” while walking with a friend to “the Theatre”—such was the stage in Shoreditch called that was run by Richard Burbage, until they tore it down in 1598 to build the Globe with its timbers.
SHAKESPEARE AND MEDICINE
Shakespeare’s knowledge of “physick,” as it was then called, has amazed and intrigued the medical profession for centuries. Theodore Dalrymple, the pseudonym for a retired prison physician and psychiatrist, has been quoted as saying,
The Bard’s uncanny grasp of what ails us puts much of modern medicine to shame.
Research has uncovered the fact that Shakespeare seemed aware of the circulation of the blood in the body before it was “officially” discovered. Helena, the heroine of All’s Well That Ends Well, is an accomplished herbalist, having learned her father’s trade at his knee, as it were [although curiously, she doesn’t mention any herbal names, only Briers and Thorns]. She sees the King’s disease as an opportunity to apply her knowledge, thereby winning her choice of husband [albeit an unwilling one]. Professor Joseph Wagner of Kent State University has identified the source of the King’s pain which Helena’s herbal ministrations heal, illustrating once again Shakespeare’s cognizance of the intrinsic connection between botanical and medical expertise.
Afflictions of the body such as scurvy, gout, rheumatism, and venereal disease punctuate the canon, along with the medicinal plants to help cure them. Some of the above-mentioned botanical books focused on their medical applications as well, and a coterie of men and women were well versed in their usage, such as Cambridge scholar and diplomat Sir Thomas Smith, as well as the Countess of Arundel and the Countess of Kent—the ministrations of upper-class medicine women were much the same as a wisewoman’s healing practice, according to Rebecca Laroche, author of Medical Authority and Englishwomen’s Herbal Texts, 1550—1650. Her assessment: “The recipe that Macbeth’s witches incant is astonishingly accurate.”
SHAKESPEARE, PLANTS, AND SEX
Shakespeare’s use of plants runs the gamut from the sublime [“a Rose by any other name . . .”] to the satirical: the ‘focative caret’ in Merry Wives of Windsor’s Latin lesson is called a “good root” by Mistress Quickly, punning on the vegetable homonym of course, but also entering sexual territory: “root” also refers to the male member; “caret” literally means ‘what’s missing’; and the top greens of wild carrots were ancient applications for contraception, stimulants for menses, and abortifacients. In fact, the entire scene is loaded with sex jokes; paired with the caret/carrot, having Parson Evans mispronounce “vocative” with an “f” is just Shakespeare’s version of the f-bomb.
The Gooseberry too lends itself to sexual punning, for instance, Biron’s “green goose” reference in Love’s Labour’s Lost acknowledges, yes, a gooseberry is green, but the women in brothels near the Bishop’s palace in Southwark were known as Winchester geese, so the green goose can also refer to a new/young prostitute.
Shakespeare’s frequent use of plants metaphorically delves into all manner of Elizabethan sexual practices [well, not just Elizabethan]. The language may seem a little opaque, but seeing what the plants being referenced actually look like is a big help. Nowhere is this more apparent than with the Medlar. Scholars have often conjectured as to whether Mercutio is homosexual, and possibly in love with Romeo. One look at the Medlar—Shakespeare only cites the fruit, never the tree or flower—and it is perhaps easier to understand the speculation. In fact this obscure fruit may be the origin of the word fruit used as an epithet for gay. Awareness of these allusions, and especially the ability to cross-reference where they appear, will let you in on the conversation—and help you get the jokes.
SHAKESPEARE THE LOCAVORE
Today’s organic, locally grown food movement might have stumped Shakespeare; in the sixteenth century this “trend” was the norm. Exotic imports were exciting—Nutmeg and Ginger became staple ingredients; recipes from foreign countries, particularly Italy, were wildly popular, as discussed in Shakespeare’s Kitchen by Francine Segan. But the staples of the table and larder in Shakespeare’s day were an abundance of locally sourced foods, herbs, grains, seeds, and spices. Although people ate far more meat than vegetables at this time, common folk were savvy about growing foods for overwintering: drying Peas and Beans, Plums to Prunes, potherbs with grain for pottage; pickling and preserving were mainstay maneuvers for keeping the pantry stocked during lean months, especially because crop failures could be disastrous [see Corn, regarding the corn rebellions].
Kitchen gardens, too, proliferated during the Elizabethan horticultural boom, primarily the province of women—men handled the orchards. Peacetime meant growth, literally as well as figuratively: Flowers planted for medicine now bloomed for beauty too, and many were edible. New books on “husbandrie” and “cookery,” such as the 1577 Gardener’s Labyrinth, were best-sellers—the fact that they were written in English, coupled with the exponential increase in literacy, was certainly a significant element of their success.
THE PLANT PORTRAITS
Artist Sumié Hasegawa-Collins trained as a concert pianist during her childhood in Tokyo. Always having to be mindful of her hands, she found that drawing and painting were among the few recreational outlets available. Years later, after winning a prize in graphic design and then moving to America, where she became a textile designer, she found herself designing costumes for her husband’s Bond Street Theatre outdoor productions of A Shakespeare Party, a compilation of scenes from the plays. Always acutely aware of nature, she began to notice the abundance of plants peppering the lines and songs, and they started to germinate in her artistic consciousness. From frequent trips to the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx, all the way to Kew Gardens in outer London, she learned to meld her expertise in watercolor technique with the demands of botanical rendering. It has been a passion spanning decades to research and represent every last leaf and stem, peel and petal of Shakespeare’s botanical universe.
WEEDING THE WORDS
Less Balm, no Angelica. Iris of sorts.
Beyond the familiar quotes often posted [and misquoted] on Facebook lies the world of actors and scholars forever arguing about issues of interpretation. A rose may be a rose to Gertrude Stein, but in Shakespeare it can be rife with meaning—love, beauty, dynasty, scent, color, and danger [those thorns!]. Looking at his works through a specific lens, such as that of plants, yields a fresh crop of insights—and a fresh field of debate. Much like the roiling underbelly of the serene suburban garden in David Lynch’s cult film Blue Velvet, the perfect and polished surface of Shakespeare masks a tempest of contention about meaning and authorial intent—are Leather-coats Apples or seeds? Is Insane Root Hamlet’s poison? And what about the Peony!
Similarly, a number of characters with plant names can pose a conundrum—Peter Quince in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, or Costard in Love’s Labour’s Lost. What about the mysterious Angelica in Romeo and Juliet? Is it the Nurse’s given name, or perhaps an offstage kitchen wench doing Lord Capulet’s bidding? Some might convince you the “name” is strategic “product placement” amidst the marriage feast preparations for its edible and medicinal qualities . . . so, while we don’t include it in the body of the book, the herb can be seen here below, at the close of this Introduction. The same holds true for Henry Pimpernell from the Induction scene of Taming of the Shrew—is his name some sort of floral clue, or does it simply add a dash of color to an opaque character? We included the plant on page 6 in case that famous Scarlet Pimpernel from a centuries-later novel happened to launch his career in Shakespeare. Iris, the goddess of the rainbow, appears or is mentioned in a number of plays, although the flower itself is never mentioned—and yet it is in evidence as the Flower-de-luce and Flag.
General vs. Specific
Some judicious pruning of the quotes was done to separate plant from metaphor—with a little wiggle room for debate. BALM [sometimes Balsam or Balsamum] became a generic term for succor, or royal anointment [the ‘balm of my poor eyes’ are tears, not the plant], so over half of those quotes don’t make the cut and some that are included might be contestable. It is in fact very difficult to calculate precisely how many plants are mentioned in Shakespeare because even within our specific Plant Portraits are interspersed arguably general terms: CORN can mean all manner of grain; GRASSES umbrellas a number of plants, such as Fescue; even ROSE [and certainly THORNS] starts to seem generic after the multitudinous mentions of this presumed favorite flower, especially when under that heading there are specific Roses cited. So, we did not illustrate every bramble and brake. And we were mindful not to fall for “false flowers”—sometimes a mint is a place to forge coins, rose is a verb, elder a senior citizen, and a palm just the inside of a royal wave.
ALL LATIN AND FENUGREEK
There is no fenugreek [a medicinal and culinary herb] in Shakespeare, but there is plenty of Greek [as settings and sources for some of the plots]. And there is a lot of Latin. But since Carl Linnaeus wasn’t yet on the scene, neither was the systematic Latin nomenclature he developed for botanical identification. Which is not to say there wasn’t one, although there wasn’t one—various systems were devised by different sects of monks, for instance, who didn’t talk to each other [if they talked at all], so the naming process was inconsistent, inaccurate, and sometimes just confusing [Gerard’s Herball is a testament to this]. Jacques le Moyne de Morgues [great name], a French artist who actually travelled to Florida in 1564, took pains to make a color catalog in 1586 [only three exist in the world today] of many common flowers and fruits, noting their names in Latin, as well as French, German, and English; he dedicated it to Mary Sidney Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, another prominent English poet of the time.
Ergo, since Shakespeare didn’t really use Latin signifiers, we don’t either—except in rare cases such as Rose, to allow a means of differentiation.
HOW TO USE THIS BOOK
Along with Gerard’s Herball, Canon Henry Ellacombe’s exhaustive The plant-lore and garden-craft of Shakespeare, compiled in the mid-to late 1800s, was a primary source for this book. The well-named reverend combed through all those words words words to find every single plant mention without the Internet! [He missed some, but remarkably few.] Shakespeare’s Plants and Gardens—A Dictionary [in the Arden series], by Vivian Thomas and Nicki Faircloth, was a last-minute boon. These materials also cover more general references and gardening terminology, such as pruning, plowing, grafting, odiferous terms, even flap-dragon, a game involving flaming raisins [hey, there wasn’t a lot to do].
Our aim was to put a “face” with the plant name, paired with all the attendant quotes, so you could better see the Bard’s interior landscape, if you will. I expect there will be debate over a chosen plant here and there, or a missed quote. Much like the couched bane in the aforementioned quote from Macbeth, it was fun to find goose a short form for gooseberry, used for its color, essentially to convey “you look a little green” today. Scavenger hunting for poetic plants is a forager’s feast.
But for pure pleasure: Pick out a quick quote for your favorite Aunt Rose, or a verdant cluster of lilting lines for a sweetheart, a botanically based insult for an enemy, a remembrance of a favorite herb or flower for a treasured friend; map out plans for a garden plot or pot based on your favorite play or characters, or assemble a bouquet based on subliminal messages: While Nutmeg, Marigold, and Ginger may say “open up to the spice of life,” a cluster of Plantain, Parmaceti, and Pomewater promise healing of body and soul.
A note about the poetry: In addition to the Sonnets, included are Venus and Adonis, Lucrece [sans The Rape of . . ., as per the title page of its first publication in 1594], The Phoenix and the Turtle, A Lover’s Complaint, and The Passionate Pilgrim—although not all of the latter, as scholars have determined that only about five of those poems are “Shakespearean.”
The problem with Shakespeare, and yes, there is one, is that he’s so familiar that he’s too familiar. In the way that you can sometimes ignore or forget about a close friend or family member because they are always there for you. Even little kids seem to know “To be or not to be . . . ,” even if they don’t know why or how; it’s ingrained in the culture. And yet, when you stop, for just a moment [yes, I am going to go there] and smell the flowers, the power of the thought, idea, or emotion can pervade your being, even rock your world. Poet Robert Graves cleverly encapsulates it: “The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he’s really very good . . . in spite of all the people who say he’s very good.”
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joy’d to wear the dressing of his lines!
—Ben Jonson,
First Folio of Shakespeare
