detail of Passiflora serrafolia
Last week’s post was about the first box I opened from my trolley in the rare Books room of the British Library a couple of weeks back: Mary Lawrence’s Book of Roses. Today’s post is about the second box, which turned out to be a very appropriate choice for Easter week.
Inside the archival box was a slim folio-sized volume with George III’s crest embossed in gold on the green leather cover. Turning the first leaves there was the library stamp of Sir Joseph Banks….
…and facing it a hand-coloured engraving of Passiflora serrafolia or the Notched-leaved Passion flower. Even a cursory glance through A Collection of Passion Flowers made me want to know more.
[All the images are from the BL copy unless otherwise stated]
detail from Passiflora caerulea, the common Passion Flower
Lots of plants have Christian symbolism, even if they’re not mentioned in the Bible, and one of the enduring talents of missionaries, whether they were with a conquering army or on a proselytising campaign, was to adapt whatever they found, wherever they were, to illustrate their stories and to provide evidence for their arguments.
The passion flower is probably the best example of that. As the Spanish subjugated central and south America, thanks to its extraordinary structure, it quickly became the symbol of Christ’s suffering and crucifixion all round the world.
detail of Rosa centifolia, the Bishop Rose
The British Library Rare Books room is not usually the place where people get over-excited, but occasionally there are Eureka moments. Sometimes they’re the result of long patient reference checking when you realise your original hypothesis is true, or ploughing through vast tomes for a good quote to prove a point or grab a reader’s attention and sometimes they are simply serendipity. Today’s post is one such.
Rosa pendulina, or the Rose without thorns
Following a discussiion in one of the clkasses I teach, I had an idea for a worthy post on how and why women became widely involved in botany in the late 18thc and thought I’d call up a selection of books and magazines by women from the period to see if I could find anything interesting to write about. They included a couple by an artist named Mary Lawrance who I thought, to judge from her brief Wikipedia entry might be interesting but probably wasn’t going to set the world on fire. See what you think?
Rosa gallica, red officinal rose
detail from a sketch of the Eidophusikon by Edward Burney, British Museum
Last weekend I went to see a modern version of something that in 1776 gripped London like a fever. But rather than a medical crisis it was an all-embracing visual experience: a series of stories that involved landscape… & not static views of the countryside rather landscape that moved.
The story begins with the staging by the Swiss father and son team Pierre and Henri-Louis Jaquet-Droz, of their Spectacle mechanique in Covent Garden. Originally watchmakers they had branched out into building other mechanical devices and then travelled Europe exhibiting 4 pieces of their work. It was to inspire a Frenchman living and working in London to develop of one of the strangest of many strange 18thc inventions: the Eidophusikon.
The first modern public sign of Biddulph’s importance was when it was chosen as the garden to represent the 19thc on commemorative stamps in 1983
Last week’s post on the Geological Gallery at Biddulph was, I hope, something of an insight in to the mindset of James Bateman its creator in the mid-19thc. Today’s is designed to look at the gardens he created there, partly because both he and his wife were passionate about plants but partly as a reinforcement of his belief in a divine creator or as modern parlance would have it, an intelligent designer.
photo by Edward Moss
Biddulph was intended to reveal not just the variety of creation across the globe but also its variety through time. The Batemans reshaped the landscape to suggest the geological processes which had formed the plants native environments, and then presented the earth’s story from the days of Creation – using fossilised tree ferns in the garden for example – to the rise of the civilizations of Egypt, China and western Europe.
One of the main reasons this was possible was the Wardian case, which, because it allowed live plants to be carried safely and securely on long sea voyages, had opened up the world to western plant collectors. Working with Edward Cooke, the Batemans turned 15 acres [6 hectares] of poor quality land into a showcase for this vast range of newly introduced plants. The result was an extraordinary complicated confection of spaces and planting that defies any simple description. Continue reading
We often hear that grand gardens cost money: it’s as true as the old cliché which says “money talks.” But there is a world of difference between a grand garden and a great one. Great gardens develop when that money meets vision, enthusiasm, knowledge – and a gardener. In the garden I’m going to talk about today and next week there was plenty of all those elements plus a great deal of persistence and more latterly of luck.
It is a very special place in many senses and when I was thinking about how to begin describing it here I recalled what John Sales, the former head of gardens for the National Trust said about his first visit in the mid-1970s. “I was totally overwhelmed – in turns amazed, intrigued, excited, baffled and lost in the mixture of styles, moods and plants… here was something entirely different.”