XX

WEEDS:  AN APPRECIATION

A weed, says the dictionary, is “any plant that is useless, troublesome, noxious or grows where it is not wanted.”  The dictionary also adds:  “colloq., a cigar.”  We may omit for our present purpose the harmless colloquialism, but the rest of the definition deserves to be closely examined.  Socrates, I imagine, could have found a number of pointed questions to put to the dictionary maker.  He might have begun with two of the commonest weeds, the nettle and the dandelion.  Having got his opponent—­and the opponents of Socrates were all of the same mental build as Sherlock Holmes’s Dr Watson—­eagerly to admit that the nettle was a weed, he would at once put the definition to the test.  “The story goes,” he would say, quoting Mrs. Clark Nuttall’s admirable work, Wild Flowers as They Grow, “that the Roman soldiers brought the most venomous of the stinging nettles to England to flagellate themselves with when they were benumbed with the cold of this—­to them—­terribly inclement isle.  It is certain,” he would add from the same source, “that physicians at one time employed nettles to sting paralysed limbs into vigour again, also to cure rheumatism.  In view of all this,” he would ask, “does it not follow either that the nettle is not a weed or that your definition of a weed is mistaken?” And his opponent would be certain to answer:  “It does follow, O Socrates.”  A second opponent, however, would rashly take up the argument.  He would point out that even if the Romans had a mistaken notion that nettle-stings were useful as a preventive of cold feet, and if our superstitious ancestors made use of them to cure rheumatism, as our superstitious contemporaries resort to bee-stings for the same purpose, the nettle was at all times probably useless and is certainly useless to-day.  Socrates would turn to him with a quiet smile and ask:  “When we say that a plant is useless, do we mean merely that we as a matter of fact make no use of it, or that it would be of no use even if we did make use of it?” And the reply would leap out:  “Undoubtedly the latter, O Socrates.”  Socrates would then remember his Mrs. Nuttall again, and refer to an old herbal which claimed that “excessive corpulency may be reduced” by taking a few nettle-seeds daily.  He would admit that he had never made a trial of this cure, as he had no desire to get rid of the corpulency with which the gods had seen fit to endow him.  He would claim, however, that the usefulness of the nettle had been proved as an article of diet, that it was once a favourite vegetable in Scotland, that it had helped to keep people alive at the time of the Irish famine, and that even during the recent war it had been recommended as an excellent substitute for spinach.  “May we not put it in this way,” he would ask, “that you call a nettle useless merely because you yourself do not make use of it?” “It seems that