It is at a wedding, perhaps, the flower-lady is at her best. The entire dwelling of the bride is made whitely beautiful, and the church becomes a green and scented sanctuary. Palms and Ferns are lent. I hope I am right in saying that the lady decorator never dyes her flowers. I am certain she would not do so except to order; but the present year, which promises to be one of Eastern magnificence and gorgeous colouring, has begun badly in the matter of flower-dyeing; even the simple spring flowers have not escaped the ban. Early in March, when pacing Regent Street, and pausing, as one cannot help doing, to admire the display of flowers in certain shops, it was with a shock of horror one beheld dyed daffodils! They formed the upstanding group of blossoms in crosses and garlands, the groundwork of which consisted entirely of Wallflower; and the dye that reddened the Daffodils, leaving some of the petals their natural colour, matched the red-brown of the Wallflowers exactly. For one moment it was a puzzle—only one. Shade of Herrick! who could mistake a Daffodil? A dyed Daffodil is several degrees more agonizing than a green Carnation, and nearly as bad as a blue Rose.
The fashion for certain flowers and colours at different seasons is quite harmless, though one may smile at it; but sometimes there is a reason behind the mode. For instance, one could understand the use of national colours in Coronation year, and yearly is London brightened by St. Patrick’s Day, St. George’s Day, and the unforgettable day of the Primrose.
BULRUSHES AND BOG BEANS IN SMALL TANK IN GARDEN
It is human nature, and ever has been, to use flowers as symbols; they express our feelings better than anything, and more pleasantly. Happily, the “wearin’ o’ the green” is a privilege no longer denied to any of our Irish soldiers. It is a smaller thing, but still worth noticing, as a proof of the part flowers play in daily life, and the way they illustrate feeling, that at the Eton and Harrow cricket-matches it is a flower that is worn for party-colour—a Corn-flower or a Parma Violet—and in a less degree, two shades of blue in flowers stand for Oxford and Cambridge colours on boat-race day. Herein we do but follow the fashion of our forefathers and of days still older, when crowns of Olive, Myrtle, Bay, and Violet were worn symbolically. Time was when rival Roses, red and white, grew wild, and soldiers gathered them for badges, where now the Temple Gardens stand; and every nation has its patriot flower—for France the Lily, for Germany the Linden, and for us the Rose. It is unfortunate that St. George’s festival of Roses comes so early in the year. April Roses are plentiful enough in florists’ shops, but not elsewhere; few of them have been grown in England. Primroses come more seasonably; of them we need only wear true home-grown blossoms, nor need a scarcity be feared while country hedgerows continue to provide such yellow millions. Primrose Day in London, independently of its meaning, is always enjoyable;
“That subtle smell the spring unbinds—
The faint sweet scent of Primroses”
is everywhere, and Primroses, like Violets, want no arranging, but look their best in simplest bunch or basket. An Irish poetess sings a song about it, which I give, as it is always a pleasure to see London through a poet’s eyes.
“Make me a song for Primrose Day.
Along the streets of London town