Floral trophies are, in my opinion, little to be admired; dreadful things are done in their name. Flower hearts and harps and crowns, and cushions with cords and tassels, made by stripping Violets from their stalks and stringing them on lengths of wire like beads—how terrible are all these! And so it is to see in Christmas churches chains of Holly-berries hung about like rosaries, though of the two one would rather stab a berry than a Violet.
Ballroom bouquets are less fashionable now than in early and mid-Victorian days, when a pretty girl would have as many as a dozen sent her on one evening by different admirers. What changes, too, in the method of arrangement! Instead of the trailing posy or picturesque bunch, every flower individualized, one had then stiff circles of blossoms tightly packed. Violets and white Camelias thus arranged were very popular, and one Camelia, with a glossy leaf or two, would be worn upon a smooth and shining head of hair, dressed in bandeaux (bandolined—that is, gummed down if necessary), long, loose ringlets (the Alexandra curl), or rolled back à l’Imperatrice. The prettiest nosegay of that period was the ample bunch of pink Moss-rose buds; nothing modern could be lovelier than that, nor sweeter.
I have often wished that London’s bevy of street-selling flower-girls were more picturesque. Why cannot the Society for beautifying London do something in this direction? The snowy caps of the grisette, or the Italian kerchief—anything would be better than the feathered hat and grimy jacket, and I would like neat shoes instead of boots. W. E. Henley, another poet who finds inspiration in London streets, has sketched her with vivid pen—
“Forth from Drury Lane,
Trapesing in any of her whirl of weathers
The flower-girl foots it, honest and hoarse and vain,
All boot and little shawl and wilted feathers,
Of populous corners right advantage taking
And, where they squat, endlessly posy-making.”
If we watch the working-up of the button-holes—a thing I have often done—what a joyless, monotonous task it looks! Two ivy-leaves picked from the stalk with as little joy as if they were oakum, wired together, and flung into a basket like malefactors’ heads. Two more, and then two more, ad infinitum. When the basket is quite full, to each pair of leaves a little cluster of Violets is added, or a Rose-bud, or a few Pinks, or a Primrose or two, according to the season. Later on, it will be sprigs of Maiden-hair. Oh dear, that Maiden-hair! When will it cease to remind of Harry and Harriet? Neither of these good folk feels fully dressed without the spray of Maiden-hair; yet it soon dies, and its latest breaths are bitter—we know exactly the smell of it, in its death-throes, mingled with that of cheap tobacco-smoke.