May it not be that thus, in the eloquence of perfume, it is but rendering to him who can best respond thereto, a revelation of its inner essences?—showing, to him who can comprehend the sign, a reason why it grows.
Is this too fanciful? Certainly the violet was not made in vain—and in the Eternal Correspondence known to higher intelligences than our own, there surely must exist a grand and beautiful Flower lore, wherein each blossom has an individual word to speak, a lesson to unfold, by form and coloring, and, more than all, by exhaled fragrance.
Doubtless there is a mystery here too deep for us in this gross world to wholly understand; but can we not search after knowledge? Would we not like to grasp an enjoyment less merely of the senses from the geranium's balm and the mayflower's spice?
And notice here how strongly association binds us by the sense of smell—the sense so closely connected with the brain that, through its instrumentality, the mind, it is said, is quickest reached, is soonest moved. So that when perfumes quiver through us, are we oftenest constrained to blush and smile, or shrink and shiver. Perhaps through perfumes also memory knocks the loudest on our heart-doors; until it has come to pass that unto scented handkerchief or withering leaf has been given full power to fire the eye or blanch the cheek; while from secret drawers one starts appalled at flower breaths, stifling, shut up long ago. The sprays themselves might drop unheeded down—dead with the young hopes that laid them there—but the old-time emotion wraps one yet in that undying—ah, how sickening! fragrance.
So in the very nature of the task proposed is couched assistance, since thus to the breath of the flowers does association lend its own interpretation, driving deep the sharpest stings or dropping down the richest consolation through the most humble plants. But is this the end of the matter? Is there not, apart from all that our personal interest may discover, in each flower an unchanging address all its own—an unvaried salutation proffered ever to the world at large? Why is a passion wafted through a nosegay? What purifies the air around a lily? And why are bridal robes rich with orange blooms?
Surely poetry and tradition have but here divined certain truths, omnipotent behind a veil, and recognized their symbols in these chosen blossoms?
But if the flowers are truly types, how should they be interpreted?
There are hints laid in their very structure and outer semblance, hints afforded also by art and romance from time immemorial; and all these, suggestions of the hidden wisdom, must be gathered patiently and wrought out to a fuller clearness, through careful attention to the intuitions of one's own awakened imagination.
But what expression can be found for the soul of a flower—for the evanescent odor that floats upon us only with the dimmest mists of meaning?
In a novel of a few years since, a people dwelling in Mid Africa are described as skilled in the acts of a singular civilization, and especial mention is made of an instrument analogous to an organ, but which evoked perfumes instead of musical sounds. A curious idea, but possibly giving the nearest representation to be made of the effect of odor: by its help, then, by regarding flowers as instruments whose fragrant utterances might be as well conveyed in music, we may be able to translate aright the effluence that stirs beyond the reach of speech.