I want to speak of the art of arranging flowers. Of the _art_, I say,
for it _is_ one. Do any of my readers comprehend the fact? They
certainly would, had they dawdled away hours more than grave moralists
would approve, fussing with me over the darlings of garden and
greenhouse.
Don't come to the conclusion now, that I am in the habit of making up
those small, round, or flat, stiff bouquets to be obtained for a
compensation (not slight) from market-gardeners and the like. I
repudiate the artificialities! Who wants camellias tied on false stems?
Who would be thankful for such a mosaic of 'nature's gems'? _Mosaic_,
that's the word exactly for such French bouquets. And _gems_, in truth,
far too stony in their setting for blithe springing blossoms! I'll have
nothing to do with such abominations.
No; _I_ mean by the 'art of flower-arranging' that process by which the
various characteristics of flowers are brought out and combined
according to artistic rules. Does this sound metaphysical
or--æsthet-i-cal? Why is the effect produced by the 'bunch of posies'
stuck clumsily into a broken-nosed pitcher on the kitchen window-sill,
different from that of the same carefully disposed in an elegant
receptacle on the drawing-room table? The nosegay is bright and fragrant
in either place. Why then do not the plebeian and patrician bouquets
equally please? In the one case, you say, the charms are inharmoniously
dispersed, and nearly neutralized by meaner surroundings, while in the
other they are enhanced by every advantage of position and appropriate
accessories. Should you not be grateful, then, for the working of my
theory of development and manifestation? Would you now like to
understand a little its operation?
Welcome, then, to whatever benefit can be derived from my limited
experience. I am a humble student in floral _architecture_, and I offer
my few suggestions to fellow-pupils, to those who aim unsuccessfully at
home adornment, whose utmost skill often only attains sublime
_failures_--not to the geniuses in the art.
Frankly, submissively I acknowledge there are persons who, guided only
by native taste and sense of harmony, accomplish beautiful results
without hesitation or thought. Their flowers obey the slightest touch
with nice subservience, falling into their most exquisite combinations
of color and form.
It would be superfluous to dictate to those thus gifted, but some of the
unfortunates destitute of the divine intuition may be aided by the plain
directions following. I may venture to hope that the judicious
application of them will prevent the appearance of, perhaps, _several_
ugly bouquets in the world.
My first maxim has reference to vases. They should, for the most part,
be simple in design and uniform in tint. Avoid 'fishy' mouths, too wide
for their (the vases') hight. Never put Lilliputian flowers, in no
matter how large a quantity, into Brobdignagian vessels. In other
respects, endeavor to adapt your boxes to the character of your flowers.
For dahlias, flat dishes will be found very convenient, spread with
broad, green leaves.
Secondly. Do not put flowers of different shades of the same color side
by side, any more than you would wear hues as discordant together on
your person.
Thirdly. Be very careful with the foliage employed. Too much hides the
flowers; too little does not relieve them. Drooping green vines, etc.,
are always available.
Last, but by no means least, _mass_ your colors. This rule is now often
adopted on a larger scale in laying out flower-beds, and it is very
important. It gives concentration and force to bouquets, and
effectually prevents their not uncommon patchwork appearance.
If these _dicta_ seem to any one ridiculously self-evident, he may take
it for granted he is one of the geniuses, for whose service they are not
promulgated. For their efficacy, behold some bouquets.
A small, plain Parian pitcher, bearing sprays of orange-leaves and
blossoms, one full-blown, deep red camellia, solid, heavy, looking as if
carved from coral-stained ivory, many pendent abutilus, and some
graceful vine curled negligently round the handle. How like you _le tout
ensemble_!
Look again: A small vase, light buff in color, holding roses--red and
white--relieved by pansies, of intermingled purple and golden dyes, and
by sprigs of the lemon verbena, of dainty heaths, mignonette,
heliotrope, and geranium-leaves.
See this, also: A ground-glass vase, containing a perfect white
camellia, the daphneodora, and fuchsias, crimson and white.
And this: A slender, tall vase of the ruby Bohemian glass, with
varieties of the colceolaria, their tiny purses specked with brown, from
light tan to velvety maroon.
These, it will be seen, are all medium-sized bouquets. Larger ones,
requiring more material, are not so easy to describe. Some summer
flowers found in every garden--the double stocks (gilli-flowers) blend
their varied shades finely with the glittering coreopsis, the sombre
mourning-bride, and the violet cerulean Canterbury bells.
In winter, with ample resources, one can produce masterpieces. What
think you of callas--their frozen calm kindled by the ruddy flush of
azaleas, and their superb stateliness opposed by the flexile vivacity of
the feathery willow acacia? The same white lilies, or their deliciously
sweet July representatives, are contrasted well with scarlet geranium,
vivid and glowing, or with the flames of the cactus, and toned down by
the bluish lavender of the wistaria. This makes a bouquet eminently
suited for church--its colors forming Ruskin's sacred chord, and
typifying the union of purity, love, and faith.
Flowers on the altar are most appropriate and significant, but strict
attention should be paid to their symbolism. For the communion-table
there are lilies of the valley, and in its season, the rosy snow of the
blooming fruit-trees. Nor must the passion-flower be forgotten--and
against its mystic darkness set the china pink clusters of the oleander.
If they are not procurable, substitute great half-opened rose-buds,
deepest pink and cream-color, and add the broken stars of the
stephanotis. This last, twined among the glossiest and darkest leaves of
the rhododendron, forms a fitting crown for the gray hairs of the dead,
passing away in fullness of years and of honors.
Chrysanthemums brought by November, and half-faded, as it were, in the
waning light, are most meet offerings for the departing year to lay at
the holy shrine.
Thus much for _spiritual_ flowers. Others there are in contrast,
_material_ merely, hearty, substantial, and robust. I take singularly to
all such, calumniated as _vulgar_. And why not keep a corner in our
souls for the common and every-day, as for the elegant and rare?
There is a noon of sharp, bustling matter-of-fact, as well as a morn of
high, noble aspiration, and an eve of hushed and solemn reverie. It is
in the noon, too, that our active life takes place; why not enjoy
ourselves then, as only it is possible? So why not allow certain lower
faculties of our nature to delight in what are called the grosser
flowers? Why not cultivate their acquaintance, as we would that of
motherly, kind, portly, and phlegmatic old ladies, rustling in their
silks and satins, with a comfortable complacency, satisfied with their
own share of fortune's goods, and benevolently disposed toward their
less favored neighbors?
To be sure much can not be said of the _artistic_ capabilities of some
of these cronies. One does not care to transfer marigolds, poppies,
lilacs, phlox, cockscomb, and cabbage-roses from their own garden-homes
to the more elevated sphere of domestic life. But snow-balls,
'flaunting' petunias, double hollyhocks, China asters, and tulips, they
certainly are available. By the way, what business have the juvenile
story-books to stigmatize tulips as vain and proud? The splendid things
have a right to be conscious of their glorious clothing. Who gave it
them? And dahlias, what purples, crimsons, and oranges they boast!
Formal they may be, but, at least in Yankee parlance, _handsome_, and
when arranged with woodbine-leaves October's earliest frosts have
painted, can there be a finer expression of the season of autumn?
In this connection one remembers Miss Mitford and her charming history
of the loss of her yellow pride--the Apollo among dahlias. Lovable Miss
Mitford! how pleasant would have been a flower-talk with her!
Now, having owned to so many shockingly low tastes, no one would, I
presume, be surprised to hear me avow a _penchant_ for sun-flowers and
peonies, dear old-fashioned creatures that they are! Shall I plead in
excuse for my weakness for the coarsest of the flowers yet another
reason? They form to me, in their extent of surface and fullness of
color, the nearest approach our chilly New-England can make to the blaze
and vitality of the Southern flora. And I so long for the luxuriant
vegetation of the tropics, the gorgeous magnificence I have never
seen--even the magnolia has only been disclosed to my dreams.
I would not disparage delicate and fragile flowerets, though I am so
infatuated by their brilliant sisters. They are lovely to examine, and,
as individuals, very precious, but in my opinion useless for decorative
purposes. In a body they confuse one another, and you can not _mass_
their colors.
This remark is also very applicable to wild flowers, which, moreover, be
they large or small, possess additional disqualifications for proper
arrangement. They are not at ease in cultivated atmospheres. Violets and
anemones--their sacredness, innocence, and peace--require the soothing
airs of woodland solitudes. Drawn from secret nooks and haunts into the
garish day, they droop and pine, they cry forlornly: 'We are weary, we
are dying; take us home to rest again!' There is the blood-red
cardinal-flower. Bold enough surely, you say. Wade, stretch, and leap,
and seize at last in triumph the coveted prize. A new difficulty! The
spikes are so rough, jagged, and stiff, there is no welding of them
together. You wish them back in their burning bush. The fringed blue
gentian, too, has very troublesome appendages. It is prettiest in its
pasture-built place, opening to the welcome breezes its azure petals.
Besides, there is where Bryant wishes it to remain, and certainly _his_
desire should have some weight with us.
Some mortifications, therefore, it has been seen, attend on the pursuit
of the art of flower-arranging. These are but the beginning of sorrows,
nevertheless. Many others might be mentioned, vexations consequent on
the constitution of the subjects themselves.
It is a melancholy fact that life and beauty can not be preserved in
them without water. On grand, temporary occasions it may answer for the
artist to disregard this natural law, but it would be an excess of
barbarity to do thus often. There ought to be no more martyrs for the
sake of _effect_ than can be helped.
But now ensues the tug of war. How make stems of all lengths stand in
the most desirable position and yet all touch the water? Sometimes a
shorter one _must_ stand above a longer one, when it is impossible to
bathe its feet in the refreshing liquid. _Sink_ the longer then; _cut_
it off. Each experiment will bring annoyance, as the tyro may find as he
plods on in his task. Short-stemmed flowers make '_chunky_' bouquets,
every one knows. Another trouble is occasioned by the froward behavior
of flowers. Never a woman among the sex could be at times so fickle and
perverse. I am not prepared to maintain the theory of a higher nature in
plants than the merely physical. It is enough for me to cling to an
enormous heresy with respect to _animals_. Against the fiat of
Christendom I will persist in granting them the semblance of a soul. I
_will_ swallow the old creed about flowers. Still, wherever they get
them, they do exhibit tantalizing qualities. _Perverse?_ That verbena
knows perfectly where she ought to go, where, in the goodness of your
heart, you are striving to place her, but how obstinately she resists,
slipping finally, in utter rebellion, from your fingers. _Fickle?_ How
docile was the same verbena yesterday. Nay, it was of her own accord she
assumed the pretty position you want to see again. You did not think or
care about it then.
With all one's minor trials, who would regret time spent in such
delightful labors? I have tasted so many pleasures in my devotion
hitherto, that perhaps I should be content. Yet to look upon grand
floral decorations; to behold wreath-encircled pillar and arch in lordly
halls, and baskets piled and pyramids raised from the wealth of
fairy-land conservatories!--on spectacles like these I hope to feast my
senses some future day.
Some one may ask: 'You who enjoy so fully flowers, who hang over them in
such transport when gathered, have you no interest in their cultivation?
no care to watch their growth? no love for gardening, in short?' No! I
reply; very little. I am satisfied to take the results of others'
exertions. I have no wish to plod i' the mold,' not the slightest
objection to others doing that business for me. I am too indolent to
like out-door work very well; much too fond of late rising to enjoy
weeding, digging, etc., in the early morning air. I think likely I ought
to feel differently, but I don't. Suffer me to inquire _why_ people
insist on peeping behind the scenes of nature's stage, when she seems to
take such pains to conceal her '_modus operandi_'? Let me not be too
sweeping, however. There is one kind of floriculture I could fancy.
Plants reared in winter in the house, snatched from the biting cold,
must be so caressingly tended! Vines, too, how precious they
become--every tiny tendril regarded with such tenderness, and as the
clinging branches wind in light festoons round parent shell or basket,
so do they grasp the cords of the affections and twine exultingly around
them.
Hyacinths also are pleasant to sight and smell in warm, cheerful rooms
when fast without fall drifting snows. It is the happiness of education,
of association, of possession, that such plants afford. They are
endeared inversely to their number, it may be--the solitary shrub being
as the one ewe lamb. This joy in flowers differing thus materially from
my pleasure in their artistic elements.
Ah! when shall I stop? The civil public will be wearied out ere long,
and so much has been left unsaid on my inexhaustible theme! When was a
lover ever known to tire--_himself_? A lover! Here conscience has a word
of reproach, '_Thou_ a _lover_, so unjust in thy self-conceit? Bringing
down thy goddesses to be in truth very _idols_, the work of thy own
hands--prating presumptuously of thy power over their immortal glories!'
Verily, I am to blame, but how repair the error?
Can eloquence be mine to fitly tell of the mighty influence of the
flowers? Shall I say that, without their 'laughing light,' this world
would be a dreary, lonesome place? It is a trite and tedious
exclamation--an axiom past disputing.
Shall I join in the grateful song resounding over every land; in homage
to the blessing-laden blossoms? Lips long used to wailing swell that
chorus loudest, for it was the sunshine caught in buttercup or dandelion
that turned so many darkened faces in sudden smiles to heaven. Ah! they
are the forms wasted and bowed down by anguish, that stoop most meekly,
thankfully, only to lie where the daisies can grow over them.
Shall I strive to spell the lesson written by the green earth's flowery
tracery?
Long, long ago One read that lore in love, and the lilies of the field
but give it back to us to-day.
Here pondering, one thought of awe, yet rapture, thrills through my
soul. If to our poor humanity such honeyed drops of healing do earth's
frailest flower-cups yield, how cool, how crystal-clear the nectar from
amaranth and asphodel distilled for those
'Who walk in soft white light, with kings and priests abroad;
Who summer high in bliss upon the hills of God!'