IRIS 205 
tantly, abjectly, as something irresistible ; one never 
dares feel tenderly towards it as towards Iris gracilipes, 
or absorb oneself happily in its loveliness as one can sink 
deep into the sympathies of Iris tectorum. It is the 
difference in personality ; one might as soon dare to feel 
tenderly towards Queen Elizabeth—proudly, gloriously, 
adoringly—yes, but it is only for the milder, softer, 
weaker beauties that one may feel tenderness. The 
others claim our worship from on high, from the exalta- 
tion of a superior sphere ; only the gentler lovelinesses 
appeal to us on our own plane, and, in their meek appeal, 
pay a subtle compliment to the strength of our own 
natures. And, if it be a vain fancy to find personalities 
in flowers, then many gardeners, I believe, staid and 
respectable people, are guilty, in their secret hearts, of 
vain, delightful fancies. And therefore I make no defence 
or apology; those who understand will sympathise ; 
those who do not understand would never do so did I 
explain and analyse till all the plants in all the world had 
run to seed and made way for altered forms. ‘To take 
the Violas, for an instance. Always, to me, the gentle face 
of Viola calcarata is the face of that gentle, ineffectual 
Renata d’Este, who began and ended her life so much 
more happily as Renée de Valois; Viola biflora, quiet, 
shy, recondite, is ‘cette pawvre jeune reine Jeanne’ who 
moved Diane de Poictiers to her one flash of emotion ; 
as for Diane herself, respectable, prosaic, and _ solid, 
where will you find her soul but in some obese Pansy 
in a border? And Viola pedata, freakish, whimsical, 
humorously sad and tender, surely this is the Margaret 
of Margarets herself, My Lady Margaret of Angoulesme 
and Navarre; so Iris Kaempferi, audacious, arrogant, 
short-lived, is a memory of Queen Anne Boleyn, enshrin- 
ing the ambition, the self-sufficiency, the violence of that 
indomitable nature. 
