2 
BARR’S Gold Medal Daffodils, 1900. 
under orders not to go into dilhyrambics, nor to quote Wordsworth. These are cruel orders. Perhaps 
the next best thing is to quote Mr. Barr, jun., the guide through the daffodils. 
< “ How many bulbs are there in the ground, here?” you ask, wondering if figures can express the 
prose aspect of these waves and billows of innocent gold. “ I could hardly tell,” says Mr. Barr ; “at all 
events, some millions. There are 20,000 bulbs in this bed.” Ye gods ! And “ this bed ” is but a drop in 
the daffodil stream ! 
< Turn your attention to the individual flower. You never saw such daffodils. . . . These before you, 
in the 20,000 bed, are monsters for size, and marvels for loveliness of tint. “That is the Emperor,” 
Mr. Barr tells you, “and is one of the' finest of the trumpeters.” . . . 
< We wander on to another little bed of scores of thousands. This time the splendid yellows are toned 
down, the gold of the trumpet is a little paler, the tints of the perianth are shaded from pale gold to 
silver. “ This is a new bicolor narcissus,” is the explanation. “ It is the Victoria, and only came into 
the market in Jubilee year. Hence its name.” There is a dainty beauty, a kind of dream-daffodil, in 
shades of velvety gold and silver, a Madame de Graaff ; a tiny, delicate cup of almost transparently 
clear yellow, Queen of Spain ; then, again, a splendid flower of various shades of gold named 
P. R. Barr ; and score upon score of others each lovelier than all the rest. It is no use trying to picture 
up in mere words the perfect form of the silvery white Swan’s Neck Daffodil, the Barrii Con- 
SPICUUS, with its cup brimming over with burnished gold ; the fragrance of the ODORUS RUGULOSUS, 
three twinkling stars growing on one stalk. The number of names becomes confusing, and you clutch, 
with somewhat of relief, at the three pretty double daffodils which the voice of the people (in prehistoric 
times, of course, for we would never have the genius of inventing names of such classic simplicity) 
dubbed respectively Butter and Eggs, Eggs and Bacon, and Codlins and Cream. 
‘ “ Are there still single bulbs which, for their cost, remind you of the times when fortunes were paid 
for a rare bulb ? ” “ Not exactly. We have a daffodil, the Monarch, a large golden yellow trumpeter, 
which we sell at /15. 151. a bulb. Who buys such 1 Why, enthusiasts. The cheapest daffodil is the 
Narcissus princeps, a fine early Irish flower ; it sells at _£i. ioj. the thousand.” 
‘The show of daffodils.it may be noted, begins when, early in February, two small “trumpeters” 
begin to blow, and goes on till, in the middle of May, the Pheasant’s Eye twinkles upon the early 
summer flowers. It is a pageant of great beauty all the time, but most beautiful at the end of April, 
when more shades of yellow than our philosophy dreams of are sported by the daffodils. And the best 
place, all the world over, to see a complete collection is in the grounds of Messrs. Barr & Sons, which 
are open to all comers, down at Long Ditton, Surrey.’ 
Extract from ‘The Westminster Budget,’ May 4, 1900. 
‘A Golden Surrey Garden. 
‘ The budding out-door world, even in London, is full of charm at the present moment. The parks, 
with their carpets of hyacinths, tulips, and daffodils, are never again, throughout the summer, as pretty as 
in the early days of May. The suburbs, with their well-kept front gardens, and their houses looking out 
among the delicate greenery of trees just in leaf, and fruit trees all in bloom, are at their best, and the 
serene charm and fascination of a typical English spring may now be enjoyed by one and all. And there 
is one sight, within easy reach of every Londoner, which adds a dash of gorgeous colour to the delicate 
tints of our own early spring. Half an hour from Waterloo by train lands you at Surbiton, in one of the 
greenest of green Surrey nooks. The very approach to the station, is one mass of primroses, happily 
growing in the grass and moss of the sheltered banks. And ten minutes’ walk from the station — any 
Surbitonian will show you the way— there lies a tract of golden country twenty acres in extent, and all the 
ore is the living, innocent gold of daffodils. By the score and score of thousands they stand there, on 
their long, lithe stems, their blossom-stars all twinkling and their yellow trumpets all blowing, in a grand 
symphony of rich colour, to herald in the spring. The amateur gardener who wishes to see the actual 
flowers with which, next autumn, in the bulb, to stock his garden, should now go down and choose from 
among the 300 varieties which the famous daffodil growers, Messrs. Barr and Sons, have in these grounds 
at Long Ditton. The choice is almost infinite, from the splendid great Emperor daffodil down to the dainty 
little Angel’s Tears, and just now all the flowers are at their very best. Here and there among a bed of from 
10,000 to 12,000 daffodils there flashes out a colony of early tulips like gigantic jewels scattered lavishly 
abroad. Again, there are banks and beds of the delicately scented grape-hyacinth, an exquisite flower 
too little appreciated as yet, the deep blue of which makes a welcome rest for eyes that have just been 
dazzled by the marvellous colour-scheme of daffodils and tulips. Messrs. Barr make all visitors to their 
gardens welcome, and we recommend as one of the most enjoyable of ‘ half-holidays ’ a trip to Surbiton 
during the next week or ten days.’ 
