Z56 
JOURNAL OF HORTICULTURE AND COTTAGE GARDENER. 
Apra 25, 1895. 
for the profitable cultivation of crops, and without due proportions 
of all a full measure of success cannot be attained. To render the 
nitrogen and potash thoroughly efficacious for plant growth and 
perfection of its crops, especially of fruit or seeds, also of flowers 
or buds for producing them, phosphates must be added and in 
maximum amount relatively to the other ingredients, say five parts 
superphosphate, three parts nitrate of potash, and one and a half 
part gypsum, mixed, employing 4 ozs. per square yard, always with 
or slightly in advance of growth in the plant, and as needed during 
that to sustain it and bring its crops to perfection.— G. Abbey. 
FLORAL FACTS AND FANCIES,—9. 
There are some questions floating about in the world which 
people never seem to be tired of, and to which they keep on 
returning with new interest, such as “ Who wrote Junius’s letters ?” 
or “ Who was the man in the iron mask ? ” Another of these that 
reappears now and then is, “ Why should the Cowslip have been 
thus named ? ” As to the Oxlip we may consider that name an 
afterthought, given to the scarcer species because the feminine 
epithet had been attached previously to the Cowslip. Cowslips 
grow wild, certainly, along meadows grazed by cattle, but so do 
many other plants that come into contact with the lips of these 
animals. Of course, some folk want to make out that the Anglo- 
Saxon “ Cuzlippe” might have had another meaning entirely ; but 
of all the suppositions relating to the cow the likeliest seems to be 
that the velvety petals were fancied to resemble that quadruped’s 
under lip. There is another puzzle, the plant is also called the 
Paigle, Pagil, or Peggie, a name apparently not limited to this 
species, but sometimes given to other native flowers. A leading 
philologist states its origin is most uncertain, though, as applied to 
i-he Cowslip, it may allude to a belief that a liquor made from the 
flowers cured palsy. Even yet it is thought the plant has remedial 
powers in chest diseases. One of the old notions concerning it is 
that the nightingale haunts places where it grows freely, and in 
some parts of East Kent it is oddly called the “Horse-buckle.” 
Milton spoke of the flower as being wan and pensive, fitting for a 
funeral wreath ; but more usually it is considered a symbol of 
“winning grace,” Gibbs, one of the Old Brompton florists, pro¬ 
duced a large number of variations about sixty years ago, which 
•were deemed curious, especially the hose-in-hose form. To that 
plant which some have styled the American Cowslip has been 
assigned the character of “divine beauty,” probably from its having 
been linked by Linnseus with gods and goddesses. He gave it the 
name of Dodecatheon Meadia, in honour of one of England’s 
greatest physicians, also after a classical plant, now unrecognisable, 
upon which, it ^ was said, each of the twelve celestial deities con¬ 
ferred some virtue. It was not inappropriate to this American 
species, for it bears upon the stem a cluster of reddish or lilac flowers 
of that number. 
Some misapprehension has arisen from our common name 
of the allied Primrose, because it has been thought our ancestors 
called this a Rose. Really it was Primerolle, in reference to the 
early appearance of the flower along sheltered spots, so it came 
to be a symbol of “ youth,” but Shakespeare uses it as a figure 
for gaiety and pleasantness (the “Primrose path”). After all, 
the two meanings are not far apart. It is in one way a pity 
that the Primrose should have been taken as a party emblem, 
for this has led not only to the extensive gathering of the flower 
in its native haunts, but to the uprooting of the plants, so that 
the species has disappeared from places where it grew freely 
years ago. Yet, popular as the Primrose is, the repute of the 
spring salve made from its leaves seems to have vanished. The 
kindred Polyanthus, a flower which decorates so many borders 
in April, though it likes not the air of large towns, from its 
showiness became generally a symbol of “ pride.” Yet a crimson 
one is said to be significant of “ mystery,” and to present a lilac 
flower to a friend is to express “ confidence ” in him or her. Some 
early devotee of the Auricula, noticing its variations in colour and 
markings, called the flower a reminder of the “ art of painting,” 
but the scarlet varieties are said to suggest “ avarice.” When the 
plant first reached England people called it the Mountain Cowslip 
or Bear’s Ear ; this is, in fact, the meaning of the Latin name. 
The time of its greatest popularity was about 150 years ago, 
when it was the special favourite of flower growers amongst the 
artisans. Maddock, florist at Walworth in 1792, catalogued 
upwards of 500 varieties. The Evening Primrose claims a passing 
word here from the popular name it bears, though the (Enothera 
belongs to a family unconnected with the Primulas, but it tells 
us of “ inconstancy,” perhaps because the petals fade off rapidly, 
or that, in some kinds, they undergo a singular change of colour 
a little while after the flower has opened. 
Pass we now to the Ranunculus, of which the above-named 
Maddock, so renowned for Auriculas, remarked that we could 
produce, if need be, more varieties of it than of any other garden 
flower, though in 1628 Parkinson knew only eight double sorts, 
but then the plant had not long been introduced. The old 
gardeners were slow to discover that this R. asiaticus from the 
Levant was related to the Buttercups familiar along our English 
fields and lanes. From the original red type, by seedlings and 
division, were afterwards produced such showy and many-coloured 
flowers that, in floral language, the Ranunculus came to mean 
“ resplendent charms.” Some gardens in the old-fashioned style 
will yield specimens of the Aconite-leaved Ranunculus, or Crow¬ 
foot, grown under the name of Bachelor’s Buttons. Why it is 
specially bacheloric we know not; also we are informed that the 
plant represents “ lustre,” possibly a compliment to the unmarried 
individuals of either sex. Indeed, one white variety gives us the 
other side, as it has been styled the “ Fair Maids of France.” One 
friend, however, tells me that he has heard a garden species of 
Catchfly, or Silene, called the Bachelor’s Button too. 
Amongst the cultivated Crowfoots there are several plants that 
have a double character. As part of the army of Buttercups in 
spring they tell of “ cheerfulness,” but as Crowfoots they remind 
us of “ingratitude,” because under cultivation they do not improve 
in quality ; their acrid nature is rather intensified than otherwise. 
One species, indeed, is actually called R. sceleratus ! Some London 
gardens used to have another species, then occasionally found wild 
about small copses near the metropolis, grown under the name of 
Goldylocks, the R. auricomus, one innocuous member of a 
poisonous group. This appellation, however, has also been given 
to a shrub of the Composite order, a Chrysocoma, rare on our 
western coasts, and of which we have more showy species from 
South Africa. Another Crowfoot, the small Celandine, dear to 
the poets, is said to tell us of “ joys to come.” The name also 
associates its flowering season with the arrival of the Swallow from 
afar ; but we must remember that the Greater Celandine in the 
Poppy family received its name for a different reason, because it 
was supposed the bird gave the plant to its young as a sight 
strengthener, and villagers have applied its thick juice to their 
eyes, not without risk. 
In the Adonis or Pheasant’s Eye we see a border flower that 
few recognise as a native plant. Token of “ sorrowful remem¬ 
brance” this, since it is linked to the classic legend of Adonis. 
Our own Shakespeare has told the tale again, how the weeping 
Queen of Love, as she lamented the death of Adonis, caused the 
earth to produce a plant the flowers of which resembled the blood 
flowing from the wounds he had received. Country folks say that 
the wild Anemones cannot bloom till they have been blown upon 
by the winds of March. They may have been called “ Wind¬ 
flowers ” from the fragility of the petals, or because the tails by 
which the fruits of some are adorned carry them rapidly through 
the air. The pale species of our woods suggests “ sickness, ” the 
plant being regarded as an almost universal cure for the maladies 
of spring. A portion of it was worn round the neck, not taken by 
the sufferer. Under cultivation, as in exotic species, the stamens 
become petals, and a pretty double flower is formed, the Pasque 
Anemone. 
A. pulsatilla was so named by Gerard because he found it 
flowering at Easter. The story that its juice was used to colour 
Easter eggs seems to be a mistake ; for some reason or other it is 
a symbol of “ unpretentiousness.” The scarlet Anemone of Italy 
tells, they say, of one that is “ forsaken,” and the blue variety 
speaks of “ hope.” It is found wild, apparently, in a few places, 
but authorities consider it was introduced by the Dutch gardeners. 
Another species of the Ranunculus order is the showy double 
Paeony, the flowers of which indicate “ shame,” and to the garden 
Larkspur has been assigned the meaning of “ fickleness.”—J. R. S. C. 
CARNATION NOTES. 
I WAS sorry to see Mr. Martin R. Smith, page 287, give an account 
of such bad results from his experience with Carnation seedlings. I am 
glad to say we have been more fortunate. We have one small border of 
ninety-five plants, seedlings from two pods of seed saved in 1893. The 
seeds were sown as soon as ripe, and the young plants pricked in boxes, 
wintered in a cold frame, and planted out in May last year. All of 
them grew well, three flowering in the autumn. At the first sharp 
spell of frost I gave them a mulching of 3 inches of decayed leaves, 
with the result that we have not lost one. Now they are beginning to 
grow again, and I shall be anxious to see them flower. 
Raising seedlings is very interesting, especially when you “ cross ” 
them yourself. As mentioned above three seedlings flowered in the 
autumn of last year from seeds saved from a pod of a white “ self ” 
border Carnation—a large-flowered crimson and yellow “fancy”—and 
the three that flowered were all purple “ seifs.” This, to me, seems 
rather curious. We have had another, to me, real cu)io ity. It is a 
seedling from a crimson self, crimson and yellow fancy. Fifteen plants 
