A PLEA

ALPINE FIELDS FOR ENGLAND

The title of this chapter will come as a shock to some, and they will think it an insult to, and an outrage upon, Nature’s existing efforts for English meadows. In my previous volume, “Alpine Flowers and Gardens,” I ventured some mild wonder “that more attempts are not made in England to create Alpine pastures,” and I added: “Alpine rockworks we have in hundreds, but a stretch of meadow-land sown or planted with Alpine field-flowers seems as yet to be but rarely attempted.” And of this mild wonder some of my critics fell foul, and I was told that I seemed “to forget the peculiar beauty of English pasture as it is, with its buttercups, cowslips, and orchis, daisies and red sorrel.” But let me reassure these nervous champions of what is “made in England.” I will be the last to slight or traduce the exquisite restraint of our typical home-fields, or to despise the spirit that can appreciate their charm and place it higher than the charm of alien fields. The inhabitants of a country are intimately affected by the country’s fields, and an Englishman is far more a product of his meadows than even he would suppose. His sturdy advocacy of a floral sufficiency which stops at Dandelions and Buttercups is part proof of this. Reciprocity in Nature is a very subtle and far-reaching law, and man owes much of his temperament and habit of mind to the landscape and its constituent parts. In this way, undoubtedly, the Englishman is largely indebted to the comparative taciturnity of his fields. Far be from me, then, to under-rate their value and their charm.

And yet, may I not think that this value and charm can perhaps be augmented? We love and revel in our native meadows as they are—their Buttercups, their Dandelions, their Daisies, and their Grasses; how much greater would not the love and revel be if here and there a generous measure of Swiss mountain-wealth were added? Such measure would be no violent innovation; it would be a natural amplification of the hereditary trend of our instinct for the beautiful. Swiss mountain-fields are not like Japanese gardens: our nature responds to them without affectation, for in them our mind

It is all very well for confirmed materialists to say we have not to study this side of the question because it is too fanciful; it is not to be dismissed by calling us mystics. Fancy has led men to much that is now inseparable from their understanding, and the mystic has stood for ages upon spots where Science is only now confidently placing her foot. Really and truly, too, the Æsthetic aspect of life comes under the head of the utilitarian, and it matters more than much that is deemed material. Ruskin thought that “a wood of English trees is of more value to humanity than a Bank;” but this savours of too dogmatic thinking, and of the extreme dream of a specialist enthusiast. Without drawing invidious comparisons between the utilities of life, we may say that the woods and fields have an importance all their own, and that, by increasing their beauty, we increase their importance.

I do not for one instant think that in Maytime we could improve upon the weighty wealth of Hawthorn set amid knee-deep meadows of Buttercups and Parsnips; for the rare witchery of it all is unmistakable. I would leave it as it stands: British par excellence, unrivalled for quiet prosperity, for unique felicity. Nor would I tamper with the wealth of Primrose copse, or attempt to meddle with the woods of Bluebells, Daffodils, and Foxgloves. To do any such thing would be purest sacrilege—and a wild conceit into the bargain! No, no; there is much, very much in Britain’s countryside that rightly stands in the front rank of Nature’s happiest creations, and it were mad impertinence to think to oust it or to improve it by inept additions. But these front-rank marvels are not everywhere. Many is the spot that might reasonably be bettered; many the wayside field, copse, bank, or railway-cutting that would repay us for a little help; and it is in such places (pax, O Farmer! have I not gone round to avoid treading on your property?)—it is with regard to such places that I do suggest we might take a leaf from Nature’s Alpine book.

But why, some will ask—why interfere with our indigenous field-flowers, and thus with our pure-bred English fields; why cause anything so individual to become mongrel? And this sounds plausible until we examine the pedigree of some of our “indigenous” flowers, and find that they are “doubtful natives,” and owe their presence among us to the Roman invader or are “escapes from cultivation.” Precedent is therefore on our side. Then why should not we of this twentieth century do as did the Romans for Britain—only with a little more method, not trusting to the seed of Alpine field-flowers coming inadvertently to England in our portmanteaux, our boots, or our hair? We ought not to be afraid of the inevitable trend of things towards a more general, more common aspect. We may well nurse some particular individuality so long as it is eminently useful, but at the same time we should leave our judgment open with regard to accretion, or, as the dictionary calls it, “increase by natural growth.” Insularity is a disappearing quantity, and there surely will and must come a time when we shall chiefly hear of it from books of ancient history and scandalous MÉmoires.

But if for the present we cannot bring ourselves to continue systematically the work of the Romans, let us at least take in hand some of the field-plants we have already with us, and induce them to become more general and abundant. Even in that way we should approach to something of Alpine prodigality; for there is quite a goodly number of British plants among the colour-giving subjects of an Alpine meadow. There is, for instance, Geranium sylvaticum (the rose or blue-mauve Wood Crane’s-bill), rare, and found mostly upon pastures in the north; or there is Astrantia major (the pinky-green-and-white Masterwort), an “escape,” near Ludlow and Malvern; or Phyteuma spicata (the cream-coloured Rampion), found only in Sussex; or Salvia pratensis (the rich-blue Meadow Clary), scarce, and confined to fields in Kent, Oxfordshire, and Cornwall; or Polemonium coeruleum (the blue Jacob’s Ladder or Greek Valerian), rare, and confined to the north of England. Why should not such as these be brought from out their hiding and be induced to people propitious places in a more abundant way?

No sooner, however, does “sweet reasonableness” begin to dawn upon our imaginations, and we commence to take kindly to our idea, than we are confronted by the irate farmer—hasty and nervous lest we and our “weeds” have designs upon his domain—upbraiding us for daring to suggest such palpably bad farming. But we have no intent to meddle with his meadows. Yet if we had, what answer can we make him? Is it of any use for us to point to Swiss experience of flowery pastures, telling him that the finest cheeses—those of GruyÈre and Emmenthal—are made on the middle or lower “alpen,” and that, in fact, they come from fields which are literally crammed with lovely flowering plants? Is it of any use assuring him that cows fed on the comparatively flowerless fields of Fully, for example, opposite Martigny in the RhÔne Valley, give not only less, but less rich milk than those fed on the fields of Chemin, Chables, or Champex, and that, whenever possible, the flowerless hay goes to the horses? Is it of any use pointing out these facts to our scandalised friend? Possibly not. Possibly he will retort: “Necessity makes high use of just whatsoever is within reach; other lands other ways; circumstance creates ideals.” And quite possibly he will be right.

But whatever may be said in disparagement of the introduction of Alpine plants into England’s fields in general, little or no objection can be made to fields of such plants as adjuncts to Alpine rock-gardens, or as embellishments to park and pleasaunce. Here we are in a domain which is “orthodoxly” regarded as Æsthetic, and not as practical or utilitarian. And, after all, we had best begin by the thin end of the wedge—we had best commence with these flower-fields as a “luxury”; afterwards—as is quite likely—we may be able to chronicle “escapes” into the general scheme of the countryside.

I can think of no feature of the Alpine landscape which could add so much charm and interest to English Alpine gardens as an Alpine meadow, and it is no mean matter for surprise that this feature has not so far claimed the attention it most assuredly merits. Moreover, an Alpine rock-garden shorn of its meadow-setting is less than a picture devoid of its frame. Can any one who knows the Alps imagine what they and their rock-flora would be without the fields and grassy slopes? Would there be the same widespread and immediate interest? It is inconceivable, for these fields and slopes are, as it were, the exquisitely sumptuous hall through which, amazed and wondering, we pass to gain the rudeness and refinement of Alpine asceticism proper.

Then there is another and, I think, a crying reason for the creation of fields to supplement our rockworks; we garden at present, for the most part, as if all Alpines were rock-plants, whereas quite an important percentage are purely field-flowers. It will be said that in England’s comparatively luxurious climate the grasses would overwhelm the Alpines and that, therefore, it is only wise to place these latter out of harm’s way. But, although there certainly are some subjects of an Alpine meadow which could scarcely be expected to grapple successfully with English conditions, yet there is a whole host that could do so, especially if care were taken to choose suitable grasses and to exclude certain English weeds (the Field Bindweed, for example, or the Plantain). In advocating any such adoption as the present, we must not be so unphilosophic as to be sweeping and dogmatic; we must be quick to recognise that such subjects of the Alpine grass-lands as Viola calcarata and Gentiana verna, excisa, and nivalis shall of necessity be ushered to the rockwork when they arrive in our island home. But, frankly, I believe there are many of these plants which would be altogether grateful to find themselves in a field rather than in a garden-border or upon a rockery.

Will any one deny that a plant which, in a wild, free state, invariably chooses to dwell upon the meadows is not more at home there than when robbed of such pressing, self-sought company? Will any one deny that, for instance, Campanula rhomboidalis, Paradisia Liliastrum, Salvia pratensis, Narcissus poeticus, Veratrum album, or Phyteuma betonicifolium are not infinitely happier when growing together in close company with grasses than when standing in select isolation upon the rockery or the garden-border?

Possibly it will be argued that these field-plants show themselves so much better on the border or the rockwork. But do they? Does Colchicum, for example, look better against the brown earth of a border than upon a thick-set carpet of green? Does Veronica spicata ever look better than when seen upon the fields of the Alps? Is it possible that the Meadow-Orchids are not at their best among the grasses? For my own part, I find many of these plants look thin and lonesome when carefully set apart “to do themselves full justice.” In nature they are items in a rich reciprocal scheme of intimacy, and in this assuredly is their truest happiness; therefore, as part of this scheme they must certainly be seen at their best. Snatched from their social birthright and perched in grandeur upon a rockwork, they cannot but have wistful thoughts of lost companionship.

Owners of rockworks may protest that they do all they possibly can for their captives, treating them as tenderly as they would any beautiful bird in a cage; they may protest that their captives are fed and watered most carefully and know little or nothing of the struggle for existence which rules upon Alpine meadows. And this is all very right and proper as far as it goes; but very many of these plants could be treated even more kindly and properly by allowing them something of their ancestral habits. That which untrammelled Nature decrees for her offspring is inevitably best, and we should take practical note of it where possible. We ourselves are rebels and, as modern instance shows, are very conscious of it in our more rational moments, crying aloud in a hazy, frightened way, that we must “get back to Nature!” Why, then, compel rebellion in so many a thing we admire? Such compulsory estrangement from what is natural is a sorry sort of kindness. Let us put back the field-flowers into the fields—or, at any rate, as many as we may.

To a great number of flower-lovers this would be a much simpler matter than the building and tending of rockworks (though, of course, the ideal should be for the field to companion or environ the rockery). It would be less complicated, and it would not entail such a variety of specialist knowledge. Many of a kind, and each kind robust and, for the most part, ordinary—that should be the rule among the plants for our Alpine meadow. Fractious, exigent rarities would naturally not be welcome. Fields are perhaps loveliest when planned upon broad lines. There is no need to make extraordinary efforts to find sports and forms; no need to do more than Nature does—here and there a white or porcelain-grey Campanula rhomboidalis, here and there a pale-pink Geranium sylvaticum, here and there a white Salvia pratensis, here and there a white Colchicum autumnale. Forms and sports and vagaries are all very well, but in these meadows it is the type-plant which counts. A field of Salvia, Campanula, and Geranium is blue and mauve; that is the general effect, and variation from it rarely counts in the colour-scheme. Eccentricity we may keep for the proud eminence of our rockworks.

If it is not possible to transplant to the plains the clean, invigorating air which goes so far to form the joy exhaled of Alpine meadows; if we may not lay on the wonderful atmosphere of the Alps as we may the ozone from the seaside,—we can at least take the flowers, those brilliant children of the Alpine ether, and thus help materially towards mountain purity in our parks and gardens. Some of the gaiety might be lost in the process—some of that intensity of colouring which steals over the very grass as it climbs the mountain-side and encroaches upon the kingdom of the Rhododendron. Astrantia major might lose its rosy-magenta blush and assume a more or less livid green-white; Lychnis, Geranium, and Salvia might lack something of their Alpine lustre; a certain mildness might reign generally in the place of mountain briskness; but, on the whole, the loss to the flowers would be small and the gain to the garden or the landscape immense, and we should find that we had annexed much of the charm and joy of Alpine days—

SOME WAYS AND MEANS

For such as wish to set about creating an Alpine meadow, either as an attractive feature of their pleasure-grounds or—which is more to the point—as a completing part of their rock-garden, let me at once say that this volume is no detailed vade mecum, and that, for the cultural requirements of the plants mentioned, recourse must be had to the many good books already dealing with that phase of the subject. All that is pretended here is to point the way to a much-neglected path in Alpine circumstance and to attempt to arouse the necessary enthusiasm for its better and more just appreciation, incidentally indicating what may be novel in its aspect and untouched by Alpine gardening books. To this end, then, I would try to conjure up a representative field or meadow of the Alps. But, before doing so, let me impress upon the reader that, not only will it be no Alpine field in the popular sense, but that we may occasionally have to descend even to the fields of the Swiss plain in order to find one or two subjects which we can use with advantage to enrich our scheme—plants such as the Star of Bethlehem and Scilla bifolia. The Swiss plains lie high when judged by English standards; rarely, if ever, do they fall below some 1,200 feet.

The field I have in my mind’s eye as I write these lines is one which, “with its early and exquisite diversities of form and colour”—to quote again from Dean Hole’s little book—“is a new and large delight.” It is one in which the bulbs, hundreds upon hundreds in number and about five in kind, burst into life with the grass in the first days of spring. White and purple Crocus vernus, rosy Crocus-like Bulbocodium vernum, and yellow Gagea are the first-comers, quickly followed by the golden Daffodil (Narcissus Pseudo-narcissus), the bright blue Scilla bifolia, the green-and-white Star of Bethlehem (Ornithogalum umbellatum) and its handsome large-flowered relative, O. nutans. Then, following close upon the Violet, Cowslip, and Oxlip, come the earlier of the Orchids—Orchis Morio, O. mascula, and O. maculata. A little later Myosotis sylvestris spreads a blue haze over the field, aiding most admirably the lively pink of Orchis (Gymnadenia) conopsea, and rendering the appearance of Paradisia Liliastrum, the paper-white Paradise Lily, daintier than ever. And now I see a glorious multitude of Pheasant-eye Narcissus (Narcissus poeticus), with here and there a tall, deep blue or purple Columbine. Lemon-yellow Biscutella lÆvigata, too, clear-blue Linum alpinum, and white Potentilla rupestris blend their blossoms to produce a lovely harmony in true spring-like key. Muscari comosum throws up its curious blue-purple spikes, over-topped by the white sprays of Anthericum Liliago. And in the moister part of the meadow I see great colonies of Ranunculus aconitifolius and the yellow Globe-Flower (Trollius europÆus) sown in most happy manner with our Ragged-Robin (Lychnis Flos-cuculi), presently to be joined by bright-pink regiments of Bistort or Snakeweed (Polygonum Bistorta). And then, when Centaurea montana, accompanied by Geranium sylvaticum, Salvia pratensis, Lychnis dioica (the Red Catchfly), Silene Cucubalus (the Bladder Campion), and Polemonium cÆruleum usher in the summer, the field is rich indeed in blue, mauve, lilac, red, and pink, with a distinct leaning towards blue, mauve, and lilac. And these colours seem to hold their own to the end. White may come with the Ox-eye Daisy (Chrysanthemum leucanthemum) and the many UmbelliferÆ; red may come with brilliant Centaurea uniflora and crimson C. nigra, the common Hard-head; yellow may come with tall Hypochoeris uniflora and such Buttercups as Ranunculus bulbosus and R. acris, but blue and mauve and lilac seem always to predominate; for the Rampions (Phyteuma betonicÆfolium and P. orbiculare) and Campanulas (C. rotundifolia and C. rhomboidalis) join forces with the Meadow Clary and the Wood Crane’s-bill and linger on until the Martagon Lily is gone out of flower and the field stands more than ready for the scythe. Indeed, long after the scythe has done its worst, and Colchicum autumnale is a thing of yesterday, and autumn’s fires have paled, and

those flowers, or the major portion of those flowers, will be blue and mauve and lilac—Campanula, Geranium, and Salvia.

A field such as this is a garden in itself, and a revelation, surely, for those who know only our home-fields. And it will be noted that in such a field there need be no destruction of effective English field-flowers. Indeed, the addition of Alpine wealth to our home-fields ought not to oust any but rank invaders, such as the Plantain, the Nettle, or the Bindweed, or other “volunteers,” as Californians picturesquely call them. Our Buttercups, Daisies, Orchids, and Red Sorrel should be secure; Dandelions and Ox-eye Marguerites can, and should, continue their reign as of yore; for all of these are constituents of meadows in the Alps. Thus, if we create meadows to companion our rockworks, we should be growing many an Alpine which at present we do not allow among our Alpines; and in this way, if in no other, our Alpine gardens would be far more complete, far more representative, and, therefore, far more worthy the name.

No; because a flower is already common in England is no necessary reason why it should be taboo in any Alpine field we may create in England. Indeed, such common things as the Marsh Marigold (Caltha palustris), the two Buttercups (Ranunculus acris and R. bulbosus) and the Bladder Campion (Silene Cucubalus) are most precious. Who that has seen the Marsh Marigold pencilling with golden lines the course of some mountain rivulet through the spring fields, and lying, with Primula farinosa, a brilliant mass, in some juicy hollow; or the two Buttercups, blending with acres of Ranunculus aconitifolius, and forming a filmy sea of yellow and white; or slopes packed with the Bladder Campion and the tall Rampion (Phyteuma betonicÆfolium), a perfect picture of grey-white and blue,—who that has seen these common flowers thus growing but has not vowed rarity to be no essential passport to the ranks of beauty? I remember once—it was at Montroc, near the Col des Montets—passing over a meadow-slope of Bladder Campion and Rampion, with just a sprinkling of that other and closely allied Campion, Silene nutans (the Nottingham Catchfly), and the effect so fascinated me, as to send up these Campions considerably in my esteem, as subjects with decorative possibilities of which I had not dreamed.

Objection may possibly be taken to the large area required for the creation of an Alpine meadow in comparison with its short duration as “a thing of beauty.” It will perhaps be objected that our field must be mown; that the ripening growth cannot be allowed “to lie in cold obstruction and to rot”; that, from July to the end of the year, the field will be a stubbly place of emptiness, whereas our rockwork will bear a continual round of interest until the coming of the frost. And this complaint would be reasonable if we were dealing with just an English meadow set with certain Alpine plants to make it gayer than is its habit. But we are not—not, that is to say, if we are contemplating the meadow as a companioning feature of our rock-garden. A typical Alpine meadow is full of “accident”; there is nothing of the billiard-table about its eventful surface. Palpably, it must have been the scene of utmost violence before Nature decked it out with verdure. Steep depressions; wide gullies; abrupt limits, falling suddenly away in a grassless, rocky bank to a rough path below,—such “accidents” as these break its even tenor. Rocks, grey and lichen-flecked, crop up from it here and there—rocks hurled in some past fury from the heights above or borne from afar upon the breast of some ancient glacier; for an Alpine field, more often than not, is a delightful combination of rockwork and pasture. Hence there is accommodation for a much wider range of plant-life than in a meadow run upon English lines, and the season of interest is, therefore, as long-lived as that of any part of our garden. “Accident,” indeed, is the constant characteristic of it, and floral variety the natural corollary. When the hay has been made upon the richer portions of it, the poorer or more broken parts and the rocks continue to abound in blossom, giving us such things as the Thalictrums, Monkshoods, Peas, Veronicas, Pinks, Saxifrages, Sempervivums, and Sedums.

When, therefore, we choose the parcel of ground to be transformed into a Swiss mountain meadow, we should not be dismayed if its surface is already more than undulating; we should not summon assistance to level it up and smooth it out. We are not proposing to make a croquet-lawn, but are supposed to be inspired by Nature in one of her wild, “irresponsible” moods. Violence, however, should depend upon size. If we are dealing with several acres, we can afford to be grand with regard to “accident”; but if the land at our disposal is, perhaps, half an acre, irregularity should be to scale; for to be artistic we should avoid extravagance.

Rocks, as has been said, are an almost essential feature of an Alpine field. The ground should rise towards them and should be of a poorer nature than where the grass is to be really meadowy; for upon the poorer ground we shall be dependent for many colonies of gay and interesting plants which would be out of place, even they could exist, among the thicker grasses. Here we may count upon brilliance long after the Geranium and its field-consorts have been mown down—brilliance afforded by such subjects as Ononis natrix, Linum tenuifolium, L. alpinum, Jasione montana, Campanula spicata, C. barbata, C. persicifolia, Trifolium alpinum, Eryngium alpinum, Vicia onobrychioides, Veronica urticÆfolia, Lathyrus heterophyllus, Anthyllis vulneraria, Carduus defloratus, Verbascum phlomoides, and Onobrychis viciÆfolia, the rosy Sainfoin or “wholesome hay,” for which the ass is said to bray.

The rocks employed ought, in greater part, to be of a “generous” nature, not hard and unresponsive. They should if possible be even soft (as rocks go) and somewhat liable to disintegration—rocks upon which, with a little preliminary encouragement, Sedums, Dianthus, and Sempervivums can take root. They ought not to be built up to form what is generally recognised as a rockwork, but should be large, massive, and sparsely set, cropping up from the ground haphazard and as if their greater bulk were beneath the soil. Grass should be encouraged to grow about them, even upon them in places; and Poa alpina, forma vivipara is a suitable, as well as a most interesting, grass for this purpose. The Alpine Clover, too (Trefolium alpinum), may well be encouraged to spread around the base of these rocks and over the ground that slopes up to them. With its large, loose, rosy flower-heads, sometimes white or lilac, it is an ever-welcome June visitor, especially where it luxuriates; as, for instance, at Le Planet, below the French side of the Col de Balme.

I have said that the rocks ought, in greater part, to be of a “generous” nature; and I have said this because a hard and unresponsive rock here and there would not be out of place. Although quantity equally with quality is the predominant note in Alpine floral circumstance, it is not an invariable rule, and something of barrenness only adds to the scene of plenty. Moreover, a cold, bare rock with just one cleft in it where some single tuft of Dianthus, or of Veronica saxatilis, for instance, can cling is often a very precious object amid a surrounding exuberance of blossom. Often in English rock-gardens there is too little unoccupied rock. Ubiquity of plant life in this respect is not so artistic as when there is a modicum of reticence; nor is it so truthful.

Another by no means inappropriate feature is that which can be lent by shrubs or bushes; not as hedges, for Switzerland, when compared with England, may be said to be devoid of

characteristic commonplaces in England, where, it is said, they cover one and a half million acres, they are rare in Switzerland; or, at any rate, as Leslie Stephen remarked, “those detestable parallelograms, which cut up English scenery with their hedgerows, are sternly confined to the valley.” And in the valley they are comparatively scarce, and lack the charm pertaining to the English hedgerow.

No; if our field is to have an Alpine allure, hedges must be tabu. But a negligent grouping around the rocks or upon the outskirts of the field, of such bushes as Rhododendron ferrugineum, Rosa alpina, Berberis vulgaris, Rosa pomifera, Juniperus nana, Sambucus racemosa, and the two Honeysuckles, Lonicera alpigena and L. nigra, would not only enhance the effect and interest, but would tally with Nature as she generally rules in the Alps. Nor would the Bird Cherry (Prunus avium), if kept in bush form, be out of place. This lovely spring-flowering tree, treated as a hedgerow subject on the plateau at the back of Lausanne, is an arresting object in the fields around Chamonix at the end of May. And here, with the shade and shelter of such bushes, may come the nobly plumed Goat’s Beard (SpirÆa Aruncus), the mauve and the cream-plumed Thalictrum aquilegifolium, the deep-blue Aconitum napellus, the violet-blue A. paniculatum, the creamy-white A. Lycoctonum, the rosy Adenostyles albifrons, the ever-graceful Solomon’s Seal (Polygonatum verticillatum), the blue-mauve Mulgedium alpinum, the red-brown Lilium Martagon, the brilliant orange L. croceum, the pale-yellow Salvia glutinosa, the golden Lathyrus luteus, the pink and feathery Dianthus superbus, the Fennel-like Meum athamanticum, the distinctive Umbellifer, Laserpitium latifolium, besides such Orchids as Epipactis atrorubens, E. latifolia, Cephalanthera ensifolia, C. pallens, C. rubra, and Habenaria (Plantanthera) chlorantha .

If we are to have some kind of boundary-mark to our field, let it be by preference a low, mortarless wall of fairly large rough stones or pieces of rock built up with earth—a sort of rockwork wall. These walls may be met with almost anywhere in the Swiss mountains, and are frequently composed of fragments of rock which at one time and another have been strewn about the fields by rockfalls or avalanches. They often become the home of brilliant masses of such plants as Saponaria ocymoides, Silene rupestris, Gypsophila repens, Helianthemum vulgare, Arabis alpina, Calamintha alpina, and Cerastium alpinum, thus adding considerably to the gaiety and charm of the fields—a gaiety and charm which in the case of these walls lasts well into the autumn.

Some difficulty may be experienced over the grass which is to accompany the meadow-flowers. Indeed, it is an objection usually raised whenever I have broached the subject of Alpine fields to gardening enthusiasts; they fear that English meadow-grass would overwhelm the stranger-flowers by leaving them no room to breathe. But is not this obstacle one rather of hasty imagining than of reality? We are not proposing to put Viola alpina, Gentiana verna, or the Soldanella into the field. Moreover, there are grasses and grasses; and I believe a very suitable selection could be made from any of the leading seed-merchants. I should suggest that the ground be sown with smaller, daintier grasses, and only after the flowering-plants have become more or less established; and I imagine that if this were done—and a sharp eye kept for the ever-ready invasion by native weeds—the imported field-flowers would hold their own.

An interesting fact in connection with Alpine fields—one that should not be copied in England—is the tendency of what is usually shade-loving vegetation to creep out into the sunlight. In spite of the intensity and power of the sun’s rays, even certain ferns, such as Aspidium Lonchitis, the Holly-fern, and Polystichum Filix-mas, seem to think nothing of basking upon the hottest slopes. True, their roots are generally sheltered by rock and stone, but the fronds look the sun squarely in the face; and yet, what can possibly be fresher and more engaging than, for instance, the masses of Parsley-fern to be met with in the stony places of the granitic Alps? Wood-Sorrel, too, will come out into the open; so will the little Alpine London Pride (Saxifraga cuneifolia) and the little Yellow Violet; so, also, will the May Lily or False Lily-of-the-Valley (Smilacina bifolia). In England, Astrantia major, when found, is said to seek the partial shade of copse and spinny, but here on these Alpine fields it is in the full sunshine—and looking very much the better for such boldness. It is as though the higher plants climb, the less they fear the light, extraordinarily searching though this latter be; it is as though they revel in the purity, and, casting retirement to the winds, take on a new and healthier joy in life.

There is, perhaps, just one other matter calling for special attention: the grouping of colours. Alpine fields own immense variety in this regard. Some will be almost of uniform tint, while others are of a bewildering, diverse blend. One will be blue and white (Campanula rhomboidalis and Ox-eye Daisy); another will be blue and red (Salvia pratensis and Lychnis diocia); another, yellow and pink (the Globe-Flower and the Bistort); while another will be a close, irregular mixture of some score or more of colours, with no one in particular predominating. Although Nature in her wildness is almost invariably “happy,” it is only natural that some of her results should be happier than others; and it is well to take note of the best she can do. Personally, I find her happiest when she keeps her palette simple, painting broadly, and not indulging in Segantini-like technique. And surely her simpler floral harmonies are among the perpetual delights of the Alps, and incapable of being bettered by even the most fancifully fastidious of “post-impressionists”? What could be more charming than, for instance, the simple combination of pale yellow and paper-white, or of rosy-pink and rich mauve when, as is quite usual, Biscutella and Cerastium, or Saponaria ocymoides and Calamintha alpina are luxuriating around and among the rocks; or when blue Myosotis and white Paradise Lily, or canary-coloured Crepis and sky-blue Veronica, or white Potentilla and rosy-mauve Geranium, or vivid orange Arnica and lilac Orchids are blooming in important numbers side by side among the grasses? I do not advocate formality—the formality depicted in Andrew Marvell’s lines:

which suggests the careful horrors of bedding-out. A certain negligence is imperative; we may be studious as regards effect, but we must not show it. The question of colour-grouping is certainly one worthy of careful consideration; for if gardening is not exactly an art that “doth mend Nature,” it is, at all events, a selective art, picking and choosing of Nature’s best and bringing this together within special confines, there to show in a series of close-knit tableaux that which wild Nature spreads out far and wide among much that, Æsthetically, is of secondary “happiness.”

Pen- and brush-craft pale their ineffectual fires before the beauty of Alpine grass-lands, and flawful and halting has been the manner of presenting my subject; but I hope a sufficient glimpse of its fascination and importance will have been caught to raise enthusiasm to the point of making amends for a neglectful past. Whatever may be the verdict upon the question of introducing Swiss floral wealth to our meadows generally, perhaps enough has been said to make it plain that very many of the mountain field-flowers cry aloud to be treated as field-flowers in every Alpine garden where there is scope for, and pretensions to, completeness. And I believe that the cry will be answered. I believe that the value of the fields, in the economy of Alpine plant-life, has only to be placed earnestly before conscientious gardeners and lovers of flowers for it to meet with immediate and becoming diligence. I believe it will be seen that a rockwork is not the first, last, and only home we may make for Alpines in England, and that it is as unlovely as it is unjust to tar all of them with one and the same brush and think that, because they are called Alpines, they must necessarily be given a perch dominating the rest of the garden. I therefore believe that one more of our cherished conventionalities will soon be relegated to the “Valhalla of bad taste.”

We “are still looking through a kaleidoscope at ever-changing views,” and “the eternal verities” have as yet by no means been sounded to their bases. If “Badsworth” can find sufficient sanction to talk like this of auction bridge, with how much more reason may it not be said of gardening and the cult of Nature? It is doubtful if we have reached much that is final in anything; certainly not in gardening. Gardening—or flower-gardening, since that is the department with which we are here dealing—flower-gardening is something more than the mere growing of blossoms to please, something more than the mere forming of a living herbarium, something more than the mere creation or collecting of “novelties” for the sole sake of novelty; there is something deeper and more difficult to talk about than that—something none the less real because largely indefinable. As earnest, thinking gardeners, our views and sentiments are not limited to a mere toying with the soil and with attractive vegetation. We are not children—though we ought to be, and are. I mean, we do not garden—we do not build Alpine rockworks and plant them with gay flowers quite so irresponsibly as children build mud-castles and stick them over with coloured oddments. There is a significant profundity in the meanest of our efforts—even in the building of mud-castles; and in the maturer effort of gardening it is only natural that this should be of richer meaning.

Gardening is a saving grace in any nation. It would be invidious to name examples; enough to say that nations with marked propensities for gardening figure prominently in past and present history. Such nations, though “insurgent sons,” are necessarily less so than they would otherwise be; for they live nearer to the truth of things, nearer to Nature. Gardening touches well-springs of being, and helps materially towards the moral advancement of a race. It is affected by the same fundamental “psychic” influence as is painting, or, indeed, any other of our kindred enthusiasms. In it we are striving, not so much to express Nature, as to express ourselves through Nature; not so much to transcribe Nature line for line, as to translate—as creatures who consider ourselves so much apart from, so much above, Nature—what we think we feel, perhaps see, and almost certainly dream in her. And far be it from me to aver that we are not striving even to supplant Nature—seemingly a mad ambition, for in the end, do as we will, Nature, and nothing but Nature, has found expression. Yet it is not quite as mad an ambition as a first inspection would lead us to suppose. Indeed, it is good, if not actually great; for it is the biggest of the many bunches of carrots dangling in front of the human animal’s nose, inducing him to keep “pegging away.”

Independent and original as we may consider ourselves, we yet from time to time have to turn and take our cue from Nature. She, after all, is the source at which we must refresh our jaded imaginations; she is the storehouse from which we must draw new blood, new energy, new ideas; she instigates our ideals and holds the cause and means for inspiration; without her promptings, in fact, we should go bankrupt. In the Buddhist “Sankhya-Karika” we read how, “like a danseuse who retires from the dance after she has shown herself to the crowd, Nature retires after she has shown herself in all her splendour to the soul”—after she has shown herself to the soul. The aim of the best art is not slavishly to copy Nature, but to catch and translate the dreams she suggests.

We may paint as much as we like “from imagination” or “inner consciousness,” but if Nature were not all the time posing at our elbow, and if we did not from time to time cast covert glances at her as our model, our picture would never be “inspired”; it would either harp tediously upon ancient themes and methods, or else “advance” into sheer chaotic incoherence.

And so it is that we have now come, I think, to a time in the history and use of Alpine rockworks when we must turn again to Nature for fresh inspiration, for improved ideals. The time is passing when Alpine conditions were held to be sufficiently represented by the rock-fortresses of the Alps,

Of course, these garrisons are, and must always remain, the most prominent and unique of vegetation’s Alpine marvels, but they cannot properly be thought to speak for all; they are, as it were, the militant Éclaireurs set upon the craggy heights and watching over the peaceful hosts of their fellows upon the fields. As is the way in all our activities, we hug a truth a long time before becoming aware that it is not the whole truth. Perception has small beginnings, advance is slow, and exaggeration, meantime, is the very breath of progress. We ill-use a truth by over-kindness; our ecstasy forces it to lie. We dwell extravagantly upon it until it becomes partially false; then we move on. And this, I find, is what has happened, and is happening, in the case of Alpine rockworks. We have for long dwelt alone with them as with the last word upon the housing of Alpine plants; we have been so absorbed in them as the whole truth, that we have seen no need, even no possibility, for further helpful inquiry of Nature. But the time has now arrived when our truth is revealing itself as only a half-truth, and, turning to glance again at our model for a fresh advance in inspiration, we notice in her a feature which had previously escaped us—the fields.

“Many people enter God’s Temple through the doorway of Beauty”; and upon this count, also, the fields of the Alps are of obvious import. I venture to think that an Alpine field, with all its concomitant “accident” and consequent variety, will have more to say to a larger number of men and women than will a rockwork alone; I venture to think that a person who would not stop longer than to patronise a rockwork, would stand arrested and absorbed before the grass-lands and their varied features. To the mass of mortals who are not bespoken specialists in higher Alpines, the meadows have no superiors in breadth, directness, and simplicity of appeal. They are places where the “man-in-the-street” is at once at home. They require no special enthusiasm to make them acceptable. Their beauty is as apparent to the “vulgar” as it is to the elect; their charm is interesting to all.

And this interest means more than mere pleasure, more than a superficial tickling of the senses. It entails a mint of meaning for the soul. Yes, the soul. No gardener, no Nature-lover, need be shy of admitting he has a soul; for it is precisely this which makes Nature-lovers of us all, precisely this which plays so big a part in our admiration of the fields. “Breathes there a man with soul so dead” who will not linger lovingly over mountain meadows tossed or rolling like a multi-coloured sea, with sunlight playing amid the blues, mauves, reds, and yellows, breaking these into endless intermediary tints; and with butterflies seemingly in such light-hearted flight, skipping and flitting blithely, airily, for all the world like flowers come suddenly to sentient life? Breathes there a man who will not find in these meadows and their teeming gaiety “a vitalising passion, calling to life the shrouded thoughts and unsuspected forces of the heart”?

From Crocus to “Crocus”; from the first pale, dainty flush of spring to the last full flush of autumn; from the shy and hesitating youth of the year to the time when all at length “is rounded with a sleep,” these meadows are an intimate joy and refreshment. Nature herself sets so much store by them that when they become, as they must become, recognised components of our Alpine gardens, it shall be said she