Patterdale, for the purpose of becoming better acquainted with the
mountain flowers, but on both occasions the weather was very stormy and
made it difficult to be on the fells. At first I searched chiefly under
Striding Edge and the steep front of Helvellyn, among the rocks that
lie behind the Red Tarn, and in similar places above Keppelcove Tarn in
the adjoining valley, hoping with good luck to light on the
snow-saxifrage. In this I was unsuccessful; but I twice found a plant I
had not hitherto met with--in appearance a small spineless thistle, with
a cluster of light-purple scented flowers--which proved to be the Alpine
saw-wort, or _Saussurea_, and which in later years I saw again on
Snowdon. A blossom which I picked and kept for several months was so
little affected by its separation from the parent stem that it continued
its vital processes in a vase, and passed from flowering to seeding
without interruption. Like the orpine, it was a veritable "live-long,"
or as the politicians say, "die-hard."
At Patterdale I was so fortunate as to make the acquaintance of Mr.
Robert Nixon, a resident who has had a long and intimate knowledge of
the local flora; and he very kindly devoted a day to showing me some of
his flower-haunts on Helvellyn. In the course of this expedition, one of
the pleasantest in my memory, a number of interesting plants were noted
by us: among them the mountain-pansy; the cross-leaved bedstraw; the
vernal sandwort; the Alpine meadow-rue; the moss-campion; the purple
saxifrage, now past flowering; the mountain willow-herb (_epilobium
alsinifolium_), not the true Alpine willow-herb, but a native of similar
places among the higher rills; and the _salix herbacea_, or "least
willow," the smallest of British trees, which when growing on the bare
hill-tops is not more than two inches in height, though in the clefts of
rock at the edge of the main escarpment we found it of much larger size.
The moss-campion (_silene acaulis_) is especially associated with the
locality of which I am speaking--the neighbourhood of Grisedale
Tarn--and is mentioned in the "Elegiac Verses," composed by Wordsworth
"near the mountain track that leads from Grasmere through Grisedale":
There cleaving to the ground, it lies,
With multitude of purple eyes,
Spangling a cushion green like moss.
To this the poet added in a note: "This most beautiful plant is scarce
in England. The first specimen I ever saw of it, in its native bed, was
singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches in
diameter. I have only met with it in two places among our mountains, in
both of which I have since sought for it in vain." The other place may
have been the hill above Rydal Mount; for a contributor to the _Flora of
the Lake District_ states that it was there shown to him by Wordsworth.
The poet's knowledge of the higher mountains, and of the mountain flora,
was not great. The moss-campion though local, is much less rare than he
supposed, and its "cushions" grow to a far larger bulk than that of the
one described by him. In his _Holidays on High Lands_ (1869), Hugh
Macmillan, paying tribute to the beauty of this flower, remarks that "a
sheet of it last summer on one of the Westmorland mountains measured
five feet across, and was one solid mass of colour." I have seen it
approaching that size in Wales.
Another plant which I was anxious to see was the Alpine _cerastium_
(mouse-ear chickweed), said to grow "sparingly" on the crags of Striding
Edge and in a few other places. I failed to find it; but when Mr. Nixon
had pointed out to me, in a photograph of the Edge, a particular crag on
which he had noticed the flower in a previous summer, I determined to
renew the search. This the weather prevented; but in the following year,
happening to be in Borrowdale in June, I walked from Keswick to the top
of Helvellyn, and thence descended to Striding Edge, where, on the very
rock indicated by Mr. Nixon, I found the object of my journey--not yet
in flower, for I was somewhat ahead of its season, but authenticated as
_cerastium alpinum_ by the small oval leaves covered with dense white
down. I have several times seen, high up on Carnedd Llewelyn, a form of
_cerastium_ with larger flowers than the common kind; this I think must
have been what is called _c. alpestre_ in the _Flora of Carnarvonshire_;
but the true _alpinum_, though frequent in the Scottish highlands, is
decidedly rare in Wales.
Even when the summer is far spent, there is hope for the flower-lover
among these mountains, especially if he penetrate into one of those
deep fissures--more characteristic of the Scafell range than of
Helvellyn--known locally as "gills": I have in mind the upper portion of
Grain's Gill, near the summit of the Sty Head Pass, where, on an autumn
day, one may still see, on either bank of the chasm, a goodly array of
flowers. Most prevalent, perhaps, are the satiny leaves of the Alpine
lady's-mantle, which is extraordinarily abundant in this part of the
Lake District, and forms a thick green carpet on many of the slopes.
Against this background stand out conspicuously tall spires of
golden-rod, rich cushions of wild thyme, and clumps of white
sea-campion, a shore plant which, like thrift, sea-plantain, and
scurvy-grass, seems almost equally at home on the heights. There, too,
are the mountain-sorrel, and rose-root; butterworts, with leaves now
faded to a sickly yellow; tufts of harebell, northern bedstraw and
hawkweed; stout stalks of angelica; and, best of all, festoons of yellow
saxifrages, beautiful even in their decay.
XXV
GREAT DAYS
I hearing get, who had but ears,
And sight, who had but eyes before;
I moments live, who lived but years.
THOREAU.
IN flower-seeking, as in other sports and sciences, the unexpected is
always happening; there are rich days and poor days, surprises and
disappointments; the plant which we hailed as a rarity may prove on
examination to be but a gay deceiver; and contrariwise, when we think we
have come home empty-handed, it may turn out that the vasculum contains
some unrecognized treasure; as when, after what seemed to be a barren
day on Helvellyn, I found that I had brought back with me the Alpine
saw-wort.
That in the study of flowers, as in all natural history, we should be
more attracted by the rare than by the common is inevitable; it is a
tendency that cannot be escaped or denied, but it may at least be kept
within bounds, so that familiarity shall not breed the proverbial
contempt, nor rarity a vulgar and excessive admiration.[22] The quest
for the rare, provided that it does not make us forget that the common
is often no less beautiful, or lead to that selfish acquisitiveness
which is the bane of "collecting," is a foible harmless in itself and
even in some cases useful, as inciting us to further activities.
[Footnote 22: "This [herb] was choice, because of prime use in medicine;
and that, more choice, for yielding a rare flavour to pottage; and a
third choicest of all, because possessed of no merit but its extreme
scarcity."--Scott's _Quentin Durward_.]
The sulphur-wort, or "sea hog's-fennel," for instance, is not especially
attractive--a big coarse plant, five feet in stature, with a solid stem,
uncouth masses of grass-like leaves, and large umbels of yellow
flowers--yet I have a gratifying recollection of a visit which I once
paid to its haunts on the Essex salt marshes near Hamford Water. Again,
the twisted-podded whitlow-grass is a rather shabby-looking little
crucifer; but the day when I found it under the crags of Snowdon in Cwm
Glas stands out distinguished and unforgotten. It is natural that we
should observe more closely what there are fewer opportunities of
observing.
Let me speak first of the barren days. An old friend of mine who is of
an optimistic temperament once assured me for my comfort, that the
flower-seeker must not feel discouraged if he fail in his pursuit; since
it is not from mere success, but from the effort itself, that benefit is
derived. The text should run, not "Seek, and ye shall find," but,
"Seek, and ye shall not _need_ to find." This may be a true doctrine,
but it seems rather a hard one; certainly it is not easy, at the time,
to regard with entire complacency the result of a blank day; and that
there will be blank days is beyond doubt, for it is strange how long
some of the "wanted" plants, the De Wets of the floral world, will evade
discovery. I have looked into the face of many hundreds of
star-saxifrages on the hills of Wales and Cumberland, but have never yet
set eyes upon its rare sister, the snow or "clustered" saxifrage. In
like manner among the innumerable flowers of the chalk fields, in the
South, that elusive little annual, the mouse-tail, has hitherto remained
undetected. So, too, with many other rarities: the list of the found may
increase year by year, but that of the _un_found is never exhausted.
It is well that it is so, and that satiety cannot chill the ardour of
the flower-lover, but like Ulysses, "always roaming with a hungry
heart," he has ever before him an object for his pursuit. "Wretched is
he," says Rousseau, "who has nothing left to wish for." Nor is the
reward a merely figurative one, such as that of the husbandmen in the
fable, who, after digging the ground in search of a buried treasure,
were otherwise recompensed; for the lean days are happily interspersed
with the fat days, and to the botanist there is surely no joy on earth
like that of discovering a flower that is new to him; it is a thrilling
event which compensates tenfold for all the failures of the past.
Very remarkable, too, is the freakishness of fortune, which often, while
denying what you crave, will toss you something quite different and
unlooked for: I remember how when searching vainly for the spider orchis
at the foot of the Downs in Kent, I stumbled on an abundance of the
"green man." Or perhaps, just at the moment when you are relinquishing
the quest as hopeless, and have put it wholly from your mind, you will
be startled to see the very flower that you sought.
Burningly it came on me all at once!
* * * * *
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!
As Thoreau expressed it: "What you seek in vain for, half your life, one
day you come full upon, all the family at dinner."
But the great days! I have sometimes fancied that in those enterprises
which are to mark the finding of a new flower, one has an inner
anticipation, a sense of hopefulness and quiet satisfaction that on
ordinary occasions is lacking. But this assurance must be an instinctive
one; it is useless to affect a confidence that does not naturally arise;
for though perseverance is essential, any presumptuous attempt to
forestall a favourable issue will only lead to discomfiture. Then at
last, when the goal is reached, comes the devotee's reward--the
knowledge that is won only by attainment, the ecstasy, the moments that
are better than years. In this, as in much else, the search for flowers
is symbolic of the search for truth.
Nothing, as they say, succeeds like success; and there are times, in
this absorbing pursuit, when one piece of good fortune is linked closely
with another. I shall not easily forget that day on Snowdon, when, after
meeting for the first time with the Alpine meadow-rue, I almost
immediately saw my first spiderwort some ten feet above me on the rocky
cliff, and reached it by building a cairn of stones against the foot of
the precipice to serve me as a ladder.
Among the great days that have fallen to my lot while following the call
of the wildflower, one other shall be mentioned--a fair September
afternoon when I had wandered for miles about the wide pastures that
border the Trent, in what seemed to be a fruitless search for the
meadow-saffron. Already it was time to turn on my homeward journey, when
I struck into a field from which hay had been carried in the summer; and
there, scattered around in large clusters of a score or more together,
some lilac, some white, all with a satiny translucence in the warm
sunshine which gave them an extraordinary and fairy-like charm, were
hundreds of the leafless "autumn crocuses," as they are called, though
in fact the flower is more lovely and ethereal than any crocus of the
garden. Not the day only, but the place itself was glorified by them;
and now of all those spacious but rather desolate Nottinghamshire
river-meadows, I remember only that one spot:
I crossed a moor, with a name of its own,
And a certain use in the world, no doubt;
Yet a hand's-breath of it shines alone,
'Mid the blank miles round about.
Nor are all the great days necessarily of that strenuous sort where
success can only be achieved by effort; for there are some days which
may also be called great, or at least memorable, when one attains by
free gift of fortune to what might long have been searched for in vain.
I refer to those happy occasions when a friend says: "Look here! I'd
like to show you that field where the elecampane grows," or, it may be,
the habitat (the only one in England) of the spring snowflake; or the
place on Wansfell Pike where the mountain-twayblade lies hidden beneath
the heather. Such things have befallen me now and then; nor am I likely
to forget the day when Bertram Lloyd took me to the haunt of the
creeping toadflax in Oxfordshire; or when, with Sydney Olivier for
guide, I emerged from the aisles of Wychwood Forest on to some rough
grassy ground, where in company with meadow crane's-bill, clustered
bell-flower, and woolly-headed thistle, the blue _salvia pratensis_ was
flourishing in glorious abundance.
For recollection plays a large part in the flower-lover's enjoyment.
Wordsworth and his daffodils are but a trite quotation; yet many hearts
besides Wordsworth's have filled with pleasure at the memory of a brave
array of flowers, or even of a single gallant plant seen in some wild
locality by mountain, meadow, or shore. The great days were not born to
be forgotten.
XXVI
THE LAST ROSE
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
THE great days were not born to be forgotten. It is well that memory
should come to the aid of the flower-lover; for none is more deserving
of such comfort than he, keeping constant watch as he does over the
transitoriness of the seasons, and having prescience of the summer's
departure while summer is still at its height.
Sometimes a late autumnal thought
Has crossed my mind in green July.
It is in the prime of the year that such intimations of mortality are
keenest; when the "fall" itself has arrived, there is less of regret
than of resignation. I do not know where the tranquil grief for parted
loveliness is so tenderly expressed as in a fragmentary poem of
Shelley's, "The Zucca," which, though little known by the majority of
readers, contains some of the most poignant, most Shelleyan verses ever
written. The poet relates how when the Italian summer was dead, and
autumn was in turn expiring, he went forth in grief for the decay of
that ideal beauty--"dim object of my soul's idolatry"--of which he,
above all men, was the worshipper, and in this mood of sadness found the
withered gourd which was the subject of his song.
And thus I went lamenting, when I saw
A plant upon the river's margin lie,
Like one who loved beyond his Nature's law.
And in despair had cast him down to die.
There is a fitness in such imagery; for flowers seem to serve naturally
as emblems of human emotions. Who has not felt the pathos of a faded
blossom kept as a memorial of the past? Many years ago I was given a
beautifully bound copy of Moxon's edition of _Shelley_; and when I
noticed that opposite that loveliest of poems, "Epipsychidion," were a
few pink petals interleaved, I was sure that their presence at such a
page was not merely accidental; and it has since been a whim of mine
that those tokens of some bygone incident in the life of a former owner
of the book should not be displaced.
There are vicissitudes in human lives with which flowers become
associated in our thoughts. I recall a calm autumn day spent in company
with a friend upon the Surrey Downs, when the marjoram and other
fragrant flowers of the chalk were still as beautiful as in summer, but
the sadness of a near departure from that familiar district lay heavy
on my mind; and that day proved indeed to be the end of many happy
years, for long afterwards, when I returned to those hills, all was
changed for _me_, though Nature was kindly as before. Thus a date, not
greatly heeded at the time, may be found to have marked one of life's
turning-points, and the flowers connected with it may hold a peculiar
significance in memory.
It is a sad moment for a flower-lover when he sees before him "the last
rose of summer" ("rose" is a term which may here be used in a general
sense for any sweet and pleasing flower), and realizes that he is now
face to face with the season's euthanasia, "that last brief resurrection
of summer in its most brilliant memorials, a resurrection that has no
root in the past, nor steady hold upon the future, like the lambent and
fitful gleams from an expiring lamp." Yet so gradual is this change, and
the resurrection of which De Quincey speaks so entrancing, that one is
comforted even while he grieves.
For example, there are few sights more cheering on a late September day
than to find by some bare tidal river a colony of the marsh-mallow. The
most admired member of the family is usually the muskmallow; and
certainly it is a very pretty flower, with its bright foliage and the
pink satiny sheen of its corolla; but far more charming, though less
showy in appearance, is its modest sister of the salt marshes, whose
leaves, overspread with hoary down, are soft as softest velvet, and her
petals steeped in as tender and delicate a tint of palest rose-colour
as could be imagined in dreams. There is something especially gracious
about this _althaea_, or "healer"; and her virtues are not more soothing
to body than to mind.
It was from the Sussex shingles that I started, and from the same shore
my concluding picture shall be drawn--a quaint sea-posy that I picked
there on an October afternoon, not so romantic, certainly, as one of
violets or forget-me-nots, but in that sere season not less heartening
than any nosegay of the spring. It held but three flowers, samphire,
sea-rocket, and sea-heath. The samphire, at all times a singular and
attractive herb, was now in fruit, and had faded to a wan yellow; the
rocket was still in flower, its lilac blossoms crowning the solid
glaucous stalk, and its thick fleshy leaves rivalling the texture of
seaweed; the small sea-heath, with wiry reddish stems and dark-green
foliage, lent itself by a natural contrast for twining around its
bulkier companions. Thus grouped they stood for weeks in a vase on my
mantel, until the time for wildflowers was overpast, and the "black and
tan" days of winter were already let loose on the earth. And even when
the year is actually at its lowest, the sunnier times can be revived and
re-enacted in thought; for memory is potent as that wizard in Morris's
poem, who in the depth of a northern Christmastide could so wondrously
transform the season,
That through one window men beheld the spring,
And through another saw the summer glow,
And through a third the fruited vines a-row;
While still unheard, but in its wonted way,
Piped the drear wind of that December day.
Such flowery scenes has the writing of this little book brought back to
me, and has robbed at least one winter of many cheerless hours.
INDEX
Alpine bartsia, 154;
forget-me-not, 155;
lady's-mantle, 177;
meadow-rue, 153, 168, 174, 182;
mouse-ear, 176;
penny-cress, 107, 108;
saw-wort, 170, 174, 178
Amberley Wild Brooks, 35, 36
Arnside, 124-7
Arundel Park, 35, 142
Avens, mountain, 155, 169, 172;
water, 107, 132, 156
Baneberry, 126, 127, 129
Bellflower, ivy-leaved, 48, 148, 149, 172
Bladderwort, 34, 146, 147
Borage, 124
Butterwort, 87, 148, 177
Carpenter, Edward, 15, 45, 93, 100
Castleton, 108
Chiltern Hills, 16, 90, 94, 95
Cinquefoil, marsh, 147, 148, 156;
shrubby, 152, 153;
vernal, 105
Cloudberry, 110
Crabbe (quoted), 30, 78
Cranberry, 149
Crow-garlic, 92
Cuckmere Haven, 26
Cwm Glas, 165, 167-70
Cwm Idwal, 168-70
Dwale, 140
Farrer, Reginald, 66, 105, 129
Fritillary, 88, 89
Fungi, 80
Gentian, 72; marsh, 144, 145;
vernal, 66, 154, 155
Gerarde, John, 49, 87, 88, 91, 98, 110, 124, 130, 134, 140, 142
Globe-flower, 147, 169, 170
Gorse, 51, 52
Hare's-ear, "common," 46, 56, 87, 91;
slender, 26, 27
Hellebore, 126, 142
Hemlock, 143
Henbane, 140, 141
Hound's-tongue, 55, 71
Hudson, W. H., 12, 53 (note), 57, 88, 89
Hutchinsia, 47, 106, 123
Jefferies, Richard, 40, 81
Johns, C. A., 38, 61, 125
Jupp, W. J., 15
Kinderscout, 109-12
Lady's-mantle, 167, 171;
Alpine, 177
Letchworth, 92, 95, 96
Lewes brooks, 30-4
Lily of the valley, 41, 61, 125
Lloyd, E. Bertram, 16, 110, 111, 119, 183
Macmillan, Hugh, 162 (note), 175, 176
Marjoram, 69, 76, 103, 180
Marsh-cinquefoil, 147, 148
Marsh-mallow, 187
Meadow-rue, Alpine, 153, 168, 174, 182;
lesser, 108
Meadow-sage, 64, 183
Monk's-hood, 94, 142
Morris, William, 42 (note), 78, 188, 189
Moschatel, 87, 88
Moss-campion, 167, 171, 175, 176
Mouse-ear, Alpine, 176
Nightshade, deadly, 72, 74, 140
Nixon, Robert, 174, 176
Norton Common, 95, 96
Nottingham catch-fly, 105, 123
Olivier, Sir Sydney, 183
Orchis, 53-6, 70, 71, 85, 86, 126, 148;
bee, 53;
man, 74;
musk, 55;
spider, 53-5
Orme's Head, 121, 124
Pagham Harbour, 27
Pansy, mountain, 108, 152, 155, 172, 174
Perfoliates, 86, 87, 108
Pevensey, shingles, 25;
levels, 30, 34
Pilgrim's Way, 73
Pink, proliferous, 27;
Deptford, 79;
maiden, 123
Pratt, Anne, 11, 38, 60, 145, 150
Primrose, 64, 65, 131;
bird's-eye, 131, 152, 172;
water "violet," 31, 101, 102
Rampion, 53, 56, 74
Rock-rose, 53, 56, 72, 76, 103, 123
Saffron, meadow, 182
St. John's-worts, 11, 39, 79, 99, 148
Salmon, C. E., 17
Samphire, 24, 122, 188
Sandwort, vernal, 106, 108, 130, 167
Saw-wort, Alpine, 170, 174, 178
Saxifrages, 15, 22, 106, 167;
mossy, 106, 130, 167;
purple, 41, 130, 159-62;
snow, 155, 174, 180;
starry, 155, 167, 168, 180;
yellow, 156, 171, 177
Sheep's scabious, 82
Shelley (quoted), 25, 36, 139-41, 185, 186
Shoreham shingles, 22-4
Snapdragon, 84, 86
Snowdon, 158, 164-70
Spiderwort, 168, 171, 182
Squinancy-wort, 45, 72
Stitchwort, 20, 37
Sweet Cicely, 104
Teesdale, Upper, 66, 151-7
Thistle, "melancholy," 156, 157
Thoreau, H. D., 12, 71, 144, 181;
his _Journal_, 133-8
Thorn-apple, 141
Trefoils, 22, 23, 39, 40;
starry-headed, 23, 99
Vaughan, Canon J., 12 (note), 98
Vetches, 22, 23, 72
Viper's bugloss, 22, 71
Virgil, 69, 80
Water-soldier, 94, 98
White, Gilbert, 51, 77, 98
Wordsworth, 11, 42, 175, 184
Wye valley, 106, 107
Yellow-wort, 72, 87
_Printed in Great Britain by_
UNWIN BROTHERS THE GRESHAM PRESS, LONDON AND WOKING
End of Project Gutenberg's The Call of the Wildflower, by Henry S. Salt