Amid the brilliant floral gathering which crowds into the arena of the Alps upon the blazoned entry of July, one marks no sign of the fair and frail St. Bruno’s Lily. Nor is this as it should not be. Dainty to the point of extreme delicacy, this flower of Paradise is justly of a season more restrained, and one should not heap regrets upon its absence from so flamboyant a concourse as this present. The rich-blue Bell Gentian is likewise absent from the gay and jostling crowd, having at last vanished from the shadier nooks where, in fond persistency, it has been continuing the cult of spring. But these two precious field-flowers form, possibly, the sum of June’s distinguished absentees.
“Why fret about them if to-day be sweet!”
And, surely, to-day is as sweet as ever yesterday was! The glory of the Bistort is not yet on the wane, and to it the tall Buttercup has wedded its lustre, and Ranunculus aconitifolius, the Fair Maid of France; consequently, the moister meadows are a knee-deep wealth of pink, yellow, and white. On the drier fields, too, the rich blue and mauve expanses of Salvia and Geranium are now reinforced by the crowded blue bells of Campanula rhomboidalis, and hosts of the mauve-blossomed Scabious; while upon the slopes the now declining Biscutella and Strawberry-flowered Potentilla have for new companions Hieracium alpinum, Hypochœris maculata, Crepis aurea, Campanula barbata, and C. Scheuchzeri, the tall lemon-yellow Hypochœris uniflora, and the lilac Gentiana campestris. The tall blue and tall white Phyteuma betonicæfolium, and the blue, round-headed P. orbiculare are everywhere, and have been joined by the tall blue P. Micheli and the little blue P. hemisphæricum of onion-like leaves. The Orchids, also everywhere, are still in full beauty, their numbers having been swelled by the arrival of Gymnadenia albida. The stately Veratrum album is in flower, companioning the equally stately Yellow Gentian, to which, in habit and foliage, though not in blossom, it bears a strong resemblance. The Arnica, also, is coming into bloom: the tall, red-brown Martagon Lily is fast filling out its buds; the Yellow Rattle and Anthyllis are ubiquitous; the graceful Thesium, with sprays of olive-coloured stems and leaves and tiny white stars (and ugly English name of Bastard Toadflax), is looking its daintiest; and hosts of Ox-eyed Marguerites and pink Umbelliferæ top the meadows far and wide. On the rough banks and edges of the fields, or on the rocks that so often crop up in these pastures, Saponaria ocymoides, Helianthemum alpestre, Calamintha alpina, Veronica saxatilis, and Silene rupestris add respectively their bright pink, orange-yellow, mauve, blue, and white abundance to the radiance of the field-flowers proper. In “the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,” Myosotis palustris is opening its myriad blue eyes; the Bartsia lingers by “the flower-lit stream” and is joined by the tiny bright blue Gentiana nivalis, here and there showing its rarer white form; whilst up upon the mountain-sides, backing and dominating the whole of this crowded, gay array, the Rhododendron is fast putting forth its red, amazing fulness.
If June be reckoned as a millionaire, then surely July must also, and with the additional prefix “multi”! “It is with flowers as with men,” says Major Reginald Rankin in “The Royal Ordering of Gardens,” and “Providence is on the side of big battalions.” And, of a truth, this is so in these fields; bigger battalions it would indeed be hard to find. Is there not here some striking suggestion of an element in ultimate beauty—that of an harmonious brotherhood? One certainly seems to catch a glimpse of that economic state where individuality is general rather than particular; where personality is absorbed by the mass, and beauty is conspicuous only in the whole; where, so to speak, the red neckties of leadership do not flare out in designed and conscious isolation. Among themselves plants have their likes and dislikes. It is well known that, for example, certain flowers are only found in the company of Corn, and it is said that in the kitchen-garden the Radish simply detests the Thyme. But here, on these meadows, all trace of discord seems lost in one great accord, and the plants, both great and small, blue-blooded and plebeian,
“A social commerce hold, and firm support
The full adjusted harmony of things.”
And what pageantry it all is; what consummate pageantry! “The flowers are at their Bacchanals!” The Old Mother, unlike many other parents, is not outdistanced by her children. Though man be loath to admit it, she holds the lead, and sets him both pace and tune. What are his pageants beside the pageantry of this his age-full parent? He summons up his past for glory, and, rightly or wrongly, sees magnificence only in what he has been; but his old mother, as here on these fairy fields, seeks naught further than the present. Were it not well that he read in this the lesson: “Nature must once more become his home, as it is the home of the animals and angels”? Were it not well that he should shift his ground and thus amend his outlook? Scarcely does it befit him to brag about
“Nature’s fair, fruitless, aimless world
Men take and mould at will!”