“Doth straight its own resemblance find.”
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.
ARNICA, the Brown Gentian (G. purpurea), CAMPANULA BARBATA, and the fiery little HIERACIUM AURANTIACUM, painted from life in the fields towards the middle of July.
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 cœruleum (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.