“No gardener has made experiments, however small, in the formation of a rock garden and the culture of Alpine plants without bringing a new gladness to himself and others.”—S. REYNOLDS HOLE, A Book About the Garden.
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 Hypochœris 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
“The few late flowers have moisture in the eye,”
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.