The Call of the Wildflower

Part 1

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THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

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THE HAUNT OF THE SPIDERWORT

The Devil's Kitchen, Carnarvonshire]

THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER

BY HENRY S. SALT

LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD RUSKIN HOUSE, 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C.

First published in 1922

(All rights reserved)

MY FRIENDS

W. J. JUPP and E. BERTRAM LLOYD

NOTE

Part 2

I am indebted to the courtesy of the editors of the Daily News, Pall Mall Gazette, Liverpool Daily Post, and Sussex Daily News, for permission to reprint in this book the substance of articles that first appeared in their columns.

My obligation to Jack London, in regard to the choice of a title, will be apparent.

CONTENTS

PAGE I. THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER 9

II. ON SUSSEX SHINGLES 21

III. BY DITCH AND DIKE 29

IV. LIKENESSES THAT BAFFLE 37

V. BOTANESQUE 43

VI. THE OPEN DOWNLAND 50

VII. PRISONERS OF THE PARTERRE 58

VIII. PICKING AND STEALING 63

IX. ROUND A SURREY CHALK-PIT 68

X. A SANDY COMMON 77

XI. QUAINTNESS IN FLOWERS 85

XII. HERTFORDSHIRE CORNFIELDS 90

XIII. THE SOWER OF TARES 97

XIV. DALES OF DERBYSHIRE 103

XV. NO THOROUGHFARE! 113

XVI. LIMESTONE COASTS AND CLIFFS 121

XVII. ON PILGRIMAGE TO INGLEBOROUGH 128

XVIII. A BOTANOPHILIST'S JOURNAL 133

XIX. FELONS AND OUTLAWS 139

XX. SOME MARSH-DWELLERS 144

XXI. A NORTHERN MOOR 151

XXII. APRIL IN SNOWDONIA 158

XXIII. FLOWER-GAZING IN EXCELSIS 164

XXIV. COVES OF HELVELLYN 171

XXV. GREAT DAYS 178

Part 3

XXVI. THE LAST ROSE 185

INDEX 191

The Call of the Wildflower

THE CALL OF THE WILDFLOWER

Tantus amor florum.

VIRGIL.

THE "call of the wild," where the love of flowers is concerned, has an attraction which is not the less powerful because it is difficult to explain. The charm of the garden may be strong, but it is not so strong as that which draws us to seek for wildflowers in their native haunts, whether of shore or water-meadow, field or wood, moorland or mountain. A garden is but a "zoo" (with the cruelty omitted); and just as the true natural history is that which sends us to study animals in the wilds, not to coop them in cages, so the true botany must bring man to the flower, not the flower to man.

That the lovers of wildflowers--those, at least, who can give active expression to their love--are not a numerous folk, is perhaps not surprising; for even a moderate knowledge of the subject demands such favourable conditions as free access to nature, with opportunities for observation beyond what most persons command; but what they lack in numbers they make up in zeal, and to none is the approach of spring more welcome than to those who are then on the watch for the reappearance of floral friends.

For it is as friends, not garden captives or herbarium specimens, that the flower-lover desires to be acquainted with flowers. It is not their uses that attract him; that is the business of the herbalist. Nor is it their structure and analysis; the botanist will see to that. What he craves is a knowledge of the loveliness, the actual life and character of plants in their relation to man--what may be called the spiritual aspect of flowers--and this is seen and felt much more closely when they are sought in their free wild state than when they are cultivated on rockery or in parterre.

The reality of this love of wildflowers is evident, but its cause and meaning are less easy to discern. Is it only part of a modern "return to nature," or a sign of some latent sympathy between plant and man? We do not know; but we know that our interest in flowers is no longer utilitarian, as in the herbalism of a bygone time, or decorative and aesthetic, as in the immemorial use of the garland on festive occasions, and in the association of the wine-cup with the rose. The "great affection" that Chaucer felt for the daisy marked a new era; and later poets have carried the sentiment still further, till it reached a climax in the faith that Wordsworth avowed:

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Here is a new herbalism--of the heart. We smile nowadays at the credulity of the old physicians, who rated so highly the virtues of certain plants as to assert, for example, that comfrey--the "great consound," as they called it--had actual power to unite and solidify a broken bone. But how if there be flowers that can in very truth make whole a broken spirit? Even in the Middle Ages it was recognized that mental benefit was to be gained from this source, as when betony was extolled for its value in driving away despair, and when fuga daemonum was the name given to St. John's-wort, that golden-petaled amulet which, when hung over a doorway, could put all evil spirits to flight. That, like many another flower, it can put "the blues" to flight, is a fact which no modern flower-lover will doubt.

But what may be called the anthropocentric view of wildflowers is now happily becoming obsolete. "Their beauty was given them for our delight," wrote Anne Pratt in one of the pleasantest of her books: "God sent them to teach us lessons of Himself." It would somewhat spoil our joy in the beauty of wildflowers if we thought they had been "sent," like potted plants from a nursery, for any purpose whatsoever; for it is their very naturalness, their independence of man, that charms us, and our regard for them is less the prosaic satisfaction of an owner in his property, than the love of a friend, or even the worship of a devotee:

The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

This, I think, is the true gospel of the love of flowers, though as yet it has found but little expression in the literature of the subject. "Flowers as flowers," was Thoreau's demand, when he lamented in his journal that there was no book which treated of them in that light, no real "biography" of plants. The same want is felt by the English reader to-day: there is no writer who has done for the wildflower what Mr. W. H. Hudson has done for the bird.

Indeed, the books mostly fail, not only to portray the life of the plant, but even to give an intelligible account of its habitat and appearance; for very few writers, however sound their technical knowledge, possess the gift of lucid description--a gift which depends, in its turn, upon that sympathy with other minds which enables an author to see precisely what instruction is needed. Thus it often happens that, unless personal help is available, it is a matter of great difficulty for a beginner to learn the haunts of flowers, or to distinguish them when found; for when he refers to the books he finds much talk about inessential things, and little that goes directly to the point.

One might have thought that a new and strange flower would attract the eye more readily than a known one, but it is not so; the old is detected much more easily than the new. "Out of sight, out of mind," says the proverb; and conversely that which is not yet in mind will long tarry out of sight. But when once a new flower, even a rare one, has been discovered, it is curious how often it will soon be noticed afresh in another place: this, I think, must be the experience of all who have made systematic search for flowers, and it explains why the novice will frequently see but little where the expert will see much.

Not until the various initial obstacles have been overcome can one appreciate the true "call of the wild," the full pleasures of the chase. When we have learnt not only what plants are to be looked for, but those two essential conditions, the when and the where; the rule of season and of soil; the flowers that bloom in spring, in summer, or in autumn; the flowers that grow by shore, meadow, bog, river, or mountain; on chalk, limestone, sand, or clay--then the quest becomes more effective, and each successive season will add materially to our widening circle of acquaintance.

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