Thousands,
and tens of thousands, blue, and yellow, and pink, and violet, and
white, of every shadow and every form, are to be seen, vying with each
other, and eclipsing every thing besides. Midway they meet you again,
sometimes fragrant, and always lovely; and in the topmost places, where
the larch, and the pine, and the rhododendron (the last living shrub)
are no longer to be seen, where you are just about to tread upon the
limit of perpetual snow, there still peep up and blossom the "Forget me
not," the Alpine ranunculus, and the white and blue gentian, the last of
which displays, even in this frore air, a blue of such intense and
splendid colour, as can scarcely be surpassed by the heavens themselves.
It is impossible not to be affected at thus meeting with these little
unsheltered things, at the edge of eternal barrenness. They are the last
gifts of beneficent, abundant Nature. Thus far she has struggled and
striven, vanquishing rocks and opposing elements, and sowing here a
forest of larches, and there a wood of pines, a clump of rhododendrons,
a patch of withered herbage, and, lastly, a bright blue flower. Like
some mild conqueror, who carries gifts and civilization into a savage
country, but is compelled to stop somewhere at last, she seems
determined that her parting present shall also be the most beautiful.
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