Falling in Love

8. British and Foreign

Strictly speaking, there is nothing really and truly British; everybody

and everything is a naturalised alien. Viewed as Britons, we all of us,

human and animal, differ from one another simply in the length of time

we and our ancestors have continuously inhabited this favoured and foggy

isle of Britain. Look, for example, at the men and women of us. Some of

us, no doubt, are more or less remotely of Norman blood, and came over,

like that noble family the Slys, with Richard Conqueror. Others of us,

perhaps, are in the main Scandinavian, and date back a couple of

generations earlier, to the bare-legged followers of Canute and Guthrum.

Yet others, once more, are true Saxon Englishmen, descendants of

Hengest, if there ever was a Hengest, or of Horsa, if a genuine Horsa

ever actually existed. None of these, it is quite clear, have any just

right or title to be considered in the last resort as true-born Britons;

they are all of them just as much foreigners at bottom as the

Spitalfields Huguenots or the Pembrokeshire Flemings, the Italian

organ-boy and the Hindoo prince disguised as a crossing-sweeper. But

surely the Welshman and the Highland Scot at least are undeniable

Britishers, sprung from the soil and to the manner born! Not a bit of

it; inexorable modern science, diving back remorselessly into the

remoter past, traces the Cymry across the face of Germany, and fixes in

shadowy hypothetical numbers the exact date, to a few centuries, of the

first prehistoric Gaelic invasion. Even the still earlier brown

Euskarians and yellow Mongolians, who held the land before the advent of

the ancient Britons, were themselves immigrants; the very Autochthones

in person turn out, on close inspection, to be vagabonds and wanderers

and foreign colonists. In short, man as a whole is not an indigenous

animal at all in the British Isles. Be he who he may, when we push his

pedigree back to its prime original, we find him always arriving in the

end by the Dover steamer or the Harwich packet. Five years, in fact, are

quite sufficient to give him a legal title to letters of naturalisation,

unless indeed he be a German grand-duke, in which case he can always

become an Englishman off-hand by Act of Parliament.

It is just the same with all the other animals and plants that now

inhabit these isles of Britain. If there be anything at all with a claim

to be considered really indigenous, it is the Scotch ptarmigan and the

Alpine hare, the northern holygrass and the mountain flowers of the

Highland summits. All the rest are sojourners and wayfarers, brought

across as casuals, like the gipsies and the Oriental plane, at various

times to the United Kingdom, some of them recently, some of them long

ago, but not one of them (it seems), except the oyster, a true native.

The common brown rat, for instance, as everybody knows, came over, not,

it is true, with William the Conqueror, but with the Hanoverian dynasty

and King George I. of blessed memory. The familiar cockroach, or 'black

beetle,' of our lower regions, is an Oriental importation of the last

century. The hum of the mosquito is now just beginning to be heard in

the land, especially in some big London hotels. The Colorado beetle is

hourly expected by Cunard steamer. The Canadian roadside erigeron is

well established already in the remoter suburbs; the phylloxera battens

on our hothouse vines; the American river-weed stops the navigation on

our principal canals. The Ganges and the Mississippi have long since

flooded the tawny Thames, as Juvenal's cynical friend declared the

Syrian Orontes had flooded the Tiber. And what has thus been going on

slowly within the memory of the last few generations has been going on

constantly from time immemorial, and peopling Britain in all its parts

with its now existing fauna and flora.

But if all the plants and animals in our islands are thus ultimately

imported, the question naturally arises, What was there in Great Britain

and Ireland before any of their present inhabitants came to inherit

them? The answer is, succinctly, Nothing. Or if this be a little too

extreme, then let us imitate the modesty of Mr. Gilbert's hero and

modify the statement into Hardly anything. In England, as in Northern

Europe generally, modern history begins, not with the reign of Queen

Elizabeth, but with the passing away of the Glacial Epoch. During that

great age of universal ice our Britain, from end to end, was covered at

various times by sea and by glaciers; it resembled on the whole the

cheerful aspect of Spitzbergen or Nova Zembla at the present day. A few

reindeer wandered now and then over its frozen shores; a scanty

vegetation of the correlative reindeer-moss grew with difficulty under

the sheets and drifts of endless snow; a stray walrus or an occasional

seal basked in the chilly sunshine on the ice-bound coast. But during

the greatest extension of the North-European ice-sheet it is probable

that life in London was completely extinct; the metropolitan area did

not even vegetate. Snow and snow and snow and snow was then the short

sum-total of British scenery. Murray's Guides were rendered quite

unnecessary, and penny ices were a drug in the market. England was given

up to one unchanging universal winter.

Slowly, however, times altered, as they are much given to doing; and a

new era dawned upon Britain. The thermometer rose rapidly, or at least

it would have risen, with effusion, if it had yet been invented. The

land emerged from the sea, and southern plants and animals began to

invade the area that was afterwards to be England, across the broad belt

which then connected us with the Continental system. But in those days

communications were slow and land transit difficult. You had to foot it.

The European fauna and flora moved but gradually and tentatively

north-westward, and before any large part of it could settle in England

our island was finally cut off from the mainland by the long and gradual

wearing away of the cliffs at Dover and Calais. That accounts for the

comparative poverty of animal and vegetable life in England, and still

more for its extreme paucity and meagreness in Ireland and the

Highlands. It has been erroneously asserted, for example, that St.

Patrick expelled snakes and lizards, frogs and toads, from the soil of

Erin. This detail, as the French newspapers politely phrase it, is

inexact. St. Patrick did not expel the reptiles, because there were

never any reptiles in Ireland (except dynamiters) for him to expel. The

creatures never got so far on their long and toilsome north-westward

march before St. George's Channel intervened to prevent their passage

across to Dublin. It is really, therefore, to St. George, rather than to

St. Patrick, that the absence of toads and snakes from the soil of

Ireland is ultimately due. The doubtful Cappadocian prelate is well

known to have been always death on dragons and serpents.

As long ago as the sixteenth century, indeed, Verstegan the antiquary

clearly saw that the existence of badgers and foxes in England implied

the former presence of a belt of land joining the British Islands to the

Continent of Europe; for, as he acutely observed, nobody (before

fox-hunting, at least) would ever have taken the trouble to bring them

over. Still more does the presence in our islands of the red deer, and

formerly of the wild white cattle, the wolf, the bear, and the wild

boar, to say nothing of the beaver, the otter, the squirrel, and the

weasel, prove that England was once conterminous with France or Belgium.

At the very best of times, however, before Sir Ewen Cameron of Lochiel

had killed positively the last 'last wolf' in Britain (several other

'last wolves' having previously been despatched by various earlier

intrepid exterminators), our English fauna was far from a rich one,

especially as regards the larger quadrupeds. In bats, birds, and insects

we have always done better, because to such creatures a belt of sea is

not by any means an insuperable barrier; whereas in reptiles and

amphibians, on the contrary, we have always been weak, seeing that most

reptiles are bad swimmers, and very few can rival the late lamented

Captain Webb in his feat of crossing the Channel, as Leander and Lord

Byron did the Hellespont.

Only one good-sized animal, so far as known, is now peculiar to the

British Isles, and that is our familiar friend the red grouse of the

Scotch moors. I doubt, however, whether even he is really indigenous in

the strictest sense of the word: that is to say, whether he was evolved

in and for these islands exclusively, as the moa and the apteryx were

evolved for New Zealand, and the extinct dodo for Mauritius alone. It is

far more probable that the red grouse is the original variety of the

willow grouse of Scandinavia, which has retained throughout the year its

old plumage, while its more northern cousins among the fiords and fjelds

have taken, under stress of weather, to donning a complete white dress

in winter, and a grey or speckled tourist suit for the summer season.

Even since the insulation of Britain a great many new plants and

animals have been added to our population, both by human design and in

several other casual fashions. The fallow deer is said to have been

introduced by the Romans, and domesticated ever since in the successive

parks of Celt and Saxon, Dane and Norman. The edible snail, still

scattered thinly over our southern downs, and abundant at Box Hill and a

few other spots in Surrey or Sussex, was brought over, they tell us, by

the same luxurious Italian epicures, and is even now confined,

imaginative naturalists declare, to the immediate neighbourhood of Roman

stations. The medi*** monks, in like manner, introduced the carp for

their Friday dinners. One of our commonest river mussels at the present

day did not exist in England at all a century ago, but was ferried

hither from the Volga, clinging to the bottoms of vessels from the Black

Sea, and has now spread itself through all our brooks and streams to the

very heart and centre of England. Thus, from day to day, as in society

at large, new introductions constantly take place, and old friends die

out for ever. The brown rat replaces the old English black rat; strange

weeds kill off the weeds of ancient days; fresh flies and grubs and

beetles crop up, and disturb the primitive entomological balance. The

bustard is gone from Salisbury Plain; the fenland butterflies have

disappeared with the drainage of the fens. In their place the red-legged

partridge invades Norfolk; the American black bass is making himself

quite at home, with Yankee assurance, in our sluggish rivers; and the

spoonbill is nesting of its own accord among the warmer corners of the

Sussex downs.

In the plant world, substitution often takes place far more rapidly. I

doubt whether the stinging nettle, which renders picnicking a nuisance

in England, is truly indigenous; certainly the two worst kinds, the

smaller nettle and the Roman nettle, are quite recent denizens, never

straying, even at the present day, far from the precincts of farmyards

and villages. The shepherd's-purse and many other common garden weeds of

cultivation are of Eastern origin, and came to us at first with the

seed-corn and the peas from the Mediterranean region. Corn-cockles and

corn-flowers are equally foreign and equally artificial; even the

scarlet poppy, seldom found except in wheat-fields or around waste

places in villages, has probably followed the course of tillage from

some remote and ancient Eastern origin. There is a pretty blue veronica

which was unknown in England some thirty years since, but which then

began to spread in gardens, and is now one of the commonest and most

troublesome weeds throughout the whole country. Other familiar wild

plants have first been brought over as garden flowers. There is the

wall-flower, for instance, now escaped from cultivation in every part of

Britain, and mantling with its yellow bunches both old churches and

houses and also the crannies of the limestone cliffs around half the

shores of England. The common stock has similarly overrun the sea-front

of the Isle of Wight; the monkey-plant, originally a Chilian flower, has

run wild in many boggy spots in England and Wales; and a North American

balsam, seldom cultivated even in cottage gardens, has managed to

establish itself in profuse abundance along the banks of the Wey about

Guildford and Godalming. One little garden linaria, at first employed as

an ornament for hanging-baskets, has become so common on old walls and

banks as to be now considered a mere weed, and exterminated accordingly

by fashionable gardeners. Such are the unaccountable reverses of

fortune, that one age will pay fifty guineas a bulb for a plant which

the next age grubs up unanimously as a vulgar intruder. White of

Selborne noticed with delight in his own kitchen that rare insect, the

Oriental cockroach, lately imported; and Mr. Brewer observed with joy

in his garden at Reigate the blue Buxbaum speedwell, which is now the

acknowledged and hated pest of the Surrey agriculturist.

The history of some of these waifs and strays which go to make up the

wider population of Britain is indeed sufficiently remarkable. Like all

islands, England has a fragmentary fauna and flora, whose members have

often drifted towards it in the most wonderful and varied manner.

Sometimes they bear witness to ancient land connections, as in the case

of the spotted Portuguese slug which Professor Allman found calmly

disporting itself on the basking cliffs in the Killarney district. In

former days, when Spain and Ireland joined hands in the middle of the

Bay of Biscay, the ancestors of this placid Lusitanian mollusk must have

ranged (good word to apply to slugs) from the groves of Cintra to the

Cove of Cork. But, as time rolled on, the cruel crawling sea rolled on

also, and cut away all the western world from the foot of the Asturias

to Macgillicuddy's Reeks. So the spotted slug continued to survive in

two distinct and divided bodies, a large one in South-western Europe,

and a small isolated colony, all alone by itself, around the Kerry

mountains and the Lakes of Killarney. At other times pure accident

accounts for the presence of a particular species in the mainlands of

Britain. For example, the Bermuda grass-lily, a common American plant,

is known in a wild state nowhere in Europe save at a place called

Woodford, in county Galway. Nobody ever planted it there; it has simply

sprung up from some single seed, carried over, perhaps, on the feet of a

bird, or cast ashore by the Gulf Stream on the hospitable coast of

Western Ireland. Yet there it has flourished and thriven ever since, a

naturalised British subject of undoubted origin, without ever spreading

to north or south above a few miles from its adopted habitat.

There are several of these unconscious American importations in various

parts of Britain, some of them, no doubt, brought over with seed-corn or

among the straw of packing-cases, but others unconnected in any way with

human agency, and owing their presence here to natural causes. That

pretty little Yankee weed, the claytonia, now common in parts of

Lancashire and Oxfordshire, first made its appearance amongst us, I

believe, by its seeds being accidentally included with the sawdust in

which Wenham Lake ice is packed for transport. The Canadian river-weed

is known first to have escaped from the botanical gardens at Cambridge,

whence it spread rapidly through the congenial dykes and sluices of the

fen country, and so into the entire navigable network of the Midland

counties. But there are other aliens of older settlement amongst us,

aliens of American origin which nevertheless arrived in Britain, in all

probability, long before Columbus ever set foot on the low basking

sandbank of Cat Island. Such is the jointed pond-sedge of the Hebrides,

a water-weed found abundantly in the lakes and tarns of the Isle of

Skye, Mull and Coll, and the west coast of Ireland, but occurring

nowhere else throughout the whole expanse of Europe or Asia. How did it

get there? Clearly its seeds were either washed by the waves or carried

by birds, and thus deposited on the nearest European shores to America.

But if Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace had been alive in pre-Columban days

(which, as Euclid remarks, is absurd), he would readily have inferred,

from the frequent occurrence of such unknown plants along the western

verge of Britain, that a great continent lay unexplored to the westward,

and would promptly have proceeded to discover and annex it. As Mr.

Wallace was not yet born, however, Columbus took a mean advantage over

him, and discovered it first by mere right of primogeniture.

In other cases, the circumstances under which a particular plant appears

in England are often very suspicious. Take the instance of the

belladonna, or deadly nightshade, an extremely rare British species,

found only in the immediate neighbourhood of old castles and monastic

buildings. Belladonna, of course, is a deadly poison, and was much used

in the half-magical, half-criminal sorceries of the Middle Ages. Did you

wish to remove a troublesome rival or an elder brother, you treated him

to a dose of deadly nightshade. Yet why should it, in company with many

other poisonous exotics, be found so frequently around the ruins of

monasteries? Did the holy fathers--but no, the thought is too

irreverent. Let us keep our illusions, and forget the friar and the

apothecary in 'Romeo and Juliet.'

Belladonna has never fairly taken root in English soil. It remains, like

the Roman snail and the Portuguese slug, a mere casual straggler about

its ancient haunts. But there are other plants which have fairly

established their claim to be considered as native-born Britons, though

they came to us at first as aliens and colonists from foreign parts.

Such, to take a single case, is the history of the common alexanders,

now a familiar weed around villages and farmyards, but only introduced

into England as a pot-herb about the eighth or ninth century. It was

long grown in cottage gardens for table purposes, but has for ages been

superseded in that way by celery. Nevertheless, it continues to grow all

about our lanes and hedges, side by side with another quaintly-named

plant, bishop-weed or gout-weed, whose very titles in themselves bear

curious witness to its original uses in this isle of Britain. I don't

know why, but it is an historical fact that the early prelates of the

English Church, saintly or otherwise, were peculiarly liable to that

very episcopal disease, the gout. Whether their frequent fasting

produced this effect; whether, as they themselves piously alleged, it

was due to constant kneeling on the cold stones of churches; or whether,

as their enemies rather insinuated, it was due in greater measure to the

excellent wines presented to them by their Italian _confr***_, is a

minute question to be decided by Mr. Freeman, not by the present humble

inquirer. But the fact remains that bishops and gout got indelibly

associated in the public mind; that the episcopal toes were looked upon

as especially subject to that insidious disease up to the very end of

the last century; and that they do say the bishops even now--but I

refrain from the commission of _scandalum magnatum_. Anyhow, this

particular weed was held to be a specific for the bishop's evil; and,

being introduced and cultivated for the purpose, it came to be known

indifferently to herbalists as bishop-weed and gout-weed. It has now

long since ceased to be a recognised member of the British

Pharmacopoeia, but, having overrun our lanes and thickets in its

flush period, it remains to this day a visible botanical and

etymological memento of the past twinges of episcopal remorse.

Taken as a whole, one may fairly say that the total population of the

British Isles consists mainly of three great elements. The first and

oldest--the only one with any real claim to be considered as truly

native--is the cold Northern, Alpine and Arctic element, comprising such

animals as the white hare of Scotland, the ptarmigan, the pine marten,

and the capercailzie--the last once extinct, and now reintroduced into

the Highlands as a game bird. This very ancient fauna and flora, left

behind soon after the Glacial Epoch, and perhaps in part a relic of the

type which still struggled on in favoured spots during that terrible

period of universal ice and snow, now survives for the most part only in

the extreme north and on the highest and chilliest mountain-tops, where

it has gradually been driven, like tourists in August, by the increasing

warmth and sultriness of the southern lowlands. The summits of the

principal Scotch hills are occupied by many Arctic plants, now slowly

dying out, but lingering yet as last relics of that old native British

flora. The Alpine milk vetch thus loiters among the rocks of Braemar and

Clova; the Arctic brook-saxifrage flowers but sparingly near the summit

of Ben Lawers, Ben Nevis, and Lochnagar; its still more northern ally,

the drooping saxifrage, is now extinct in all Britain, save on a single

snowy Scotch height, where it now rarely blossoms, and will soon become

altogether obsolete. There are other northern plants of this first and

oldest British type, like the Ural oxytrope, the cloudberry, and the

white dryas, which remain as yet even in the moors of Yorkshire, or over

considerable tracts in the Scotch Highlands; there are others restricted

to a single spot among the Welsh hills, an isolated skerry among the

outer Hebrides, or a solitary summit in the Lake District. But wherever

they linger, these true-born Britons of the old rock are now but

strangers and outcasts in the land; the intrusive foreigner has driven

them to die on the cold mountain-tops, as the Celt drove the Mongolian

to the hills, and the Saxon, in turn, has driven the Celt to the

Highlands and the islands. Yet as late as the twelfth century itself,

even the true reindeer, the Arctic monarch of the Glacial Epoch, was

still hunted by Norwegian jarls of Orkney on the mainland of Caithness

and Sutherlandshire.

Second in age is the warm western and south-western type, the type

represented by the Portuguese slug, the arbutus trees and Mediterranean

heaths of the Killarney district, the flora of Cornwall and the Scilly

Isles, and the peculiar wild flowers of South Wales, Devonshire, and the

west country generally. This class belongs by origin to the submerged

land of Lyonesse, the warm champaign country that once spread westward

over the Bay of Biscay, and derived from the Gulf Stream the genial

climate still preserved by its last remnants at Tresco and St. Mary's.

The animals belonging to this secondary stratum of our British

population are few and rare, but of its plants there are not a few, some

of them extending over the whole western shores of England, Wales,

Scotland, and Ireland, wherever they are washed by the Gulf Stream, and

others now confined to particular spots, often with the oddest apparent

capriciousness. Thus, two or three southern types of clover are peculiar

to the Lizard Point, in Cornwall; a little Spanish and Italian

restharrow has got stranded in the Channel Islands and on the Mull of

Galloway; the spotted rock-rose of the Mediterranean grows only in

Kerry, Galway, and Anglesea; while other plants of the same warm habit

are confined to such spots as Torquay, Babbicombe, Dawlish, Cork,

Swansea, Axminster, and the Scilly Isles. Of course, all peninsulas and

islands are warmer in temperature than inland places, and so these

relics of the lost Lyonesse have survived here and there in Cornwall,

Carnarvonshire, Kerry, and other very projecting headlands long after

they have died out altogether from the main central mass of Britain.

South-western Ireland in particular is almost Portuguese in the general

aspect of its fauna and flora.

Third and latest of all in time, though almost contemporary with the

southern type, is the central European or Germanic element in our

population. Sad as it is to confess it, the truth must nevertheless be

told, that our beasts and birds, our plants and flowers, are for the

most part of purely Teutonic origin. Even as the rude and hard-headed

Anglo-Saxon has driven the gentle, poetical, and imaginative Celt ever

westward before him into the hills and the sea, so the rude and vigorous

Germanic beasts and weeds have driven the gentler and softer southern

types into Wales and Cornwall, Galloway and Connemara. It is to the

central European population that we owe or owed the red deer, the wild

boar, the bear, the wolf, the beaver, the fox, the badger, the otter,

and the squirrel. It is to the central European flora that we owe the

larger part of the most familiar plants in all eastern and southeastern

England. They crossed in bands over the old land belt before Britain was

finally insulated, and they have gone on steadily ever since, with true

Teutonic persistence, overrunning the land and pushing slowly westward,

like all other German bands before or since, to the detriment and

discomfort of the previous inhabitants. Let us humbly remember that we

are all of us at bottom foreigners alike, but that it is the Teutonic

English, the people from the old Low Dutch fatherland by the Elbe, who

have finally given to this isle its name of England, and to every one of

us, Celt or Teuton, their own Teutonic name of Englishmen. We are at

best, as an irate Teuton once remarked, 'nozzing but segond-hand

Chermans.' In the words of a distinguished modern philologist of our own

blood, 'English is Dutch, spoken with a Welsh accent.'