176 ALPINES AND BOG-PLANTS 
‘hinterlands’ of China. Each year its broad, glossy, 
ferny leaves form a wider spread ; each year, above their 
flattened mass, the stiff straight stems shoot higher and 
higher, clothed, all along the last foot of their length, 
with innumerable crowded little flowers in a dense, close 
spike. I cannot make up my mind about their colour 
though. Do I love it or doI loathe it? For the colour 
is a furious magenta; but a magenta deified by some 
strange magic of violence or splendour—a deep, clamorous, 
imperial tone. The fact is that Astelbe Davidii may be 
adored without reserve, if only it be very carefully planted. 
It must not be within a mile of any yellow, any orange, 
any pure rose or scarlet ; and, unfortunately, it blooms in 
the bog-garden, while the Panther Lily, Senecto chvorum, 
and the pink Meadow-sweets are all in their mid-day, 
dawn or decline of glory. It should, I think, be isolated 
as a leper, not even admitted to communion with the 
white flowers of blameless lives; plant it all by itself in 
a ferny hollow, with nothing but ferns and greenery 
around, in a spot where the sun’s darts may pierce the 
woodland and kindle the full fire of its incandescent 
purple; then you will have reason to be perennially 
grateful to Astilbe Davidu. Of Astilbe grandis I can 
tell an unblemished tale, although the plant is too new 
for any but the sketchiest commendation. But it can 
certainly be said that Astilbe grandis is a plant of 
impeccable character, robust as a nettle, a doubled, 
gigantic version of Davidii, revelling equally riotously in 
the same conditions, and throwing up aloe-like, sky- 
ypointing pyramids of white bloom. 
And here, before I take my leave of the Spiraeas, I 
must make room for the jewel of the race. This is not a 
bog-plant, but a tiny treasure that delights in some cool 
moist corner of the choice rock-work. But I am not sure 
about the botanical position—even about the botanical 
