OUTSIDE AND IN.
1. The elementary study of methods of growth, given in the following
chapter, has been many years written, (the greater part soon after the
fourth volume of 'Modern Painters'); and ought now to be rewritten
entirely; but having no time to do this, I leave it with only a word or two
of modification, because some truth and clearness of incipient notion will
be conveyed by it to young readers, from which I can afterwards lop the
errors, and into which I can graft the finer facts, better than if I had a
less blunt embryo to begin with.
[Illustration: FIG. 16.]
[Illustration: FIG. 17.]
2. A stem, then, broadly speaking, (I had thus began the old chapter,) is
the channel of communication between the leaf and root; and if the leaf can
grow directly from the root there is no stem: so that it is well first to
conceive of all plants as consisting of leaves and roots only, with the
condition that each leaf must have its own quite particular root[42]
somewhere. {154} Let a b c, Fig. 16, be three leaves, each, as you see,
with its own root, and by no means dependent on other leaves for its daily
bread; and let the horizontal line be the surface of the ground. Then the
plant has no stem, or an underground one. But if the three leaves rise
above the ground, as in Fig. 17, they must reach their roots by elongating
their stalks, and this elongation is the stem of the plant. If the outside
leaves grow last, and are therefore youngest, the plant is said to grow
from the outside. You know that 'ex' means out, and that 'gen' is the first
syllable of Genesis (or creation), therefore the old botanists, putting an
o between the two syllables, called plants whose outside leaves grew last,
Ex-o-gens. If the inside leaf grows last, and is youngest, the plant was
said to grow from the inside, and from the Greek Endon, within, called an
'Endo-gen.' If these names are persisted in, the Greek botanists, to return
the compliment, will of course call Endogens [Greek: Inseidbornides], and
Exogens [Greek: Houtseidbornides]. In the Oxford school, they will be
called simply Inlaid and Outlaid.
[Illustration: FIG. 18.]
3. You see that if the outside leaves are to grow last, they may
conveniently grow two at a time; which they accordingly do, and exogens
always start with two little {155} leaves from their roots, and may
therefore conveniently be called two-leaved; which, if you please, we will
for our parts call them. The botanists call them 'two-suckered,' and can't
be content to call them _that_ in English; but drag in a long Greek word,
meaning the fleshy sucker of the sea-devil,--'cotyledon,' which, however, I
find is practically getting shortened into 'cot,' and that they will have
to end by calling endogens, monocots, and exogens, bicots. I mean steadily
to call them one-leaved and two-leaved, for this further reason, that they
differ not merely in the single or dual springing of first leaves from the
seed; but in the distinctly single or dual arrangement of leaves afterwards
on the stem; so that, through all the complexity obtained by alternate and
spiral placing, every bicot or two-leaved flower or tree is in reality
composed of dual groups of leaves, separated by a given length of stem; as,
most characteristically in this pure mountain type of the Ragged Robin
(Clarissa laciniosa), Fig. 18; and compare A, and B, Line-study II.; while,
on the other hand, the monocot plants are by close analysis, I think,
always resolvable into successively climbing leaves, sessile on one
another, and sending their roots, {156} or processes, for nourishment, down
through one another, as in Fig. 19.
[Illustration: FIG. 19.]
4. Not that I am yet clear, at all, myself; but I do think it's more the
botanists' fault than mine, what 'cotyledonous' structure there may be at
the outer base of each successive bud; and still less, how the intervenient
length of stem, in the bicots, is related to their power, or law, of
branching. For not only the two-leaved tree is outlaid, and the one-leaved
inlaid, but the two-leaved tree is branched, and the one-leaved tree is not
branched. This is a most vital and important distinction, which I state to
you in very bold terms, for though there are some apparent exceptions to
the law, there are, I believe, no real ones, if we define a branch rightly.
Thus, the head of a palm tree is merely a cluster of large leaves; and the
spike of a grass, a clustered blossom. The stem, in both, is unbranched;
and we should be able in this respect to classify plants very simply
indeed, but for a provoking species of intermediate creatures whose
branching is always in the manner of corals, or sponges, or arborescent
minerals, irregular and accidental, and essentially, therefore,
distinguished from the systematic anatomy of a truly branched tree. Of
these presently; we must go on by very short steps: and I find no step can
be taken without check from existing generalizations. Sowerby's definition
of Monocotyledons, in his ninth volume, begins thus: "Herbs, (or rarely,
and only in exotic genera,) trees, in which the wood, pith, and bark are
indistinguishable." {157} Now if there be one plant more than another in
which the pith is defined, it is the common Rush; while the nobler families
of true herbs derive their principal character from being pithless
altogether! We cannot advance too slowly.
5. In the families of one-leaved plants in which the young leaves grow
directly out of the old ones, it becomes a grave question for them whether
the old ones are to lie flat or edgeways, and whether they must therefore
grow out of their faces or their edges. And we must at once understand the
way they contrive it, in either case.
[Illustration: FIG. 20.]
Among the many forms taken by the Arethusan leaf, one of the commonest is
long and gradually tapering,--much broader at the base than the point. We
will take such an one for examination, and suppose that it is growing on
the ground as in Fig. 20, with a root to its every fibre. Cut out a piece
of strong paper roughly into the shape of this Arethusan leaf, a, Fig. 21.
Now suppose the next young leaf has to spring out of the front of this one,
at about the middle of its height. Give it two nicks with the scissors at b
b; then roll up the lower part into a cylinder, (it will overlap a good
deal at the bottom,) and tie it fast with a fine thread: so, you will get
the form at c. Then bend the top of it back, so that, seen sideways, it
appears as at d, and you see you have made quite a little flower-pot to
plant your {158} new leaf in, and perhaps it may occur to you that you have
seen something like this before. Now make another, a little less wide, but
with the part for the cylinder twice as long, roll it up in the same way,
and slip it inside the other, with the flat part turned the other way, e.
Surely this reminds you now of something you have seen? Or must I draw the
something (Fig. 22)?
[Illustration: FIG. 21.]
6. All grasses are thus constructed, and have their leaves set thus,
opposite, on the sides of their tubular stems, alternately, as they ascend.
But in most of them there is also a peculiar construction, by which, at the
base of the sheath, or enclosing tube, each leaf articulates itself with
the rest of the stem at a ringed knot, or joint. {159}
[Illustration: FIG. 22.]
Before examining these, remember there are mainly two sorts of joints in
the framework of the bodies of animals. One is that in which the bone is
thick at the joints and thin between them, (see the bone of the next
chicken leg you eat), the other is that of animals that have shells or
horny coats, in which characteristically the shell is thin at the joints,
and thick between them (look at the next lobster's claw you can see,
without eating). You know, also, that though the crustaceous are titled
only from their crusts, the name 'insect' is given to the whole insect
tribe, because they are farther jointed almost into _sect_ions: it is
easily remembered, also, that the projecting joint means strength and
elasticity in the creature, and that all its limbs are useful to it, and
cannot conveniently be parted with; and that the incised, sectional, or
insectile joint means more or less weakness,[43] and necklace-like laxity
or license in the creature's make; and an ignoble power of shaking off its
legs or arms on occasion, coupled also with modes of growth involving
occasionally quite astonishing transformations, and beginnings of new life
under new circumstances; so that, until very lately, no mortal knew what a
crab was like in its youth, the very existence {160} of the creature, as
well as its legs, being jointed, as it were and made in separate pieces
with the narrowest possible thread of connection between them; and its
principal, or stomachic, period of life, connected with its sentimental
period by as thin a thread as a wasp's stomach is with its thorax.
7. Now in plants, as in animals, there are just the same opposed aspects of
joint, with this specialty of difference in function, that the animal's
limb bends at the joints, but the vegetable limb stiffens. And when the
articulation projects, as in the joint of a cane, it means not only that
the strength of the plant is well carried through the junction, but is
carried farther and more safely than it could be without it: a cane is
stronger, and can stand higher than it could otherwise, because of its
joints. Also, this structure implies that the plant has a will of its own,
and a position which on the whole it will keep, however it may now and then
be bent out of it; and that it has a continual battle, of a healthy and
humanlike kind, to wage with surrounding elements.
But the crabby, or insect-like, joint, which you get in seaweeds and cacti,
means either that the plant is to be dragged and wagged here and there at
the will of waves, and to have no spring nor mind of its own; or else that
it has at least no springy intention and elasticity of purpose, but only a
knobby, knotty, prickly, malignant stubbornness, and incoherent
opiniativeness; crawling about, and coggling, and grovelling, and
aggregating {161} anyhow, like the minds of so many people whom one knows!
8. Returning then to our grasses, in which the real rooting and junction of
the leaves with each other is at these joints; we find that therefore every
leaf of grass may be thought of as consisting of two main parts, for which
we shall want two separate names. The lowest part, which wraps itself round
to become strong, we will call the 'staff,' and for the free-floating outer
part we will take specially the name given at present carelessly to a large
number of the plants themselves, 'flag.' This will give a more clear
meaning to the words 'rod' (virga), and 'staff' (baculus), when they occur
together, as in the 23rd Psalm; and remember the distinction is that a rod
bends like a switch, but a staff is stiff. I keep the well-known name
'blade' for grass-leaves in their fresh green state.
9. You felt, as you were bending down the paper into the form d, Fig. 21,
the difficulty and awkwardness of the transition from the tubular form of
the staff to the flat one of the flag. The mode in which this change is
effected is one of the most interesting features in plants, for you will
find presently that the leaf-stalk in ordinary leaves is only a means of
accomplishing the same change from round to flat. But you know I said just
now that some leaves were not flat, but set upright, edgeways. It is not a
common position in two-leaved trees; but if you can run out and look at an
arbor vitæ, it may interest you {162} to see its hatchet-shaped vertically
crested cluster of leaves transforming themselves gradually downwards into
branches; and in one-leaved trees the vertically edged group is of great
importance.
[Illustration: FIG. 23.]
10. Cut out another piece of paper like a in Fig. 21, but now, instead of
merely giving it nicks at a, b, cut it into the shape A, Fig. 23. Roll the
lower part up as before, but instead of pulling the upper part down, pinch
its back at the dotted line, and bring the two points, a and b, forward, so
that they may touch each other. B shows the look of the thing half-done,
before the points a and b have quite met. Pinch them close, and stitch the
two edges neatly together, all the way from a to the point c; then roll and
tie up the lower part as before. You will find then that the back or spinal
line of the whole leaf is bent forward, as at B. Now go out to the garden
and gather the green leaf of a fleur-de-lys, and look at it and your piece
of disciplined paper together; and I fancy you will probably find out
several things for yourself that I want you to know.
11. You see, for one thing, at once, how _strong_ the fleur-de-lys leaf is,
and that it is just twice as strong as a blade of grass, for it is the
substance of the staff, with its sides flattened together, while the grass
blade is a staff cut {163} open and flattened out. And you see that as a
grass blade necessarily flaps down, the fleur-de-lys leaf as necessarily
curves up, owing to that inevitable bend in its back. And you see, with its
keen edge, and long curve, and sharp point, how like a sword it is. The
botanists would for once have given a really good and right name to the
plants which have this kind of leaf, 'Ensatæ,' from the Latin 'ensis,' a
sword; if only sata had been properly formed from sis. We can't let the
rude Latin stand, but you may remember that the fleur-de-lys, which is the
flower of chivalry, has a sword for its leaf, and a lily for its heart.
12. In case you cannot gather a fleur-de-lys leaf, I have drawn for you, in
Plate VI., a cluster of such leaves, which are as pretty as any, and so
small that, missing the points of a few, I can draw them of their actual
size. You see the pretty alternate interlacing at the bottom, and if you
can draw at all, and will try to outline their curves, you will find what
subtle lines they are. I did not know this name for the strong-edged grass
leaves when I wrote the pieces about shield and sword leaves in 'Modern
Painters'; I wish I had chanced in those passages on some other similitude,
but I can't alter them now, and my trustful pupils may avoid all confusion
of thought by putting gladius for ensis, and translating it by the word
'scymitar,' which is also more accurate in expressing the curvature blade.
So we will call the ensatæ, instead, 'gladiolæ,' translating,
'scymitar-grasses.' And having {164} now got at some clear idea of the
distinction between outlaid and inlaid growth in the stem, the reader will
find the elementary analysis of forms resulting from outlaid growth in
'Modern Painters'; and I mean to republish it in the sequel of this book,
but must go on to other matters here. The growth of the inlaid stem we will
follow as far as we need, for English plants, in examining the glasses.
FLORENCE, _11th September, 1874_.
As I correct this chapter for press, I find it is too imperfect to be let
go without a word or two more. In the first place, I have not enough, in
distinguishing the nature of the living yearly shoot, with its cluster of
fresh leafage, from that of the accumulated mass of perennial trees, taken
notice of the similar power even of the annual shoot, to obtain some manner
of immortality for itself, or at least of usefulness, _after_ death. A
Tuscan woman stopped me on the path up to Fiesole last night, to beg me to
buy her plaited straw. I wonder how long straw lasts, if one takes care of
it? A Leghorn bonnet, (if now such things are,) carefully put away,--even
properly taken care of when it is worn,--how long will it last, young
ladies?
I have just been reading the fifth chapter of II. Esdras, and am fain to
say, with less discomfort than otherwise I might have felt, (the example
being set me by the archangel Uriel,) "I am not sent to tell thee, for I do
not know." How old is the oldest straw known? the oldest {165} linen? the
oldest hemp? We have mummy wheat,--cloth of papyrus, which is a kind of
straw. The paper reeds by the brooks, the flax-flower in the field, leave
such imperishable frame behind them. And Ponte-della-Paglia, in Venice; and
Straw Street, of Paris, remembered in Heaven,--there is no occasion to
change their names, as one may have to change 'Waterloo Bridge,' or the
'Rue de l'Impératrice.' Poor Empress! Had she but known that her true
dominion was in the straw streets of her fields; not in the stone streets
of her cities!
But think how wonderful this imperishableness of the stem of many plants
is, even in their annual work: how much more in their perennial work! The
noble stability between death and life, of a piece of perfect wood? It
cannot grow, but will not decay; keeps record of its years of life, but
surrenders them to become a constantly serviceable thing: which may be
sailed in, on the sea, built with, on the land, carved by Donatello,
painted on by Fra Angelico. And it is not the wood's fault, but the fault
of Florence in not taking proper care of it, that the panel of Sandro
Botticelli's loveliest picture has cracked, (not with heat, I believe, but
blighting frost), a quarter of an inch wide through the Madonna's face.
But what is this strange state of undecaying wood? What sort of latent life
has it, which it only finally parts with when it rots?
Nay, what is the law by which its natural life is measured? What makes a
tree 'old'? One sees the {166} Spanish-chesnut trunks among the Apennines
growing into caves, instead of logs. Vast hollows, confused among the
recessed darknesses of the marble crags, surrounded by mere laths of living
stem, each with its coronal of glorious green leaves. Why can't the tree go
on, and on,--hollowing itself into a Fairy--no--a Dryad, Ring,--till it
becomes a perfect Stonehenge of a tree? Truly, "I am not sent to tell thee,
for I do not know."
The worst of it is, however, that I don't know one thing which I ought very
thoroughly to have known at least thirty years ago, namely, the true
difference in the way of building the trunk in outlaid and inlaid wood. I
have an idea that the stem of a palm-tree is only a heap of leaf-roots
built up like a tower of bricks, year by year, and that the palm tree
really grows on the top of it, like a bunch of fern; but I've no books
here, and no time to read them if I had. If only I were a strong giant,
instead of a thin old gentleman of fifty-five, how I should like to pull up
one of those little palm-trees by the roots--(by the way, what are the
roots of a palm like? and, how does it stand in sand, where it is wanted to
stand, mostly? Fancy, not knowing that, at fifty-five!)--that grow all
along the Riviera; and snap its stem in two, and cut it down the middle.
But I suppose there are sections enough now in our grand botanical
collections, and you can find it all out for yourself. That you should be
able to ask a question clearly, is two-thirds of the way to getting it
answered; and I think this chapter of mine will at {167} least enable you
to ask some questions about the stem, though what a stem is, truly, "I am
not sent to tell thee, for I do not know."
KNARESBOROUGH, _30th April, 1876_.
I see by the date of last paragraph that this chapter has been in my good
Aylesbury printer's type for more than a year and a half. At this rate,
Proserpina has a distant chance of being finished in the spirit-land, with
more accurate information derived from the archangel Uriel himself, (not
that he is likely to know much about the matter, if he keeps on letting
himself be prevented from ever seeing foliage in spring-time by the black
demon-winds,) about the year 2000. In the meantime, feeling that perhaps I
_am_ sent to tell my readers a little more than is above told, I have had
recourse to my botanical friend, good Mr. Oliver of Kew, who has taught me,
first, of palms, that they actually stitch themselves into the ground, with
a long dipping loop, up and down, of the root fibres, concerning which
sempstress-work I shall have a month's puzzlement before I can report on
it; secondly, that all the increment of tree stem is, by division and
multiplication of the cells of the wood, a process not in the least to be
described as 'sending down roots from the leaf to the ground.' I suspected
as much in beginning to revise this chapter; but hold to my judgment in not
cancelling it. For this multiplication of the cells is at least compelled
by an influence which passes from the leaf to the ground, and vice versa;
and which is at present best {168} conceivable to me by imagining the
continual and invisible descent of lightning from electric cloud by a
conducting rod, endowed with the power of softly splitting the rod into two
rods, each as thick as the original one. Studying microscopically, we
should then see the molecules of copper, as we see the cells of the wood,
dividing and increasing, each one of them into two. But the visible result,
and mechanical conditions of growth, would still be the same as if the leaf
actually sent down a new root fibre; and, more than this, the currents of
accumulating substance, marked by the grain of the wood, are, I think,
quite plainly and absolutely those of streams flowing only from the leaves
downwards; never from the root up, nor of mere lateral increase. I must
look over all my drawings again, and at tree stems again, with more
separate study of the bark and pith in those museum sections, before I can
assert this; but there will be no real difficulty in the investigation. If
the increase of the wood is lateral only, the currents round the knots will
be compressed at the sides, and open above and below; but if downwards,
compressed above the knot and open below it. The nature of the force
itself, and the manner of its ordinances in direction, remain, and must for
ever remain, inscrutable as our own passions, in the hand of the God of all
Spirits, and of all Flesh.
"Drunk is each ridge, of thy cup drinking,
Each clod relenteth at thy dressing,
{169}
Thy cloud-borne waters inly sinking,
Fair spring sproutes forth, blest with thy blessing;
The fertile year is with thy bounty crouned,
And where thou go'st, thy goings fat the ground.
Plenty bedews the desert places,
A hedge of mirth the hills encloseth.
The fields with flockes have hid their faces,
A robe of corn the valleys clotheth.
Deserts and hills and fields and valleys all,
Rejoice, shout, sing, and on thy name do call."
* * * * *
{170}