The total number of species may probably be safely estimated as at least

2,000,000, of which but a fraction have yet been described or named. Of

extinct species the number was probably at least as great. In the

geological history of the earth there have been at least twelve periods,

in each of which by far the greatest number were distinct. The Ancient

Poets described certain gifted mortals as having been privileged to

descend into the interior of the earth, and exercised their imagination

in recounting the wonders thus revealed. As in other cases, however, the

realities of Science have proved far more varied and surprising than the

dreams of fiction. Of these extinct species our knowledge is even more

incomplete than that of the existing species. But even of our

contemporaries it is not too much to say that, as in the case of

plants, there is not one the structure, habits, and life-history of

which are yet fully known to us. The male of the Cynips, which produces

the common King Charles Oak Apple, has only recently been discovered,

those of the root-feeding Aphides, which live in hundreds in every nest

of the yellow Meadow Ant (Lasius flavus) are still unknown; the habits

and mode of reproduction of the common Eel have only just been

discovered; and we may even say generally that many of the most

interesting recent discoveries have relation to the commonest and most

familiar animals.

IMPORTANCE OF THE SMALLER ANIMALS

Whatever pre-eminence Man may claim for himself, other animals have done

far more to affect the face of nature. The principal agents have not

been the larger or more intelligent, but rather the smaller, and

individually less important, species. Beavers may have dammed up many of

the rivers of British Columbia, and turned them into a succession of

pools or marshes, but this is a slight matter compared with the action

of earthworms and insects[17] in the creation of vegetable soil; of the

accumulation of animalcules in filling up harbours and lakes; or of

Zoophytes in the construction of coral islands.

Microscopic animals make up in number what they lack in size. Paris is

built of Infusoria. The Peninsula of Florida, 78,000 square miles in

extent, is entirely composed of coral debris and fragments of shells.

Chalk consists mainly of Foraminifera and fragments of shells deposited

in a deep sea. The number of shells required to make up a cubic inch is

almost incredible. Ehrenberg has estimated that of the Bilin polishing

slate which caps the mountain, and has a thickness of forty feet, a

cubic inch contains many hundred million shells of Infusoria.

In another respect these microscopic organisms are of vital importance.

Many diseases are now known, and others suspected, to be entirely due to

Bacteria and other minute forms of life (Microbes), which multiply

incredibly, and either destroy their victims, or after a while diminish

again in numbers. We live indeed in a cloud of Bacteria. At the

observatory of Montsouris at Paris it has been calculated that there are

about 80 in each cubic meter of air. Elsewhere, however, they are much

more numerous. Pasteur's researches on the Silkworm disease led him to

the discovery of Bacterium anthracis, the cause of splenic fever.

Microbes are present in persons suffering from cholera, typhus,

whooping-cough, measles, hydrophobia, etc., but as to their history and

connection with disease we have yet much to learn. It is fortunate,

indeed, that they do not all attack us.

In surgical cases, again, the danger of compound fractures and

mortification of wounds has been found to be mainly due to the presence

of microscopic organisms; and Lister, by his antiseptic treatment which

destroys these germs or prevents their access, has greatly diminished

the danger of operations, and the sufferings of recovery.

SIZE OF ANIMALS

In the size of animals we find every gradation from these atoms which

even in the most powerful microscopes appear as mere points, up to the

gigantic reptiles of past ages and the Whales of our present ocean. The

horned Ray or Skate is 25 feet in length, by 30 in width. The

Cuttle-fishes of our seas, though so hideous as to resemble a bad dream,

are too small to be formidable; but off the Newfoundland coast is a

species with arms sometimes 30 feet long, so as to be 60 feet from tip

to tip. The body, however, is small in proportion. The Giraffe attains a

height of over 20 feet; the Elephant, though not so tall, is more bulky;

the Crocodile reaches a length of over 20 feet, the Python of 60 feet,

the extinct Titanosaurus of the American Jurassic beds, the largest land

animal yet known to us, 100 feet in length and 30 in height; the

Whalebone Whale over 70 feet, Sibbald's Whale is said to have reached

80-90, which is perhaps the limit. Captain Scoresby indeed mentions a

Rorqual no less than 120 feet in length, but this is probably too great

an estimate.

COMPLEXITY OF ANIMAL STRUCTURE

The complexity of animal structure is even more marvellous than their

mere magnitude. A Caterpillar contains more than 2000 muscles. In our

own body are some 2,000,000 perspiration glands, communicating with the

surface by ducts having a total length of some 10 miles; while that of

the arteries, veins, and capillaries must be very great; the blood

contains millions of millions of corpuscles, each no doubt a complex

structure in itself; the rods in the retina, which are supposed to be

the ultimate recipient of light, are estimated at 30,000,000; and

Meinert has calculated that the gray matter of the brain is built up of

at least 600,000,000 cells. No verbal description, however, can do

justice to the marvellous complexity of animal structure, which the

microscope alone, and even that but faintly, can enable us to realise.

LENGTH OF LIFE

How little we yet know of the life-history of Animals is illustrated by

the vagueness of our information as to the age to which they live.

Professor Lankester[18] tells us that "the paucity and uncertainty of

observations on this class of facts is extreme." The Rabbit is said to

reach 10 years, the Dog and Sheep 10-12, the Pig 20, the Horse 30, the

Camel 100, the Elephant 200, the Greenland Whale 400 (?): among Birds,

the Parrot to attain 100 years, the Raven even more. The Atur Parrot

mentioned by Humboldt, talked, but could not be understood, because it

spoke in the language of an extinct Indian tribe. It is supposed from

their rate of growth that among Fish the Carp is said to reach 150

years; and a Pike, 19 feet long, and weighing 350 lbs., is said to have

been taken in Suabia in 1497 carrying a ring, on which was inscribed, "I

am the fish which was first of all put into the lake by the hands of the

Governor of the Universe, Frederick the Second, the 5th Oct. 1230." This

would imply an age of over 267 years. Many Reptiles are no doubt very

long-lived. A Tortoise is said to have reached 500 years. As regards the

lower animals, the greatest age on record is that of Sir J. Dalzell's

Sea Anemone, which lived for over 50 years. Insects are generally

short-lived; the Queen Bee, however, is said by Aristotle, whose

statement has not been confirmed by recent writers, to live 7 years. I

myself had a Queen Ant which attained the age of 15 years.

The May Fly (Ephemera) is celebrated as living only for a day, and has

given its name to all things short-lived. The statement usually made is,

indeed, very misleading, for in its larval condition the Ephemera lives

for weeks. Many writers have expressed surprise that in the perfect

state its life should be so short. It is, however, so defenceless, and,

moreover, so much appreciated by birds and fish, that unless they laid

their eggs very rapidly none would perhaps survive to continue the

species.

Many of these estimates are, as will be seen, very vague and doubtful,

so that we must still admit with Bacon that, "touching the length and

shortness of life in living creatures, the information which may be had

is but slender, observation is negligent, and tradition fabulous. In

tame creatures their degenerate life corrupteth them, in wild creatures

their exposing to all weathers often intercepteth them."

ON INDIVIDUALITY

When we descend still lower in the animal scale, the consideration of

this question opens out a very curious and interesting subject connected

with animal individuality. As regards the animals with which we are

most familiar no such question intrudes. Among quadrupeds and birds,

fishes and reptiles, there is no difficulty in deciding whether a given

organism is an individual, or a part of an individual. Nor does the

difficulty arise in the case of most insects. The Bee or Butterfly lays

an egg which develops successively into a larva and pupa, finally

producing Bee or Butterfly. In these cases, therefore, the egg, larva,

pupa, and perfect Insect, are regarded as stages in the life of a single

individual. In certain gnats, however, the larva itself produces young

larvæ, each of which develops into a gnat, so that the egg produces not

one gnat but many gnats.

The difficulty of determining what constitutes an individual becomes

still greater among the Zoophytes. These beautiful creatures in many

cases so closely resemble plants, that until our countryman Ellis proved

them to be animals, Crabbe was justified in saying--

Involved in seawrack here we find a race,

Which Science, doubting, knows not where to place;

On shell or stone is dropped the embryo seed,

And quickly vegetates a vital breed.

We cannot wonder that such organisms were long regarded as belonging to

the vegetable kingdom. The cups which terminate the branches contain,

however, an animal structure, resembling a small Sea Anemone, and

possessing arms which capture the food by which the whole colony is

nourished. Some of these cups, moreover, differ from the rest, and

produce eggs. These then we might be disposed to term ovaries. But in

many species they detach themselves from the group and lead an

independent existence. Thus we find a complete gradation from structures

which, regarded by themselves, we should unquestionably regard as mere

organs, to others which are certainly separate and independent beings.

[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Bougainvillea fruticosa; natural size. (After

Allman.)]

Fig. 2 represents, after Allman, a colony of Bougainvillea fruticosa of

the natural size. It is a British species, which is found growing on

buoys, floating timber, etc., and, says Allman, "When in health and

vigour, offers a spectacle unsurpassed in interest by any other

species--every branchlet crowned by its graceful hydranth, and budding

with Medusæ in all stages of development (Fig. 3), some still in the

condition of minute buds, in which no trace of the definite Medusa-form

can yet be detected; others, in which the outlines of the Medusa can be

distinctly traced within the transparent ectotheque (external layer);

others, again, just casting off this thin outer pellicle, and others

completely freed from it, struggling with convulsive efforts to break

loose from the colony, and finally launched forth in the full enjoyment

of their freedom into the surrounding water. I know of no form in which

so many of the characteristic features of a typical hydroid are more

finely expressed than in this beautiful species."

[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Bougainvillea fruticosa; magnified to show

development.]

Fig. 4 represents the Medusa or free form of this beautiful species.

[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Bougainvillea fruticosa, Medusa-form.]

If we pass to another great group of Zoophytes, that of the

Jelly-fishes, we have a very similar case. For our first knowledge of

the life-history of these Zoophytes we are indebted to the Norwegian

naturalist Sars. Take, for instance, the common Jelly-fish (Medusa

aurita) (Fig. 5) of our shores.

The egg is a pear-shaped body (_1_), covered with fine hairs, by the aid

of which it swims about, the broader end in front. After a while it

attaches itself, not as might have been expected by the posterior but by

the anterior extremity (_2_). The cilia then disappear, a mouth is

formed at the free end, tentacles, first four (_3_), then eight, and at

length as many as thirty (_4_), are formed, and the little creature

resembles in essentials the freshwater polyp (Hydra) of our ponds.

[Illustration: Fig. 5.--Medusa aurita, and progressive stages of

development.]

At the same time transverse wrinkles (_4_) are formed round the body,

first near the free extremity and then gradually descending. They become

deeper and deeper, and develop lobes or divisions one under the other,

as at _5_. After a while the top ring (and subsequently the others one

by one) detaches itself, swims away, and gradually develops into a

Medusa (_6_). Thus, then, the life-history is very similar to that of

the Hydroids, only that while in the Hydroids the fixed condition is the

more permanent, and the free swimming more transitory, in the Medusæ,

on the contrary, the fixed condition is apparently only a phase in the

production of the free swimming animal. In both the one and the other,

however, the egg gives rise not to one but to many mature animals.

Steenstrup has given to these curious phenomena, many other cases of

which occur among the lower animals, and to which he first called

attention, the name of alternations of generations.

In the life-history of Infusoria (so called because they swarm in most

animal or vegetable infusions) similar difficulties encounter us. The

little creatures, many of which are round or oval in form, from time to

time become constricted in the middle; the constriction becomes deeper

and deeper, and at length the two halves twist themselves apart and swim

away. In this case, therefore, there was one, and there are now two

exactly similar; but are these two individuals? They are not parent and

offspring--that is clear, for they are of the same age; nor are they

twins, for there is no parent. As already mentioned, we regard the

Caterpillar, Chrysalis, and Butterfly as stages in the life-history of

a single individual. But among Zoophytes, and even among some insects,

one larva often produces several mature forms. In some species these

mature forms remain attached to the larval stock, and we might be

disposed to regard the whole as one complex organism. But in others they

detach themselves and lead an independent existence.

These considerations then introduce much difficulty into our conception

of the idea of an Individual.

ANIMAL IMMORTALITY

But, further than this, we are confronted by by another problem. If we

regard a mass of coral as an individual because it arises by continuous

growth from a single egg, then it follows that some corals must be

thousands of years old.

Some of the lower animals may be cut into pieces, and each piece will

develop into an entire organism. In fact the realisation of the idea of

an individual gradually becomes more and more difficult, and the

continuity of existence, even among the highest animals, gradually

forces itself upon us. I believe that as we become more rational, as we

realise more fully the conditions of existence, this consideration is

likely to have important moral results.

It is generally considered that death is the common lot of all living

beings. But is this necessarily so? Infusoria and other unicellular

animals multiply by division. That is to say, if we watch one for a

certain time, we shall observe, as already mentioned, that a

constriction takes place, which grows gradually deeper and deeper, until

at last the two halves become quite detached, and each swims away

independently. The process is repeated over and over again, and in this

manner the species is propagated. Here obviously there is no birth and

no death. Such creatures may be killed, but they have no natural term of

life. They are, in fact, theoretically immortal. Those which lived

millions of years ago may have gone on dividing and subdividing, and in

this sense multitudes of the lower animals are millions of years old.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] Address to Microscopical Society, 1890.

[16] _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, and _The Senses of Animals_.

[17] Prof. Drummond (_Tropical Africa_) dwells with great force on the

manner in which the soil of Central Africa is worked up by the White

Ants.

[18] Lankester, _Comparative Longevity_. See also Weismann, _Duration of

Life_.

CHAPTER IV

ON PLANT LIFE

Flower in the crannied wall,

I pluck you out of the crannies,

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,

Little flower--but _if_ I could understand

What you are, root and all, and all in all,

I should know what God and man is.

TENNYSON.

CHAPTER IV

ON PLANT LIFE

We are told that in old days the Fairies used to give presents of

Flowers and Leaves to those whom they wished to reward, or whom they

loved best; and though these gifts were, it appears, often received with

disappointment, still it will probably be admitted that flowers have

contributed more to the happiness of our lives than either gold or

silver or precious stones; and that our happiest days have been spent

out-of-doors in the woods and fields, when we have

... found in every woodland way

The sunlight tint of Fairy Gold.[19]

To many minds Flowers acquired an additional interest when it was shown

that there was a reason for their colour, size, and form--in fact, for

every detail of their organisation. If we did but know all that the

smallest flower could tell us, we should have solved some of the

greatest mysteries of Nature. But we cannot hope to succeed--even if we

had the genius of Plato or Aristotle--without careful, patient, and

reverent study. From such an inquiry we may hope much; already we have

glimpses, enough to convince us that the whole history will open out to

us conceptions of the Universe wider and grander than any which the

Imagination alone would ever have suggested.

Attempts to explain the forms, colours, and other characteristics of

animals and plants are by no means new. Our Teutonic forefathers had a

pretty story which explained certain points about several common plants.

Balder, the God of Mirth and Merriment, was, characteristically enough,

regarded as deficient in the possession of immortality. The other

divinities, fearing to lose him, petitioned Thor to make him immortal,

and the prayer was granted on condition that every animal and plant

would swear not to injure him. To secure this object, Nanna, Balder's

wife, descended upon the earth. Loki, the God of Envy, followed her,

disguised as a crow (which at that time were white), and settled on a

little blue flower, hoping to cover it up, so that Nanna might overlook

it. The flower, however, cried out "forget-me-not, forget-me-not," and

has ever since been known under that name. Loki then flew up into an oak

and sat on a mistletoe. Here he was more successful. Nanna carried off

the oath of the oak, but overlooked the mistletoe. She thought, however,

and the divinities thought, that she had successfully accomplished her

mission, and that Balder had received the gift of immortality.

One day, supposing Balder proof, they amused themselves by shooting at

him, posting him against a Holly. Loki tipped an arrow with a piece of

Mistletoe, against which Balder was not proof, and gave it to Balder's

brother. This, unfortunately, pierced him to the heart, and he fell

dead. Some drops of his blood spurted on to the Holly, which accounts

for the redness of the berries; the Mistletoe was so grieved that she

has ever since borne fruit like tears; and the crow, whose form Loki had

taken, and which till then had been white, was turned black.

This pretty myth accounts for several things, but is open to fatal

objections.

Recent attempts to explain the facts of Nature are not less fascinating,

and, I think, more successful.

Why then this marvellous variety? this inexhaustible treasury of

beautiful forms? Does it result from some innate tendency in each

species? Is it intentionally designed to delight the eye of man? Or has

the form and size and texture some reference to the structure and

organisation, the habits and requirements of the whole plant?

I shall never forget hearing Darwin's paper on the structure of the

Cowslip and Primrose, after which even Sir Joseph Hooker compared

himself to Peter Bell, to whom

A primrose by a river's brim

A yellow primrose was to him,

And it was nothing more.

We all, I think, shared the same feeling, and found that the explanation

of the flower then given, and to which I shall refer again, invested it

with fresh interest and even with new beauty.

A regular flower, such, for instance, as a Geranium or a Pink, consists

of four or more whorls of leaves, more or less modified: the lowest

whorl is the Calyx, and the separate leaves of which it is composed,

which however are sometimes united into a tube, are called sepals; (2) a

second whorl, the corolla, consisting of coloured leaves called petals,

which, however, like those of the Calyx, are often united into a tube;

(3) of one or more stamens, consisting of a stalk or filament, and a

head or anther, in which the pollen is produced; and (4) a pistil, which

is situated in the centre of the flower, and at the base of which is the

Ovary, containing one or more seeds.

Almost all large flowers are brightly coloured, many produce honey, and

many are sweet-scented.

What, then, is the use and purpose of this complex organisation?

It is, I think, well established that the main object of the colour,

scent, and honey of flowers is to attract insects, which are of use to

the plant in carrying the pollen from flower to flower.

In many species the pollen is, and no doubt it originally was in all,

carried by the air. In these cases the chance against any given grain of

pollen reaching the pistil of another flower of the same species is of

course very great, and the quantity of pollen required is therefore

immense.

In species where the pollen is wind-borne as in most of our trees--firs,

oaks, beech, ash, elm, etc., and many herbaceous plants, the flowers are

as a rule small and inconspicuous, greenish, and without either scent or

honey. Moreover, they generally flower early, so that the pollen may not

be intercepted by the leaves, but may have a better chance of reaching

another flower. And they produce an immense quantity of pollen, as

otherwise there would be little chance that any would reach the female

flower. Every one must have noticed the clouds of pollen produced by

the Scotch Fir. When, on the contrary, the pollen is carried by insects,

the quantity necessary is greatly reduced. Still it has been calculated

that a Peony flower produces between 3,000,000 and 4,000,000 pollen

grains; in the Dandelion, which is more specialised, the number is

reduced to about 250,000; while in such a flower as the Dead-nettle it

is still smaller.

The honey attracts the insects; while the scent and colour help them to

find the flowers, the scent being especially useful at night, which is

perhaps the reason why evening flowers are so sweet.

It is to insects, then, that flowers owe their beauty, scent, and

sweetness. Just as gardeners, by continual selection, have added so much

to the beauty of our gardens, so to the unconscious action of insects is

due the beauty, scent, and sweetness of the flowers of our woods and

fields.

Let us now apply these views to a few common flowers. Take, for

instance, the White Dead-nettle.

The corolla of this beautiful and familiar flower (Fig. 6) consists of

a narrow tube, somewhat expanded at the upper end (Fig. 7), where the

lower lobe forms a platform, on each side of which is a small projecting

tooth (Fig. 8, _m_). The upper portion of the corolla is an arched hood

(_co_), under which lie four anthers (_a a_), in pairs, while between

them, and projecting somewhat downwards, is the pointed pistil (_st_);

the tube at the lower part contains honey, and above the honey is a row

of hairs running round the tube.

[Illustration: Fig. 6--White Dead-nettle.]

Now, why has the flower this peculiar form? What regulates the length of

the tube? What is the use of the arch? What lesson do the little teeth

teach us? What advantage is the honey to the flower? Of what use is the

fringe of hairs? Why does the stigma project beyond the anthers? Why is

the corolla white, while the rest of the plant is green?

[Illustration: Fig. 7.]

[Illustration: Fig. 8.]

The honey of course serves to attract the Humble Bees by which the

flower is fertilised, and to which it is especially adapted; the white

colour makes the flower more conspicuous; the lower lip forms the stage

on which the Bees may alight; the length of the tube is adapted to that

of their proboscis; its narrowness and the fringe of fine hairs exclude

small insects which might rob the flower of its honey without performing

any service in return; the arched upper lip protects the stamens and

pistil, and prevents rain-drops from choking up the tube and washing

away the honey; the little teeth are, I believe, of no use to the

flower in its present condition, they are the last relics of lobes once

much larger, and still remaining so in some allied species, but which in

the Dead-nettle, being no longer of any use, are gradually disappearing;

the height of the arch has reference to the size of the Bee, being just

so much above the alighting stage that the Bee, while sucking the honey,

rubs its back against the hood and thus comes in contact first with the

stigma and then with the anthers, the pollen-grains from which adhere to

the hairs on the Bee's back, and are thus carried off to the next flower

which the Bee visits, when some of them are then licked off by the

viscid tip of the stigma.[20]

[Illustration: Fig. 9.]

[Illustration: Fig. 10.]

[Illustration: Fig. 11.]

In the Salvias, the common blue Salvia of our gardens, for instance,--a

plant allied to the Dead-nettle,--the flower (Fig. 9) is constructed on

the same plan, but the arch is much larger, so that the back of the Bee

does not nearly reach it. The stamens, however, have undergone a

remarkable modification. Two of them have become small and functionless.

In the other two the anthers or cells producing the pollen, which in

most flowers form together a round knob or head at the top of the

stamen, are separated by a long arm, which plays on the top of the

stamen as on a hinge. Of these two arms one hangs down into the tube,

closing the passage, while the other lies under the arched upper lip.

When the Bee pushes its proboscis down the tube (Fig. 11) it presses the

lower arm to one side, and the upper arm consequently descends, tapping

the Bee on the back, and dusting it with pollen. When the flower is a

little older the pistil (Fig. 9, _p_) has elongated so that the stigma

(Fig. 10, _st_) touches the back of the Bee and carries off some of the

pollen. This sounds a little complicated, but is clear enough if we take

a twig or stalk of grass and push it down the tube, when one arm of each

of the two larger stamens will at once make its appearance. It is one of

the most beautiful pieces of plant mechanism which I know, and was first

described by Sprengel, a poor German schoolmaster.

SNAPDRAGON

At first sight it may seem an objection to the view here advocated that

the flowers in some species--as, for instance, the common Snapdragon

(Antirrhinum), which, according to the above given tests, ought to be

fertilised by insects--are entirely closed. A little consideration,

however, will suggest the reply. The Snapdragon is especially adapted

for fertilisation by Humble Bees. The stamens and pistil are so

arranged that smaller species would not effect the object. It is

therefore an advantage that they should be excluded, and in fact they

are not strong enough to move the spring. The Antirrhinum is, so to

speak, a closed box, of which the Humble Bees alone possess the key.

FURZE, BROOM, AND LABURNUM

Other flowers such as the Furze, Broom, Laburnum, etc., are also opened

by Bees. The petals lock more or less into one another, and the flower

remains at first closed. When, however, the insect alighting on it

presses down the keel, the flower bursts open, and dusts it with pollen.

SWEET PEA

In the above cases the flower once opened does not close again. In

others, such as the Sweet Pea and the Bird's-foot Lotus, Nature has

been more careful. When the Bee alights it clasps the "wings" of the

flower with its legs, thus pressing them down; they are, however, locked

into the "keel," or lower petal, which accordingly is also forced down,

thus exposing the pollen which rubs against, and part of which sticks

to, the breast of the Bee. When she leaves the flower the keel and wings

rise again, thus protecting the rest of the pollen and keeping it ready

until another visitor comes. It is easy to carry out the same process

with the fingers.

[Illustration: Fig. 12. Fig. 13.

Flower and Pollen of Primrose]

PRIMULA

In the Primrose and Cowslip, again, we find quite a different plan. It

had long been known that if a number of Cowslips or Primroses are

examined, about half would be found to have the stigma at the top of the

tube and the stamens half way down, while in the other half the stamens

are at the top and the stigma half way down. These two forms are about

equally numerous, but never occur on the same stock. They have been long

known to children and gardeners, who call them thrum-eyed and pin-eyed.

Mr. Darwin was the first to explain the significance of this curious

difference. It cost him several years of patient labour, but when once

pointed out it is sufficiently obvious. An insect thrusting its

proboscis down a primrose of the long-styled form (Fig. 12) would dust

its proboscis at a part (_a_) which, when it visited a short-styled

flower (Fig. 13), would come just opposite the head of the pistil

(_st_), and could not fail to deposit some of the pollen on the stigma.

Conversely, an insect visiting a short-styled plant would dust its

proboscis at a part farther from the tip; which, when the insect

subsequently visited a long-styled flower, would again come just

opposite to the head of the pistil. Hence we see that by this beautiful

arrangement insects must carry the pollen of the long-styled form to the

short-styled, and _vice versâ_.

The economy of pollen is not the only advantage which plants derive from

these visits of Insects. A second and scarcely less important is that

they tend to secure "cross fertilisation"; that is to say, that the seed

shall be fertilised by pollen from another plant. The fact that "cross

fertilisation" is of advantage to the plant doubtless also explains the

curious arrangement that in many plants the stamen and pistil do not

mature at the same time--the former having shed their pollen before the

pistil is mature; or, which happens less often, the pistil having

withered before the pollen is ripe. In most Geraniums, Pinks, etc., for

instance, and many allied species, the stamens ripen first, and are

followed after an interval by the pistil.

THE NOTTINGHAM CATCHFLY

The Nottingham Catchfly (Silene nutans) is a very interesting case. The

flower is adapted to be fertilised by Moths. Accordingly it opens

towards evening, and as is generally the case with such flowers, is pale

in colour, and sweet-scented. There are two sets of stamens, five in

each set. The first evening that the flower opens one set of stamens

ripen and expose their pollen. Towards morning these wither away, the

flower shrivels up, ceases to emit scent, and looks as if it were faded.

So it remains all next day. Towards evening it reopens, the second set

of stamens have their turn, and the flower again becomes fragrant. By

morning, however, the second set of stamens have shrivelled, and the

flower is again asleep. Finally on the third evening it reopens for the

last time, the long spiral stigmas expand, and can hardly fail to be

fertilised with the pollen brought by Moths from other flowers.

THE HEATH

In the hanging flowers of Heaths the stamens form a ring, and each one

bears two horns. When the Bee inserts its proboscis into the flower to

reach the honey, it is sure to press against one of these horns, the

ring is dislocated, and the pollen falls on to the head of the insect.

In fact, any number of other interesting cases might be mentioned.

BEES AND FLIES

Bees are intelligent insects, and would soon cease to visit flowers

which did not supply them with food. Flies, however, are more stupid,

and are often deceived. Thus in our lovely little Parnassia, five of the

ten stamens have ceased to produce pollen, but are prolonged into

fingers, each terminating in a shining yellow knob, which looks exactly

like a drop of honey, and by which Flies are continually deceived.

Paris quadrifolia also takes them in with a deceptive promise of the

same kind. Some foreign plants have livid yellow and reddish flowers,

with a most offensive smell, and are constantly visited by Flies, which

apparently take them for pieces of decaying meat.

[Illustration: Fig. 14.--Arum.]

The flower of the common Lords and Ladies (Arum) of our hedges is a very

interesting case. The narrow neck bears a number of hairs pointing

downwards. The stamens are situated above the stigma, which comes to

maturity first. Small Flies enter the flower apparently for shelter, but

the hairs prevent them from returning, and they are kept captive until

the anthers have shed their pollen. Then, when the Flies have been well

dusted, the hairs shrivel up, leaving a clear road, and the prisoners

are permitted to escape. The tubular flowers of Aristolochia offer a

very similar case.

PAST HISTORY OF FLOWERS

If the views here advocated are correct, it follows that the original

flowers were small and green, as wind-fertilised flowers are even now.

But such flowers are inconspicuous. Those which are coloured, say yellow

or white, are of course much more visible and more likely to be visited

by insects. I have elsewhere given my reasons for thinking that under

these circumstances some flowers became yellow, that some of them became

white, others subsequently red, and some finally blue. It will be

observed that red and blue flowers are as a rule highly specialised,

such as Aconites and Larkspurs as compared with Buttercups; blue

Gentians as compared with yellow, etc. I have found by experiment that

Bees are especially partial to blue and pink.

Tubular flowers almost always, if not always, contain honey, and are

specially suited to Butterflies and Moths, Bees and Flies. Those which

are fertilised by Moths generally come out in the evening, are often

very sweetly scented, and are generally white or pale yellow, these

colours being most visible in the twilight.

Aristotle long ago noticed the curious fact that in each journey Bees

confine themselves to some particular flower. This is an economy of

labour to the Bee, because she has not to vary her course of proceeding.

It is also an advantage to the plants, because the pollen is carried

from each flower to another of the same species, and is therefore less

likely to be wasted.

FRUITS AND SEEDS

After the flower comes the seed, often contained in a fruit, and which

itself encloses the future plant. Fruits and seeds are adapted for

dispersion, beautifully and in various ways: some by the wind, being

either provided with a wing, as in the fruits of many trees--Sycamores,

Ash, Elms, etc.; or with a hairy crown or covering, as with Thistles,

Dandelions, Willows, Cotton plant, etc.

Some seeds are carried by animals; either as food--such as most edible

fruits and seeds, acorns, nuts, apples, strawberries, raspberries,

blackberries, plums, grasses, etc.--or involuntarily, the seeds having

hooked hairs or processes, such as burrs, cleavers, etc.

Some seeds are scattered by the plants themselves, as, for instance,

those of many Geraniums, Violets, Balsams, Shamrocks, etc. Our little

Herb Robert throws its seeds some 25 feet.

Some seeds force themselves into the ground, as those of certain

grasses, Cranes'-bills (Erodiums), etc.

Some are buried by the parent plants, as those of certain clovers,

vetches, violets, etc.

Some attach themselves to the soil, as those of the Flax; or to trees,

as in the case of the Mistletoe.

LEAVES

Again, as regards the leaves there can, I think, be no doubt that

similar considerations of utility are applicable. Their forms are

almost infinitely varied. To quote Ruskin's vivid words, they "take all

kinds of strange shapes, as if to invite us to examine them.

Star-shaped, heart-shaped, spear-shaped, arrow-shaped, fretted, fringed,

cleft, furrowed, serrated, sinuated, in whorls, in tufts, in spires, in

wreaths, endlessly expressive, deceptive, fantastic, never the same from

foot-stalk to blossom, they seem perpetually to tempt our watchfulness

and take delight in outstepping our wonder."

But besides these differences of mere form, there are many others: of

structure, texture, and surface; some are scented or have a strong

taste, or acrid juice, some are smooth, others hairy; and the hairs

again are of various kinds.

I have elsewhere[21] endeavoured to explain some of the causes which

have determined these endless varieties. In the Beech, for instance

(Fig. 15), the leaf has an area of about 3 square inches. The distance

between the buds is about 1-1/4 inch, and the leaves lie in the general

plane of the branch, which bends slightly at each internode. The basal

half of the leaf fits the swell of the twig, while the upper half

follows the edge of the leaf above; and the form of the inner edge being

thus determined, decides that of the outer one also.

[Illustration: Fig. 15.--Beech.]

The weight, and consequently the size of the leaf, is limited by the

strength of the twig; and, again, in a climate such as ours it is

important to plants to have their leaves so arranged as to secure the

maximum of light. Hence in leaves which lie parallel to the plane of the

boughs, as in the Beech, the width depends partly on the distance

between the buds; if the leaves were broader, they would overlap, if

they were narrower, space would be wasted. Consequently the width being

determined by the distance between the buds, and the size depending on

the weight which the twig can safely support, the length also is

determined. This argument is well illustrated by comparing the leaves of

the Beech with those of the Spanish Chestnut. The arrangement is

similar, and the distance between the buds being about the same, so is

the width of the leaves. But the terminal branches of the Spanish

Chestnut being much stronger, the leaves can safely be heavier; hence

the width being fixed, they grow in length and assume the well-known and

peculiar sword-blade shape.

In the Sycamores, Maples (Fig. 16), and Horse-Chestnuts the arrangement

is altogether different. The shoots are stiff and upright with leaves

placed at right angles to the branches instead of being parallel to

them. The leaves are in pairs and decussate with one another; while the

lower ones have long petioles which bring them almost to the level of

the upper pairs, the whole thus forming a beautiful dome.

For leaves arranged as in the Beech the gentle swell at the base is

admirably suited; but in a crown of leaves such as those of the

Sycamore, space would be wasted, and it is better that they should

expand at once, so soon as their stalks have carried them free from the

upper and inner leaves.

[Illustration: Fig. 16.--Acer platanoides.]

In the Black Poplar the arrangement of the leaves is again quite

different. The leaf stalk is flattened, so that the leaves hang

vertically. In connection with this it will be observed that while in

most leaves the upper and under surfaces are quite unlike, in the Black

Poplar on the contrary they are very similar. The stomata or breathing

holes, moreover, which in the leaves of most trees are confined to the

under surface, are in this species nearly equally numerous on both.

The "Compass" Plant of the American prairies, a plant not unlike a small

sunflower, is another species with upright leaves, which growing in the

wide open prairies tend to point north and south, thus exposing both

surfaces equally to the light and heat. Such a position also affects the

internal structure of the leaf, the two sides becoming similar in

structure, while in other cases the upper and under surfaces are very

different.

In the Yew the leaves are inserted close to one another, and are linear;

while in the Box they are further apart and broader. In other cases the

width of the leaves is determined by what botanists call the

"Phyllotaxy." Some plants have the leaves opposite, each pair being at

right angles with the pairs above and below.

In others they are alternate, and arranged round the stem in a spiral.

In one very common arrangement the sixth leaf stands directly over the

first, the intermediate ones forming a spiral which has passed twice

round the stem. This, therefore, is known as the 2/5 arrangement. Common

cases are 1/2, 1/3, 2/5, 3/8, and 5/13. In the first the leaves are

generally broad, in the 3/8 arrangement they are elliptic, in the 5/13

and more complicated arrangements nearly linear. The Willows afford a

very interesting series. Salix herbacea has the 1/3 arrangement and

rounded leaves, Salix caprea elliptic leaves and 2/5, Salix pentandra

lancet-shaped leaves and 3/8, and S. incana linear leaves and a 5/13

arrangement. The result is that whether the series consists of 2, 3, 5,

8, or 13 leaves, in every case, if we look perpendicularly at a twig the

leaves occupy the whole circle.

In herbaceous plants upright leaves as a rule are narrow, which is

obviously an advantage, while prostrate ones are broad.

[Illustration: AQUATIC VEGETATION, BRAZIL. _To face page 145._]

AQUATIC PLANTS

Many aquatic plants have two kinds of leaves; some more or less rounded,

which float on the surface; and others cut up into narrow segments,

which remain below. The latter thus present a greater extent of surface.

In air such leaves would be unable even to support their own weight,

much less to resist the force of the wind. In still air, however, for

the same reason, finely-divided leaves may be an advantage, while in

exposed positions compact and entire leaves are more suitable. Hence

herbaceous plants tend to have divided, bushes and trees entire, leaves.

There are many cases when even in the same family low and herb-like

species have finely-cut leaves, while in shrubby or ligneous ones they

more or less resemble those of the Laurel or Beech.

These considerations affect trees more than herbs, because trees stand

more alone, while herbaceous plants are more affected by surrounding

plants. Upright leaves tend to be narrow, as in the case of grasses;

horizontal leaves, on the contrary, wider. Large leaves are more or less

broken up into leaflets, as in the Ash, Mountain-Ash, Horse-Chestnut,

etc.

The forms of leaves depend also much on the manner in which they are

packed into the buds.

The leaves of our English trees, as I have already said, are so arranged

as to secure the maximum of light; in very hot countries the reverse is

the case. Hence, in Australia, for instance, the leaves are arranged not

horizontally, but vertically, so as to present, not their surfaces, but

their edges, to the sun. One English plant, a species of lettuce, has

the same habit. This consideration has led also to other changes. In

many species the leaves are arranged directly under, so as to shelter,

one another. The Australian species of Acacia have lost their true

leaves, and the parts which in them we generally call leaves are in

reality vertically-flattened leaf stalks.

In other cases the stem itself is green, and to some extent replaces the

leaves. In our common Broom we see an approach to this, and the same

feature is more marked in Cactus. Or the leaves become fleshy, thus

offering, in proportion to their volume, a smaller surface for

evaporation. Of this the Stonecrops, Mesembryanthemum, etc., are

familiar instances. Other modes of checking transpiration and thus

adapting plants to dry situations are by the development of hairs, by

the formation of chalky excretions, by the sap becoming saline or

viscid, by the leaf becoming more or less rolled up, or protected by a

covering of varnish.

Our English trees are for the most part deciduous. Leaves would be

comparatively useless in winter when growth is stopped by the cold;

moreover, they would hold the snow, and thus cause the boughs to be

broken down. Hence perhaps the glossiness of Evergreen leaves, as, for

instance, of the Holly, from which the snow slips off. In warmer

climates trees tend to retain their leaves, and some species which are

deciduous in the north become evergreen, or nearly so, in the south of

Europe. Evergreen leaves are as a rule tougher and thicker than those

which drop off in autumn; they require more protection from the weather.

But some evergreen leaves are much longer lived than others; those of

the Evergreen Oak do not survive a second year, those of the Scotch Pine

live for three, of the Spruce Fir, Yew, etc., for eight or ten, of the

Pinsapo even eighteen. As a general rule the Conifers with short leaves

keep them on for several years, those with long ones for fewer, the

length of the leaf being somewhat in the inverse ratio to the length of

its life; but this is not an invariable criterion, as other

circumstances also have to be taken into consideration.

Leaves with strong scent, aromatic taste, or acrid juice, are

characteristic of dry regions, where they run especial danger of being

eaten, and where they are thus more or less effectively protected.

ON HAIRS

The hairs of plants are useful in various ways. In some cases (1) they

keep off superfluous moisture; in others (2) they prevent too rapid

evaporation; in some (3) they serve as a protection against too glaring

light; in some (4) they protect the plant from browsing quadrupeds; in

others (5) from being eaten by insects; or, (6) serve as a quickset

hedge to prevent access to the flowers.

In illustration of the first case I may refer to many alpine plants, the

well-known Edelweiss, for instance, where the woolly covering of hairs

prevents the "stomata," or minute pores leading into the interior of the

leaf, from being clogged up by rain, dew, or fog, and thus enable them

to fulfil their functions as soon as the sun comes out.

As regards the second case many desert and steppe-plants are covered

with felty hairs, which serve to prevent too rapid evaporation and

consequent loss of moisture.

The woolly hairy leaves of the Mulleins (Verbascum) doubtless tend to

protect them from being eaten, as also do the spines of Thistles, and

those of Hollies, which, be it remarked, gradually disappear on the

upper leaves which browsing quadrupeds cannot reach.

I have already alluded to the various ways in which flowers are adapted

to fertilisation by insects. But Ants and other small creeping insects

cannot effectually secure this object. Hence it is important that they

should be excluded, and not allowed to carry off the honey, for which

they would perform no service in return. In many cases, therefore, the

opening of the flower is either contracted to a narrow passage, or is

itself protected by a fringe of hairs. In others the peduncle, or the

stalk of the plant, is protected by a hedge, or chevaux de frise, of

hairs.

In this connection I might allude to the many plants which are more or

less viscid. This also is in most cases a provision to preclude creeping

insects from access to the flowers.

There are various other kinds of hairs to which I might refer--glandular

hairs, secretive hairs, absorbing hairs, etc. It is marvellous how

beautifully the form and structure of leaves is adapted to the habits

and requirements of the plants, but I must not enlarge further on this

interesting subject.

The time indeed will no doubt come when we shall be able to explain

every difference of form and structure, almost infinite as these

differences are.

INFLUENCE OF SOIL

The character of the vegetation is of course greatly influenced by that

of the soil. In this respect granitic and calcareous regions offer

perhaps the best marked contrast.

There are in Switzerland two kinds of Rhododendrons, very similar in

their flowers, but contrasted in their leaves: Rhododendron hirsutum

having them hairy at the edges as the name indicates; while in R.

ferrugineum they are rolled, but not hairy, at the edges, and become

ferrugineous on the lower side. This species occurs in the granitic

regions, where R. hirsutum does not grow.

The Yarrows (Achillea) afford us a similar case. Achillea atrata and A.

moschata will live either on calcareous or granitic soil, but in a

district where both occur, A. atrata grows so much the more vigorously

of the two if the soil is calcareous that it soon exterminates A.

moschata; while in granite districts, on the contrary, A. moschata is

victorious and A. atrata disappears.

Every keen sportsman will admit that a varied "bag" has a special charm,

and the botanist in a summer's walk may see at least a hundred plants in

flower, all with either the interest of novelty, or the charm of an old

friend.

ON SEEDLINGS

In many cases the Seedlings afford us an interesting insight into the

former condition of the plant. Thus the leaves of the Furze are reduced

to thorns; but those of the Seedling are herbaceous and trifoliate like

those of the Herb Genet and other allied species, subsequent ones

gradually passing into spines. This is evidence that the ancestors of

the Furze bore leaves.

Plants may be said to have their habits as well as animals.

SLEEP OF PLANTS

Many flowers close their petals during rain; the advantage of which is

that it prevents the honey and pollen from being spoilt or washed away.

Everybody, however, has observed that even in fine weather certain

flowers close at particular hours. This habit of going to sleep is

surely very curious. Why should flowers do so? In animals we can better

understand it; they are tired and require rest. But why should flowers

sleep? Why should some flowers do so, and not others? Moreover,

different flowers keep different hours. The Daisy opens at sunrise and

closes at sunset, whence its name "day's-eye." The Dandelion (Leontodon)

is said to open about seven and to close about five; Arenaria rubra to

be open from nine to three; the White Water Lily (Nymphæa), from about

seven to four; the common Mouse-ear Hawk-weed (Hieracium) from eight to

three; the Scarlet Pimpernel (Anagallis) to waken at seven and close

soon after two; Tragopogon pratensis to open at four in the morning, and

close just before twelve, whence its English name, "John go to bed at

noon." Farmers' boys in some parts are said to regulate their dinner

time by it. Other flowers, on the contrary, open in the evening.

Now it is obvious that flowers which are fertilised by night-flying

insects would derive no advantage from being open by day; and on the

other hand, that those which are fertilised by bees would gain nothing

by being open at night. Nay it would be a distinct disadvantage, because

it would render them liable to be robbed of their honey and pollen, by

insects which are not capable of fertilising them. I have ventured to

suggest then that the closing of flowers may have reference to the

habits of insects, and it may be observed also in support of this, that

wind-fertilised flowers do not sleep; and that many of those flowers

which attract insects by smell, open and emit their scent at particular

hours; thus Hesperis matronalis and Lychnis vespertina smell in the

evening, and Orchis bifolia is particularly sweet at night.

But it is not the flowers only which "sleep" at night; in many species

the leaves also change their position, and Darwin has given strong

reasons for considering that the object is to check transpiration and

thus tend to a protection against cold.

BEHAVIOUR OF LEAVES IN RAIN

The behaviour of plants with reference to rain affords many points of

much interest. The Germander Speedwell (Veronica) has two strong rows of

hairs, the Chickweed (Stellaria) one, running down the stem and thus

conducting the rain to the roots. Plants with a main tap-root, like the

Radish or the Beet, have leaves sloping inwards so as to conduct the

rain towards the axis of the plant, and consequently to the roots;

while, on the contrary, where the roots are spreading the leaves slope

outwards.

In other cases the leaves hold the rain or dew drops. Every one who has

been in the Alps must have noticed how the leaves of the Lady's Mantle

(Alchemilla) form little cups containing each a sparkling drop of icy

water. Kerner has suggested that owing to these cold drops, the cattle

and sheep avoid the leaves.

MIMICRY

In many cases plants mimic others which are better protected than

themselves. Thus Matricaria Chamomilla mimics the true Chamomile, which

from its bitterness is not eaten by quadrupeds. Ajuga Chamæpitys mimics

Euphorbia Cyparissias, with which it often grows, and which is protected

by its acrid juice. The most familiar case, however, is that of the

Stinging and the Dead Nettles. They very generally grow together, and

though belonging to quite different families are so similar that they

are constantly mistaken for one another. Some Orchids have a curious

resemblance to insects, after which they have accordingly been named the

Bee Orchis, Fly Orchis, Butterfly Orchis, etc., but it has not yet been

satisfactorily shown what advantage the resemblance is to the plant.

ANTS AND PLANTS

The transference of pollen from plant to plant is by no means the only

service which insects render.

Ants, for instance, are in many cases very useful to plants. They

destroy immense numbers of caterpillars and other insects. Forel

observing a large Ants' nest counted more than 28 insects brought in as

food per minute. In some cases Ants attach themselves to particular

trees, constituting a sort of bodyguard. A species of Acacia, described

by Belt, bears hollow thorns, while each leaflet produces honey in a

crater-formed gland at the base, as well as a small, sweet, pear-shaped

body at the tip. In consequence it is inhabited by myriads of a small

ant, which nests in the hollow thorns, and thus finds meat, drink, and

lodging all provided for it. These ants are continually roaming over the

plant, and constitute a most efficient bodyguard, not only driving off

the leaf-eating ants, but, in Belt's opinion, rendering the leaves less

liable to be eaten by herbivorous mammalia. Delpino mentions that on one

occasion he was gathering a flower of Clerodendrum, when he was himself

suddenly attacked by a whole army of small ants.

INSECTIVOROUS PLANTS

In the cases above mentioned the relation between flowers and insects is

one of mutual advantage. But this is by no means an invariable rule.

Many insects, as we all know, live on plants, but it came upon botanists

as a surprise when our countryman Ellis first discovered that some

plants catch and devour insects. This he observed in a North American

plant, Dionsea, the leaves of which are formed something like a

rat-trap, with a hinge in the middle, and a formidable row of spines

round the edge. On the surface are a few very sensitive hairs, and the

moment any small insect alights on the leaf and touches one of these

hairs the two halves of the leaf close up quickly and catch it. The

surface then throws out a glutinous secretion, by means of which the

leaf sucks up the nourishment contained in the insect.

Our common Sun-dews (Drosera) are also insectivorous, the prey being in

their case captured by glutinous hairs. Again, the Bladderwort

(Utricularia), a plant with pretty yellow flowers, growing in pools and

slow streams, is so called because it bears a great number of bladders

or utricles, each of which is a real miniature eel-trap, having an

orifice guarded by a flap opening inwards which allows small water

animals to enter, but prevents them from coming out again. The

Butterwort (Pinguicula) is another of these carnivorous plants.

MOVEMENTS OF PLANTS

While considering Plant life we must by no means confine our attention

to the higher orders, but must remember also those lower groups which

converge towards the lower forms of animals, so that in the present

state of our knowledge the two cannot always be distinguished with

certainty. Many of them differ indeed greatly from the ordinary

conception of a plant. Even the comparatively highly organised Sea-weeds

multiply by means of bodies called spores, which an untrained observer

would certainly suppose to be animals. They are covered by vibratile

hairs or "cilia," by means of which they swim about freely in the water,

and even possess a red spot which, as being especially sensitive to

light, may be regarded as an elementary eye, and with the aid of which

they select some suitable spot, to which they ultimately attach

themselves.

It was long considered as almost a characteristic of plants that they

possessed no power of movement. This is now known to be an error. In

fact, as Darwin has shown, every growing part of a plant is in continual

and even constant rotation. The stems of climbing plants make great

sweeps, and in other cases, when the motion is not so apparent, it

nevertheless really exists. I have already mentioned that many plants

change the position of their leaves or flowers, or, as it is called,

sleep at night.

The common Dandelion raises its head when the florets open, opens and

shuts morning and evening, then lies down again while the seeds are

ripening, and raises itself a second time when they are ready to be

carried away by the wind.

Valisneria spiralis is a very interesting case. It is a native of

European rivers, and the female flower has a long spiral stalk which

enables it to float on the surface of the water. The male flowers have

no stalks, and grow low down on the plant. They soon, however, detach

themselves altogether, rise to the surface, and thus are enabled to

fertilise the female flowers among which they float. The spiral stalk of

the female flower then contracts and draws it down to the bottom of the

water so that the seeds may ripen in safety. Many plants throw or bury

their seeds.

The sensitive plants close their leaves when touched, and the leaflets

of Desmodium gyrans are continually revolving. I have already mentioned

that the spores of sea-weeds swim freely in the water by means of cilia.

Some microscopic plants do so throughout a great part of their lives.

A still lower group, the Myxomycetes, which resemble small, more or less

branched, masses of jelly, and live in damp soil, among decaying

leaves, under bark and in similar moist situations, are still more

remarkably animal like. They are never fixed, but in almost continual

movement, due to differences of moisture, warmth, light, or chemical

action. If, for instance, a moist body is brought into contact with one

of their projections, or "pseudopods," the protoplasm seems to roll

itself in that direction, and so the whole organism gradually changes

its place. So again, while a solution of salt, carbonate of potash, or

saltpetre causes them to withdraw from the danger, an infusion of sugar,

or tan, produces a flow of protoplasm towards the source of nourishment.

In fact, in the same way it rolls over and round its food, absorbing

what is nutritious as it passes along. In cold weather they descend into

the soil, and one of them (Oethalium), which lives in tan pits,

descends in winter to a depth of several feet. When about to fructify it

changes its habits, seeks the light instead of avoiding it, climbs

upwards, and produces its fruit above ground.

IMPERFECTION OF OUR KNOWLEDGE

The total number of living species of plants may be roughly estimated at

500,000, and there is not one, of which we can say that the structure,

uses, and life-history are yet fully known to us. Our museums contain

large numbers which botanists have not yet had time to describe and

name. Even in our own country not a year passes without some additional

plant being discovered; as regards the less known regions of the earth

not half the species have yet been collected. Among the Lichens and

Fungi especially many problems of their life-history, some, indeed, of

especial importance to man, still await solution.

Our knowledge of the fossil forms, moreover, falls far short even of

that of existing species, which, on the other hand, they must have

greatly exceeded in number. Every difference of form, structure, and

colour has doubtless some cause and explanation, so that the field for

research is really inexhaustible.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Thomson.

[20] Lubbock, _Flowers and Insects_.

[21] _Flowers, Fruits, and Leaves._

CHAPTER V

WOODS AND FIELDS

"By day or by night, summer or winter, beneath trees the heart

feels nearer to that depth of life which the far sky means. The

rest of spirit, found only in beauty, ideal and pure, comes

there because the distance seems within touch of thought."

JEFFERIES.

CHAPTER V

WOODS AND FIELDS

Rural life, says Cicero, "is not delightful by reason of cornfields only

and meadows, and vineyards and groves, but also for its gardens and

orchards, for the feeding of cattle, the swarms of bees, and the variety

of all kinds of flowers." Bacon considered that a garden is "the

greatest refreshment to the spirits of man, without which buildings and

palaces are but gross handyworks, and a man shall ever see, that when

ages grow to civility and elegancy men come to build stately sooner than

to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection."

No doubt "the pleasure which we take in a garden is one of the most

innocent delights in human life."[22] Elsewhere there may be scattered

flowers, or sheets of colour due to one or two species, but in gardens

one glory follows another. Here are brought together all the

quaint enamelled eyes,

That on the green turf sucked the honeyed showers,

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,

The glowing violet,

The musk rose, and the well attired woodbine,

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears.[23]

We cannot, happily we need not try to, contrast or compare the beauty of

gardens with that of woods and fields.

And yet to the true lover of Nature wild flowers have a charm which no

garden can equal. Cultivated plants are but a living herbarium. They

surpass, no doubt, the dried specimens of a museum, but, lovely as they

are, they can be no more compared with the natural vegetation of our

woods and fields than the captives in the Zoological Gardens with the

same wild species in their native forests and mountains.

Often indeed, our woods and fields rival gardens even in the richness of

colour. We have all seen meadows white with Narcissus, glowing with

Buttercups, Cowslips, early purple Orchis, or Cuckoo Flowers; cornfields

blazing with Poppies; woods carpeted with Bluebells, Anemones,

Primroses, and Forget-me-nots; commons with the yellow Lady's Bedstraw,

Harebells, and the sweet Thyme; marshy places with the yellow stars of

the Bog Asphodel, the Sun-dew sparkling with diamonds, Ragged Robin, the

beautifully fringed petals of the Buckbean, the lovely little Bog

Pimpernel, or the feathery tufts of Cotton Grass; hedgerows with

Hawthorn and Traveller's Joy, Wild Rose and Honeysuckle, while

underneath are the curious leaves and orange fruit of the Lords and

Ladies, the snowy stars of the Stitchwort, Succory, Yarrow, and several

kinds of Violets; while all along the banks of streams are the tall red

spikes of the Loosestrife, the Hemp Agrimony, Water Groundsel, Sedges,

Bulrushes, Flowering Rush, Sweet Flag, etc.

Many other sweet names will also at once occur to us--Snowdrops,

Daffodils and Hearts-ease, Lady's Mantles and Lady's Tresses, Eyebright,

Milkwort, Foxgloves, Herb Roberts, Geraniums, and among rarer species,

at least in England, Columbines and Lilies.

But Nature does not provide delights for the eye only. The other senses

are not forgotten. A thousand sounds--many delightful in themselves, and

all by association--songs of birds, hum of insects, rustle of leaves,

ripple of water, seem to fill the air.

Flowers again are sweet, as well as lovely. The scent of pine woods,

which is said to be very healthy, is certainly delicious, and the effect

of Woodland scenery is good for the mind as well as for the body.

"Resting quietly under an ash tree, with the scent of flowers, and the

odour of green buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder lighting up the

lichen and the moss on the oak trunk, a gentle air stirring in the

branches above, giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether,

there comes into the mind a feeling of intense joy in the simple fact of

living."[24]

The wonderful phenomenon of phosphorescence is not a special gift to the

animal kingdom. Henry O. Forbes describes a forest in Sumatra: "The stem

of every tree blinked with a pale greenish-white light which undulated

also across the surface of the ground like moonlight coming and going

behind the clouds, from a minute thread-like fungus invisible in the

day-time to the unassisted eye; and here and there thick dumpy mushrooms

displayed a sharp, clear dome of light, whose intensity never varied or

changed till the break of day; long phosphorescent caterpillars and

centipedes crawled out of every corner, leaving a trail of light behind

them, while fire-flies darted about above like a lower firmament."[25]

Woods and Forests were to our ancestors the special scenes of

enchantment.

The great Ash tree Yggdrasil bound together Heaven, Earth, and Hell. Its

top reached to Heaven, its branches covered the Earth, and the roots

penetrated into Hell. The three Normas or Fates sat under it, spinning

the thread of life.

Of all the gods and goddesses of classical mythology or our own

folk-lore, none were more fascinating than the Nature Spirits--Elves and

Fairies, Neckans and Kelpies, Pixies and Ouphes, Mermaids, Undines,

Water Spirits, and all the Elfin world

Which have their haunts in dale and piny mountain,

Or forests, by slow stream or tingling brook.

They come out, as we are told, especially on moonlight nights. But while

evening thus clothes many a scene with poetry, forests are fairy land

all day long.

Almost any wood contains many and many a spot well suited for Fairy

feasts; where one might most expect to find Titania, resting, as once we

are told,

She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt

Of the Spring wind in its first sunshine hour,

For the luxuriant strawberry blossoms spread

Like a snow shower then, and violets

Bowed down their purple vases of perfume

About her pillow,--linked in a gay band

Floated fantastic shapes; these were her guards,

Her lithe and rainbow elves.

The fairies have disappeared, and, so far as England is concerned, the

larger forest animals have vanished almost as completely. The Elk and

Bear, the Boar and Wolf have gone, the Stag has nearly disappeared, and

but a scanty remnant of the original wild Cattle linger on at

Chillingham. Still the woods teem with life; the Fox and Badger, Stoat

and Weasel, Hare and Rabbit, and Hedgehog,

The tawny squirrel vaulting through the boughs,

Hawk, buzzard, jay, the mavis and the merle,[26]

the Owls and Nightjar, the Woodpecker, Nuthatch, Magpie, Doves, and a

hundred more.

In early spring the woods are bright with the feathery catkins of the

Willow, followed by the soft green of the Beech, the white or pink

flowers of the Thorn, the pyramids of the Horse-chestnut, festoons of

the Laburnum and Acacia, and the Oak slowly wakes from its winter sleep,

while the Ash leaves long linger in their black buds.

Under foot is a carpet of flowers--Anemones, Cowslips, Primroses,

Bluebells, and the golden blossoms of the Broom, which, however, while

Gorse and Heather continue in bloom for months, "blazes for a week or

two, and is then completely extinguished, like a fire that has burnt

itself out."[27]

In summer the tints grow darker, the birds are more numerous and full of

life; the air teems with insects, with the busy murmur of bees and the

idle hum of flies, while the cool of morning and evening, and the heat

of the day, are all alike delicious.

As the year advances and the flowers wane, we have many beautiful fruits

and berries, the red hips and haws of the wild roses, scarlet holly

berries, crimson yew cups, the translucent berries of the Guelder Rose,

hanging coral beads of the Black Bryony, feathery festoons of the

Traveller's Joy, and others less conspicuous, but still exquisite in

themselves--acorns, beech nuts, ash keys, and many more. It is really

difficult to say which are most beautiful, the tender greens of spring

or the rich tints of autumn, which glow so brightly in the sunshine.

Tropical fruits are even more striking. No one who has seen it can ever

forget a grove of orange trees in full fruit; while the more we examine

the more we find to admire; all perfectly and exquisitely finished

"usque ad ungues," perfect inside and outside, for Nature

Does in the Pomegranate close

Jewels more rare than Ormus shows.[28]

In winter the woods are comparatively bare and lifeless, even the

Brambles and Woodbine, which straggle over the tangle of underwood being

almost leafless.

Still even then they have a beauty and interest of their own; the mossy

boles of the trees; the delicate tracery of the branches which can

hardly be appreciated when they are covered with leaves; and under foot

the beds of fallen leaves; while the evergreens seem brighter than in

summer; the ruddy stems and rich green foliage of the Scotch Pines, and

the dark spires of the Firs, seeming to acquire fresh beauty.

Again in winter, though no doubt the living tenants of the woods are

much less numerous, many of our birds being then far away in the dense

African forests, on the other hand those which remain are much more

easily visible. We can follow the birds from tree to tree, and the

Squirrel from bough to bough.

It requires little imagination to regard trees as conscious beings,

indeed it is almost an effort not to do so.

"The various action of trees rooting themselves in inhospitable rocks,

stooping to look into ravines, hiding from the search of glacier winds,

reaching forth to the rays of rare sunshine, crowding down together to

drink at sweetest streams, climbing hand in hand among the difficult

slopes, opening in sudden dances among the mossy knolls, gathering into

companies at rest among the fragrant fields, gliding in grave procession

over the heavenward ridges--nothing of this can be conceived among the

unvexed and unvaried felicities of the lowland forest; while to all

these direct sources of greater beauty are added, first the power of

redundance, the mere quantity of foliage visible in the folds and on the

promontories of a single Alp being greater than that of an entire

lowland landscape (unless a view from some Cathedral tower); and to this

charm of redundance, that of clearer visibility--tree after tree being

constantly shown in successive height, one behind another, instead of

the mere tops and flanks of masses as in the plains; and the forms of

multitudes of them continually defined against the clear sky, near and

above, or against white clouds entangled among their branches, instead

of being confused in dimness of distance."[29]

There is much that is interesting in the relations of one species to

another. Many plants are parasitic upon others. The foliage of the Beech

is so thick that scarcely anything will grow under it, except those

spring plants, such as the Anemone and the Wood Buttercup or Goldilocks,

which flower early before the Beech is in leaf.

There are other cases in which the reason for the association of

species is less evident. The Larch and the Arolla (Pinus Cembra) are

close companions. They grow together in Siberia; they do not occur in

Scandinavia or Russia, but both reappear in certain Swiss valleys,

especially in the cantons of Lucerne and Valais and the Engadine.

Another very remarkable case which has recently been observed is the

relation existing between some of our forest trees and certain Fungi,

the species of which have not yet been clearly ascertained. The root

tips of the trees are as it were enclosed in a thin sheet of closely

woven mycelium. It was at first supposed that the fungus was attacking

the roots of the tree, but it is now considered that the tree and the

fungus mutually benefit one another. The fungus collects nutriment from

the soil, which passes into the tree and up to the leaves, where it is

elaborated into sap, the greater part being utilized by the tree, but a

portion reabsorbed by the fungus. There is reason to think that, in some

cases at any rate, the mycelium is that of the Truffle.

[Illustration: TROPICAL FOREST.

_To face page 179._]

The great tropical forests have a totally different character from ours.

I reproduce here the plate from Kingsley's _At Last_. The trees strike

all travellers by their magnificence, the luxuriance of their

vegetation, and their great variety. Our forests contain comparatively

few species, whereas in the tropics we are assured that it is far from

common to see two of the same species near one another. But while in our

forests the species are few, each tree has an independence and

individuality of its own. In the tropics, on the contrary, they are

interlaced and interwoven, so as to form one mass of vegetation; many of

the trunks are almost concealed by an undergrowth of verdure, and

intertwined by spiral stems of parasitic plants; from tree to tree hang

an inextricable network of lianas, and it is often difficult to tell to

which tree the fruits, flowers, and leaves really belong. The trunks run

straight up to a great height without a branch, and then form a thick

leafy canopy far overhead; a canopy so dense that even the blaze of the

cloudless blue sky is subdued, one might almost say into a weird gloom,

the effect of which is enhanced by the solemn silence. At first such a

forest gives the impression of being more open than an English wood, but

a few steps are sufficient to correct this error. There is a thick

undergrowth matted together by wiry creepers, and the intermediate space

is traversed in all directions by lines and cords.

The English traveller misses sadly the sweet songs of our birds, which

are replaced by the hoarse chatter of parrots. Now and then a succession

of cries even harsher and more discordant tell of a troop of monkeys

passing across from tree to tree among the higher branches, or lower

sounds indicate to a practised ear the neighbourhood of an ape, a sloth,

or some other of the few mammals which inhabit the great forests.

Occasionally a large blue bee hums past, a brilliant butterfly flashes

across the path, or a humming-bird hangs in the air over a flower like,

as St. Pierre says, an emerald set in coral, but "how weak it is to say

that that exquisite little being, whirring and fluttering in the air,

has a head of ruby, a throat of emerald, and wings of sapphire, as if

any triumph of the jeweller's art could ever vie with that sparkling

epitome of life and light."[30]

Sir Wyville Thomson graphically describes a morning in a Brazilian

forest:--

"The night was almost absolutely silent, only now and then a peculiarly

shrill cry of some night bird reached us from the woods. As we got into

the skirt of the forest the morning broke, but the _réveil_ in a

Brazilian forest is wonderfully different from the slow creeping on of

the dawn of a summer morning at home, to the music of the thrushes

answering one another's full rich notes from neighbouring thorn-trees.

Suddenly a yellow light spreads upwards in the east, the stars quickly

fade, and the dark fringes of the forest and the tall palms show out

black against the yellow sky, and almost before one has time to observe

the change the sun has risen straight and fierce, and the whole

landscape is bathed in the full light of day. But the morning is yet for

another hour cool and fresh, and the scene is indescribably beautiful.

The woods, so absolutely silent and still before, break at once into

noise and movement. Flocks of toucans flutter and scream on the tops of

the highest forest trees hopelessly out of shot, the ear is pierced by

the strange wild screeches of a little band of macaws which fly past you

like the wrapped-up ghosts of the birds on some gaudy old brocade."[31]

Mr. Darwin tells us that nothing can be better than the description of

tropical forests given by Bates.

"The leafy crowns of the trees, scarcely two of which could be seen

together of the same kind, were now far away above us, in another world

as it were. We could only see at times, where there was a break above,

the tracery of the foliage against the clear blue sky. Sometimes the

leaves were palmate, or of the shape of large outstretched hands; at

others finely cut or feathery like the leaves of Mimosæ. Below, the tree

trunks were everywhere linked together by sipos; the woody flexible

stems of climbing and creeping trees, whose foliage is far away above,

mingled with that of the taller independent trees. Some were twisted in

strands like cables, others had thick stems contorted in every variety

of shape, entwining snake-like round the tree trunks or forming gigantic

loops and coils among the larger branches; others, again, were of zigzag

shape, or indented like the steps of a staircase, sweeping from the

ground to a giddy height."

The reckless and wanton destruction of forests has ruined some of the

richest countries on earth. Syria and Asia Minor, Palestine and the

north of Africa were once far more populous than they are at present.

They were once lands "flowing with milk and honey," according to the

picturesque language of the Bible, but are now in many places reduced to

dust and ashes. Why is there this melancholy change? Why have deserts

replaced cities? It is mainly owing to the ruthless destruction of the

trees, which has involved that of nations. Even nearer home a similar

process may be witnessed. Two French departments--the Hautes- and

Basses-Alpes--are being gradually reduced to ruin by the destruction of

the forests. Cultivation is diminishing, vineyards are being washed

away, the towns are threatened, the population is dwindling, and unless

something is done the country will be reduced to a desert; until, when

it has been released from the destructive presence of man, Nature

reproduces a covering of vegetable soil, restores the vegetation,

creates the forests anew, and once again fits these regions for the

habitation of man.

In another part of France we have an illustration of the opposite

process.

The region of the Landes, which fifty years ago was one of the poorest

and most miserable in France, has now been made one of the most

prosperous owing to the planting of Pines. The increased value is

estimated at no less than 1,000,000,000 francs. Where there were fifty

years ago only a few thousand poor and unhealthy shepherds whose flocks

pastured on the scanty herbage, there are now sawmills, charcoal kilns,

and turpentine works, interspersed with thriving villages and fertile

agricultural lands.

In our own country, though woodlands are perhaps on the increase, true

forest scenery is gradually disappearing. This is, I suppose,

unavoidable, but it is a matter of regret. Forests have so many charms

of their own. They give a delightful impression of space and of

abundance.

The extravagance is sublime. Trees, as Jefferies says, "throw away

handfuls of flower; and in the meadows the careless, spendthrift ways of

grass and flower and all things are not to be expressed. Seeds by the

hundred million float with absolute indifference on the air. The oak has

a hundred thousand more leaves than necessary, and never hides a single

acorn. Nothing utilitarian--everything on a scale of splendid waste.

Such noble, broadcast, open-armed waste is delicious to behold. Never

was there such a lying proverb as 'Enough is as good as a feast.' Give

me the feast; give me squandered millions of seeds, luxurious carpets of

petals, green mountains of oak-leaves. The greater the waste the greater

the enjoyment--the nearer the approach to real life."

It is of course impossible here to give any idea of the complexity of

structure of our forest trees. A slice across the stem of a tree shows

many different tissues with more or less technical names, bark and

cambium, medullary rays, pith, and more or less specialised tissue;

air-vessels, punctate vessels, woody fibres, liber fibres, scalariform

vessels, and other more or less specialised tissues.

Let us take a single leaf. The name is synonymous with anything very

thin, so that we might well fancy that a leaf would consist of only one

or two layers of cells. Far from it, the leaf is a highly complex

structure. On the upper surface are a certain number of scattered hairs,

while in the bud these are often numerous, long, silky, and serve to

protect the young leaf, but the greater number fall off soon after the

leaf expands. The hairs are seated on a layer of flattened cells--the

skin or epidermis. Below this are one or more layers of "palisade

cells," the function of which seems to be to regulate the quantity of

light entering the leaf. Under these again is the "parenchyme," several

layers of more or less rounded cells, leaving air spaces and passages

between them. From place to place in the parenchyme run "fibro-vascular

bundles," forming a sort of skeleton to the leaf, and comprising

air-vessels on the upper side, rayed or dotted vessels with woody fibre

below, and vessels of various kinds. The under surface of the leaf is

formed by another layer of flattened cells, supporting generally more or

less hairs, and some of them specially modified so as to leave minute

openings or "stomata" leading into the air passages. These stomata are

so small that there are millions on a single leaf, and on plants growing

in dry countries, such as the Evergreen Oak, Oleander, etc., they are

sunk in pits, and further protected by tufts of hair.

The cells of the leaf again are themselves complex. They consist of a

cell wall perforated by extremely minute orifices, of protoplasm, cell

fluid, and numerous granules of "Chlorophyll," which give the leaf its

green colour.

While these are, stated very briefly, the essential parts of a leaf, the

details differ in every species, while in the same species and even in

the same plant, the leaves present minor differences according to the

situation in which they grow.

Since, then, there is so much complex structure in a single leaf, what

must it be in a whole plant? There is a giant sea-weed (Macrocystis),

which has been known to reach a length of 1000 feet, as also do some of

the lianas of tropical forests. These, however, attain no great bulk,

and the most gigantic specimens of the vegetable kingdom yet known are

the Wellingtonia (Sequoia) gigantea, which grows to a height of 450

feet, and the Blue Gum (Eucalyptus) even to 480.

One is apt to look on animal structure as more delicate, and of a higher

order, than that of plants. And so no doubt it is. Yet an animal, even

man himself, will recover from a wound or an operation more rapidly and

more perfectly than a tree.[32]

Trees again derive a special interest from the venerable age they

attain. In some cases, no doubt, the age is more or less mythical, as,

for instance, the Olive of Minerva at Athens, the Oaks mentioned by

Pliny, "which were thought coeval with the world itself," the Fig tree,

"under which the wolf suckled the founder of Rome and his brother,

lasting (as Tacitus calculated) 840 years, putting out new shoots, and

presaging the translation of that empire from the Cæsarian line,

happening in Nero's reign."[33] But in other cases the estimates rest on

a surer foundation, and it cannot be doubted that there are trees still

living which were already of considerable size at the time of the

Conquest. The Soma Cypress of Lombardy, which is 120 feet high and 23 in

circumference, is calculated to go back to forty years before the birth

of Christ. Francis the First is said to have driven his sword into it in

despair after the battle of Padua, and Napoleon altered his road over

the Simplon so as to spare it.

Ferdinand and Isabella in 1476 swore to maintain the privileges of the

Biscayans under the old Oak of Guernica. In the Ardennes an Oak cut down

in 1824 contained a funeral urn and some Samnite coins. A writer at the

time drew the conclusion that it must have been already a large tree

when Rome was founded, and though the facts do not warrant this

conclusion, the tree did, no doubt, go back to Pagan times. The great

Yew of Fountains Abbey is said to have sheltered the monks when the

abbey was rebuilt in 1133, and is estimated at an age of 1300 years;

that at Brabourne in Kent at 3000. De Candolle gives the following as

the ages attainable:--

The Ivy 450 years

Larch 570 "

Plane 750 "

Cedar of Lebanon 800 "

Lime 1100 "

Oak 1500 "

Taxodium distichum 4000 to 6000

Baobab 6000 years

Nowhere is woodland scenery more beautiful than where it passes

gradually into the open country. The separate trees, having more room

both for their roots and branches, are finer, and can be better seen,

while, when they are close together, "one cannot see the wood for the

trees." The vistas which open out are full of mystery and of promise,

and tempt us gradually out into the green fields.

What pleasant memories these very words recall, games in the hay as

children, and sunny summer days throughout life.

"Consider," says Ruskin,[34] "what we owe to the meadow grass, to the

covering of the dark ground by that glorious enamel, by the companies of

those soft countless and peaceful spears. The fields! Follow but forth

for a little time the thought of all that we ought to recognise in those

words. All spring and summer is in them--the walks by silent scented

paths, the rests in noonday heat, the joy of herds and flocks, the power

of all shepherd life and meditation, the life of sunlight upon the

world, falling in emerald streaks, and soft blue shadows, where else it

would have struck on the dark mould or scorching dust, pastures beside

the pacing brooks, soft banks and knolls of lowly hills, thymy slopes of

down overlooked by the blue line of lifted sea, crisp lawns all dim with

early dew, or smooth in evening warmth of barred sunshine, dinted by

happy feet, and softening in their fall the sound of loving voices.

* * * * *

"Go out, in the spring time, among the meadows that slope from the

shores of the Swiss lakes to the roots of their lower mountains. There,

mingled with the taller gentians and the white narcissus, the grass

grows deep and free, and as you follow the winding mountain paths,

beneath arching boughs all veiled and dim with blossom,--paths, that for

ever droop and rise over the green banks and mounds sweeping down in

scented undulation, steep to the blue water, studded here and there with

new mown heaps, filling all the air with fainter sweetness,--look up

towards the higher hills, where the waves of everlasting green roll

silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the pines; and we

may, perhaps, at last know the meaning of those quiet words of the 147th

Psalm, 'He maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains.'"

"On fine days," he tells us again in his _Autobiography_, "when the

grass was dry, I used to lie down on it, and draw the blades as they

grew, with the ground herbage of buttercup or hawkweed mixed among them,

until every square foot of meadow, or mossy bank, became an infinite

picture and possession to me, and the grace and adjustment to each other

of growing leaves, a subject of more curious interest to me than the

composition of any painter's masterpieces."

In the passage above quoted, Ruskin alludes especially to Swiss meadows.

They are especially remarkable in the beauty and variety of flowers. In

our fields the herbage is mainly grass, and if it often happens that

they glow with Buttercups or are white with Ox-eye-daisies, these are

but unwelcome intruders and add nothing to the value of the hay. Swiss

meadows, on the contrary, are sweet and lovely with wild Geraniums,

Harebells, Bluebells, Pink Restharrow, Yellow Lady's Bedstraw, Chervil,

Eyebright, Red and White Silenes, Geraniums, Gentians, and many other

flowers which have no familiar English names; all adding not only to the

beauty and sweetness of the meadows, but forming a valuable part of the

crop itself.[35] On the other hand "turf" is peculiarly English, and no

turf is more delightful than that of our Downs--delightful to ride on,

to sit on, or to walk on. The turf indeed feels so springy under our

feet that walking on it seems scarcely an exertion: one could almost

fancy that the Downs themselves were still rising, even higher, into the

air.

The herbage of the Downs is close rather than short, hillocks of sweet

thyme, tufts of golden Potentilla, of Milkwort--blue, pink, and

white--of sweet grass and Harebells: here and there pink with Heather,

or golden with Furze or Broom, while over all are the fresh air and

sunshine, sweet scents, and the hum of bees. And if the Downs seem full

of life and sunshine, their broad shoulders are types of kindly

strength, they give also an impression of power and antiquity, while

every now and then we come across a tumulus, or a group of great grey

stones, the burial place of some ancient hero, or a sacred temple of our

pagan forefathers.

On the Downs indeed things change slowly, and in parts of Sussex the

strong slow oxen still draw the waggons laden with warm hay or golden

wheat sheaves, or drag the wooden plough along the slopes of the Downs,

just as they did a thousand years ago.

I love the open Down most, but without hedges England would not be

England. Hedges are everywhere full of beauty and interest, and nowhere

more so than at the foot of the Downs, when they are in great part

composed of wild Guelder Roses and rich dark Yews, decked with festoons

of Traveller's Joy, the wild Bryonies, and garlands of Wild Roses

covered with thousands of white or delicate pink flowers, each with a

centre of gold.

At the foot of the Downs spring clear sparkling streams; rain from

heaven purified still further by being filtered through a thousand feet

of chalk; fringed with purple Loosestrife and Willowherb, starred with

white Water Ranunculuses, or rich Watercress, while every now and then a

brown water rat rustles in the grasses at the edge, and splashes into

the water, or a pink speckled trout glides out of sight.

In many of our midland and northern counties most of the meadows lie in

parallel undulations or "rigs." These are generally about a furlong (220

yards) in length, and either one or two poles (5-1/2 or 11 yards) in

breadth. They seldom run straight, but tend to curve towards the left.

At each end of the field a high bank, locally called a balk, often 3 or

4 feet high, runs at right angles to the rigs. In small fields there are

generally eight, but sometimes ten, of these rigs, which make in the one

case 4, in the other 5 acres. These curious characters carry us back to

the old tenures, and archaic cultivation of land, and to a period when

the fields were not in pasture, but were arable.

They also explain our curious system of land measurement. The "acre" is

the amount which a team of oxen were supposed to plough in a day. It

corresponds to the German "morgen" and the French "journée." The furlong

or long "furrow" is the distance which a team of oxen can plough

conveniently without stopping to rest. Oxen, as we know, were driven

not with a whip, but with a goad or pole, the most convenient length for

which was 16-1/2 feet, and the ancient ploughman used his "pole" or

"perch" by placing it at right angles to his first furrow, thus

measuring the amount he had to plough. Hence our "pole" or "perch" of

16-1/2 feet, which at first sight seems a very singular unit to have

selected. This width is also convenient both for turning the plough, and

also for sowing. Hence the most convenient unit of land for arable

purposes was a furlong in length and a perch or pole in width.

The team generally consisted of eight oxen. Few peasants, however,

possessed a whole team, several generally joining together, and dividing

the produce. Hence the number of "rigs," one for each ox. We often,

however, find ten instead of eight; one being for the parson's tithe,

the other tenth going to the ploughman.

When eight oxen were employed the goad would not of course reach the

leaders, which were guided by a man who walked on the near side. On

arriving at the end of each furrow he turned them round, and as it was

easier to pull than to push them, this gradually gave the furrow a turn

towards the left, thus accounting for the slight curvature. Lastly,

while the oxen rested on arriving at the end of the furrow, the

ploughmen scraped off the earth which had accumulated on the coulter and

ploughshare, and the accumulation of these scrapings gradually formed

the balk.

It is fascinating thus to trace indications of old customs and modes of

life, but it would carry us away from the present subject.

Even though the Swiss meadows may offer a greater variety, our English

fields are yet rich in flowers: yellow with Cowslips and Primroses, pink

with Cuckoo flowers and purple with Orchis, while, however, unwelcome to

the eye of the farmer,

the rich Buttercup

Its tiny polished urn holds up,

Filled with ripe summer to the edge,[36]

turning many a meadow into a veritable field of the cloth of gold, and

there are few prettier sights in nature than an English hay field on a

summer evening, with a copse perhaps at one side and a brook on the

other; men with forks tossing the hay in the air to dry; women with

wooden rakes arranging it in swathes ready for the great four-horse

waggon, or collecting it in cocks for the night; while some way off the

mowers are still at work, and we hear from time to time the pleasant

sound of the whetting of the scythe. All are working with a will lest

rain should come and their labour be thrown away. This too often

happens. But though we often complain of our English climate, it is yet,

take it all in all, one of the best in the world, being comparatively

free from extremes either of heat or cold, drought or deluge. To the

happy mixture of sunshine and of rain we owe the greenness of our

fields,

sparkling with dewdrops

Indwelt with little angels of the Sun,[37]

lit and

warmed by golden sunshine

And fed by silver rain,

which now and again sprinkles the whole earth with diamonds.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] _The Spectator._

[23] Milton.

[24] Jefferies.

[25] Forbes, _A Naturalist's Wanderings in the Eastern Archipelago_.

[26] Tennyson.

[27] Hamerton.

[28] Marvell.

[29] Ruskin.

[30] Thomson, _Voyage of the Challenger_.

[31] Thomson, _Voyage of the Challenger_.

[32] Sir J. Paget, _On the Pathology of Plants_.

[33] Evelyn's _Sylva_.

[34] _Modern Painters._

[35] M. Correvon informs me that the Gruyère cheese is supposed to owe

its peculiar flavour to the alpine Alchemilla, which is now on that

account often purposely sown elsewhere.

[36] J. R. Lowell.

[37] Hamerton.

CHAPTER VI

MOUNTAINS

Mountains "seem to have been built for the human race, as at

once their schools and cathedrals; full of treasures of

illuminated manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple

lessons for the worker, quiet in pale cloisters for the

thinker, glorious in holiness for the worshipper. They are

great cathedrals of the earth, with their gates of rock,

pavements of cloud, choirs of stream and stone, altars of snow,

and vaults of purple traversed by the continual

stars."--RUSKIN.

[Illustration: SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC. _To face page 203._]

CHAPTER VI