It was formerly thought, says a pleasing writer, that crowfoot (the

buttercup is a species of crowfoot), mingled with the pasture,

improved its nature, and that the butter yielded by cows which fed

upon this mixture was of a superior quality. _Nous avons changé tout

cela_; we are wiser now; and have discovered that cows carefully

avoid eating buttercups, and that several kinds of crowfoot are even

poisonous to cattle. On some pasture-lands, in those countries where

the produce of the dairy receives particular attention, women and

children are employed to destroy the crowfoot, which they do either

by pulling up the root, or by plucking off the flower, and preventing

it from dispersing its seed. The root of the buttercup is of a highly

stimulating property if taken in an uncooked state, and its juice

will occasion sneezing; but boiling deprives this, as well as many

other vegetable productions, of its injurious properties. A similar

effect is produced by drying it in the sun; wherefore the hay crop is

not at all deteriorated by its acrid nature.

A very beautiful ornament of still pools and gently-flowing streams

is the _Water-ranunculus_ (_Ranunculus aqua atilis_), whose leaves

vary according to the depth, or calmness, or swiftness of their

watery habitat, and are thus adapted to permit the passage of water

without suffering any injury from its force. The leaves on the

surface have a round lobed shape; those immersed hang down in thin

small fibres, which offer but little resistance to the current.

The RANUNCULACEÆ also include the _Black Hellebore_, or Christmas

rose (_Helleborus niger_), one of our most splendid winter-garden

decorations, whose juice the ancients considered a wonderful remedy

for mental disorders. In whiteness it rivals the snow, which often

accumulates around it, and the snow-drop, which is frequently bound

up in the same wreath. It is called the _Black Hellebore_, to

distinguish it from the two wild species which grow in our woods, its

root being covered with a thick black skin.

The fragrant white _Clematis_ must not be omitted; its starry drops

are "things of beauty," which every true poetic eye will know how to

appreciate. It is sometimes called "Traveller's Joy," and sometimes

"Virgin's Bower;" either name is richly suggestive of pleasant

fancies. Do you remember the beautiful picture in Keats's "Endymion,"

of the shady sacred retreat where Adonis lay and slumbered? The

clematis was one of the precious flowers that adorned it:--

"Above his head

Four lily stalks did their white honours wed,

To make a coronal, and round him grew

All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue,

Together intertwined and trammelled fresh;

The vine of glossy sprout,--the ivy mesh,

Shading its Ethiop berries,--and woodbine,

Of velvet leaves and bugle blooms divine;--

Convolvulus in streakèd vases blush,

The creeper mellowing for an autumn flush,--

And _Virgin's Bower_ trailing airily,

With others of the sisterhood."

Finally, our order comprises the _Hepatica_, with its blue or

pink blossoms and three-lobed leaves, which, from their fancied

resemblance to the form of the liver, procured the plant its English

name of liverwort; the _Flos Adonis_, or pheasant's eye,--the

_goutte-de-sang_ of the French,--so called because the ancients

fabled that it sprang from the blood of Adonis, when wounded by the

bear; the marsh marigold; the gay and vivacious larkspur; the deadly

wolfsbane, or aconite, which secretes so potent a poison; and the

aromatic love-in-a-mist, or French flower.[55]

_B._--ANIMALS.

Under the soft moss, under the stones, in all localities where

mouldiness is easily developed, under the closed doors of cellars,

you must certainly have more than once observed a tiny creature of

the form of a horse-bean, of a gray leaden colour, and supplied with

a considerable number of feet. This last characteristic will induce

you immediately to abandon the idea that you have before you an

insect.

Catch hold of it, and count its feet.

Well said; but it runs much more quickly than I would have suspected

from its previously dilatory movements.

Because it knows that danger threatens it, instinct impels it to

escape at its utmost speed. Do not be afraid to handle it; the poor

creature can do you no harm.

Unable to escape, it counterfeits death, and remains perfectly

immovable.

Now examine it. It has fourteen feet, symmetrically arranged in

couples; their size perceptibly increases from the first to the last.

When the animal is at rest, they are coiled inside, so as to form an

angle whose opening faces the medial line. But here is something much

more curious; its body, which does not possess the vestige of a wing,

is also without those segments which would divide it visibly, as in

the case of insects, into head, thorax, and abdomen; but is composed

of rings, hard and scaly, like those of a shrimp.

Can it be a crustacean?

Yes; the animal you hold in your hand, and which everybody knew

by the name of wood-louse long before our naturalists knew how

to classify it, belongs to the great animal division of the

_Articulata_, which, instead of having their skeleton _inside_ the

body, like the Vertebrates, have it externally. The Crustacea form

a class of this division, to which also belong the Insects, the

Arachnida, and the Myriapoda.

Let us continue to anatomise our crustacean.

In front of its first ring (a transversal segment) you see a little

black head, with two lateral bead-like eyes, and a couple of antennæ.

The latter are each composed of three joints, which are extremely

mobile; their base is covered by the edges of the sloping head. The

most conspicuous rings of the body are seven in number; their lateral

borders are pointed in front, and rounded behind. But, if you look

closely, you will see some other rings, a little less projecting

than the former; they circumscribe the abdominal region, the belly,

properly so called, in which the intestines are lodged. These rings,

or abdominal segments, are six in number; but they have not all the

same form. The one which occupies the tail is triangular, pointed,

and surrounded by four (caudal) appendages. The three next segments,

counting from the front to the rear, are prolonged laterally in

a very marked manner; the two anterior, on the contrary, have no

such distinction. As for the caudal appendages, the two outer ones

are very strong, conical, and composed of two articulations, while

the inner, situated above the former, are frail, cylindrical, and

terminated by a tuft of hairs, whence issues a viscous liquid. (See

Fig. 35, _a_.)

[Illustration: FIG. 35. The Wood-Louse.]

An enumeration of these characteristics is tedious, but necessary

for the determination of the genus and the species. They belong

to the _Oniscus asellus_, or common wood-louse. But why, you ask,

why such a strange conjunction of names,--one Greek, ὀνίσκος, the

other Latin, _asellus_? Both carry the same meaning: why not, then,

have called our tiny crustacean an ass-ass (if such a compound be

possible)? Why, neither close at hand nor at a distance, has it

the slightest resemblance to an ass; and to say that we have only

borrowed these names from the ancients, is neither an explanation nor

a justification.

But we have not yet done with the wood-lice. Are these interesting

little creatures (they _are_ interesting, are they not?) oviparous

or viviparous? I defy you to show me anywhere a single wood-louse's

egg. Have the patience to observe our crustaceans more nearly. Among

the crowd, you will remark some--they are the females--with a kind

of membraneous pouch underneath the body, stretching from the head

to the fifth pair of legs. The pellicle which forms this pouch is so

thin, and so transparent, that you can distinguish the eggs within

it. These eggs, instead of being expelled for incubation, remain

in the mother's pouch until they are hatched. At that felicitous

moment, the membranous bag splits cross-wise, longitudinally and

transversally, to permit the emergence of the young wood-lice. The

latter are extremely small, and in form resemble nothing in the world

so much as a little white line (Fig. 35, _b_). They differ from

their parents only in having one pair of feet, and one ring less

than they have. They undergo no metamorphoses. After their birth,

the little ones, which have proportionally very large antennæ, do

not immediately separate from their mother. By a wonderful act of

forethought on the part of Nature,[56] they keep themselves concealed

in the middle of the respiratory _laminæ_, which garnish the under

part of the tail.

The specific characters of the _Oniscus asellus_ are tolerably

well defined. By its rings of dark gray, a little lighter at the

edges, which form for it an articulated, glossy carapace, marked

with white spots, longitudinally arranged; by the uniform pale gray

colour of its belly and its legs, covered with scattered hairs;

and, particularly, by its habits, our wood-louse, which the Germans

call cellar-louse (_Kellerlaus_), is distinguished from its kindred

species, of which naturalists have made distinct genera. Thus, the

_asellus_ found generally under stones, which counterfeits death by

rolling itself up in a ball like a hedgehog, and will rather suffer

itself to be crushed than unfold, is the _Oniscus armadillo_, which

some naturalists transform into the _Armadillo vulgaris_. (See Fig.

36.) This species prefers the solitude of the field to inhabited

places. Its body is considerably expanded, and its rings do not

terminate in a point on their lateral and posterior edges.

[Illustration: FIG. 36. _Oniscus armadillo._]

Another species, equally common underneath stones, has its head and

tail covered over with granulations; its antennæ are composed of

seven joints, of which the fourth and fifth are perceptibly situated

lengthwise. This is the _Oniscus granulatus_ of some entomologists;

others have designated it the _Porcellio scaber_. Why not simplify

the study of species?

The wood-lice seem to live upon decomposed vegetable matter. But in

default of other food, they devour their own kind; in this respect

resembling beings who are supposed to rank much higher in the animal

hierarchy.

In the pharmacopœia of the ancients our wood-lice found a place.

Reduced into powder, and mixed with various substances, they were

prescribed as diuretic and aperient; but they were long ago abandoned

in medicine.

THE DRAGON-FLIES (_Libellulæ_).

In walking along the banks of a river, you must frequently have seen

hovering around you a cloud of insects, whom you would readily take

to be butterflies, were not you arrested in your conjecture by the

largeness of their head, the length of their body, the form of their

vivid, diaphanous, gauze-like wings, and, generally,--which will most

astonish you,--by their carnivorous instincts. You have about you and

before, then, not butterflies, but Dragon-flies--the _Libellulæ_ of

naturalists. They are the _demoiselles_, or "ladies," of the French;

so called, perhaps, in allusion to their airy and graceful flight.

Among these Libellulæ, one is called _Eleanora_. If she does

not shine so brightly as the others--if her colours are less

brilliant--she has, at least, the advantage of being so common that

you can easily obtain a specimen.

But, first, let us pause to think of the strange dissimilarity in

the names bestowed on the _Libellulæ_ by the English and French

respectively. They are the _Dragon-flies_ of the former,--fierce,

rapacious, formidable; the _Ladies_ of the latter,--elegant, light,

and radiant. Here we have a glimpse of national character. With the

Frenchman, "appearance" counts for so much; with the Englishman,

everything depends upon the "reality." Yet our English poets can

appreciate their gay exterior. Moore speaks of them as--

"Those bright things which have their dwelling

Where the little streams are welling!"

Poor Clare, the Northamptonshire poet, correctly studied--

"The great dragon-fly with gauzy wings,

In gilded coat of purple, green, and brown,

That on broad leaves of hazel basking clings."

And Mary Howitt has seen them--

"Here and there they dart,

And flush like gleams of green and azure light."

[Illustration: FIG. 37.--The Common Dragon-fly.]

Beautiful as they are, they must be ranked among Nature's fiercest

and most insatiable destroyers. They are the terror of the insect

world. On this point we shall hereafter enlarge, but before I

forget it, I would fain relate an anecdote, in illustration of

their voracity, which I have read somewhere or other. A naturalist

recounts with what interest he has often watched the proceedings of

the dragon-fly. He has seen it, in a locality where white butterflies

were numerous, dart down as a hawk upon a quarry, seize with its legs

a firm hold of a butterfly, and carry it to a branch of an adjoining

tree. In a moment one of the white wings would drop from the boughs,

and then another would come wavering downwards, and so on, until all

four had fallen; and the dragon-fly, after a short pause, would again

dart forth in pursuit of a fresh victim. He never launched himself on

his prey when on a perfect horizontal line with it; but took care to

be either somewhat higher, or somewhat lower, so that he could seize

it with his feet.

But now let us consider by what characteristics the reader is to

recognise his Libellulæ.

The eyes are very large, the size of the insect considered; of a

brown colour, and nearly joined together at the top of the head; in

front of this point of junction a tiny vesicle is visible, carrying

three _ocelli_ (_i.e._, little, simple, glossy eyes), two on each

side, and the third on the anterior margin: the thorax is large,

hairy, and composed of two yellow plates; the abdomen laterally

depressed, in such a manner as to give great prominence to the medial

line. This last and well-marked feature it is which has procured for

the Eleanora the scientific name of _Libellula depressa_,--a name

proposed by Linnæus, and unanimously adopted; such unanimity being

a rare occurrence among naturalists, though, to parody a phrase of

Sheridan's, when naturalists _do_ agree, it is something wonderful!

In the male Libellulæ, the upper surface of the abdomen is bluish in

hue, and covered as it were with an ashy dust, while in the female it

is olive; in both sexes the first and last abdominal segment are of a

deeper shade than the other segments. The feet are black, and bristle

all over with stiff hairs; the thighs are of a brownish red. The

two pairs of wings, each strongly reticulated, present, towards the

extremity of the upper border, a black rectangular spot; their base,

moreover, is edged with brown spots; the spots of the lower pair are

triangular and larger than those of the upper pair, which are nearly

linear. They form, to a certain extent, the reservoir of the liquid

which nourishes and maintains the circulation of the network of the

wings.

The Libellula, which Geoffroy calls (in his "Histoire des Insectes")

the _Philinta_, is simply the male of the species we have just been

describing. You may see them

"Where water-lilies mount their snowy buds,"

pursuing one another with an abrupt, jerking--I had almost said

_staccato_--flight.

* * * * *

A species less common than the preceding, but closely resembling

it, is the _Françoise_ of Geoffroy, the _Libellula quadrimaculata_

of Linnæus. It owes its descriptive or specific designation to the

colours which diversify its wings. On the outer edge of each, two

brown marginal spots are conspicuous: the first at the place where

in the Eleanora (and other species) the black spot is found, and the

second nearly in the centre of the external border, which, at this

point, is considerably compressed; moreover, the lower wings are

marked, beneath their yellow base, with a kind of triangular spot of

blackish brown, finely reticulated with yellow. Externally, there is

no difference of appearance between male and female, except that the

abdomen of the latter is somewhat the larger.

* * * * *

Now we come to the _Sylvia_, the _Libellula cancellata_ of Linnæus.

Its eyes and thorax wear a greenish hue; the diaphanous wings are

spotted with brown near the outer margin; the abdomen is of a

bluish-gray; the extremity of the sixth segment, and the following

segments, are wholly black.

The _Julia_, or _Libellula grandis_ (Linn.), has been separated

from the Libellulæ by the great entomologists, such as Fabricius

and Latreille, and included in the genus _Aeshna_ (Phœbus, what a

name!), preserving the descriptive adjective _grandis_. What are the

reasons put forward to justify this separation? Principally, the

form of the abdomen, and the position of those little smooth and

simple eyes, like tiny pearls or _pearlets_, which we call _ocelli_.

In the Libellulæ, properly so called, the ocelli, three in number,

are situated on either side and on the exterior margin of a kind of

semi-triangular vesicle, and the abdomen is slightly depressed, and

not unlike a club; while in the _Aeshnæ_ the ocelli are placed on a

simple keel-shaped transversal embossment, and the abdomen is narrow,

elongated, and almost cylindrical.

* * * * *

The _Aeshna grandis_ (or the "Julia") is one of the largest of the

British species. Its head is large, and its eyes are of a brown

colour shading into blue; the yellow thorax has two bright yellow

bands or stripes obliquely painted on each side. The abdomen is of a

reddish or even rusty brown; generally spotted with white and yellow

at the top and bottom of each wing. This species haunts the vicinity

of streams and "silent pools."

* * * * *

We come, in due order, to the _Aeshna forcipata_, or "Carolina," with

its dirty yellow head, and its greenish-yellow thorax, the latter

marked on each side with three oblique lines of black: the abdomen

is black, and composed of segments laterally spotted with yellow.

* * * * *

The _Libellula_, which the illustrious Geoffroy designates "Louisa,"

is, according to modern entomologists, neither a _Libellula_ nor

a _Aeshna_, but a species of _Agarion_,--the _Agarion virgo_

(_Libellula virgo_, Linn.) The Agarions are distinguishable from

the Libellula and the Aeshna by their remarkably thin, filiform,

and exceedingly elongated abdomen, and by the three ocelli arranged

triangle-wise on the top of the head.

The "Louisa" (_Agarion virgo_) is by no means uncommon in England,

and may be found along the upper course of the Thames, the Avon, and

other rivers. It is easily recognised by its frail slender body,

shining with metallic blue reflexes. There are numerous varieties,

distinguished by their varieties of "light and shade." The spotless

green-winged species is the "Ulrica" of Geoffroy. The two sexes are

not alike. In the centre of their delicately-reticulated wings the

males have a large bluish-brown spot, which is wanting in the females.

[Illustration: FIG. 38.--Male and Female of the _Agarion virgo_.]

The genera _Libellula_, _Aeshna_, and _Agarion_ compose the small

family of the _Libellulites_--a family plainly and conspicuously

characterised by the size of their head, and by the two pairs of

diaphanous wings of almost equal dimensions (the posterior pair is

a _little_ shorter than the anterior), which, while the animal is at

rest, are kept horizontally extended.

[Illustration: FIG. 39.--"A sunny pool, half-fringed with trees."]

These are the characteristics which present themselves to the

observant eye at the first glance. Do you doubt me? Betake yourself,

when

"The bird is building in the tree,

And the flower has opened to the bee,"--

betake yourself, I say, to any sunny pool, half-fringed with trees,

or pleasant river-margin; go, armed with net and microscope, and,

having secured a specimen of these terrors of the insect world, where

"The strong on weak, cunning on simple, prey,"

devote yourself to its patient examination.

It is only such an examination that can reveal to us some equally

important, but less obvious features of the insect. But to catch

a Dragon-fly is not always an easy task; the Libellulæ are very

timorous, or else they are suspicious of the prowling naturalist who

seeks what he can entrap. Their flight is livelier and swifter than

even that of the butterfly: when disturbed in their repose, they fly

away abruptly, their wings rustling or crackling like a sheet of

parchment; if obstinately pursued, they grow irritated, and in their

quick jerking movements exhibit all the rage of the Carnivora.

But can our Libellulæ be carnivorous? Most undoubtedly. To convince

yourself of it, you have but to glance at their mouth, which is

wholly unlike a butterfly's. What an arsenal of weapons adapted for

seizing and crushing a victim! How strong are those saw-toothed scaly

mandibles! How strong their auxiliaries, the jaws, which terminate

in that dentated spring projection, furnished internally with ciliæ!

Surely, such instruments testify to their ferocious instincts,

and should induce our French neighbours to deny them the graceful

name of "les demoiselles." What a libel on tender woman,--on man's

"ministering angel!" Do but observe them. They do not rest upon the

blossom to extract its nectared sweets; in truth, they could not

do so, for they are not furnished with a proboscis. Warlike as the

Amazons,--the only portion of the female sex they can justly be said

to resemble,--they hover in the air to pounce, like vultures, upon

whatever insects may come within their reach; they quickly transfix,

and as quickly devour them. If they love to fly about the pools, the

marshes, and the streams, it is because they are sure of prey in

these localities. And, in fact, they there encounter and devour an

innumerable quantity of flies, moths, gnats, and the like.

* * * * *

But there is another reason why the Dragon-flies, obeying the secret

impulse of nature, resort to the haunts we have been describing. They

were their cradles or nurseries, and they become, in due time, the

scenes of their espousals.

* * * * *

Before speaking of the singular metamorphosis they afterwards

accomplish, we must touch lightly on the subject of the mode of

reproduction of our brilliant _demoiselles_.

It is laid down as a law that, in the insect world, the males are

invariably smaller or weaker than the females. Yet this law does not

hold good with reference to the Libellulæ, whose males are, on the

contrary, larger and stronger than their females. Man may lay down

laws, and extort obedience to them, within his own domain; but nature

laughs at human rules, and gives up her secrets only to the free

thought, unshackled by the fetters of authority.

But why is the male Dragon-fly stronger than the female? Because

the former must make the first advances, and carry off his aërial

companion to celebrate their bridal. For this purpose, he holds her

tightly by the neck, and continues to fly in this way for some few

minutes. At length, he perches himself on the branch of a willow, or

the leaf of an aquatic plant, along with his companion.

The eggs laid by the female are oblong in shape, and sometimes united

together in clusters: the female deposits them in the water, or on

some water-floated leaf plant, shortly after their fecundation.

METAMORPHOSIS OF THE DRAGON-FLY.

"To-day I saw the Dragon-fly

Come from the wells where he did lie;

An inner impulse rent the veil

By his old husk: from head to tail

Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.

He dried his wings: like gauze they grew,

Through croft and pasture wet with dew,

A living flash of light he flew."

--TENNYSON.

If in your walks abroad you should meet with a pool of turbid water,

do not object to linger for a moment on its brink. Nature, as a

reward for your trouble, will gratify you with an extraordinary

surprise. Stir up the mud with a stick, or, better still, with your

hand; and then, as the children say, you shall see--what you shall

see!

Oh, what an ugly creature is struggling in this handful of slime! It

looks like a large spider!

Nay, examine it more attentively; it can do you no harm.

Well, it is a singular animal; greenish in colour, bristling with

hairs, and covered with mud. It is not a spider, for it has only six

legs and these are exactly like the legs of insects. I can distinctly

make out three joints (articulations) to each tarsus, which

terminates in a simple hook. The belly is formed of regular segments;

is rounded above, and flat underneath. What do I see? On the top, and

nearly in the middle, each ring is armed with a spine, so that the

row of spiny projections remind one of the back of a crocodile. Pray

tell me, what is this curious creature?

Before I tell you, I would have you more thoroughly acquainted with

it. Continue your examination.

The face has a strange expression; it looks--the insect, I mean--like

a masked knight. Its mask, formed of a scaly substance and thoroughly

compact, is composed of two pieces, which are separated from one

another by a transversal suture: the upper, which is broader than it

is high, we may call the vizor; it consists of two lobes, soldered

together longitudinally; the lower, which is higher than it is broad,

will be the chin-piece; it is triangular in shape, and its base rests

against the vizor, while the summit is jointed or articulated with a

support, which acts as a hinge when the mask is raised or lowered.

These movements, let me tell you, are voluntary; the animal raises

its mask to arrest on their way the Infusoria and other animalcules

on which it feeds. For crushing them, it is provided with strong

mandibles, which you can detect by lowering the mask with a pin, or

the point of a penknife. The eyes, which resemble little mammillary

protuberances, are situated above and outside of the vizor. On the

animal's back, where the belly joins the thorax, do you observe those

four little sheath-like or scabbard-like tongues? The extremity

of the body, the tail, is marked by three conspicuous triangular

points, lying close to the opening, through which the water enters

and issues, as if it were alternately sucked in and poured out by a

piston. This, you must understand, is the respiratory apparatus. (See

Fig. 40.)

[Illustration: FIG. 40.--Larva of the _Libellula depressa_.]

[Illustration: FIG. 41.--Larva of the _Agarion virgo_.]

Well, then, what is the name of this most singular creature, this

masked knight?

It is the larva of the _Libellula depressa_; the dismal envelope

whence will issue the gaudy Dragon-fly. Listen to a graphic

description of the mask you are looking at:--

"Conceive your under-lip to be horny instead of fleshy, and to be

elongated perpendicularly downwards, so as to wrap over your chin

and extend to its bottom; that this elongation is there expanded

into a triangular convex plate attached to it by a joint, so as

to bend upwards again and fold over the face as high as the nose,

concealing not only the chin and the first-mentioned elongation, but

the mouth and part of the cheeks; conceive, moreover, that to the

end of this last-mentioned plate are fixed two other convex ones,

so broad as to cover the nose and temples; that these can open at

pleasure transversely, like a pair of jaws, so as to expose the

nose and mouth, and that their inner edges, where they meet, are

cut into numerous short teeth, or spines, or armed with one or more

sharp claws;--you will then have as accurate an idea as any powers of

description can give you of the strange conformation of the under-lip

of the larva of those insects, which conceals the mouth and face

precisely as I have supposed a similar construction of _your_ lip

would do yours. When at rest, this mask applies closely to and covers

the face; when they would make use of it, they unfold it like an

arm, catch the prey at which they aim by means of the mandibuliform

plates, and then partly refold it, so as to hold the prey to the

mouth in the most convenient position for the operation of the two

pairs of jaws with which they are provided."

And so the creature I have been examining is only a larva! How

strange to compare it,--thick, ugly, unwieldy,--with the insect that

issues from it, so aërial, so graceful, so light, so beautiful! The

more I think of the contrast, the more it interests me.

This larva, however, has all the characteristics of a perfect insect,

and I will wager that more than one observer has described it as

such, and classified it among aquatic insects. Yet it is but a larva!

And each species has its own special larva (see Figs. 40 and 41).

This seems to me as difficult to believe as if you told me that John,

James, Peter,--in fact, all men,--were only temporary bodies from

which more perfect beings would one day emerge. For the medium in

which these masked creatures live,--the troubled and muddy medium for

which they are adapted by their organisation, and in which they seem

destined to live out their life,--differs wholly and absolutely from

the aërial medium wherein, you tell me, they will one day rejoice.

Do you see, on the brink of the pond, those dried-up bodies? They are

those of your aquatic insects, the mortal remains of Libellulites;

they have rent open their vest, as you would do a garment which had

become too narrow; the rent is very conspicuous along the back;

and through the fissure issue the winged and aërial resuscitated

Dragon-flies, summoned to live in a world differing so widely from

their former one! Under the tongues were folded up the wings, and the

mask that puzzled you so greatly is split open on the level of the

sutures, so as to represent a ⟙, wanting only a handle to reproduce

one of those hieroglyphics (☥) which are found so frequently on the

Egyptian monuments, and which, according to some Egyptologists,

signify _eternal life_.

And here, my friend and companion, we may take leave of

"The great Dragon-fly with gauzy wings."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 40: The best means of ascertaining the coexistence of an

ascending and descending sap have been indicated in "The Circle of

the Year," pp. 163-8.]

[Footnote 41: See the _Botanische Zeitung_ ("Botanical Gazette") for

the years 1853, 1856, 1859, and 1861.]

[Footnote 42: Boehm, "Sur la Cause de l'Ascension de la Séve,"

Mémoire communiqué à l'Académie des Sciences de Vienne, juillet 1863.]

[Footnote 43: Chaucer.]

[Footnote 44: Pliny, "Historia Naturalis," xxvi. 5.]

[Footnote 45: See "The Circle of the Year."]

[Footnote 46: Chomel, "Histoire des Plantes Usuelles," ii. 282.]

[Footnote 47: Tournefort, "Histoire des Plantes," i. 103.]

[Footnote 48: Garidel, "Histoire des plantes qui naissent aux

environs d'Aix," p. 56.]

[Footnote 49: "Pied," that is, vari-coloured, motley-coated.]

[Footnote 50: See also Shelley's "Sensitive Plant," &c.]

[Footnote 51: This is common enough in Germany and France, especially

in the vineyards, but very rare in England.]

[Footnote 52: So we say, "fretted roof."]

[Footnote 53: When the spike bears numerous flowers, surrounded by a

spathe, or sheathing bract, it is called a spadix.]

[Footnote 54: Bosc, a distinguished naturalist, died in 1828, aged

69. In the ministry of Roland, he accepted the delicate post of

administrator of prisons; was proscribed after the terrible events of

May 31, 1793; and lay concealed, along with Laréveillière-Lépaux, for

several weeks in the forest of Montmorency.]

[Footnote 55: The seeds of the latter are used in the East, where

they are more pungent than in our cold climates, instead of pepper.

"They are thought to be the cummin alluded to in Scripture, where our

Saviour reproved the Pharisees for their singularity in minor things,

and their neglect of important duties."]

[Footnote 56: That is, the Creative Power which, in common parlance,

we choose to call Nature.]

BOOK III.

SUMMER.

Blessed, thrice blessed is the man with whom

The generous prodigality of nature,

The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom,

The bounteous providence in every feature,

Recall the good Creator to His creature,

Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome!...

The sod's a cushion for _his_ pious want,

And consecrated by the heaven within it,

The sky-blue pool, a font;

Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar;

An organ breathes in every grove,

And the full heart's a psalter,

Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love.

--THOMAS HOOD.

* * * * *

The poetry of Earth is never dead....

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever.

--KEATS.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

_WHAT MAY BE SEEN IN THE HEAVENS._

"And God said, Let there be light; and there was light."

--GENESIS.

"A sound of song

Beneath the vault of Heaven is blown."

--GOETHE.

[Illustration]

The unequal duration of Day and Night, the succession and regular

return of the seasons, all the phenomena observable upon the earth,

are but the effects of a cause which we must seek in the heavens. It

is impossible to explain _them_ unless we contemplate _it_ on high,

relegating our planet into the great chorus of the worlds, where it

holds but a modest rank. Only, to perform this miracle, we must for

a moment repress in ourselves the senses which deceive us by their

exaggeration or appearances, and give free course to enlightened

thought. It is by this means alone that we can succeed in fully

demonstrating the close and perpetual relationship which exists

between our planet and the other spheres composing what we call the

Solar System.

* * * * *

Permit us here a parenthesis, or, shall we say, a digression?

The whole secret of science, the whole secret of human knowledge--in

truth, the whole future of humanity--lies in these two

words--_Enlightened Thought_.

And here, gentle reader, I solicit your assistance in endeavouring

to elucidate a question which has a for a long time puzzled me. Why

do we apply the word "light" to that which sets in motion the eye

of the body, and to that which induces the operation of the eye

of the mind,--to the singularly mysterious physical agent without

whose intervention all the external world would be to man a dream or

a void, as well as to the still more mysterious moral agent which

illuminates the world within?

I anticipate your answer. "The light," you say, "which opens up to me

the material world is a reality; the other is only an image."

And it is true that this is the solution which first presents itself

to the mind. But the longer you reflect upon it, the more you will

be inclined to agree with me that it is unsatisfactory. What,

then, means this agreement among all peoples, past and present, to

designate by the same words--as

Light To illuminate

Obscurity To obscure

Shadow To overshadow

Morning To darken

Day To clear away

Twilight To blind

Gloom To cloud

--those actions, processes, or operations which take place or are

produced in the outer world, physical or material, and in the inner

world, intellectual or moral.

Were your pretended "image" the result of purely personal

impressions,--all persons are not equally apt in apprehending those

fictitious relations which are the food of poetry,--were it, in

a word, no more than an individual conception, and, therefore,

eminently variable, I should not hesitate to accept your opinion: we

should simply be discussing what are called, in scholastic language,

the individual sense (_sens propre_) and the imaginative sense (_sens

figuré_). But there exists upon this point an unanimous and universal

agreement: all languages, living or dead, attest it; it embraces the

aggregate of the members of the human family.

* * * * *

This is the _first_ point which induces me to doubt the legitimacy

of the proposed explanation. But I am confirmed in my hesitation by

numerous other facts.

Let us emerge from the domain of rhetoric to enter that of

experimental physiology and psychology. Too powerful a light

blinds the organs of seeing. No mortal eye, unless with the aid of

artificial appliances, can gaze upon the sun, the great source of

light. If the vision is to act clearly, we must proceed step by

step. If from a very light apartment we pass rapidly, and without

transition, into a darkened room, or _vice versâ_, we feel

temporarily blinded: the eye demands a short time to recover, as

it were, from its astonishment. If we fix our gaze for one or two

minutes on a star of the first magnitude, as, for example, Sirius,

and afterwards turn away abruptly, the eye will for a while remain

insensible to stars of a less intense splendour.

These are incontestable physiological facts, which anybody may easily

verify for himself.

* * * * *

Well, in the psychological order facts exist which are in all

respects analogous. Take one of those truths which the human thought,

labouring generation after generation, has taken centuries to

discover or elucidate; place it suddenly before an unprepared mind;

however luminous may be this truth, it will be simply shadow and

darkness to the mind we speak of; it will not comprehend an iota

of it. Why? For the very obvious reason that it lies outside its

sphere of ideas, in every respect comparable to the sphere of vision,

beyond which and within which there is no more room for the sensorial

impressions. There, as here, we must proceed gradually, and arrange

the transitions so as to produce the desired results.

* * * * *

It would be easy for me to develop this parallel by other and still

more remarkable facts; but what I have just said will suffice to

show that the line of demarcation which philosophers have, upon

principle, desired to trace between the physical and moral order,

has turned the mind aside from many fertile fields of research and

speculation. Let us cite an example. The sun is the visible centre

of light, heat, organic life; in fine, of all the movements of our

material world. Yet it is but a relative focus, since the sun, with

its planetary train, revolves, probably, in company with other suns

or systems, around a centre as yet unknown; and as there is no reason

why we should pause in this cycloidal progression, this second centre

or focus of systems may revolve around a third, the third around

a fourth, and so on. Thus we shall have an indeterminate series

of relative centres; for the term does not exist of which we can

say,--there is the beginning, or here is the end of the series.

We do not meet with the absolute in the material, any more than in

the intellectual world. Truth, by its power of attraction, sets in

motion all the wheels of our understanding; we seek after it eagerly,

in the doubt which torments us, in the obscurity which surrounds us;

we all feel the need of being enlightened by it, and warmed, and

revivified; we all are in need of belief, and, at the same time, of

possessing--let there be no illusion in this respect--a certainty or

demonstration of what we believe.

But the truth which we think our own does not leave the mind at rest;

a slight effort suffices, in fact, to teach us that the truth we

accept depends upon another and remoter truth, and that the world

of thought is thus carried onward in an interminable series of

relative truths; unless we find it more convenient to pause here at a

primary cause, as elsewhere at a primordial centre, which we may ever

identify with the primary cause. But is this truth, supposed to be

final, capable of satisfying equally every mind? With this question,

dear reader, I close my parenthesis.

* * * * *

To understand clearly the variable duration of the day at all points

of the terrestrial surface, let us so place ourselves as to see our

planet distinctly in front. I need hardly say that this invitation is

not addressed to the visual organs of the body, but to the "mind's

eye, Horatio." With the former, fixed as we are on the surface of

the globe, we can only see the shadows of objects standing out in

relief upon it, and still, with the sun at our back, can perceive

but a comparatively insignificant portion. With the second, on the

contrary, we may detach ourselves from the earth, may mount afar

into space, may plant ourselves on some aërial height, whence we may

embrace, at a single glance, all the illuminated hemisphere of our

globe: we shall have but a single shadow on the prospect,--that which

our brightened planet casts behind it, and which, in four-and-twenty

hours, traverses the entire surface of the globe, producing light

wherever it passes.

* * * * *

Having completed our preparations, let us note what we perceive with

our eye thus disjoined from our body,--an eye equally well adapted to

fix every moving object, and to see at any distance bodies extremely

small, or bodies extremely large. What a marvellous eye! And it is

for us to develop its power, and freely to increase its range. What

an arduous task!

The luminous envelope, the photosphere of the sun, simultaneously

darts its rays in all directions, with an intensity which diminishes

with the square of the distance.

Let us follow those which direct their course towards our planet.

So long as the rays do not come into collision, or strike against

resistant matter, they neither warm nor enlighten. Confirming the

Newtonian hypothesis of emission, they travel straight as arrows

through the icy space, the shadowy ocean in which the waves of the

terrestrial atmosphere are lost. But the moment they encounter a

material obstacle, the rays partly penetrate it, and are partly

thrown back, in such a manner as to form a series of undulations like

those which the falling of a stone into a pond produces. As they

recede from these repeated shocks, the rays come under that theory of

undulation which Huygens promoted.[57]

Let us trace the rays of light back to their origin. These encounter

first the globes nearest to the sun: the almost imperceptible

asteroids, which, on account of the solar splendour, can scarcely be

detected, and which, as yet, have received no baptismal names. Yonder

beams illuminate other revolving globes,--Mercury, Venus, the Earth.

If we here arrest our gaze, we are influenced by a vague and mournful

recollection; the Earth was our place of sojourn at an epoch when

thought, formerly shackled, had become free. It is thus that a seed,

removed from the stem which nourished it, wanders afar to diffuse

and perfect its species. Our planet, of an ochreous yellow, relieved

with green and white, possesses no special privileges; it shares in

the ponderated movements of the spheres; it is neither the largest,

nor the smallest, nor the heaviest, nor the lightest, nor the nearest

to, nor the farthest from, the sun. And shall Earth alone, of all the

planets, nourish that kind of "thinking seed" which we name the human

race? It seems improbable.

* * * * *

But let us return to the great orb of light. It illuminates exactly

one half of our earth; the other half lies in shade. And as the earth

rotates upon its own axis, every point of its surface is necessarily

exposed to the action of the solar rays. This action varies in

duration and intensity.

All this I was taught, when I was still at school on our revolving

planet. I remember, too, as a lesson learned by heart, that, under

the Equator, or, more exactly, in 0° 0´ latitude, as well as at

the Poles, or under 90° latitude; the duration of the day is equal

to that of the night, with this difference, that, while under the

Equator, a day of twelve hours alternates invariably with a night

of the same duration, at the Poles a day of six months succeeds

continually to a night of six months. I also recollect that, at

a given moment, namely, at the spring and autumn equinoxes, the

duration of the day, over all the terrestrial surface, is equal to

that of the night, just as under the Equator; and that, after these

two epochs, under the intermediary latitudes, between the Equator

and the Poles, the length of the days and their corresponding nights

varies according to the seasons; that, in our northern hemisphere,

after the spring equinox, the days increase while the nights

diminish, to such an extent that, at the summer solstice,--21-22

June,--they attain their _maximum_ of length (and the nights their

_minimum_), the reverse taking place during the period that elapses

between the autumn equinox and the winter solstice.

I remember that I learned these data when I was living rooted to or

anchored upon the earth; but the explanation which my masters gave

me was not so clear as I could have wished. Their considerations on

the declensions of the sun, on the obliquity of the ecliptic, on the

necessity of exactly reducing the earth to a simple point in relation

to the distance of the stars, to the end that the phenomena occurring

(_rapportés_) on parallel planes would be nearly identical with those

observed from the centre of the globe, or from a point situated on

its surface; all these fine things, which demanded a certain faculty

of geometrical intuition, left a curious vagueness of idea upon my

mind. I accepted them, under the influence of authority, as beyond

discussion, but I was by no means satisfied whenever I wished to

ascertain their foundation.

* * * * *

But now--in the regions of space--everything grows simple before the

mind, in which, apparently, all my power of thought is concentrated.

Behold the illuminated atmosphere; it reminds me vividly of the

disc of the full moon. Ah, what exquisite iris colours! They mark

the meeting-points of the bright with the obscured hemisphere: a

circular line carried through all these points would exactly separate

day and night. On the one side, motion and life and glow; on the

other, silence and shade and calm. This line _moves_, carrying

with it in its movement day and night, the illuminated and the

darkened hemisphere; it moves from east to west, so that the bright

hemisphere and the shadowy one, whose union forms what may be called

the _photo-adumbrated_ sphere, revolves, in four-and-twenty hours,

round an axis which coincides at this moment--the 21st day of March,

according to the "terrestrial worms,"--with the axis of the earth

rotating on itself in an inverse direction, that is to say, from west

to east. Let us note this coincidence: it is remarkable; inasmuch

as, at the equinoxes, the terrestrial equator divides exactly the

illuminated and the obscured hemisphere into two equal parts, one of

which is situated to the north, the other to the south, and their

line of separation coincides with a meridian circle.

* * * * *

But I see another, and much slower movement, very clearly defined.

The axis of rotation of the _photo-adumbrated sphere_ does not remain

parallel with the terrestrial axis of rotation; it retires from it

little by little, so as to form with it an angle which attains its

maximum at the summer solstice (21-22 June); afterwards, returning

upon itself, it coincides anew with the terrestrial axis of rotation

(the autumn equinox), to make an angle in the contrary direction,

whose maximum, of the same value as the former, corresponds to the

winter solstice (21-22 December). This movement, which is annual,

complicates itself with the diurnal. It is rendered visible by

the displacement of the polar shroud of snow: the portion which,

at the moment of the spring equinox, belonged, in the northern

hemisphere, to the obscured hemisphere, moves onward, as a result

of the inclination of its axis, to become an integral part of the

illuminated hemisphere; while, at the same time, the portion which,

in the southern hemisphere, belonged to the illuminated hemisphere,

moves onward to become an integral part of the darkened hemisphere.

Owing to this displacement, the sun shows itself for six consecutive

months above the horizon, for the North Pole; at the spring equinox

it begins to rise, at the summer solstice it attains its maximum

elevation, and from the summer solstice it begins to decline. Thus,

then, we have in reality _a day six months long_, of which the

morning and the evening are the two equinoxes, its noon the summer

solstice.

In the same periods an exactly opposite order of things prevails in

the southern hemisphere.

Everything, even to the minutest detail, is in this way very clearly

explained. Two facts--like the touches of a painter's brush--suffice

to impress the whole upon the mind, namely:--

That, first, one half of the terrestrial surface is constantly

illuminated by the sun, while the other half remains in darkness;

That, secondly, the rotation of the earth upon its axis produces

day and night, by carrying from east to west the illuminated

hemisphere, always diametrically opposite to the darkened

hemisphere.

This being thoroughly understood, let us place ourselves in the

equatorial plane, so as to embrace at a single glance a quarter of

the illuminated and a quarter of the darkened hemisphere. If the

equator of the photo-adumbrated sphere perpetually coincided with the

terrestrial equator,--if, in other words, the earth, in revolving

round the sun, invariably occupied the plane of the Equator, which,

when prolonged, would pass through the centre of the illuminating

orb,--the diurnal rotation would not cease to divide equally the

light and the darkness over the earth's surface, as is shown in Fig.

42 _a_, where S indicates the sun, EE the terrestrial equator, and

N S the extremities (or North and South Poles) of the axis which

divides the globe into an illuminated and a darkened half. This

phenomenon of coincidence exists; but only for a very brief period,

and is only repeated twice a year,--that is, at the equinoxes. At

all other times, the equator of the photo-adumbrated sphere, in

whose plane the orb of light is situated, passes sometimes above and

sometimes below the terrestrial equator.

[Illustration: FIG. 42.--S, the Sun; EE, the Equator; N, North Pole;

S, South Pole.]

But this alternate movement of northern and southern declination has

its limits; it stops at 23° 27' 30" on either side of the Equator;

this, too, is the maximum of the distance which the imaginary axis

of the photo-adumbrated sphere retires from the axis of terrestrial

rotation; it is at the same time the value of the obliquity of the

ecliptic, or of the inclined plane which the earth traverses in its

annual movement of revolution.

Fig. 42 _b_, which represents the photo-adumbrated sphere at the

summer solstice, will enable the reader to comprehend with the utmost

facility the six months' day of the North Pole, coinciding with the

six months' night of the South Pole; for the triangle N C D indicates

the amount by which the illuminated moiety increases in the northern

hemisphere between the spring equinox and the summer solstice, the

amount being equal to that by which the adumbrated moiety overspreads

in a contrary direction the South Pole in the southern hemisphere.

The superfluous quantity of the photo-adumbrated sphere is _nil_ at

the apex of the two opposite triangles, or in the equinoctial region.

And then, in effect, both day and night are always twelve hours

long. Starting from the equinoctial line, we see how easy it is to

calculate for each locality the variable dimensions of the arc which

the sun, in its apparent course, traces above the horizon.

* * * * *

To see very distinctly the portion of the illuminated hemisphere,

which, passing beyond the North Pole, forms a luminous course on

the darkened moiety of our globe, I have but to place myself at

midnight, on the 21st of June, in the prolongation of the terrestrial

equator; in the same way, to see the corresponding portion of the

darkened hemisphere, which advances beyond the South Pole to invade

the illuminated, I have but to occupy at noon, on the 21st of June, a

point of the same equatorial prolongation. Six months later, the same

spectacle will be presented, inversely, on the 21st of December, in

the southern hemisphere. See Fig. 43 _a_, where the pole N indicates

the six months' day of the northern hemisphere (from the spring to

the autumn equinox); while in Fig. 43 _b_, the pole S indicates the

six months' night of the northern hemisphere (during the same period).

[Illustration: FIG. 43.--The Six Months' Day and Night.]

Now, no effort of the imagination is required to understand why the

inhabitants of the northern hemisphere enjoy summer while those of

the southern are enduring winter; why it is "blossoming spring"

to the former when it is "purple autumn" to the latter, and _vice

versâ_. Equally easy is it to comprehend why, after the equinox,

_day_, or the duration of the sun above the horizon, gradually

diminishes in one hemisphere and increases in the other; why, in

summer, and in both hemispheres, the longest days alternate with the

shortest nights, and in winter, the longest nights with the shortest

days. It will not be more difficult to explain the cause of the

prevailing cold in the polar zones, despite the prolonged sojourn of

the sun above the horizon for a great part of the year. Observe how

obliquely the solar rays are directed towards yonder shrouds of ice

and snow: how can they warm them? They nearly all vanish into space.

(See Fig. 42.)

* * * * *

Finally, there is not a phenomenon, even to that of dawn and

twilight, which cannot, on these principles, be very fully and

clearly explained. I have indicated, in a preceding paragraph, the

rainbow-glories of colour noticeable on the line of demarcation

between the illuminated and the darkened hemispheres. They are

wanting where the rays of light strike vertically or nearly

vertically. It is this circumstance which explains why, in the

intertropical regions, the crepuscular phenomena are nearly null; why

the sun, so to speak, sets and rises abruptly, like a taper which

we extinguish or rekindle. These iris-gleams increase, on the other

hand, in intensity, in proportion as we recede from tropical regions:

the red touches the horizon, while the violet blends with the azure

of the sky; between these two extremes, which are always very clearly

marked, are arranged in less perceptible fashion, and in the order of

refraction, the other colours of the rainbow.

* * * * *

What time and labour does it not require for the mind to disengage,

to free itself from the fetters and incumbrances of sensorial

appearances, the illusions of the senses, and to rise sufficiently

high to seize at a glance all the dynamics of the world!

It is this faculty, however, which distinguishes the intellect from

the imagination.

That he may abandon himself to the enjoyment of those pleasures

which, like Dead Sea apples, crumble to ashes on his lips, the

fool puts aside all mental toil, and disregards the shortness of

his time,--ignores the brief period allowed for the development

of the understanding. But, at least, let Imagination abstain

from substituting its idle dreams for the assured results which

can be only the reward of reason, conscientiousness, and labour!

Unfortunately, here as elsewhere, it is _vox clamantis_, and we

preach in the desert!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 57: No one, I think, has ever before attempted to

reconcile, in this way, the two principal theories which have been

put forth on the propagation of light.]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

_WHAT MAY BE SEEN ON THE EARTH._

"Now the shining meads

Do boast the pansy, lily, and the rose,

And every flower doth laugh as zephyr blows."

--BEN JONSON.

[Illustration]

The Flower seems to have been created expressly to say to

men:--"Listen! Those things which most attract your glance are but

subordinate, and the principal escape you."

That the warning is true, all history attests. It is only, so to

speak, from yesterday that the discovery of the sex of plants is to

be dated; the tiny organs occupying the centre of the flower having

always appeared so insignificant that they had passed, for some

thousands of years, completely unnoticed. The eye of the spectator

was caught by the calyx and the corolla; these envelopes, though of

secondary importance so far as the reproduction of the vegetable is

concerned, seemed to eyes dazzled by their glowing colours the true

flower,--in fact, the _entire_ flower. Science, which is the slow

elaboration of thought matured by the study of objects of no human

origin, has completely swept aside this premature judgment.

THE PERIANTH.

We have already, and more than once, employed the word _perianth_[58]

to designate the calyx or corolla, whether taken separately or

together. In the former case, the _perianth_ is _simple_; in the

latter, it is _double_. A more appropriate word could not be made use

of. It is derived from the Greek πεσὶ, around, and ἃνθος,

flower; and literally signifies, "floral envelope." Simple or double,

this envelope is the metamorphosis of several leaves, never of a

solitary one, inserted upon planes so closely brought together that

they seem confounded. Observe, in fact, how the leaves tend to efface

their intervals on the blossom-bearing spray; they draw towards each

other, they are apparently in eager haste to accomplish their destined

transformation. What eloquence there is in this simple language of

nature!

* * * * *

_The Calyx._--The outermost whorl, or verticle, of the flower is

called the _calyx_. And why? Out of a notion altogether incorrect.

It is true that this foliaceous envelope may often assume the shape

of a cup (in Latin, _calix_), and hence that the name has about it a

semi-poetical air. But this only occurs when the calyx is composed of

a _single_ leaf, which has procured for it the special designations

of _monosepalous_, _gamopetalous_, and _monophyllous_,--three

different words expressing one and the same thing! The violet and

the primrose are examples of a monophyllous, monosepalous, or

gamopetalous calyx.

I see, dear reader, that you are puzzled by the word _sepal_.

Certainly you would look for it in vain in any classical dictionary;

it is neither Greek nor Latin. It was only invented, scarce a century

ago, by a Swiss botanist, whose works have chiefly remained in

manuscript,--by Necker, brother of the celebrated minister of Louis

XVI., and uncle of the illustrious Madame de Staël. Let me explain

the circumstance which determined, I suspect, the choice of this

fanciful word,--a word belonging to no language but that of modern

botanists.

The botanists of antiquity called the coloured leaflets of the

corolla, _petals_. In this they were doubly right; for, first, they

are, in reality, nothing but metamorphosed leaves; second, the word

_petal_ (in Greek, πέταλον) signified "a leaf" as early as the days

of Homer, who, when speaking of the nightingale, says, like a keen

observer of nature, that this bird, on the return of spring, sings--

"Couched among the thick leaves of the grove."

(Δενδρέων ἐν πετάλοισι καθεζομένη

πυκινοῖσιν.)[59]

The word _petal_ was preserved by Tournefort, handed down by Linnæus

and the two De Jussieus, and afterwards adopted by all botanists with

the signification given to it by the ancients. Now, as the calyx may

also consist of leaflets, which are generally green, Necker conceived

the idea of applying to them the same term, after substituting an

_s_ for the initial letter _p_. Thus was created the word _sepal_.

The innovation, I must point out, was not unanimously adopted. Many

botanists continued to use the words "calicinal leaflets," introduced

by Linnæus; others, though they adopted the innovation, protested

against it.

But leaving the _word_, let us return to the _thing_.

The calyx consists originally of several leaflets. Is the

monophyllous or monosepalous calyx a transformation due to the

junction of the primitive leaflets? Observation replies in the

affirmative.

In the formation of junctures or adhesions nature proceeds from

beneath to above. Our language proceeds inversely to nature: we speak

of a lobed, dentated, or partite calyx, as if it were primarily

monophyllous, and its more or less profound divisions (indicated

by the words "lobed," "dentated," "partite") were but consecutive

results, produced from above to below.

The truth is, that the calicinal divisions, which we call _lobes_,

_lacinias_, and the like, are but the tops of leaflets united

at their base. The monophyllous calyx (formed of one piece) is,

therefore, simply the result of a more or less complete union of the

leaflets composing, properly speaking, the calicinal whorl. This

whorl is originally _polyphyllous_; that is to say, formed of several

distinct parts. If it were, in the first place, _monophyllous_, it

would be impossible to understand how its divisions are made from top

to bottom, since nature, in its developments, proceeds from bottom

to top. In the final analysis, then, it is an error to consider the

calyx as a cup, primarily formed of a single piece.

* * * * *

Grew, an English botanist of the eighteenth century, seems to have

been the first who made use of the word _calyx_. "I call a calyx,"

he says,[60] "the external portion of the flower, which enfolds

the others, whether it be all in one piece, as in the violets, or

divided, as in the roses."

* * * * *

If we wish to conform to the truth, as brought before us by nature,

we must revolutionize our terminology. Instead of speaking of

bipartite, tripartite, quadripartite, or of bilobed and trilobed

calices,--terms all signifying that the monophyllous calyx is cloven

more or less deeply from top to bottom, we must say that the calyx

in such and such a species has its leaflets united at the base, or

one third, fourth, or half of its height; the _polyphyllous_ or

_polysepalous_ calyx will be that whose leaflets remain detached,

as was the case in the monophyllous or monosepalous calyx. This

language, recommended by the authority of Auguste Saint-Hilaire,

would be more precise and exact: therefore, it will not be very

quickly adopted. One would say that the human mind condemns itself

to pass through the purgatory of what is false and complex, before

resolving to adopt the simple and the true.

* * * * *

If we admit the theory according to which all the organs of the

vegetable are the result of a metamorphosis of the leaf, we shall

ask what place is to be given to the calyx in the series of these

transformations?--Answer: The calyx is a foliaceous transformation,

intermediary between the bracts and the corolla.

* * * * *

It is particularly in the study of the calyx that the attentive eye

is struck by those proteiform movements in which nature makes sport

of our absolute rules.

For example: in the _Berberis vulgaris_, the young calicinal

leaflets have less resemblance to the bracts than to the petals of

the corolla, and hence they have received the name of _petaloid

sepals_. In other flowers this morphogenic wavering inclines towards

the bracts rather than towards the corolla. We hesitate, therefore,

whether we must give the name of _calyx_ or _bracts_ to the three

under leaflets which are visible beneath the petaloid envelope of

the _Anemone nemorosa_, or wood anemone. The calyx of the Celandine

(_Ranunculus ficaria_), which also flowers in spring, is exactly like

a whorl or involucre formed by the union of the bracts.

A similar embarrassment takes place when the calyx, in its

metamorphosis, inclines too visibly in the direction of the corolla.

Thus, in the _Polygala vulgaris_,--a little, vivacious, and very

abundant plant,--the two inner leaflets of the calyx are not only

larger than the three other outer leaves, but they are coloured like

the petals, and become, towards the close of their flowering time,

membranous, herbaceous, and marked with three strong veins: they

resemble the wings of a butterfly, and have been called wings.

These peculiarities are useful in the distinction of certain species,

which, at bottom, are simply varieties. Thus, in the _Polygala

Austriaca_ (_Polygala amara_ of Keoch, _Polygala uliginosa_ of

Reichenbach),--a plant with small white or bluish leaves, which is

sometimes met with on the borders of peaty swamps,--the central vein

or ridge of the wings is simple, and never anastomoses with the

lateral veins; while, in the _Polygala vulgaris_, as well as in the

_Polygala depressa_ and _Polygala amarella_, the vein is ramified,

and anastomoses more or less widely with the laterals.

* * * * *

But since we are upon this subject, why should we not seize the

opportunity of familiarising ourselves, under the form of a

digression, with the little family of the Polygalaceæ? But no; we

will adjourn the episode, since it would cut the thread of our

discourse upon the calyx, our _calicology_.

* * * * *

Some calices there are, which, by their colouring, approximate so

closely to the second floral envelope, that one is always tempted to

call them corollas.

Such are:--The red calyx of the fuchsia;

The yellow calyx of the furze (_Ulex Europæus_), and of a kind of

hellebore (_Helleborus hyemalis_);

The rosy calyx of the Christmas rose (_Helleborus niger_);

The blue calyx of the larkspur (_Delphinium Ajacis_); and the Napel

aconite (_Aconitum Napellus_).

In the _Aquilegia vulgaris_, and in the _Trollius Europæus_, the

calyx, by the form and colouring of its leaflets, is confounded with

the second whorl so completely, that Linnæus gave it the name of

_corolla_.

Nevertheless, in the midst of these waverings, which lead us to

mistake the calicinal leaflets sometimes for bracts, sometimes for

petals, we recognise perfectly the foliaceous type. Independently

of its colour, which is generally green, the calyx has the same

organisation as the leaf; we find in it the same tracheæ and the

same stomata, the same glands and the same hairs; the veins and

ramifications are also the same; and, in more than one instance,

the calicinal leaflet resumes the character of a veritable leaf.

Look, for example, at the five leaflets, united so strongly at the

base but so free at the top, arranged in the form of a quincunx, of

the hundred-leaved rose. The two external, enlarged, and lanceolate

pieces are garnished on the right and left, and often at the point,

with tiny foliaceous appendages, which, in every respect, imitate the

composite leaf that carries the slender stem. And if we move aside

the external or bearded parts of the calyx, we see that the internal

bear less and less resemblance to a leaf. Thus, the part which

comes next is _semi-bearded_; that is to say, it is furnished with

foliaceous appendages only on one side; and the two upper pieces are

_beardless_, that is, reduced to the dilated central vein.

It was these metamorphic forms of the free portion of the calicinal

foliola (united below) of the rose, which originated a well-known

enigma, conveyed in the following Latin distich:--

"Quique sumus fratres, unus barbatus et alter,

Imberbes duo, sum semi-berbes duo, sum semi-berbes ego."

("We are brothers, both bearded, two beardless; I am two

half-bearded, and I myself am half-bearded.")

They are specially noticeable in a variety of the Rose of Bengal, in

which all the petals seem to be transformed into calicinal leaves.

(Fig. 44.)

* * * * *

The part of the calyx formed by the union of the sepals is called the

_tube_: it is invariably the lower part. The upper portion, where the

sepals are free, is the _limb_.

Throughout the vegetable kingdom you will not find a calyx in which

the union of the sepals takes place at the top.

This time, at all events, we have found--what is exclusively rare in

nature--a rule without an exception.

Generally, it is almost impossible to disunite, without rending, the

foliola composing the tube of the calyx, their union is so complete.

This circumstance prevented the first observers from accurately

apprehending the composition and true development of the calyx. There

are cases, nevertheless, in which Nature--the coquette!--suffers

herself to be surprised, if her lover have patience. As an example we

shall cite the monophyllous calyx of the Œnotheræ.

[Illustration: FIG. 44.--Rose of Bengal.]

Let us take the species known as _Œnothera biennis_. It belongs,

with the fuchsia, circæa, trapa, and others, to the Evening Primrose

family, or Onograceæ.

Its pale yellow blossoms are unfolded during the hush of evening-time

in almost every garden, shedding abroad on the breeze its delicate

but delicious odour. Its petals open in a remarkable manner. The

calyx, as we shall see, has small hooks attached to its upper

extremity, by which it holds the flower together before expansion.

The calicinal divisions gradually unfold at the lower part, and

reveal the yellow flower, which remains awhile closed at the upper

parts of the hooks. The flower then suddenly opens half-way, when it

stops; afterwards completing its expansion gradually, and finally

opening with a loud noise.

This curious plant is of American origin, and was unknown in

our country until 1674, when it was introduced by some French

floriculturists.

It opens generally at about six or seven o'clock in the evening.

And this statement induces me to digress. Where can I better

introduce to the reader's notice a Floral Dial? It is not so complete

as it might be made if I had space to enlarge upon the subject. My

object, however, is simply to _suggest_; and this brief allusion to

the hours at which flowers fold and unfold may induce the reader to

study in more detail a very pleasant branch of botanical science. He

will find full particulars in Mr Loudon's excellent "Encyclopædia of

Gardening."

It is generally stated that the first Floral Dial, or clock, which

showed the time by the opening or shutting up of blossoms throughout

the day, was a fancy or invention of the great Swedish naturalist,

Linnæus. But there is a distinct allusion to this poetical

measurement of the "fleeting hours" in Marvell's poem on "The

Garden:"--

"How well the skilful gardener drew

By flowers and herbs this dial new!

Where, from above, the milder sun

Does through a fragrant zodiac run;

And, as it works, the industrious bee

Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours

Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers?"

Whether the idea first occurred to Englishman or Swede, poet or

botanist, matters but little; it is a graceful, a suggestive, a

beautiful idea, and might well be reproduced in some of our large

public gardens.

"'Twas a lovely thought to mark the hours,

As they floated in light away,

By the opening and the folding flowers,

As they laugh to the summer's day.

"Thus had each moment its own rich hue,

And its graceful cup and bell,

In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew,

Like a pearl in an ocean shell."

FLORAL DIAL.

TIME AT WHICH THE FOLLOWING FLOWERS FOLD AND UNFOLD.

Open. Close.

H. M. H. M.

P.M. A.M.

Goat's Beard (Lat. syn. _Tragopogon luteum_), 9.10 3.5

Late-flowering Dandelion (_Leontodon serotinum_), 12.1 4.0

Hawkweed (_Picris echioides_), 12.0 4.5

Alpine Hawk's-beard (_Crepis Alpina_), 12.0 4.5

Wild Succory (_Cichorium intybus_), 7.0 5.0

Naked-stalked Poppy (_Papaver nudicaule_), 7.8 5.0

Copper-coloured Day-lily (_Hemerocallis fulva_), 11.12 5.0

Smooth Sow-thistle (_Sonchus lævis_), 12.0 5.0

Blue-flowered Sow-thistle (_Sonchus Alpinus_), 4.5 5.6

Field Bindweed (_Convolvulus arvensis_), 10.0 5.6

Common Nipplewort (_Lapsana communis_), 4.5 6.7

Spotted Cat's-ear (_Hypochæris maculata_), 5.0 7.0

White Water-lily (_Nymphæa alba_), 10.0 7.0

Garden Lettuce (_Lactuca sativa_), 3.4 7.0

African Marigold (_Tagetes erecta_), 2.0 8.0

Mouse-ear Hawkweed (_Hieracium piloscella_), 2.0 8.0

Proliferous Pink (_Dianthus proliferus_), 1.0 8.0

Field Marigold (_Calendula arvensis_), 3.0 9.0

Purple Sandwort (_Arenaria purpurea_), 2.3 9.10

Creeping Mallow (_Malva Caroliniana_), 12.1 9.10

Chickweed (_Stellaria media_), 9.10 9.10

After this long digression, we return to our Evening Primrose.

Its large yellow flowers are disposed in clusters at the top of a

stem often twenty inches long. The Pythagorean tetrad (_i.e._, the

number 4 and its double) predominates in all its organs: 4 stigmata

crowning a filiform stylus; quadrangular capsule with 4 polyspermous

lobes; opening at top by the separation of 4 valves; twice 4 stamens;

4 petals on a large, emarginated limb; 4 sepals. These are united at

the base, but not so as to prevent the observer from distinguishing

their number.

The general terms "regular" and "irregular," applied to the calyx,

as to every other organ, require to be employed with considerable

reserve. The delicate shades, which ought to separate regularity from

irregularity, are often so inappreciable that it is almost impossible

to say where one begins and the other ends. See, for example, the

Labiatæ. In most genera and species of this family, the two lips,

one of which consists of two and the other of three foliola, bring

out very completely the inequality of the calyx. But there are also

Labiatæ, the inequality of whose sepals completely effaces the

character of the irregular bilabiated calyx.

In certain inflorescences, where the flowers comprising them are

very close together, as, for example, in the capitules of the

Synantheraceæ, the free upper portions of the calyx may take the

most irregular forms; as, sometimes, a tuft, simple or feathery;

sometimes, membranous or scarious spangles; and, sometimes, bristles

of greater or less stiffness. What elements of the calyx do these

transformations represent? The veins, and notably the midrib of the

limb of the sepals, united underneath.

The free foliola of the _polyphyllous_ calyx may vary in form, like

the caulinary leaves whence they issue by way of metamorphosis; they

may be oval, elliptical, linear, &c. Yet none have ever been observed

of a heart-shape (_cordiform_).

Certain foliola of the polyphyllous calyx affect fantastic outlines.

In the _Delphinium_, the upper sepal is prolonged into a spur. In the

aconites it is hollow like a helmet. The spur of the calyx of the

monk's-hood (_Capucine_) is the result of the united prolongation of

these foliola. The buckler (_Scutellum_), from which is named the

_Scutellaria_, a genus of Labiatæ, is a demi-orbicular boss formed

below the inferior lip of the calyx.

* * * * *

The union of the calicinal foliola sometimes forms a conical calyx,

as in the _Silena conica_, and sometimes a cup-shaped calyx, as

in the orange; sometimes, moreover, an urceolate calyx, as in the

henbane (_Hyosciamus niger_). These forms may vary singularly. The

calyx of the black alder (_Rhamnus frangula_) is shaped like a top;

that of the haricot (_Phaseolus vulgaris_), like a bell; that of the

tobacco-plant, or the _Mollucella spinosa_, is infundibuliform (or

funnel-shaped).

[Illustration: FIG. 45.--The Henbane.]

The observer is sometimes embarrassed in deciding to which whorl he

should refer the foliola he is examining. Thus, the tiny foliola

which, in the strawberry and the potentilla, alternate with others

and larger ones, are stipules rather than sepals. Ought the sepals

of the calyx in the Malvaceæ to be assimilated in like manner to the

stipules? It is difficult to reply to this question satisfactorily.

Take, for example, the _Hibiscus Syriacus_, an ornamental shrub,

better known by the name of the garden-hemp. The inner calyx, or

calyx properly so called, of this Malvacea has five sepals, while

the outer calyx, or calicule, has twelve. Now, a leaf cannot have

more than two stipules, one on each side. For an outer calyx, then,

the proper number of foliola is ten, not twelve. To look upon the

second calyx as a "supernumerary development," would be to hazard a

supposition contrary to the unity of plan of the floral organs.

* * * * *

The calyx, like the corolla, is not an absolutely indispensable

organ. Sometimes, therefore, it is _caducous_--that is, falls off

before the flower expands,--as in poppies; sometimes, _persistent_,

or remains after flowering,--as in roses and the majority of

plants. In some cases it is persistent only until after the act of

fecundation, but this act accomplished, it falls with the corolla in

most of the Cruciferæ and Ranunculaceæ. This is a _deciduous_ calyx.

The "caducity" and "persistency" of floral envelopes furnish some

valuable characteristics for the distinction of species. Thus, two

closely-allied Cruciferæ, the _Alyssum calicinum_, so common in

spring upon stony soils, and the _Alyssum montanum_, can only be

distinguished from one another by the fact that the calyx of the

former is persistent, of the latter caducous. It is true that the

flowers of the _Alyssum calicinum_ are of a yellow which easily

passes into white, while those of the _Alyssum montanum_ are of a

beautiful permanent yellow. But this latter distinction is not so

good as the former.

The persistent calyx sometimes assumes a considerable increase of

very common appearance. For example, take the _Physalis alkekengi_,

a member of the Nightshade family or Solanaceæ. The red bladder-like

accrescence surrounding the scarlet fruit is the calyx, which, after

flowering, has grown much larger than it was before. And these

bright flowers which resemble large strawberries, and abound on the

borders of meadow-paths, if you look at them closely, you find to be

the accrescent calices of the _Trifolium fragiferum_. The very word

_fragiferum_ reminds us of the strawberry.

The calyx may change in consistency and texture in proportion as

the ovary, to which it adheres, changes into fruit. The fleshy

pulpy substance of the apple, and, in general, of the fruits of

the Pomaceæ, is simply an excessive development of the calicinal

tube united all around the ovary, and recognisable in the pips,

imprisoned, towards the centre, in horny lobes. In other plants, as

the flower develops into fruit, the calyx becomes woody: such is the

case with the Water Chestnut (_Trappa natans_).

Finally, the calyx may even contribute to the dissemination of the

seed. We may cite, as an example, a Brazilian species of Urticaceæ,

which Saint-Hilaire named the _Elasticaria_. The fleshy and

cylindrical parts of the calyx are curved inwards, and thus defend,

as one might do with one's bended fingers, the young fruit until it

is completely developed; as soon as the fruit is ripe, they spring up

erect, and launch it to a distance.

* * * * *

_The Corolla._--If from the circumference we proceed to the centre

of the flower, the calyx being the first, the _corolla_ will be its

second envelope.

If, on the contrary, we proceed from the centre to the circumference,

the corolla will form the fourth whorl; the pistil (consisting of

stigmata, stylus, and ovary) being the first; the nectariferous

disc (often wanting) the second; and the stamens the third whorl.

Remarkable for its varied tints, the corolla, to indifferent or

ignorant eyes, seems the entire flower.

A black or blackish colour is exceedingly rare. Out of 300 vegetable

species which compose the flora of Central Europe, there are not six

with blackish or even grayish flowers. No hypothesis has yet been put

forward to explain this mark-worthy rarity.

Species with a yellow corolla are the most numerous, forming more

than a sixth of the European flora: then come, in their order of

frequency, species with green, white, red, and blue flowers; the

white increasing in number as we approach the Pole.

Dividing the flora into twenty parts, we may ascribe to each colour,

and its various tints, the following proportion:--

Yellow, 6.0

Green, 4.50

White, 4.0

Red, 3.50

Blue, 1.50

Black, 0.50

The analogy between the parts or _petals_ of the corolla and the

leaf, is perhaps not quite so striking as between the leaf and the

_sepals_ of the calyx. The phrase "rose-leaves" is an expression

consecrated by immemorial usage. Why not prefer the term "corollary

leaves or leaflets (_foliola_)" to that of petals?

The corollary leaves, or petals, are organised like true leaves.

They have the same system of venation; their _lamina_ correspond

to the "limb," or "blade;" and their _unguis_, or "claw," to the

"petiole," or stalk. (See Fig. 46, _a_.) The upper margin of petals

is frequently more obtuse than the overspreading margin of the blade

of a leaf, which, in most cases, is pointed. Non-_unguiculate_ petals

represent the _sessile_ leaves. (Fig. 46, _b_.) Their form is much

more varied than that of the calicinal foliola, which are never

unguiculate or petiolated.

[Illustration: FIG. 46, _a_.--Unguis of the Corolla.

FIG. 46, _b_.--A Sessile Petal.]

The petal is defined as _regular_ when its two halves, folded

one upon another at the midrib, exactly cover each other; in the

opposite case it is called _irregular_. In certain species, the

petals are furnished with characteristic appendages. But observe,

these appendages, which generally affect the form of a spur, have no

character of generality. Thus, for example, in the violet, a single

petal is prolonged into a spur below its point of attachment; in

larkspur, and the other _Delphiniums_, there are two which terminate

in the same manner; in the _Aquilegia vulgaris_, all the petals are

_calcarate_ (_calcar_, a spur).

According as the veins of the petal proceed in a straight or curved

direction, its limb may be flat, or concave, or hollowed like

a boat--_i.e._, _cymbiform_ (_cymba_, a boat), or _naviculate_

(_navis_, a ship), or like a spoon, _cochleariform_ (_cochleare_, a

spoon). When the spur is very short, as in Antirrhinum and Valerian,

the corolla or petal is termed _gibbous_ (_gibbus_, a swelling), or

_saccate_ at the base.

If a petal continue narrow, so as to seem formed by the prolongation

of the claw, it is called _linear_; if the limb be prolonged below,

so as to form two lobes, it is _cordate_, as in _Genista caudicans_;

or if the lobes be acute, it may be _sagittate_ or _hastate_.

* * * * *

The _number_ of petals varies from two to twelve, and more. A corolla

with a single petal, _unipetalous_, which we must not confound with

the _monopetalous_ corolla, is a monstrosity, created by defective

development; the other petals or foliola are abortive. A corolla with

two petals, or _dipetalous_, as in _Circæa Lutetiana_, is rare. A

_tripetalous_ corolla occurs only when the calyx has likewise three

foliola. But in this instance opinions are divided: the majority

will not admit more than a single floral envelope,--a perianth of

six foliola, of which three, herbaceous and internal, alternate with

three petaloid and external.

Many of our aquatic plants may be quoted as examples: such as the

_Butomus umbellatus_, or flowering rush; the little frog-bit, or

_Hydrocharis morsus ranæ_; and the water plantain, _Alisma plantago_.

The _tetrapetalous_ (or four-petalled) corolla is usually arranged

like a cross, and is much more frequent than the _dipetalous_ or

_tripetalous_; for examples, we need only refer to the large and

important family of the Cruciferæ.

The number five (_pentapetalous_) is still more common; but we meet

with it in other organs besides petals, and it seems particularly

characteristic of the vegetable kingdom.

Thus, all the Umbelliferæ have five sepals, five petals, and five

stamens; in all the Crassulaceæ, the number five applies, not only to

the sepals and the petals, as well as to the stamens, but also to the

carpels which compose the ovary.

Corollas with six, eight, nine, ten, or twelve petals are relatively

rarer; and when the petals become so numerous that we cannot count

them, we have to deal with transformations of stamens into petals,

with those monstrosities of cultivation which we call double flowers,

_flores pleni_, where all the male organs have disappeared,--flowers

wholly unfit for fructification.

The petals of the corolla are not always free. Like those of the

calyx, they may be attached to one another by their edges, but this

union invariably takes place, as in the former, from bottom to top.

Therefore, we never see any petals united at the top, and disengaged

at the bottom (see Fig. 47, _a_.) But the reader must take careful

note that this invariable characteristic is not peculiar only to the

floral envelopes; it is not met with in the stamens, for these may

be united, either by their anthers, as in the whole family of the

Synantheræ, or by their filaments, as in the Leguminosæ. And what

we have said of the stamens applies also to the parts constituting

the pistil. This radical difference between the perianth and the

true reproductive organs ought, from the beginning, to have fixed

the attention of botanists on the centripetal and centrifugal

metamorphosis of the leaf, which we have spoken of in "The Circle of

the Year."

[Illustration: FIG. 47, _a_.--Natural junction of Petal.]

[Illustration: FIG. 47, _b_.--Unnatural (and impossible) junction.]

* * * * *

In many plants we are permitted to follow step by step, as it were,

the union of the petals, and their definitive transformation into

what is called the _monopetalous_ corolla. The term _monopetaloid_

ought then to be rejected, if we are to believe that the

_monopetalous_ corolla is the result of the metamorphosis of a

single leaf. The word _gamopetalous_, or, rather, _gamophyllous_,

is preferable. As we have remarked in reference to the calyx, we

shall here repeat that the expressions _bilobed_, _trilobed_,

_quadrilobed_, or _bipartite_, _tripartite_, _quadripartite_

corollas, are radically vicious, because they are the consequence of

a false point of view, according to which the _monopetalous_ corolla

will be simply a single metamorphosed leaf, susceptible of being more

or less deeply divided from top to bottom.

The polypetalous corolla, as well as the gamophyllous corolla,

may be regular or irregular, according as the foliola are equally

or unequally united. But here again we must be careful not to lay

down too absolute rules. Examine, for instance, the gamophyllous

corolla of the gentians; their two lobes are very unequal, and yet

the corolla is regular: five very large lobes alternate with five

very small, in such wise that each of the latter is situated between

two larger lobes. Each division of the corolla of the periwinkle is

irregular, and yet the aggregate of their divisions is regular: these

are all of the same form and the same size.

In the gamophyllous corolla we are able to discern, through the

different forms it assumes, the form of the parts which compose

the union. Thus, for example, the _tubulate_ corolla supposes the

pre-existence of unguiculate petals.

* * * * *

Inequality of union produces the _bilabiate_ corolla, which is

invariably tubular. This is the case in the natural family of the

Labiatæ. The upper lip is composed of two petals, and the lower of

three. The parts of the upper are sometimes so closely joined that

they appear to be but one, as in the _Lamium_; and the lower often

becomes quadrilobed by the division of the middle petal, as in the

_Stæcha_.

In the labiated corolla, the mouth of the tube is open, while in

the _personate_ or _masked_ (_persona_, a mask) it is closed by

the pressure of the lower lip against the upper; as in Snapdragon

and Frogsmouth, the projection of the lower lip being called the

_palate_. By this feature the family of the Scrophulariaceæ is

easily distinguished from that of the Labiatæ.

In some corollas, the two lips are hollowed out in a very singular

fashion, as in the Calceolaria; assuming a "slipper-like appearance,"

similar to what takes place in the labellum of certain orchids,--to

wit, the _Cypripedium_. These _calceolate_ (_calceolus_, a slipper)

corollas may be looked upon as consisting of two slipper-like lips.

* * * * *

The forms of the bilabiate, tubular, and ligulose florets, of the

capitula of the Synantheræ, are likewise due to simple differences of

union. The floscular capitulum comprises the tubular florets, and the

semi-floscular capitulum, the ligulate florets; the radiate capitulum

consists of florets ligulate or bilabiate at the circumference, and

of tubular florets over the rest of the receptacle. By considering

the capitula, as the vulgar do, to be flowers, Tournefort introduced

considerable confusion into the nomenclature of the Synantheræ.

SUMMER FLOWERS.

"Dawn, gentle flower,

From the morning earth!

We will gaze and wonder

At thy wondrous birth!

"Bloom, gentle flower,

Lover of the light,

Sought by wind and shower,

Fondled by the night!"[61]

THE PRUNELLA, OR SELF-HEAL.

[Illustration: FIG. 48.--"Rejoicing in the shade of over-arching

elms."]

In your summer-walks, dear reader,--summer-walks through green lanes

rejoicing in the shade of over-arching elms, or along woodland

glades, carpeted with odorous turf,--you must frequently have met

with an herbaceous plant, whose purple-blue flowers, arranged in

regular succession, form the prettiest coloured cones imaginable at

the extremity of the stem and branches. To this plant, the self-heal,

we shall return immediately. Perhaps you have passed it by somewhat

indifferently, for we pay little heed to common things, and on the

threshold of woods, and in their winding avenues, the self-heal

is very common. The celebrated German botanist, Bock (or Tragus)

bestowed upon it, two centuries before the epoch of Linnæus, the name

of _Prunella vulgaris_. The specific appellation, _vulgaris_, is here

employed very appropriately, but we should commit a grave error if we

supposed every species qualified as _vulgaris_ to be "common." For

example, the _Lysimachia vulgaris_, a species of Primulaceæ, is far

from being found everywhere.

Pray, take the trouble to pick one lowly specimen; being specially

careful to take up the whole plant, stem, root, and branch. Lying

along the ground, it seems larger than it really is. Its root is

a creeper; at the level of the insection of the leaves some small

shoots project, the fibrous radicles which compel the lower part of

the stem to crawl like the bugle, _Ajuga reptans_.

Does the prunella belong to the family of Labiatæ, like the bugle?

[Illustration: FIG. 49.--The Prunella.]

See for yourself. The stem is quadrangular; the branches and leaves

composed of two lips. The stamens are four in number, two of which

are longer than the others; finally, by means of a lens, you can

easily distinguish, at the very bottom of the calyx, four tiny seeds

(a _tetrachænium_) grouped around the style. These features indicate

that our plant belongs, in effect, like the bugle, to the Labiatæ

family.

But mark the difference. In the bugle, as in all the species of the same

genus (_Ajuga_), as well as in all the _Teucriums_--of which wild sage

(_Teucrium scorodonia_) is the most widely-diffused type--in all the

Labiatæ, the corolla is apparently _unilabiate_,--that is to say, the

upper lip is so shortened that only the lower is prominently visible.

This is not the case with our self-heal: it is distinctly bilabiate. The

upper lip of the corolla here forms a positive _hood_, sufficiently ample

to protect the didynamous stamens (two long and two short), as in Fig.

50, _a_; the lower lip is three-lobed, and the central lobe is largest of

the three. By separating the two lips, you can see the two short stamens

fixed to the base of the lower one, and the two long attached to the

central part of the upper. (See Fig. 50, _b_.)

[Illustration: FIG. 50.--The Lips of the _Prunella vulgaris_.]

Let us pursue the analysis of the flowery cone you hold in your hand.

The least practical eye is immediately struck by the arrangement of

the parts and the variety of the colours. To recognise these things

more thoroughly, please to cast your glances alternately from the top

to the base, and from the base to the apex of its terminal flower. A

little below the base you will see a pair of opposite, entire, and

sinuous leaves, with shorter stalks than any of the others. The base

is defined by two opposite, whitish, and nearly triangular leaves,

with green points. The top of the floral spike is likewise marked by

a couple of bracts; but these are much smaller, and red-coloured,

like the two leaves of the calyx. The interval is occupied by bracts,

which diminish in size from the base to the top of the spike; on a

level with each pair six flowers are inserted, three for each bract.

The flowers, thus arranged by whorls, present some interesting

peculiarities. The lower and upper show only their reddish calices;

the middle, for the most part, display both a calyx and a corolla,

varying from blue to pale-rose, which gives the plant a very peculiar

appearance. In the under flowers, the corolla has already fallen;

by separating the lips of the calyx, you may catch sight of the

tetrachænium, that is, the four-seeded fruit, which is developed at

the bottom of the tube. In the upper flowers, the corolla is not yet

expanded. It resembles a small deep-coloured globe; you may say an

eye, a bull's-eye, which, from the depths of the calyx, regards you

with a piercing glance. Hence, perhaps, the French name for this

plant, _prunelle_, an eye.

* * * * *

We often meet with a variety of self-heal with a white corolla,

green calyx, and pinnatifid leaves, a variety of which some

botanists have erroneously made a separate species, under the name

of _Prunella alba_. It is equally wrong, in our opinion, to convert

the large-flowered variety into a distinct species, by taking as its

specific character the _lateral cleft of the upper lip of the calyx

overlapping the middle cleft_; for this same characteristic is found

in many individuals of the common species. The _dentiform appendage_

which the two longest stamens exhibit at the top of their filaments

is also an uncertain feature; you must have recourse to your

magnifying-glass to see if this appendage is _obtuse_ and very short,

as in the large-flowered prunella, or _sharp_, as in the common

species. As for the size of the corolla, it is, in fact, very marked;

but, as a characteristic, is wholly insufficient. The creation of the

varieties _Pinnatifida_, _Laciniifolia_, and _Integrifolia_ is no

better justified. For it is no rare thing to see on the same stalk,

at different heights, pinnatifid, whole, and laciniate leaves.

The prunella is remarkable for the long hairs which garnish the

calyx, and, principally, the edges of the bracts. Examined in the

microscope, they assume the form of tiny, pointed bamboos; the knots

bulge out a little, and the intervals are punctuated.

The botanists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are by no

means sparing in their eulogiums on the marvellous virtues of our

flower, which, by the way, Bock (Tragus) was the first to figure with

tolerable accuracy.[62]

Tournefort thus dwells upon its medicinal properties:--

"It forms an ingredient in arquebusade water and vulnerary potions.

It is ordered in possets and broths, in apozèmes for the spitting of

blood, dysentery, hæmorrhages, and the like. It has also been used

for ulcers in the mouth, and a remedy against headaches; after being

mixed with rose-oil and vinegar, the temples were bathed with it."

In the Pharmacopœia of to-day, however, it finds no place.

THE SCUTELLARIA.

At the first glance, the Scutellaria has no resemblance to the

prunella. Yet the classificators have united these plants in one

small tribe, under the name of _Scutellarinaceæ_. These are the

characters which they give to them: Lower or anterior stamens longer

than the superior or posterior; calyx closed at maturity by the

approximation of the two lips. The latter character is not nearly so

marked in the prunella as in the scutellaria.

[Illustration: FIG. 51.--_Scutellaria galericulata._]

The two commonest species of scutellaria in England are the

_Scutellaria galericulata_ and _Scutellaria minor_. They do not

inhabit the same localities. The former, which is at the same time

the commonest, grows on the river-banks, and especially delights in

the mould accumulated in the hollow trunks of old willows. It is

easily known by its tender blue corolla, but especially by its calyx,

which, after the fall of the corolla, develops itself in a singular

manner. If you compress its sides, it will open so as to disclose,

at the bottom of its throat, its seeds, which are white, red, or

brown, according to their degrees of maturity. (Fig. 52, _a_.) Now

look at these two _jaws_: the upper resembles a small helmet (Lat.

_galericula_), or, if you prefer it, a judge's cap. As for the lower,

it has exactly the shape of a shield (Lat. _scutum_),--whence its

name, _scutellaria_. (Fig. 52, _b_.) Thus, the emblems of military

and judicial rank are found united in the calyx of our pretty labiate.

[Illustration: FIG. 52.--Calyx of the Scutellaria.]

The second species (_Scutellaria minor_), rarer than the former,

is met with on the banks of ponds and in damp woodland paths. It

attracts your gaze by its tiny caps or helmets: the moment you see

it, you exclaim, "That's a scutellaria!" More diminutive in all its

parts than its congener, it is also distinguished by its whole leaves

(they are crenelated or dentate in the _Scutellaria galericulata_),

by its soft, rose-hued corolla, with brown lips coquettishly pointed

with red, and by its hairy calyx.

The _Scutellaria Columnæ_[63] is very rare. It may be recognised

by its erect stems and flowers of a bright violet hue, arranged in

terminal spikes and garnished with bracts; while the flowers are

axillary, and form no spike, in the two species above described.

The _Scutellariæ_ were first described with accuracy and classified

by Linnæus, who included them among his _Didynamia_, a class of

vegetables distinguished by the unequal length of the stamens.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

"Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse you, 'tis true;

Yet, wildlings of nature, I dote upon you,

For ye waft me to summers of old,

When the earth beamed around me with fairy delight,

And daisies and buttercups gladdened my sight,

Like treasures of silver and gold.

"Even now, what affections the violet awakes!

What loved little islands, far seen in the lakes,

Can the wild water-lily restore!

What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks!

What pictures of pebbles and minnowy brooks

In the vetches that tangle the shore!"[64]

[Illustration: FIG. 53.--"A loved little island, far seen in the

lake."]

"How beautiful," says Miss Pratt, in one of her agreeable little

books,[65]--"how beautiful are the little islands of the stream,

edged with the tall white meadow sweet, which sends its perfume

far up over the green lands that lie around, and contrasts with

the deep blue colour of the purple loose-strife! The willow herb,

or codlins-and-cream, as the children call it, grows in perfection

there; and there, too, bloom the little yellow water-flag, and the

vetches, and the rich water-lily, which, seated on its round leaf,

seems to swim over the crystal stream. The water-plantain, with its

numerous small pink blossoms, grows in thick clusters quite down in

the water, mingling with the white flowers and large spear-shaped

leaves of the arrow-head, or half shading the large cup of the

yellow water-lily. Then, too, the blue-eyed forget-me-not covers

the little isles in such abundance that many of them well deserve

the name of azure islands. The water-rat hides among the flowers,

nibbling with much glee at the arrow-head, or rushing out from under

its broad green leaves; and the water-fowl, followed by her young,

sails across the stream in all the stateliness of matron dignity;

and the little meek-eyed daisy grows beside the yellow velvet flower

of the silver-weed, or the blue blossoms and succulent leaves of the

brook-lime."

The _true_ Forget-me-not, _Myosotis palustris_, is invariably found

in marshy localities or on the banks of streams; but the Meadow

Scorpion-grass, _Myosotis arvensis_, is frequently mistaken for it.

The "genuine article" has a bright blue blossom, much smaller than,

but in shape something resembling, the primrose; in its bract it has

a drop of gold, and on each segment of the coloured portion of the

flower is a small streak or fleck of white.

Both the true forget-me-not and the false belong to the Borage

family, or Boraginaceæ, which includes sixty-seven known genera, and

nearly nine hundred species.

It is said that after the battle of Waterloo, a remarkable number of

forget-me-nots sprung up all over the fatal field. The circumstance

might well be made the theme of a poet's lay, were it not for a

suspicion that the little blue flowers belonged to the _Myosotis

arvensis_ species, and not to the _Myosotis palustris_.

But why _Myosotis_? This Greek compound surely means "mouse-ear,"

and what have these plants to do with the auricular organs of mice?

Why, their leaves were supposed to resemble in form the ear of _Mus

domesticus_. The name of "scorpion-grass" originated in the fact that

the top of the stem coils round while the buds are unblown, like a

scorpion's tail. It is strange how quick the common people have been

to detect these analogies, and to perpetuate them in the appellations

they have bestowed on the flowers of the meadow, the wood, and the

green lane.

The singularly beautiful name of the _Myosotis palustris_--we mean

its common and non-scientific name,--is ascribed, in a well-known

German legend, to the dying knight who, having ventured at a

dangerous spot to pluck a handful of the bright blue blossoms for

his lady-love, fell into the stream, and as he sank, flung the

dear-bought spoil towards her, exclaiming, "Forget me not!"

A more probable origin is suggested by Miss Strickland. "Henry of

Lancaster (Henry IV.)," she says, "appears to have been the person

who gave it its emblematical and poetical meaning, by uniting it, at

the period of his exile, with the initial letters of his watchword,

_Souveigne vous de moi_; thus rendering it the symbol of remembrance,

and, like the subsequent fatal roses of York and Lancaster and

Stuart, the lily of Bourbon, and the violet of Napoleon, an

historical flower."

* * * * *

We have said that the scorpion-grass belongs to the natural family

Boraginaceæ, which receives its name from the common borage, a bright

blue flower with very rough leaves. All its members are rough or

hairy, except those which, like the forget-me-not, become smooth

from living partly under water. The black stalks of the borage

burn, it is said, like match-paper, and its root enters largely

into the composition of rouge. Its flowers were at one time held

in great respect as a wholesome bitter ingredient for a tankard of

ale. According to Pliny, "if the leaves and flowers of the borage

be immersed in wine, and that wine drunken, the potion will make

men blithe and merry, and drive away all heavy sadness and dull

melancholy."

Burton, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," also says of it--

"Borage and hellebore fill two scenes,

Sovereign plants to purge the veins

Of melancholy, and cheer the heart

Of those black fumes which make it smart."

Most of the Boraginaceæ are weeds, but they include a few ornamental

garden-flowers; as, for example, the Peruvian heliotrope--the

"cherry-pie" of the children--which is well known for the fragrance

of its blue blossoms. Its Greek name refers to an ancient belief

that it always "turned" to meet the sun; but neither heliotrope nor

sunflower exhibits any such devotedness towards the great "orb of

day." The poet's comparison--

"As the sunflower turns to his God, when he sets,

The same look that he turned when he rose"--

is very pretty and suggestive, but unfortunately it is not true.

THE LILIES.

Are we justified in classing these among our summer flowers? Well,

the lily of the valley may, perhaps, be more justly claimed by

Spring, as it generally unveils its beauty in the month of May; but

the water-lily belongs to Summer; and, at all events, it will be most

convenient to speak of them in this category.

The lily of the valley (_Convallaria majalis_),--the May-lily of

old writers,--has long been a favourite type of retiring modesty

and tender loveliness. It affects the silence and solitude of

the woodlands, where, in the shadow of broad leaves and sweeping

branches, the inquiring botanist discovers--

"Like detected light,

Its little green-tipt lamps of white."

Shakspeare, who neglected nothing, refers to its gentle humility of

attitude:--

"Shipwrecked upon a kingdom where no pity,

No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me;

Almost no grave allowed me! like the lily

That once was mistress of the field, and flourished,

I'll hang my head and perish."

Our lily is a native of cold and temperate countries, and never

shakes its pendant bells at the bidding of a hot Eastern breeze.

It is very abundant in Norway. That agreeable writer and observant

traveller, Henry Inglis, says:--"It stood everywhere around, scenting

the air, and in such profusion, that it was scarcely possible to step

without bruising its tender stalks and blossoms. I have not seen this

flower mentioned in any enumeration of Norwegian plants, but it grows

in all the western parts of Norway in latitude 59° and 60°, wherever

the ground is free from forest, in greater abundance than any other

wild-flower."

As it will not live in hot countries, it cannot be the "lily of

the field" which furnished our Saviour with so fruitful a text for

warning and instruction. This, in all probability, was the yellow

amaryllis, or _Amaryllis lutea_, a flower bearing some resemblance

to our yellow crocus, but much larger, and with broader leaves.

Its delicate blossoms escape from an undivided spathe, or sheath,

and are bell-shaped, with six clefts and six stamens, which are

alternately short and long. The flower seldom rises more than three

or four inches above the soil, accompanied by green leaves, which,

after the flowering has passed, continue to preserve their freshness

throughout the winter.

But some authorities are not content with the yellow amaryllis, and

put forth as the _true_ "lily of the field," either the narcissus, or

the golden lily, or the stately crinum, according to their several

tastes.

* * * * *

Not connected with these flowers by any botanical relationship, and

surpassing them all in beauty, is the _Water-lily_ (_Nymphæa alba_),

whose large round leaves and full white blossoms are the glory of so

many of our secluded lakes and quiet streams. Everybody knows old

Izaak Walton's quaint eulogium on the strawberry: "Doubtless God

_could_ have made a better fruit, but doubtless He never hath." In

like manner I am inclined to say: "Doubtless God might have created a

fairer flower, but doubtless He never hath." Alas! like most things

rare and beautiful, its existence is very brief! pluck it, and

straightway it vanishes,--like a poet's dream, the moment he attempts

to realise it.

It is sometimes asserted of our wild water-lily that it retires below

the surface of the stream shortly after noon, remaining in the liquid

depths during night, and rising again into the light of day at early

dawn. Those who are acquainted with the haunts and habits of these

beautiful flowers know that this is not strictly correct, as they may

often be seen, "by the pale moonlight," lying folded above the water.

It is not impossible, however, that _some_ may sink; and certain it

is, that as the sun sets they close their silver vases.

[Illustration: FIG. 54.--"Brightened by the uplifted cups of our

delicate naiads."]

"Broad-leaved are they, and their white canopies

Are upward turned to catch the heaven's dew."

So says Keats; but this is true only while the sun is asserting

his supremacy in the azure sky. And then, the spectacle of a calm,

rush-fringed pool, nestling in the shadow of some ancient elms or

drooping willows, and brightened by the uplifted cups of our delicate

naiads, is a scene of surpassing beauty. We turn from this favourite

flower regretfully, "murmuring," as novelists say, Mrs Hemans's

graceful apostrophe:--

"Oh! beautiful thou art,

Thou sculpture-like and stately river queen,

Crowning the depths as with the light serene

Of a pure heart!

"Bright lily of the wave!

Rising in fearless grace with every swell,

Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave

Dwelt in thy cell!"

Permit me, reader, another quotation. I take it from your and my

favourite, Wordsworth:--

"Rapturously we gather flowery spoils

From land and water; lilies of each hue,

_Golden and white_, that float upon the waves,

And court the wind."

The lily of golden hue, the _yellow water-lily_, is the _Nuphar

lutea_ of botanists. The country people, on account of its

peculiar scent, most unpoetically call it "brandy-bottle." It is

far more plentiful than the regal nymphæa; its flower is not so

full of petals; and it is by no means so handsome. Yet, with its

smooth, glossy leaves, and golden cups, and long floating stems,

it favourably attracts the eye. We are told that "its roots are

nutritious, and are frequently powdered and eaten for bread in

Sweden;" that, mixed with the bark of the Scotch fir, they form a

cake much relished by the Swedes; in which case the Swedish palate

certainly cannot be censured as fastidious. "These roots are also

burnt on the hearths of farmhouses, because their smoke is reputed

to drive away the crickets, whose chirping is sometimes too loud

and shrill to be deemed musical." Assuredly this is untrue of many

parts of England, as the cricket is popularly supposed to be "lucky,"

and no old country-wife would allow it to be driven away from her

sanctum.

The water-lily of the East, the beautiful Lotus,--the _Nelumbium

speciosum_, which is figured on so many Egyptian and Indian

monuments,--is rich in blue and red, as well as in white blossoms.

These are said to sink quite below the surface in the evening and

during the night shadows; whence Moore says of them, with his

artificial prettiness--

"Those virgin lilies, all the night

Bathing their beauties in the lake,

That they may rise more fresh and bright

When their beloved sun's awake."

It was formerly abundant on the Nile, and the Egyptians consecrated

it to their supreme god, Osiris; but, with the splendour and

mysticism of ancient Egypt, it has completely passed away.

But it is scarcely less prized by the Hindus, who have also

consecrated it to one of their deities. A traveller thus speaks of

the sacred Ganges in connexion with it:--"The rich and luxuriant

clusters of the lotus float in quick succession upon the silvery

current. Nor is it the sacred lotus alone which embellishes the

wavelets of the Ganges; large white, yellow, and scarlet flowers

pay an equal tribute; and the prows of the numerous native vessels

navigating the stream are garlanded by long wreaths of the most

brilliant daughters of the parterre. India may be called a paradise

of flowers: the most beautiful lilies grow spontaneously upon the

sandy shores of the rivers, and from every projecting cliff some

shrub dips its flowers in the waters below."

No reader of English poetry but is familiar with Tennyson's

"Lotus-Eaters"--a poem founded on the old myth of a people who lived

upon the insane root that takes the reason prisoner, and, beguiled

by its sweet intoxication, abandoned themselves to a state of dreamy

repose.

"And round about the keel with faces pale,

Dark faces, pale against that rosy flame,

The mild-eyed, melancholy Lotus-eaters came.

"Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave

To each, but whoso did receive of them,

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave

Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave

On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;

And deep asleep he seemed, yet all awake,

And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

"They sat them down upon the yellow sand,

Between the sun and moon upon the shore;

And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,

Of wife, and child, and slave; but evermore

Most weary seemed the sea, weary the oar,

Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.

Then some one said, 'We will return no more;'

And all at once they sang, 'Our island home

Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.'"

But the lotus of poetry is not the _Nelumbium speciosum_. There

is some difficulty in identifying it with any modern plant; but

the general opinion seems to be, that it was the _Zizyphus lotus_,

a species allied to the _Zizyphus jujuba_, and included in the

Buckthorn family (_Rhamnaceæ_).

The reader will be by this time aware that of the plants called by

the general English name of "lily," some have very little kinship

to each other, and others none at all. The little garden flowers

named _Lilium_ (from the Celtic word _lis_, "whiteness") are mostly

very handsome. Ben Jonson, speaking of the ordinary lily, says, very

finely--