  "Now the shining meads Do boast the pansy, lily, and the rose, And every flower doth laugh as zephyr blows." —Ben Jonson. T 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 The Perianth. We have already, and more than once, employed the word perianth The Calyx.—The outermost whorl, or verticle, of the flower 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, p?ta???) 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— 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 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, 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 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 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 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."
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 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.
After this long digression, we return to our Evening Primrose. Its large yellow flowers are disposed in clusters at the 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). 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, 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 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:—
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. 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. 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 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 Fig. 47, a.—Natural junction of Petal. 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 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! The Prunella, or Self-Heal. 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 Fig. 49.—The Prunella. 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? 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 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.) Let us pursue the analysis of the flowery cone you hold in your hand. Fig. 50.—The Lips of the Prunella vulgaris. 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, 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 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. 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 Pharmacopoeia of to-day, however, it finds no place. Fig. 51.—Scutellaria galericulata. 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. 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 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 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. Fig. 53.—"A loved little island, far seen in the lake." "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!" "How beautiful," says Miss Pratt, in one of her agreeable little books, 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, 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 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. 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— "It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be, Or standing long, an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,— It was the plant and flower of light." The white garden-lily is a native of the Levant, but has become thoroughly naturalised in England, and is one of the commonest but most admired ornaments of our cottage-gardens. The old herbalists thought highly of its medicinal properties, and pronounced it a certain remedy for the bite of a serpent. It is true, at all events, that its bruised petals are an excellent cure for any ordinary wound or bruise. Our ancestors, among their other superstitious fancies, entertained the extraordinary belief that the price of a bushel of wheat in the ensuing season was foretold by the number of white cups which crowned the white lily's stem, each cup being estimated at one shilling. I opine that our modern farmers would feel dissatisfied if the Mark Lane averages were regulated by this simple standard. The common Turk's-cap lily (Lilium martagon) is identified with the ancient hyacinth, the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe." The orange lily (Lilium bulbiferum) is a native of Southern Europe. When the Dutch were at feud with the House of Orange, they were accustomed to root up this flower from their gardens, as some solace to their indignant feelings. Fig. 55.—Lily of the Valley. The garden lilies belong to the natural family of the LiliaceÆ, which includes the following sub-orders:—
The Gentians. Let me now direct your attention, reader, to a pretty plant, of very elegant appearance: crowned, as it is, by a cluster of rosy flowers, it would not disgrace our well-kept parterres. It is called the common Centaury (ErythrÆa centaurium). You will never see it in the fields side by side with the Delphinium; but in July and August will meet with it frequently on the borders of woodland paths and open glades. Would you create for yourself by the study of nature a source of enjoyment equally pure and inexhaustible, adopt a method of classification for your own use, and, to facilitate you in the task, take for your types those plants which are at once the commonest and most characteristic of each season. Quite at your ease, you may begin your analysis by examining But to return to our flowers. What see you in the little centaury which you hold in your hand? (Fig. 56.) In the first place, a corolla with five petals of a delicate rose-hue, very pleasant to the sight. Take care! those foliola are not petals, if you give that name to the free parts of the corolla. Look at them thoroughly. Your foliola are prolonged at their base in a narrow tube, which is easily removed. If you had begun here,—if, instead of proceeding from the top to the bottom, you had, in your analysis, proceeded from the bottom to the top, you would Fig. 56.—The Common Centaury. The calyx of our gentian has, like its corolla, the form of a five-divided tube; which, indeed, is one of the usual characters of the Gentian family. But it is important here to take notice of this fact, because it is not, as at first sight you would suppose, the corolla, but the calyx, which encircles the base of the ovary. The tube of the corolla stops towards the middle of the latter organ, and nearly on a level with the linear divisions of the calyx. You must be careful not to confound with these calycine divisions the green foliola which lie around the base of the flower, and which are neither more nor less than abortive leaves. Now call to mind that the flower is an union of concentric whorls, or of rings set one within another. The staminal whorl and the carpellary whorl, surrounded by a double perianth (corolla and calyx), are here composed—the first, of five stamens, and the second of a bilobed ovary, surmounted by a The stamens are inserted upon the top of the tube of the corolla, and if you look at the base of their filaments you would be inclined to pronounce it a foliaceous expansion, or, rather, a metamorphic doubling of the corolla. Suppose the stamens to be the result of the transformation of the petals, the filament would be the "claw," and the anther the "limb" of a foliole. At least, theory would tell you so. But observation will show that these are not petals changing into stamens, but, on the contrary, stamens changing into petals; as is seen in the sterile (or "double") flowers of many of our ornamental plants, and even of some of our fruit trees. How, then, shall we conciliate theory with observation? Look, and you shall find. Observe the anthers which surmount the filaments. There is something peculiarly characteristic in them. As they open and spread abroad the pollen, they visibly coil themselves up in the form of a spiral. (Fig. 58.) Owing to this twisting, they are found more or less inclined upon their filaments, and are gifted with a considerable mobility. Thoroughly to understand the relation between the continuous anther and the filament, we must examine the stamens before their expansion, while they are still folded up within the floral bud, their matrix. The anthers are then quite straight, and, with a magnifying-glass, you can easily see how they are inserted, by the lower part of their back, upon the top of the filament, whose (so-called) Fig. 58.—Anthers of the Centaury. The characters we have just enumerated apply, or the majority of them, to the interesting family of the GentianaceÆ—a natural group of plants, nearly all remarkable for their bitter, febrifugal, and anti-scrofulous properties. The flowering cymes of the common centaury are very frequently employed as a substitute for the medicinal gentian, so well known as a valuable tonic. The medicinal gentian is the Gentiana lutea,—a plant growing about three feet high,—which thrives abundantly on the Pyrenees, and the Alps of Switzerland and Austria, at an elevation of 3000 to 5000 feet. It is not, however, so common now as formerly on the Alpine heights, owing probably to its great consumption, but it is spreading into many districts of Central Europe. Frequent enough in the vicinity of Paris is the Chlora perforata, a gentian remarkable for its glaucous leaves and yellow terminal flowers. The Gentiana kurroo of the Himalayas, and the British species, Gentiana campestris and Gentiana amarella, possess the tonic properties of the family. The Cheritta of the pharmacopoeia is the herb and root of Agathotes chirayta (Ophelia chirata), a herbaceous plant which flourishes in the Himalayas. We must not omit a reference to a Lilliputian gentian, the filiform gentian of LinnÆus, and the Exacum filiforme or Cicendia filiformis of other botanical authorities. Its stem, from two and a half to four inches in length, is embellished with radical oblong leaves, disposed in fours, and short caulinary leaves, opposite and linear; the corolla is yellow, the calyx has four triangular lobes; the stamens also are four. It is this predominant number which has induced some botanists to elevate our little gentian into a species of Exacum or Cicendia,—two genera, of which the first was named by Adamson, the second by De Candolle. As for the tiny Gentiana pusilla, or Exacum pusillum, we may look upon it as a simple variety of the Exacum filiforme, differing from the latter only in its shorter and feebler stem, in the somewhat narrower divisions of its calyx, and the tint of its corolla, which is of a paler yellow, sometimes inclining to rose. Botanists, or lovers of flowers, may grow as passionately fond of gentians as some persons do of tulips or hyacinths. But it is not in England or Scotland, it is in the Alpine pastures of Switzerland only, that you can hope to satisfy your Gentianomania. An Alpine Excursion. Permit me, dear reader, to set down a few hints, in case you should at any time be disposed to make a pilgrimage into the Golden Land, or El Dorado, of botanists and geologists. Fig. 59.—An Alpine Landscape. Before you plunge into the Alps, you will meet, in the sub-alpine regions, among the valleys which intersect and the meadows which clothe the lower spurs of the Jura, the Gentiana campestris. It is a plant of from five to six inches in height, whose blue, five-lobed corolla, with its velvety gorge, changes into yellow when dried; the two outer teeth of the One excursion which you should not fail to make is the ascent of the Dent de Jaman,—the hieroglyphic summit of one of those charming mountains which mirror themselves in the Lake of Geneva. This classical, and, moreover, very easy ascent, has the advantage of carrying you up a series of terraces, so that the character of the vegetation changes rapidly. The acclivity begins at the little town of Montreux, situated near the point where the blue arrowy Rhone pours its waters into the enchanted lake. From Montreux to the village of Glion, you will be delighted to greet your old acquaintances: the familiar faces of your native fields, meadows, and woodlands. But soon a difference in the character of the flora forces itself upon you. Species which are rarer at home become tolerably common, as, for instance, the yellow digitalis (Digitalis lutea), so easily recognised by its cymes of tiny flowers. The vulneraria (Anthyllis vulneraria) is as widely diffused as the trefoil in our English pastures. A little above Glion,—a picturesque village apparently hung over the lake—the sub-alpine region commences. Around villas and mansions, nearly all inhabited by English families, you will find in abundance the English mercury (Chenopodium Bonus Henricus), and in the shady hedges the narcotic Herb-Paris (Paris quadrifolia). The apparition of the Astrantia major, which resembles an artificial or fancy-created flower, warns us that we are passing beyond the limits of the ordinary flora. I believe that we have no representative in England of that singular umbellifer. The Alpine pastures of the narrow-ridged Mount CaÜ, which resembles the back of a dromedary, exhale a fragrance like that of the famous Swiss tea, so much extolled as a remedy against cholera. The odour of the hay-lofts attached to the chÂlets—true shepherd's huts—which rise at intervals along the back of Mont Dromedary, is so penetrating as to produce headache. The hay owes its aromatic fragrance to the musk-chervil (Myrrhis odorata), whose strong stems form such thick luxuriant pasturages; to various orchideÆ, particularly to the Nigritella suaveolens, remarkable for the intense colour—nearly black—of its flowers; and finally, to the gentians, whose scent is strongly brought out by drying. The rich close sward which borders on the Dent de Jaman provides the herboriser with more than one agreeable surprise. You will be struck by the beauty of the flowery tufts of the Linaria Alpina, rejoicing in a deep sapphire blue. You will also have an opportunity of making acquaintance with a campanula which is abundant on Mont Cenis (Campanula Coenisia); its beautiful terminal flower, of a pale blue, is characterised by the long hairs which line the opening of the corolla. Among the gentians, those great ornaments of the Alpine pasturages, we shall direct the attention of our readers to— The purple gentian (Gentiana purpurea), and the spotted gentian (Gentiana punctata). These are distinguished by their plentiful appearance: their large oval leaves, and the height of their vigorous stems, recall those of the yellow gentian. The features which separate these two species are not very distinct: the corolla of the former is purple without and yellow within; that of the latter is of a bright yellow, marked by spots of deep purple, which, however, are not permanent; the calyx is campanulated, with upright and lanceolate foliola. The Gentiana acaulis contrasts singularly with the preceding species, its stem being so short that one is almost tempted to deny the existence of any; its large corollas, of a bright celestial blue, lie on the ground as if they had fallen fresh from a bouquet. We must not confound this species with the Gentiana pumila, a much smaller plant, with a very elongated calyx, which grows abundantly on the turf of Mont St Bernard. The Gentiana verna and the Gentiana nivalis, with a corolla of the finest azure, inhabit the loftiest points of the Alps, where all vegetation begins to disappear. The former, or the gentian of spring, flowers, in these frozen regions, in June and July; it is one of twenty-four phanerogamous plants of the last vegetable station of Mont Blanc. This station is formed by a series of vertical layers of protogene, which separates the upper part of the Glacier des Bossons from that of Taconay. The dÉbris of the rock, decomposed under the influence of atmospheric According to Charles Martins, the phanerogamous plants which flourish at an elevation of 10,000 feet are the following:— Mean temperature, 47° to 36°.
The Pimpernel. Accompany me to the corn-field; not for any discourse upon the state and prospect of the crops, or on the comparative value to man of wheat or barley, but for the sake of the You cannot mistake it, for, with the exception of the tiny chaff-weed, the smallest wild plant which bears a distinct flower, it is the only scarlet blossom in the wheat-field, except, indeed, the red poppy, which every good farmer seeks to banish from his land. Mark me,—I say the only scarlet flower; for there are several—as, for instance, the pheasant's eye, or Adonis—of a deep crimson. The pimpernel belongs to the Primrose family, or PrimulaceÆ. It has a five-cleft calyx, and a monopetalous corolla. Its stamens, of an equal number, are inserted on the corolla, opposite its segments. It is a meteoric flower; so-called, because it keeps itself shut during wet or cloudy weather. Hence, it is known among country people as "the shepherd's warning" or "poor man's weather-glass." And Darwin, enumerating the various signs of rain, says of it— "Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel; In fiery red the sun doth rise, Then wades through clouds to mount the skies: 'Twill surely rain, we see 't with sorrow; No working in the fields to-morrow." It should be added, however, that if the rain continue for several days, the pimpernel will lose its sensibility, and cease to act as a natural weather-glass. And here we may observe, that singular as is the habit of the flowers anticipating rain by folding their petals within their calices, the way which the Siberian sow-thistle has with it is Everybody knows, or should know, that when the robin looks sad and drooping, and ceases to greet you with his wonted blithesome strain, "foul weather" is at hand. Many animals, by their peculiar habits, afford equally certain indications of approaching atmospheric changes. This does not seem strange to us; we account for it by the instinct which every animal possesses, in a larger or smaller degree. But the same anticipatory faculty is possessed by several plants; they feel the increasing moisture of the air long before it can be detected by ourselves. Thus, when a storm is at hand, some species of anemones fold up their blossoms; the fragrant flowers of the wild pink convolvulus wind themselves together; the awns of the wild oat, and the sweet-scented meadow-grass, stand in an erect position, and the clover leaves are drawn closely up. Naturalists, says Pratt, are unable to discover why some plants should be affected by moisture and others not; but the regular changes of these natural barometers seem a providential arrangement to supply certain wants of the flowers in which they occur. We may draw this inference from the different positions of several flowers according to their circumstances. Thus the poppy, when in bud, hangs down on its stem, and preserves its petals from rain and wind; but as But to return to our pimpernel. It was at one time called Centunculus, from cento, a covering, because it spread in such abundance over the cultivated fields. Its botanical name was afterwards changed to Anagallis arvensis. Anagallis signifies "to laugh," and there existed an old belief that a decoction of the pimpernel acted as a remedy against melancholy, and a provocative of mirth. The seeds of this plant are very numerous. They are enclosed in small capsules, and eaten by the birds. There is only one other British species of pimpernel, the Anagallis linetta, or bog pimpernel, which it would be unpardonable if the botanist omitted to notice, so delicately The blue pimpernel (Anagallis cerulea), though not a native of England, is found occasionally. It is described as growing in beautiful little tufts about the hills of Madeira, and enlivening them by its cheerful colour, which may bear comparison with the azure of the sky. Fig. 60.—"The Wheat-field, with its mass of emerald waves." And here we will take leave of the wheat-field, with its mass of emerald waves, now beginning to wear a golden glory on their crests, as they ripple in the genial sunshine. Animals. The Mole, the Staphylinus, and the Mole-Cricket. Do you hear that noise? It seems to issue from beneath yonder heap of pebbles at the foot of the garden-wall. Surely the stones are moving; they seem to be walking alone, and of their own impulse, for I cannot see anything to set them in motion. Fig. 61.—The Staphylinus olens. Let us draw near and examine the mystery. "Ah, what a hideous black creature!" It is retreating in a terrible state of alarm, as if it felt itself pursued by some formidable enemy. This "hideous creature" is known to French gardeners by the name of courtiliÈre; to naturalists, as a species of Staphylinus. (Fig. 61.) Its great and persistent adversary is the mole: a mammal at war with an insect! Watch well, I pray you, the mole's movements, which you can do the more easily that here, contrary to his ordinary custom, he is wandering in the open day; the light blinds him,—accustomed as he is to pass his life in the subterranean galleries which he excavates by his own labour. But if he does not see us, he hears us; the sound of our footsteps was sufficient to make him prick up his ears (if we may so speak of a mole), and he remains motionless. Do not stir, or he will betake himself to flight, and we shall lose an excellent opportunity of being present at a very curious spectacle. He is now reassured. He recommences his manoeuvres, pushing before him every little pebble which he meets with. For this purpose he employs his elongated snout, exactly as a pig grubs among the uncleanness of his sty. But his next movements are not of a porcine character. With feet broad as battledores, the mole, while manoeuvring with his nose, quietly pushes aside every clod which threatens to obstruct his progress. These sidelong, abrupt, and jerking movements remind you of those of a dog, seeking with his paws to enlarge the opening of the burrow wherein a rabbit has taken refuge. The mole has thus the habit of a hunting-dog; and, to complete the resemblance, he stops at intervals in his scratching, and shakes the dust off his head. One is quite surprised to see a little mammal executing the movements we are wont to regard as peculiar to an animal much larger than he is. The beetle quits in affright the heap of stones where it had hoped to find an asylum; it now crosses our path, holding itself erect, with a menacing air, and its tail armed with a forked barb. The mole follows in close pursuit: who would have believed he could run so quickly? Let us bar his passage, and study him at our leisure. The first thing we remark is his glossy hair, which is softer to the touch than the finest velvet. Where are his eyes? Blow aside the hair which covers his face. There they are, and they resemble miniature pearls of a shining black. How could Aristotle say that the mole had no eyes? To "All viviparous animals have eyes, except the mole" (p??? ?sp??a???). Then, as if a sudden doubt had seized him, and he were frightened at his own statement, the illustrious Stagyrite hastens to add: "We might, perhaps, strictly admit that he has." But another change comes over the spirit of the philosopher's dream; his hesitation vanishes, and he immediately repeats and justifies his former assertion in these terms:— "But, carefully considered, the mole does not see, because he has no apparent eyes externally" (???? ?? ??? ???' ???, ??t' ??e? e?? t? fa?e??? d????? ?f?a????). These last words denote—I beg pardon of the manes of a great philosopher—an absolute want of observation. Evidently, Aristotle had not taken the trouble to look before he made his statement. And do not think that this curious indifference was peculiar to the great master of the Peripatetic School; it characterises more or less all the philosophers of antiquity, as well as too many who have followed in their footsteps. Pliny has simply translated Aristotle when he says:—"Among quadrupeds the moles are wanting in the sense of sight" (quadrupedum talpis visus non est). But it is a curious thing that both Aristotle and Pliny maintain, that if you lift up the skin where the eyes ought to be, you will perceive the organs of vision. How could they remove the skin without distinguishing in it the eyes, like black and brilliant beads? Did they practise anatomy, like their own imaginary mole, without eyes? The whole matter would be inexplicable if we did not take into account that force of inertia which binds man in chains of iron, in the moral world as well as in the physical. To see, to observe; to retrace one's steps, that one may see and observe more distinctly; is a labour repugnant to the human mind. To create systems, in order that he may proclaim himself a great doctrinal teacher, is the work which flatters man, or the creative power of his imagination. Centuries of effort are needed before he can disentangle himself from his self-woven thrall in presence of the phenomena of nature. A striking peculiarity in the mole's structure is his hands, or feet, with their five fingers, or toes, turned outward, and their curious resemblance to the human hand. Few animals exhibit a similar conformation. Everything in the structure of the fore-limbs indicates the animal's burrowing instinct,—the length of the bone, which corresponds to the human radius, or fore-arm,—the breadth of the hands,—and the bend of the arms, which are so fashioned that the elbows project outwardly. Does the mole's burrowing instinct lead it in quest of insects or of vegetable roots? According to the old traditional belief, the mole feeds upon roots. From time immemorial, it has been looked upon as an animal so destructive, that, in every country, its destruction has been encouraged by large rewards. Well, this belief, transmitted from generation to generation, owes, like so many other traditions, its authority to its antiquity, and is devoid of foundation. The mole is an essentially carnivorous animal, and no more lives upon roots than the dog or the cat. He is pre-eminently the hunter of the white-worm and beetle; and therefore, instead of vowing its extermination, we ought to take every possible means to preserve and multiply his race. These absurd traditions and credulous notions, wholly without any experimental confirmation, frequently lead us to take steps in diametrical opposition to our own interests. Moles are particularly partial to meadows which are somewhat damp, as, for instance, those where the leafless colchicum displays, in autumn, its pale-rose flowers. In summer, the fields are covered with mole-hills. It will be said, perhaps, that these conical heaps of earth are injurious to vegetation. But that will be an error, contradicted by observation. Meadows besprinkled with mole-hills grow excellent hay, if care be taken to level them; for the earth thus distributed serves as manure. If they are visited by the moles, it is because these animals find there a plentiful supply of the rhizophagous (root-eating) insects, on which they feed. The forest is also a favourite haunt of the moles. Apparently they find, under the layers of leaves and roots, so rich in larvÆ Moles are among the most prolific of mammals; and, in fact, were it not so, their race would have been long ago exterminated. We may, perhaps, venture to say, that by multiplying so prodigiously, they wish to do us a service in spite of ourselves. How tender is the solicitude of nature for the ungrateful human species! To see the marvellous qualities ascribed to the mole by the ancients, one would suppose that they had made him the object of their special study. Yet, as we have shown, they could never have watched his habits with any degree of patience. They saw everything through the delusive prism of their imagination. As a proof, we will tell you what they said of the mole. "Since this animal has been doomed to a perpetual blindness, and lives interred beneath the surface of the earth, like the dead, he possesses, by way of compensation, some extraordinary qualities. His subterranean existence renders him, of all animals, the most capable of religion (nullum religionis capacius animal). To acquire the gift of second-sight, you Such, according to Pliny's report, are the virtues of the mole, as taught by the Magi. The Middle Ages adopted this teaching, and even to-day, in obscure rural districts, you will meet with superstitious notions which remind you of the ideas of the ancient wise men and necromancers of antiquity. We have thus summarised the natural history of our hunter, let us now say a few words respecting the game he pursues. The insect before us is the Staphylinus olens. Its study has been much neglected, probably on account of its repulsive appearance. But, conquering our repugnance, let us take the creature between our forefinger and thumb. See how vigorously it defends itself! Its forked appendage is not formidable, it is too soft; but take care of its mandibles! With these hard, horny, pointed pincers, it pricks the skin and draws blood. Now, bring your nose close to the frightful black insect at the very moment when it appears the most What do you smell? A pleasant odour of rennet apples! It reminds me of that diffused by another insect, much less ugly than your Staphylinus, the Cicondela campestris. It is this peculiarity which explains the specific name of "odorous" (olens) given to your captive. As for its generic name, Staphylinus, I have no means of interpreting its etymology; for the insect's shape has no resemblance to that of a bunch or cluster,—in Greek, ?taf???. But this last word also signifies the uvula, and, perhaps, by the effort of a little imagination, the naturalist may trace a similitude between that organ of the throat and the body of the Staphylinus. The Staphylini are characterised by a very narrow neck, which separates, as by a kind of web, the head from the thorax. In diffusing the peculiar odour of which we have just spoken, they simultaneously eject a musky volatile liquid contained in two retractile whitish bladders, situated near the anus. They run quickly, elevating their abdomen like the earwig. The antennÆ, inserted in the rear of the strong mandibles, are each composed of eleven articulations, of which the first is the longest; these joints, rounded in form, are arranged like the beads of a necklace. The Staphylini belong to that numerous section of insects whose tarsi are composed of five articulations, and which have thence received the name of Pentaceii. In this section they form, with some other genera, the family of BrachelytrÆ, so called because their elytra, or wing-sheaths, are much shorter than the abdomen. Our Staphylinus olens is finely punctuated, somewhat hairy, and of a dull black colour. Though very common in our gardens, and wherever any putrefying substances are to be found, its habits are not very well known. For if it were generally understood that it is an essentially carnivorous animal, that it carries on a determined warfare against the caterpillar, larvÆ, and especially the white-worm, far from seeking to destroy it, men would surely attempt to increase its numbers. It is a proof that the Staphylini are useful insects, that they are rare in seasons when the white-worms abound, as was the case, for example, in the years 1867 and 1868. The larva of the Staphylinus is as carnivorous as the perfect insect, which it likewise resembles in form. To sum up: in every phase of their existence, the Staphylini render immense services to the agriculturist. It is very desirable that this fact should be generally recognised, and their rehabilitation generally proclaimed. The Mole-Cricket. Fig. 62. The habits of the mole-cricket are nearly the same as those of the mole. When winter approaches, it takes refuge underneath the surface of the earth, and remains benumbed and lethargic in its nest so long as the cold lasts. On the welcome return of spring, it makes its way back to the light by a vertical gallery, on which a great number of lateral galleries abut, the These insects (of the Orthoptera order) belong to the small family of the crickets—a family closely akin to that of the grasshoppers. This close kinship has been recognised by the poets, and we find them brought together in a very charming sonnet, which cannot be too frequently perused by any reader, and which may therefore be introduced as a relief to our duller prose:— "Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; Oh, sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts; and both were sent on earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song— Indoors and out, summer and winter, mirth." So sings Leigh Hunt—a poet, by the way, whose heart was ever open at "the feel of June," and whose genial writings, whether prose or verse, whether delightful essays or melodious songs, should be read in the "happy summer-time," when the idler, reclining on the sunny grass, with the beauty of an English landscape around him, wants the companionship of a gentle spirit and a refined and healthy intellect. Fig. 63.—The idler, reclining on the sunny grass. The mole-cricket is, like the grasshopper, a child of summer. It differs, moreover, from the "cricket on the hearth" in lacking those organs of stridulation (excuse the word, kind reader!) which mark "the glad silent moments" with their tricksome (and sometimes inconvenient) tune. Their posterior thighs have an apparent bulging about them, but the legs are very short; so short, that our little friend could not compete with The species generally met with in gardens, corn-fields, and orchards is the Gryllotalpa vulgaris of Latreille, identical with the Gryllus gryllotalpa of LinnÆus. It has a brown head, garnished with rusty-coloured mandibles; the thorax is of a brownish-gray, velvety, tinged with red in the fore parts; the elytra, or wing-sheaths, which are much shorter than the abdomen, are gray, and marked by black and conspicuously prominent nerves; the wings, folded back like a fan, are about one-fourth longer than the abdomen. The mole-cricket,—mark me!—is no more of a root-eater than the mole; it is carnivorous, like the Staphylinus. As an experiment in confirmation of this statement, we shut up one of these curious Orthopteras in a large chest filled with mould. Concealed in the galleries which it speedily constructed for its use, it fed upon larvÆ, and never touched the cereals which we had sown in the earth. Here was a proof that we had to plead the cause of another of man's victims. The mole-cricket ejects, when pursued or tormented, a blackish liquid, whose etherealised odour reminds one of the peculiar smell of certain rotten apples. The female, larger If the mole-cricket, in its subterranean progress, encounters any roots, it cuts them with its mandibles, not to feed upon them, but to get rid of an obstacle; hence the mischief of which the farmer accuses it, though this slight amount of injury is altogether outweighed by its services in destroying a swarm of insects. Perhaps, therefore, we must not blame the farmer for the hostility with which he pursues it, especially if we are to accept as a true picture of its doings the sketch recently drawn by a popular writer:— "It is easy to understand that an insect which undermines land in this way must cause great damage to cultivation (!). Whether the crops serve it for food or not, they are not the less destroyed by its underground burrowings. Lands infested by the mole-cricket are recognisable by the colour of the vegetation, which is yellow and withered; and the rubbish which these miners heap up at the side of the openings leading to their galleries, resembling mole-hills in miniature, betrays their presence to the farmer." If, I say, this be a true picture, we cannot wonder at the means employed by the farmer to clear his fields of such dangerous tenants. The plan generally adopted is to dig, at intervals, a number of little trenches, which are filled up with cow-dung, well trodden down. The supposed root-eaters assemble The Earwig. Next to the domestic fly, the earwig is, perhaps, one of our commonest, and, let us add, one of our most troublesome, insects. Whence comes its popular appellation? From a mere fable. To amuse the silly—alas! how great their number!—marvelling, without doubt, at the spectacle of an insect's tail armed with strong pincers, some jester wished to transform it into a terrible animal; and therefore he pretended that it introduced itself into the human ear, and from thence penetrated to the brain, with the view of driving out its proprietor,—i.e., the mind or spirit which animates it. Only, the originator of this absurd bugbear forgot one little fact: there is no opening by which the ear can communicate with the brain! As for the pincers, they are not so formidable as they appear. This character, however, has been considered a sufficient foundation by the naturalists, even by LinnÆus himself, for the insect's scientific name, Forficula auricularia, which is almost literally translated by the French oreille-pince,—our English earwig or ear-piercer. (Fig. 64.) Fig. 64.—The Earwig (Forficula auricularia). What dress is to man, their wings are to insects; by these The elytra and the wings, inconspicuous as they are, produced so great an impression on the early naturalists, that they made them the principal characteristics of an entire order of insects. De Geer, a celebrated Swedish naturalist, named them the Dermaptera (from d??a, skin, and pte???, wing), in allusion to the transparent skin-like appearance of the elytra. This name, though adopted by Kirby, has not been preserved. A French entomologist suggested the designation Here we must pause to recapitulate for the benefit of our younger readers, and to avoid confusion, the various orders into which the insect world is divided. 1. Aptera (from a, without, and pte???, a wing),—wingless. Examples—Flea, louse, chigo. 2. Diptera (d??, two, and pte???),—two-winged. Sub-divided into Nemocera, having six-jointed antennÆ; Brachycera, having three-jointed antennÆ. Examples—Gnat, tipula; May-fly, gad-fly. 3. Hemiptera (??, half, and pte???),—half-winged. Sub-divided into Heteroptera, with wings of different textures; Homoptera, with wings of one substance. Examples—Land-bug, water-bug; cicada, lantern-fly. 4. Lepidoptera (?ep??, a scale, and pte???),—scaly-winged. Examples—Tiger-moth, butterfly, silkworm. 5. Orthoptera (?????, straight, and pte???),—straight-winged. Examples—Earwig, cockroach, locust. 6. Stymenoptera (???, a membrane, and pte???),—membranous-winged. Examples—Bee, wasp, ant. 7. Neuroptera (?e????, nerve, and pte???),—nerve-marked wings. Examples—Dragon-fly, caddis-fly, ant-lin. 8. Strepsiptera (st?e???, a twisting, and pte???),—curled or twisted wings. Examples—Xenos, elenchus. 9. Coleoptera (???e??, a sheath, and pte???;),—sheathed wings. Examples—Beetle, cockchafer. The order of Orthoptera, with which we are now concerned, is not very well known. The reason is, perhaps, that the insects belonging to it—earwigs, cockroaches, grasshoppers, crickets—are not less disagreeable than useless, so far as man is concerned. Being nearly all of them omnivorous, like man himself, they frequently aid him, very much against his inclination, in the consumption of natural products of every kind. It has been remarked that the species of great animals are far fewer in number than those of the little. This remark applies with peculiar force to the Orthoptera, which do not include nearly so many small species as the Coleoptera. The earwig is the type of the tiny group of the ForficulidÆ, of which two species only are known to the common world—the Forficula auricularia and the Forficula minor. The first species everybody is acquainted with. We have already spoken of its elytra and its wings; but we now say a word upon the two extremities of its body. The two antennÆ, which crown the head, are extremely mobile, owing, of course, to the numerous articulations of which they are made up. These are fourteen in number (if we include the base, which is itself composed of two movable parts). In reality, however, there are but twelve; for we ought to eliminate the base,—because, in form and size, it differs greatly from articulations properly so called,—and, at the same time, to regard as one the articulation or joint inserted in it. In fine, I am of opinion, contrary to the general conclusion, that the antennÆ of the earwig consist but of twelve articulations, The brownish-coloured abdomen, composed of imbricated rings, forms, in itself alone, upwards of half the body. The animal can move itself in every direction; can bend and twist like a young eel. To the last of its rings, which is larger than the others, are attached the two curved branches of the forceps (forficula). These are weapons of defence rather than of attack. At the same time, they are useful as a sexual distinction. The forceps of the male are strongly arched, and furnished with indentations perfectly visible to the naked eye (see Fig. 64, a); those of the female are scarcely bent at all, and their indentations can only be seen with the microscope. In numerous individuals, the last ring of the abdomen is provided with four tubercles, one in each side and two in the middle; but this is not a uniform characteristic. The earwig is a trimeral insect; that is, its tarsi are each composed of three joints. Its mandibles are comparatively weak. The moment you touch it, the insect raises, with great quickness, the extremity of its supple body, and endeavours to defend itself with its pincers. The female lays her eggs chiefly in the chinks and crannies of time-worn timber, and the larvÆ issuing from them do not differ, in any material respect, from the perfect insect. (See Fig. 64, b.) The small species, known as Forficula minor, is not very common. It is about half the size of its better-known congener, and is also distinguished from it by its joints, ten in number,—by its legs, of a very pale yellow,—and by its pincers, which are not only very short, but almost straight, and scarcely marked, even in the male, with any indentations. More, the wings are of the colour of the elytra, and without any white spots. This species is chiefly met with in the spring-time, and then in damp sandy localities, near ponds and rivers. Another, and still rarer species, to which we may permit ourselves an allusion, has yellow pincers, rather black at the extremity, and garnished inside, towards the middle, with a horny tubercular projection. In the Pyrenees a species has been found which has no wings at all, and has therefore been named Forficula aptera. Our readers will now inquire, What is the use of this curiously constructed animal? Is it not an abomination to the gardener? Well, we admit that it eats up the leaves of his plants, and the petals of his flowers, especially of the dahlia; but, on the other hand, it destroys those far more injurious insects, thrips, aphis, and the like. But it has a peculiar interest for the scientific student from the point of view of what we may call its muscular dynamometry,—its power of traction, which is far superior to that of our strongest quadrupeds. Do you doubt the truth of this assertion? Try, then, the following experiment. Fasten to the insect's pincer, or forceps, with a thread, a halfpenny, which will weigh about two grains, while the weight of its body, on an average, will not exceed five centigrammes. Give the insect free course over a sheet of paper, and you will see it drag along the coin like a light chariot. Our animal is, therefore, capable of drawing a burden fifty times heavier than its own body. A man of eleven stone would, in the same ratio, be able to drag 7700 lbs. Neither man nor horse can enter, in this respect, into competition with the earwig. If all the members of the animal kingdom were classified according to their power of traction, it is probable that the post of honour at the top of the list would be occupied by our despised Forficula auricularia. The idea of a muscular dynamometry of insects is not so new as one might be tempted to think it. From time immemorial men have been struck, without being able to account for it, by the enormous disproportion existing between the weight of a flea and the force or energy displayed by its extraordinary bounds. Hence the popularity of a recent exhibition in London of Performing Fleas. Pliny, eighteen centuries ago, asserted that the muscular strength of the ants exceeded that of all other animals, if we compared the burden they were able to carry with the diminutiveness of their bodies. "Si quis comparet onera corporibus earum, fateatur nullis portione vires esse majores." In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, this interesting The muscles are enclosed in solid sheaths (so to speak), which constitute the jointed limbs of insects, and the thickness of the sides of these sheaths seems to decrease in ratio with the size. No relation, therefore, exists between the stature of individuals and the volume and strength of their muscles. A giant may be weaker than a dwarf. Here is another mystery for science to reveal! But we must take leave of our earwig. Its English name is derived by some authorities from ear, and the old English wiega, a worm or grub,—identical with the German oberwurm, and based, of course, on the fiction which we have already exploded. Newman, however, suggests a somewhat different name, and, consequently, a different etymology: It remains to be added, that the female earwig sits upon her eggs, and hatches them like a hen; and like a hen, too, she gathers her young around her with evident affection. Fig. 65.—Landscape. |
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