path: root/77827-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77827 ***


  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.

  Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have
  been placed at the end of the book.

  Chapter headings have been made consistent, with the title on a
  single line and the author on the following line.

  Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.

  Volume I of this set of four volumes can be found in Project
  Gutenberg at: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74571

  Volume II can be found in Project Gutenberg at:
  https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77792




[Illustration: Mushrooms and Other Fungi

1, Boletus Satanus; 2, Agaricus Muscarius; 3, Lycoperdon; 4,
Morchella Esculenta; 5, Belvella; 6, Agaricus Campestris; 7, Phallus;
8, Agaricus Phalloides; 9, Boletus Edulis; 10, Rhizopogon (_Truffle_)]




                             THE STORY OF
                             THE UNIVERSE

                       _Told by Great Scientists
                         and Popular Authors_

                         COLLECTED AND EDITED

                         _By_ ESTHER SINGLETON

     Author of “Turrets, Towers and Temples,” “Wonders of Nature,”
      “The World’s Great Events,” “Famous Paintings,” Translator
            of Lavignac’s “Music Dramas of Richard Wagner”

                          _FULLY ILLUSTRATED_


                              VOLUME III

                                  THE
                                EARTH’S
                                GARMENT:
                                 FLORA


                         P. F. COLLIER AND SON
                               NEW YORK




                            COPYRIGHT 1905
                        BY P. F. COLLIER & SON




ILLUSTRATIONS


  Mushrooms and Fungi                                   _Frontispiece_

  Familiar Trees                                     _Opposite p._ 901

  Herbs, Useful and Medicinal                              ”       949

  Flowers, Curious and Beautiful                           ”       997

  Cacti, Rare Flowers, and Fuci                            ”      1045

  Cereals and Food Plants                                  ”      1093

  Bacteria and Vegetable Germs                             ”      1141

  Nuts and Fruits                                          ”      1213

  Lichens                                                  ”      1261




CONTENTS


  THE VEGETABLE KINGDOM. David Robertson                           859

  FLORA OF THE EARLY MESOZOIC. Sir J. William Dawson               871

  EXISTING LIFE-FORMS OF PLANTS. Edward Clodd                      887

  PLANT GEOGRAPHY. Louis Figuier                                   898

  ZONES OF VEGETATION. M. J. Schleiden                             930

  PHYSIOGNOMY OF PLANTS. Alexander von Humboldt                    946

  THE GENESIS OF FLOWERS. Alexander S. Wilson                      957

  LIFE HISTORY OF PLANTS. E. W. Prevost                            968

  LIFE-FORMS OF PLANTS. Edward Clodd                               975

  CLASSIFICATION OF PLANTS. Louis Figuier                          984

  FRUITS AND SEEDS. Lord Avebury                                  1002

  LEAVES. R. Lloyd Praeger                                        1016

  WIND-FERTILIZED FLOWERS. Alexander S. Wilson                    1027

  MOVEMENTS OF PLANTS. David Robertson                            1037

  MOVEMENT IN PLANTS. Charles Darwin                              1045

  FLOWER COLORATION. Alexander S. Wilson                          1061

  QUEER FLOWERS. Grant Allen                                      1068

  ATHENA IN THE EARTH. John Ruskin                                1077

  PROGRESS OF CULTIVATION. Alphonse de Candolle                   1091

  VEGETABLE MIMICRY AND HOMOMORPHISM. Alexander S. Wilson         1099

  THE BAMBOO AND PLANT GROWTH. R. Camper Day                      1114

  THE REIGN OF EVERGREENS. Grant Allen                            1125

  OUR MICROSCOPIC FOES. A. Winkelried Williams                    1131

  FOREST FORMATIONS. M. J. Schleiden                              1135

  THE HIGH WOODS. Charles Kingsley                                1146

  MILK-SAP PLANTS. M. J. Schleiden                                1161

  NUTS. Grant Allen                                               1174

  THE CACTUS TRIBE. M. J. Schleiden                               1180

  FUNGI. Hugh Macmillan                                           1189

  FAIRY RINGS. A. B. Steele                                       1204

  LICHENS. Hugh Macmillan                                         1208

  MOSSES. Hugh Macmillan                                          1220

  EUROPEAN SEA-WEEDS. P. Martin Duncan                            1230

  SARGASSUM. Cuthbert Collingwood                                 1263

  GLOSSARY OF BOTANICAL TERMS                                     1269




                       THE STORY OF THE UNIVERSE

                            (VOLUME THREE)




THE STORY OF THE UNIVERSE




  THE VEGETABLE KINGDOM
  --DAVID ROBERTSON


There is perhaps scarcely any science that can be more within the
reach of the means of the humblest student than the science of
botany. A pocket lens, a sharp penknife, and a book descriptive
of the flora of the district or country where one lives will form
a sufficient equipment to enable the student to name and classify
whatever plants he may meet with in his rambles in search of them.

It is by no means intended to imply that finding out the names of
plants and being able to classify them constitute the whole science
of botany. The truth is that many of the problems in connection with
classification are most abstruse, so much so that even now the most
recent and generally received system of classification can only be
considered provisional. This is especially the case in regard to the
lower forms of vegetable life. The life-history of many of the most
minute and lowly plants is but imperfectly known, owing to their
extreme minuteness and the different forms which they assume at the
various stages of their life-history.

This, however, does not detract from the pleasure which any one may
derive from being able to describe and name any flowering plants
which are to be found in any country at certain seasons.

The dependence of mankind on plants is too obvious to require mention.

To a large extent the vegetation of a district determines its
character; for without plants no landscape would possess any
particular attractiveness, and every one knows the depressing effect
produced by a barren, treeless waste. The contrast between this and
fields rich in pasture has occurred to every one; and a well-wooded
country never fails to please the eye of the observer.

Mighty forests, teeming with life, have a powerful influence on the
imagination; and the value of forests both as regards their effect
on climate and their economic importance has been so thoroughly
recognized that in the case of India stringent measures have been
adopted for their preservation.

Some knowledge of plant life also enables one to guard against the
evil and often fatal effects produced by eating poisonous fruits and
poisonous fungi.

Some of the lowly organized flowerless plants are man’s most deadly
and insidious enemies. These from their excessive minuteness are
quite invisible to the naked eye.

Before proceeding further, it will be necessary to give a brief
account of the different parts which go to compose the complete
flowering plant. The reader who desires a full and detailed account
of the different organs of the flowering and flowerless plants will
find this in any standard text-book of botany.

We will take any full-grown flowering plant and begin with the root.

The root may be called the descending portion of the axis.

The ascending portion of the axis is usually supplied with leaves,
flowers, and green coloring matter, whereas the root is usually
devoid of these.

The root generally penetrates into the soil and fulfils a double
function.

It is by means of the roots that the plant is attached to the earth
and prevented from being blown about by the winds.

In the case of large forest trees, the far-spreading roots have an
immense power of resistance. The large surface of a giant tree in
full leaf has to endure an enormous lateral pressure during a high
wind, and even hurricanes may fail to uproot a large tree, which they
may snap asunder. Not only does the root by penetrating the soil
attach the plant to the earth, but it absorbs nourishment from the
soil for the support of the plant. The root, therefore, fulfils a
double function.

The root is at first furnished with a conical hood of cellular
tissue, _i. e._, tissue consisting entirely of cells or little closed
bags made up of an outside wall and contents.

The root cup is well seen in some kinds of water-plants, such as
duckweed.

There are plants whose roots do not descend. Certain plants hang
from the branches of trees, and though they have roots these roots
never penetrate the soil. Plants of this kind are called Epiphytes
(Greek _epi_, upon, and _phyton_, plant). Aerial orchids, which grow
in warm and moist parts of India and other countries, are attached
to branches of trees or other kinds of support, and their roots hang
down from the peculiar stems and are very soft and delicate at the
tips.

It must be borne in mind that there is no absolute distinction
between root and stem; for some trees have roots which form lateral
buds, viz., _Pyrus japonica_, _Maclura aurantiaca_, and many others.

This is quite in accordance with the fact that in the organic world
different organs frequently shade into one another.

The true root of the plant in its earliest state of existence, that
is, as it exists in the seed prior to germination, is the downward
prolongation of the axis.

In the case of the division of flowering plants called Monocotyledons
(Greek _monos_, single, and _kotyledon_, seed-leaf), and in such
so-called flowerless plants as ferns, the lower end of the axis
soon ceases to grow and the roots which supply these plants with
nourishment are really lateral growths. The roots of plants are
variously named. Sometimes the branches of the roots are small, and
the central axis thick and of considerable length. This kind of root
is named a tap-root, and may be well seen in the carrot.

In the turnip, beet, and other plants, where this organ is developed
in such a manner as to serve as a reservoir of nutriment, the root is
tuberous.

Many roots are fibrous; this may be well seen in grasses.

The perennial woody forms of fibrous roots are very characteristic of
shrubby Dicotyledons (plants with two seed-leaves).

Leaves are of two kinds, namely, foliage-leaves and flower-leaves.

A leaf is generally a broad, flat, horizontal surface. It is usually
thin, and can be divided by a perpendicular plane, the median plane,
into two similar halves.

When the leaves are what is called symmetrical, the parts into which
they are divided are counterparts.

If one of these parts were held in front of a looking-glass, the
reflected image of this part would represent the part from which it
had been separated.

Many leaves, however, can not thus be divided. When this is the case
they are said to be unsymmetrical.

The tropical plant begonia affords an excellent example of an
unsymmetrical leaf.

The leaves of the spruce are not flat but needle-shaped.

In rushes and many species of stone-crops the leaves are cylindrical
or round.

The leaf consists of three parts, viz., the sheath, the stalk or
petiole, and the lamina or blade. The sheath incloses the stem at
the insertion of the leaf, and has a tubular or sheath-like form. It
is well seen in grasses and such plants as celery, corn, parsnip,
carrot, and other plants belonging to the _Umbelliferæ_ [Lat.
_umbella_ (_umbra_, shade), little shade, and _ferre_, to bear].

The leaf-stalk is narrow, and has a semi-cylindrical or prismatic
form, bearing at its end the expanded leaf.

When the stalk is flattened and resembles a leaf, as in the case of
the Australian acacias, it is termed a phyllode (Greek _phyllon_, a
leaf, and _eidos_, form).

Many leaves have no sheath, but only the stalk and the blade. This is
the case in the maple and gourd.

The leaves of the grasses have no stalk, but only sheath and blade.

The blade is often the only part present, as in the tobacco plant and
tiger-lily. Small appendages, looked upon as belonging to the sheath,
are frequently present, and are termed stipules (from Lat. _stipula_,
blade). Leaves having these appendages are called stipulate, and
leaves devoid of them are exstipulate (from Lat. _ex_, privative,
without, and _stipula_, blade).

A few plants, such as grasses, have a small outgrowth from the inner
upper surface of the leaf at the part where the sheath and the blade
are joined. This outgrowth is named a ligule (from Lat. _ligula_, a
little tongue).

If a leaf is carefully examined it will be found that the internal
tissues differ in character. The fundamental tissue is generally
green, and is named the messophyll (Greek, _mesos_, or _messos_,
middle, and _phyllon_, leaf).

It will be seen that bands run through the fundamental tissue called
the veins of the leaf. These veins consist of what are termed
fibro-vascular bundles. They endure longer than the fundamental
tissue, and may frequently be seen after the leaf is withered and
dead, forming the skeleton of the leaf.

The arrangement of the veins or fibro-vascular bundles is
characteristic of large groups of plants.

In the narrow linear leaves of grasses the stronger veins run almost
parallel. In broad leaves, such as those of the lily-of-the-valley,
the veins curve, but do not form a network of tracery as in oaks
and other Dicotyledons. The margin of leaves is frequently divided,
but the technical terms used in describing such leaves can be found
in any text-book of botany. They may either be simple or compound.
A simple leaf consists of a single lamina, however much it may be
divided, provided the divisions do not extend to the central vein or
midrib. A leaf is compound when, besides the principal leaf-stalks,
a number of lateral leaf-stalks exist bearing at their ends laminæ.
The leaves of many plants are compound. The sensitive plant (_Mimosa
pudica_) furnishes an excellent example of the compound leaf.

The characteristic color of foliage leaves is green, and they are so
arranged as to receive as much sunlight as possible. The importance
of the plant receiving a good supply of light will be referred to
when treating of the growth of plants. It is as true of plants as
of animals that the organs most suitable for their surroundings
are so arranged as to be most advantageous to the individual. Had
leaves been placed vertically they would only have received diffused
sunlight instead of the direct rays of the sun. No vegetable life
could exist but for the sun, as plants not only require light but
heat as well.

When the foliage leaves are small they are very numerous, as may be
seen in conifers; and when these leaves are large they are not nearly
so numerous as, for example, in the sunflower.

Sometimes leaves may consist of scales. These scales are always found
on stems growing underground, as in the onion; but they sometimes
occur on stems growing above-ground.

Such plants as _Orobanche_ and _Neottia_ have no other kind of leaves
except scales.

The leaves are developed very near the apex of the growing stem.

The portions of the stem which lie between the leaves are termed the
internodes, and the parts where the leaves are inserted are termed
the nodes.

Leaves are arranged in various ways, intimately connected with the
order of their development. They may be developed so that three or
more are at the same level on the stem; this arrangement is termed a
_whorl_. Or they may be developed singly; this arrangement is termed
_scattered_. For a full account of the various leaf-arrangements any
text-book on botany may be consulted.

We have here merely referred to some of the more obvious arrangements
of the leaves.

Certain leaves possess a remarkably abnormal shape; for example,
stone-crops have cylindrical leaves; if the leaf of an agave is cut
across, the section is triangular; leeks, again, are tube-shaped; the
central cavity being due to the rapid growth of the outer tissue.
These leaves are all juicy or succulent; certain other leaves are
leathery, that is, they have a harder and thicker epidermis than the
succulent leaves, and may last for several years, as, for example, in
the holly and box.

Spines and tendrils are modifications of leaves, or parts of leaves.
The tendrils are formed out of entire leaves, midribs, leaflets, or
stipules. Both spines and tendrils, however, may be modified branches
of the stem.

In buds the leaves are packed or folded in various ways. This is
best seen before the buds are opened in spring. The buds may then be
pulled carefully to pieces, and in this way the manner in which the
leaves are folded can be studied.

We now come to the flower.

Flowers consist of leaves modified in different ways.

Take, for example, the flower of the orange. The flower will be seen
to be borne on a short branch which serves as the stalk, and is
distinguished by the name of peduncle (from Lat. _pedunculus_, little
stalk). It will be seen that there are no internodes between the
flower-leaves.

The lowest and outermost part of the flower forms a little cup having
upon its margin fine small teeth, indicating the number of leaves
which are joined together so as to form the cup or calyx.

These leaves are named (from Lat. _calyx_, a covering; Greek _kalyx_,
from _kalyptein_, to cover) the calyx-leaves, or sepals (French
_sépale_). Although they are united in the flower of the orange,
they are often separate in other plants.

In the sacred Lotus or Padma or Pudma of India the sepals are
separate or free. The leaves immediately inside the calyx are usually
five in number. They are erect, or only slightly curved, and do
not grow together like the leaves of the calyx. They are white and
wax-like. These leaves form together what is termed the corolla, and
the separate leaves of the corolla (from Lat. _corolla_, a little
wreath) are termed petals (from Greek _petalon_, leaf). In the case
of the orange the petals fall early away.

If the calyx and petals are carefully removed, the next part of the
flower can be observed.

This series of flower-leaves differs very much in structure from both
sepals and petals. Each leaf of this series consists of a linear
stalk-like portion, bearing an upper somewhat long and grooved head.
The stalk is named the filament, and the oblong head is named the
anther (Greek _anthos_, a flower). The stalk and the head together
form what is called the stamen (Lat. _stamen_, [Greek _histanai_,
to stand] fibre; literally, the warp in the upright loom of the
ancients). The stamens of the orange are rather shorter than the
petals, and are united to each other.

When the anther is mature, each of its grooves splits near the edge,
and allows the fine powdery granules which fill the anthers to be
removed by insects or by other means. This fine powder is named the
pollen, and each of the granules composing it is named a pollen
grain. If the stamens are now removed the centre of the flower alone
is left.

If the lower part of the centre of the flower be cut across, it will
be found to be divided into a large number of cavities containing
the minute rudiments of future seeds. It will be seen that there are
ten cavities, though they may vary in number. The central organ of
the flower is named the pistil (from Lat. _pistillum_, pestle). The
pistil is usually composed of united leaves.

The separate leaves of the pistil are termed carpels (from Greek
_karpos_, fruit). These leaves are sometimes not combined, as they
are in the orange. The style belongs to the carpel, and varies
considerably in length, as well as in stoutness, in different
flowers. Although the carpels may be united, the styles may remain
completely separate, as, for example, in the pink, or, as in the
fuchsia, they may be combined into a single rod.

The pollen grains (Lat. fine flour) contained in the anther are
composed of very rich protoplasm (Greek _protos_, first; _plasma_,
formative matter), which usually has in it small drops of oil and
small starch granules. The pollen grains are bounded by two principal
layers, an outer and an inner; the purpose of the outer layer (which
is often provided with thickenings in the shape of knots, spines,
etc.) being to preserve the contents of the grain from evaporation.

The inner layer is living and capable of growth, and at certain
spots it possesses thickenings which project into the protoplasm.
Opposite to these the external cuticle is frequently thinner, and
this eventually is lifted off as a sort of lid, and through this the
inner substance can grow out, and is then named the pollen tube.

When the anther lobes open to discharge their pollen grains, these
grains are completely developed.

The grains fall on the part of the ovary named the stigma (Greek
_stigma_, a puncture made with a sharp instrument; here it means a
sharp point or apex) and the inner layer begins to force its way out.
The tube is produced from the contents of the pollen grain, and is
formed by growth, just as any other part of the plant. The pollen
tube passes down to the ovules, the route depending on the length of
the style. The time taken by the pollen tube to reach the ovary may
amount to a few hours in certain plants, while it needs months in
others. It is necessary that at least one pollen tube should enter
the mouth of the ovule before it can develop into a seed. The seed,
when mature, contains the embryo plant.

It is not possible for an ovule in numerous cases to be fertilized by
pollen from stamens that grow near it in the same flower.

It not unfrequently happens that a flower possesses stamens and
no pistil, or a pistil and no stamens. Flowers of this kind are
technically termed diœcious (Greek _dis_, twice, and _oikia_ or
_oikos_, place of abode), if the male and female flowers are on
different plants. The flowers of such plants as oaks and birches
are male and female, but are borne on the same plant, hence termed
monœcious (Greek _monos_, single). The flowers that contain stamens
only are called male flowers, and those containing pistils only are
named female flowers.

The oaks and birches, as has been stated, have both the male and
female flowers on the same plant, though in other cases the male
flower is borne on one plant and the female flower on another.

In cases like these the wind carries the pollen from one plant to
another. In wind-fertilized flowers the flower is usually produced
prior to the foliage leaves, or at least before the plant is crowded
with leaves.

These plants produce an immense amount of pollen.

Besides the transference of pollen by the agency of the wind, insect
agency plays a very important part. These insect-fertilized plants
are much more conspicuous than those fertilized by the wind.

There are numerous natural contrivances in plants to prevent
self-fertilization, as this process of self-fertilization is far less
effective in producing seeds than when the ovules are fertilized by
pollen from another plant of the same species.

In some plants the stigma is mature before the anther, and in such
a case the pollen must be brought from a flower that has bloomed a
little earlier than itself.




  FLORA OF THE EARLY MESOZOIC
  --SIR J. WILLIAM DAWSON


Great physical changes occurred at the close of the Carboniferous
age. The thick beds of sediment that had been accumulating in long
lines along the primitive continents had weighed down the earth’s
crust. Slow subsidence had been proceeding from this cause in the
coal-formation period, and at its close vast wrinklings occurred,
only surpassed by those of the old Laurentian time. Hence in the
Appalachian region of America we have the Carboniferous beds thrown
into abrupt folds, their shales converted into hard slates, their
sandstones into quartzite and their coals into anthracite, and all
this before the deposition of the Triassic Red Sandstones which
constitute the earliest deposit of the great succeeding Mesozoic
period. In like manner the coal-fields of Wales and elsewhere in
western Europe have suffered similar treatment, and apparently at the
same time.

This folding is, however, on both sides of the Atlantic limited to a
band on the margin of the continents, and to certain interior lines
of pressure, while in the middle, as in Ohio and Illinois in America,
and in the great interior plains of Europe, the coal-beds are
undisturbed and unaltered. In connection with this we have an entire
change in the physical character of the deposits, a great elevation
of the borders of the continents, and probably a considerable
deepening of the seas, leading to the establishment of general
geographical conditions which still remain, though they have been
temporarily modified by subsequent subsidences and re-elevations.

Along with this a great change was in progress in vegetable and
animal life. The flora and fauna of the Palæozoic gradually die out
in the Permian and are replaced in the succeeding Trias by those of
the Mesozoic time. Throughout the Permian, however, the remains of
the coal-formation flora continue to exist, and some forms, as the
_Calamites_, even seem to gain in importance, as do also certain
types of coniferous trees. The Triassic, as well as the Permian, was
marked by physical disturbances, more especially by great volcanic
eruptions discharging vast beds and dikes of lava, and layers of
volcanic ash and agglomerate. This was the case more especially
along the margins of the Atlantic, and probably also on those of
the Pacific. The volcanic sheets and dikes associated with the Red
Sandstones of Nova Scotia, Connecticut, and New Jersey are evidences
of this.

At the close of the Permian and beginning of the Trias, in the
midst of this transition time of physical disturbance, appear the
great reptilian forms characteristic of the age of reptiles, and
the earliest precursors of the mammals, and at this time the old
Carboniferous forms of plants finally pass away, to be replaced by
a flora scarcely more advanced, though different, and consisting
of pines, cycads, and ferns, with gigantic equiseta, which are the
successors of the genus _Calamites_, a genus which still survives
in the early Trias. Of these groups the conifers, the ferns, and
the equiseta are already familiar to us, and, in so far as they are
concerned, a botanist who had studied the flora of the Carboniferous
would have found himself at home in the succeeding period. The cycads
are a new introduction. The whole, however, come within the limits of
the cryptogams and the gymnosperms, so that here we have no advance.

As we ascend, however, in the Mesozoic, we find new and higher
types. Even within the Jurassic epoch, the next in succession to
the Trias, there are clear indications of the presence of the
endogens, in species allied to the screw-pines and grasses; and the
palms appear a little later, while a few exogenous trees have left
their remains in the Lower Cretaceous, and in the Middle and Upper
Cretaceous these higher plants come in abundantly and in generic
forms still extant, so that the dawn of the modern flora belongs
to the Middle and Upper Cretaceous. It will thus be convenient
to confine ourselves in this chapter to the flora of the earlier
Mesozoic.

Passing over for the present the cryptogamous plants already familiar
in older deposits, we may notice the new features of gymnospermous
and phænogamous life, as they present themselves in this earlier part
of the great reptilian age, and as they extended themselves with
remarkable uniformity in this period over all parts of the world. For
it is a remarkable fact that, if we place together in our collections
fossil plants of this period from Australia, India, China, Siberia,
Europe, or even from Greenland, we find wonderfully little difference
in their aspect. This uniformity prevailed in the Palæozoic flora;
and it is perhaps equally marked in that of the Mesozoic. Still
we must bear in mind that some of the plants of these periods, as
the ferns and pines, for example, are still world-wide in their
distribution; but this does not apply to others, more especially the
cycads.

The cycads constitute a singular and exceptional type in the modern
world, and are limited at present to the warmer climates, though
very generally distributed in these, as they occur in Africa, India,
Japan, Australia, Mexico, Florida, and the West Indies. In the
Mesozoic age, however, they were world-wide in their distribution,
and are found as far north as Greenland, though most of the species
found in the Cretaceous of that country are of small size, and may
have been of low growth, so that they may have been protected by the
snows of winter. The cycads have usually simple or unbranching stems,
pinnate leaves borne in a crown at top, and fruits which, though
somewhat various in structure and arrangement, are all of the simpler
form of gymnospermous type. The stems are exogenous in structure, but
with slender wood and thick bark, and barred tissue, or properly as
tissue intermediate between this and the disk-bearing fibres of the
pines.

The greater part of the cycads of the Mesozoic age would seem to
have had short stems and to have constituted the undergrowth of
woods in which conifers attained to greater height. An interesting
case of this is the celebrated dirt-bed of the quarries of the Isle
of Portland, long ago described by Dean Buckland. In this fossil
soil trunks of pines, which must have attained to great height, are
interspersed with the short, thick stems of cycads, of the genus
named _Cycadoidea_ by Buckland, and which from their appearance are
called “fossil birds’ nests” by the quarrymen. Some, however, must
have attained a considerable height so as to resemble palms.

The cycads, with their simple, thick trunks, usually marked
with rhombic scars, and bearing broad spreading crowns of large,
elegantly formed pinnate leaves, must have formed a prominent part
of the vegetation of the Northern Hemisphere during the whole of
the Mesozoic period. A botanist, had there been such a person at
the time, would have found this to be the case everywhere from the
equator to Spitzbergen, and probably in the Southern Hemisphere as
well, and this throughout all the long periods from the Early Trias
to the Middle Cretaceous. In a paper published in the _Linnæan
Transactions_ for 1868, Dr. Carruthers enumerates twenty species of
British Mesozoic cycads, and the number might now be considerably
increased.

The pines present some features of interest. In the Mesozoic we have
great numbers of beautiful trees, with those elegant fan-shaped
leaves characteristic of but one living species, the _Salisburia_,
or gingko-tree of China. It is curious that this tree, though now
limited to eastern Asia, will grow, though it rarely fruits, in most
parts of temperate Europe, and in America as far north as Montreal,
and that in the Mesozoic period it occupied all these regions, and
even Siberia and Greenland, and with many and diversified species.

_Salisburia_ belongs to the yews, but an equally curious fact applies
to the cypresses. The genus _Sequoia_, limited at present to two
species, both Californian, and one of them the so-called “big tree,”
celebrated for the gigantic size to which it attains, is represented
by species found as far back at least as the Lower Cretaceous, and in
every part of the Northern Hemisphere.[1] It seems to have thriven
in all these regions throughout the Mesozoic and early Kainozoic, and
then to have disappeared, leaving only a small remnant to represent
it in modern days. A number of species have been described from the
Mesozoic and Tertiary, all of them closely related to those now
existing.

The name itself deserves consideration. It is that of an Indian of
the Cherokee tribe, Sequo Yah, who invented an alphabet without
any aid from the outside world of culture, and taught it to his
tribe by writing it upon leaves. This came into general use among
the Cherokees before the white man had any knowledge of it; and
afterward, in 1828, a periodical was published in this character by
the missionaries. Sequo Yah was banished from his home in Alabama,
with the rest of his tribe, and settled in New Mexico, where he died
in 1843.

When Endlicher was preparing his synopsis of the conifers, in 1846,
and had established a number of new genera, Dr. Jacbon Tschudi, then
living with Endlicher, brought before his notice this remarkable
man, and asked him to dedicate this red-wooded tree to the memory
of a literary genius so conspicuous among the red men of America.
Endlicher consented to do so, and only endeavored to make the name
pronounceable by changing two of its letters.

Endlicher founded the genus on the redwood of the Americans,
_Taxodium sempervirens_ of Lamb; and named the species _Sequoia
sempervirens_. These trees form large forests in California, which
extend along the coast as far as Oregon. Trees are there met with of
300 feet in height and 20 feet in diameter. The seeds were brought to
Europe a number of years ago, and we already see in upper Italy and
around the Lake of Geneva, and in England, high trees; but, on the
other hand, they have not proved successful around Zurich.

In 1852, a second species of Sequoia was discovered in California,
which, under the name of big tree, soon attained a considerable
celebrity. Lindley described it, in 1853, as _Wellingtonia gigantea_;
and, in the following year, Decaisne and Torrey proved that it
belonged to Sequoia, and that it accordingly should be called
_Sequoia gigantea_.

While the _Sequoia sempervirens_, in spite of the destructiveness of
the American lumbermen, still forms large forests along the coasts,
the _Sequoia gigantea_ is confined to the isolated clumps which are
met with inland at a height of 5,000 to 7,000 feet above sea-level,
and are much sought after by tourists as one of the wonders of the
country. Reports came to Europe concerning the largest of them which
were quite fabulous, but we have received accurate accounts of them
from Professor Whitney. The tallest tree measured by him has a height
of 325 feet, and in the case of one of the trees the number of the
rings of growth indicated an age of about 1,300 years. It had a girth
of 50 to 60 feet.

We know only two living species of _Sequoia_, both of which are
confined to California. The one (_S. sempervirens_) is clothed with
erect leaves, arranged in two rows, very much like our yew-tree,
and bears small, round cones; the other (_S. gigantea_) has smaller
leaves, set closely against the branches, giving the tree more the
appearance of the cypress. The cones are egg-shaped, and much larger.
These two types are, therefore, sharply defined.

Both of these trees have an interesting history. If we go back into
the Tertiary, this same genus meets us with a long array of species.
Two of these species correspond to those living at present: the _S.
Langsdorfii_ to the _S. sempervirens_, and the _S. Couttsiæ_ to
the _S. gigantea_. But, while the living species are confined to
California, in the Tertiary they are spread over several quarters of
the globe.

Let us first consider the _Sequoia Langsdorfii_. This was first
discovered in the lignite of Wetterau, and was described as _Taxites
Langsdorfii_. Heer found it in the upper Rhone district, and there
lay beside the twigs the remains of a cone, which showed that the
_Taxites Langsdorfii_ of Brongniart belonged to the Californian genus
_Sequoia_ established by Endlicher. He afterward found much better
preserved cones, together with seeds, along with the plants of east
Greenland, which fully confirmed the determination. At Atanekerdluk
in Greenland (about 70° north latitude) this tree is very common.
The leaves, and also the flowers and numerous cones, leave no doubt
that it stands very near to the modern redwood. It differs from it,
however, in having a much larger number of scales in the cone. The
tree is also found in Spitzbergen at nearly 78° north latitude, where
Nordenskiöld has collected, at Cape Lyell, wonderfully preserved
branches. From this high latitude the species can be followed down
through the whole of Europe as far as the middle of Italy (at
Senegaglia, Gulf of Spezia). In Asia, also, we can follow it to
the steppes of Kirghisen, to Possiet, and to the coast of the sea
of Japan, and across to Alaska and Sitka. It is recognized by Mr.
Starkie Gardner as one of the species found in the Eocene of Mull in
the Hebrides. It is thus known in Europe, Asia, and America from 43°
to 78° north latitude, while its most nearly related living species,
perhaps even descended from it, is now confined to California.

With this _S. Langsdorfii_, three other Tertiary species are
nearly related (_S. brevifolia_, Hr., _S. disticha_, Hr., and _S.
Nordenskiöldi_, Hr.). These have been met with in Greenland and
Spitzbergen and one of them has been found in the United States.
Three other species, in addition to these, have been described
by Lesquereux, which appear to belong to the group of the _S.
Langsdorfii_, viz., _S. longifolia_, Lesq., _S. angustifolia_, and
_S. acuminata_, Lesq. Several species also occur in the Cretaceous
and Eocene of Canada.

These species thus answer to the living _Sequoia sempervirens_; but
we can also point to Tertiary representatives of the _S. gigantea_.
Their leaves are stiff and sharp-pointed, are thinly set round the
branches, and lie forward in the same way: the egg-shaped cones are
in some cases similar.

There are, however, in the early Tertiary six species, which fill
up the gap between _S. sempervirens_ and _S. gigantea_. They are
the _S. Couttsiæ_, _S. affinis_, Lesq., _S. imbricata_, Hr., _S.
sibirica_, Hr., _S. Heerii_, Lesq., and _S. biformis_, Lesq. Of
these, _S. Couttsiæ_, Hr., is the most common and most important
species. It has short leaves, lying along the branch, like _S.
gigantea_, and small, round cones, like _S. Langsdorfii_ and
_sempervirens_. Bovey Tracey in Devonshire has afforded splendid
specimens of cones, seeds, and twigs, which have been described in
the _Philosophical Transactions_. More lately, Count Saporta has
described specimens of cones and twigs from Armissan. Specimens of
this species have also been found in the older Tertiary of Greenland,
so that it must have had a wide range. It is very like to the
American _S. affinis_, Lesq.

In the Tertiary there have been found fourteen well-marked species,
which thus include representatives of the two living types, _S.
sempervirens_ and _S. gigantea_.

We can follow this genus still further back. If we go back to the
Cretaceous age, we find ten species, of which five occur in the
Urgon of the Lower Cretaceous, two in the Middle, and three in the
Upper Cretaceous. Among these, the Lower Cretaceous exhibits the two
types of the _Sequoia sempervirens_ and _S. gigantea_. To the former
the _S. Smithiana_ answers, and to the latter, the _Reichenbachii_,
Gein. The _S. Smithiana_ stands indeed uncommonly near the _S.
Langsdorfii_, both in the appearance of the leaves on the twigs and
in the shape of the cones. These are, however, smaller, and the
leaves do not become narrower toward the base. The _S. pectina_,
Hr., of the Upper Cretaceous, has its leaves arranged in two rows,
and presents a similar appearance. The _S. Reichenbachii_ is a type
more distinct from those now living and those in the Tertiary.
It has indeed stiff, pointed leaves, lying forward, but they are
arcuate, and the cones are smaller. This tree has been known for
a long time, and it serves in the Cretaceous as a guiding star,
which we can follow from the Urgonian of the Lower Cretaceous up to
the Cenomanian. It is known in France, Belgium, Bohemia, Saxony,
Greenland, and Spitzbergen (also in Canada and the United States). It
has been placed in another genus--Geinitzia--but we can recognize, by
the help of the cones, that it belongs to Sequoia.

Below this, there is found in Greenland a nearly related species, the
_S. ambigua_, Hr., of which the leaves are shorter and broader, and
the cones round and somewhat smaller.

The connecting link between _S. Smithiana_ and _Reichenbachii_ is
formed by _S. subulata_, Hr., and _S. rigida_, Hr., and three species
(_S. gracilis_, Hr., _S. fastigiata_ and _S. Gardneriana_, Carr.),
with leaves lying closely along the branch, and which come very near
to the Tertiary species _S. Couttsiæ_. We have, therefore, in the
Cretaceous quite an array of species, which fill up the gap between
the _S. sempervirens_ and _gigantea_, and show us that the genus
Sequoia had already attained a great development in the Cretaceous.
This was still greater in the Tertiary, in which it also reached its
maximum of geographical distribution. Into the present world the two
extremes of the genus have alone continued; the numerous species
forming its main body have fallen out in the Tertiary.

If we look still further back, we find in the Jura a great number
of conifers, and, among them, we meet in the genus Pinus with a
type which is highly developed, and which still survives; but for
Sequoia we have till now looked in vain, so that for the present
we can not place the rise of the genus lower than the Urgonian of
the Cretaceous, however remarkable we may think it that in that
period it should have developed into so many species; and it is
still more surprising that two species already make their appearance
which approach so near to the living _Sequoia sempervirens_ and _S.
gigantea_.

Altogether, we have become acquainted, up to the present time, with
twenty-six species of Sequoia. Fourteen of these species are found
in the Arctic zone, and have been described and figured in the
_Fossil Flora of the Arctic Regions_. Sequoia has been recognized by
Ettingshausen even in Australia, but there in the Eocene.

This is, perhaps, the most remarkable record in the whole history of
vegetation. The Sequoias are the giants of the conifers, the grandest
representatives of the family; and the fact that, after spreading
over the whole Northern Hemisphere and attaining to more than twenty
specific forms, their decaying remnant should now be confined to one
limited region in western America[2] and to two species constitutes
a sad memento of departed greatness. The small remnant of _S.
gigantea_ still, however, towers above all competitors as eminently
the “big trees”; but, had they and the allied species failed to
escape the Tertiary continental submergences and the disasters of the
glacial period, this grand genus would have been to us an extinct
type. In like manner the survival of the single gingko of eastern
Asia alone enables us to understand that great series of taxine trees
with fern-like leaves of which it is the sole representative.

Besides these peculiar and now rare forms, we have in the Mesozoic
many others related closely to existing yews, cypresses, pines, and
spruces, so that the conifers were probably in greater abundance and
variety than they are at this day.

In this period also we find the earliest representatives of the
endogenous plants. It is true that some plants found in the
coal-formation have been doubtfully referred to these, but the
earliest certain examples would seem to be some bamboo-like and
screw-pine-like plants occurring in the Jurassic rocks. Some of
these are, it is true, doubtful forms, but of others there seems to
be no question. The modern _Pandanus_ or screw-pine of the tropical
regions, which is not a pine, however, but a humble relation of the
palms, is a stiffly branching tree, of a candelabra-like form, and
with tufts of long leaves on its branches, and nuts or great hard
berries for fruit, borne sometimes in larger masses, and so protected
as to admit of their drifting uninjured on the sea. The stems are
supported by masses of aerial roots like those which strengthen the
stems of tree-ferns. These structures and habits of growth fit the
Pandanus for its especial habitat on the shores of tropical islands,
where its masses of nuts are drifted by the winds and currents, and
on whose shores it can establish itself by the aid of its aerial
roots.

Some plants referred to the cycads have proved veritable botanical
puzzles. One of these, the _Williamsonia gigas_ of the English
oölite, originally discovered by my friend, Dr. Williamson, and
named by him _Zamia gigas_, a very tall and beautiful species, found
in rocks of this age in various parts of Europe, has been claimed
by Saporta for the Endogens, as a plant allied to _Pandanus_. Some
other botanists have supposed the flowers and fruits to be parasites
on other plants, like the modern _Rafflesia_ of Sumatra, but it is
possible that after all it may prove to have been an aberrant cycad.

The tree-palms are not found earlier than the Middle Cretaceous. In
like manner, though a few Angiosperms occur in rocks believed to
be Lower or Lower Middle Cretaceous in Greenland and the Northwest
Territory of Canada, and in Virginia, these are merely precursors of
those of the Upper Cretaceous, and are not sufficient to redeem the
earlier Cretaceous from being a period of pines and cycads.

On the whole, this early Mesozoic flora, so far as known to us, has
a monotonous and mean appearance. It no doubt formed vast forests
of tall pines, perhaps resembling the giant Sequoias of California;
but they must for the most part have been dark and dismal woods,
probably tenanted by few forms of life, for the great reptiles of
this age must have preferred the open and sunny coasts, and many of
them dwelt in the waters. Still we must not be too sure of this. The
berries and nuts of the numerous yews and cycads were capable of
affording much food. We know that in this age there were many great
herbivorous reptiles, like _Iguanodon_ and _Hadrosaurus_, some of
them fitted by their structure to feed upon the leaves and fruits of
trees. There were also several kinds of small herbivorous mammals,
and much insect life, and it is likely that few of the inhabitants of
the Mesozoic woods have been preserved as fossils. We may yet have
much to learn of the inhabitants of these forests of ferns, cycads,
and pines. We must not forget in this connection that in the present
day there are large islands, like New Zealand, destitute of mammalia,
and having a flora comparable with that of the Mesozoic in the
Northern Hemisphere, though more varied. We have also the remarkable
example of Australia, with a much richer flora than that of the early
Mesozoic, yet inhabited only by non-placental mammals, like those of
the Mesozoic.

The principal legacy that the Mesozoic woods have handed down to our
time is in some beds of coal, locally important, but of far less
extent than those of the Carboniferous period. Still, in America,
the Richmond coal-field in Virginia is of this age, and so are the
anthracite beds of the Queen Charlotte Islands, on the west coast
of Canada, and the coal of Brora in Sutherlandshire. Valuable beds
of coal, probably of this age, also exist in China, India, and
South Africa; and jet, which is so extensively used for ornament, is
principally derived from the carbonized remains of the old Mesozoic
pines.




  EXISTING LIFE-FORMS OF PLANTS
  --EDWARD CLODD


Plants are divided into two main groups or sub-kingdoms: I,
_Cryptogams_ (Greek _Kruptos_, hidden; _gamos_, marriage), or
flowerless; II, _Phanerogams_ (Greek _phaneros_, open; _gamos_,
marriage), or flowering.

I. The _Cryptogams_ comprise as their leading representatives: 1.
Algæ, Fungi, Lichens; 2. Liverworts, Mosses; 3. Ferns, Horsetails,
Club-mosses.

The feature common to these is the absence of any conspicuous organs;
_i. e._, true flowers with stamens and pistils for the production of
seeds or fruits. The simplest or single-celled plants increase by
subdivision, each cell carrying on an independent life and repeating
the process of division. But sexuality is manifest in plants very
low down in the scale, the mode of reproduction varying a good deal
in different species. In some cryptogams it is almost as complex as
in the flowering plants, but notwithstanding the different kinds of
sexual organs, there is this fundamental resemblance between them,
that the union of the contents of two cells, a male or sperm-cell,
and a female or germ-cell, each of which is by itself incapable of
further development, is essential to the production of the embryo or
seed.

The lowest cryptogams have no stems, leaves, or roots. They are
congregations of simple fibreless cells united in rows, or gathered
round one another, spreading on all sides. At the bottom of the scale
of plant life are the _Algæ_, comprising some 10,000 species, from
the minute fresh-water desmids, one-millionth of an inch in length,
with their whip-like cilia, the two-hundredth millionth of an inch
long, to the giant sea-weeds or tangles, hundreds of feet in length,
that cover thousands of square miles of ocean. The green scum of
stagnant ponds; the waving filaments in streams; the shell-coated
microscopic diatoms that people the ocean, tingeing its depths with
olive green, nourishing the whales that play therein, and whose
skeletons form deposits hundreds of miles in length; the rose and
purple weeds that flourish in shallow seas, and are cast upon their
shores, are all members of a group which is perhaps the venerablest
of living things. For although their generally fragile forms have
been fatal to their preservation as fossils, there is little doubt
that the algæ flourished in dense masses in primeval oceans, and were
the chief, if not the sole, representatives of plant-life on the
earth during millions of centuries. Like the foraminifera and other
low animal organisms, they illustrate the persistency of the earlier
forms, in virtue of their simplicity of structure, despite changing
conditions, whereas the more complex structures, by reason of the
greater delicacy of their parts, can less readily adapt themselves to
altered surroundings, and therefore have a much narrower distribution
both in time and space.

Next to the algæ in ascending order are those fantastic products of
decay, the quick-growing, short-lived _Fungi_, animal-like in their
mode of nutrition, plant-like in their fixity; then the _Lichens_,
which, it is now generally agreed, are composite plants, being a
special kind of parasite fungi growing on algæ. These are widely
spread, living after the adaptive manner of simple forms, where
nothing else can live, unwithered by the heat, unsmitten by the
frost; redeeming the earth’s desolate places, from treeless desert
flats far as the lines of enduring snow; spreading their flowerless
patches of richest colors in metallic-like stain over rock and ruin;
incrusting the trees with tint of freshness or touch of age, with
hoary fringe or mock hieroglyph; and in their decay yielding rich
soil wherein fern and flowering tree may strike root.

In the _Mosses_, whose glossy, many-colored masses weave softest
carpet over the earth, sharing in the service rendered by the humble
lichens, the cells have become more developed into rudimentary
root, stem, and leaf, manifesting still further transition toward
unlikeness in parts due to division of function. But the structure is
still cellular--_i. e._, there are no tissues and fibres. The mosses
represent the intermediate form between the lowest and the highest
cryptogams, between the green algæ--out of which the liverworts were
probably developed--and the ferns, which arose out of liverworts.

In the _Ferns_, the larger number of cells have joined together to
form fibrous vessels, lengthening of thickening in varying shape
and texture, according to the functions to be discharged by them,
resulting in the woody tissue which enters into the structure of
all the higher plants. The cells which are thus converted into
tissue cease to grow; the formative protoplasm becomes the formed,
having given up its life for the plant, and locked up in the
compacted material a store of energy for service both within the
plant and by the agency of the plant. The ferns and club-mosses and
horsetails of the present day are the dwarfed representatives of
the stately and luxuriant, although sombre, flowerless trees that
composed the dense jungles of green vegetation in the _Devonian_ and
succeeding _Primary_ periods. These are distinguished as the Era
of Fern Forests, during which our fossil fuel was chiefly formed;
and although the palm-like vegetation of the tropics more nearly
approaches its _Devonian_ prototype, it falls far behind it in size
and abundance.

II. The _Phanerogams_ have their flowers with stamens and pistils
conspicuous, and are divided, according to the formation of their
seeds, into:

1. _Gymnosperms_, or naked-seeded, the ovules not being inclosed
within a seed-vessel or ovary, but carried upon a cone, as in pines
and allied species.

2. _Angiosperms_, or cover-seeded, the ovules being inclosed within
an ovary.

This group is subdivided into (_a_) plants having one seed-leaf from
which they are developed, as palms, lilies, orchids, grasses; and
into (_b_) plants having two seed-leaves, as oaks, beeches, and all
trees and shrubs not included in the foregoing species.

In naked-seeded plants the pollen or male element falls on the
exposed ovules; in cover-seeded plants it falls on the stigma, passes
down the pistil into the seed-vessel, and enters the ovule through an
opening in it called the microphyle, or “little gate.”

While the gymnosperms are, on the one hand, most nearly allied in
the order of descent to ferns, the sombre flowers which they bear
giving them, only by strict botanical classification, a place among
phanerogams, they are, on the other hand, more complex in structure
than the single seed-leaf plants, because their bark, wood, and pith
are clearly defined, as in the double seed-leaf plants. Their lowest
representatives comprise the cycads or palm-ferns, so called from
their resemblance to palms, for which, with their crown of feathery
leaves, they are often mistaken. Next in order is the much more
varied and widely distributed conifer family, notably pines, firs,
and larches, and, lesser in importance, cedars and cypresses. A still
higher class, various in its modes of growth, marks the transition,
to angiosperms, the flowers of both having many features in common.

The single seed-leaf angiosperms have no visible separation of their
woody stuff into bark, stem, and pith, and have no rings of growth,
the wood exhibiting an even surface, dotted over with small dark
points. Their leaves have parallel veins or “nerves,” as in the
onion and tulip, and the blossom-leaves, or petals, are grouped in
threes or multiples of three. Among their several representatives we
may single out the lilies for their beauty and fragrance, and the
cereals for their value and importance, both classes being in near
connection, since the grasses from which man has developed wheat,
barley, oats, rice, and maize are, in a botanical sense, degenerate
descendants of the lily family.

The double seed-leaf plants include all the highest and most
specialized varieties. Bark, stem, pith, and concentric rings of
growth are clearly defined; the leaves are netted-veined, and the
petals grouped in fours or fives or multiples of these numbers. The
lowest class, represented by the catkin-bearers, as the birch and
alder, the poplar and the oak, and by plants allied to the nettle and
to the laurel, are nearly related to the highest gymnosperms. Next in
order are the crown-bearers, or flowers with corollas, as the rose
family, which includes most of our fruit yielders, from strawberries
to apples; while the highest and most perfect of all are plants in
which the petals are united together in bell-shape or funnel fashion.
Such are the convolvulus and honeysuckle, the olive and ash, and at
the top of the plant-scale, the family of which the daisy is the
most familiar representative. Its position among plants corresponds
to man’s position among animals. As he, in virtue of being the most
complex and highly specialized, is at their head, albeit many exceed
him in bulk and strength, so is the daisy with its allies, for like
reasons, above the giants of the forest.

The primary function for which the organs of plants known as flowers
exists is not that which man has long assumed. He once thought
that the earth was the centre of the universe until astronomy
dispelled the illusion, and there yet lingers in him an old _Adam_
of conceit that everything on the earth has for its sole end and
aim his advantage and service. Evolution will dispel that illusion.
But our delight in the colors and perfumes of flowers will not be
lessened, while wonder will have larger field for play in learning
that the colored leaves known as flowers, together with their scent
and honey, have been developed in furtherance of nature’s supreme
aim--the preservation and increase of the species. And truly the
contrivances to secure this which are manifest in plant-life are
astounding even to those who perceive most clearly the unity of
function which connects the highest and lowest life-forms together.
It is difficult, nay, wellnigh impossible, to deny the existence of a
rudimentary consciousness in the efforts of certain plants to secure
fertilization. Take, for example, the well-known aquatic plant,
_Vallisneria spiralis_. When the male flowers detach themselves and
float about the water, the female flowers develop long spiral stalks
by which to reach them, and become fertilized by the discharge of
pollen on their pistils. Most flowers have their male and female
organs within the same petals, and in some cases fertilize themselves
by scattering the pollen from the bursting stamens on the stigma or
head of the pistil. But nature is opposed to this; “tells us in the
most emphatic manner that she abhors perpetual self-fertilization,”
with its resultant puny and feeble offspring; and we find a number
of contrivances to prevent this, and to secure fertilization by the
pollen of another plant, to the abiding gain all round of the plant,
whose blood, as we may say, is thus mixed with that of a stranger.
Two agencies--insects and the wind--undesignedly effect this; while
in the dispersion of the matured seed, birds and other animals play
an important, although equally unconscious, part.

Plants which are wind-fertilized have no gayly colored petals or
sepals, and do not secrete water. Such are the naked-seeded groups
whose sombre flowers are borne on dull brown cones; and, among
cover-seeded groups, grasses and rushes, with their feathery flowers;
and willows and birches, with their long waving clusters of catkins.
All of these provide against the fitfulness of the wind, which is
as likely to blow the pollen one way as another, by producing it in
large quantities.

Plants which are insect-fertilized seek to attract their visitors
by secreting honey and developing colored floral organs. The way in
which this came about is probably as follows:

The common idea about flowers is that they are made up of petals
and sepals, whereas the _essential_ parts are the stamens and
pistils--_i. e._, the male, or pollen-producing organs, and the
female, or seed-containing organs. The earliest flowers consisted of
these alone, having no colored whorl of petals within another colored
whorl of sepals, but were only scantily protected by leaves, as are
many extant species. These the food-seeking insects then, as now,
visited for the sake of the pollen, to the detriment of the plant,
which lost the fertilizing stuff and gained nothing in return. To
arrest this, certain plants began, especially when in the act of
flowering, to secrete honey and store it in glands or nectaries,
or near their seed-vessels, where the insects could not get at it
without covering their bodies with some of the pollen, which they
rubbed on the pistils of the plant next visited, and thus fertilized
the ovule, provided that the plants were nearly related. Honey is
sweeter to the taste than pollen, and the plants that produced the
most honey stood the better chance of visits from insects, and
therefore of fertilization, to the advantage of this species over
others. As a rule, those which secrete honey have hairy coverings
at the base of the petals, or other contrivances to prevent it
being washed out by the rain or dew, or seized by useless insects,
and we find curious interrelations established between plants and
their desired visitors. Certain flowers adapt themselves to certain
insects, and _vice versâ_, as where the plant has secreted the
honey at the bottom of a long tube and the insect has developed a
correspondingly long proboscis to gather it. By these and kindred
devices the pollen is preserved for its sole function, the energy
of the plant being conserved in the smaller quantity which it has
to produce. As the honey was secreted as counter-attraction to the
pollen, so the colored floral envelopes were developed to attract
the insects, to the honey-secreting plant, and those floral whorls,
both of petals and sepals, are modified or transformed stamens
which have exchanged their function of pollen-producers for that of
insect-allurers. And as both stamens and pistils are leaves aborted
or modified for the special function of reproduction, Goethe’s
well-known generalization that the leaf is the type of the plant has
a large measure of truth in it.

But before speaking further about color-development in plants, it may
be useful to say a little about color itself. Since everything is
black in the dark, and moreover has no color in itself, it follows
that color is in some way a property of light. Now light, which is
itself invisible, is due to vibrations or oscillations set up in all
directions by any luminous body--whether the sun or a rushlight--in
the ethereal medium which pervades all space, and is composed of
rays of different refrangibilities--_i. e._, change of direction
in passing from one medium to another. White light is due to a
combination of all these rays, ranging through innumerable gradations
of color, from red to violet, and it is to the absence of one or
more of them that the infinite variety of colors is due. If a body
is quite opaque, or otherwise so constituted as to absorb none of
the rays, it appears white; if it absorbs them all it appears black;
if it absorbs green, blue, and violet, and not red, it appears red;
if it absorbs red, orange, and violet and returns or reflects green,
it appears green. The colors which bodies reflect are therefore
regulated by their structure; the way in which their molecules are
arranged determines the number and character of the light vibrations
or ether waves which are returned to the eye and which rule the color
we see--_e. g._, charcoal and the diamond are both pure carbon; the
dull opacity of the one and the trembling splendor of the other are
solely due to the arrangement of the several molecules of each.

It is thus obvious that any change in the nature or structure of a
thing is accompanied by change in its color, and to this cause the
various pigments in plants are to be referred.

All growth involves expenditure of the energy which the plant has
stored within itself, and which becomes active when the hydrocarbons
combine with oxygen, resulting in cellular change, and appearance of
other colors than the green, which is due to chlorophyl. Thus may be
explained the color of sprouting buds and young shoots and the more
or less intensified colors of leaves and flowers--one and all due to
oxidation, the minutest changes inducing subtle variations in color.

Whichever plants made the most show of color would the sooner catch
the eye of insects, however dim their perception of the difference
in colors might be, and would thus get fertilized before plants
which made less display. Thus have insects been the main cause in
the propagation of flowering plants; the plants in return developing
the color-sense in insects. The flower nourishes the insect, the
insect propagates the flower. Other contrivances to meet the need
for fertilization might be cited, as the markings upon the petals
to guide the insect to the nectary; the exhalation of scent by
inconspicuous flowers, or by such as would attract visitors at night,
and so forth; but enough has been adduced to show what is the chief,
if not the sole, function discharged by flowers--the attraction
of insects to aid in securing cross-fertilization. Nor does the
provision stop here. The fertilized seed is not left to chance,
but, like the fertilizing pollen, is intrusted to secondary agents,
to the care of the birds and the breezes. Where not scattered by
the bursting of the ovary it is winged with gossamer shafts, as
in the dandelion, and carried by the wind, floated on gentlest
zephyr or rushing storm to a genial soil. Such wind-wafted seeds,
like wind-fertilized flowers, are rarely colored; neither are the
seeds of the larger trees, since their abundance ensures notice by
food-seeking animals; nor the nuts, which are protected by shelly
coats. But other seeds inwrap themselves in sweet pulpy masses,
called fruits, whose skins brighten as they ripen, and attract the
eye of fruit-loving birds and beasts. The seeds pass through their
stomachs undigested, and are scattered by them in their flight over
wide areas. As with the brightest-hued and sweetest-scented flowers,
so it is with the brightest and juiciest fruits; they sooner attract
the visitor whose services they need, and thus gain advantage over
less-favored members of their species, developing by the selective
action of their devourers into the finest and pulpiest kinds.




  PLANT GEOGRAPHY
  --LOUIS FIGUIER


We can distinguish in Europe three great botanical regions. 1. The
region of the North; 2. The Middle region; and 3. The region of the
South, or Mediterranean.

The Northern region comprehends Lapland, Iceland, Sweden, Norway, and
the northern provinces of Russia. The vegetation is monotonous; the
ligneous species form only the one-hundredth part of the plants;
the cryptogams predominate. The trees are principally coniferous
and amentaceous. The oak, the hazel, and poplar are arrested at
60° N. lat.; the beech, the ash, and the lime at 63°; the conifers
at 67°; barley and oats can be cultivated up to 70°. Spitzbergen,
the most northerly island of Europe, situated between 76° 30′ and
81°, contains only ninety-three species of phanerogamous plants,
belonging principally to the families of _Graminaceæ_, _Cruciferæ_,
_Caryophyllaceæ_, _Saxifragaceæ_, _Ranunculaceæ_, and _Compositæ_.
Among these plants there is scarcely a single tree or shrub, but only
an under-shrub, _Empetrum nigrum_, and two small creeping willows.

Martius, to whom botanical geography is indebted for many valuable
observations, made a voyage along the western coast of Norway, from
Drontheim to North Cape, in recording which he has traced with a
vigorous hand the picturesque vegetation of that country. “While
disembarking I was much surprised to see cherry-trees bearing fruit
about the size of peas. Lilac, mountain ash, black currant, and _Iris
germanica_ were covered with expanding flowers. My astonishment
ceased, however, when I learned that the spring had been a very fine
one. The most common tree in the gardens and streets is the mountain
ash. I remarked also four oaks (_Quercus Robur_), which appeared to
suffer from the cold; in fact, upon the west coast of Norway the
northern limit of the oak lies half a degree south of Drontheim. The
ash is a more hardy tree, but it never attains the dimensions of the
oak in Sweden, and in latitude 61° 18′ I noted the last of them. The
lime lives at Drontheim, as do the poplar (_P. balsamifera_) and the
horse chestnut; the lilac blooms in every garden. All fruit trees can
only be cultivated as espaliers. Even in the most favored situations,
the apple, pear, and plum do not ripen every year. In the environs of
Drontheim, groups of elder, birch, fir, intermingled with ash, maple,
aspen, bird-cherry, hazel, juniper, and willow crown the heights. The
fields are dry and well exposed, while the meadows occupy the lower
ground.

“Toward the north I pushed on to Cape Ladehamer, which is crowned
with light-foliaged birches. In the fields and by the roadsides I
found a great many plants which occupy similar situations in France.
Nevertheless,” he continues further on, “the eye of the botanist
was rejoiced by the sight of a vegetation belonging at once to the
Flora of the Boreal regions of the Alps and of the seashore.” In the
thickets grow _Geranium sylvaticum_, _Aquilegia vulgaris_, _Aconitum
septentrionale_, _Pedicularis lapponica_, _Trientalis europæa_,
_Paris quadrifolia_; in the less sheltered places, _Cornus suecica_,
_Vaccinium Vitis-idæa_, _Polygonum viviparum_; in the marshes, the
Bleaberry and _Geum rivale_; upon the sandy seashore, _Plantago
maritima_, _Glaux maritima_, _Elymus arenarius_, _Triglochin
maritimum_, and many others equally interesting to the botanist.

[Illustration: Six Familiar Tree Forms

1. Willow; 2. Oak; 3. Sycamore; 4. Cedar; 5. Chestnut; 6. Olive]

“At Bodoë, in 67° 16′,” he continues, “I saw for the first
time houses covered with turf, upon which grew many tufts of
grass. According to my custom, I first examined the cultivated
vegetables, but I saw only a few potatoes, peas, radishes, a few
gooseberry-trees without fruit, and some fields of barley and rye. In
the meadows just above the sea-level I found some plants which would
have demonstrated to me, in the absence of other proofs, how much the
climate of this country approaches that of the most elevated Alpine
regions.

“At Hammerfest, which is under 70° 48′ north latitude, all attempts
at cultivation had disappeared. The energies of the place are turned
to commerce; it is from curiosity rather than for profit or utility
that a few vegetables are cultivated.

“Near the city I observed rich meadows, that were cut once a year,
and some herds of half-wild reindeer, which grazed and roamed
about freely. We shall deceive ourselves, however, if we consider
Hammerfest a dull or melancholy city. Its principal streets, on the
contrary, consist of very fair new wooden houses, well ordered,
and in all respects comfortable. These are the habitations of the
better class of inhabitants. The houses of the lower classes are
poorer and older; borrowing, however, a particular charm from the
flowery turf with which they are covered. The roofs are formed of
great squares of turf, on which a number of plants have germinated
and grow vigorously. In seeing these aerial gardens I have for the
first time been able to comprehend the phrase ‘_in tectis_’, which
often occurs in the writings of Linnæus, indicative of the locality.
In short, it was upon the roofs of houses that the learned botanist
of Upsala herborized at Hammerfest; indeed, I frequently borrowed
a ladder myself from the proprietor in order to gather the plants
which grew round the chimney of one of these picturesque old houses.
What I often found there were _Cochlearia anglica_, _Lychnis diurna_,
_Chrysanthemum inodorum_, Shepherd’s Purse, _Poa pratensis_, and _P.
trivialis_. In autumn, when the flowers of _Chrysanthemum inodorum_
are in full bloom, these hanging meadows rival in beauty those of
our own more genial climate, and give the city a smiling physiognomy
which contrasts most happily with the severe aspect of surrounding
Nature. _Ranunculus glacialis_, _Arabis alpina_, _Silene acaulis_,
_Saxifraga nivalis_, Bilberries, _Diapensia lapponica_, _Salix
reticulata_, _S. herbarcea_, etc., grow in the neighborhood.

“How great was my surprise on landing at the North Cape, in latitude
71°, to find myself in the middle of the richest subalpine meadows
that can be imagined! high and tufted grass, which reached my knees.
I found here, in short, at the northern extremity of Europe, the
flowers which had so often attracted my admiration at the foot of
the Swiss Alps; there they were, as vigorous, as brilliant, and much
larger than among the mountains.”

The mid-European region includes southern Russia, Germany, Holland,
Belgium, Switzerland, the Tyrol, and the British Isles, Upper Italy,
and the greater part of France. This region, whose exact limits it
would be difficult to trace, is very different from the preceding. It
is milder, more temperate; its woods and forests consist essentially
of oak (_Quercus Robur_), to which we may add chestnut, beech,
birch, elm, hornbeam, alder, etc.; but the oak predominates. These
trees, all of which lose their leaves during winter, give to the
landscape a very peculiar feature, varying with the season. This
region is especially favorable to the cultivation of the cereals. An
oblique line, drawn from east to west, with certain inflections of
its course, but ranging between the forty-seventh and forty-eighth
parallel, and inclining a little toward the north, would divide it
into two zones--one, the Northern, in which the vine and the mulberry
yield to the rigor of winter, whose forests are chiefly composed of
conifers, where the culture of the apple and pear takes their place,
and which includes more _Cyperacæ_, _Rosaceæ_, and _Cruciferæ_; the
other, the Southern, characterized by the culture of the vine, the
mulberry, and the maize, and in which _Labiatæ_ begin to predominate.

In the Southern region, the Mediterranean forms the centre. It
is a vast basin, whose shores present a vegetation which, if not
identical, is at least analogous in its whole extent. _Labiatæ_
abound there, and in certain seasons the air is filled with their
sweet perfume. To this extensive family we may add a large number
of _Caryophyllaceæ_, _Cistaceæ_, _Liliacæ_, and _Boraginaceæ_. The
Mediterranean draws its distinctive character, however, from the vast
extent of uncultivated country, where the kermes oak, _Phillyrea_,
the evergreen oak, and various half frutescent Labiatæ, reign
supreme. These plants more especially abound in Italy, Spain, Greece,
Algeria, and in the northern portion of Asia Minor. Nevertheless,
a new vegetation makes its appearance at Rhodes and Jaffa, which
becomes closely connected with that of Egypt. The vegetation
of the Mediterranean often presents itself with a smiling and
agreeable aspect. Clumps of odorous myrtles, _Arbutus_, and _Vitex
Agnus-castus_, frequently occur on its shores; magnificent oleanders,
whose praises have been sung by the poets, occupy the edges of the
brooks. In Italy, Sicily, and Spain, the orange-trees bear without
cessation flowers and fruit. The prickly pear (_Opuntia vulgaris_),
and the American _Agave_, naturalized here, form impenetrable hedges
in the southern parts of these countries, to which they give a marked
and very characteristic landscape. The forests consist essentially
of the evergreen oak (_Quercus Ilex_), whose persistent leaves
remain until after their third year, and whose acorns, which have a
very agreeable taste, form a considerable portion of the people’s
food, and of the cork-tree (_Quercus Suber_), mixed with other
characteristic trees and shrubs, such as _Erica arborea_, numerous
species of _Cistus_, with ephemeral flowers, often large and of
dazzling brilliance, and of _Cytisus_, _Genista_, etc.

Among the other species characteristic of these happy regions we may
cite the cypress (_Cupressus_), the Aleppo pine, the stone pine,
planes, the olive, which we scarcely meet with elsewhere; mastic-tree
(_Pistacia lentiscus_), and the pomegranate (_Ceratona Siliqua_), etc.

Over a great part of the south coast of Sicily, a palm, the
_Chamærops humilis_, with fan-like foliage, waves sometimes beside
the date, from the bosom of a clump of oranges and citrons, its tall
stipe crowned with an elegant panicle of drooping and feather-like
leaves.

It would require a volume to give even an idea of the rich and varied
vegetation of Asia. We must limit ourselves to a rapid glance of the
features most characteristic of its Northern, Central, and Southern
divisions.

The Northern region, or Siberia, forms a botanical region in close
connection with the northern region of Europe in the one direction,
and with its own middle region in the other. It has its own peculiar
character, nevertheless, from the predominance of certain families,
such as _Leguminosæ_, _Ranunculaceæ_, _Cruciferæ_, _Liliaceæ_,
and _Umbelliferæ_. Some genera are remarkable for the number of
their species; we may quote _Astragalus_ among the _Leguminosæ_;
_Spiræa_ among the _Rosaceæ_; and _Artemisia_ among the _Compositæ_.
Considering that the mean temperature varies from 29° to 46° Fahr.,
we can not reckon on a condition of vegetation very varied. Forests
are formed by larch, spruce, _Pinus Cembra_, _P. sibirica_, _P.
sylvestris_, etc.; white and balsam poplars and isolated balsamic
plants, dwarf birches, service-trees, alder buckthorn, alders,
willows, accompany them, while whortleberries and rhododendrons form
the under-shrubs. The flora of the steppes of Kamtchatka does not
differ materially from that of the pasturages of central Europe.
According as the spectator expects these to be rich or sterile, he
is the more or less surprised to find stately tulips and graceful
irises mingling with the grassy turf in spring, but the wormwood
(_Artemisia_) and other monotonous forms of vegetation succeed them.

Humboldt assigns to the forests of the Ural the vegetation
characteristic of a park. “They present,” he says, “an alternation
consisting of a mixture of needle-leaved and round-leaved trees,
and lawns; an assemblage which is completed by masses of brushwood,
formed by wild roses, honeysuckles, and junipers, while _Hesperis_,
_Polemonium_, _Cortusa_, _Mathioli_, magnificent primroses, and
larkspurs form a perfect carpet of flowers; while the water buckbean,
with white blossoms, is the grace of the marshes.” He saw also
“on the banks of the Irtisch great spaces entirely colored red by
_Epilobium_, with which were associated tall-stemmed larkspurs
(_Delphinium_), with blue flowers, and the fiery-scarlet _Lychnis
chalcedonica_.”

The Central region consists of northern China and Japan. The
magnolias--those grand-leaved trees, with magnificent flowers and
delicate aroma, which give such an attractive feature to gardens
where they can be cultivated--are natives of this vast region. So
is the camellia, which has been, as it were, naturalized in the
greenhouses of Europe, whose evergreen, glossy, and persistent
foliage is the admiration of travelers, and of which we may reckon
upward of 700 varieties; and the tea-plant (_Camellia Thea_), of
whose leaves so many millions of pounds are annually imported into
Europe. Also the _Aucuba_, with coriaceous leaves and clustered
flowers, so ornamental in our gardens and shrubberies; _Celastrus_,
hollies, spindle-tree, _Lagerströmia_, _Spiræa_, _Elæagnus_, etc.

The most remarkable trees and shrubs besides these are the palm,
_Raphis flabelliformis_; the paper mulberry (_Broussonetia
papyrifera_); _Osmanthus_, whose flowers are employed to give flavor
to tea leaves; the ebony-tree (_Diospyros Kaki_), with white flowers,
and berries of a cherry-red, and of a delicious flavor; the loquat
(_Eriobotrya japonica_); _Salisburia adiantifolia_, which is planted
round the temples; yews (_Taxus nucifera_ and _verticillata_);
cypress (_Cupressus japonica_); junipers, thujas, oaks (_Quercus
glabra_ and _glauca_); _Alnus japonica_, _Juglans nigra_, and several
species of laurels and maples.

Among the cultivated plants we find rice, wheat, barley, oats,
_Sorghum vulgare_, Sago (_Cycas revoluta_), taro (_Caladium
esculentum_), _Convolvulus Batatas_, apple, pear, quince, plum,
apricot, peach, orange, radish, cucumber, gourds, watermelons, anise
(_Pimpinella Anisum_), peas, beans, hemp, and cotton (_Gossypium
herbaceum_)--a remarkable mingling of vegetable productions, which
transports us at one moment from Asia to Europe, and at the next from
America to Asia. We might dwell upon a crowd of ornamental plants,
many of which are now well known in Europe, as the _Glycine_, the
lily of Japan, tiger lily, and Chinese primrose.

The Southern region of Asia comprehends the two Indian peninsulas.
Here non-tropical species disappear, or only present themselves very
rarely. Tropical families become more numerous; the trees cease to
lose their leaves; ligneous species are more numerous than without
the tropics; the flowers are larger, more magnificent; climbing,
creeping, and parasitic plants increase in number and size. India
may be considered the true country of aromatic plants. Nor is the
rich soil less fruitful in the production of suitable timber for
constructive purposes.

Among the most abundant arborescent plants in this botanical region
are _Bombax_, _Sapindus_, _Mimosa_, _Acacia_, _Cassia_, _Jambosa_,
_Gardenia_; ebony (_Diospyros Ebenus_) has been celebrated for its
black-colored solid wood from the most ancient times; _Bignonia_;
teak (_Tectona grandis_), is a magnificent tree, which furnishes
timber well adapted for building purposes from its great endurance;
_Isonandra Gutta_ produces _gutta-percha_; laurels have an aromatic
bark; the nutmeg-tree (_Myristica_) produces seeds which are employed
as spice; figs (_Ficus religiosa_, _indica_, _elastica_); palms, such
as the Borassus (_Borasus flabelliformis_) with magnificent large
fan-like leaves; _Sagus_, whose soft pulp yields sago, a farinaceous
product very rich in starch; _Calamus_, whose twining and creeping
stem is sometimes upward of 500 feet in length, of one uniform
thickness, and of which the canes used in Europe are made; areca
(_Areca Catechu_), the nut of which is a favorite masticatory with
the natives; _Corypha umbraculifera_, the trunk of which, sometimes
reaching the height of sixty or seventy feet, is crowned with an
ample tuft of leaves spread out in umbrella form, covering a space
of eighteen feet; _Dracæna_; screw-pines (_Pandanus_); last, but not
least, the bamboo.

If we throw a glance, moreover, at the plants under cultivation, we
find them equally important: rice, earth-nut, _Sorghum_, Indian corn,
the cocoanut, the elegant and useful tree which gives to man almost
all the necessaries of life, supplying him at once with shelter,
food, light, heat, and clothing; the clove-tree (_Caryophyllus
aromaticus_), the unopened flower of which is the well-known clove;
pepper (_Piper nigrum_), the fruit of which, gathered before
maturity, has been constantly brought to Europe since the expedition
of Alexander the Great; and the betel (_Chavica Betel_), with bitter
and aromatic leaves, in which the southern Asiatics inclose a few
slices of the areca-nut, which they chew; the tamarind (_Tamarindus
indica_), a magnificent tree, the fruit of which incloses a pulp
of acid flavor; the mango (_Mangifera indica_), whose much-vaunted
fruit has a sweet and richly perfumed flavor accompanied with a
grateful acidity; the mangosteen (_Garcinia Mangostana_), whose berry
incloses, under a bitter and astringent epicarp, a delicious pulp;
the banana, whose yellow-clustered fruit, each six or eight inches
long, furnishes a very nourishing food; the rose apple (_Jambosa
vulgaris_), the guava (_Psidium pomiferum_), with yellow fruit of the
size of a pear; oranges, watermelons, sugar-cane, and coffee.

Africa, like Asia, presents three very distinct regions: 1st, the
Northern, which comprehends the Mediterranean littoral and the
Sahara; 2d, the Central, which is tropical; 3d, the Southern, which
includes the Cape of Good Hope.

The Mediterranean region, by which we mean the African littoral
bathed by the Mediterranean, includes Algeria from the northern
slopes of the Atlas to the sea, and the Delta of the Nile. This part
of Africa represents, in many respects, a vegetation analogous to
that of South Europe. In the mountain region of North Africa all
the plants of Central Europe may be cultivated with advantage. The
vine prospers in the neighborhood of Tlemcen, Milianah, Mascara, and
Medeah, where the colonists and even the natives have undertaken
its cultivation. The olive, so generally spread over North Africa,
constitutes one of the chief sources of wealth to the Kabyle tribes.
The cork-tree forms immense forests in the lower mountain region of
the littoral: in the province of Constantine, gathering the cork has
become an important trade since its conquest by France. With respect
to the Sahara, M. Cosson, a traveler and botanist, thus expresses
himself:

“Northern Africa is especially characterized by the extreme
rarity of rains, the dryness of the atmosphere, and the extremes
of temperature; the absence of great ranges of mountains and of
permanent water-courses gives an aspect quite special to the
desert-like vegetation. The number of species growing spontaneously
does not exceed 500. The greater number of these are perennials,
which grow in tufts, and have a dry and sterile aspect, giving
them a characteristically rugged and hard appearance. The
families represented in the Algerian Sahara in greatest number
are _Compositæ_, _Graminaceæ_, _Leguminosæ_, _Cruciferæ_, and
_Chenopodiaceæ_. Among the ligneous species are Tamarisks, a genus
of elegant flowering shrubs, and the _Pistacia atlantica_. The
date-tree is, however, the chief source of wealth in the gardens of
the oases. This tree is cultivated, not alone for the abundance and
variety of its products, but also for its shade, which secures other
cultivated plants from the violence of the winds, and maintains in
the soil the moisture required for the cultivation of other crops.

“Besides the date, an oasis generally presents an abundant crop
of figs, pomegranates, apricots, frequently the vine. The peach,
the quince, the pear, and the apple, are planted in gardens, and
in the oases, the citron, the orange-tree, olives, barley, more
rarely still, wheat, are cultivated in the irrigated lands of the
neighborhood, and in the intervals between the date plantations.
Onions, beans, carrots, turnips, and cabbages, occupy a large place
among the plants cultivated. Pimento is also largely cultivated for
the stimulating properties of its fruit, which render it a favorite
condiment with the Arabs. The egg-plant and the tomato are cultivated
in some gardens for their fruit. Numberless species of _Cucurbitaceæ_
are also sown in the gardens in summer, and sometimes attain a
great size. The gombo (_Hibiscus esculentus_) is cultivated here
and there by the negroes for its mucilaginous fruit. The industrial
and fodder plants are principally hemp, represented by a dwarf
variety (Haschich), which is not employed as a textile plant, but
its extremities are smoked by some of the less fervent Mussulmans.
Tobacco is also cultivated. Henna (_Lawsonia inermis_), the leaves of
which have been employed in dyeing a black color, scarcely exists
except in the oasis of Ziban.”

The Central region is only very imperfectly known, in consequence
of the terribly insalubrious nature of its coast. The same forms
of vegetation, however, prevail there which are found in other
tropical regions. We may remark here that the plants, which are
usually herbaceous in countries without the tropics, become ligneous
in these regions. This is the case with plants of the families
_Rubiaceæ_ and _Malvaceæ_. We note here also the almost entire
disappearance of _Cruciferæ_ and _Caryophyllaceæ_. The prevailing
families are _Leguminosæ_, _Terebinthaceæ_, _Malvaceæ_, _Rubiaceæ_,
_Acanthaceæ_, _Capparidaceæ_, and _Anonaceæ_. If we take a glance
at prevailing vegetation proper to this region of Africa, we find
upon the humid coasts impenetrable forests formed of mangroves
(_Rhizophora Mangle_), and _Avicennia tomentosa_, _Musa_, _Canna_,
_Amomum_, _Pandanaceæ_, gigantic _Malvaceæ_ (such as the baobab),
_Bromeliaceæ_, _Aroideæ_. Aloes (_Aloe socotrina_) furnishes the
aloes of medicine; and several fleshy Euphorbias impress their
strange characteristics upon the vigorous vegetation of this region.

It would be depriving African vegetation of its richest ornament
not to mention its admirable palms. At their head stands the oil
palm (_Elæis guineensis_), the fruit of which, of the size of an
olive, contains so much oil that the liquid flows out when it is
pressed between the fingers. The seed contains a sort of butter.
The sap of this precious tree yields an excellent wine; its leaves
prove excellent food for sheep and goats. But the true palm wine
is produced from _Raphia vinifera_. Another remarkable member of
this elegant family is _Lodoicea Seychellarum_, the fruit of which
is larger than a man’s head and weighs upward of twenty pounds; it
sometimes floats as far as the coast of India. It is a fact worthy of
remark that in this region very few ferns or orchids are observed,
and yet these groups of plants are extremely numerous in other
tropical countries.

Among the exotic vegetables which are successfully cultivated in
central Africa we may reckon maize, rice, _Sorghum_, Indian corn,
manioc, _Caladium esculentum_, belonging to the family of the
_Araceæ_, the rhizome and leaves of which are alimentary; the banana,
the mango, the papaw-tree (_Carica Papaya_), the fruit of which,
about the size of a small melon, is eaten either raw or cooked, and
the pulp mixed with sugar forms a delicious marmalade; the pineapple,
figs, coffee, sugar-cane, ginger, various species of _Dolichos_, the
earth-nut, cotton, tobacco, and the tamarind.

The Southern region of the Cape of Good Hope is the country of
the species of _Protea_, _Pelargonium_, _Epacridaceæ_, _Oxalis_,
and _Ixia_, which decorate our hothouses and parterres. No other
country can compare with this region for the prodigious abundance
and dimensions of its heaths. While the plains of Europe, the Alps
included, scarcely yield a dozen species, at the Cape there are many
hundreds. They attain sometimes the height of fifteen or sixteen
feet. Their leaves are small, inconspicuous, and acicular; but their
flowers are large, and the colors which decorate them brilliant in
the extreme, varying from the softest shades to dazzling ones.

The flora of this region is rich in vegetable forms, but it is by
no means smiling in its aspect. We find no true forests, grand and
sombre, in the whole region; there are few creeping plants, but, on
the other hand, there are many succulents. The most characteristic
families are the _Restiaceæ_, _Iridaceæ_, _Proteaceæ_, _Ericaceæ_,
_Mesembryanthaceæ_, _Rutaceæ_, _Gernaiaceæ_, _Oxalidaceæ_, and
_Polygalaceæ_. Among the characteristic genera we may mention the
_Ixia_; _Gladiolus_, with their sword-shaped leaves and party-colored
flowers; _Strelitzia_, so remarkable for their inflorescence, and
for their blue and yellow flowers; _Protea_, so named for their
diversity of appearance; _Leucadendron_, of which one species, _L.
argenteum_ (the silver-tree), rises to the height of from thirty
to forty feet, its branches bearing lanceolate leaves, silky and
silvery; _Helichrysum_ and _Gnaphalium_, corymbiferous composites,
better known as _Immortelles_; _Mesembryanthemum_, or ice-plants;
_Stapelia_, leafless asclepiads, with angular fleshy stem and showy
flowers, but somewhat fœtid odor; _Phylica_, a genus of Rhamnads
somewhat resembling heaths, with abundant evergreen foliage and small
cottony heads of white flowers; _Pelargonium_, of which an infinite
variety of forms, the result of culture, are known; _Oxalis_, the
evergreen _Sparmannia_, whose white flowers, stamens with purple
filaments and irritable anthers, are so ornamental in orangeries.
It is upon the sandy coast of this curious botanical region that
the species of _Stapelia_, _Iridaceæ_, _Mesembryanthemum_, and
_Diosma_ abound. The heaths and crassulas grow upon the slopes of the
mountains.

The cultivated plants are the cereals, most of the fruits and
vegetables of Europe, the sorghum of Kaffirland, yam, banana,
tamarind, and guava.

Vegetation is richer and more varied in America than in any other
part of the globe. Beginning with North America, we find its polar
vegetation quite analogous to that of Europe and Asia under the same
latitudes. The willow, birch, and poplar, exposed to the persistent
action of the cold, become stunted bushes; and saxifrages, mosses,
and lichens prevail.

Without dwelling on the Arctic regions, then, we may divide this
immense country into two regions; one of which, descending as far
as 36°, may be called the Northern region; the other, comprehended
between 36° and 30° of latitude, will constitute the Southern region.

The Northern region well deserves to be called the region of
_Aster_ and _Solidago_; those beautiful composites abound there
with _Liatris_, _Rudbeckia_, and _Galardia_, of the same family.
_Œnothera_, _Clarkia_, _Andromeda_, and _Kalmia_, charming ornamental
plants, well known in our flower gardens, likewise characterize
this vegetable zone. Among the most abundant arborescent species,
we may mention numerous species of pine, fir, larch, _Thuja_,
juniper; no less than twenty-seven species of willow; twenty-five
of oak, beeches, chestnuts, elms, hornbeams, alders, birches,
poplars, and ashes. With these are mingled the American plane,
_Liquidambar_, the trunk and branches of which furnish juices used
in medicine; the tulip-tree, with singularly truncate leaves and
large, spreading, solitary, yellowish flowers; different species of
maple, lime, _Robinia_, and walnut. Together with these numerous and
varied arborescent species, which attain considerable dimensions,
grow the _Myrica cerifera_, which furnishes an abundant wax drawn
from the fruit by boiling; the currant (_Ribes_), with colored and
ornamental flowers in great varieties of red, yellow, and white; the
elegant _Andromeda_, _Azalea_, _Rhododendron_, and _Spiræa_, present
themselves in endless varieties; sumacs, a species of which (_Rhus
toxicodendron_), with greenish yellow flowers, contains a juice so
acrid that contact with it produces blisters and erysipelas, and is a
dangerous poison; _Ceanothus_, hollies, and buckthorns.

In the Southern region the vegetation somewhat resembles that of
the tropics, being a transition between that of the temperate and
torrid zones. Walnuts, elms, chestnuts, and oaks are found there,
and with them three species of palms, one of which is _Chamærops
Palmetto_; species of _Yucca_; of _Zamia_, among the _Cycadaceæ_;
_Passiflora_; of woody twining plants, such as _Bignonia sapindus_;
cacti, and laurels. Lastly, by the side of tulip-trees, _Pavia_, and
_Robinia_, grow magnificent species of _Magnolia_, of which this is
the true domain. The vegetation of this region is thus remarkable
in its variety. The sugar-cane, indigo, cotton, and tobacco cover
the cultivated plains. In Missouri, Texas, Arkansas, and Mexico, the
great colony of the cacti raise their lofty stems. In this region
_Cactus_, _Opuntia_, _Cereus_, _Echinocactus_, and _Melocactus_,
raise their oddly branching stems and clustering flowers, the most
remarkable of all doubtless being _Cereus giganteus_. It inhabits the
wildest and most inaccessible regions, requiring little or no soil to
attain a prodigious development. It has at first the appearance of
an enormous tomahawk. Thence rises a column, three yards high, which
branches off and assumes the shape of an immense candelabrum, the
height of which may be twelve or thirteen yards. Mexico, according
to the reports of botanists, may be divided into three regions of
altitude. The first extends from the valleys as far as the oak
forests--this is the region of palms, cotton, indigo, sugar-cane,
coffee, and tropical fruits. The second, situated at an elevation of
from 3,500 to 9,000 feet above the sea, is the temperate region. It
stretches from the oak forests to the forests of _Coniferæ_. At this
height the temperature is still sufficient to ripen some tropical
fruits. The third, or cold region, occupies a space comprehended
between the Conifers and perpetual snow. In many places it possesses
a climate under which pear, apple, and cherry trees, and the
potato, can still grow. In ascending from the foot of Orizaba, one
sees successively appear and disappear _Mimosa_, _Acacia_, cotton,
_Convolvulus_, _Bignonia_, oaks, palms, bananas, myrtles, laurels,
_Terebinthaceæ_, tree-ferns, _Magnolia_, arborescent composites,
plane, _Storax_, apples, pears, cherries, apricots, pomegranates,
lemon and orange trees, orchids, _Fuchsia_, and _Cactus_.

The plains of Venezuela, known under the name of Llanos, are
principally covered with grass-like plants, such as _Kyllingia_,
_Cenchrus_, and _Raspalum_. With these we find a few dicotyledonous
plants, such as _Turnera_; some _Malvaceæ_, and, what is very
remarkable, species of _Mimosa_, with leaves quite sensitive to the
touch, which the Spaniards call _Dornuderas_. The same race of cows
which in Spain fatten upon sainfoin and clover, here find excellent
nourishment in the herbaceous sensitive plants. The pasturage is
richest, not only near rivers subject to inundations, but also where
the trunks of the palm-trees are the most crowded, which can not
be attributable to the shelter and protection which they have from
the sun’s rays, since the palm of the Llanos (_Corypha tectorum_)
has only a very few corrugated and palmate leaves, like those of
_Chamærops_, and the lower are always parched and dried up. Besides
the isolated trunks of palms we also find, here and there, in the
Llanos, groups of palms, in which the _Corypha_ mingles with a tree
of the family of _Proteaceæ_--a new species of _Rhopala_, with hard
and resonant leaves. In the Llanos of Caracas, the _Corypha_ extends
from the Mesa de Paja to Guayaval. More to the north and northwest
it is replaced by another species of the same genus, with leaves
equally palmate, but much larger. To the south of Guayaval other
palms predominate, chiefly the pinnate-leaved _Piritu_ (_Guilielma
speciosa_) and the _Mauritia flexuosa_, the sago-tree of America,
which supplies farinaceous food, good wine, thread to weave into
hammocks, clothes, and baskets; its fruit, in shape resembling
pine-cones, being covered with scales, like those of _Calamus_
(Rotang), with something of the taste of an apple. The Guaranes,
whose very existence, so to speak, depends on the Murichi palm,
obtain an acid and very refreshing fermented liquor from it. This
palm has large, shiny, corrugated, and fan-like leaves, maintaining
a most beautiful verdure in times of the greatest drought. The sight
of it alone in the Llanos produces an agreeable and refreshing
sensation; and the Murichi, laden with its scaly fruit, contrasts
singularly with the sad aspect of the palm of Cobija, the leaves of
which are always gray and covered with dust.

If we ascend the Andes, between 20° south latitude and 5° north,
at a height of from 5,000 to 10,000 feet above the sea level, we
shall find extra-tropical forms of vegetation become more abundant:
_Graminaceæ_; some _Amentaceæ_--such as the oaks, willows; _Labiatæ_;
_Ericaceæ_; numerous _Compositæ_; _Caprifoliaceæ_; _Umbelliferæ_;
_Rosaceæ_; _Cruciferæ_; and _Ranunculaceæ_. Tropical plants, on
the contrary, disappear, or become very rare; but still, isolated
species of palms, pepper-plants, _Cactaceæ_, passion-flowers, and
_Melastomaceæ_ are found at considerable heights. Among the most
abundant ligneous species are the _Ceroxylon andicola_, the highest
of all the palms, which reaches the height of 200 feet, and produces
a wax which exudes from its leaves, and from the base of their
petioles; willow and Humboldt’s oak; several species of _Cinchona_,
which here reign supreme; a few hollies, and species of _Andromeda_.
Vegetables cultivated between the tropics, in Mexico, and as far
south as the river Amazon, disappear almost entirely here; but maize
and coffee, the cereals and European fruits, are cultivated in these
regions; potatoes; _Chenopodium Quinoa_, the seeds of which, when
boiled, serve as food for the inhabitants of the mountains.

If we ascend to the height of 10,000 feet above the sea on the
Andes, and in the same latitude, tropical forms of vegetation almost
entirely disappear. Those, on the contrary, which characterize
temperate climates, and even the Polar regions, become abundant.
Large trees are no longer seen. Alders, bilberries, currants;
_Escallonia_, with bitter and tonic leaves, of which this is the
home; hollies and _Drymis_, are bushes belonging to these regions,
as well as the curious calceolarias, with shoe-shaped corolla,
the seeds of which have supplied horticulture with an infinite
number of varieties. Among the characteristic families we also find
_Umbelliferæ_, _Caryophyllaceæ_, _Cruciferæ_, _Cyperaceæ_, mosses and
lichens. Returning to more circumscribed botanical districts, the
climate of Caracas has often been called one of perpetual spring.
A more delicious temperature can not be conceived. During the day
it ranges between 60° and 68° Fahr., and in the night between 60°
and 64°, at once favorable to the growth of the banana, the orange,
coffee, the apple, apricot, and wheat.

We must not quit these regions without mentioning two beneficent
trees--the _Theobroma Cacao_ and the cow-tree, _Brosimum
Galactodendron_. The roasted and crushed seeds of _Theobroma
Cacao_, with the addition of sugar, make chocolate. Humboldt gives
the following account of the cow-tree, which has the habit of
_Chrysophyllum Cainito_: “The fruit is rather fleshy, consisting
of one, sometimes two nuts. When incisions are made in the trunk
an abundance of thick glutinous milk flows, which is without any
acidity. This substance exhales a very agreeable balsam-like odor.
It was presented to us in the fruit of the Calabash-tree. We drank
considerable quantities of it in the evening before going to bed,
and again early in the morning, without experiencing any injurious
effects. Negroes and free people who work on the plantations drink
of it, and soak their maize or manioc bread in it. The master of the
farm assured us that the slaves fattened visibly during the season
when the _Palo de Vacca_ furnishes them with most milk. Upon the arid
flank of a rock,” adds Von Humboldt, “there grows a tree whose leaves
are dry and coriaceous, its great ligneous roots almost piercing
the stone. During many months of the year not a shower waters its
foliage, the branches appear dry and dead; but when the trunk is
pierced a sweet and nourishing milk follows the incision.”

In order to penetrate to the heart of the vegetation of Brazil,
the region of palms and _Melastomaceæ_, the land of promise to
the naturalists, we shall take as our guide Martius and August
de Sainte-Hilaire, who have written with much exactness on the
vegetable wonders displayed in the Brazilian forests. Their aspect
varies according to the nature of the soil, and the distribution
of water traversing them. If these forests are not the seat of a
constant supply of moisture, or if the moisture is only renewed by
periodical rains, the drought stops the vegetation, and it becomes
intermittent, as in European climates. This is the case in the
Catingas. The vegetation of the untrodden forests, on the contrary,
of which Sainte-Hilaire gives an eloquent picture, is the reverse of
this; excited by the ceaseless action of the two agents, humidity
and heat, the vegetation of the virgin forests remains in a state
of continual activity. The winter is only distinguished from the
summer by a shade of color in the verdure of the foliage; and if
some of the trees lose their leaves, it is to assume immediately a
new appearance. “When a European arrives in America, and sees from a
distance the untrodden forests for the first time, he is astonished
not to see the singular forms which he admired in European hothouses,
but which are here mingled in masses and lost. And he is astonished
at the little difference in the outline of the forests between those
of his own country and those of the New World, and he is only struck
with the proportions and the deep green color of the leaves, which,
under the most brilliant sky imaginable, impart a grave and severe
aspect to the landscape. In order to appreciate all the beauties of
the tropical forest we must plunge into retreats as old as the world.
Nothing there reminds us of the fatiguing monotony of our oak and fir
forests: each tree has a bearing peculiar to itself. Each has its
own foliage, and often its own peculiar shade of verdure. Gigantic
specimens of vegetation, each belonging to different, sometimes to
remote, families, mingle their branches and blend their foliage.
Five-leaved _Bignoniaceæ_ grow beside _Cæsalpinia_, and the golden
leaves of _Cassia_ spread themselves in falling upon arborescent
ferns. Myrtles and _Eugenia_, with their thousand-times-divided
branches, are finely contrasted with the elegant simplicity of the
palms; _Cecropia_ spreads its broad leaves and branches, which
resemble immense candelabra, among the delicate foliage of _Mimosa_.
There are trees with perfectly smooth bark, others are defended by
prickly spines; and the enormous trunk of a species of wild fig
spreads itself out with sloping plates, which seem to support it like
so many arched buttresses. The obscure flowers of our beeches and
oaks only attract the attention of naturalists; but in the forests
of South America gigantic trees often display the most brilliant
colors in their corolla. Long golden clusters hang from the branches
of the _Cassia_. _Vochysia_ erect a thyrsus of odd-shaped flowers.
Yellow and sometimes purple corollas, longer than those of our
_Digitalis_, cover in profusion the species of trumpet-flowered
_Bignonia_; and _Chorisia_ is decked with flowers which resemble
our lily in shape, and remind us of _Alstromeria_ from the mixture
of colors they present. Certain vegetable forms, which assume at
home very humble proportions, present themselves with a floral pomp
unknown in temperate climates; some _Boraginaceæ_ become shrubs; many
_Euphorbiaceæ_ assume the proportions of majestic trees, offering an
agreeable shelter under their thick umbrageous foliage.”

But it is principally among the _Graminaceæ_ that the greatest
difference is observable. Of these there are a great number which
attain no larger dimensions than our _Bromus_, forming masses of
grass only distinguished from European species by their stems being
more branchy, and the leaves larger. Others shoot up to the height of
the forest tree, with a graceful habit. At first they are as upright
as a lance, terminating in a point, with only one leaf, resembling
a large scale, at each internode; when these fall, a crown of short
branches springs from their axils, bearing the true leaves. The
stems of the bamboos are thus decorated with verticils at regular
intervals. It is to the _Lianes_ principally that tropical forests
are indebted for their picturesque beauty, and these are the source
of the most varied effects. Our own honeysuckle and the ivy give but
a faint idea of the appearance presented by the crowd of climbing
and creeping plants belonging to many different families. These are
_Bignoniaceæ_, _Bauhinia_, _Cissus_, and _Hippocrateaceæ_, and while
they all require a support, they each have notwithstanding a bearing
peculiar to themselves. One of those climbing parasites will encircle
the trunk of the largest trees to a prodigious height, the marks
left by the old leaves seeming in their lozenge-shaped design to
resemble the skin of a serpent. From this parasitic stem spring large
leaves of a glossy green, while its lower parts give birth to slender
roots, which descend again to the earth straight as a plumb-line. The
tree which bears the Spanish name of _Cipo-Matador_, “the murderous
Liane,” has a trunk so slight that it can not support itself alone,
but must find support on a neighboring tree more robust than itself.
It presses against its stem, aided by its aerial roots, which embrace
it at intervals like so many flexible osiers, by which it secures
itself and defies the most terrible hurricanes. Some _Lianes_
resemble waving ribbons, others are twisted in large spirals, or hang
in festoons, spreading between the trees, and darting from one to
another, twining round them, and forming masses of stem, leaves, and
flowers, where the observer often finds it difficult to assign to
each species what belongs to it.

Thousands of different species of shrubs, _Melastomaceæ_,
_Boraginaceæ_, _peppers_, and _Acanthaceæ_, springing up round the
roots of large trees, fill up the intervals left between them.
Species of _Tillandsia_ and orchids, with flowers of strange and
whimsical shape, make their appearance, and these often serve as
supports to other parasites. Numerous brooks generally run through
these forests, communicating their own freshness to the forest
vegetation, presenting to the tired traveler delicious and limpid
water, while the banks of the stream are carpeted with mosses,
lycopodiums, and ferns, from the midst of which spring begonias,
with delicate and succulent stems, unequal leaves, and flesh-colored
flowers.

The forests of Paraguay, still little known, situated along the
coast of the Atlantic, consist of ligneous _Compositæ_ and _Ilex
paraguayensis_, the Paraguay tea, of which a large quantity is
annually exported.

In the Argentine Republic Auguste de Saint-Hilaire found only 500
species of plants, among which only fifteen belonged to families
which are not European.

When we reach the south coast of Patagonia and the Falkland Islands,
a few brown and coriaceous _Graminaceæ_ and _Cyperaceæ_, such as
_Dactylis cæspitosa_, _Carex trifida_, _Bolax glebaria_, _Cardamine
glacialis_, _Veronica_, _Calceolaria_, _Aster_, _Opuntia Darwinii_,
_Lomaria magellanica_ among the tree ferns, a few brambles,
thickets of bilberries and _Arbutus_, include nearly the whole of
the vegetation of these desert lands, where mosses, hepaticas, and
lichens reign supreme. We now reach the southern part of South
America. In the stormy region of Terra del Fuego thick forests
cover the mountains, where they are sheltered from the wind, to the
height of 1,500 feet above the level of the sea. _Fagus betuloides_
predominates there; then comes _F. antarctica_, accompanied by
barberry and currant bushes.

At the Island of Hermite, the most southerly point of the American
Continent, there is still some arborescent vegetation. Hooker
there observed eighty-four flowering plants and many cryptogams. A
fungus parasitic on the beech (_Cyttaria Gunnii_) constitutes there
a principal aliment of the miserable inhabitants of these gloomy
regions.

The Australian flora presents forms more ancient than any other
contemporary vegetation. More than nine-tenths of the species found
between 33° and 35° south latitude, in Australia, are absolutely
limited to these regions. Many constitute completely distinct
families; others form families which are scarcely represented in
any other part of the globe. Those even which belong to groups more
generally diffused disguise their natural affinities under forms
isolated and unlike their congeners. The different species of two
genera, namely, _Eucalyptus_ among _Myrtaceæ_, and _Acacia_ among
_Leguminosæ_, form perhaps, from their number and dimensions,
one-half of the vegetation which covers the country. Their leaves
are reduced to phyllodes. Neither these phyllodes nor the limb of
the real leaves are placed horizontally, like those of Europe and
other parts of the world, but are perpendicular to the surface of
the soil, so that the light shining between these vertical blades
is not arrested, as in the case with our trees and bushes, in which
the leaves are placed transversely one above the other. The effect
produced by masses of Australian verdure is thus entirely different
from that to which we are accustomed. The aspects of these forests
particularly struck the first travelers who visited them, from
the singular sensation communicated to the eye by this mode of
distributing light and shade.

_Eucalyptus_, which occupies such a large place in Australian
vegetation, may be said to be the sacred tree with the natives; it
shadows the tombs of the savage inhabitants of these countries. Sir
Thomas Mitchell, the traveler to whom we owe the first scientific
description of Australia, has given a remarkable picture of “these
groves of death,” which are daily becoming more and more rare, and
will disappear under the influence of European colonization. He
relates that these groves mark the centre of the patrimonial land
of each great Australian tribe. Little _tumuli_ of grass, and sandy
footpaths, surround the clumps of these funereal squares, over
which spreads the shadow of the _Eucalyptus_ and _Xanthorrhæa._ If
to the magnificent _Eucalyptus_ and simple-leaved _Acacia_, which
predominate in the forests and give quite a special character to the
vegetation, we add the _Xanthorrhæa_, with its thick stem, long,
narrow, linear leaves, curved and spreading at the summit, from the
centre of which rises an elongated stem, terminated by a spike of
robust flowers; the _Casuarina_, with long, pendent, and drooping
boughs, most delicately articulated; _Araucaria excelsa_, whose
column-like trunk and verticillate branches rise to the height of
ninety or a hundred feet; the elegant _Epacridaceæ_, with flowers
so varied; a vast number of pretty _Leguminosæ_, which now add to
the riches of our hothouses; more than 120 terrestrial _Orchidaceæ_,
nearly all belonging to genera peculiar to Australia, we shall have
an idea of the vegetation which covers and decorates in so original a
way the shores of New Holland.

The large islands of New Zealand almost correspond in latitude with
the zone which we have been examining. These islands are the nearest
land (considering Van Diemen’s Land as part of Australia), and are
interesting as being the exact antipodes of western Europe, and
because they repeat as it were our Mediterranean region on the other
side of the globe. While resembling it in climate, however, the
native vegetation has its own characteristics. It has some features
in common with Australia and the tropics.

In the large island of Ika-na-Nawi there are immense forests of
_Lianes_ and interlacing shrubs, which render them impenetrable. In
these forests there exist, no doubt, trees of gigantic dimensions,
for the canoes of the natives are sometimes as much as sixty feet
long, and from three to four broad, all hollowed out of one trunk. At
from two to four miles from the coast Messrs. Richard and Lesson saw
large spaces, very low and probably marshy, covered with great masses
of green trees, of which the _Dacrydium cupressinum_ and _Podocarpus
dacrydiodes_ and some others, form the principal species. The
European is surprised to meet there many familiar plants, or species
closely allied to them, such as _Senecio_, _Veronica_, rushes,
_Ranunculus acris_, etc. On the other hand, several plants peculiar
to New Zealand grow abundantly in these localities, such, among
others, as the _Phormium tenax_, called by Europeans New Zealand
Flax, because its fibres furnish a very strong thread, much used in
the manufacture of certain fabrics.

Ferns form a tenth of the number of species in the whole
vegetation of New Zealand; among Monocotyledons are _Graminaceæ_
and _Cyperaceæ_; among Dicotyledons, _Umbelliferæ_, _Cruciferæ_,
and _Onagrariaceæ_. New Zealand only furnishes a small number of
alimentary plants. The aboriginal inhabitants of this archipelago,
for the most part ichthyophagous, were long reduced to the feculent
root of a fern, the _Pteris esculenta_, for food, when they could
not obtain fish. None of their trees produce large fruit. The taro
(_Caladium esculentum_) and the sweet potato (_Convolvulus Batatas_)
also serve as nourishment to the inhabitants of these countries.
It is to be remarked that European vegetables, introduced into New
Zealand by sailors, are propagated there with such facility that
the aspect of the ground, as well as conditions of life, are greatly
modified. Among the vegetables proper to the archipelago in question
we may note the _Corypha australis_ among the palms; arborescent
species of _Dracæna_, forests of _Coniferæ_, with large leaves, such
as _Dammara_, and _Metrosideros_ among the _Myrtaceæ_.




  ZONES OF VEGETATION
  --M. J. SCHLEIDEN


If, from the snow-covered ice-plains of the extreme north, where
the Red-snow Alga alone remind us of the existence of vegetable
organization, we turn toward the south, a girdle first expands
before us, in which mosses and lichens clothe the soil, and a
peculiar vegetation of low plants with subterranean, perennial
stems, and generally large, handsome flowers, the so-called Alpine
plants, gives a special character to Nature. Almost all the plants
form little, flattened, separate tufts; _Pyrola_, _Andromeda_,
_Pedicularis_, _Cochlearia_, poppies, crow-foots, and others are
the characteristic genera of this flora, in which no tree, no shrub
flourishes. Leaving this region, which botanists call the region of
Mosses and Saxifrages, or, after one of the founders of Geographical
Botany, Wahlenberg’s region, we go southward, and at first we see
little low bushes of birches, then more compacted woods, into which
the pines and other coniferous trees assemble, and we at last find
ourselves in a second great zone of vegetation which is characterized
by the woods consisting almost exclusively of conifers, which thus
impress a peculiar character upon the flora; firs and pines, Siberian
stone-pines and larches form great widely extended masses of forest;
by brooks and on damp soil occur the willow and the alder. On dry
hills grow the reindeer lichen and Iceland moss. In the cranberry,
cloud-berry, and the currant Nature gives spontaneously, though
sparingly, food; and a rich flora of variegated flowers serves for
the decoration of the zone, which stretches, in Scandinavia, to
the northern limit of the cultivation of wheat, but in Russia and
Asia, almost to Kazan and Yakutsk; we will call it the zone of the
conifers. Even in the neighborhood of Drontheim, the culture of
fruits begins, though sparingly; soon appears the sturdy oak, called,
with rather too much poetic license, “the German”; in Schoonen,
Zealand, Schleswig, and Holstein flourish the first woods of beech.
In about the latitude of Frankfort-on-the-Main, another tree joins
company, which, in its bold, picturesque mode of branching, takes its
stand beside the oak--which in the beauty of its foliage, as well
as the utility of its fruit, it far surpasses--namely, the noble
chestnut. The Pyrenees, the Alps, and the Caucasus form the southern
limit of the zone, in the more eastern portion of which the lime and
the elm contribute so abundantly to the composition of the forests
that the former even withstands the devastation which the Esthonians
make in the manufacture of their shoes from its bass. In the hop, the
ivy, and the clematis we find here the first representation of the
tropical climbers. The smiling green of the meadows alternates with
the gloomy shadows of the forests; and man has taken possession of
the earth, restraining the wild vegetation to that absolutely needful
for wood and hay, and rich crops reward his industry. We leave this
zone of the deciduous woods to scale the rocky barrier of the Alps.
Here suddenly appear quite different plants; with the great woods
of trees, the coriaceous shining leaves of which last through the
mild winter, and round the mighty stems of which climb the vine and
flame-colored Bignonias, unite the smaller bushes of myrtle, arbutus,
and pistachio. Here and there the dwarf-palm is met with; labiate
plants and crucifers, and fair-flowered rock-roses replace in summer
the spring flora of scented hyacinth and narcissus; but rarely, even
in the most favored spots, is the eye dazzled by the brilliancy of
evergreen leaves, or the glaring play of color of the naked, jagged
mountain chains, gladdened by the mild radiance of verdant meadows.
In recompense, mankind has, in this zone of evergreen woods,
seized upon the fruit of the Hesperides. It is

                “the land where the Citrons blow,
      Through the dark-green leaves the gold Oranges glow.”

But onward, ever onward, strives the insatiable son of Iapetus; no
legend of African deserts, no death-news of the many adventurous
travelers who have gone forth to seek the source of the Niger,
frighten him back. On the west coast of Africa, in the Canary
Isles, is, indeed, no longer found the gigantic dog, from which,
as Pliny told, the islands derived their name, but Flora gives for
booty richest treasures which she, by aid of the tropical sun, has
succeeded in extracting from the soil, moistened by the vapors of
the ocean. Round sycamores twine mighty cissus stems; capers and
bauhinias interlace in the thickets of balsamic shrubs. The slender
date-palm soars aloft, and the baobab grows up into gigantic masses
of wood. The wondrous cactus-like forms of the leafless spurges,
distinguished by their poisonous or pleasant-flavored, sweet milk,
as the case may be, betray a peculiar formative power in Nature;
and the dragon-tree in the garden of Orotava,[3] in Teneriffe, a
gigantic arborescent lily-plant, recounts to the musing listener the
traditions of thousands of years.

Six zones of vegetation have we thus passed through, in which the
continually increasing temperature of the climate called forth ever
a different, ever a more luxuriant vegetation, and we conclude
our wanderings, after a short rest under the five-thousand-yeared
Dracænas, by climbing the Pic of Teyde. Man has taken possession
of the soil of the plain at its foot and dislodged the original
vegetation. Through vineyards and maize-fields we ascend, till
the shades of the evergreen bay-laurel surround us. Trees of the
lace-bark tribe and similar plants succeed; we wander for a time
through a _zone of evergreen forest trees_. At a height of 4,000
feet we lose the plants which had so far accompanied us. A very
small number of peculiar plants mark a quickly traversed _zone of
deciduous trees_, and we come among the resinous trunks of the Canary
pine. A _zone of conifers_ shield us from the sun’s rays up to a
height of 6,000 feet, then the vegetation suddenly becomes low--from
humble bushes it passes into a flora which bears all the characters
of the Alpine plants, till finally the naked rock sets a limit to all
organic life, and no snow and ice bedeck the summit of the mountain,
only because its height of 12,236 feet does not, in a position so
near the tropics, extend up to the region of eternal snow. Counting
by the limits of vegetation, we have resurveyed in a few hours’ climb
the wide way from Spitzbergen to the Canaries, an extent of more than
fifty degrees of latitude.

The plant is dependent on the condition of the soil, in the widest
sense of the word, on the store of nutriment it contains, and on all
that influences the chemical process of formation, consequently,
above all, upon a determinate temperature. The universal,
indispensable nutrient substance of plants, and, at the same time,
the matter by means of which all the rest are conveyed into it,
is water. Without water there is no vegetation. The orchidaceous
plants of the tropical forest let their peculiarly constructed roots
hang down from the branch to which they cling in the warm, moist
atmosphere, and absorb water in the form of vapor. Our water-lilies
and the proper bog-plants will only flourish when surrounded by
liquid water, or, at least, with their roots dipping in it. The case
is quite different with the great majority of plants; they have to
extract their nutriment from the earth, which contains the moisture
to be absorbed into them in a peculiar condition. If to these three
classes of air, water, and earth-plants we add one more, namely,
the true parasites, which, like our dodder, draw their organized
nutriment from other plants, we have obtained the principal divisions
of stations.

Every soil which bears plants contains also in its composition all
the substances required by all plants, only the proportions differ,
and the predominance of silex, lime, or common salt must consequently
favor especially the growth of grasses, pulses, or shore-plants,
although these are by no means exclusively confined to the proper
sandy or calcareous soils, or to the seaside. In addition to the
chemical conditions, there is yet another which modifies the former
and, where it brings about the same actions, contributes to chain
particular plants so much the more firmly, exclusively to particular
soils, or contrariwise also contributes to conceal or obliterate
the connection between plants and the chemical nature of the soil.
This consists in the mechanical condition and physical peculiarities
of the soil. There are plants which will only settle on unbroken
_rocks_, which when the other conditions coincide, spring from these
rocks over on to our _walls_, like the Wall Rue Spleenwort,[4] a
little fern, the name of which denotes its station. Others occur only
where weathering has broken up the solid rock into small fragments,
_drift_ plants, which, clinging to mankind, select _rubbish heaps_,
which most resemble their natural station; our great nettle and
henbane may serve as examples. Lastly, other plants grow only where
the rocks have been reduced to fine powder, in _sand_ or in the
fine-grained _clay_ produced by chemical decomposition. The so-called
German Sarsaparilla, the sea-reed, is an example of the first
condition, but there is no definite condition corresponding to it in
the vicinity of human habitations. Clay, on the other hand, stands
beside the black substance humus, resulting from the decomposition of
organic matter. Both rich in soluble salts, important to vegetation,
both distinguished in regard to their property of absorbing from
the atmosphere, and thus conveying to the roots of plants gases
and aqueous vapor, they cause, singly or in combination, the most
luxuriant vegetation. We thus obtain three stages in reference to
the qualities of the soil-pure earths, wholly devoid of vegetation;
mixed earths, without clay or humus, with an arid but characteristic
vegetation; and lastly, soil rich in clay and humus, with the
greatest abundance and variety of plants.

Australia has, in common with Europe, a very common plant, the daisy
(_Bellis perennis_). The same little flower is found in northern
Asia, in some regions in Africa and South America, and where it
occurs it climbs the mountains from the level of the sea up to
the snow-limit. The little enchanter’s nightshade, the delicate
Linnæa, the bittersweet, the bird’s knot-grass, the blue gentian,
the dwarf birch, and the herbaceous willow, and several others, are
indigenous both in Europe and North America. The common self-heal,
the duckweed, and our reed grow in New Holland. The bog-moss covers
the moors of Peru and New Granada, as well as those of the Hartz and
of Dovrefjeld in Norway. The brownish Parmelia, which clothes all our
walls in Germany, palings, and old trees, is no less present on the
only ninety-year-old Yorullo in Mexico. The bluish bristle-grass,
which is one of the commonest garden and field weeds on sandy soils
with us, grows also in the interior of Brazil on suitable soil. A
characteristic plant of the seashores of Northern Europe and the
vicinity of salt-springs, _Ruppia martima_, grows equally on the
northern coast of Germany, in Brazil, and the East Indies. But it
is needless to accumulate examples, for these so hasten to present
themselves that the view finds some support in observation which
assumes that every plant must exist in every part of the globe where
the known conditions of its vegetation are present.

The little daisy (_Bellis perennis_) exhibits a certain wilfulness.
It is wanting all through North America; and that which we tread down
as an insignificant weed in our European meadows is there reared
with the most tender care in the botanical gardens. If we pass in
review the vegetation of different countries, we see that causes
appearing similar in our present knowledge of them bring forth indeed
_similar_, but by no means the same, forms of plants. To the plants
of a particular northern latitude correspond in the analogous height
of the Alps, situated southward, other species of the same genera,
or other genera of the same family; or the plants of America are
represented in the same latitudes in the Old World by plants which
are different, but closely allied, in their development. Nay, even
plants which belong to totally different families assume, at least
in their outward appearance, similar shapes. Thus the cactus plants
of the New World correspond to the leafless, fleshy spurges of the
torrid Africa.

If, again, we anticipate that a greater variety of conditions of
vegetation is the cause why the variety of vegetation, the number
of species of plants, continually augments from the pole toward the
equator, and that on the same account the number of sociably growing
plants, of species which clothe great tracts in countless individual
specimens, also increases in the same measure, we find that we are
still far from being enabled to give a scientific account of the
matter. It seems to us wholly the result of caprice that particular
plants are distributed widely over the globe, while others must
live cribbed in the narrowest spot, as, for instance, the Wulfenia,
occurring exclusively on the Carinthian Alps; that particular
families, like the _Compositæ_, flourish abroad over the whole earth,
while others, like the peppers and the palms, only occur between
very definite degrees of latitude on either side of the equator, the
_Proteaceæ_ only in the Southern Hemisphere, the cactus tribe only in
the western half of our earth. Just as inexplicable is the _mode of
distribution_ of the families of plants. While the palms diminish in
number from the equator into higher latitudes, the _Compositæ_ attain
their highest development in the zones of mean temperature, their
number of species diminishes from these in both directions, equally
toward the equator and toward the poles; while, finally, the grasses
increase constantly from the equator toward the poles.

This, to us inexplicable, mode of distribution of plants according
to species, genera, families, orders, and classes gives rise to
certain peculiar regions on the globe, which are characterized by
the predominance of certain forms of plants, or by the exclusive
occurrence of particular families. These portions of the earth’s
surface are called Geographical Regions of Plants, and to them have
been applied the names of men who have made themselves especially
famous by the investigation of these places.

I have already alluded to the regions of saxifrages and mosses, or
Wahlenberg’s region, which extends from the eternal snow of the
poles, or the summits of the mountains, down to the limit of the
growth of trees, and is distinguished by the absence of arborescent
plants, and even of the taller shrubs. Adjoining this comes the
great Linnæan region, including northern Europe and northern Asia
to the great chain of mountains which extends from the Pyrenees to
the Alps. Woods of conifers, or deciduous trees, luxuriant meadows,
and broad heaths, in Asia the peculiar salt steppes, especially
determine the characters of this region, which, at least in its
European portion, is now too widely taken possession of to exhibit
its natural physiognomy. The wide basin from the Alps to Atlas, the
deepest part filled by the Mediterranean Sea, forms a third region,
distinguished by the abundance of aromatic Labiate plants, fair, but
fleeting, lily plants, and the resinous rock-roses. The solitary
dwarf-palm and balsam-trees denote in this, De Candolle’s region, the
transition to the tropics. Parallel to the two last-named regions,
North America is divided into a northern region named in honor of
Michaux, distinguished by peculiar conifers, oaks and walnuts, by
innumerable asters and golden-rods from the Linnæan region, and
a southern, Pursh’s region, in which most strikingly appear the
trees with broad shining leaves and large splendid flowers, like
the tulip-tree, the magnolia, and others defining the character.
Between Kämpfer’s region, comprehending China and Japan, Wallich’s
in the highlands of India, and the Polynesian, or island region of
Reinwardt, renowned for its poison-tree and its giant-flower, lies
Roxburgh’s region, which extends through both the Indian peninsulas,
which conceals among the shadows of the monster fig-trees the
_Scitaminaceæ_, or aromatic lilies, like ginger, cardamums, and
turmeric, or in little woods of aromatic barks, like the cinnamon and
cassia, matures in thick, shapeless stems the starch of the sago.
We pass over Blume’s region in the mountains of Java, Chamisso’s
in the Archipelago of the South Sea, and Forster’s region in New
Zealand, and turn again to Africa, where the desert, Delile’s region,
ripens, in the oases, the date, and in the tender-leaved acacias
concocts the abundance of gum-arabic and senega, which commerce
brings to the service of our industry. To this, eastward, adjoins
Forskäl’s region, where the balsam-trees predominate; on the south,
Adanson’s, the characteristic plant of which perpetuates the name
of that enlightened botanist, the thousand-yeared giant stem of the
_Adansonia digitata_, the baobab, or monkey’s-bread. The little
known Africa gives only one more region, at its southern extremity,
Thunberg’s, bedecked with stapelias, mesembryanthemums, brilliant
heaths, and evil-scented becku-shrubs, but poor in woods. New Holland
and Van Diemen’s Land bear the name of their first and most profound
botanical investigator, Robert Brown; and Central and South America
distribute their vegetable riches into eight more regions, which are
dedicated to Jacquin, Bonpland, Humboldt, Ruiz and Pavon, Swartz,
Martius, St. Hilaire, and D’Urville; among these, Jacquin’s region is
remarkable for its strange cacti; Humboldt’s, on the heights of the
South American Andes, for its Quinoa forests; and that of Martius, in
the interior of Brazil, for its abundance of palms, for its quantity
of climbing plants or lianes and parasitic plants.

All over the globe has man, for the supply of necessary food,
selected almost solely summer plants, that is, such plants as
complete their whole vegetative processes, or, at all events, the
development of all the parts containing nutrient matter, within
the course of a few months. By this means he has rendered himself
independent in the half-tropical regions of the evil action of the
dry season, and in the higher latitudes of the destructive influence
of cold, and thus ensured the possibility of cultivating plants,
which there must be killed by the drought of summer, here by the
cold of winter. Setting aside the cultivation of fruits, which serve
rather pleasure than necessity, there remain but three arborescent
vegetables in the whole world which can be included among the true
food-plants, namely, the bread-fruit, the cocoanut, and the date,
which actually furnish the chief proportion of the food of great
bodies of men and over widely extended areas, and thence have become
objects of culture; the _Cycadaceæ_, and sago-palms, on account of
their starchy parenchyma, can at most perhaps be taken into our
reckoning only in a very limited circle in the East Indies. All the
rest of the food-plants are either such as possess a subterraneous,
usually tuberous stem, which sends up shoots above the soil,
persisting but a few months, on which develop flowers and fruit,
while during the remaining time sleeping, as it were, beneath the
protecting coverlet of earth, it sets the disfavor of the climate at
defiance, or such as die during or at the end of a short period of
vegetation, and ensure the future reproduction in the slumbering germ
of the seed. To the former belong, for instance, the potato, derived
from the Cordilleras of Chili, Peru, and Mexico; to the latter,
almost all our corn-plants.

One plant alone distinguishes itself among the cultivated plants
by a peculiar mode of vegetation, a plant which was perhaps the
earliest gift of Nature to man awakening to life, and thus the
object of the earliest culture; I mean the banana. And this plant
was not merely the first, but the most valuable gift of Nature; its
slightly aromatic, sweet and nutritive fruits are the sole, or at
least the chief, food of the major part of the inhabitants of the
hotter regions. A creeping subterraneous root-stock sends out on
high, from lateral buds, a shaft fifteen to twenty feet long, which
consists merely of the rolled-up, sheath-like leaf-stalks, bearing
the velvet-like glancing leaves, often ten feet long and two feet
broad; the midrib of the leaf alone is firm and thick, but the blade
of the leaf on either side so delicate that it is readily torn by the
wind, whence the leaf acquires a peculiar feathered aspect. Among
the leaves presses up the rich cluster of flowers, which within
three months after the shoot has arisen forms from 150 to 180 ripe
fruits, about the size and form of a cucumber. The fruits weigh
altogether about 70 or 80 pounds, and the same space which will bear
1,000 pounds of potatoes brings forth in a much shorter time 44,000
bananas; and if we take account of the nutritious matter which this
fruit contains, a surface which, sown with wheat, feeds one man,
planted with bananas, affords sustenance to five-and-twenty. Nothing
strikes the European landing in a tropical country so much as the
little spot of cultivated land round a hut, which shelters a very
numerous Indian family.

Not till long after did man learn to know and cultivate the gifts of
Ceres. It must, in fact, surprise us, at present, to see that but
a few species of a single family of plants furnish the principal
food of the greater proportion of mankind, namely, the so-called
corn-plants, or _Cerealia_, of the family of grasses. This family
includes nearly 4,000 species, and yet not twenty of them are
cultivated for the food of man. In their real nature these cultivated
grasses are all summer plants, but varieties have been obtained from
some of the most important of them, which, in the proper climate,
sown in autumn, germinate and pass the winter under the warm covering
of snow, so that they are in a condition to shoot out strongly in the
spring, while the soil is being prepared for the other summer plants.

Barley has the widest range of distribution of all the _Cerealia_,
and is cultivated from the extreme limits of culture in Lapland to
the heights immediately beneath the equator. But it has by no means
the same importance everywhere that it has in the northern region,
where, in a little narrow zone, it appears as the sole bread-corn.
In Lapland and northern Asia, rye soon appears beside it, but by
the inclemency of the climate confined to favorable years, and
therefore not properly to be regarded as the principal food. First in
Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia does the rye become the peculiar
bread-corn; and wheat takes its place beside it in the north of
Great Britain and Germany, as the rye before joined barley. In the
centre of Germany, in the south of Great Britain, in France, and in a
wide range toward the East, including the whole of the Caspian Sea,
wheat is the prevailing cultivated plant, which in the basin of the
Mediterranean and throughout North America is associated with maize.
Rice takes the place of the latter in Egypt and in northern India,
and holds undisputed rule in the peninsulas of India, in China,
Japan, and the East Indian islands, shares it in the west coast of
Africa with maize, which, on the other hand, is the exclusively
cultivated corn-plant of the greatest part of tropical America,
with only some unimportant exceptions. In southern America, Africa,
and Australia wheat again enters the field with the decreasing
temperature. The culture of _Tef_ and _Tocusso_ in Abyssinia, of
millet in Western Africa and Arabia, as well as of _Eleusine_ and
millet in the East Indies, are quite of subordinate importance.

Some other plants bear a far more important share in the nutrition
of mankind than the grasses last named. Even in the most northern
zone of the barley and rye, the buckwheat is an object of tolerably
extensive culture. With the already named banana, the yams, the
manioc, and the batatas contribute largely to the daily food of the
inhabitants of the tropics, of the Old as of the New World, added to
which the Andes presents itself a peculiar vegetable, the quinoa,
a plant which simultaneously produces edible tubers and abundance
of seeds, comparable to those of buckwheat. Lastly, we may not pass
over the _Bread-fruit_, in the proper sense of the word, which is
the principal food of the inhabitants of the large islands which
extend from the East Indies through the whole tropical ocean to the
west coast of America, the gift of a large and beautiful tree of the
family of the nettle, which from the use it is turned to is called
the bread-fruit tree. For the sake of variety, some also cultivate
with it the tarroo-root, the _Tacca_ tubers, or some ferns, the
farinaceous leaf-stalks of which afford a dainty meal. Last of all I
will mention the potato, which has spread over the whole earth with
such rapidity from the mountains of the New World that in many places
it threatens, not exactly to the advantage of mankind, to supplant
every other culture.




  PHYSIOGNOMY OF PLANTS
  --ALEXANDER VON HUMBOLDT


The carpet of flowers and of verdure spread over the naked crust of
our planet is unequally woven; it is thicker where the sun rises high
in the ever cloudless heavens and thinner toward the poles, in the
less happy climes where returning frosts often destroy the opening
buds of spring or the ripening fruits of autumn. Everywhere, however,
man finds some plants to minister to his support and enjoyment.

Lichens form the first covering of the naked rock, where afterward
lofty forest trees rear their airy summits. The successive growth of
mosses, grasses, herbaceous plants and shrubs or bushes, occupies
the intervening period of long but undetermined duration. The part
which lichens and mosses perform in the northern countries is
effected within the tropics by Portulacas Gomphrenas and other low
and succulent shore-plants. The history of the vegetable covering of
our planet, and its gradual propagation over the desert crust of the
earth, has its epochs as well as that of the migrations of the animal
world.

When leaving our oak forests, we traverse the Alps or Pyrenees, and
enter Italy or Spain, or when we direct our attention to some of the
African shores of the Mediterranean, we might easily be led to draw
the erroneous inference that hot countries are marked by the absence
of trees. But those who do so, forget that the south of Europe wore
a different aspect on the first arrival of Pelasgian or Carthaginian
colonies; they forget that an ancient civilization causes the
forests to recede more and more, and that the wants and restless
activity of large communities of men gradually despoil the face of
the earth of the refreshing shades which still rejoice the eye in
northern and middle Europe, and which even more than any historic
documents prove the recent date and youthful age of our civilization.

The deserts to the south of the Atlas, and the immense plains or
steppes of South America, must be regarded as only local phenomena.
The latter, the South American steppes, are clothed, in the rainy
season at least, with grass and with low-growing, almost herbaceous,
mimosas. The African deserts are, indeed, at all seasons, devoid of
vegetation; seas of sand, surrounded by forest shores clothed with
perpetual verdure. A few scattered fan-palms alone recall to the
wanderer’s recollection that these awful solitudes belong to the
domain of the same animated terrestrial creation which is elsewhere
so rich and so varied. The fantastic play of the mirage, occasioned
by the effects of radiant heat, sometimes causes these palm trees
to appear divided from the ground and hovering above its surface,
and sometimes shows their inverted image reflected in strata of
air undulating like the waves of the sea. On the west of the great
Peruvian chain of the Andes, on the coasts of the Pacific, I have
passed entire weeks in traversing similar deserts destitute of water.

When once a region has lost the covering of plants with which it was
invested, if the sands are loose and mobile and are destitute of
springs, and if the heated atmosphere, forming constantly ascending
currents, prevents precipitation taking place from clouds, thousands
of years may elapse ere organic life can pass from the verdant shores
to the interior of the sandy sea, and repossess itself of the domain
from which it had been banished.

Those, therefore, who can view nature with a comprehensive glance and
apart from local phenomena, may see from the poles to the equator
organic life and vigor gradually augment with the augmentation of
vivifying heat. But, in the course of this progressive increase,
there are reserved to each zone its own peculiar beauties; to the
tropics, variety and grandeur of vegetable forms; to the north,
the aspect of its meadows and green pastures, and the periodic
reawakening of nature at the first breath of the mild air of
spring. Each zone, besides its own peculiar advantages, has its own
distinctive character.

In determining leading forms, or types, on the individual beauty,
the distribution, and the grouping of which the physiognomy of the
vegetation of a country depends, we must not follow the march of
systems of botany, in which from other motives the parts chiefly
regarded are the smaller organs of propagation, the flowers and the
fruit; we must, on the contrary, consider solely that which by its
mass stamps a peculiar character on the total impression produced, or
on the aspect of the country. Among the leading forms of vegetation
to which I allude, there are, indeed, some which coincide with
families belonging to the “natural systems” of botanists.

Such are the forms of bananas, palms, Casuarinæ, and Coniferæ. But
the botanic system divides many groups which the physiognomist is
obliged to unite.

[Illustration: Herbs, Useful and Medicinal

1, Myrtle; 2, Myrrh; 3, Hemlock; 4, Wormwood; 5, Frankincense; 6,
Hyssop]

We will begin with the palms, the loftiest and noblest of all
vegetable forms, that to which the prize of beauty has been assigned
by the concurrent voice of nations in all ages; for the earliest
civilization of mankind belonged to countries bordering on the region
of palms, and to parts of Asia where they abound. Their lofty,
slender, ringed, and, in some cases, prickly stems terminate in
aspiring and shining either fan-like or pinnated foliage. The leaves
are frequently curled, like those of some Gramineæ. Smooth, polished
stems of palms carefully measured by me had attained 192 English feet
in height. In receding from the equator and approaching the temperate
zone, palms diminish in height and beauty. The indigenous vegetation
of Europe only comprises a single representative of this form of
plants, the sea-coast dwarf-palm or Chamærops, which in Spain and
Italy extends as far north as the 44th parallel of latitude. The true
climate of palms has a mean annual temperature of 78°.2-81°.5 Fahr.
The date, which is much inferior in beauty to several other genera,
has been brought from Africa to the south of Europe, where it lives,
but can scarcely be said to flourish, in a mean temperature not
exceeding 59°-62°.4 Fahr.

In all parts of the globe the palm form is accompanied by that of
plantains or bananas; the Scitamineæ and Musaceæ of botanists,
Heliconia, Amomum, and Strelitzia. In this form, the stems, which
are low, succulent, and almost herbaceous, are surmounted by long,
silky, delicately veined leaves of a thin, loose texture, and bright
and beautiful verdure. Groves of plantains and bananas form the
ornament of moist places in the equatorial regions.

The form of Malvaceæ and Bombaceæ, represented by Ceiba,
Cavanillesia, and the Mexican hand-tree Cheirostemon, has enormously
thick trunks; large, soft, woolly leaves, either heart-shaped or
indented; and superb flowers, frequently of a purple or crimson hue.
It is to this group of plants that the baobab, or monkey bread-tree
(Adansonia digitata), belongs, which, with a very moderate elevation,
has a diameter of 32 English feet, and is probably the largest and
most ancient organic monument on our planet. In Italy the Malvaceæ
already begin to impart to the vegetation a peculiar southern
character.

The delicately pinnated foliage of the Mimosa form, of which Acacia,
Desmanthus, Gleditschia, Porleria, and Tamarindus are important
members, is entirely wanting in our temperate zone in the Old
Continent, though found in the United States, where, in corresponding
latitudes, vegetation is more varied and vigorous than in Europe. The
umbrella-like arrangement of the branches, resembling that seen in
the stone-pine in Italy, is very frequent among the Mimosas. The deep
blue of the tropic sky seen through their finely divided foliage has
an extremely picturesque effect.

The heath form belongs more especially to the African continent and
islands. Arborescent heaths, like some other African plants, extend
to the northern shores of the Mediterranean; they adorn Italy and
the cistus-covered grounds of the south of Spain. In the countries
adjoining the Baltic, and further to the north, the aspect of this
form of plants is unwelcome as announcing sterility.

The cactus form is almost exclusively American. Sometimes spherical,
sometimes articulated or jointed, and sometimes assuming the shape
of tall, upright polygonal columns resembling the pipes of an organ,
this group presents the most striking contrast to those of Liliaceæ
and bananas.

While the above-mentioned plants flourish in deserts almost devoid
of vegetation, the Orchideæ enliven the clefts of the wildest rocks
and the trunks of tropical trees blackened by excess of heat. This
form (to which the vanilla belongs) is distinguished by its bright
green succulent leaves, and by its flowers of many colors and strange
and curious shape, sometimes resembling that of winged insects, and
sometimes that of the birds which are attracted by the perfume of the
honey vessels. Such is their number and variety that, to mention only
a limited district, the entire life of a painter would be too short
for the delineation of all the magnificent Orchideæ which adorn the
recesses of the deep valleys of the Andes of Peru.

The Casuarina form, leafless, like almost all species of cactus,
consists of trees with branches resembling the stalks of our
Equisetums. It is found only in the islands of the Pacific and in
India, but traces of the same singular rather than beautiful type
are seen in other parts of the world.

As the banana form shows the greatest expansion, so the greatest
contraction of foliage is shown in Casuarinas, and in the form of
needle-trees (Coniferæ). Pines, thuias, and cypresses belong to this
form, which prevails in northern regions, and is comparatively rare
within the tropics: in Dammara and Salisburia the leaves, though
they may still be termed needle-shaped, are broader. In the colder
latitudes, the never-failing verdure of this form of trees cheers
the desolate winter landscape, and tells to the inhabitants of those
regions that when snow and ice cover the ground the inward life of
plants, like the Promethean fire, is never extinct upon our planet.

Like mosses and lichens in our latitudes, and like Orchideæ in the
tropical zone, plants of the Pothos form clothe parasitically the
trunks of aged and decaying forest trees: succulent herbaceous stalks
support large leaves, sometimes sagittate, sometimes either digitate
or elongate, but always with thick veins. The flowers of the Aroideæ
are cased in hooded spathes or sheaths, and in some of them when they
expand a sensible increase of vital heat is perceived. Stemless, they
put forth aerial roots. Pothos, Dracontium, Caladium, and Arum all
belong to this form, which prevails chiefly in the tropical world. On
the Spanish and Italian shores of the Mediterranean, Arums combine
with the succulent Tussilago, the acanthus, and thistles, which are
almost arborescent, to indicate the increasing luxuriance of southern
vegetation.

Next to the last-mentioned form, of which the Pothos and Arum are
representatives, I place a form with which, in the hottest parts of
South America, it is frequently associated--that of the tropical
twining rope-plants, or Lianes, which display in those regions, in
Paullinias, Banisterias, Bignonias, and Passifloras, the utmost vigor
of vegetation. It is represented to us in the temperate latitudes by
our twining hops and by our grapevines. On the banks of the Orinoco
the leafless branches of the Bauhinias are often between 40 and 50
feet long; sometimes they hang down perpendicularly from the high top
of the Swietenia, and sometimes they are stretched obliquely like the
cordage of a ship; the tiger-cats climb up and descend by them with
wonderful agility.

In strong contrast with the extreme flexibility and fresh,
light-colored verdure of the climbing plants, of which we have just
been speaking, are the rigid, self-supporting growth and bluish
hue of the form of the Aloes, which, instead of plaint stems and
branches of enormous length, are either without stems altogether or
have branchless stems. The leaves, which are succulent, thick, and
fleshy, and terminate in long points, radiate from a centre and form
a closely crowded tuft. The tall-stemmed aloes are not found in close
clusters or thickets like other social or gregarious plants or trees;
they stand singly in arid plains, and impart thereby to the tropical
regions in which they are found a peculiar, melancholy, and I would
almost venture to call it, African character. Taking for our guides
resemblance in physiognomy, and influence on the impression produced
by the landscape, we place together under the head of the Aloe form
(from among the Bromeliaceæ), the Pitcairnias, which in the chain
of the Andes grow out of clefts in the rocks; the great Pourretia
pyramidata (the Atschupalla of the elevated plains of New Granada);
the American Aloe (Agave); Bromelia aranas and Bromelia karatas;
from among the Euphorbiaceæ the rare species which have thick, short
candelabra-like divided stems; from the family of Asphodeleæ the
African Aloe and the Dragon tree (Dracæna draco); and lastly, from
among the Liliaceæ, the tall, flowering Yucca.

If the Aloe form is characterized by an almost mournful repose
and immobility, the form of Gramineæ, especially the physiognomy
of arborescent grasses, is characterized, on the contrary, by an
expression of cheerfulness and of airy grace and tremulous lightness,
combined with lofty stature. Both in the East and West Indies groves
of bamboo form shaded overarching walks or avenues. The smooth,
polished and often lightly waving and bending stems of these tropical
grasses are taller than our alders and oaks. The form of Gramineæ
begins even in Italy, in the Arundo donax, to rise from the ground
and to determine by height as well as mass the natural character and
aspect of the country.

The form of ferns, as well as that of grasses, becomes ennobled in
the hotter parts of the globe. Arborescent ferns, when they reach a
height of above forty feet, have something of a palm-like appearance;
but their stems are less slender, shorter, and more rough and scaly
than those of palms. Their foliage is more delicate, of a thinner and
more transparent texture, and the minutely indented margins of the
fronds are finely and sharply cut. Tree ferns belong almost entirely
to the tropical zone, but in that zone they seek by preference the
more tempered heat of a moderate elevation above the level of the
sea, and mountains two or three thousand feet high may be regarded
as their principal seat. In South America the arborescent ferns are
usually associated with the tree which has conferred such benefits on
mankind by its fever-healing bark. Both indicate by their presence
the happy region where reigns a soft, perpetual spring.

I will next name the form of Liliaceous plants (Amaryllis, Ixia,
Gladiolus, Pancratium), with their flag-like leaves and superb
blossoms, of which southern Africa is the principal country; also the
willow form, which is indigenous in all parts of the globe, and is
represented in the elevated plains of Quito (not in the shape of the
leaves, but in that of the ramification), by Schinus Molle; Mytraceæ
(Metrosideros, Eucalyptus, Escallonia myrtilloides); Melastomaceæ,
and the laurel form.

It is under the burning rays of a tropical sun that vegetation
displays its most majestic forms. In the cold north the bark of trees
is covered with lichens and mosses, while between the tropics the
Cymbidium and fragrant vanilla enliven the trunks of the Anacardia
and of the gigantic fig-trees. The fresh verdure of the Pothos leaves
and of the Dracontia contrasts with the many colored flowers of
the Orchideæ; Climbing Bauhinias, Passifloras, and yellow flowering
Banisterias twine round the trunks of the forest trees. Delicate
blossoms spring from the roots of the Theobroma, and from the thick
and rough bark of the Crescentias and the Gustavia. In the midst
of this profusion of flowers and fruits, and in the luxuriant
intertwinings of the climbing plants, the naturalist often finds it
difficult to discover to which stem the different leaves and flowers
really belong. A single tree adorned with Paullinias, Bignonias,
and Dendrobium forms a group of plants which, if disentangled and
separated, would cover a considerable space of ground.

In the tropics vegetation is generally of a fresher verdure, more
luxuriant and succulent, and adorned with larger and more shining
leaves than in our northern climates. The “social” plants, which
often impart so uniform and monotonous a character to European
countries, are almost entirely absent in the equatorial regions.
Trees almost as lofty as our oaks are adorned with flowers as large
and as beautiful as our lilies. On the shady banks of the Rio
Magdalena in South America, there grows a climbing Aristolochia
bearing flowers four feet in circumference which the Indian boys
draw over their heads in sport, and wear as hats or helmets. In the
islands of the Indian Archipelago the flower of the Rafflesia is
nearly three feet in diameter, and weighs above fourteen pounds.




  THE GENESIS OF FLOWERS
  --ALEXANDER S. WILSON


The flowers most generally known are brightly colored flowers adapted
for insect fertilization; only these require to attract insects,
which is the end served by the perfume and conspicuous coloring. Very
many plants, however, bear blossoms so small and obscurely colored
that they are either entirely overlooked or not reckoned as flowers
at all. The wind-fertilized flowers of the dock and nettle have no
occasion for the services of insects, and are destitute of honey,
odor, and brilliant petals. Still more insignificant in appearance
are the little self-fertilizing cleistogamic flowers, which, toward
the end of the season, are produced on the dog-violet. All three
kinds possess stamens and pistils, and are therefore recognized as
flowers by botanists. Besides stamens and pistils, which are the
essential organs of a flower, petals and sepals are usually present.
The petals collectively compose the corolla, the sepals the calyx;
both together being spoken of as the floral envelopes or perianth.
Occasionally, as in the ash, the flower is reduced to its essential
organs, the floral envelopes being absent. Plants bearing flowers,
whether with or without floral envelopes, are designated phanerogams
or flowering plants; they constitute the highest division of the
vegetable kingdom. Ferns and mosses, again, are examples of the
cryptogamic or flowerless class; they never bear flowers or seeds,
but are propagated by minute reproductive bodies termed spores.
This class is divided into thallophytes and vascular cryptogams. The
organization of a thallophyte is very simple; the plant body of a
fungus or sea-weed, for example, consists entirely of similar cells,
and externally shows no distinction into root, stem, and leaf. The
structure of a vascular cryptogam, such as a club-moss, horsetail,
or fern, is more complicated; both cells and vessels enter into the
composition of its tissues, and externally the distinction of stem
and leaf is apparent. Phanerogams also admit of a twofold division
into gymnosperms and angiosperms; conifers, cycads, and yews are
gymnospermous, having naked seeds, exposed either on the ends of
branches or on the surface of open scales. All ordinary flowering
plants produce their seed in the interior of a closed, ovary, as the
lower part of the pistil is called; from this peculiarity they are
termed angiosperms.

Only the remains of thallophytes have hitherto been discovered
in the oldest Palæozoic rocks. Vascular cryptogams appear in the
Silurian strata, attain their maximum in the Carboniferous age, and
in succeeding formations are gradually displaced by gymnosperms. The
latter occur as early as the Devonian period, but the prevailing type
of vegetation down to the close of Palæozoic time continued to be
cryptogamic. Angiosperms possibly existed as far back as the Permian
times, but it is only in the chalk that their remains begin to be
abundant; the vast majority of Mesozoic plants seem to have belonged
to the gymnospermous type. Plants with conspicuous flowers only date
from Tertiary times; they increase in number and importance as we
approach the present day.

Although the plants entombed in the rocks are only an inconsiderable
fraction of the numbers that formerly existed, the general succession
just indicated is fully made out, and as the palæontological evidence
accumulates it tends more and more to establish the view that colored
blossoms are, geologically speaking, of comparatively recent origin.
The vegetation of the earlier geological epochs was marked by a
singular uniformity of character; not only were there fewer species
than now, and these widely distributed over the globe, but the
monotonous green of Palæozoic and Mesozoic forests was unrelieved by
gay blossoms such as adorn our fields and orchards. We are indebted
to geology for another important fact; fossil plants occur which have
no near relatives in the existing flora. Intermediate forms which can
not properly be classified with any living family are met with; in
others the characters of several modern groups are blended. Although
these generalized forms rather upset our systems of classification,
they have an important bearing on the origin of living plants.
But what a different aspect, when the coal plants were growing in
primeval luxuriance, the landscape must have worn from that on which
we are accustomed to look! Odd, uncouth lepidodendra of arborescent
growth, huge reed-like calamites, gigantic ferns stretched in
interminable forests, clothed in one unvaried tint of sombre green.
How different is the scene which nature now presents!--mountains
glowing with the purple bloom of heather; hillsides where the furze
has spread its cloth of gold; meadows bright with daisies, ranunculi,
and cuckoo-flowers; banks where the wild thyme and bluebell grow! The
contrast affords a hint of the transformation in our world effected
by the introduction of flowers.

Our knowledge may not enable us to describe all the minute steps
which led to this remarkable change, but we can at least indicate
with great probability the nature of the process and some of the
agencies which contributed to bring about this result. To suppose
that each species of plant was independently created as we now see
it, implies not one creation merely, but many successive creations;
moreover, it leaves unexplained all the curious affinities which
exist among the members of the vegetable kingdom. The gradations of
structure, the geological succession, and the peculiarities of plant
growth are much more intelligible when we view the plants which now
inhabit the earth as the lineal descendants of those which lived
during the earlier ages of geology. From the nature of the case, the
theory of development does not admit of actual demonstration; still
the evidence in support of it is such that its advocates are entitled
to claim a verdict on the mass of indirect and circumstantial
evidence.

Among palæozoic cryptogams, we have evidence of the existence of
structures which, with comparatively little modification, might be
converted into what we now regard as flowers. The abundant remains
of lepidodendra in the Coal-measures testify to the important
place attained by the group of lycopods, or club mosses, in the
Palæozoic flora. To this family might very well have belonged
the archetype from which our modern blossom-bearing plants have
come. Our knowledge of this group is derived both from fossil
remains and from forms still extant. The selaginellas, so commonly
cultivated in greenhouses, are examples; also the little club moss
(Lycopodium selaginodes) of our highland moors. The last mentioned,
though a diminutive form, possesses special interest, being one of
the vascular cryptogams which produce two kinds of spores. This
heterosporous character was, however, a common feature of extinct
lycopods; both large and small spores have been detected in great
numbers in coal.

The internal anatomy of the Lycopodiaceæ is somewhat complex, but
their external organization is simple. A club moss consists of a
cylindrical stem covered with overlapping leaves, spirally arranged,
of small size relatively to the stem, and always simple or undivided.
The stem branches in a peculiar forked manner, which gives the
plant its characteristic candelabra-like form. Existing lycopods
are creeping plants, seldom exceeding two feet in height, but many
extinct species attained the dimensions of large trees. On the ends
of certain branches the leaves are crowded together, giving the
terminal portion of each shoot some resemblance to a pine-cone. The
crowded leaves on this portion bear, on their upper surfaces, little
sacs called sporangia. Certain of these sacs contain very numerous
small, rounded bodies, the microspores; others have fewer spores
of larger size, distinguished as macrospores. Sacs containing the
small male spores are termed microsporangia; those having the large
female spores, macrosporangia. When ripe, a sporangium bursts and
discharges its spores, which are scattered by the wind. Should a
spore alight on a favorable spot, it germinates after a time and
gives rise to a structure called a prothallus, which is really an
independent plant. This stage in the life-history of a cryptogam is,
however, much better seen in ferns, where the prothallus is entirely
expelled from the spore and attains a higher degree of independent
development. The prothallus throws out root-hairs, nourishes
itself and grows, but the leaf-like form it assumes bears not the
remotest resemblance to the parent fern from which it sprang. This
phenomenon, characteristic of the higher cryptogams, is known as the
“alternation of generations,” or “alternate generations.” Similar
phases are observed in certain animals, the medusæ or jelly fishes,
for example. In the course of its development, a fern passes through
two distinct phases; first, the spore-bearing stage or sporophyte,
represented by the fern frond; second, the egg-bearing stage, the
oöphyte or prothallus. As we ascend in the scale of vegetable life,
the egg-bearing or sexual generation diminishes in importance,
while the sporophyte preponderates more and more. In club mosses,
the prothallus has all but lost its independence; in the case of
the selaginella it is formed almost entirely within the spore, only
a small part being extruded when the spore ruptures. Some of the
lycopods are inosporous--that is, they have, like the ferns, but
one kind of spore. Where this is the case, the prothallus developed
from the spore bears two sets of sexual organs; the prothallus of
one of the heterosporous cryptogams, on the other hand, produces
sexual organs of one kind only. Antheridia appear on the prothallus
developed from a small spore; archegonia on that from a large one.
The former are the male organs, and from them are emitted numerous
antherozoids, minute ciliated bodies, which swarm over damp surfaces
in all directions. The archegonia are microscopic flasks, each
containing an egg-cell or oösphere; they are entered by one or more
of the locomotive antherozoids, which coalesce with the egg-cell; the
latter is thereby fertilized, and soon grows by cell division into a
plant resembling that from which the spores were originally obtained.
The life-history of a vascular cryptogam is, so to speak, a story
completed in two volumes.

Microscopic research has revealed a most interesting relationship
between flowering plants and the heterosporous cryptogams. When the
development of a pollen grain in the anther of an ordinary flower is
studied and compared with that of a microspore, the two are found
to agree in a remarkable manner. The sporangium corresponds in all
essential points with the pollen-sac, and its generatic tissue
develops in similar fashion to that from which the pollen grains
originate. In both cases an archesporium is produced by the division
of a hypodermal cell; this tissue next divides into a tapetal layer
and a row of mother-cells; the tapetal layer dissolves, isolating
the mother-cells, each of which then forms in its interior four
daughter-cells, which are the spores or pollen grains, as the case
may be. Not only are the antecedents of microspores and pollen
grains alike, but their subsequent histories offer many points of
resemblance. Pollen grains are known in numerous instances to form
in their interior one or more vegetative cells, which can hardly be
regarded as other than a rudimentary male prothallus, such as is
commonly developed by a microspore.

There is another bond of connection between flowering and flowerless
plants of equal or even greater importance. In the interior of the
ovule, or young seed, both of angiosperms and gymnosperms, a special
cell is developed, called the embryo-sac. When the history of this
cell is traced back, its development is found to be exactly that of
a spore. Certain structures are also formed in its interior bearing
the closest analogy to the internal prothallus observed in the
macrospore of selaginella. These are most obvious in the embryo-sacs
of gymnosperms, where the prothallus is represented by the endosperm,
while the corpuscula, or secondary embryo-sacs--arising on this
are the undoubted equivalents of the archegonia of ferns and other
cryptogams. The gymnosperms thus stand midway between vascular
cryptogams and angiosperms; but even within the embryo-sac of the
latter, in the so-called antipodal cells, may still be detected
vestiges of the oöphyte or sexual generation, that structure so
characteristic of the flowerless class. An alternation of generations
can thus be traced throughout the greater part of the vegetable
kingdom, from the lowest scale mosses through the urn mosses, ferns,
horsetails, lycopods, and conifers up to the highest members of the
phanerogamic division. But of more importance for our present purpose
is the certain identification of the pollen grain and embryo-sac of
flowering plants with the microspore and macrospore of the older
cryptogams. The stamen of a flower turns out to be simply a peculiar
form of microsporangium, while the ovule is a macrosporangium,
containing but one macrospore, or occasionally developing several.
It follows, therefore, that we have only to enlarge our conception
sufficiently to see in the spore-bearing cones of the lycopods
structures of essentially the same nature as flowers. All the
materials that go to the making of a flower could thus have been
furnished by the flowerless flora of Palæozoic ages.

An important change, which marked the transition from cryptogams
to flowering plants, must now be mentioned, and to this the animal
kingdom furnishes a striking analogy. The lowest vertebrates, such
as fishes, are oviparous; the ova are discharged and afterward
incubated. Mammals, on the other hand, are viviparous; the young are
hatched within the body of the parent. The young of the kangaroo and
other marsupials, which constitute the lowest order of mammals, are
still very immature at birth. Analagous conditions are found among
plants. Cryptogams are all oviparous; the macrospore, which may be
regarded as the ovum or egg, separates from the parent plant before
fertilization. Phanerogams, on the other hand, may be described
as viviparous, since they retain the macrospore or ovum until it
has developed an embryo. The presence of an embryo constitutes the
distinction between a seed and a spore. Unless an embryo be present
a seed can not germinate, since germination is simply the emergence
of the embryo from the coats of the seed. An extreme case of this
retention is seen in the mangrove, where the seed germinates while
still attached to the tree; the embryo sends down its long radicle
into the mud, and only quits its hold of the parent when it has
become firmly established. Orchids and many parasitic plants have
seeds with exceedingly minute and imperfect embryos, recalling the
undeveloped offspring of the marsupials.

The retention of the egg is attended with a manifest advantage;
plainly the viviparous method of reproduction, which obtains in
the higher divisions of the two organic kingdoms, is much more
economical than the other. By the change to the viviparous condition,
several structures present in the cryptogams are rendered useless,
and a disused organ invariably degenerates; the prothallus and its
adjuncts, having no longer any function to perform, must inevitably
begin to atrophy. The rudimentary structures appearing in the
embryo-sac of phanerogams can in this way be accounted for. The
life-history of a cryptogam extends, as we have seen, to two volumes;
it now appears that the life-history of a phanerogam is a second
edition, of the same story, somewhat abridged and completed in a
single volume.

The life-history of certain ferns occasionally undergoes a
corresponding abbreviation. In the phenomena of apospory and apogamy
we have departures from the ordinary course of development, closely
akin to what would be required for the conversion of a cryptogam
into a phanerogam. Apospory occurs when the production of spores
is omitted, the prothallus growing immediately on the fern frond;
apogamy, when the female organs are not developed, and the frond is
formed by vegetative growth directly from the prothallus.

There is another fact of which account must be taken. In
different groups of plants, in proportion to the complexity of
their organization, the female cell tends to increase in size
and importance. This is probably accompanied by a chemical or
physiological enrichment of the substance of the egg-cell,
rendering a higher degree of protection desirable. The inclosure
of the embryo-sac within the ovule becomes in these circumstances
an advantage. But by this investment, and by the ovule remaining
attached to the parent plant, the microspore is of necessity reduced
to the condition of a parasite, and the conversion of the male
prothallus into a pollen tube becomes intelligible as a case of
degeneration.

The closed seed-vessel of angiosperms, there can be little doubt, has
in like manner been acquired for the purpose of excluding fungous
spores, bacteria, and other destructive germs from the ovules. Van
Tieghem found that when the pistil of a flower was opened the ovules
could not be directly fertilized, but were invariably attacked by
bacteria. The resinous secretions of conifers act as a germicide,
rendering less essential the protection of the seeds, which is the
rôle of the pistil in angiosperms.

The gradations between stamens, petals and sepals seen in the
water-lily, and the conversion of stamens into petals in the garden
rose, suggest a possible variation which would explain the first
appearance of the floral envelopes. The nectary may not improbably
be a transformed water gland, turned to account as an attraction to
visitors, and so of use in promoting cross-fertilization. Every new
character tending directly or indirectly to secure this advantage
would be perpetuated; the colors, perfumes, mechanism, and most of
the peculiarities of flowers become intelligible when viewed as
results due to the selective agency of insects.




  LIFE HISTORY OF PLANTS
  --E. W. PREVOST


The plant possesses a distinct set of organs capable of absorbing
mineral food dissolved in water, and there are also means whereby
oxygen and carbonic acid gas can be inspired and transformed into
tissue. The young sprout, being at first incapable of seeking for its
food, is dependent on its seed for its supplies, consisting of two
distinct substances--nitrogenous or albuminous matter, and oil and
starchy matters. These two last might have been classed separately,
but it is unnecessary here to draw any distinction between them, for
it appears that the oil is, during germination, for the most part
converted into starch. The effect of moisture and warmth causes
the seed to sprout, throw out a stem and root, but these being but
feeble must be supplied with food ready prepared, and it is under the
influence of the oxygen which obtains access to the seed that a small
portion of the albuminous matters contained in the seed is altered,
and the products act as a ferment which attacks the insoluble starch,
converting it into a sugar that can pass with the water always
present into the small sprout; when there it becomes again insoluble,
and adds to the structure of the rapidly increasing seedling. The
first part of this change, such as the starch has undergone, is well
exemplified in the malting of barley, which, after its removal from
the malt-house, contains a large amount of “glucose,” a kind of sugar
which is recognized readily by the taste. The transformation of a
portion of the albuminous matter into a ferment not only results
in the conversion of starch into sugar, but at the same time the
remainder of the albuminoids are rendered soluble and without any
change in their composition; they can then accompany the glucose
during its passage into the seedling. We see then that the seed is
a storehouse for the young plant, providing nourishment until it is
strong enough to send down roots into the earth, and put out leaves
into the air to seek out food for itself. When the plant becomes
strong, and is no longer dependent on the seed for its food, the
chemical processes which take place are still more wonderful; how
some of the new substances are formed, or why the absence of some one
ingredient of the soil (generally present in very small quantities)
should produce certain well-known results, is still unknown. From
the soil and by the roots are derived the mineral matters and the
nitrogen; the latter in the form of nitrates, which in the plant are
completely changed in character, being no longer a combination of
nitric acid with a base, but the base has been separated, and the
nitrogen of the acid, combined with sulphur, hydrogen, and oxygen, is
deposited in the new form of albumenoid matter, which is insoluble
in water; but being insoluble, and deposited in the minute cells of
the plant, it would appear impossible that it could migrate from one
part to another, and this would be the case if no other substance
were present; but phosphate of potassium is absorbed by the plant,
and this coming in contact with the albumenoids renders them soluble;
they can now pass through the cell-walls of the stem, and upward into
the seed, where they are stored for future use. Phosphates are also
necessary for the production of certain fats, of which they form a
part, for the fat of the horse-chestnut and oak contains a small
percentage of phosphorus. Of the other salts sucked up by the roots,
the sulphate of lime is worthy of mention, as it is necessary to the
formation of albumenoids, sulphur being an essential ingredient of
these matters, whereas phosphorus is not; and also many essential
oils require this element in their composition, and it is to its
presence that the oils of black mustard and garlic owe their peculiar
pungency.

The function which many of the other ingredients found in the ashes
of plants perform is still somewhat uncertain, but all experiments
indicate that potash, lime, and magnesia (the alkaline earths, as
these last two are termed) are indispensable to the life of the
plant, and that the absence of iron is accompanied by abnormalities
of growth. When a soil contains no iron, and this does not occur
naturally, the foliage loses its green color, the loss being due to
the non-formation of chlorophyl, or the green coloring matter, and
where this is absent, the process of assimilation as performed by the
leaves ceases, and therefore the plant is in an unhealthy condition;
when we come to speak of the respiration and assimilation of plants,
an explanation of these terms will be given, but at present a few
words on the use of potash, soda, and silica will not be out of
place; but we will not attempt to dilate on the uses of other ash
ingredients, such as chlorine, for, as before stated, there is no
accurate information concerning them, but that they are requisite is
certain, while what their functions may be is uncertain.

For general purposes, the chemist considers that the alkalies, potash
and soda, are interchangeable, that what soda will do so will potash,
and as the former is the cheaper, it is therefore more generally
employed. Plants, however, detect a difference, for we find both soda
and potash present in their ash in varying quantities, and neither
of them entirely absent, so that each must have a distinct part to
play; still, to a certain extent, they are interchangeable, for
cultivation greatly alters the proportions in which they are present,
and this alteration is very marked in the case of the asparagus,
which when growing wild contains equal quantities of these bases,
but by cultivation nearly the whole of the soda disappears, while
the potash increases nearly threefold. Silica or sand is to be found
in every soil, either in the free or combined state, and hence we
might suppose that it was indispensable, and certainly it exists
in every plant in large proportions, more especially in the hard
outer parts, the straw and stems containing a very large quantity of
this substance, which is generally considered to be necessary for
their rigidity. There are some very remarkable instances known in
which deposits of silica are found in plants. Very notable is that
occurring in the joints of the bamboo, resembling opal, and bearing
the same _tabasheer_; but yet, though silica exists universally in
plants, its absence (under artificial conditions) does not seem to
prevent their full development.

The alkaline earths, as well as potash, seem to be necessary for the
formation of the various salts, such as the oxalate of lime in the
leaves of beet and in the common rhubarb, or the oxalate of potash in
the wood sorrel. These bases are introduced in the form of nitrate
and sulphate or phosphate, but in the plant they separate from the
acid, and combine with new acids, which are elaborated through the
agency of the leaves.

Having glanced at the functions performed by the mineral
constituents, we will pass on to those of the leaves, and here as
before no attempt will be made to answer the question, How do the
leaves act? but rather our intention is to show the result of their
action. The leaves are the means whereby the plant communicates with
the air, absorbing from it that portion which is injurious to the
life of animals, namely, carbonic acid gas, which consists of carbon
and oxygen; under the influence of sunlight these two components are
separated in the leaf, the one from the other, the carbon or solid
part remaining in the plant to form all the various compounds, such
as starch, oil, and acids, while the oxygen is exhaled into the air
for the use of animals; this retention of carbon and conversion
into starch, etc., has been termed assimilation, to which we have
already referred; now we can appreciate the immense importance of
plants of all kinds, for without their aid the atmosphere would
become so overburdened with the harmful carbonic acid that it
would no longer support life or combustion. A small experiment
will readily demonstrate the action of leaves on carbonic acid: if
a green laurel-leaf, immersed in a glassful of spring-water, be
exposed to sunlight, a number of small bubbles will soon be noticed
on the surface of the leaf. In a short time they will increase in
size, and finally float to the surface, when by proper means they
can be collected and shown to consist of oxygen, which possesses
the property of causing a glowing splinter of wood to burst into
flame when introduced into it. This oxygen has been produced by
the decomposition of the carbonic acid dissolved in the water. It
would be incorrect to suppose that the leaves absorb no oxygen,
but always give it out, for at all times a proportion of oxygen is
inspired, and in the dark, carbonic acid is exhaled, yet the quantity
is always less than that of the oxygen exhaled during the day, and
at low temperatures the amount of oxygen absorbed exceeds that of
the carbonic acid. How to account for the production of starch from
the materials at the disposal of the plant is somewhat difficult;
but, theoretically, six volumes of carbonic acid combining with
five volumes of water produce starch, six volumes of oxygen being
liberated; but when once the starch is produced, we know, from
laboratory experiments, that sugar can easily be produced from it
as well as oxalic acid, etc. The purpose of the leaves is not only
to collect air food, but also to get rid of superfluous water, for
the roots are continually pumping in water laden with mineral food,
so that to allow of the circulation and deposition of this food the
water must be got rid of. This water is exhaled from the leaves in
the form of invisible vapor, but the quantity depends on the state of
the atmosphere, which when moist almost wholly prevents exhalation;
on the other hand, in very dry weather, exhalation takes place too
rapidly, and the plant withers. Light exerts also a very great
influence; the stronger the light the greater is the amount of water
exhaled, and, generally speaking, the maximum occurs shortly after
midday. During hot and dry weather a grass plant has been known to
exhale its own weight in water during the twenty-four hours. From
what has been now said, it will be seen how necessary are plants
to animals, and animals to plants, as without the one the other
would not long survive; for when the atmosphere became exhausted of
carbonic acid, which is formed by animals, the plants would have
no means of building up starch, etc. The great difference between
plants and animals should also be noted, that whereas the plant
is continually feeding only to increase and store up material, the
animal feeds to increase and repair the waste that is continually
proceeding.




  LIFE-FORMS OF PLANTS
  --EDWARD CLODD


If the life-forms of the past somewhat baffle us by their scantiness
and imperfectness, those of the present embarrass us by their
abundance. But although the existing species of plants and animals
are numbered by hundreds of thousands, and the tale is not yet
complete, they are classified into a few primary divisions or
sub-kingdoms, representing certain allied types, of which the
several species included in each sub-kingdom are modified forms. For
example, flies and lobsters, beetles and crabs, are grouped in the
sub-kingdom of the _Annulosa_, because they are alike composed of
distinct segments; boys and frogs, pigs and herrings, are grouped
in the sub-kingdom of the _Vertebrata_, because they alike possess
an internal bony skeleton, the most important feature of which is
the spine or vertebral column. And this classification is applicable
alike to past and present organism, there being throughout the whole
series of fossil remains no form, however unlike any existing living
thing, that is not to be placed in one or other of the sub-kingdoms.

Moreover, a fundamental unity underlies and pervades the whole, a
unity of material, of form, and of function, the differences between
organisms, from the slime of a stagnant ditch to the most complex
animal, being in degree and in kind. Therefore, although each genus,
nay, in most cases, each species, needs for its complete study the
labor of a lifetime, it suffices for the majority of us, grateful for
the results which the zeal of specialists has achieved, to acquaint
ourselves with the essential characteristics which mark the main
division of the twin sciences of _Botany_ and _Zoology_. Not only
is this the only possible thing for us; it is the one thing needful
for all, specialists and non-specialists, otherwise the significance
of facts, in their relation and dependence, is missed; the larger
generalizations are swamped in a sea of detail; we can not, as the
phrase goes, see the wood for the trees.

In the old definition of the three kingdoms of nature, the mineral,
the vegetable, and the animal, we were taught that plants grow and
live, while animals grow, live, and move. But this no longer holds
good, at least in respect of the lower forms. There are locomotive
plants and animals that are stationary.

The swarm-cells or zoospores which are expelled from some of the
lower plants, as algæ and certain fungi, behave like animals, darting
through the water by the aid of hair-like filaments called vibratile
cilia, finally settling down and growing into new plants; others, as
diatoms and desmids, are locomotive throughout life; certain marine
animals, as sponges and corals, are rooted to the spot where they
grow; while there are organisms which appear to be plants at one
stage of their growth, and animals at another stage.

Other marks of supposed unlikeness have vanished. It was formerly
held that among the distinctive features of animals are (1) a sac
or cavity in which to receive and digest food; (2) the power to
absorb oxygen and exhale carbonic acid; and (3) a nervous system.
But although nearly all animals, in virtue of their food being
solid, have a mouth and an alimentary cavity, there are certain
forms without them, and although plants, in virtue of their food
being liquid or gaseous, need not have that cavity, there are plants
that have it. Not only is the process of digestion apparent in the
leaves of carnivorous plants, but embryonic forms have been found to
secrete a ferment similar to the ferment in the pancreatic secretion
of animals, and by which they dissolve and utilize the food-stores in
their seed-lobes as completely as food is digested in our stomachs.
And although green plants, under the action of light, break up
carbonic acid and release the oxygen, they do the reverse in the
dark, as also in respiration; while the quasi-animal fungi, which are
independent of light, absorb oxygen and give off carbonic acid.

In the “irritability” of the sundew, Venus’s fly-trap, and other
sensitive plants, still more so in subtile and hidden movements in
plant-cells, we have actions corresponding to those called “reflex”
in animals, as the contraction of the shapeless amœba when touched,
or the involuntary closing of our eyelid when the eye is threatened,
or the drawing back of one’s feet when tickled. The filament in
the amœba which transmits the impulsion, causing it to contract
differs only in one degree from the sensory nerves in ourselves
which transmit the impression to the motor nerves, causing the
muscles to act; and since there is every reason for referring the
contractile actions of plants--_i. e._, their movements in obedience
to stimulus--to like causes, the germs of a nervous system must be
conceded to them. The minute observations of Mr. Darwin and his son
into the large class of quasi-animal movements common to wellnigh
all vegetable life go far to confirm this. The highly sensitive tip
of the slowly revolving root, in directing the movements of the
adjoining parts, transmitting sensation from cell to cell, “acts like
the brain of one of the lower animals; the brain being seated within
the anterior end of the body, receiving impressions from the sense
organs and directing the several movements.”

In these and kindred vital processes, in the so-called sleep of
leaves, and the opening and closing of flowers, both regulated by the
amount of light, apparently acting on them as it acts on our nervous
system; in the detection of subtle differences in light, which escape
the human eye, by plants; in their general sensitiveness to external
influences, even in the diseases which attack them, the study of
which Sir James Paget has commended to pathologists, we have the
rudiments of attributes and powers which reach their full development
in the higher animals, and therefore a series of fundamental
correspondences between plant and animal which point to the merging
of their apparent differences in one community of origin.

In fine, that which was once thought special to one is found to
be common to both, and to this there is no exception. Not only is
there correspondence in external form in the lower life groups, but,
fundamentally, plants and animals are alike in internal structure and
in the discharge of the mysterious process of nutrition (although
this forms a convenient line of separation) and of reproduction.
All, from the lowest to the highest, have their unity and kinship in
ancestral life which was neither plant nor animal.

Of course, the difficulty of classifying vanishes in the higher
forms; the lowest plants are allied to the lowest animals, but the
higher the plant the more it diverges from the animal, which is
evidence that in the succession of life the highest plants do not
pass into the lower animals. Descent is not lineal, but lateral;
the relations between the two kingdoms are represented by two lines
starting from a common point and spreading in different directions.
Even the “lower” and “higher” are relative terms; the organization of
the amœba is as complete for its purpose, as is that of the man for
his purpose, the modification in the complex forms being due to the
division of functions which are performed in every part by the simple
forms.

Although the foregoing and numberless other facts, together with the
law of continuity, alike forbid the drawing of any hard and fast
lines, and involve the conclusion, to borrow Professor Huxley’s
words, “that the difference between animal and plant is one of
degree rather than of kind, and that the problem whether, in a
given case, an organism is an animal or a plant may be essentially
insoluble,” there exists, exceptions notwithstanding, a broad
distinction in the mode of nutrition.

      “All things the world which fill
      Of but one stuff are spun,”

and this stuff, the basis of all life, the formative power, is a
semi-fluid, sticky material, full of numberless minute granules in
ceaseless and rapid motion, to which the name “protoplasm” (Gr.
_protos_, first; _plasma_, formed) has been given. It consists of
four of the elementary substances, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and
nitrogen, complexly united in the compound called _protein_, which is
closely identical with the albumen or white of an egg. These are the
_essential_ elements, but a few others enter into the chemistry of
life, with slight resulting differences in the _incidental_ elements
in animals and plants. As water is necessary to all vital processes,
a very large proportion enters into living matter.

But there is this fundamental and significant difference between the
two kingdoms. The plant possesses the mysterious power of weaving
the visible out of the invisible; of converting the lifeless into
the living. This it does in virtue of the chlorophyll, or green
coloring matter, which is found united with definite portions of the
protoplasm-mass, of which it is a modification, the exact nature
being unknown. The water and the carbonic acid which the plant
absorbs through the numberless stomata or mouth-pores in its leaves
or integument are, when the sunlight falls upon them, broken up by
the chlorophyll, which sets free the oxygen, and locks together the
hydrogen and carbon, converting this hydro-carbon into the simple and
complex cells and tissues of the plant, with their store of energy
for service to itself and other organisms. Animals, a few low forms
excepted, can not do this; they are powerless to convert water,
salts, gases, or any other inorganic substances, into organic; they
are able only to assimilate the matter thus supplied by the plant,
nourishing themselves therewith either directly, by eating the plant,
or indirectly, by eating some plant-feeding animal.

In other words, the plant manufactures protein from the mineral
world, and the animal obtains the protein ready-made; the plant
converts the simple into the complex; and this the animal, by
combining it with oxygen, consumes, using up the energy it thereby
obtains in doing work. So the plant is the origin of all the energy
possessed by living things, but why it can by virtue of the sunshine
convert the stable inorganic into the unstable organic, while the
animal can not, we do not know. Neither do we know whether plant
preceded animal, or _vice versâ_, in life’s beginnings, although
the evidence seems to point in favor of the priority of the plant.
Structurally the lowest animal is below the lowest plant, since it is
a speck of formless, colorless protoplasm, whereas the protoplasm of
the lowest plant is organized to the extent that it has formed for
itself an outer layer or membraneous coat called the cell-wall. For
example, the vegetable character of yeast-granules is determined,
apart from their mode of nutrition, by the protoplasm being inclosed
within a cellulose coat, and the animal character of the amœba,
not because of contractile or locomotive power or of inability to
manufacture protein from inorganic matter, but by the absence of any
such covering. Upon this Haeckel remarks that the vegetable cells
sealed their fate when inclosed within a hard thick cellular shell,
being thereby less accessible to external influence, and less able to
combine for the construction of nervous and muscular tissues than the
animal.

But since the function creates the organ, and where function is not
localized there is no variation of parts, life probably began in
formless combinations having no visible distinction of parts. And as
the cell is the first step in organization, it is the fundamental
structure of living things, “it marks only where the vital tides have
been or how they have acted,” the lowest organisms consisting of one
cell only, and the higher consisting of many cells, which, increasing
in complexity or diversity of form adapted to their different
functions at later stages, are modified into the special tissues,
with resulting unlikeness in parts or organs, of which all plants and
animals are composed. Every variation in structure is, therefore, due
to cellular changes, and every living thing is propagated in one way
or another by cells, by their self-division or multiplication; or
by gemmation, _i. e._, throwing off buds; or by the union of like
cells; or, in more complex mode, by the spontaneous or aided union of
unlike cells, as the sperm-cell of the male with the germ-cell of the
female, giving rise to a seed or egg from which grows offspring more
or less like its parents.

In both plant and animal the cell-contents usually, although here
again exceptions occur in some of the lowest organisms, exhibit
a rounded body called the _nucleus_, which itself often incloses
another body called the _nucleolus_, the functions performed by
both of which in cell development are obscure. That even thus much
is known of cell structure may awaken wonder when it is remembered
that we are dealing with bodies for the most part beyond the range
of our unaided vision. Bacon truly says that “the complexity of
nature exceeds the subtlety of man”; the infinite divisibility
and indivisibility of matter is apparent in the organic as in the
inorganic; and size counts for little; the oak and pine, the acacia
and the rose, are lower in scale of life than the thistle and the
daisy; the elephant is 150,000 times heavier than the mouse, but the
egg of the one is nearly as large as that of the other, and it has
been calculated that if one molecule in the nucleus of the ovum of a
mammal were to be lost in every second of time, the whole would not
be exhausted in seventeen years.

These molecules are the sufficing material media of transmission of
resemblances, both striking and subtle, between parent and offspring;
and of the vast sum total of inherited tendencies, good or bad, which
are the product of no one generation, but which reach us charged
with the gathered force of countless ancestral experiences.

      “Born into life! man grows
      Forth from his parents’ stem,
      And blends their bloods, as those
      Of theirs are blent in them;
      So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time.”




  CLASSIFICATION OF PLANTS
  --LOUIS FIGUIER


Every plant which grows on the surface of the earth or in the waters
constitutes a distinct individuality. The careful examination and
comparison of a certain number of these individuals of the vegetable
world will lead to the admission that a great many are quite
identical in some of their characteristics, while others possess no
character in common. Examine the individual plants, for instance,
which compose a field of oats; in each the root, the stem, the
flowers, the fruit, present the same identical characters. The seed
of any one whatever of these plants will yield other plants like
those of the field. Every individual in the field belongs therefore
to the same _species_--to the species Avena sativa.

The species, then, is a collection of all the individuals which
resemble each other, and which will reproduce other individuals like
themselves.

These species may present, as the result of diverse influences, such
as change of climate or cultivation, differences more or less marked,
more or less persistent, which withdraw them from the original type.
To these, according to their importance, botanists give the name of
_varieties_ and _sub-varieties_. The wheat-plant, the vine, the pear,
the apple, and most of our cultivated legumes, all yield, under the
influence of culture extending over a long series of years, plants
altogether different from the original in their exterior; but they
preserve, one and all, the essential characters of the species. They
are _varieties_ of the wheat-plant, of the vine, of the pear, of the
apple.

The assemblage of a certain number of distinct species presenting the
same general characteristics, the same disposition of organs, the
same structure of flower and fruit, constitutes a group to which the
name of _genus_ is applied. Rosa canina, R. villosa, and R. Sabini
are three different species of the same group--the genus Rosa. The
words _oak_, _poplar_, _barley_, are collective common names, which
served, long before botanical science existed, to designate certain
groups of plants. These are true generic names of popular creation,
which botanists have accepted because they were the result of exact
observation. “A man of observant eye and quick intelligence,” says
Auguste Pyramus de Candolle, “would observe certain groups in the
vegetable kingdom which we call genera before discerning the species.”

The germs of botanical science are to be sought for in the
rudimentary state in very remote antiquity. In the sacred writings we
meet with constant allusions to the vegetable world. The cultivators
of the science among the early Greeks and Romans were not botanists,
but Rhizotomæ, or root-cutters, since they directed their attention
to the roots in search of medicinal properties. Aristotle of
Stagira, who lived in the fourth century before our era, may be
regarded as the founder of botany; Mithridates, and the younger Juba,
King of Mauritania, were among its cultivators. They established
botanic gardens, some probably from love of the science, others of
them in order to cultivate the deadly plants from which poisonous
juices were obtained. Nicander of Colophon, Cato, Varro, Columella,
Virgil, Pedanius Dioscorides of Cilicia, and lastly, the elder Pliny,
all dwell upon the wonders of vegetation; and war, notwithstanding
its desolating tendencies, was made to promote the interests of
science.

To the Arabians of the Twelfth Century we are next indebted for our
knowledge of botany. After them the darkness of the Middle Ages sets
in, and it is only since the illustrious Venetian, Marco Polo, came
to examine and describe the wonders of the East that the darkness has
been dispelled. He examined the treasures of Asia and the east coast
of Africa, described many plants of India and the Indian Ocean, and
from his day to the present our knowledge of the names of plants, as
well as of their structure and physiology, has been continually on
the increase.

The science of botany, as now understood, can not be held, however,
to date further back than two centuries. In the year 1682 Nehemiah
Grew published his _Anatomy of Plants_. In 1684 the French botanist
Tournefort, then professor of botany at the Jardin des Plantes,
published his _Elements of Botany_, being the first attempt to
define the exact limits of genera in vegetables. Most of the genera
established by Tournefort remain, proving the correctness of the
formula from which he deduced their common characters. Tournefort
succeeded to a large extent in unraveling the chaos into which the
science of botany had been plunged from the days of Theophrastus
and Dioscorides. Separating genera and species according to
their characteristics, he described no less than 698 genera and
10,146 species. He published, at the same time, a system for the
classification of plants, eminently attractive, especially if we
connect it with the times in which it appeared. The French botanist
directed the attention of observers, probably for the first time, to
those parts of plants most likely to excite admiration, namely, the
different forms of the corolla.

In selecting the form of the corolla as the basis of his
classification, Tournefort has, perhaps, contributed more to the
progress of botany than any other savant of any age. The task of
instruction was rendered a pleasure by thus taking, as a subject of
scientific inquiry, the most attractive part of the plant. He soon
made adepts of those who had hitherto only contemplated flowers as
the source of an agreeable sensation.

The system of Tournefort for the classification of plants met with
great favor among his contemporaries, on account of its simplicity.
Nevertheless, in its application, this system presented many
difficulties. The form of the corolla is not always so exactly
appreciable that the class to which that plant belongs can be settled
from that character alone. But the gravest defect of the system is,
that by it the vegetable world is divided into two classes, namely,
Herbaceous Plants and Trees--a division which has no existence in
nature. The division destroys the natural analogies, for the size
of a plant has no bearing upon its organization and structure. In
conclusion, the continually increasing number of new species, which
were unknown in Tournefort’s time, tests, in the strongest manner,
the defects of his system of distribution. The greater number of
vegetable species discovered since Tournefort’s time could not
be placed in either of his classes. This defect soon became very
apparent, and the system fell by degrees out of favor with botanists
even among his own countrymen, with whom it had found most admirers.

In England the study of plants had taken a more philosophical
direction. About the middle of the Seventeenth Century the microscope
was first applied to the study of the organs of plants; and in 1661
spiral vessels were detected by Henshaw in the walnut tree, and
shortly afterward the cellular tissues were examined by Hooke. These
discoveries were followed by the publication of two works on the
minute anatomy of plants by Malpighi and Grew. They examined the
various forms of cellular tissues and intercellular passages in their
minutest details, and with an exactness which causes their works
still to be recognized as the groundwork of all physiological botany.
The real nature of the sexual organs in plants was demonstrated by
Grew; the important difference between the seeds with one and those
with two cotyledons was first pointed out by him. Clear and distinct
ideas of the causes of vegetable phenomena were gradually developed,
and a solid foundation laid on which the best theories of vegetation
have been formed by subsequent botanists.

About the time when Tournefort was engaged in arranging his
system of plants, and when Grew had completed his microscopical
observations, John Ray was driven from his collegiate employments
at Cambridge by differences of opinion with the ruling powers of
his university. He sought and found consolation in the study of
natural history, to which he was ardently attached, and for which
his powers of observation, capacious mind, and extensive learning
so highly qualified him. Profiting by the discoveries of Grew and
other vegetable anatomists, in 1686 he published the first volume
of his _Historia Plantarum_, in which are embodied all the facts
connected with the structure and organs of plants, with an exposition
of the philosophy of classification, the merits of which are better
appreciated now than they were in his own days.

Ray was careful to guard his readers against the supposition that
classification was other than a means of identification. He argued
that there was no line of demarcation in nature between one group
or order, or even genus, and another, or that any system could be
perfect.

While he enumerated the true uses of classification, Ray also
laid the foundations of the natural system, which has since been
universally adopted by botanists. He separated flowerless from
flowering plants, and he divided these again into Monocotyledonous
and Dicotyledonous plants.

Forty years after the publication of Tournefort’s system, and while
Ray was yet pursuing his philosophical investigations, the Linnæan
system appeared. This new mode of distributing vegetable species was
hailed with admiration. Its author, Charles von Linnæus, reigned
supreme and without a rival till the end of the Eighteenth Century,
and even in our days his partisans are neither few nor powerless. In
Germany, for instance, more than one botanical work of character has
for foundation the system of Linnæus, and many school-gardens are
arranged after his classification.

The system of Linnæus rests upon the consideration of the organs
of fecundation--organs almost overlooked until then, but whose
physiological functions have since been ably demonstrated. He
introduced in 1736 a salutary and much-wanted reform into botanical
language and nomenclature, defining most rigorously the terms used to
express the various modifications and characters of the organs, and
reducing the name of each plant to two words, the first designating
the genus, the second designating a species of the genus. Before
his time, in fact, it was necessary to follow the name of the genus
through a whole sentence in order to characterize the species, and
in proportion as the number of species increased, the sentences
were lengthened until it seemed as if they would never come to an
end. It was like the confusion which would arise in society if, in
place of using the baptismal name and surname, we were to suppress
the baptismal name, and substitute for it an enumeration of many
qualities distinctive of the individual; as if, for example, in place
of saying Pierre Durand or Louis Durand, we said Durand the great
sportsman, or any other phraseology applicable to the qualities of
the individual. Nevertheless the Linnæan or binary nomenclature is
one of the great titles to that glory which has been awarded to
its immortal author. In the scheme of the Linnæan system it has
been found possible to describe all plants discovered since his
time--an irrefragable proof of the great merits of this artificial
classification of species.

This classification of plants has received the name of the artificial
system, because it groups the species according to a small number
and not from the whole of their characteristics; in short, it rather
permits one class to be distinguished from another than makes each
known in an intimate manner. It insists much upon their differences,
little upon their resemblances. Between species thus compared, only
one essential analogy may exist. The rush takes place beside the
barberry, because each of these plants has six stamens and only
one style. The vine is ranged beside the periwinkle, because they
each have five stamens and one style. The carrot is allied to the
gooseberry, etc. There may not be between the plants thus compared
any natural bond, but only some trace of resemblance in a particular
part of the organization, which may be found also in a number of very
different plants.

Linnæus was endowed with too sound a judgment, with a tact too
exquisite, not to feel the defects of this artificial mode of
classification. He detected by the force of his genius the existence
of vegetable groups superior to genera, and connected them by a large
number of characteristics. He called this group a _natural order_,
and it has since his time been called a “natural family.” He also
tried to distribute plants after a natural classification--that is to
say, into families. After the death, and during the life, of Linnæus,
botanists endeavored to discover upon what principle he had founded
his _natural orders_--that is to say, they sought to find the key to
the hidden principle of his orders; but no one has succeeded. Linnæus
himself does not appear to have had very fixed views on the subject.
He created his orders by a sort of instinct which belongs only to
the man of genius; by that kind of semi-divination which the man of
learning acquires who possesses vast and profound knowledge of the
objects which he passes his life in observing.

In a letter we find the following passage: “You ask me for the
characters of my orders. My dear Giseke, I assure you that I know not
how to give them.”

Magnol, professor of botany to the School of Medicine, in his work
entitled _Prodromus Historiæ Generalis Plantarum_ (1689), is the
first author who uses the happy term “family” to designate natural
groups of vegetable genera. M. Flourens speaks of the preface to
this little book of a hundred pages as calculated to immortalize
the author, as in it was first solved a very difficult problem. The
following lines are taken from this much-admired preface: “Having
examined the methods most in use,” says Magnol, “and found that
of Morison insufficient and very defective, and that of Ray much
too difficult, I think I can perceive in plants a certain affinity
between them, so that they might be ranged in divers _families_, as
we class animals. This apparent analogy between animals and plants
has induced me to arrange them in certain families, and, as it
appeared to me impossible to draw the characters of these families
from the single organ of fructification, I have selected principally
the most noted characteristics I have met with, such as the root,
the stem, the flower, the seeds. There is also found among plants _a
certain similitude_, a certain affinity, as it were, which does not
exist in any of the parts considered separately, but only as a whole.
I have no doubt, for instance, but that the characters of families
might be taken from the first leaf of the germ as it issued from the
seed. I have followed the order that the parts of plants follow in
which are found the principal and distinctive characters of families,
but without limiting myself to any one single part, for I have often
considered many of them together.”

Magnol established seventy-six families, but without giving their
characters. His principles of classification are vague and uncertain;
they only serve to announce the dawn of a new day which was soon to
rise on the science. The few lines which we have quoted from the
preface of the _Prodromus_ reveal, as through a fog, the mere idea of
a natural system. It is Bernard de Jussieu, demonstrator of botany
in the Jardin des Plantes at Paris, to whom belongs the glory of
working out the true natural system which was first established
in principle by Ray, although it does not appear that Jussieu was
acquainted with the works of the English philosopher.

“Others may perhaps have extended the limits, but he was the first
to show the way, to trace the method, to establish the principles.
Jussieu consigned his discoveries to no book, but in the Gardens
of Trianon the mind of the author is recognized. In examining the
characters, he remarked that some were more general than others,
and these furnished the first division. He recognized that the
germination of the seed and the respective disposition of the sexual
organs were the two principal and most persistent characteristics.
He adopted them, and made them the basis of the arrangement which he
established at the Trianon in 1759.”

Four years later, another French botanist, Michel Adanson, a
naturalist remarkable for the originality of his views and the
extent of his conceptions, published a book upon the families of
plants. He proposed a particular course for arriving at the true
natural method. But what was that course? He proposed classing all
the plants known according to a great number of artificial systems;
and after considering them from all possible points of view, he
proposed to arrange in the same group those plants which were classed
as allies in the greatest number of systems. In this manner Adanson
created sixty-five artificial systems, and by their comparison he
formed fifty-eight families. He was the first to trace the precise
characters and details of all these families; his work in this
respect is far superior to those of his predecessors.

The year 1789 was the date of the real establishment of natural
families among vegetables. It was in this year that Laurent de
Jussieu published his celebrated _Genera Plantarum_, which marked
a new era in the science of botany, and hastened the advent of a
natural system of zoological classification as well.

The catalogues of the Gardens of the Trianon, prepared by Bernard
de Jussieu, and his conversations with his nephew, were the source
whence the latter drew his inspirations.

That the French botanist had acquainted himself with the principles
of Ray’s classification is unquestionable; in fact, Jussieu
possessed the happy art of adapting the labors of others to
perfecting his own conceptions. He made use of the simple language
and accurate descriptions of Linnæus, divested of his pedantry. Ray
had demonstrated that rigorous definitions in natural history are
impossible, and, accepting the decision, Jussieu does not attempt to
found his family orders or genera on any single character belonging
to objects so various in their habits and organization as plants.

During the last forty or fifty years other botanists have attempted
various systems of classification. In those of De Candolle,
Endlicher, Lindley, and of Brongniart, the distribution of plants
into groups is founded, as in those of Ray and Jussieu, on the
consideration of the cotyledons; of the polypetalous, monopetalous,
and apetalous flowers; finally, upon the mode of insertion of the
stamens. Names have changed; things remain the same; and if in
their details the series of families or orders present certain
differences, it only arises from the fact that a linear series is
incompatible with the natural system, and that the connection of
the intermediate groups may be expressed in various ways without
affecting the general principles of the system. “The formation
of natural orders by Jussieu,” says Ad. Brongniart, “is even now
a model which directs botanists in their studies to the affinity
which connects the various forms of vegetation. Many of these orders
have doubtless been subjected to important modifications, both in
extending and limiting them; the numbers have been more than doubled;
but the number of species now known is increased more than sixfold.
Since the publication of the _Genera Plantarum_, many points in the
organization of plants which were either scarcely touched upon or
were altogether unsuspected, have now been considered, and it is
found that they do not destroy, but confirm, and perfect the work of
Jussieu. One is even astonished to find that the numerous discoveries
in the anatomy and organography of plants since the beginning of
the century have not introduced greater modifications into the
constitution of the natural groups admitted by the author of the
_Genera Plantarum_. It is here that we recognize the sagacity of the
savant who established them, and the soundness of the principle which
guided him.”

[Illustration: Flowers, Curious and Beautiful

1, Edelweiss; 2, Nigella Arvensis; 3, Parnassia; 4, Rhododendron;
5, Ophrys Arachnites; 6, Cypripedium Calceolus; 7, Nepenthes; 8,
Gnaphalium Dioicum; 9, Ophrys Muscifera]

The natural classification of plants, their distribution into
families, well defined, and founded upon affinities, have been
perfected and placed upon a basis more and more certain in our
own days. Botanists have set themselves the task of unraveling and
establishing the characters which dominate, and those which are
subordinate, in each family; numbers have spread themselves over
the globe, exploring the most distant regions, interrogating the
solitudes of forests and plains which no European had hitherto
visited, and have studied in their native wilds many exotic plants,
comparing them with already known species, thus giving us a means of
pointing out more precisely the tribes, genera, and species of each
natural family. Monographs of a great number of such families have
thus been written with great research. The study of the formation and
evolution of organs; the discovery of the true mode of reproduction
in cryptogams, still unknown in Jussieu’s time; the investigation
of the inflorescence, of the fruits, of the ovules, of the embryos,
have furnished elements for perfecting the limits of families and
advancing natural classification.

Auguste Pyramus de Candolle is one of the botanists of the last
century who has most contributed to the general adoption of natural
families. His _Essai sur les Propriétés des Plantes_ is celebrated
for the knowledge which it displays of the comparative physiological
and medicinal action of vegetables, and the physical organization
which naturally connects certain plants as a group. His _Prodromus
Systematis Naturalis Regni Vegetabilis_, continued by his pupils and
his son, is a wonderful work for the extent and precision of its
details.

In Great Britain, from the days of Ray, we have always had zealous
followers of the science of botany, more especially in the class
which may be called field botanists. Withering, Sir James Edward
Smith, and hundreds of followers more or less eminent, employed
their leisure in the fascinating and healthy pursuit of plants, and
perhaps the most valuable contributions to science are the detailed
descriptions of species, with their habits and habitats, with which
they have enriched our botanical literature. Nor was the study of
the physiology of plants--a science which may be said to owe its
existence to the researches of Grew and Malpighi--neglected. To the
former belongs the merit of having pointed out the difference between
seeds with one and seeds with two cotyledons, on which Ray founded
the first division of his system of classification.

The German botanists have always been distinguished for their patient
and laborious investigations; and it was reserved for the first of
Germans, the poet Goethe, to effect the last great revolution that
the ideas of botanists have undergone. In 1790, shortly after the
appearance of De Jussieu’s _Genera_, he published a pamphlet on
the _Metamorphoses of Plants_. At this time the functions of the
organs of plants were supposed to be pretty well understood. The
notion had, however, existed in a form more or less vague, from the
times of Theophrastus, that the various parts of the flower were
mere modifications of leaves, although their appearance was very
different--a doctrine which Linnæus seems to have entertained at
one time, as he speaks, in his _Prolepsis Plantarum_, of the parts
of a flower being mere modifications of leaves whose period of
development was anticipated. Goethe’s mind was, as he himself tells
us, one more adapted to see agreements in things than to mark their
distinctions. We are not surprised to find, therefore, that he takes
up this theory, and demonstrates that the organs to which so many
different names are applied--namely, the bracts, calyx, corolla,
stamens, and pistil--are all modifications of the leaf: the bract
being a contracted leaf; the calyx and corolla a collection or whorl
of several; the stamens contracted and colored leaves; and the
pistils leaves rolled up upon themselves and variously coherent.

These views of the poet met at first with little attention from
botanists, and we are chiefly indebted to Robert Brown for the
elucidation of Goethe’s theory. In his _Prodromus of the Plants of
New Holland_, and in many papers in the _Linnæan Transactions_, he
demonstrates its truth as well as its practical value; showing, by
the use of the microscope, that the law was applicable not only to
the external parts of plants, but that it was followed in their
development also. Robert Brown contributed largely to perfecting the
natural method of classification. His great work upon the flora of
Australia has greatly extended the circle of our studies for that
comparison of characters which is the basis of botanical genera and
tribes.

The number of families of flowering plants admitted in the present
day, as the result of the investigations of the eminent men whose
names have been mentioned, and many others which could not be quoted
here without swelling our pages to undue proportions, number
three hundred and three; and many of these are again subdivided by
botanists who have made certain families their special study.

The primary groups into which flowering plants are divided, and in
which therefore the families or orders are themselves comprised in
the classification at present accepted, being founded upon the degree
of cohesion and adhesion in the petals and stamens, are undoubtedly
somewhat artificial. The problem of how the orders are themselves
to be combined into natural groups is one which still engages the
attention of systematic botanists.

The vegetable kingdom is divided by Dr. Lindley into seven classes:


FLOWERLESS PLANTS (CRYPTOGAMS)

                                    { A Thallus is a fusion of root,
                                    { stem, and leaves into one general
                                    { mass, and Thallogens are
                { Stems and leaves  { destitute of breathing pores,
  I. THALLOGENS { imperceptible.    { and multiply by the formation
                                    { of spores, in their interior or
                                    { upon their surface.

                                    { Beyond Thallogens are multitudes
                                    { of species, flowerless
                                    { like them, but approximating
                                    { to more complex structures,
                                    { sometimes acquiring the stature
                                    { of lofty trees with breathing
               { Stems and leaves   { pores; their leaves and stems
  II. ACROGENS { quite perceptible. { distinctly separated; they multiply
                                    { by reproductive spores
                                    { like the Thallogens. Their
                                    { stem, however, does not increase
                                    { in diameter, but at their
                                    { summit, as the name of the
                                    { class indicates.


FLOWERING PLANTS (PHANEROGAMS)

                                     { The Rhizogens are a collection
                                     { of anomalous plants,
                                     { mostly leafless and parasitical,
                                     { having the loose cellular organ-
                                     { ization of Fungi, although
                                     { traces of a spiral structure are
                                     { usually found among their
                                     { tissues. Some of them spring
                                     { directly from the shapeless cell-
  III. RHIZOGENS { Fructification    { ular mass which serves at once
                 { springing from    { for stem and root, and seems
                 { a Thallus.        { to be analogous to the Thallus
                                     { of the Fungi. Their flowers
                                     { resemble those of more perfect
                                     { plants; their sexual organs are
                                     { complete, but their embryo,
                                     { which is without any visible
                                     { radicle or cotyledon, simply
                                     { appears to be a spherical or
                                     { oblong homogeneous mass.

                                     { In Endogens the embryo
  IV. ENDOGENS  { Cotyledon single.  { has but one cotyledon; the
                { Permanent woody    { leaves have parallel veins; the
                { stem confused.     { trunk contains bundles of spiral
                { Leaves parallel-   { and dotted vessels, surrounded
                { veined.            { by wood cells, arranged in a
                                     { confused manner.

  V. DICTYOGENS { Cotyledon single.
                { Wood of the stem,  { Dictyogens are distinguished
                { when perennial,    { from Endogens by the stems,
                { arranged in rings  { which have concentric circles,
                { concentric with    { and the leaves which fall off
                { the veined pith.   { the stem by a clean fracture.
                { Leaves netted.

  VI. GYMNOGENS { Cotyledons, two or
                { more. Wood of the   { Gymnogens are Exogens
                { stem in concentric  { which have no style or stigma,
                { rings, and youngest { the reproductive organs being
                { at the circumfer-   { so constructed that the pollen
                { ence. Seeds quite   { falls immediately upon the
                { naked.              { ovules.

                                      { Exogens have an embryo with
                                      { two or three more cotyledons;
                                      { leaves with netted veins;
                { Cotyledons, two.    { the trunk consisting of woody
                { Wood with concen-   { bundles, composed of dotted
  VII EXOGENS   { tric rings. Leaves  { vessels and woody fibres;
                { netted-veined.      { arranged round a central pith,
                { Seeds inclosed in   { either in concentric rings or
                { seed-vessels.       { in a homogeneous mass, but
                                      { always having medullary plates
                                      { forming rays from the centre
                                      { to the circumference.




  FRUITS AND SEEDS
  --LORD AVEBURY

Fruits and seeds, though not generally so conspicuous as flowers, are
not less interesting.

In considering them, it is fortunately not necessary to use many
technical terms, though it is impossible to avoid them altogether.
In order to understand the structure of the seed, we must commence
with the flower, to which the seed owes its origin. Now, if you take
such a flower as, say, a geranium, you will find that it consists of
the following parts: Firstly, there is a whorl of green leaves, known
as the sepals, and together forming the calyx; secondly, a whorl of
colored leaves, or petals, generally forming the most conspicuous
part of the flower, and called the corolla; thirdly, a whorl of
organs more or less like pins, which are called stamens, in the heads
or anthers of which the pollen is produced. These anthers are in
reality, as Goethe showed, modified leaves; in the so-called double
flowers, as, for instance, in our garden roses, they are developed
into colored leaves like those of the corolla, and monstrous flowers
are not infrequently met with, in which the stamens are green leaves,
more or less resembling the ordinary leaves of the plant. Lastly, in
the centre of the flower is the pistil, which also is theoretically
to be considered as constituted of one or more leaves, each of which
is folded on itself, and called a carpel. Sometimes there is only one
carpel. Generally the carpels have so completely lost the appearance
of leaves, that this explanation of their true nature requires a
considerable amount of faith, though in others, as for instance
in the Columbine (Aquilegia), the original leaf-form can still be
traced. The base of the pistil is the ovary, composed of one or more
carpels, in which the seeds are developed. I need hardly say that
many so-called seeds are really fruits; that is to say, they are
seeds with more or less complex envelopes.

We all know that seeds and fruits differ greatly in different
species. Some are large, some small; some are sweet, some bitter;
some are brightly colored; some are good to eat, some poisonous; some
spherical, some winged, some covered with bristles, some with hairs;
some are smooth, some very sticky.

We may be sure that there are good reasons for these differences.
In the case of flowers much light has been thrown on their various
interesting peculiarities by the researches of Sprengel, Darwin,
Müller, and other naturalists. As regards seeds also, besides
Gærtner’s great work, Hildebrand, Krause, Steinbrinck, Kerner,
Grant Allen, Wallace, Darwin, and others, have published valuable
researches, especially with reference to the hairs and hooks with
which so many seeds are provided, and the other means of dispersion
they possess. Nobbe also has contributed an important work on seeds,
principally from an agricultural point of view, but the subject as a
whole offers a most promising field for investigation.

It is said that one of our best botanists once observed to another
that he never could understand what was the use of the teeth on the
capsules of mosses. “Oh,” replied his friend, “I see no difficulty in
that, because if it were not for the teeth, how could we distinguish
the species?”

We may, however, no doubt, safely consider that the peculiarities of
seeds have reference to the plant itself, and not to the convenience
of botanists.

In the first place, then, during growth, seeds in many cases require
protection. This is especially the case with those of an albuminous
character. It is curious that so many of those which are luscious
when ripe, as the peach, strawberry, cherry, apple, etc., are
stringy, and almost inedible, till ripe. Moreover, in these cases,
the fleshy portion is not the seed itself, but only the envelope,
so that even if the sweet part is eaten the seed itself remains
uninjured.

On the other hand, such seeds as the hazel, beech, Spanish chestnut,
and innumerable others, are protected by a thick, impervious shell,
which is especially developed in many Proteaceæ, the Brazil-nut, the
so-called monkey-pot, the cocoanut, and other palms.

In other cases the envelopes protect the seeds, not only by their
thickness and toughness, but also by their bitter taste, as, for
instance, in the walnut. The genus Mucuna, one of the Leguminosæ, is
remarkable in having the pods covered with stinging hairs.

In many cases the calyx, which is closed when the flower is in
bud, opens when the flower expands, and then after the petals have
fallen closes again until the seeds are ripe, when it opens for the
second time. This is, for instance, the case with the common herb
Robert (Geranium robertianum). In Atractylis cancellata, a south
European plant, allied to the thistles, the outer envelopes form an
exquisite little cage. Another case, perhaps, is that of Nigella,
the “devil-in-a-bush,” or, as it is sometimes more prettily called,
“Love-in-a-mist,” of old English gardens.

Again, the protection of the seed is in many cases attained by
curious movements of the plant itself.

The sleep of flowers is also probably a case of the same kind, though
it has, I believe, special reference to the visits of insects; those
flowers which are fertilized by bees, butterflies, and other day
insects, sleep by night, if at all; while those which are dependent
on moths rouse themselves toward evening, and sleep by day. On the
other hand, in the dandelion (Leontodon), the flower-stalk is upright
while the flower is expanded, a period which lasts for three or four
days; it then lowers itself and lies close to the ground for about
twelve days, while the fruits are ripening, and then rises again when
they are mature. In the Cyclamen the stalk curls itself up into a
beautiful spiral after the flower has faded.

The flower of the little Linaria of our walls (L. cymbalaria) pushes
out into the light and sunshine, but as soon as it is fertilized it
turns round and endeavors to find some hole or cranny in which it may
remain safely ensconced until the seed is ripe.

In some water-plants the flower expands at the surface, but after
it is faded retreats again to the bottom. This is the case, for
instance, with the water lilies, some species of Potamogeton, Trapa
natans, etc. In Valisneria, again, the female flowers are borne
on long stalks, which reach to the surface of the water, on which
the flowers float. The male flowers, on the contrary, have short,
straight stalks, from which, when mature, the pollen detaches
itself, rises to the surface, and, floating freely on it, is wafted
about, so that it comes in contact with the female flowers. After
fertilization, however, the long stalk coils up spirally, and thus
carries the ovary down to the bottom, where the seeds can ripen in
greater safety.

Farmers have found by experience that it is not desirable to grow the
same crop in the same field year after year, because the soil becomes
more or less exhausted. In this respect, therefore, the powers of
dispersion possessed by many seeds are a great advantage to the
species. Moreover, they are also advantageous in giving the seed a
chance of germinating in new localities suitable to the requirements
of the species. Thus a common European species, Xanthium spinosum,
has rapidly spread over the whole of South Africa, the seeds being
carried in the wool of sheep.

There are a great many cases in which plants possess powers of
movement directed to the dissemination of the seed.

Some plants even sow their seeds in the ground. In other cases the
plant throws its own seeds to some little distance. This is the
case with the common Cardamine hirsuta, a little plant six or eight
inches high, which comes up of itself abundantly on any vacant spot
in kitchen-gardens or shrubberies. The seeds are contained in a pod
which consists of three parts, a central membrane, and two lateral
walls. When the pod is ripe the walls are in a state of tension. The
seeds are loosely attached to the central piece by short stalks.
Now, when the proper moment has arrived, the outer walls are kept in
place by a delicate membrane, only just strong enough to resist the
tension. The least touch, for instance, a puff of wind blowing the
plant against a neighbor, detaches the outer wall, which suddenly
rolls itself up, generally with such force as to fly from the plant,
thus jerking the seeds to a distance of several feet.

In the common violet, besides the colored flowers, there are others
in which the corolla is either absent or imperfectly developed. The
stamens also are small, but contain pollen, though less than in the
colored flowers. In the autumn large numbers of these curious flowers
are produced. When very young they look like an ordinary flower-bud,
the central part of the flower being entirely covered by the sepals,
and the whole having a triangular form. When older, they look at
first sight like an ordinary seed capsule, so that the bud seems to
pass into the capsule without the flower-stage.

Some species of Vetch, and the common Broom, throw their seeds,
owing to the elasticity of the pods, which, when ripe, open suddenly
with a jerk. Each valve of the pod contains a layer of woody cells,
which, however, do not pass straight up the pod, but are more or less
inclined to its axis. Consequently, when the pod bursts, it does not,
as in the case of Cardamine, roll up like a watch-spring, but twists
itself more or less like a corkscrew.

I have mentioned these species because they are some of the commonest
British wild flowers, so that during the summer and autumn we may in
almost any walk observe for ourselves this innocent artillery. There
are, however, many other more or less similar cases.

Thus the Squirting Cucumber (Momordica elaterium), a common plant
in the south of Europe, and one grown in some places for medicinal
purposes, effects the same object by a totally different mechanism.
The fruit is a small cucumber, and when ripe becomes so gorged with
fluid that it is in a state of great tension. In this condition a
very slight touch is sufficient to detach it from the stalk, when
the pressure of the walls ejects the contents, throwing the seed
some distance. I have seen them even in England sent nearly twenty
feet; but in a hotter climate the plant grows more vigorously, and
they would doubtless be thrown further. In this case, of course, the
contents are ejected at the end by which the cucumber is attached to
the stalk. If any one touches one of these ripe fruits, they are
often thrown with such force as to strike him in the face.

In Cyclanthera, a plant allied to the cucumber, the fruit is
unsymmetrical, one side being round and hairy, the other nearly flat
and smooth. The true apex of the fruit which bears the remains of the
flower, is also somewhat eccentric, and, when the seeds are ripe,
if it is touched even lightly, the fruit explodes and the seeds are
thrown to some distance.

Other cases of projected seeds are afforded by Impatiens, Hura, one
of the Euphorbiæ, Collomia, Oxalis, some species allied to acanthus,
and by Arceuthobium, a plant allied to the mistletoe, and parasitic
on juniper, which ejects its seeds to a distance of several feet,
throwing them thus from one tree to another.

Even those species which do not eject their seeds often have them
so placed with reference to the capsule that they only leave it if
swung or jerked by a high wind. In the case of trees, even seeds
with no special adaptation for dispersion must in this manner be
often carried to no little distance; and to a certain, though less,
extent, this must hold good even with herbaceous plants. It throws
light on the, at first sight, curious fact that in so many plants
with small, heavy seeds, the capsules open not at the bottom, as one
might perhaps have been disposed to expect, but at the top. A good
illustration is afforded by the well-known case of the common poppy,
in which the upper part of the capsule presents a series of little
doors, through which, when the plant is swung by the wind, the seeds
come out one by one. The little doors are protected from rain by
overhanging eaves, and are even said to shut of themselves in wet
weather. The genus Campanula is also interesting from this point of
view, because some species have the capsules pendent, some upright,
and those which are upright open at the top, while those which are
pendent do so at the base.

In other cases the dispersion is mainly the work of the seed itself.
In some of the lower plants, as, for instance, in many sea-weeds, and
in some allied fresh-water plants, such as Vaucheria, the spores[5]
are covered by vibratile cilia, and actually swim about in the water,
like infusoria, till they have found a suitable spot on which to
grow. Nay, so much do the spores of some sea-weeds resemble animals
that they are provided with a red “eye-spot,” as it has been called,
which, at any rate, seems so far to deserve the name that it appears
to be sensitive to light. This mode of progression is, however, only
suitable to water plants. In much more numerous cases, seeds are
carried by the wind.

In other instances, the plants themselves, or parts of them, are
rolled along the ground by the wind. An example of this is afforded,
for instance, by a kind of grass (Spinifex squarrosus), in which the
mass of inflorescence, forming a large, round head, is thus driven
for miles over the dry sands of Australia until it comes to a damp
place, when it expands and soon strikes root.

So, again, the Anastatica hierochuntica, or “Rose of Jericho,” a
small annual with rounded pods, which frequents sandy places in
Egypt, Syria, and Arabia, when dry, curls itself up into a ball or
round cushion, and is thus driven about by the wind until it finds a
damp place, when it uncurls, the pods open and sow the seeds.

These cases, however, in which seeds are rolled by the wind along the
ground, are comparatively rare. There are many more in which seeds
are wafted through the air.

Another mode, which is frequently adopted, is the development of long
hairs. Sometimes, as in Clematis, Anemone, and Dryas, these hairs
take the form of a long, feathery awn. In others the hairs form a
tuft or crown, which botanists term a pappus. Of this the dandelion
and John Go-to-bed-at-noon, so called from its habit of shutting its
flowers about midday, are well-known examples. Tufts of hairs, which
are themselves sometimes feathered, are developed in a great many
Composites, though some, as, for instance, the daisy and lapsana, are
without them; in some very interesting species, of which the common
Thrincia hirta of our lawns and meadows is one, there are two kinds
of fruits, one with a pappus and one without. The former are adapted
to seek “fresh woods and pastures new,” while the latter stay near
the parent plant and perpetuate the race at home.

In other cases seeds are wafted by water. Of this the cocoanut is one
of the most striking examples. The seeds retain their vitality for a
considerable time, and the loose texture of the husk protects them
and makes them float. Every one knows that the cocoanut is one of
the first plants to make its appearance on coral islands, and it is,
I believe, the only palm which is common to both hemispheres.

In a very large number of cases the diffusion of seeds is effected
by animals. To this class belong the fruits and berries. In them an
outer fleshy portion becomes pulpy, and generally sweet, inclosing
the seeds. It is remarkable that such fruits, in order, doubtless,
to attract animals, are, like flowers, brightly colored--as, for
instance, the cherry, currant, apple, peach, plum, strawberry,
raspberry, and many others. This color, moreover, is not present in
the unripe fruit, but is rapidly developed at maturity. In such cases
the actual seed is generally protected by a dense, sometimes almost
stony, covering, so that it escapes digestion, while its germination
is, perhaps, hastened by the heat of the animal’s body. It may be
said that the skin of apple and pear pips is comparatively soft; but
then they are imbedded in a stringy core, which is seldom eaten.

These colored fruits form a considerable part of the food of monkeys
in the tropical regions of the earth, and we can, I think, hardly
doubt that these animals are guided by the colors, just as we are, in
selecting the ripe fruit.

In these instances of colored fruits, the fleshy edible part more or
less surrounds the true seeds; in others the actual seeds themselves
become edible. In the former the edible part serves as a temptation
to animals; in the latter it is stored up for the use of the plant
itself. When, therefore, the seeds themselves are edible they are
generally protected by more or less hard or bitter envelopes, for
instance, the horse chestnut, beech, Spanish chestnut, walnut, etc.
That these seeds are used as food by squirrels and other animals is,
however, by no means necessarily an evil to the plant, for the result
is that they are often carried some distance and then dropped, or
stored up and forgotten, so that in this way they get carried away
from the parent tree.

In another class of instances, animals, unconsciously or unwillingly,
serve in the dispersion of seeds. These cases may be divided into two
classes, those in which the fruits are provided with hooks and those
in which they are sticky. The hooks, moreover, are so arranged as to
promote the removal of the fruits. In all these species the hooks,
though beautifully formed, are small; but in some species they become
truly formidable. Two of the most remarkable are Martynia proboscidea
and Harpagophyton procumbens. Martynia is a plant of Louisiana, and
if its fruits once get hold of an animal it is most difficult to
remove them. Harpagophytum is a South African genus. The fruits are
most formidable, and are said sometimes to kill lions. They roll
about over the dry plains, and if they attach themselves to the skin,
the wretched animal tries to tear them out, and sometimes getting
them into his mouth perishes miserably.

The cases in which the diffusion of fruits and seeds is effected by
their being sticky are less numerous, and we have no well-marked
instance among our native plants. The common plumbago of South
Europe is a case which many of you no doubt have observed. Other
genera with the same mode of dispersion are Pittosporum, Pisonia,
Boerhavia, Siegesbeckia, Grindelia, Drymaria, etc. There are
comparatively few cases in which the same plant uses more than one
of these modes of promoting the dispersion of its seeds, still there
are some such instances. Thus in the common burdock the seeds have
a pappus, while the whole flower-head is provided with hooks which
readily attach themselves to any passing animal. Asterothrix, as
Hildebrand has pointed out, has three provisions for dispersion: it
has a hollow appendage, a pappus, and a rough surface.

The next point is that seeds should find a spot suitable for their
growth. In most cases, the seed lies on the ground, into which it
then pushes its little rootlet. In plants, however, which live
on trees, the case is not so simple, and we meet some curious
contrivances. Thus, the mistletoe, as we all know, is parasitic
on trees. The fruits are eaten by birds, and the droppings often,
therefore, fall on the boughs; but if the seed was like that of most
other plants it would soon fall to the ground, and consequently
perish. Almost alone among those of English plants it is extremely
sticky, and thus adheres to the bark.

I have already alluded to an allied genus, Arceuthobium, parasitic on
junipers, which throws its seeds to a distance of several feet. These
also are very viscid, or, to speak more correctly, are imbedded in a
very viscid mucilage, so that if they come in contact with the bark
of a neighboring tree they stick to it.

Among terrestrial species there are not a few cases in which plants
are not contented simply to leave their seeds on the surface of the
soil, but actually sow them in the ground.

I have already alluded to the Cardamines, the pods of which open
elastically and throw their seeds some distance. A Brazilian species,
C. chenopodifolia, besides the usual long pods, produces also short,
pointed ones, which it buries in the ground.

Arachis hypogæa is the ground-nut of the West Indies. The flower is
yellow and resembles that of a pea, but has an elongated calyx, at
the base of which, close to the stem, is the ovary. After the flower
has faded, the young pod, which is oval, pointed, and very minute,
is carried forward by the growth of the stalk, which becomes several
inches long and curves downward so as generally to force the pod into
the ground. If it fails in this, the pod does not develop, but soon
perishes; on the other hand, as soon as it is underground the pod
begins to grow and develops two large seeds.

A remarkable instance is afforded by a beautiful south European
grass, Stipa pennata, the structure of which has been described by
Vaucher, and more recently, as well as more completely, by Frank
Darwin. The actual seed is small, with a sharp point, and stiff,
short hairs pointing backward. The upper end of the seed is produced
into a fine twisted cork-screw-like rod, which is followed by a
plain cylindrical portion, attached at an angle to the corkscrew,
and ending in a long and beautiful feather, the whole being more
than a foot in length. The long feather, no doubt, facilitates the
dispersion of the seeds by wind; eventually, however, they sink to
the ground, which they tend to reach, the seed being the heaviest
portion, point downward. So the seed remains as long as it is dry,
but if a shower comes on, or when the dew falls, the spiral unwinds,
and if, as is most probable, the surrounding herbage or any other
obstacle prevents the feathers from rising, the seed itself is forced
down and so driven by degrees into the ground.




  LEAVES
  --R. Lloyd Praeger


The stems of plants are the framework on which the leaves and
flowers are spread out to catch the light and air, and we find
definite relations existing between the form, position, and strength
of stems, and the shape, weight, and function of the organs which
the stems support. The branches of an apple or pear tree have to
be sufficiently strong not only to withstand the stress of winter
gales, and the burden, of the wealth of blossom and foliage of early
summer, but also the weight of the abundant fruit of autumn. It is
interesting to note that among our cultivated fruits strength of
stem has not kept pace with the increase in weight of fruit due
to artificial selection, so that in gardens our artificial fruits
must needs, in a season of abundance, be supported by artificial
stems--by props and crutches--lest, like the legs of the prize turkey
in the _Christmas Carol_, the branches might snap like sticks of
sealing-wax. In evergreen trees, the weight of snow is a serious
contingency that must not be neglected. Nor must the chance of
accident owing to wandering animals be left out of account. The young
ash saplings, a few feet in height, are as pliable as willow-wands,
and spring back into their places as we force our way through them;
but the knobby twigs of an old ash tree, which swing clear in the air
high overhead, are brittle, and snap across if we attempt to bend
them; the elasticity of the whole bough is sufficient to bring them
safely through the heaviest storm.

Between the form of a twig and that of the leaves which it bears we
can generally at once perceive a relation. The little leaves of the
birch are borne on twigs slender as a piece of twine. The oak and
elm, with larger leaves, require a stouter twig for their support.
The sycamore and ash have twigs which are stouter still. The large
leaves of the horse chestnut are borne on very thick twigs, in which
the principle of the hollow column is introduced.

The arrangement of the leaves on the stem, or _phyllotaxis_, is a
question of the first importance. The leaves must be so grouped that
all may receive as much light as possible. So far as can be arranged,
there should be no overlapping, nor should any of the available space
be wasted. On the stem of the ash, or sycamore, or teazel, the large
leaves are arranged in alternate pairs, the direction of the axis
of each pair being at right angles to that of the next. Thus two
spaces or _internodes_ separate any pair of leaves from the nearest
pair which, being placed in the same position, might overshadow it.
This is a very simple case, which we shall find to be the rule when
we examine plants in which the leaves are borne in opposite pairs.
When leaves are borne in whorls of three a similar rule will be found
to hold good. The position of the leaves of any whorl is such that
they are vertically below or above the _spaces_ between the leaves
of the next whorl. It will be seen at once that the amount of light
received by each leaf is materially increased by this arrangement.
If in a theatre we can look between the heads of two people in the
row immediately in front of us, the head of a person in the next row
beyond, even though directly before us, does not much interfere with
our view of the stage. In most cases, however, the arrangement of the
leaves on the stem is much more complicated than this. The leaves
usually emerge singly. If we join by a line the point of emergence
of a leaf with that of the next leaf above it on a stem, and that
again with the next, a spiral will be the result, along which at
equal intervals we reach the _nodes_, or points where leaves are
borne. And the distance between these nodes will be always found to
bear some definite relation to the total length of the spiral line
in making one complete revolution round the stem. If the distance
from node to node is one-half of this whole distance, it signifies
that the leaves are borne alternately on opposite sides of the
stem, each leaf being vertically below the second one higher up the
stem--a very common arrangement. Or the leaves may be borne three
to each spiral revolution, so that the position of each leaf shifts
one-third way round the stem as compared with the preceding leaf.
If we look along such a stem, the leaves will appear to be borne in
three vertical rows, with an equal angle between each. Examining some
other plant, we may find that we have to go as far as the fifth leaf
before we find one vertically above the one from which we started,
and if we measure the horizontal distance from any leaf to the next
above or below it, it will be found to equal two-fifths of the total
circumference, so that we have to go five times two-fifths way round
the stem, or two complete revolutions, before completing the cycle.
This is called a two-fifths phyllotaxis. In many other cases, the
arrangement is immensely more complicated, and need not be entered on
here. What is important for us to note at present is that by means of
this orderly mathematical arrangement, the leaves are so distributed
that each fulfils its functions to the best advantage.

The shape of leaves offers an almost inexhaustible field for
observation and scientific speculation. Mr. Ruskin has said: “The
leaves of the herbage at our feet take all kinds of strange shapes,
as if to invite us to examine them. Star-shaped, heart-shaped,
spear-shaped, arrow-shaped, fretted, fringed, cleft, furrowed,
serrated, sinuated, in whorls, in tufts, in spires, in wreaths,
endlessly expressive, deceptive, fantastic, never the same from
footstalk to blossom, they seem perpetually to tempt our watchfulness
and take delight in outstripping our wonder.” The size of leaves
will naturally vary inversely as their number. A plant of a certain
size--say a tree--will require a certain total area of leaf for the
manufacture of the requisite amount of plant-food. If we cut the
branch of a horse chestnut and of a beech where each had exactly a
diameter of one inch, or two, or six inches, and counted and measured
the leaves on each, while the number of beech leaves would immensely
exceed the number of chestnut leaves the total leaf-area would be
about the same in each case. This area of green leaf, then, must be
spread out to the best advantage. In this connection, a beautiful
relation between the shape of leaves and their arrangement on the
stem may frequently be remarked. Lay a twig of beech on a sheet of
white paper, and note how small are the interstices between the
leaves through which the paper may be seen. The shape of the leaves,
and the intervals at which they are borne, are so related that an
almost continuous expanse of green is offered to the sunlight. A
more remarkable case may be seen in the lime, whose leaves are
quite inequilateral, being contracted on one side at the base and
expanded at the other, in order the more exactly to fill the space
which is available. The elm likewise furnishes a beautiful example
of close-fitting leaves. In most trees in which, like the beech,
hazel, and elm, the leaves lie in close-ranked rows in the same plane
as the twig which supports them, we find more or less oval leaves,
their breadth varying with the space between the leaves, _i. e._,
the length of the internode. In trees such as the horse chestnut or
sycamore, on the other hand, the leaves grow in opposite pairs, and
are typically arranged on upright twigs, the leaf-stems projecting at
a wide angle from the twig, with the surface of the leaf horizontal.
In this case space is not so curtailed; the leaf is larger, and more
or less circular in outline; and the great increase of length in the
internodes, as compared with the trees lately considered, prevents a
too great overshadowing of the lower leaves by those higher up the
shoot.

In plants which have a very short axis--which have in popular
language “no stem”--a difficulty arises as to how all the leaves
shall receive a due amount of light, since all arise from the same
point. This is met in several ways. The leaves are often placed at
different angles, the outer leaves, which are the lowest and oldest,
spreading horizontally near the ground, the newest rising almost
vertically in the centre, the intermediate being disposed at various
angles between these extremes. Another solution of the difficulty
is effected by a continued growth of the leaf-stalks, each leaf
steadily pushing itself outward so that the whole form a slowly
expanding circle, in which each leaf-blade successively occupies
a position commencing at the centre, ending at the circumference.
Such leaf-blades, it is almost needless to say, are widest at the
extremity, since that is the portion which receives most light; often
the blade is roundish, and placed at the end of a bare leaf-stalk,
which pushes it further and further from the centre, as other leaves
arise. Such arrangements are well seen in many of our biennial
plants. During their first season they form a close leaf-rosette of
this kind, which manufactures during the summer and winter a supply
of plant-food to be stored for the building up of the tall flowering
stem of the succeeding year. The stork’s-bills, crane’s-bills,
teazel, and other plants will occur to the reader as examples.

In the case of some plants, the normal position of the blade of
the leaf is not horizontal, but vertical. The black poplar and its
relation the aspen furnish well-known instances. If we examine the
stalk of an aspen leaf we notice that while the lower part of it
is circular in section, the part near the leaf is much flattened,
permitting free movement in the plane of the leaf-blade. This,
together with the position in which the leaves are borne on the
twigs, causes the leaves to hang vertically. One result is that the
light can stream almost unbroken through the branches even to the
ground below, the wealth of foliage producing but a faint tremulous
shadow as the leaves rustle in response to every breath of air. Well
does Scott, seeking for a simile, say in _Marmion_:

                “Variable as the shade
      By the light quivering aspen made.”

A peculiar point about these vertical leaves should be noted. On
the under side of leaves are situated a myriad of tiny openings
(_stomata_, mouths) through which the plant absorbs carbon dioxide
from the atmosphere, and having taken from it the carbon, liberates
the oxygen, the stomata being also used for the escape of the surplus
water of the plant. Now, the reason why these mouths are situated in
most plants on the under side of the leaves is no doubt because they
are thus protected from cold and rain and storm, and their work less
interfered with. In the aspen, with its vertical leaves, either side
of which is equally exposed to atmospheric vagaries, there is nothing
to choose between the two sides as regards the position of the
stomata, and as a matter of fact, these are equally distributed over
both sides of the leaf. A further modification of this kind we may
find in plants like the water-lily, the leaves of which float on the
surface of water. Following out our line of argument, we would expect
to find the stomata confined to the _upper_ side of such a leaf, so
that they may be in contact with the atmosphere, and this is exactly
what we do find. Plants whose leaves are all continually below the
surface of the water, such as the water lobelia and many pond-weeds,
must perforce be content with obtaining the carbon dioxide which they
require from the small quantity of that gas which is to be found
dissolved in the water.

The protection of leaves against various hurtful agencies next
claims our attention. The typical leaf has its upper surface built
of strong, closely placed cells, to offer a stout resistance to
rain and hail, and to frost or overpowering sun-heat. In hot, dry
weather, when great evaporation is taking place, the plant can
close up all its stomata--shut down, so to speak, all the sluices
by which the water employed to convey dissolved salts from root
to leaf is allowed to escape, and thus retain an abundant water
supply in spite of parching heat. But in arid ground, such as sandy
wastes or sea-beaches, further protection against overtranspiration
may be desirable, and this is frequently effected by impervious
varnish-like layers on the upper surface of the leaves, or by dense
coverings of hairs. Layers of impermeable corky cells in the
epidermis or skin of the leaves are also frequently to be found
in plants liable to excessive transpiration. Such impermeable
leaves are beautifully developed in plants like the stone-crops,
which, growing in dry ground and on rocks, and being liable to
long-continued drought, store up in their leaves a copious water
supply. Such reservoir-leaves are greatly developed in the plants of
desert countries. Protection against the often fatal effect of frost
is likewise afforded by a thickening of the cuticle of leaves, and
especially by felt-like coverings of hairs. In some noteworthy cases
protection against cold is effected by means of movement on the part
of the leaves. The most familiar examples occurring among our native
plants are furnished by the trifoliate leaves of many of the clover
family. As evening approaches, the clovers and their allies fold
their three leaflets together by means of an upward movement; the
juxtaposition of the leaflets retards loss of heat, and the vertical
position which they thus assume has the same effect, tending to check
the radiation of heat to the cold sky overhead. The wood sorrel,
which, though of a quite different order, has leaves which resemble
those of the clovers, effects the same object by folding its leaflets
_downward_.

Wet, which by lying on the leaves might hinder transpiration, must
also be guarded against; a danger which in many species is obviated
by means of a waxy excretion, especially on those parts of the leaves
where the stomata are situated; on which, as on an oily surface,
water will not lie.

Another danger to which plants are exposed, and one which we might
think they would be powerless to meet, is the attacks of browsing
animals--animals of all sizes, from minute insects up to great
munching cattle. But to note how perfectly such defence may be
provided for we need only look at our common gorse, which boldly
invades the pasture, protected by its impenetrable chevaux-de-frise.
This plant, indeed, seems to have put so much of its vital energy
into the production of spines that it has none left with which to
produce leaves, and the making of plant-food has to be carried on
by the green and much-branched stems. The beautiful tribe of the
thistles naturally comes to our minds in this connection. Armed with
innumerable spines of the most exquisite structure, sharper and
more delicate far than needles, the spear thistle and marsh thistle
raise their tall and graceful forms untouched amid the close-browsed
herbage, and without fear of molestation--save from man, with his
implements of iron--open their flower-heads to the sun and the
insects, and scatter their numberless winged fruits to the wind. In
the thistle the spines are borne alike on the stems, leaves, and
involucres or outer whorls of the heads of flowers. The holly is an
interesting case. In low bushes the edges of the leaves are provided
with strong spines; but when the bush grows into a tree, and bears
leaves far above the reach of browsing animals, the unnecessary
spines disappear, and the edges of the leaves are entire. In the
blackthorn and hawthorn, the strong spines are modified branches;
and we may observe that they are much more numerous in young plants
than in old bushes. A more complicated mode of protection is found
in the nettles. They are furnished with hollow hairs, filled with a
virulent fluid, and bent at the tip. A slight pressure causes the
curved extremity to break across, leaving a slender tube, tapering to
an extremely fine point, which easily enters the flesh and discharges
a portion of its venomous contents.

So far we have considered leaves as fulfilling their normal functions
of producing plant-food by means of chlorophyll cells. In conclusion,
brief reference may be made to various exceptions; for the production
of plant-food is not necessarily carried on by leaves, nor is the use
of leaves altogether limited to the production of plant-food. First,
leaves may be dispensed with, as we have already seen in the case of
the gorse. The stem may be modified to supply the place of leaves,
as in the butcher’s broom, whose flattened “leaves” are really
branches, as we see when we find flowers and fruit borne on these
flat leaf-like structures.

In climbing plants the leaves, or a portion of them, are frequently
converted into tendrils, often endowed with a marvelous sense of
touch, for grasping supports and thus aiding the plant in its upward
climb through surrounding herbage to the light. This is seen in
many of the vetches, the upper end of whose leaves are modified in
this fashion. In the yellow vetchling (Lathyrus aphaca) a further
modification has taken place. The whole leaf is converted into a
tendril, while the stipules (the usually small pair of leaf-like
appendages that often grow at the point where a leaf joins a
stem) are enlarged into a very respectable pair of “leaves,” and
manufacture food while the true leaf helps the plant to climb.




  WIND-FERTILIZED FLOWERS
  --ALEXANDER S. WILSON


As an agent in cross-fertilization, the wind performs an
indispensable service to many plants. Flowers which depend on its
agency for the transport of their pollen are termed anemophilous;
those adapted to insects, entomophilous. Wind-fertilized blossoms
are all of small size, obscurely colored, and, even when clustered
together in catkins, inconspicuous; hence they escape observation
more readily than their entomophilous neighbors, which are adorned
with bright colors to allure visitors. Although anemophilous flowers
do not exhibit the variety of curious contrivances found in the
entomophilous class, they yet present a number of highly interesting
characters, and are well worthy of examination. Wind-fertilization
is universal in the lower or gymnospermous division of flowering
plants, of which we have examples in the pine, larch, cedar, and
other coniferous trees. The apetalous dicotyledons or Incompletæ form
another large group in which wind-fertilization prevails extensively.

In this sub-class are included the various species of dock,
sorrel, nettle, pellitory of the wall, dog’s-mercury, goosefoot,
boxwood, hop, mulberry, elm, and catkin, bearing trees such as
the oak, hazel, beech, poplar, birch, alder, walnut, and willow,
all of which are wind-fertilized. Anemophily is not so common in
dicotyledons belonging to the sub-classes; it occurs, however,
in the ash, plantain, wormwood, mare’s-tail, and meadow-rue. The
number of wind-fertilized monocotyledons far exceeds those adapted
to insects, both as regards individuals and species. The extensive
order of grasses, the sedges, carices, and rushes, together with
the arrow-head, arrowgrass, bur-reed, and bulrush, are all without
exception anemophilous. It thus appears that wind-fertilization
occurs in many different and widely separated families. Certain
negative characters are common to all the wind-fertilized class;
no honey is secreted, no perfume emitted, and conspicuous colors
are wanting. On flowers of this description it is difficult for a
large insect like a bee to obtain a footing; there is no corolla
that can serve as a landing-stage for insects to alight. For these
reasons anemophilous blossoms are almost entirely neglected by bees
and other flower-hunting insects; only in exceptional instances
do visitors have recourse to them in search of pollen, but this
is so dry and has so little cohesion that it must be difficult
indeed for a bee to collect an appreciable quantity of anemophilous
pollen. Wind-fertilized flowers thus offer little or no attraction
to insects, and are in no way adapted to derive benefit from
their visits. On the other hand, there exists in them a number
of provisions which admirably adapt them for cross-fertilization
through atmospheric agency. The most important of these is abundant
pollen; always more than in insect-fertilized blossoms, the quantity
produced by some plants of the wind-fertilized class is enormous.
The so-called showers of sulphur, occasionally reported in the
newspapers, are really great deposits of pollen blown from the male
cone of the Scotch fir. It has been known to fall on ships at sea,
and has been swept up in bucketsful from their decks. The common
ash discharges an immense quantity from its innumerable flowers, so
much so that a person shaking a branch when the tree is in bloom is
dusted from head to foot with the dry, powdery pollen. That of the
elm is also very abundant, and this is more or less characteristic
of all plants which depend for cross-fertilization on the wind. At
certain seasons, the air may be said to be literally charged with the
pollen of anemophilous plants. In the beginning of May, I exposed on
the window-sill for forty-eight hours a microscopic slide smeared
with syrup, and on examining it afterward detected upward of fifty
pollen-grains belonging to various trees, some of which are not to be
found within a radius of two miles. The efficiency of the wind as a
fertilizing agent is, therefore, much greater than one might suppose.

The pollen grains of insect-fertilized flowers are frequently, as
in the harebell, colt’s-foot, and mallow, studded over with little
projecting points; these cause them to adhere readily to each
other or to the hairs of an insect. In other cases the pollen is
viscid, and the granules are difficult to separate. This cohesive
character obviously renders them ill-adapted for transference by
means of the wind; accordingly, the pollen of wind-fertilized
plants is excessively light and dry, the granules are smooth,
they do not stick together, and this incoherence facilitates their
wide dispersion. A special provision exists in the pine, whereby
its pollen is rendered lighter and more easily wafted by the wind;
the extine or outer membrane of each granule is inflated into two
globular air-sacs, which reduce its specific gravity so that it can
keep longer afloat in the air.

Although there are wind-fertilized species to be found in bloom all
the year round, a large number, especially of trees, blossom early
in the season; the hazel comes into bloom in February, the elm,
poplar, and willow following in March or April. The little flowers of
the willow are already developed within the bud at the beginning of
winter; in spring they merely expand. It is, therefore, probable that
trees of this class originally flowered toward the end of the year,
but ultimately became so belated that the opening of their flowers
had to be delayed over winter. During the dry, windy days of spring,
when the farmer sows his seed-corn, the flowers of our anemophilous
trees are in perfection. At this early period, when so few insects
are abroad, these unattractive blossoms are not likely to be visited.

A marked peculiarity of anemophilous trees is the appearance of the
flowers before the foliage; the blossoms of the elm, poplar, ash,
and willow, for example, are put forth while as yet the branches
are entirely leafless. This arrangement is clearly advantageous;
the foliage would protect the flowers from the wind, preventing its
gaining access to the stigmas and interfering with the removal of the
pollen.

The fir does not shed its leaves in autumn, as deciduous trees do,
but its needle-like foliage interferes as little as possible in the
way indicated; nevertheless, the male and female cones are developed
on the branches of the fir in the most exposed positions. A good
illustration of the manner in which wind-fertilized plants secure the
exposure of their blossoms is seen in the dog’s-mercury (Mercurialis
perennis). This plant, common in most districts, has rather large
leaves; they expand before the flowers, and would be a great
hindrance to wind-fertilization were it not that the little staminate
flowers are elevated on long, slender stalks which spring from the
axils of the leaves and entirely overtop the foliage. The male catkin
of the oak is an inflorescence of the same description, not erect,
however, but pendulous, and so flexible that it swings freely in the
lightest breeze. After the flowering period, the ground under the
oak, poplar, and other trees is strewn with their male catkins; these
are caducous, falling off soon after they have shed their pollen; the
catkins of female flowers are necessarily persistent, though a few
may occasionally be broken off by the violence of the wind.

In reeds and grasses, the entire plant, being flexible, is easily
shaken by the wind, and the ripe pollen is readily dislodged from the
anthers; but where the stem is more rigid either the flower stalks
are slender or the stamens have thin, thread-like filaments; or the
entire inflorescence is mobile; in any case provision is made in the
structure of the flower for the agitation of the anthers by the wind.
Slender flower stalks are seen in the dock and in the quaking grass
(Briza). The ribwort plantain (Plantago lanceolata) and a great many
grasses have their anthers borne on long, excessively thin stalks, so
that they quiver in the slightest breeze. Broad and leaf-shaped, the
anther itself in plantago is clearly adapted, like the seed-vessels
of some crucifers, to be set in motion by the wind. On a calm and
warm day in summer the gentlest touch is sufficient to make many
grasses, such as the foxtail, cock’s-foot or timothy, emit a little
cloud of pollen. Some grasses even appear to eject the pollen with
force either by the explosion of the pollen-sacs or by a sudden
jerking of the stamens. The nettle and pellitory have each four
elastic stamens; when the flower opens, these are bent inward toward
the centre in a constrained position; later on the tension is removed
and the liberated stamens suddenly straighten out, scattering their
pollen like little puffs of smoke. The object of this liliputian
artillery is to throw the pollen away quite clear of the plant by
which it was produced.

Petals in ordinary flowers are intended to secure the attention
of insects; to wind-fertilized blossoms, having no occasion for
visitors, they are unnecessary. So far from an advantage, the
presence of a corolla would exclude the wind from the essential
organs. Accordingly, petals are either absent altogether or reduced
to rudimentary proportions. The calyx is also much reduced, and
in some flowers is dispensed with entirely. Comparatively few
anemophilous flowers possess both sets of floral envelopes.
Plantago is, however, dichlamydeous, but its chaffy petals afford
incontrovertible evidence of degeneration from the entomophilous
condition.

The stigma in the wind-fertilized class is highly specialized, and
much larger relatively to the other parts of the flower than is
the case with entomophilous blossoms. It is commonly penicillate,
consisting of a tuft of hairs, as in nettle; feathery, as in grasses;
or elongated and thread-like, as in plantago and the rushes. The
spirally twisted stigmas of the last-mentioned flowers are beautiful
objects when examined with a pocket lens. The larger the surface
which the stigma presents to the wind, the greater are the chances
of pollination. Its fine fringes of papillose hairs are also well
calculated to entangle the pollen-grains, while the viscid secretion
serves to retain them when caught. This adaptation may be seen in the
common rye grass; each tiny blossom as it expands hangs out its two
white, feathery stigmas from the sides of the spikelet, reminding
one of a fisherman spreading out his nets, or a sailor his studding
sails to catch the favoring breeze. At the time of fertilization the
dock, too, thrusts out its three little brush-like stigmas between
the lobes of the perianth. It is instructive to compare these
wind-fertilized flowers of Rumex with those of the nearly allied
genus Polygonum, which is entomophilous. The perianth of the latter
is rose-colored; the stigmas are included within it, never exserted
as in the dock--they are not at all brush-like or feathery, but in
the form of little knobs; the stamens and flower-stalks are rigid;
moreover, the various species of Polygonum secrete nectar and are
frequented by many different insects. Stigmas are entirely absent in
the gymnospermous division, but in most Coniferæ the ovule at the
time of flowering secretes a drop of liquid, and the pollen-grains
caught on it are, as the fluid gradually evaporates, stranded on
the nucleus of the ovule. The ovule of the larch is provided with
elongated papillæ, functionally equivalent to a stigma.

A flower is said to be hermaphrodite or monoclinous when, as in
the elm, both stamens and pistils are present in the same blossom.
With insect-fertilized flowers this is mostly the case, though
there are some exceptions, such as the cucumber and begonia, which
are unisexual or diclinous, stamens and pistils being produced in
separate blossoms. The diclinous condition is exceedingly common
in the wind-fertilized class. The staminate or male, and the
pistillate or female, flowers are sometimes found growing on the
same individual plant, which is then termed monœcious, as in the
oak, hazel, birch, pine, etc. The poplar, willow, yew, juniper,
nettle, and dog’s-mercury, on the other hand, are diœcious; their
staminate and pistillate flowers grow on separate plants. This
separation of the sexes renders self-fertilization impossible, and
secures whatever benefit may arise from the physiological division
of labor. Anemophilous species in general show a marked tendency in
the direction of separation. Self-fertilization may be prevented
in monoclinous flowers by the stamens and stigmas maturing at
different times. This arrangement, known as dichogamy, occurs in
both insect and wind-fertilized blossoms, but while the former
usually have the stamens in advance of the stigmas, in the latter
the reverse order is much more frequent. There are thus two kinds of
dichogamy--protandrous, when the stamens are in advance; protogynous,
if the pistils are first developed. Protogyny is characteristic of
wind-fertilized flowers, and may be easily observed in the rush
and plantain. In the first or female stage of the flower of the
rush, the thread-like stigma protrudes from the top of the still
unopened perianth, while the stamens, as yet immature, are completely
concealed. In the second stage, the pollinated stigmas have begun to
shrivel, the perianth has now spread out, disclosing the six stamens
which are ready to discharge their pollen. The same two stages are
equally apparent in plantago. All our readers must be familiar
with the black heads of this plant, which are to be seen in every
pasture, bending and waving in the wind. In the first stage, the
head appears black, but on looking into it we see projecting from
each little unopened floret a white thread-like stigma. Later on,
the lower part of the spike or head is seen to be encircled by a
wreath of tiny white bodies, and closer inspection shows that these
are the stamens, four of which project like little banners from
each of the newly opened florets. The protogynous character belongs
in the bur-reed to the plant itself rather than the individual
flowers. Its pistillate flowers, which are lowermost, expand first;
only when their stigmas have withered do the male florets higher up
begin discharging their pollen. In this case, it is evident that
the flowers on any plant must be fertilized with pollen from another
in more advanced condition. A social habit is highly characteristic
of wind-fertilized plants--pines, grasses, sedges, nettles, etc.,
usually grow together in considerable numbers. Entomophilous plants
have a much more sporadic character, and admit of a greater degree
of isolation; their guests, doubtless, maintain the necessary
communication between members of the species. This social habit
partly explains the tendency toward the diœcious condition, for a
complete separation of the sexes is hardly possible, except in plants
of social habit. From the gymnosperms, the oldest flowering plants,
being all wind-fertilized, it has been inferred that such must also
have been the case with the primitive angiosperms. It is not certain,
however, that any of their representatives remain, for many of our
existing wind-fertilized flowers appear to be merely degraded forms.
Anemophilous species appear in families, the rest of which are highly
specialized in relation to insects. Some species of plantago are
adapted to insects; others, as we have seen, to the wind. Most of
the sub-classes with incomplete flowers, from which so many of our
examples are taken, also exhibit striking marks of degeneration,
and the same may be said of the grasses and other anemophilous
monocotyledons. We also find some flowers in an intermediate
condition, such as the vine and certain willows, which secrete honey
and are visited by insects. Facts of this description are held by
some to show that all existing anemophilous species, with the
exception of the gymnosperms, are descended from bright-colored,
insect-fertilized ancestors.

Wind-fertilization has, in some instances, been rendered highly
efficient, but in any case it is far from economical, for the vast
amount of pollen miscarried represents an enormous loss to plants;
neither does this method admit of the same certainty and precision as
the other. A wind-fertilized bears to an insect-fertilized blossom
very much the relation which an æolian harp bears to a pianoforte.




  MOVEMENTS OF PLANTS
  --DAVID ROBERTSON


Scarcely any one can have failed to notice that many plants close
their flowers when evening approaches, others again at various
periods of the day, while some close their flowers when the sky is
overcast; foliage leaves also are in many cases subject to periodic
movements.

The movements of different plants are dependent on various causes.

Some of these movements are solely mechanical, and caused by the
tissues being affected, owing to the condition of the surrounding air
and to varying states of turgidity and exhaustion.

Other movements are apparently due to physical causes, but can not be
fully explained by attributing them to these causes.

Movements in plants also depend upon the contractile quality of the
protoplasm in the cells, and on the passage of the protoplasm from
cell to cell. The property of the protoplasm gives rise to movements
caused by the plant itself, which are not at least directly due to
any external exciting cause. These movements can be compared with the
movements of the lower animals, and to the ciliary motion found in
certain tissues belonging to the most highly organized animals.

The periodic movements, such as the “waking” and “sleeping” condition
of leaves, the closing of flowers, etc., are manifested only when the
organs are fully matured, and when the peculiarity of their internal
structure which gives rise to the phenomena of periodic movements is
fully developed.

These movements are to be carefully distinguished from those due to
unequal growth, such as movements of nutation. In this case there is
no special structure upon which the movements depend.

The bursting of seed-vessels, anthers, etc., is due partly to the
fact that the condition of the tissues, as regards the amount of
liquid they contain from their possessing unequal power of imbibing
moisture, is not equally elastic. For this reason, when the less
elastic portions of tissue are subjected to strain they are torn
apart or bent in various ways, owing to unequal contractions and
expansions, caused by an access or withdrawal of moisture.

These cases can scarcely be regarded as vital phenomena, but should
rather come under the category of what is in ordinary language
named “warping.” They are simply caused by particular modes of the
destruction of dead tissue due to conditions brought about by
variations in the structure of the tissues in question.

Movements in plants which take place periodically, such as sleeping
and waking, or those movements that take place when they are touched
or otherwise affected by certain kinds of exciting stimulus, can
not be attributed to mechanical causes. The slightest mechanical
stimulus on the sensitive plant Mimosa pudica causes the leaflets to
fold together. Such movements are not proportional to the external
stimulus, but depend on the internal structure of the plant.

To this class of movements have been added the very remarkable
movements which give rise to the twining condition of certain stems.

Another class of movements may be mentioned, viz., movements of the
protoplasm in cells, or movements of free bodies, such as zoospores
(Greek, _zoon_, animal, and _spora_, seed), antherozoids (Greek,
_anthos_, flower; _zoon_, animal; _eidos_, form), and sometimes even
perfect individuals, such as Desmediæ, etc., which may have the power
of temporary or permanent locomotion.

The rotation of the protoplasm of cells is attributed to causes
similar to those which produce locomotion in the simpler plants, and
these movements are strikingly like some of the movements of the
protozoa in the animal kingdom. The movements of the products of cell
contents having no cell-wall, such as zoospores and antherozoids,
are generally caused by the rapid movement of cilia (plural of the
Latin word _cilium_, an eyelid) or small filaments which cover the
surface. The locomotion of certain plants, such as Diatomaceæ, is
apparently not due to cilia.

Sensitive plants, such as the Mimosa pudica, are strongly affected
by any mechanical stimulus, and thus afford us examples of the
phenomenon named “irritability.”

The sleep of plants is most probably a case of irritability, and
differs only in degree, not in kind.

Sensitiveness in plants is affected both by light and heat. It has
been experimentally proved that sensitive plants, if kept in the
dark, lose their sensibility after a period of seven days, and
actually die after twelve days.

We know that white light is composed of light of different colors.
Light is propagated in waves, and each color is distinguished by
having a different wave-length from that of any other color. Red
light differs, for example, from violet light in the length of its
waves, and violet light differs from blue, etc.

It is, therefore, not surprising to find that the different
colored rays are capable of producing different effects. It has
been ascertained that under the influence of green light sensitive
plants die after sixteen days’ exposure, though they retain their
sensibility for twelve days.

When the plants were exposed to violet and blue light, their growth
completely ceased. They, however, retained their vitality as well as
their sensibility for three months. The effect of heat on sensitive
plants has also been ascertained.

The sensitiveness and periodical movements of Mimosa do not begin
till the temperature of the surrounding air exceeds 15° C. The
periodical movements of the lateral leaflets of the Indian telegraph
plant (Desmodium gyrans) can only occur when the temperature exceeds
22° C.

When the temperature of the air is 40° C., the leaves become stiff
in less than an hour, and at 48° C. to 50° C. rigidity takes
place within a few minutes; but when the temperature falls, the
sensitiveness may again be manifested.

A temperature of 52° C. not only causes loss of permanent motion, but
also the death of the plant.

The mechanism to which the periodic movements of plants is due is not
by any means fully known.

The particular circumstances which regulate the turgidity have not
been, so far, determined with precision.

It has, however, been clearly ascertained that this turgid state
is associated with the passage of fine threads or filaments of
protoplasm from one cell to another, and at the same time with an
accumulation of a soluble chemical compound named glucose, a kind
of sugar, in fact. This substance possesses great osmotic power;
that is, it can pass very rapidly through the flexible cell-walls
of the pulvinus forming the so-called springs. These movements are,
therefore, closely connected with the rapid absorption and expulsion
of liquid.

Contrary to the habit of most plants, the sensitive plant raises its
leaves at night and closes them by day.

The most usual kind of movement in these plants is that in which the
leaves as well as the floral envelopes assume the position they
occupied before the buds opened.

Compound leaves, such as the leaves of the Leguminosæ, or pea-family,
exhibit a simple or compound movement.

The leaves of the bean fold upward, those of the Lupinus fold
downward. In Tamarinds the leaves fold to the side. In some other
plants the common petiole of the compound leaves become raised or
depressed, while the leaflets turn downward or sidewise. This is the
case in Amorpha fruticosa and Gleditschia tracanthus.

In the well-known Mimosa pudica, which is a hothouse plant in
temperate regions, the leaflets fold together, the small stalks of
the leaflets of the compound leaves of this plant approach each
other, and the main petiole becomes depressed.

In one exceedingly sensitive species of Oxalis, the pinnate leaves
fold upward. A footfall is said to be sufficient to cause it to close
its leaves.

When these movements of leaves or leaf-organs take place at stated
hours, and when the leaves remain in the new position after the
movement has ceased until a particular period of time recur, the
closing up is called the _sleep_ of plants. This condition is
observed both in seed-leaves and true leaves, as well as in the
petals of flowers.

So far as can be made out, the object of this closing of the leaves
seems to be to prevent the chilling effect due to radiation from
being injurious to the plant. This folding up causes a smaller extent
of surface to be exposed. Radiation of heat during a clear night
goes on rapidly from all surfaces such as those of expanded leaves.
The closing of the leaves may be supposed to form a protective
covering, which prevents the heat passing away into space, and thus
saves the plant from the injurious effects of cold.

This is only true of the foliage leaves, which expand during the day
and close during the night.

The period at which the movement of closing and opening of flowers
takes place is very varied. Ordinary leaves, as has been stated,
close toward evening and open in the day. The periods of opening
and closing in the case of flowers vary considerably, being
affected, no doubt, by the visits of insects, which carry the pollen
from plant to plant belonging to the same species. By this means
flowers are fertilized, and the seeds resulting from plants that
are so fertilized are much more numerous than those resulting from
self-fertilized plants. Some plants, such as the pimpernel, close
their petals when the sky is overcast. This is doubtless to protect
the pollen from the injurious effects of rain. This kind of closing,
however, is not to be confounded with the regular and periodic
closing and opening of flowers.

The diversity in the regular and periodic opening and closing of
flowers in regard to time is so great that Linnæus was able to
arrange flowers in a list in accordance with their times of opening
and closing.

This list he named a _Horologium floræ_, or floral clock, the time of
opening or closing representing each succeeding hour.

Some closing flowers open under the influence of strong artificial
light, such, for example, as Crocus and Gentiana verna; on others,
however, such as Convolvulus, artificial light has no effect.

The closing of flowers is usually a slow process, as may easily be
observed, but there are exceptions to this.

“In Desmodium gyrans” (the Indian telegraph-plant) “the trilobate
compound leaf has a large terminal leaflet and a smaller one on each
side. When the plant is exposed to bright sunlight in a hothouse,
the end leaflet stands horizontally, and it folds downward in the
evening, but the lateral leaflets move constantly during the heat
of the day, advancing, edgewise, first toward the end leaflet, and
then returning and moving toward the base of the common petiole
alternately on each side, in a manner very well compared to the
movements of the arm of the old semaphore telegraphs.”

Such are some of the more striking movements of plants. Even in
cases where the precise advantage, as far as regards the economy of
plant life, is not fully ascertained, it can not be doubted that
such movements are advantageous. In strict accordance with the
accepted theory of evolution, no peculiarity would be continued from
generation to generation of either plants or animals, if it possessed
no essential characteristic which helped the plant or animal to hold
its own in “the struggle for existence.”

[Illustration: Cacti, Rare Flowers, and Fuci

Cacti--1 and 3, Mamillaria; 2, Echinocactus; 4, Cereus. Fuci--5,
Sargassum; 6, Agarum; 7, Thalassophyllum. The Wool Tree (Bombax) and
the Rafflesia Arnoldi]




  MOVEMENT IN PLANTS
  --CHARLES DARWIN


Plants become climbers in order, it may be presumed, to reach the
light and to expose a large surface of leaves to its action and to
that of the free air. This is effected by climbers with wonderfully
little expenditure of organized matter, in comparison with trees,
which have to support a load of heavy branches by a massive trunk.
Hence, no doubt, it arises that there are in all quarters of the
world so many climbing plants belonging to so many different
orders. These plants are here classed under three heads. First,
hook-climbers, which are, at least in our temperate countries,
the least efficient of all, and can climb only in the midst of an
entangled vegetation. Secondly, root-climbers, which are excellently
adapted to ascend naked faces of rock: when they climb trees, they
are compelled to keep much in the shade; they can not pass from
branch to branch, and thus cover the whole summit of a tree, for
their rootlets can adhere only by long-continued and close contact
with a steady surface. Thirdly, the great class of spiral climbers,
with the subordinate divisions of leaf-climbers and tendril-bearers,
which together far exceed in number and in perfection of mechanism
the climbers of the two previous classes. These plants, by their
power of spontaneously revolving and grasping objects with which they
come in contact, can easily pass from branch to branch, and securely
wander over a wide and sunlit surface. I have ranked twiners, leaf
and tendril-climbers as subdivisions of one class, because they
graduate into each other, and because nearly all have the same
remarkable power of spontaneously revolving. Does this gradation,
it may be asked, indicate that plants belonging to one subdivision
have passed, during the lapse of ages, or can pass, from one state
to the other; has, for instance, a tendril-bearing plant assumed
its present structure without having previously existed either as a
leaf-climber or a twiner? If we consider leaf-climbers alone, the
idea that they were primordially twiners is forcibly suggested. The
internodes of all, without exception, revolve in exactly the same
manner as twiners; and some few can twine as well, and many others
in a more or less imperfect manner. Several leaf-climbing genera are
closely allied to other genera which are simple twiners. It should be
observed that the possession by a plant of leaves with their petioles
or tips sensitive, and with the consequent power of clasping any
object, would be of very little use, unless associated with revolving
internodes, by which the leaves could be brought into contact with
surrounding objects. On the other hand, revolving internodes, without
other aid, suffice to give the power of climbing, so that, unless we
suppose that leaf-climbers simultaneously acquired both capacities,
it seems probable that they were first twiners, and subsequently
became capable of grasping a support, which, as we shall presently
see, is a great additional advantage.

From analogous reasons, it is probable that tendril-bearing plants
were primordially twiners--that is, are the descendants of plants
having this power and habit. For the internodes of the majority
revolve, like those of twining plants; and, in a very few, the
flexible stem still retains the capacity of spirally twining
round an upright stick. With some the internodes have lost even
the revolving power. Tendril-bearers have undergone much more
modification than leaf-climbers; hence it is not surprising that
their supposed primordial revolving and twining habits have been
lost or modified more frequently than with leaf-climbers. The three
great tendril-bearing families in which this loss has occurred in
the most marked manner are the Cucurbitaceæ, Passifloraceæ, and
Vitaceæ. In the first the internodes revolve; but I have heard of no
twining form, with the exception of Mormodica balsamina, and this is
only an imperfect twiner. In the other two families I can hear of no
twiners; and the internodes rarely have the power of revolving, this
power being confined to the tendrils; nevertheless, the internodes of
Passiflora gracilis have this power in a perfect manner, and those of
the common vine in an imperfect degree: so that at least a trace of
the supposed primordial habit is always retained by some members of
the larger tendril-bearing groups.

On the view here given, it may be asked, Why have nearly all the
plants in so many aboriginally twining groups been converted into
leaf-climbers or tendril-bearers? Of what advantage could this have
been to them? Why did they not remain simple twiners? We can see
several reasons. It might be an advantage to a plant to acquire a
thicker stem, with short internodes bearing many or large leaves;
and such stems are ill fitted for twining. Any one who will look
during windy weather at twining plants will see that they are
easily blown from their support; not so with tendril-bearers or
leaf-climbers, for they quickly and firmly grasp their support by a
much more efficient kind of movement. In those plants which still
twine, but at the same time possess tendrils or sensitive petioles,
as some species of Bignonia, Clematis, and Tropæolum, we can readily
observe how incomparably more securely they grasp an upright stick
than do simple twiners. From possessing the power of movement on
contact, tendrils can be made very long and thin; so that little
organic matter is expended in their development, and yet a wide
circle is swept. Tendril-bearers can, from their first growth, ascend
along the outer branches of any neighboring bush, and thus always
keep in the full light; twiners, on the contrary, are best fitted
to ascend bare stems, and generally have to start in the shade. In
dense tropical forests, with crowded and bare stems, twining plants
would probably succeed better than most kinds of tendril-bearers; but
the majority of twiners, at least in our temperate regions, from the
nature of their revolving movement, can not ascend a thick trunk,
whereas this can be effected by tendril-bearers, if the trunks carry
many branches or twigs; and in some cases they can ascend by special
means a trunk without branches, but with a rugged bark.

The object of all climbing plants is to reach the light and free air
with as little expenditure of organic matter as possible; now, with
spirally ascending plants, the stem is much longer than is absolutely
necessary; for instance, I measured the stem of a kidney-bean which
had ascended exactly two feet in height, and it was three feet in
length: the stem of a pea, ascending by its tendrils, would, on the
other hand, have been but little longer than the height gained. That
this saving of stem is really an advantage to climbing plants I infer
from observing that those that still twine, but are aided by clasping
petioles or tendrils, generally make more open spires than those made
by simple twiners. Moreover, such plants very generally, after taking
one or two turns in one direction, ascend for a space straight, and
then reverse the direction of the spire. By this means they ascend
to a considerably greater height, with the same length of stem, than
would otherwise be possible; and they can do it with safety, as they
secure themselves at intervals by their clasping petioles.

Tendrils consist of various organs in a modified state, namely,
leaves and flower-peduncles, and perhaps branches and stipules.
The position alone generally suffices to show when a tendril has
been formed from a leaf; and in Bignonia the lower leaves are often
perfect, while the upper ones terminate in a tendril in place of a
terminal leaflet; in Eccremocarpus I have seen a lateral branch of a
tendril replaced by a perfect leaflet; and in Vicia sativa, on the
other hand, leaflets are sometimes replaced by tendril-branches;
and many other such cases could be given. But he who believes in
the slow modification of species will not be content simply to
ascertain the homological nature of different tendrils; he will wish
to learn, as far as possible, by what steps parts acting as leaves or
as flower-peduncles can have wholly changed their function, and have
come to serve as prehensile organs.

In the whole group of leaf-climbers abundant evidence has been
given that an organ, still subserving its proper function as a
leaf, may become sensitive to a touch, and thus grasp an adjoining
object. In several leaf-climbers true leaves spontaneously revolve;
and their petioles, after clasping a support, grow thicker and
stronger. We thus see that true leaves may acquire all the leading
and characteristic qualities of tendrils, namely, sensitiveness,
spontaneous movement, and subsequent thickening and induration. If
their blades or laminæ were to abort, they would form true tendrils.
And of this process of abortion we have seen every stage; for in an
ordinary tendril, as in that of the pea, we can discover no trace
of its primordial nature; in Mutisia clematis, the tendril in shape
and color closely resembles a petiole with the denuded midribs of
its leaflets; and occasionally vestiges of laminæ are retained
or reappear. Lastly, in four genera in the same family of the
Fumariaceæ we see the whole gradation; for the terminal leaflets of
the leaf-climbing Fumaria officinalis are not smaller than the other
leaflets; those of the leaf-climbing Adlumia cirrhosa are greatly
reduced; those of the Corydalis claviculata (a plant which may be
indifferently called a leaf-climber or tendril-bearer) are either
reduced to microscopical dimensions or have their blades quite
aborted, so that this plant is in an actual state of transition; and,
finally, in the Dicentra the tendrils are perfectly characterized.
Hence, if we were to see at the same time all the progenitors of the
Dicentra, we should almost certainly behold a series like that now
exhibited by the above-named four genera. In Tropæolum tricolorum we
have another kind of passage; for the leaves which are first formed
on the young plant are entirely destitute of laminæ, and must be
called tendrils, while the later formed leaves have well-developed
laminæ. In all cases, in the several kinds of leaf-climbers and of
tendril-bearers, the acquirement of sensitiveness by the midribs
of the leaves apparently stands in the closest relation with the
abortion of their laminæ or blades.

On the view here given, leaf-climbers were primordially twiners, and
tendril-bearers (of the modified leaf division) were primordially
leaf-climbers. Hence leaf-climbers are intermediate in nature between
twiners and tendril-bearers, and ought to be related to both. This is
the case: thus the several leaf-climbing species of the Antirrhineæ,
of Solanum, of Cocculus, of Gloriosa are related to the other genera
in the same family, or even to other species in the same genus, which
are true climbers. On the other hand, the leaf-climbing species of
Clematis are very closely allied to the tendril-bearing Naravelia:
the Fumariaceæ include closely allied genera which are leaf-climbers
and tendril-bearers. Lastly, one species of Bignonia is both a
leaf-climber and a tendril-bearer, and other closely allied species
are twiners.

Tendrils of the second great division consist of modified
flower-peduncles. In this case likewise we have many interesting
transitional states. The common vine (not to mention the
Cardiospermum) gives us every possible grade from finely developed
tendrils to a bunch of flower-buds, bearing the single usual lateral
flower-tendril. And when the latter itself bears some flowers, as we
know is not rarely the case, and yet retains the power of clasping a
support, we see the primordial state of all these tendrils which have
been formed by the modification of flower-peduncles.

According to Mohl and others, some tendrils consist of modified
branches. I have seen no such case, and, therefore, of course, know
nothing of any transitional states, if such occur. But Lophospermum,
at least, shows us that such a transition is possible; for its
branches spontaneously revolve, and are sensitive to contact. Hence,
if the leaves of some of the branches were to abort, they would be
converted into true tendrils. Nor is it so improbable as may at first
appear that certain branches alone should become modified, the others
remaining unaltered; for with certain varieties of Phaseolus some of
the branches are thin and flexible and twine, while other branches on
the same plant are stiff and have no such power.

If we inquire how the petiole of a leaf, or the peduncle of a
flower, or a branch first becomes sensitive and acquires the power
of bending toward the touched side, we get no certain answer.
Nevertheless, an observation by Hofmeister well deserves attention,
namely, that the shoots and leaves of all plants, while young, move
after being shaken; and it is almost invariably young petioles and
young tendrils, whether of modified leaves or flower-peduncles,
which move on being touched; so that it would appear as if these
plants had utilized and perfected a widely distributed and incipient
capacity, which capacity, as far as we can see, is of no service
to ordinary plants. If we further inquire how the stems, petioles,
tendrils, and flower-peduncles of climbing plants first acquired
their power of spontaneously revolving or, to speak more accurately,
of successively bending to all points of the compass, we are again
silenced, or at most can only remark, that the power of movement,
both spontaneous and from various stimuli, is far more common with
plants, as we shall presently see, than is generally supposed to
be the case by those who have not attended to the subject. There
is, however, one remarkable case of the Maurandia semperflorens, in
which the young flower-peduncles spontaneously revolve in very small
circles, and bend themselves, when gently rubbed, to the touched
side; yet this plant certainly profits in no way by these two feebly
developed powers. A rigorous examination of other young plants would
probably show some slight spontaneous movement in the peduncles
and petioles, as well as that sensitiveness to shaking observed by
Hofmeister. We see at least in the Maurandia a plant which might,
by a little augmentation of qualities which it already possesses,
come first to grasp a support by its flower-peduncles (as with Vitis
or Cardiospermum) and then, by the abortion of some of its flowers,
acquire perfect tendrils.

There is one interesting point which deserves notice. We have seen
that some tendrils have originated from modified leaves, and others
from modified flower-peduncles; so that some are foliar and some
axial in their homological nature. Hence it might have been expected
that they would have presented some difference in function. This is
not the case. On the contrary, they present the most perfect identity
in their several remarkable characteristics. Tendrils of both kinds
spontaneously revolve at about the same rate. Both, when touched,
bend quickly to the touched side, and afterward recover themselves
and are able to act again. In both the sensitiveness is either
confined to one side or extends all round the tendril. They are
either attracted or repelled by the light. The tips of the tendrils
in these two plants become, after contact, enlarged into disks, which
are at first adhesive by the secretion of some cement. Tendrils of
both kinds, soon after grasping a support, contract spirally; they
then increase greatly in thickness and strength. When we add to these
several points of identity the fact of the petiole of the Solanum
jaspinoides assuming the most characteristic feature of the axis,
namely, a closed ring of woody vessels, we can hardly avoid asking
whether the difference between foliar and axial organs can be of so
fundamental a nature as is generally supposed to be the case.

We have attempted to trace some of the stages in the genesis of
climbing plants. But, during the endless fluctuations in the
conditions of life to which all organic beings have been exposed, it
might have been expected that some climbing plants would have lost
the habit of climbing. In the cases of certain South African plants
belonging to great twining families, which in certain districts
of their native country never twine, but resume this habit when
cultivated in England, we have a case in point. In the leaf-climbing
Clematis flammula, and in the tendril-bearing vine, we see no loss
in the power of climbing, but only a remnant of that revolving power
which is indispensable to all twiners, and is so common, as well as
so advantageous, to most climbers. In Tecoma radicans, one of the
Bignoniaceæ, we see a last and doubtful trace of the revolving power.

With respect to the abortion of tendrils, certain cultivated
varieties of Cucurbita pepo have, according to Naudin, either quite
lost these organs or bear semi-monstrous representatives of them.
In my limited experience I have met with only one instance of their
natural suppression, namely, in the common bean. All the other
species of Vicia, I believe, bear tendrils; but the bean is stiff
enough to support its own stem, and in this species, at the end of
the petiole where a tendril ought to have arisen, a small pointed
filament is always present, about a third of an inch in length, and
which must be considered as the rudiment of a tendril. This may be
the more safely inferred, because I have seen in young, unhealthy
specimens of true tendril-bearing plants similar rudiments. In the
bean these filaments are variable in shape, as is so frequently
the case with all rudimentary organs, being either cylindrical or
foliaceous, or deeply furrowed on the upper surface. It is a rather
curious little fact that many of these filaments when foliaceous
have dark-colored glands on their lower surfaces, like those on the
stipules, which secrete a sweet fluid; so that these rudiments have
been feebly utilized.

One other analogous case, though hypothetical, is worth giving.
Nearly all the species of Lathyrus possess tendrils; but L. nissolia
is destitute of them. This plant has leaves which must have struck
every one who has noticed them with surprise, for they are quite
unlike those of all common papilionaceous plants, and resemble those
of a grass. In L. aphaca the tendril, which is not highly developed
(for it is unbranched, and has no spontaneous revolving power),
replaces the leaves, the latter in function being replaced by the
large stipules. Now, if we suppose the tendrils of L. aphaca to
become flattened and foliaceous, like the little rudimentary tendrils
of the bean, and the large stipules, not being any longer wanted, to
become at the same time reduced in size, we should have the exact
counterpart of L. nissolia, and its curious leaves are at once
rendered intelligible to us.

It may be added, as it will serve to sum up the foregoing views on
the origin of tendril-bearing plants, that if these views be correct,
L. nissolia must be descended from a primordial spirally twining
plant; that this became a leaf-climber; that first part of the
leaf and then the whole leaf became converted into a tendril, with
the stipules by compensation greatly increased in size; that this
tendril lost its branches and became simple, then lost its revolving
power (in which state it would resemble the tendril of the existing
L. aphaca), and afterward losing its prehensile power and becoming
foliaceous would no longer be called a tendril. In this last stage
(that of the existing L. nissolia) the former tendril would reassume
its original function as a leaf, and its lately largely developed
stipules, being no longer wanted, would decrease in size. If it be
true that species become modified in the course of ages, we may
conclude that L. nissolia is the result of a long series of changes,
in some degree like those just traced.

The most interesting point in the natural history of climbing plants
is their diverse power of movement; and this led one on to their
study. The most different organs--the stem, flower-peduncle, petiole,
midribs of the leaf or leaflets, and apparently aerial roots--all
possess this power.

In the first place, the tendrils place themselves in the proper
position for action, standing, for instance, in the Cobæa, vertically
upward, with their branches divergent and their hooks turned outward,
and with the young terminal shoot thrown on one side; or, as in
Clematis, the young leaves temporarily curve themselves downward, so
as to serve as grapnels.

Secondly, if the young shoot of a twining plant, or of a tendril,
be placed in an inclined position, it soon bends upward, though
completely secluded from the light. The guiding stimulus to this
movement is no doubt the attraction of gravity, as Andrew Knight
showed to be the case with germinating plants. If a succulent shoot
of almost any plant be placed in an inclined position in a glass of
water in the dark, the extremity will, in a few hours, bend upward;
and if the position of the shoot be then reversed, the now downward
bent shoot will reverse its curvature; but if the stolon of a
strawberry, which has no tendency to grow upward, be thus treated, it
will curve downward in the direction of, instead of in opposition to,
the force of gravity. As with the strawberry, so it is generally with
the twining shoots of the Hibbertia dentata, which climbs laterally
from bush to bush; for these shoots, when bent downward, show little
and sometimes no tendency to curve upward.

Thirdly, climbing plants, like other plants, bend toward the light
by a movement closely analogous to that incurvation which causes
them to revolve. This similarity in the nature of the movement was
well seen when plants were kept in a room, and their first movements
in the morning toward the light and their subsequent revolving
movements were traced on a bell glass. The movement of a revolving
shoot, and in some cases of a tendril, is retarded or accelerated
in traveling from or to the light. In a few instances tendrils bend
in a conspicuous manner toward the dark. Many authors speak as if
the movement of a plant toward the light was as directly the result
of the evaporation or of the oxygenation of the sap in the stem, as
the elongation of a bar of iron from an increase in its temperature.
But, seeing that tendrils are either attracted to or repelled by the
light, it is more probable that their movements are only guided and
stimulated by its action in the same manner as they are guided by the
force of attraction toward the centre of gravity.

Fourthly, we have in stems, petioles, flower-peduncles and
tendrils the spontaneous revolving movement which depends on no
outward stimulus, but is contingent on the youth of the part and
on its vigorous health, which again, of course, depends on proper
temperature and the other conditions of life. This is, perhaps, the
most interesting of all the movements of climbing plants because it
is continuous. Very many other plants exhibit spontaneous movements,
but they generally occur only once during the life of a plant, as in
the movements of the stamens and pistils, etc., or at intervals of
time, as in the so-called sleep of plants.

Fifthly, we have in the tendrils, whatever their homological nature
may be, in the petioles and tips of the leaves of leaf-climbers,
in the stem in one case and apparently in the aerial roots of the
vanilla, movements--often rapid movements--from contact with any
body. Extremely slight pressure suffices to cause the movement. These
several organs, after bending from a touch, become straight again,
and again bend when touched.

Sixthly, and lastly, most tendrils, soon after clasping a support,
but not after a mere temporary curvature, contract spirally. The
stimulus from the act of clasping some object seems to travel slowly
down the whole length of the tendril. Many tendrils, moreover,
ultimately contract spontaneously even if they have caught no object;
but this latter useless movement occurs only after a considerable
lapse of time.

We have seen how diversified are the movements of climbing plants.
These plants are numerous enough to form a conspicuous feature in
the vegetable kingdom; every one has heard that this is the case in
tropical forests; but even in the thickets of our temperate regions
the number of kinds and of individual plants is considerable, as
will be found by counting them. They belong to many and widely
different orders. To gain some crude idea of their distribution in
the vegetable series, I marked from the lists given by Mohl and Palm
(adding a few myself, and a competent botanist, no doubt, could add
many more) all those families in _Lindley’s Vegetable Kingdom_,
which include plants in any of our several subdivisions of twiners,
leaf-climbers, and tendril-bearers; and these (at least some of each
group) all have the power of spontaneously revolving. Lindley divides
Phanerogamic plants into fifty-nine alliances; of these, no less than
above half, namely, thirty-five, include climbing plants according to
the above definition, hook and root-climbers being excluded. To these
a few Cryptogamic plants must be added which climb by revolving. When
we reflect on this wide serial distribution of plants having this
power, and when we know that in some of the largest, well-defined
orders, such as the Compositæ, Rubiaceæ, Scrophulariaceæ, Liliaceæ,
etc., two or three genera alone, out of the host of genera in each,
have this power, the conclusion is forced on our minds that the
capacity of acquiring the revolving power on which most climbers
depend is inherent though undeveloped in most every plant in the
vegetable kingdom.




  FLOWER COLORATION
  --ALEXANDER S. WILSON


The Prophet-plant (Arnebia echioides) is a native of Persia and
Arabia, but has been introduced and grows freely in gardens in
England. Its chief interest lies in its variable flowers, which may
fairly rank with those of the changeable Hibiscus and other

                “Plants divine and strange
      That every hour their blossoms change.”

The plant is about two feet in height, and somewhat resembles a
cowslip or an auricula. It belongs to the natural order Boraginaceæ,
and is nearly allied to the lungwort, viper’s-bugloss, borage, and
forget-me-not, all of which exhibit color changes more or less
distinct. The various species of Myosotis, or forget-me-not, are
also called scorpion grasses, from the upper flower-bearing portion
of the stem being curled on itself like a watch-spring. The cluster
of flowers, forming the inflorescence of Arnebia, develops in same
scorpioid fashion. There is a double row of flower buds on the
curled stalk, and as this gradually unwinds pair after pair of the
flowers expand in succession. In shape and color the individual
flowers are not unlike those of the primrose, though rather smaller.
When a flower first opens, five conspicuous jet-black spots are seen
upon the yellow rim of the salver-shaped corolla. If the flower be
examined the following day, we are surprised to discover that the
black spots have vanished as if by magic. The yellow of the corolla
is also much paler, and a little later on presents quite a bleached
and silvery appearance, the petals becoming almost white. No sooner
have the spots disappeared from the first pair of flowers than a
second pair expand, and display their sable marks in bold relief
upon the yellow enamel of their petals. From this time onward the
inflorescence comprises both kinds of flower, those but newly opened
having the five conspicuous spots, and the older ones on which no
spots are visible. From these dark spots--the so-called finger-marks
of Mahomet, Arnebia has received its name--the Prophet-plant. Its
flowers seem bewitched, the change is so pronounced and obvious; a
day or two after unfolding they differ so much from the newly opened
ones beside them, that were they growing on separate plants, we
should at once set them down as belonging to another species.

This change of color gives rise to another interesting peculiarity.
If Arnebia be examined by daylight, and again in the dim twilight,
the observer is struck by a remarkable circumstance. In broad
daylight, the golden spotted flowers at once arrest the eye, while
their paler companions are hardly observed. The inflorescence owes
by far the greater part of its display to the younger flowers. In
the dusk this is entirely reversed; the conspicuousness of the
inflorescence now depends on the paler flowers, and the others are so
obscured that a second glance is needed before they can be discerned.
The relative brilliancy of the two sets of flowers can also be tested
by gradually retiring from the plant, keeping the eyes still fixed
on the blossoms. At dusk the young flowers are lost sight of much
sooner than the others; by day the older ones first disappear in the
distance. This peculiar transformation imparts to the inflorescence
of Arnebia a faint similitude of the pillar of cloud by day and
of fire by night--that celestial manifestation of sacred story so
closely associated with the native region of this desert flower.

Here, then, we have one of those phenomena which for the naturalist
possess all the fascination of a mystery. What can be the explanation
of this remarkable change of color, and what advantage does the
flower derive from the sudden disappearance of its spots and the
blanching of its petals?

With the reader’s permission, we shall now proceed to show why nature
has bestowed on Arnebia what she has denied to the leopard--the
power of changing its spots. Before we can say why any flower
should change its color, we must first know why a flower is colored
at all, and why all flowers are not colored alike. Almost all the
peculiarities of flowers can be explained as having reference to
the visits of insects. The honey is secreted as an inducement,
while the secret and brilliant colors serve to attract the
attention of the honey-gatherers. The researches of the late Charles
Darwin demonstrated the importance of cross-fertilization in the
vegetable kingdom. Very many flowers are quite sterile with their
own pollen; in other cases, although the flower has the capacity of
self-fertilization, the resulting seeds are of very inferior quality
compared with those obtained as a result of cross-fertilization. As
carriers of pollen, then, insects perform an essential service to
plants, and it is in order to secure their services that flowers are
brightly colored.

For the variety of color observed among flowers there appear to be
two principal reasons. A little reflection will show that, since
flowers are so dependent on insects for the conveyance of their
pollen, it must be to the advantage of each species of plant to
possess flowers distinctively colored and capable of being easily
recognized by honey-seeking insects. A bee does not visit all flowers
indiscriminately; it would be greatly to the flowers’ disadvantage if
it did. In the course of a single journey the bee for the most part
restricts itself to the flowers of one species, and has been known
to visit as many as thirty dead-nettles in succession, passing over
all other flowers. Time is saved by this method, for by keeping to
one kind of flower at a time the insect becomes familiar with its
outs and ins, and the practice thus acquired enables it to overtake
a larger number of blossoms than it could if it did not observe
this rule. This constancy in visiting the same kind of flower is
of great importance to plants, since it ensures that the pollen
will be conveyed to a flower of the same species as that from which
it came. But if all flowers were colored and perfumed alike, the
winged botanist could not identify the species; the pollen would be
constantly transferred to the stigmas of the wrong flowers, where it
would be useless, and so the work of cross-fertilization would be
seriously impeded.

A second cause contributing to the variety observed among flowers
is the desirability of attracting special kinds of insects. As
we have just seen, an insect does not visit all kinds of flowers
indiscriminately; neither, on the other hand, does a flower attract
indiscriminately all kinds of insects. Not only are injurious and
unprofitable visitors excluded, but the more specialized insects are
in greatest demand. Partiality for particular insects is shown both
by the shapes and coloring of flowers. Open shallow flowers, with
exposed honey accessible to almost all insects, have, as their most
frequent visitors, short-lipped flies and beetles. Many blossoms,
again, have become specially adapted to bees. Their honey is placed
beyond the reach of short-lipped fliers, and requires the slender
proboscis of a bee or butterfly for its extraction. Honeysuckle,
habenaria, plumbago, phlox, and narcissus illustrate a third type,
with flower-tubes so narrow and deep that their nectar is quite
inaccessible even to bees, and is reserved entirely for moths and
butterflies, which possess an extremely long and thin proboscis.
There is a corresponding adaptation in the colors; the gay tints of
the buttercup, poppy, and rose appear to have special attractions
for beetles; bees show a decided preference for blue, and this
color predominates in flowers whose shapes are adapted to their
visits. Deep tubular flowers specialized for Lepidoptera fall into
two divisions, according as they solicit the attentions of diurnal
butterflies or nocturnal moths. Red and purple are the favorite
colors of the former, while nocturnal moths show a preference for
white and pale flowers. Thus the carnation and campion (Lychnis
diurna), which open by day, have dark tints in comparison with
Lychnis respertina, which unfolds its petals toward evening. Almost
scentless by day, this white nocturnal flower diffuses a delicious
fragrance in the twilight. The evening primrose (Ænothera), which,
however, has yellow petals, is another example of this class. But
the most remarkable plant of this type is the night-flowering stock
(Cereus). Its pale blossoms open about seven in the evening, emit
puffs of odor from time to time, and close up again toward midnight;
by morning the flowers are withered. It is impossible to doubt
that we have in this instance a flower specialized for the visits
of nocturnal moths. The reason why nocturnal flowers, like the
honeysuckle and evening campion, have pale-colored petals is not
far to seek. These pale hues can be more easily distinguished at
night than the red or purple of Dianthus or Githago. Among lilies
both diurnal and nocturnal flowers occur, and clearly indicate by
their colors to which section of the Lepidoptera they are adapted.
The Turk’s-cap lily, with its perianth of fiery scarlet, is a
characteristic example of a diurnal flower adapted to butterflies
which wander abroad in daytime. On the other hand, Lilium Martagon,
an L. candidum, with their white bells, are nocturnal lilies
fertilized by night-loving moths.

Two flowers, unlike in their coloring, can hardly be equally
attractive to the same visitors, even if they grow together on the
same plant, as in the case of Arnebia; the presumption, therefore, is
that its spotted and pale blossoms are adapted for different insects.
Moreover, the stronger colors of the younger flowers correspond with
those of the day-blooming class, while the paler tints of those in
the second stage will render them more attractive to nocturnal moths;
and this view is strongly confirmed by the fact that night-blooming
flowers are never variegated, but have their petals uniformly devoid
of markings. By night the dark spots tend, in this instance, to
conceal the blossoms so much that, if these are to be converted into
nocturnal flowers, the removal of the spots is absolutely necessary.
We may therefore conclude with tolerable certainty that the flowers
of Arnebia in their first stage are adapted to bees and diurnal
Lepidoptera, while in their second condition they array themselves in
paler hues to attract nocturnal moths.

By the color change, in this instance, a diurnal is converted into
a nocturnal flower, and one advantage thereby gained is that the
blossoms appeal to a larger class of fertilizing agents. The more
restricted the circle of visitors on which any plant depends the
greater the risk, in the event of insects being scarce, of its
flowers remaining unfertilized and perishing. Here it would seem that
Nature proceeds on the same principle as a fisherman in changing
his bait. Like some other variable blossoms, Arnebia is in the
advantageous position of carrying two strings to her bow.




  QUEER FLOWERS
  --GRANT ALLEN


If Baron Munchausen had ever in the course of his travels come across
a single flower one standard British yard in diameter, fifteen
pounds avoirdupois in weight, and forming a cup big enough to hold
six quarts of water in its central hollow, it is not improbable that
the learned baron’s veracious account of the new plant might have
been met with the same polite incredulity which his other adventures
shared with those of Bruce, Stanley, Mendez Pinto, and Du Chaillu.
Nevertheless, a big blossom of this enormous size has been well known
to botanists ever since the beginning of the Nineteenth Century. When
Sir Stamford Raffles was taking care of Sumatra during our temporary
annexation, he happened one day to light upon a gigantic parasite,
which grew on the stem of a prostrate creeper in the densest part
of the tropical jungle. It measured nine feet round and three feet
across: it had five large petals with a central basin; and it was
mottled red in hue, being, in fact, in color and texture surprisingly
suggestive of raw beefsteak. One flower was open when Sir Stamford
came upon it: the other was in the bud, and looked in that state
extremely like a very big red cabbage. Specimens of this surprising
find were at once forwarded to England, and it was at last duly
labeled after the names of its two discoverers as Rafflesia Arnoldi.

The mere size of this mammoth among flowers would in itself naturally
suffice to give it a distinct claim to respectful attention; but
Rafflesia possesses many other sterling qualities far more calculated
than simple bigness to endear it to a large and varied circle of
insect acquaintances. The oddest thing about it, indeed, is the fact
that it is a deliberately deceptive and alluring blossom. As soon
as it was first discovered, Dr. Arnold noticed that it possessed a
very curious carrion smell, exactly like that of putrefying meat. He
also observed that this smell attracted flies in large numbers by
false pretences to settle in the centre of the cup. But it is only
of late years that the real significance and connection of these
curious facts has come to be perceived. We now know that Rafflesia is
a flower which wickedly and feloniously lays itself out to deceive
the confiding meat-flies and to starve their helpless infants in the
midst of apparent plenty. The majority of legitimate flowers (if I
may be allowed the expression) get themselves decently fertilized
by bees and butterflies, who may be considered as representing the
regular trade, and who carry the fecundating pollen on their heads
and proboscises from one blossom to another, while engaged in their
usual business of gathering honey every day from every opening
flower. But Rafflesia, on the contrary, has positively acquired a
fallacious external resemblance to raw meat, and a decidedly high
flavor, on purpose to take in the too trustful Sumatran flies.
When a fly sights and scents one, he (or rather she) proceeds at
once to settle in the cup, and there lay a number of eggs in what
it naturally regards as a very fine decaying carcass. Then, having
dusted itself over in the process with plenty of pollen from this
first flower, it flies away confidingly to the next promising bud,
in search both of food for itself and of a fitting nursery for
its future little ones. In doing so, it of course fertilizes all
the blossoms that it visits, one after another, by dusting them
successively with each other’s pollen. When the young grubs are
hatched out, however, they discover the base deception all too late,
and perish miserably in their fallacious bed, the hapless victims of
misplaced parental confidence. Even as Zeuxis deceived the very birds
with his painted grapes, so Rafflesia deceives the flies themselves
by its ingenious mimicry of a putrid beefsteak. In the fierce
competition of tropical life, it has found out by simple experience
that dishonesty is the best policy.

The general principle which this strange flower illustrates in so
striking a fashion is just this. Most common flowers have laid
themselves out to attract bees, and so a bee flower forms our human
ideal of central typical blossom: it looks, in short, we think, as
a flower ought to look. But there are some originally minded and
eccentric plants which have struck out a line for themselves, and
taken to attracting sundry casual flies, wasps, midges, beetles,
snails, or even birds, which take the place of bees as their regular
fertilizers; and it is these Bohemians of the vegetable world that
make up what we all consider as the queerest and most singular
of all flowers. They adapt their appearance and structure to the
particular tastes and habits of their chosen guests.

Most of the flowers specially affected by carrion flies have a lurid
red color and a distinct smell of bad meat. Few of them, however,
are quite so cruel in their habits as Rafflesia. For the most part,
they attract the insects by their appearance and odor, but reward
their services with a little honey and other allurements. This is
the case with the curious English fly-orchid, whose dull purple lip
is covered with tiny drops of nectar, licked off by the fertilizing
flies. The very malodorous carrion-flowers (or stapelias) are visited
by blue-bottles and flesh-flies, while an allied form actually sets a
trap for the fly’s proboscis, which catches the insect by its hairs,
and compels him to give a sharp pull in order to free himself: this
pull dislodges the pollen, and so secures cross-fertilization. The
Alpine butterwort sets a somewhat similar gin so vigorously that when
a weak fly is caught in it he can not disengage himself, and there
perishes wretchedly, like a hawk in a keeper’s trap.

The south European birthwort, a very lurid-looking and fly-enticing
flower, has a sort of cornucopia-shaped tube, lined with long hairs,
which all point inward, and so allow small midges to creep down
readily enough, after the fashion of an eel-buck or lobster-pot. “Sed
revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras”--to get out again is
the great difficulty. Try as they will, the little prisoners can not
crawl back upward against the downward-pointing hairs. Accordingly,
they are forced by circumstances over which they have no control to
walk aimlessly up and down their prison yard, fertilizing the little
knobby surface of the seed-vessel from another flower. But as soon
as the seeds are all impregnated, the stamens begin to shed their
pollen, and dust over the gnats with copious powder. Then the hairs
all wither up, and the gnats, released from their lobster-pot prison,
fly away once more on the same fool’s errand. Before doing so,
however, they make a good meal off the pollen that covers the floor,
though they still carry away a great many grains on their own wings
and bodies.

A very similar but much larger fly-cage is set by our common wild
arum, or cuckoo-pint. This familiar big spring flower exhales a
disagreeable fleshy odor, which, by its meat-like flavor, attracts a
tiny midge with beautiful iridescent wings and a very poetical name,
Psychoda. As in most other cases where flies are specially invited,
the color of the cuckoo-pint is usually a dull and somewhat livid
purple. A palisade of hairs closes the neck of the funnel-shaped
blossom, and repeats the lobster-pot tactics of the entirely
unconnected south European birthwort. The little flies, entering by
this narrow and stockaded door, fertilize the future red berries
with pollen brought from their last prison, and are then rewarded
for their pains by a tiny drop of honey, which slowly oozes from the
middle of each embryo fruitlet as soon as it is duly impregnated.
Afterward, the pollen is shed upon their backs by the bursting of the
pollen-bag; the hairs wither up, and open the previously barricaded
exit, and the midges issue forth in search of a new prison and a
second drop of honey.

From plants that imprison insects to plants that devour insects alive
is a natural transition. The giant who keeps a dungeon is first
cousin to the ogre who swallows down his captives entire. And yet the
subject is really too serious a one for jesting; there is something
too awful and appalling in this contest of the unconscious and
insentient with the living and feeling, of a lower vegetative form
of life with a higher animated form, that it always makes me shudder
slightly to think of it.

On most English peaty patches there grows a little reddish-leaved
odd-looking plant known as sundew. It is but an inconspicuous small
weed, and yet literary and scientific honors have been heaped upon
its head to an extent almost unknown in the case of any other member
of the British floral commonwealth. Mr. Swinburne has addressed an
ode to it, and Mr. Darwin has written a learned book about it. Its
portrait has been sketched by innumerable artists, and its biography
narrated by innumerable authors. And all this attention has been
showered upon it, not because it is beautiful, or good, or modest,
or retiring, but simply and solely because it is atrociously and
deliberately wicked. Sundew, in fact, is the best known and most
easily accessible of the carnivorous and insectivorous plants.

The leaf of the sundew is round and flat, and it is covered by a
number of small red glands, which act as the attractive advertisement
to the misguided midges. Their knobby ends are covered with a
glutinous secretion, which glistens like honey in the sunlight, and
so gains for the plant its common English name. But the moment a
hapless fly, attracted by hopes of meat or nectar, settles quietly in
its midst, on hospitable thoughts intent, the viscid liquid holds him
tight immediately, and clogs his legs and wings, so that he is snared
exactly as a peregrine is snared with bird-lime. Then the leaf, with
all its “red-lipped mouths,” closes over him slowly but surely,
and crushes him by folding its edges inward gradually toward the
centre. The fly often lingers long with ineffectual struggles, while
the cruel crawling leaf pours forth a digestive fluid--a vegetable
gastric juice, as it were--and dissolves him alive piecemeal in its
hundred clutching suckers.

Our little English insectivorous plants, however (we have at least
five or six such species in our own islands), are mere clumsy
bunglers compared to the great and highly developed insect-eaters of
the tropics, which stand to them in somewhat the same relation as the
Bengal tiger stands to the British wildcat or the skulking weasel.
The Indian pitcher-plants or Nepenthes bear big pitchers of very
classical shapes, closed in the early state with a lid, which lifts
itself and opens the pitcher as soon as the plant has fully completed
its insecticidal arrangements. The details of the trap vary somewhat
in the different species, but as a whole the _modus operandi_ of the
plant is somewhat after this atrocious fashion. The pitcher contains
a quantity of liquid, that of the sort appropriately known as the
Rajah holding as much as a quart; and the insect, attracted in most
cases by some bright color, crawls down the sticky side, quaffs the
unkind Nepenthe, and forgets his troubles forthwith in the vat of
oblivion prepared for him beneath by the delusive vase. A slimy Lethe
flows over his dissolving corse, and the relentless pitcher-plant
sucks his juices to supply his own fibres with the necessary
nitrogenous materials.

The California pitcher-plant, or Darlingtonia, is a member of a
totally distinct family, which has independently hit upon the same
device in the Western world as the Indian Nepenthes in the Eastern
Hemisphere. The pitcher in this case, though differently produced,
is hooded and lidded like its Oriental analogue; but the inside of
the hood is furnished with short hairs, all pointing inward, and
legibly inscribed (to the botanical eye) with the appropriate motto:
“Vestigia nulla retrorsum.” The whole arrangement is colored dingy
orange, so as to attract the attention of flies; and it contains a
viscid digestive fluid in which the flies are first drowned and then
slowly melted and assimilated. The pitchers are often found half full
of dead and decaying assorted insects.

There are a great many more of these highly developed insect-eaters,
such as the Guiana heliamphora (more classical shapes), the
Australian cephalotus, and the American side-saddle flowers, and
they all without exception grow in very wet and boggy places, like
the English sundews, butterworts, and bladderworts. The reason so
many marsh plants have taken to these strange insect-eating habits
is simply that their roots are often badly supplied with manure
or ammonia in any form; and, as no plant can get on without these
necessaries of life (in the strictest sense), only those marshy weeds
have any chance of surviving which can make up in one way or another
for the native deficiencies of their situation. The sundews show us,
as it were, the first stage in the acquisition of these murderous
habits; the pitcher-plants are the abandoned ruffians which have
survived among all their competitors in virtue of their exceptional
ruthlessness and deceptive coloration. I ought to add that in all
cases the pitchers are not flowers, but highly modified and altered
leaves, though in many instances they are quite as beautifully
colored as the largest and handsomest exotic orchids.

The principle of Venus’s Fly-trap is somewhat different, though its
practice is equally nefarious. This curious marsh-plant, instead of
setting hocussed bowls of liquid for its victims, like a Florentine
of the Fourteenth Century, lays a regular gin or snare for them on
the same plan as a common snapping rat-trap. The end of the leaf
is divided into two folding halves by the midrib, and on each half
are three or five highly sensitive hairs. The moment one of these
hairs is touched by a fly, the two halves come together, inclosing
the luckless insect between them. As if on purpose to complete the
resemblance to a rat-trap, too, the edges of the leaf are formed of
prickly jagged teeth, which fit in between one another when the gin
shuts, and so effectually cut off the insect’s retreat. The plant
then sucks up the juices of the fly; and as soon as it has fully
digested them, the leaf opens automatically once more, and resets
the trap for another victim. It is an interesting fact that this
remarkable insectivore appears to be still a new and struggling
species, or else an old type on the very point of extinction,
for it is only found in a few bogs over a very small area in the
neighborhood of Wilmington, South California.




  ATHENA IN THE EARTH
  --JOHN RUSKIN


The spirit in the plant--that is to say, its power of gathering dead
matter out of the wreck round it, and shaping it into its own chosen
shape--is, of course, strongest at the moment of its flowering, for
it then not only gathers, but forms, with the greatest energy.

And where this life is in it at full power, its form becomes invested
with aspects that are chiefly delightful to our own human passions;
namely, first, with the loveliest outlines of shape; and, secondly,
with the most brilliant phases of the primary colors, blue, yellow,
and red or white, the unison of all; and, to make it all more
strange, this time of peculiar and perfect glory is associated with
relations of the plants or blossoms to each other, correspondent to
the joy of love in human creatures, and having the same object in the
continuance of the race. Only, with respect to plants, as animals, we
are wrong in speaking as if the object of this strong life were only
the bequeathing of itself. The flower is the end or proper object
of the seed, not the seed of the flower. The reason for seeds is
that flowers may be; not the reason of flowers that seeds may be.
The flower itself is the creature which the spirit makes; only, in
connection with its perfectness, is placed the giving birth to its
successor.

The main fact, then, about a flower is that it is the part of the
plant’s form developed at the moment of its intensest life: and this
inner rapture is usually marked externally for us by the flush of one
or more of the primary colors. What the character of the flower shall
be depends entirely upon the portion of the plant into which this
rapture of spirit has been put. Sometimes the life is put into its
outer sheath, and then the outer sheath becomes white and pure, and
full of strength and grace; sometimes the life is put into the common
leaves, just under the blossom, and they become scarlet or purple;
sometimes the life is put into the stalks of the flower, and they
flush blue; sometimes in its outer inclosure or calyx; mostly into
its inner cup; but, in all cases, the presence of the strongest life
is asserted by characters in which the human sight takes pleasure,
and which seemed prepared with distinct reference to us, or rather,
bear, in being delightful, evidence of having been produced by the
power of the same spirit as our own.

With the early serpent-worship there was associated another--that
of the groves--of which you will find the evidence exhaustively
collected in Mr. Fergusson’s work. This tree-worship may have taken
a dark form when associated with the Draconian one; or opposed,
as in Judea, to a purer faith; but in itself, I believe, it was
always healthy, and though it retains little definite hieroglyphic
power in subsequent religion, it becomes, instead of symbolic, real;
the flowers and trees are themselves beheld and beloved with a
half-worshiping delight, which is always noble and healthful.

And it is among the most notable indications of the volition of the
animating power that we find the ethical signs of good and evil set
on these also, as well as upon animals; the venom of the serpent,
and in some respects its image also, being associated even with
the passionless growth of the leaf out of the ground; while the
distinctions of species seem appointed with more definite ethical
address to the intelligence of man as their material products become
more useful to him.

I can easily show this and, at the same time, make clear the relation
to other plants of the flowers which especially belong to Athena,
by examining the natural myths in the groups of the plants which
would be used at any country dinner over which Athena would, in her
simplest household authority, cheerfully rule, here, in England.
Suppose Horace’s favorite dish of beans with the bacon; potatoes;
some savory stuffing of onions and herbs with the meat; celery, and
a radish or two, with the cheese; nuts and apples for dessert, and
brown bread. The beans are, from earliest time, the most important
and interesting of the seeds of the great tribe of plants from which
came the Latin and French name for all kitchen vegetables--things
that are gathered with the hand--podded seeds that can not be reaped,
or beaten, or shaken down, but must be gathered green. “Leguminous”
plants, all of them having flowers like butterflies, seeds in
(frequently pendent) pods--“lætum silique quassante legumen”--smooth
and tender leaves, divided into many minor ones--strange adjuncts of
tendril, for climbing (and sometimes of thorn)--exquisitely sweet,
yet pure, scents of blossom, and almost always harmless, if not
serviceable seeds. It is of all tribes of plants the most definite;
its blossoms being entirely limited in their parts, and not passing
into other forms. It is also the most usefully extended in range
and scale; familiar in the height of the forest--acacia, laburnum,
Judas-tree; familiar in the sown field--bean and vetch and pea;
familiar in the pasture--in every form of clustered clover and sweet
trefoil tracery; the most entirely serviceable and human of all
orders of plants.

Next, in the potato, we have the scarcely innocent underground stem
of one of a tribe set aside for evil;[6] having the deadly nightshade
for its queen, and including the henbane, the witch’s mandrake, and
the worst natural curse of modern civilization--tobacco. And the
strange thing about this tribe is that, though thus set aside for
evil, they are not a group distinctly separate from those that are
happier in function. There is nothing in other tribes of plants
like the bean blossom; but there is another family with forms and
structure closely connected with this venomous one. Examine the
purple and yellow bloom of the common hedge nightshade; you will
find it constructed exactly like some of the forms of the cyclamen;
and, getting this clew, you will find at last the whole poisonous and
terrible group to be--sisters of the primulas!

The nightshades are, in fact, primroses with a curse upon them; and
a sign set in their petals by which the deadly and condemned flowers
may always be known from the innocent ones--that the stamens of the
nightshades are between the lobes, and of the primulas, opposite the
lobes of the corolla.

Next, side by side, in the celery and radish, you have the two great
groups of umbelled and cruciferous plants; alike in conditions of
rank among herbs: both flowering in clusters; but the umbelled
group, flat, the crucifers, in spires: both of them mean and poor in
blossom, and losing what beauty they have by too close crowding; both
of them having the most curious influence on human character in the
temperate zones of the earth, from the days of the parsley crown and
hemlock drink, and mocked Euripidean chervil, until now: but chiefly
among the northern nations, being especially plants that are of some
humble beauty, and (the crucifers) of endless use, when they are
chosen and cultivated; but that run to wild waste, and are signs of
neglected ground, in their rank or ragged leaves, and meagre stalks,
and pursed or podded seed-clusters. Capable, even under cultivation,
of no perfect beauty, though reaching some subdued delightfulness in
the lady’s smock and the wall-flower; for the most part, they have
every floral quality meanly, and in vain--they are white, without
purity; golden, without preciousness; redundant, without richness;
divided, without fineness; massive, without strength; and slender,
without grace. Yet think over that useful vulgarity of theirs; and of
the relations of German and English peasant character to its food of
kraut and cabbage (as of Arab character to its food of palm-fruit),
and you will begin to feel what purposes of the forming spirit are in
these distinctions of species.

Next we take the nuts and apples--the nuts representing one of the
groups of catkined trees whose blossoms are only tufts and dust; and
the other, the rose tribe, in which fruit and flower alike have been
the types, to the highest races of men, of all passionate temptation
or pure delight, from the coveting of Eve to the crowning of the
Madonna above the

                  “Rosa sempiterna
      Che si dilata, rigrada, e ridole
      Odor di lode al Sol.”

We have now no time for these; we must go on to the humblest group of
all, yet the most wonderful, that of the grass, which has given us
our bread; and from that we will go back to the herbs.

The vast family of plants which, under rain, make the earth green for
man; and, under sunshine, give him bread; and, in their springing
in the early year, mixed with their native flowers, have given us
(far more than the new leaves of trees) the thought and word of
“spring,” divide themselves broadly into three great groups--the
grasses, sedges, and rushes. The grasses are essentially a clothing
for healthy and pure ground, watered by occasional rain, but in
itself dry and fit for all cultivated pasture and corn. They are
distinctively plants with round and pointed stems, which have long,
green, flexible leaves, and heads of seed independently emerging
from them. The sedges are essentially the clothing of waste and
more or less poor or uncultivable soils, coarse in their structure,
frequently triangular in stem--hence called “acute” by Virgil--and
with their heads of seed not extricated from their leaves. Now, in
both the sedges and grasses, the blossom has a common structure,
though undeveloped in the sedges, but composed always of groups of
double husks, which have mostly a spinous process in the centre,
sometimes projecting into a long awn or beard; this central process
being characteristic also of the ordinary leaves of mosses, as if a
moss were a kind of ear of corn made permanently green on the ground,
and with a new and distinct fructification. But the rushes differ
wholly from the sedge and grass in their blossom structure. It is not
a dual cluster, but a twice threefold one, so far separate from the
grasses and so closely connected with a higher order of plants that
I think you will find it convenient to group the rushes at once with
that higher order, to which, if you will for the present let me give
the general name of Drosidæ, or dew-plants, it will enable me to say
what I have to say of them much more shortly and clearly.

These Drosidæ, then, are plants delighting in interrupted
moisture--moisture which comes either partially or at certain
seasons--into dry ground. They are not water-plants; but the signs
of water resting among dry places. Many of the true water-plants
have triple blossoms, with a small triple calyx holding them; in the
Drosidæ, the floral spirit passes into the calyx also, and the entire
flower becomes a six-rayed star, bursting out of the stem laterally,
as if it were the first of flowers, and had made its way to the light
by force through the unwilling green. They are often required to
retain moisture or nourishment for the future blossom through long
times of drought; and this they do in bulbs under ground, of which
some become a rude and simple, but most wholesome, food for man.

So now, observe, you are to divide the whole family of the
herbs of the field into three great groups--Drosidæ, Carices,
Gramineæ--dew-plants, sedges, and grasses. Then the Drosidæ are
divided into five great orders--lilies, asphodels, amaryllids, irids,
and rushes. No tribes of flowers have had so great, so varied, or so
healthy an influence on man as this great group of Drosidæ, depending
not so much on the whiteness of some of their blossoms, or the
radiance of others, as on the strength and delicacy of the substance
of their petals; enabling them to take forms of faultless elastic
curvature, either in cups, as the crocus, or expanding bells, as
the true lily, or heath-like bells, as the hyacinth, or bright and
perfect stars, like the star of Bethlehem, or, when they are affected
by the strange reflex of the serpent nature which forms the labiate
group of all flowers, closing into forms of exquisitely fantastic
symmetry in the gladiolus. Put by their side their Nereid sisters,
the water-lilies, and you have in them the origin of the loveliest
forms of ornamental design and the most powerful floral myths yet
recognized among human spirits, born by the streams of the Ganges,
Nile, Arno, and Avon.

For consider a little what each of those five tribes has been to the
spirit of man. First, in their nobleness: the lilies gave the lily of
the Annunciation; the asphodels, the flower of the Elysian fields;
the irids, the fleur-de-lys of chivalry; and the amaryllids, Christ’s
lily of the field; while the rush, trodden always underfoot, became
the emblem of humility. Then take each of the tribes, and consider
the extent of their lower influence. Perdita’s, “The crown imperial,
lilies of all kinds,” are the first tribe; which giving the type of
perfect purity in the Madonna’s lily, have, by their lovely form,
influenced the entire decorative design of Italian sacred art; while
ornament of war was continually enriched by the curves of the triple
petals of the Florentine “giglio” and French fleur-de-lys; so that it
is impossible to count their influence for good in the Middle Ages,
partly as a symbol of womanly character and partly of the utmost
brightness and refinement of chivalry in the city which was the
flower of cities.

Afterward the group of the turban-lilies, or tulips, did some
mischief (their special stains having made them the favorite caprice
of florists); but they may be pardoned all such guilt for the
pleasure they have given in cottage-gardens, and are yet to give,
when lowly life may again be possible among us; and the crimson bars
of the tulips in their trim beds, with their likeness in crimson bars
of morning above them, and its dew glittering heavy, globed in their
glossy cups, may be loved better than the gray nettles of the ash
heap, under gray sky, unveined by vermilion or by gold.

The next great group of the asphodels divides itself also into two
principal families: one, in which the flowers are like stars, and
clustered characteristically in balls, though opening sometimes into
looser heads; and the other, in which the flowers are in long bells,
opening suddenly at the lips, and clustered in spires on a long stem,
or drooping from it when bent by their weight.

The star group of the squills, garlics, and onions has always
caused me great wonder. I can not understand why its beauty and
serviceableness should have been associated with the rank scent which
has been really among the most powerful means of degrading peasant
life, and separating it from that of the higher classes.

The belled group of the hyacinth and convallaria is as delicate as
the other is coarse; the unspeakable azure light along the ground of
the wood hyacinth in English spring; the grape hyacinth, which is in
south France, as if a cluster of grapes and a hive of honey had been
distilled and compressed together into one small boss of celled and
beaded blue; the lilies of the valley everywhere, in each sweet and
wild recess of rocky land--count the influences of these on childish
and innocent life; then measure the mythic power of the hyacinth and
asphodel as connected with Greek thoughts of immortality; finally
take their useful and nourishing power in ancient and modern peasant
life, and it will be strange if you do not feel what fixed relation
exists between the agency of the creating spirit in these and in us
who live by them.

It is impossible to bring into any tenable compass for our present
purpose even hints of the human influence of the amaryllids and
irids--only note this generally, that while these in northern
countries share with the Primulas the fields of spring, it seems that
in Greece the Primulaceæ are not an extended tribe, while the crocus,
narcissus, and Amaryllis lutea, the “lily of the field” (I suspect
also that the flower whose name we translate “violet” was in truth
an iris), represented to the Greek the first coming of the breath
of life on the renewed herbage; and became in his thoughts the true
embroidery of the saffron robe of Athena. Later in the year, the
dianthus (which, though belonging to an entirely different race of
plants, has yet a strange look of having been made out of the grasses
by turning the sheath-membrane at the root of their leaves into a
flower) seems to scatter, in multitudinous families, its crimson
stars far and wide. But the golden lily and crocus, together with the
asphodel, retain always the old Greek’s fondest thoughts--they are
only “golden” flowers that are to burn on the trees and float on the
streams of paradise.

I have but one tribe of plants more to note at our country feast--the
savory herbs; but must go a little out of my way to come at them
rightly. All flowers whose petals are fastened together, and most of
those whose petals are loose, are best thought of first as a kind of
cup or tube opening at the mouth. Sometimes the opening is gradual,
as in the convolvulus or campanula; oftener there is a distinct
change of direction between the tube and expanding lip, as in the
primrose; or even a contraction under the lip, making the tube into a
narrow-necked phial or vase, as in the heaths, but the general idea
of a tube expanding into a quatrefoil, cinquefoil, or sixfoil, will
embrace most of the forms.

Now it is easy to conceive that flowers of this kind, growing in
close clusters, may, in process of time, have extended their outside
petals rather than the interior ones (as the outer flowers of the
clusters of many umbellifers actually do), and thus elongated and
variously distorted forms have established themselves; then if the
stalk is attached to the side instead of the base of the tube, its
base becomes a spur, and thus all the grotesque forms of the mints,
violets, and larkspurs gradually might be composed. But, however this
may be, there is one great tribe of plants separate from the rest,
and of which the influence seems shed upon the rest in different
degrees: and these would give the impression not so much of having
been developed by change as of being stamped with a character of
their own, more or less serpentine or dragon-like. And I think
you will find it convenient to call these generally Draconidæ;
disregarding their present ugly botanical name, which I do not care
even to write once--you may take for their principal types the
foxglove, snap-dragon, and calceolaria; and you will find they all
agree in a tendency to decorate themselves by spots, and with bosses
or swollen places in their leaves, as if they had been touched by
poison. The spot of the foxglove is especially strange, because it
draws the color out of the tissue all round it, as if it had been
stung, and as if the central color was really an inflamed spot with
paleness round. Then also they carry to its extreme the decoration
by bulging or pouting the petal; often beautifully used by other
flowers in a minor degree, like the beating out of bosses in hollow
silver, as in the kalmia, beating out apparently in each petal by the
stamens instead of a hammer; or the borage, pouting inward; but the
snap-dragons and calceolarias carry it to its extreme.

Then the spirit of these Draconidæ seems to pass more or less into
other flowers, whose forms are properly pure vases; but it affects
some of them slightly, others not at all. It never strongly affects
the heaths; never once the roses; but it enters like an evil spirit
into the buttercup, and turns it into a larkspur, with a black,
spotted, grotesque centre, and a strange, broken blue, gorgeous and
intense; yet impure, glittering on the surface as if it were strewn
with broken glass, and stained or darkened irregularly into red. And
then at last the serpent-charm changes the ranunculus into monkshood,
and makes it poisonous. It enters into the forget-me-not, and the
star of heavenly turquoise is corrupted into the viper’s bugloss,
darkened with the same strange red as the larkspur, and fretted into
a fringe of thorn; it enters, together with a strange insect-spirit,
into the asphodels, and (though with a greater interval between the
groups), they change into spotted orchideæ; it touches the poppy,
it becomes a fumaria; the iris, and it pouts into a gladiolus; the
lily, and it checkers itself into a snake’s head, and secretes in the
deep of its bell drops not of venom indeed, but honey-dew, as if it
were a healing serpent. For there is an Æsculapian as well as an evil
serpentry among the Draconidæ, and the fairest of them, “erba della
Madonna” of Venice (Linaria Cymbalaria), descends from the ruins
it delights in to the herbage at their feet, and touches it; and
behold, instantly, a vast group of herbs for healing--all draconid
in form--spotted and crested, and from their lip-like corollas
named “labitæ”; full of various balm and warm strength for healing,
yet all of them without splendid honor or perfect beauty, “ground
ivies,” richest when crushed under the foot; the best sweetness and
gentle brightness of the robes of the field--thyme, and marjoram, and
euphrasy.

And observe, again and again, with respect to all these divisions
and powers of plants; it does not matter in the least by what
concurrences of circumstance or necessity they may gradually have
been developed: the concurrence of circumstance is itself the supreme
and inexplicable fact. We always come at last to a formative cause
which directs the circumstance and mode of meeting it. If you ask
an ordinary botanist the reason of the form of a leaf, he will tell
you it is a “developed tubercle,” and that its ultimate form “is
owing to the directions of its vascular threads.” But what directs
its vascular threads? “They are seeking for something they want,”
he will probably answer. What made them want that? What made them
seek for it thus? Seek for it, in five fibres or in three? Seek for
it, in serration, or in sweeping curves? Seek for it, in servile
tendrils, or impetuous spray? Seek for it, in woolen wrinkles rough
with stings, or in glossy surfaces, green with pure strength, and
winterless delight?

There is no answer. But the sum of all is, that over the entire
surface of the earth and its waters, as influenced by the power of
the air under solar light, there is developed a series of changing
forms, in clouds, plants, and animals, all of which have reference
in their action, or nature, to the human intelligence that perceives
them; and on which, in their aspects of horror and beauty, and their
qualities of good and evil, there is engraved a series of myths, or
words of the forming power, which, according to the true passion
and energy of the human race, they have been enabled to read into
religion.




  PROGRESS OF CULTIVATION
  --ALPHONSE DE CANDOLLE


In spite of the obscurity of the beginnings of cultivation in
each region, it is certain that they occurred at very different
periods. One of the most ancient examples of cultivated plants is
in a drawing representing figs, found in Egypt in the pyramid of
Gizeh. The epoch of the construction of this monument is uncertain.
Authors have assigned a date varying between fifteen hundred and
four thousand two hundred years before the Christian era. Supposing
it to be two thousand years, its actual age would be four thousand
years. Now, the construction of the pyramids could only have been
the work of a numerous, organized people, possessing a certain
degree of civilization, and consequently an established agriculture,
dating from some centuries back at least. In China, two thousand
seven hundred years before Christ, the Emperor Chenming instituted
the ceremony at which every year five species of useful plants are
sown--rice, sweet potato, wheat, and two kinds of millet. These
plants must have been cultivated for some time in certain localities
before they attracted the emperor’s attention to such a degree.
Agriculture appears then to be as ancient in China as in Egypt. The
constant relations between Egypt and Mesopotamia lead us to suppose
that an almost contemporaneous cultivation existed in the valleys of
the Euphrates and the Nile. And it may have been equally early in
India and in the Malay Archipelago. The history of the Dravidian and
Malay peoples does not reach far back, and is sufficiently obscure,
but there is no reason to believe that cultivation has not been known
among them for a very long time, particularly along the banks of the
rivers.

[Illustration: Common Cereals and Food Plants

1, Lentil; 2, Flax; 3, Barley; 4, Millet; 5, Rye]

The ancient Egyptians and the Phœnicians propagated many plants
in the region of the Mediterranean, and the Aryan nations, whose
migrations toward Europe began about 2500, or at least 2000 years B.
C., carried with them several species already cultivated in Western
Asia. We shall see, in studying the history of several species,
that some plants were probably cultivated in Europe and in the north
of Africa prior to the Aryan migration. This is shown by names in
languages more ancient than the Aryan tongues; for instance, Finn,
Basque, Berber, and the speech of the Guanchos of the Canary Isles.
However, the remains called kitchen-middens, of ancient Danish
dwellings, have hitherto furnished no proof of cultivation or any
indication of the possession of metal. The Scandinavians of that
period lived principally by fishing and hunting, and perhaps eked
out their subsistence by indigenous plants, such as the cabbage,
the nature of which does not admit any remnant of traces in the
dung-heaps and rubbish, and which, moreover, did not require
cultivation. The absence of metals does not in these northern
countries argue a greater antiquity than the age of Pericles, or
even the palmy days of the Roman Republic. Later, when bronze was
known in Sweden--a region far removed from the then civilized
countries--agriculture had at length been introduced. Among the
remains of that epoch was found a carving of a cart drawn by two oxen
and driven by a man.

The ancient inhabitants of Eastern Switzerland, at a time when they
possessed instruments of polished stone and no metals, cultivated
several plants, of which some were of Asiatic origin. Heer has shown
in his admirable work on the lake-dwellings that the inhabitants had
intercourse with the countries south of the Alps. They may also have
received plants cultivated by the Ibernians, who occupied Gaul before
the Kelts. At the period when the lake-dwellers of Switzerland and
Savoy possessed bronze, their agriculture was more varied. It seems
that the lake-dwellers of Italy, when in possession of this metal,
cultivated fewer species than those of Savoy, and this may be due
either to a greater antiquity, or to local circumstances. The remains
of the lake-dwellers of Laybach and of the Mondsee in Austria prove
likewise a completely primitive agriculture; no cereals have been
found at Laybach, and but a single grain of wheat at the Mondsee.
The backward condition of agriculture in this eastern part of Europe
is contrary to the hypothesis, based on a few words used by ancient
historians, that the Aryans sojourned first in the region of the
Danube, and that Thrace was civilized before Greece. In spite of this
example, agriculture seems in general to have been more ancient in
the temperate parts of Europe than we should be inclined to believe
from the Greeks, who were disposed, like certain modern writers, to
attribute the origin of all progress to their own nation.

In America, agriculture is perhaps not quite so ancient as in Asia
and Egypt, if we are to judge from the civilization of Mexico and
Peru, which does not date even from the first centuries of the
Christian era. However, the widespread cultivation of certain plants,
such as maize, tobacco, and the sweet potato, argues a considerable
antiquity, perhaps two thousand years or thereabout. History is at
fault in this matter, and we can only hope to be enlightened by the
discoveries of archæology and geology.

The greater number of ancient historians have confused the fact of
a cultivation of a species in a country with that of its previous
existence there in a wild state. It has been commonly asserted, even
in our own day, that a species cultivated in America or China is a
native of America or China. A no less common error is the belief
that a species comes originally from a given country because it has
come to us from thence, and not direct from the place in which it is
really indigenous. Thus the Greeks and Romans called the peach the
Persian apple, because they had seen it cultivated in Persia, where
it probably did not grow wild. It was a native of China. They called
the pomegranate, which had spread gradually from garden to garden
from Persia to Mauritania, the apple of Carthage (Malum Punicum).
Very ancient authors, such as Herodotus and Berosus, are yet more
liable to error, in spite of their desire to be accurate.

Agriculture came originally, at least so far as the principal species
are concerned, from three great regions, in which certain plants
grew, regions which had no communication with each other. These are:
China, the southwest of Asia (with Egypt), and intertropical America.
I do not mean to say that in Europe, in Africa, and elsewhere savage
tribes may not have cultivated a few species locally, at an early
epoch, as an addition to the resources of hunting and fishing; but
the greater civilizations based upon agriculture began in the three
regions I have indicated. It is worthy of note that in the Old World
agricultural communities established themselves along the banks of
the rivers, whereas in America they dwelt on the highlands of Mexico
and Peru. This may perhaps have been due to the original situation
of the plants suitable for cultivation, for the banks of the
Mississippi, of the Amazon, of the Orinoco, are not more unhealthy
than those of the rivers of the Old World. A few words about each of
the three regions. China had already possessed for some thousands
of years a flourishing agriculture and even horticulture, when she
entered for the first time into relations with Western Asia, by the
mission of Chang-Kien, during the reign of the Emperor Wu-ti, in
the second century before the Christian era. The records known as
Pent-sao, written in our Middle Ages, state that he brought back the
bean, the cucumber, the lucern, the saffron, the sesame, the walnut,
the pea, the spinach, the watermelon, and other western plants,
then unknown to the Chinese. Chang-Kien, it will be observed, was
no ordinary ambassador. He considerably enlarged the geographical
knowledge and improved the economic condition of his countrymen.
It is true that he was constrained to dwell ten years in the west,
and that he belonged to an already civilized people, one of whose
emperors had, 2700 B. C., consecrated with imposing ceremonies the
cultivation of certain plants. The Mongolians were too barbarous,
and came from too cold a country, to have been able to introduce
many useful species into China; but when we consider the origin
of the peach and the apricot, we shall see that these plants were
brought into China from Western Asia, probably by isolated travelers,
merchants or others, who passed north of the Himalayas. A few species
spread in the same way into China from the west before the embassy
of Chang-Kien.

Regular communication between China and India only began in the time
of Chang-Kien, and by the circuitous way of Bactriana; but gradual
transmissions from place to place may have been effected through
the Malay Peninsula and Cochin-China. The writers of northern China
may have been ignorant of them, and especially since the southern
provinces were only united to the empire in the second century before
Christ.

Regular communications between China and Japan only took place about
the year 57 of our era, when an ambassador was sent; and the Chinese
had no real knowledge of their eastern neighbors until the Third
Century, when the Chinese character was introduced into Japan.

The vast region which stretches from the Ganges to Armenia and the
Nile was not in ancient times so isolated as China. Its inhabitants
exchanged cultivated plants with great facility, and even transported
them to a distance. It is enough to remember that ancient migrations
and conquests continually intermixed the Turanian, Aryan, and Semitic
peoples between the great Caspian Sea, Mesopotamia and the Nile.
Great states were formed nearly at the same time on the banks of
the Euphrates and in Egypt, but they succeeded to tribes which had
already cultivated certain plants. Agriculture is older in that
region than Babylon and the first Egyptian dynasties, which date
from more than four thousand years ago. The Assyrian and Egyptian
empires afterward fought for supremacy, and in their struggles they
transported whole nations, which could not fail to spread cultivated
species. On the other hand, the Aryan tribes who dwelt originally to
the north of Mesopotamia, in a land less favorable to agriculture,
spread westward and southward, driving out or subjugating the
Turanian and Dravidian nations. Their speech, and those which are
derived from it in Europe and Hindostan, show that they knew and
transported several useful species. After these ancient events, of
which the dates are for the most part uncertain, the voyages of the
Phœnicians, the wars between the Greeks and Persians, Alexander’s
expedition into India, and finally the Roman rule, completed the
spread of cultivation in the interior of Western Asia, and even
introduced it into Europe and the north of Africa, wherever the
climate permitted.

Later, at the time of the Crusades, very few useful plants yet
remained to be brought from the East. A few varieties of fruit trees
which the Romans did not possess, and some ornamental plants, were,
however, then brought to Europe.

The discovery of America in 1492 was the last great event which
caused the diffusion of cultivated plants into all countries. The
American species, such as the potato, maize, the prickly pear,
tobacco, etc., were first imported into Europe and Asia. Then a
number of species from the Old World were introduced into America.
The voyage of Magellan (1520-1521) was the first direct communication
between South America and Asia. In the same century, the slave
trade multiplied communications between Africa and America. Lastly,
the discovery of the Pacific Islands in the Eighteenth Century, and
the growing facility of the means of communication, combined with a
general idea of improvement, produced that more general dispersion of
useful plants of which we are witnesses at the present day.




  VEGETABLE MIMICRY AND HOMOMORPHISM
  --ALEXANDER S. WILSON


Besides the family likeness and similarity of structure
characteristic of closely allied organisms, other resemblances
included under the terms Mimicry and Homomorphism, are observed among
living things which can not be referred to a common ancestry since
they are presented by plants and animals whose affinities are more
or less remote. If the resemblance confers any benefit on either
species it is spoken of as a case of mimicry, but if it results from
the operation of general laws and is not directly advantageous, the
likeness is described as homomorphic. It is not always possible to
draw a sharp line between the two, and homomorphism not improbably
represents one stage in the development of mimetic species.

The vital phenomena of plants and animals are so near akin that it
would be strange if we did not meet with corresponding facts in the
vegetable kingdom. Mimicry is perhaps more frequent in the seed than
in any other part of vegetable organism; it occurs, however, in
other organs, and even the entire plant body may assume a deceptive
appearance. A well-known example is the white dead-nettle, which so
closely resembles the stinging nettle in size and in the shape and
arrangement of its leaves. In systematic position the two plants are
widely removed from each other, but they grow in similar situations
and are easily mistaken; any one who has occasion to collect any
quantities of Lamium is almost sure to get his hands stung by
Urtica, an experience calculated to convince one of the efficacy of
protective resemblance. Among animals it is species provided with
formidable weapons of defence that are most frequently mimicked by
weak defenceless creatures. The stinging nettle is therefore a very
likely model for unprotected plants to copy.

A somewhat analogous case is the yellow bugle of the Riviera, which
has its leaves crowded and divided into three linear lobes, some of
which are again divided. In this the plant differs very greatly from
its allies; it has, however, acquired a very striking resemblance
to a species of Euphorbia, abundant on the Riviera. The acrid juice
of the Euphorbias secures them immunity against a host of enemies.
As the two plants grow together there is little room to doubt that,
like the dead-nettle, the bugle profits by its likeness to its well
protected neighbor.

The rare heath Menziesia cærulia, thought to be protected by its
marked resemblance to the crowberry (Empetrum nigrum), has also been
adduced as a probable case of mimicry.

Mr. A. R. Wallace in _Tropical Nature_ refers to the stone
mesembryanthemum at the Cape described by Dr. Burchell, which closely
resembles in form and color the stones among which it grows; on this
account the discoverer believes this juicy little plant generally
escapes the notice of cattle and wild herbivorous animals.

Mr. J. P. Mansel Weale mentions that in Karoo many plants have
tuberous roots above the soil resembling stones so perfectly that it
is almost impossible to distinguish them. The tubers of the potato
itself in its native home may perhaps be protected in this way.

The last-mentioned observer has also noted a labiate plant, Ajuga
orphrydis, in South Africa, which bears a strong resemblance to an
orchid. As this is the only species of bugle in the district, Mr.
Wallace thinks the flower profits by the mimicry and succeeds in
attracting the insects required for its fertilization. A species
of balsam at the Cape has also acquired an orchid-like aspect;
Tillandsia Usneoides, one of the pineapple family, grows on trees
in tropical America, and has a resemblance to a shaggy lichen so
marked that it is generally mistaken for a plant of that order. The
fly agaric, our most conspicuously colored fungus, according to
Dr. Plowright, is closely imitated by a parasitic flowering plant,
Balanophora volucrata, the scarlet cap, the dotted warts, the white
stem and volva being all accurately represented.

The curious shapes of some exotic orchids are probably advantageous
from their resemblance to insects and birds. One of our native
orchids, Listua ovata, has a flower which in shape decidedly
resembles a species of beetle, Grammoptera lævis, by which it is
fertilized. Perhaps in this case the insect mimics the flower, as
certainly happens with a pink-colored mantis in Java, which so
exactly resembles a pink orchid that butterflies are attracted to it
in mistake. The insect is carnivorous, and lies in wait for its prey,
which is easily secured by the help of this strange disguise. Mutual
resemblances of this description are rather characteristic of the
Orchidaceæ. From their resemblance, real or fanciful, to butterflies,
moths, bees, spiders, etc., various species of Habenaria, Neotinea,
and Ophrys derive their names--the butterfly, spider, bee and
fly orchises. In the orchid Ophrys muscifera are two little
protuberances, regarded by the late H. Müller as pseudo-nectaries.
Of this class of deceptive contrivances, however, we have a better
example in Parnassia palustris, one of the saxifrages. This flower
has five fan-like scales alternating with the stamens; the margins
of the scales are fringed with hair-like processes, and each hair
is capped with what appears to be a drop of honey. These are really
hard, dry knobs, but so much do they resemble drops of honey that
flies lick them before discovering the imposture. The intention of
these sham nectar-drops may either be to decoy unprofitable guests
from the real nectar, of which a limited supply is produced in the
hollow of each scale, or to advertise it for the benefit of the more
intelligent visitors.

Somewhat analogous to these pseudo-nectaries are the greenish
swellings which arise on the veins of the petals of Eremurus. These
little swellings present a striking resemblance to aphides, or
plant-lice, and Kerner states that a fly accustomed to hunt after
aphides pierces and sucks the swellings, apparently mistaking them
for the insects.

Relations which remind us of the pink orchid and mantis, mentioned
above, seem to exist between the little bladders of Utricularia and
the entomostracans. The bladderwort is a carnivorous plant with small
submerged vesicles in which minute insects and entomostracans are
caught. In shape these little traps of Utricularia are not unlike the
body of a crustacean; the stalk corresponds to the tail, and near
the entrance of each bladder are several antenna-like filaments so
resembling certain appendages of the crustaceans that they impart
to the structure a ludicrous resemblance to such an entomostracan
as Daphne. This curious likeness was remarked by Mr. Darwin and can
hardly be altogether accidental; perhaps the prey is more readily
induced to approach the snare by reason of the resemblance. Here
also may be mentioned the imposture practiced on its victims by
Darlingtonia, another insectivorous plant. In the hood of its
pitcher-like leaf are several transparent spaces through which the
light shines into the interior; to these the imprisoned flies are
attracted and thereby diverted from the only opening through which
escape is possible. Mistaking the “windows” for real openings, the
captives exhaust themselves in vain efforts to regain their liberty
and are ultimately precipitated into the depths of the pitcher.

The flowers of the ox-eye daisy and the feverfew are very much
alike, and this was adduced by the late Mr. Grant Allen as a possible
case of mimicry. But the probability is that in this instance
the resemblance is merely homomorphic. The colors of flowers are
distinctive as well as attractive. Where two species of plant
grow together and are in blossom at the same time it is to their
disadvantage to have the flowers of the one mistaken for those of
the other. To secure cross-fertilization it is needful that the
insect visitors pass from one flower to another of the same species,
otherwise the pollen will be conveyed to the stigmas of the wrong
species. It is of importance that the fertilizing agents should be
able readily to distinguish different flowers, and this is no doubt
one reason for the diversity of their colors, shapes, and odors.
This circumstance must operate as a check against the production
of mimetic blossoms; it will not, however, prevent flowers from
acquiring a likeness to any object other than a flower.

Mimetic resemblances are much more numerous among fruits and seeds
than in flowers. A very curious example is Orphicaryon paradoxum, the
snake-nut of Demerara, inside which is the coiled embryo resembling a
small snake. Among others mentioned by Lord Avebury are Tricosanthes
anguina, the pod of which assumes a snake-like guise; Scorpiurus
vermiculata, with pods in the form of a worm or caterpillar; S.
subvillosa and Biserrula pelecinus, where the resemblance is to a
centipede and certain lupines with spider-like seeds. The seeds of
Abrus precatorius, Martynia diandra, Jatropha, the castor oil plant
and the scarlet runner mimic certain beetles. The presence of a
caruncle representing the head of the insect renders the imitation
more complete; this structure takes no part in germination, and
Kerner is of opinion that it prevents the ants from attacking the
substance of the seeds which they drag about from place to place.
The ox-tongue and cow-wheat have worm-like seeds, and several plants
have fruit difficult to distinguish from little pieces of dry twig.
The jet-black, shining seeds and achenes of Delphinium, Helleborus,
Juncus, Atriplex, Polygonum, etc., are easily mistaken for beetles;
the brightly colored seeds of Iris Germanica are also in all
probability mimetic.

The beautiful glossy scarlet and black piebald seeds of Abrus known
as rosary beans perhaps escape destruction through birds mistaking
them for some nauseous insect gaudily attired in warning colors. But
from the manner in which the seed-vessels of Iris and Arbus dehisce
and expose their seeds the brilliant colors of the latter would
appear to subserve dissemination rather than protection. Such hard
seeds are probably dispersed through the agency of insectivorous
birds, which seize them in mistake for their more legitimate prey.
According to Lord Avebury, the beans of Abrus mimic the beetle
Artemis circumusta. The smaller seeds, known as crab’s eyes, are
colored in an analogous manner. These cases are the less surprising
if we have regard to the fact that the majority of dry fruits,
though green while growing, become black or brown when they fall
to the ground, so that their general tint corresponds with their
surroundings and tends to concealment.

The odors of fungi are very varied. Clathrus and Phallus are
offensive and attract swarms of blow-flies; Lactarius and Hydnum, on
the other hand, are sweetly scented like the flowers of Melilotus.
Among the odors of fungi enumerated by Dr. Plowright are those of
aniseed, mint, peppermint, garlic, horse-radish, cucumber, ripe
apricots, rotting pears, rancid herring, Russia leather, gas-tar,
prussic acid, nitric acid, and cacodyl. Like the hemlock, Agaricus
incanus has the smell of mice, two species of Lactarius have the
odor of the common house-bug, while Hygrophorus cossus smells like
the larvæ of the goat-moth. Fifteen or sixteen species of agaric
resemble oatmeal both in taste and smell, Hydnum repandum has the
flavor of oysters, recalling the oyster plant among the Boraginaceæ,
whose leaves have a similar taste. Several are possessed of a
nut-like flavor. The common stinkhorn, Phallus impudicus, is the
best known representative of a large family of fungi, the members of
which are found in various parts of the world. The Phalloidi include
Phallus, Lysurus, Simblum, Clathrus, Aseröe, and other genera, all
characterized by offensive odors and conspicuous colors. These fungi
have been carefully studied by Mr. T. Wemys Fulton, whose paper on
the _Dispersion of Spores in Fungi_ in the _Annals of Botany_ for
1899 contains many interesting and important observations bearing on
mimicry.

The rapid elongation of the stinkhorn is very remarkable; the fungus
has been observed to attain a height of several inches in half an
hour, furnishing an apt illustration of the proverb that ill weeds
grow apace. It not only emits an intolerable charnel-house stench,
but its ghastly pallid hue seen against the background of its usual
surroundings is peculiarly suggestive of the dead carcass of some
animal. Its surface at first exudes a sweetish slime containing
sugar, but the hymeneum or spore-bearing portion is deliquescent
and the entire mass speedily undergoes a series of changes, the
white becoming brown, then black, the solid mass being ultimately
resolved into a dark fetid fluid in which the spores are suspended.
These mimetic changes, which so closely approximate to those
of decomposition, attract carrion flies in prodigious numbers.
Blow-flies even deposit their eggs on the fungus, and the maggots
seem to develop as though nourished by its substance. On examination
Mr. Fulton found the spores adhering in thousands to the feet and
proboscides of the insects. Their excrement he found to consist
almost entirely of spores, and the latter were found by experiment
to be still capable of germination. There is therefore no doubt in
this case that flies are employed as agents in the dispersion of the
fungus. This statement also applies to various Coprini and others
with a deliquescent hymeneum.

Quite a number of flowers have distinctly mimetic odors. It can
hardly be doubted, for example, that the offensive smell of the
carrion flowers Stapelia, Aristolochia, Arum, Rafflesia, and others,
is more effective in promoting cross-fertilization because of its
resemblance to the odor of putrid meat. So completely are the flesh
flies deceived that they often deposit their eggs on the petals of
carrion flowers.

Fetid odors occur in Bryonia, Helleborus, Geranium, Stachys, Ballota,
Iris and other genera. The odors of others have a curious resemblance
to the smells emitted by certain animals. Hypericum hircinum and
Orchis hircina are bad smelling flowers with an odor resembling that
of the goat; Coriandrum sativum has the fetid smell of bugs, while
the hemlock, again, emits a strong odor of mice. Along with these may
be mentioned Adoxa, the musk orchis, the grape hyacinth, and other
musky-scented flowers.

The resemblance in smell between these flowers and the secretion
formed in the scent glands of the musk ox and other animals is,
to say the least, a remarkable coincidence. Possibly flies which
accompany cattle may be attracted by smells of this description. Very
curious also is the vinous smell of Œnanthe, and the brandy-like
aroma of the yellow water lily Nuphar, hence called the brandy
bottle. Ethereal oils exhaled by plants while attractive to some
animals seem to repel others; the scents of sweet-smelling flowers
such as Daphne, Thymus, Marjoram, Melilotus, and Gymnademia,
though grateful to bees and butterflies, appear to be distasteful
to ruminants. Kerner states that in general the latter avoid all
blossoms; even caterpillars do not readily attack the petals of their
food plants. Odor may therefore be protective or attractive or it
may be of use in both ways. The same remark applies to color, which
may serve either to attract or repel; the richly variegated leaves
of the Indian nettles--species of Colleus--and the tinted foliage
of begonia and geranium may possibly escape injury on account of
the general resemblance to colored blossoms. Instances in which
one plant resembles another in smell are not very common in the
flowering class, though cases do occur like the garlic, mustard and
apple-scented Salvia. Resembling odors are much more frequent among
fungi.

Characteristic examples of homomorphism are seen in the resemblances
which many species of Euphorbia present to the cactus tribe and
in the pollen-masses of the orchids and asclepias. In Britain the
order Euphorbiaceæ is represented by the box, dog’s-mercury, and
the sun-spurges, but many foreign species have quite a different
appearance and agree with the cacti in their aborted leaves and green
succulent stems. The globular, columnar, and angular forms give to
both a peculiar aspect by which they are broadly distinguished from
all other vegetable types; and yet in systematic position these two
orders stand far apart. The nearest affinities of the Euphorbiæ
are with the Urticaceæ and other orders having incomplete flowers,
while the nearest allies of the Cacti are the Cucurbitaceæ and other
calycifloral orders. Succulent stemmed plants of this description are
specially adapted to an arid climate, and it is not unreasonable to
suppose that the similarity between the Euphorbiæ and Cacti results
from the long-continued action of similar external conditions upon
similarly endowed tissues.

The Australian Casuarinas are dicotyledons with incomplete
flowers nearly related to the oak, hazel, and other Cupuliferæ,
but in outward appearance they have a singular resemblance to
the horsetails, a family of cryptogams. One of the gymosperms
or cone-bearing class, Ephedra, also presents the same jointed
appearance so characteristic of Equisetaceæ. Growing in marshy
places very like those affected by Equisetum we find the mare’s-tail
Hippurus, a flowering plant allied to the fuchsia family, but
externally resembling Equisetum in its jointed stem and whorled
leaves. A familiar instance of the same kind of homomorphism is
Equisetum sylvaticum, which might almost be described as a liliputian
fir-tree. The little flowers of the water ranunculus look exactly
like miniature water lilies, while the leaves and flowers of Caltha
palustris simulate the yellow Nuphar so much that in some parts
of the country the marsh marigold is known as the water lily. The
specific name of another aquatic, Lymnanthemum nymphædides, indicates
a peculiarity of the same kind. Leaf analogies are frequent among
aquatic plants; the orbicular, peltate leaf of the Indian cress
occurs, for example, in Hydrocotyle, Nelumbium, and others. The
brown color and translucence of Potamogeton, Myriophyllum, and other
aquatics assimilates them to the fronds of Laminaria and other
sea-weeds.

A grass-like habit is assumed by some plants. This character is
attained in the meadow vetchling by the arrested development of
the compound leaves and the great elongation of the stipules.
Lathyrus nissolia has the stipules minute, but the phyllodes or
leaf-like petioles impart the grass-like character. A moss-like
habit occurs in a great many plants belonging to very different
families; thus the wiry stem of the purging flax reminds one of
the seta of Polytrichum. The pearlwort of the walls, many alpine
saxifrages, pinks, and gentians present very much the appearance of
mosses, _e. g._, Silene acaulis, Saxifraga bryoides, S. hypnoides,
Arenaria Cherleri, etc. The sub-species Saxifraga geum is another
instance of leaf analogy. The generic name Pyrola implies a fancied
resemblance of the leaves to those of the pear tree. Certain
leaf-types frequently recur, the rough broadly tongue-shaped leaf of
the bugloss, for example; hence the very common specific appellation
echioides. The nettle-leaved bell-flower reproduces the foliage of
Urtica and the sinuate leaf of the oak appears in several families.

Parasitic phanerogams like Rafflesia commonly exhibit the fungoid
character in a marked degree. In their internal structure, coloring,
spore-like seeds and other characters they approximate closely to the
fungi.

As examples of homomorphism between closely allied plants may be
mentioned the false oat, which so strikingly resembles the cultivated
species, and the barren strawberry, which agrees so closely with the
cultivated strawberry of our gardens.

Although it is only under exceptional circumstances that a
flower is likely to mimic another blossom closely, vague general
resemblances are not uncommon, such as that between the rock-rose
and the buttercup, between the milkwort and the vetch, and between
Veronica and Valerianella. A more decided likeness is that of the
garden annual Collinsia to the butterfly blossoms of the pea tribe.
This case is peculiarly instructive since the homomorphism can
be traced to its cause. The butterfly-like corolla of Leguminosæ
seems to have afforded the pattern after which a number of flowers
have been fashioned. The Papilionaceæ are adapted to bees rather
than to butterflies or moths, and the pollen is applied to the
ventral surface of the insect, the essential organs being lodged
in the carina or pouch formed by the two lower petals. Among the
Scrophulariaceæ to which Collinsia belongs, the pollen is commonly
sprinkled on the back of the insect and the stamens are contained in
the upper lip of the corolla; Collinsia is, however, exceptional; the
stamens are lodged within the lower lip of the flower and the pollen
is applied to the ventral surface of the bee. Here the resemblance
is evidently an indirect result brought about by the flowers of
Collinsia having become adapted to the same class of visitors as the
Papilionaceæ, viz., bees which have their brushes or baskets of hair
for collecting pollen attached to the abdomen. Where two flowers are
very like insects are apt to mistake the one species for the other,
but this will not involve any loss if there is an interval between
their periods of blossoming.

Homomorphic likenesses are not confined to homologous organs; an
organ of one plant sometimes exhibits a perfect resemblance to a
different organ on some other plant. Thus Aristolochia sipho, the
Dutchman’s pipe, so-called from the appearance of its flowers, has
a perianth singularly like the leaf-pitchers of Nepenthes, and the
curious little nectaries of Nigella might almost be compared with the
pitchers of the Australian insectivorous plant Cephalotus. As the
Aristolochias imprison small dipterous insects in their flowers these
instances favor to some extent Henslow’s idea that both flowers and
pitchers have arisen by hypertrophy caused through the irritation set
up by insects.

The homomorphism of the orchids and asclepiads is especially
interesting because of the objection to the Darwinian theory that it
presents; the coincidence is certainly unfavorable to the notion of
fortuitous variation. The orchids and asclepiads agree in producing
pollinia or pollen-packets which attach themselves to the bodies of
insects and are thus transferred from flower to flower. Although the
two flowers differ greatly in the details of their structure, this
curious contrivance occurs in no other plants, and yet the two orders
are as widely separated as it is possible to conceive. The orchids
belong to the petaloid division of Monocotyledons; the asclepias to
the gamopetalous Dicotyledons, with their nearest allies among the
Apocynaceæ, of which Vinca, the periwinkle, is perhaps the best known
representative. Although agreeing in this one particular, the flowers
are in other respects very dissimilar.

Another contrivance for promoting cross-fertilization met with in
unallied plants is the mouse-trap arrangement of hairs by means
of which small flies are temporarily imprisoned. This arrangement
occurs in Aristolochia, in species of Arum, and in Ceropegia, one
of the asclepiads. In these plants, where the affinities are so
slight, the mechanism for fertilization must in each case have arisen
independently.




  THE BAMBOO AND PLANT GROWTH
  --R. CAMPER DAY


If the many families of flowering plants were arranged in the order
of their utility to man or in the order of their abundance, the first
place in the list would unquestionably be assigned to the great
family of grasses. Of their omnipresence and abundance some idea may
be obtained from the fact that at least four thousand different kinds
have been described, and a German naturalist has estimated that they
constitute a twenty-second part of all known plants. Their utility
as food producers becomes obvious as soon as we recall the names of
rice, wheat, barley, oats, rye, and Indian corn, and remember how
large a proportion of our food is made from their seeds. Most of
these civilized and somewhat unnatural grasses have been so long
under cultivation, and so much altered by man’s selection, that
they are totally unfitted to shift for themselves, and would soon
become extinct if brought into competition with wild plants. The fact
that the wild forms from which they are descended can not now be
identified with certainty shows that their cultivation must date from
the very earliest ages. Rice alone is said to furnish more sustenance
to the human race than any other single species; the common meadow
grasses, such as the purple-tipped Anthoxanthum, which fills the
fields with its penetrating fragrance when the hay is newly mown, are
almost the only food of sheep and cattle; and those tall and sturdy
canes whose juice we squeeze out between rollers, and clarify and
crystallize into sugar, are only modified stems of grass.

The largest of the family, and perhaps the most beautiful, is the
tropical arborescent grass which bears the name of bamboo. Although
it is not cultivated for the sake of its seed, it has many admirable
qualities, and wherever it grows in abundance it is applied to a
variety of uses. “The strength, lightness, smoothness, straightness,
roundness, and hollowness of the bamboo,” says Mr. A. R. Wallace in
his _Malay Archipelago_, “the facility and regularity with which they
can be split, their many different sizes, the varying length of their
joints, the ease with which they can be cut and with which holes can
be made through them, their hardness outside, their freedom from any
pronounced taste or smell, their great abundance, and the rapidity of
their growth and increase, are all qualities which render them useful
for a hundred different purposes, to serve which other materials
would require much more labor and preparation. The bamboo is one of
the most wonderful and beautiful productions of the tropics, and one
of nature’s most valuable gifts to uncivilized man.”

In order that the accuracy of this eulogy may be appreciated,
let us imagine the case of a shipwrecked man landing without any
tools, except an axe and a knife, upon an island in which we will
suppose the bamboos are the only vegetation, and let us see how far
he could supply his needs with their assistance. One of his first
requirements would be a house, and this could be provided with very
little labor. The stems of one of the larger species, such as Bambusa
Brandisii, driven into the ground, would form excellent uprights for
the framework, which could be completed with lighter cross-pieces
nailed to the uprights with pegs of the same material. A good roof
could be made by taking broad strips split from large bamboos, and
fastening them side by side with their concave surfaces uppermost,
the interstices between them being covered with other pieces having
their convex sides uppermost. Similar but flatter pieces laid upon
the joists, and tied down firmly with strips shredded from the outer
rind, would form a smooth and elastic floor such as could not be made
out of other materials without a great expenditure of labor. Thin
strips plaited together, or broad strips pegged side by side, might
be used for the walls.

The furnishing of the house would be an easy matter, for bedsteads,
chairs, brooms, baskets, cords, fans, bottles, mats, and hoes can be
made of bamboo with the greatest facility. The water-tight joints
of the stems form admirable water-vessels, and it would be easy to
bring the water to the very door by a gently sloping aqueduct of
pieces of bamboo split down the middle and supported at intervals
on cross-pieces arranged like the letter X. The jars made from the
joints could be utilized not only for holding water, but even for
boiling it. Mr. Wallace tells us that rice, fish, and vegetables
can be boiled in them to perfection. The young shoots of the bamboo
as they first spring from the ground are said to be a delicious
vegetable, “quite equal to artichokes.” That fish may be readily
caught by the agency of the bamboo is shown by the many specimens
of ingenious fish-traps exhibited in the museum at Kew. If we
suppose our adventurer to take a thin stem of bamboo, and cut off
the end obliquely just above a joint so as to leave a sharp edge,
he would be provided with a hard-pointed and very efficient spear.
In the same way he could supply himself with daggers and arrows;
while from the more elastic species he could make himself a bow,
using a thin strip of the outer rind for a bow-string. The lowest
internode of Arthrosylidium Schomburgkii, which sometimes attains the
extraordinary length of sixteen feet, far surpassing the length of
the joints in all other bamboos (says General Munro), furnishes the
“Sarbican” or blow-pipe through which poisoned arrows are blown by
the natives of Guiana. In the island of Celebes the only article of
dress worn by the natives is a body-cloth called Kian Pakkian, made
of bamboo split into fine shreds, which are passed between the teeth
and bitten until they are soft, when they are woven.

If, after providing himself with these and similar necessaries, our
shipwrecked man found leisure to amuse himself, he might make æolian
flutes, such as Sir Emerson Tennant saw in Malacca, by boring holes
in the stems of living bamboos, or he might construct a harp like
that in the Kew Museum, London, which was brought from Timor by Mr.
Wallace. This harp is made from a cylinder of bamboo having a node
at each end. Under a strip of the outer rind a quarter of an inch
wide, a sharp knife is passed so that the strip is detached from
the cylinder except at its two ends. The strip forms one of the
harp strings. Two small wedges are pushed under it, and the portion
between the wedges can be sounded like the string of a guitar. It
is also possible, and not very difficult, to make such diverse
articles as paper, pens, waterproof clothing, hats, wax, pickles,
bird-whistles, rafts, pillows, fermented drink, and bridges from the
same versatile vegetable. In the Kew Museum, which should be visited
by every one who wishes to see the varied uses to which bamboos
can be applied, perhaps the most curious article is a headman’s
knife brought by Mr. Franks from the southeastern peninsula of New
Guinea. This singular implement, which is shaped like a cheese-scoop
and seems very ill-adapted to its purpose, is marked with numerous
notches, each notch representing one of its victims; and it is
accompanied by an artistic apparatus, also of bamboo, intended
apparently to enable the executioner to carry the severed head.

The bamboo usually grows in a cluster of from ten to a hundred
stalks, and springing from the same rhizome or root-stock. The
rhizome is not the root, but an underground portion of the stem. It
consists of a number of segments about the size and shape of a banana
and somewhat bloated in the middle. The banana-like segments are
joined together irregularly by their tips, so that the whole rhizome
forms a strong underground trellis-work admirably adapted to support
the light and yet rigid stems that rise up from it. From the under
side of the rhizome spring downward the true root-fibres, numerous as
the bristles of a broom.

The stem itself, as every one knows, is smooth, polished, and
cylindrical, and is divided into air-tight compartments by knots or
nodes, which are the points at which the fibres of the stem cross
over from one side to the other. The lowest ten nodes or so are
usually bare, but from the upper nodes issue branches. These are very
slender as compared with the main stem, and carry the foliage leaves.
In most species the leaves are rather small, but in some they are
very large. The species named Planotia nobilis by General Munro, a
native of New Granada, has the largest leaves of any kind of grass;
they are often a foot in diameter and fifteen feet in length.

The most important part of the bamboo, from a botanical point of
view, is the flower, which roughly resembles the flower of our
common grasses. The flower of grass is inclosed in hard, scaly
leaflets called glumes; it usually has three stamens and one
seed-vessel. There may be only one flower inclosed in the glumes
(as in foxtail grass), or more (as in wheat). The flowers of the
bamboos, while on the whole conforming to the grass type, exhibit
many small differences in different species. In some kinds, as in
Arthrostylidium longiflorum, the inflorescence resembles a bunch of
ears of wheat; in others, as in Bambusa vulgaris, the flowers are
packed into round clusters; in others, as in Chusquea simpliciflora,
they are in threes and fours, each flower hanging by a separate
slender stalk. The seed generally resembles oats or wheat, but in
some species it takes the form of a berry, not unlike the seed of our
familiar pimpernels. In the species known as Molocanna, the fruit is
exceptionally developed, often attaining the size of a largish pear.
Some species flower and die down annually; others flower annually,
but live on; as a rule the bamboo grows for many years without
flowering, and then suddenly bursts into bloom. From the fact that
the number of years between the sowing of the seed and the flowering
of the plant varies, and that in some years nearly all the bamboos
in a given district flower simultaneously, it would seem as if the
blossoming does not take place at any prescribed age, but may occur
at any period after the plants reach maturity when a favorable season
supervenes. It used to be thought that after a general flowering of
the bamboos throughout a district all the plants died, but this view
proves to be incorrect. The flowering shoots usually die, and during
the flowering the foliage almost entirely disappears, but the entire
plant is not necessarily killed.

The Chinese have a proverb that the bamboo produces seed most
abundantly in years when the rice crop fails, and several curious
cases of the truth of this saying have been recorded. According to
General Munro, in 1812 the universal flowering in Orissa prevented a
famine. Hundreds of people, he says, were on the watch day and night
to secure the seeds as they fell from the branches. Another instance
occurred in 1864, when there was a general flowering of the bamboo in
the Soopa jungles, and very large numbers of persons came from the
neighboring districts to collect the seeds.

In most bamboos, the stem is characterized by straightness,
smoothness, roundness, and quickness of growth, no doubt because
these qualities have, as a rule, proved serviceable to the plant in
the struggle for existence. Light and air being necessary to the life
of grass, it is manifest that in the dense vegetation of the tropics
a plant which can push itself rapidly to a great height must have an
advantage; and in order that growth may be rapid and the plant spring
up to a considerable height without climbing, it is essential that
there should be as little material as possible in the stem, and yet
that it should be as strong as possible. It is difficult to imagine a
stem in which these conditions would be better fulfilled than in that
of the bamboo. By reason of its hollowness the amount of material
is reduced to a minimum; and by reason of its cylindrical shape,
its nodes, and the hardness of the outer rind, the strength of the
structure is at a maximum. The growth is consequently very rapid, an
increase in height of 2 to 2½ feet having been recorded in a single
day. The Bambusa Brandisii often measures as many as 120 feet, and is
said to attain its full altitude in a few months.

But although, as a general rule, the necessities of natural selection
have ordained that bamboos shall be perfectly straight and perfectly
round, this archetypal form or idea (to borrow a word from Plato)
does not always hold good. One species, found in Asia, is said to
have crooked and even creeping stems. Another, found in Ecuador,
is described by General Munro as being distinctly a climbing plant.
There is a species, recently described by Mr. Thiselton Dyer, with a
stem exactly square, and as well defined as if cut with a knife. It
has only lately been found in China, where it is grown chiefly for
ornament.

According to Mr. Dyer, the Chinese account for its squareness in the
following way. They say that in the Fourth Century A. D., the famous
alchemist, Ko Hung, took his chopsticks (which consist of slender
rods of bamboo pared square) and thrust them into the ground of the
spiritual monastery near Mingpo; and then by his thaumaturgical art
he caused them to take root and appear as a new variety--the square
bamboo.

The growth of plants is one of the greatest mysteries of nature, and
nothing is more mysterious in their growth than their limited but
very definite power of movement. How is it that some plants grow
vertically upward, like the normal bamboo, others climb and twist,
others creep, and others grow in zigzag shapes? How is it that some
turn toward the light, some away from the light, while others place
themselves at right angles to it? And how is it that if you peg down
the young stem of a vertically growing plant it will bend upward
beyond the peg? No doubt the proximate cause is natural selection;
they do these things because they have found them advantageous. But
this does not tell us by what mechanism a plant is enabled to keep
on growing in the particular direction which it finds advantageous.
We know that when a plant bends in a given direction, the cells
on the convex side of the bend are more turgescent, that is, more
distended with sap, than those on the concave side, and that the
increased turgescence of the former is followed by increased rapidity
of growth; but what causes the distribution of turgescence in the
cells has not been clearly made out. It seems probable, however,
that when a shoot is growing in its proper and natural direction,
the chief force which guides it and enables it to maintain that
direction is the force of gravitation. To this force the growing
portions of a plant are extremely sensitive. Consider, for example,
the case of a vertically growing shoot. Whenever it is accidentally
bent the force of gravity must evidently act upon the portion above
the bend, tending to curve it still more, and causing a strain in
the material of the stem. The plant in some mysterious way is aware
of this strain, and the cells of the lower side of the bent portion
are stimulated to increased turgescence as compared with those of
the upper side, so that the under side would grow faster; and as
the plant would turn upward in consequence, any deviation from
the perpendicular would tend to correct itself. Similarly a shoot
which grows horizontally is led by the same stimulus of gravitation
to rectify any departure from a horizontal position. Gravitation,
then, does not _cause_ the bending when a displaced shoot endeavors
to regain its normal direction, but serves merely as a guide. By
its means the plant is made aware (so to speak) that it has been
displaced, and takes measures accordingly. If the force of gravity
were absent, the shoot would go on growing in any position in which
it might happen to be placed. This may be proved by causing a growing
seed to revolve slowly round a horizontal axis, so that at every
revolution the force of gravity may act upon it equally in all
directions. When a shoot is grown in these conditions, it is found
that its power of correcting deviations from any particular line of
growth is lost. Similar reasoning applies to the action of light on
plants, but, as above stated, we do not know why it is that plants
respond to the stimulus of light or gravity; we only know that as a
matter of fact they do so.

It has often been vaguely asserted that plants are distinguished from
animals by not having the power of movement. It should rather be said
that plants acquire and display this power only when it is of some
advantage to them; but that this is of comparatively rare occurrence,
as they are affixed to the ground, and food is brought to them by the
wind and rain. We see how high in the scale of organization the plant
may rise when we look at one of the more perfect tendril-bearers.
It first places its tendrils ready for action, as a polypus places
its tentacula. If the tendril be displaced, it is acted on by the
force of gravity and rights itself. It is acted on by the light, and
bends toward or from it, or disregards it, whichever may be most
advantageous. During several days, the tendril or internodes, or
both, spontaneously revolve with a steady motion. The tendril strikes
some object, and quickly curls round and firmly grasps it. In the
course of some hours it contracts into a spire, dragging up the stem
and forming an excellent spring. All movements now cease. By growth
the tissues soon become wonderfully strong and durable. The tendril
has done its work, and done it in an admirable manner.




  THE REIGN OF EVERGREENS
  --GRANT ALLEN


The poor stripped and draggled garden is beginning to look very bare
now (November) of all except a few straggling late-flowering shrubs
and those trusty adopted friends that we have always with us, the
shrubby, large-leaved southern evergreens. In northern climates,
we must ruefully admit, there are hardly any true evergreens, save
only the conifers, with their stiff and needle-like foliage, such
as pines and spruce-firs; but we make up for it to some extent by
borrowing from warmer or more southern lands the laurels, aucubas,
laurustinuses and rhododendrons, that help to keep bright our
English lawns and shrubberies throughout the long and weary winter
months. Indeed, our only native flat-leaved shrubs that retain their
full greenness from year’s end to year’s end are privet, box, and
butcher’s broom, all three of them very doubtfully indigenous to
these islands. It is the rule with English trees and shrubs to shed
their foliage every autumn; and the fashion in which they do so shows
very clearly how purposive and well adapted to their conditions in
life is the deciduous habit. For the leaves do not merely tumble
off anyhow, casually, before the first fierce autumnal winds; if
they did so there would be loss of sap and of valuable foodstuffs to
the whole plant of whose joint commonwealth they form the partially
dependent members: their fall is duly provided for beforehand, and
when at last it actually takes place, it takes place in an orderly
and regular fashion, with the least possible injury to the interests
of the entire tree. From the very beginning there has been arranged
at the joint where the leaf-stalk joins the stem, or where the
separate leaflets join the central midrib, a row or articulation
composed of cellular tissue, and specially designed to act as a joint
for the dry leaves. When winter approaches, and chilly northern
winds are likely to tear to pieces the leaves on the trees, all the
protoplasm and other valuable cell-contents are withdrawn into the
permanent tissues of the plant, leaving only the minor red and yellow
coloring matters (mostly effete and used-up foodstuffs) which give so
much beauty and glory to the general aspect of our autumn woodlands.

Then the articulation dries up and withers, and the dead leaf
separates at the joint, leaving behind it a regular mark or scar,
which is the visible token of Nature’s definite precaution against
the northern cold and tempests.

It was not always so, however, and it is not so even now in the
greater part of the modern world that we ourselves inhabit. It
seems quite natural to us northerners that “leaves have their time
to fall”; so natural, indeed, that we almost forget the strict
limitation of the practice to our own chillier latitudes. Yet in
reality the existence of deciduous trees is a mere temporary accident
of the here and the now, a passing consequence of the great cold
spell which had its culminating point in the last glacial epoch, and
from whose lasting effects we ourselves are even still apparently
suffering. Whether, as Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace seems hopeful enough
to believe, our poor old planet may yet recover from this premonitory
chilling or not, whether we may yet look forward to a few more
warm spells or otherwise, before the final numbness of all dying
worlds comes upon us, is a question rather for the consideration of
astronomers and physicists than the mere mundane-roving naturalist,
with his petty ephemeral interests in our plants and animals; but
one thing at least is certain, that till a very recent period,
geologically speaking, our earth enjoyed a warm and genial climate up
to the poles themselves, and that all its vegetation was everywhere
evergreen, of much the same type as that which now prevails in the
modern tropics. Indeed, we have only to look at the existing state of
things in order to see how very slight is the effect that has thus
been produced upon our temperate flora. For example, among the oaks
alone, there are some twenty species in Europe, of which Southern
Europe has eighteen, mostly evergreen, while north of the Alps there
are only two, or at most three, all of them deciduous. From the
evolutionary point of view it is clear that the northern kinds are
modern developments, specialized to contend with the peculiarly cold
conditions of sub-Arctic Europe.

Fortunately, too, we are not left in this matter to mere conjecture
or analogy: thanks to the researches of Heer and others, we have
positive geological facts to guide us which show conclusively that up
to the Miocene period Europe was covered by forests of large-leaved
evergreen trees, of what we should now consider distinctively
tropical types. Ever since the Miocene, and on to the culminating
point of the great Ice Age, the European climate has been growing
steadily colder, and the European flora has been at the same time
steadily adapting itself to the new conditions, and to assuming
what we now consider a typically northern aspect. During all that
time, the large-leaved evergreens gave way before the deciduous
trees and the chillier conifers, beginning at the north pole and
spreading gradually southward, as the cold deepened and widened
its range. Since the end of the great Ice Age, and the subsequent
slight amelioration of the climate in Northern Europe, a reverse
process has begun to set in; the Arctic types have begun to recede
slightly once more, and the comparatively southern or temperate
types have pushed their way northward to occupy the place from which
they were previously dispossessed by the newly evolved kinds. It is
not necessary for us to inquire here into the causes of this great
cycle; the facts are there, and for our present purpose they are
quite sufficient. They show conclusively, when one follows them out
in detail, that the evolution of deciduous trees was concomitant with
the growth of cold conditions around the two poles; and that such
trees now exist only where winter, for part of the year, renders the
evergreen condition an undesirable one. Even in the tropics, indeed,
we find on high mountains a belt of deciduous forest, stretching
above the belt of large-leaved evergreens, which itself succeeds to
the lowland palms and tree-ferns of the thorough-going equatorial
plains.

The reason for the evolution of deciduous trees is of course to be
found in the peculiar circumstances of the circumpolar regions. In
the tropics, trees and plants can thrive and blossom all the year
round; and even in temperate countries most small herbs and weeds
gain by keeping their foliage throughout the winter; but big trees in
cold climates would suffer much by the tearing and strewing of their
leaves in winter gales, while they would obtain little advantage by
retaining them on the tree during the long chilly season. Hence, if
any tree happened to possess any arrangement by which dead or dying
leaves could be removed without injury to the permanent tissues,
while, at the same time, the useful materials were withdrawn into
the young bark to await the spring awakening, such a tree would
obviously enjoy an advantage in the struggle for existence, and would
be likely to outstrip its evergreen neighbors in rigorous climates.
Now, as a matter of fact, the germ of such an arrangement is found
even in many herbs or small shrubs, such as, for example, the common
pelargoniums or “scarlet geraniums” of our flower-gardens. Everybody
who has ever kept these familiar plants in his own rooms must have
noticed how easily the dead leaves separate from the stem at their
base, by means of the swollen cellular mass where the leaf-stalk
joins the axis. All that the forest trees of northern climates had
to do, then, was just to take advantage of this nascent provision,
wherever it existed (mark this prior necessity), and render it more
fixed under the influence of natural selection. But if we may judge
by the actual sequel, it was not every kind of tree that could adapt
itself to the altered circumstances; as a matter of fact, the number
of species among northern forest trees is very small indeed, and even
out of this small number a good many are conifers, like the pines and
yews, whose narrow tough leaves are well fitted for withstanding and
battling against all the winter breezes. Still, among the conifers
themselves there are a few species, such as the larches, with tender,
delicate foliage, which have also become deciduous under stress
of altered conditions. At the present day the large-leaved and
flat-leaved evergreens are mostly confined to tropical, sub-tropical,
or at least warm temperate climates, and all the forest trees or
the circumpolar tracts are either deciduous, or else are tough
leathery-leafed conifers. The laurels and rhododendrons, with which
we strive artificially to brighten up our comparatively leafless
English winter, are either hardy representatives of the warm
temperate flora, or else mountain species from southern climates,
with constitutions just strong enough to endure our chilly season
in favored and carefully selected situations. Such evergreens have
generally very rigid and shiny leaves to protect them--a point well
marked in ivy and laurel as compared with Virginia creeper and
English hawthorn.




  OUR MICROSCOPIC FOES
  --A. WINKELRIED WILLIAMS


Of all the foes that are waging war against mankind, the most
dangerous and deadly are minute organisms belonging to the lowest
order of plant-life, and invisible to our naked eye. An immense
number of these always surround us, and are ready to make an attack
should they find a weak point in our defences.

Their presence in the air may be readily demonstrated by exposing
some material upon which they can feed, and watching the result. The
simplest method is to boil a potato, cut it in half, and immediately
place one-half under a bell glass purified by being washed in an
antiseptic solution such as corrosive sublimate. Expose the second
half to the open air for a short time, and place it also under a
glass. Let them remain for a few days, and then examine. If the first
half has been placed rapidly enough under the glass, we shall find
it unaltered. On the second half, however, we shall see a number of
small but growing spots, which will probably vary much in color.
These consist of colonies made up by immense numbers of most minute
plants, _i. e._, bacteria, and also of higher fungi. Certain species
of the bacteria constitute our dreaded foes.

Bacteria are non-nucleated unicellular plants, which may be roughly
classed into two divisions according to their shape, the circular
forms being called micrococci, the elongated forms bacilli. In size,
they are most minute, being only visible under the highest powers
of the microscope. Many are provided with cilia, by the lashing of
which they are capable of independent movement. They are composed of
a peculiarly resistant protoplasm, which is condensed at the surface,
so that by the action of certain caustics they can be separated from
many tissues on which they may be lying, the caustics destroying
these tissues.

Bacteria have enormous power of reproduction, which is accomplished
by division of the cells and fission. Many also form globular spores
by a condensation of their protoplasm. The spores have a much higher
power of resistance than the bacteria themselves, and may under
unfavorable circumstances be quiescent while awaiting better times to
take on full development.

Their _habitat_ is almost everywhere. In water, bacteria exist in
great numbers; they are even found in springs at their sources.
This indicates their presence in the soil, where they are found in
great numbers. We have already seen that they exist in the air, but
being, for their size, heavy bodies, they are invariably attached
to less dense particles of dust. Out at sea, we find the air free
from bacteria, although in the water they abound. The higher we
ascend, the fewer we find. In towns, the air teems with them; in
the country but few exist. In the healthy living body, there are
no bacteria, except in the alimentary canal and upper respiratory
passages. It must not be supposed that all bacteria are the
forerunners of disease; such is the case with only certain forms
to which the significant term pathogenic bacteria is applied. Many
authorities assert that the non-pathogenic forms may, under certain
circumstances, develop into pathogenic forms. This, however, has
not been definitely settled, since we are only able to separate the
different classes of bacteria by their action on cultivating media
and on the living body. We have not yet been able to develop by
cultivation a virulent form from a non-virulent, although we have by
repeated cultivation diminished the virulence of the most malignant
bacteria.

Of all the pathogenic bacteria we have the most direful tale to tell.
Of one, discovered by Dr. R. Koch--namely, that of tubercle--the
terrible ravages on human life by ferocious animals in India (over
24,800 fatalities per annum) are but trifling compared to the
ravages stealthily done in our midst by this the smallest of the
class of most minute living units. According to Dr. Koch’s estimate
one-seventh of the human race die of pulmonary consumption, and
this is only one, certainly the most prolific, of the many diseases
directly caused by the tubercle bacillus.

Happily for warm-blooded animals, these terrible death-dealers differ
from most other bacteria, for although they can remain alive for some
time outside the body, they are unable to develop in the outside
world, and this considerably limits their number. A temperature above
96° Fahr. is necessary for their growth, and there are only a very
few soils on which they can be cultivated, such as blood-serum and
meat jelly. Moreover, they develop more slowly than other known
bacteria, which may consequently outgrow them, and prevent their
development. How, then, are we to account for the fact that tubercle
is such a widely spread disease, not only among all the races of men,
but also among many of the lower animals? The consideration of the
following facts answers this question.

The tubercle bacillus can form resting spores; consequently, when
once the tissues of a part have their vitality so lowered that the
entrance of the bacilli is allowed, they can retain their hold with
great tenacity. Although the bacilli can not develop outside the
body, their vitality is preserved for a long time. Certain animal
products used for food, such as the milk of tubercular cows, contain
the bacilli. Experiments such as causing animals to inhale the
tubercle bacilli, or the introduction of them into the blood, or
sometimes the feeding on tubercular matter, result in tuberculosis.

Pulmonary consumption presents an example of the most typical way in
which the tubercle bacillus performs its deadly work. In the majority
of cases, the bacilli are inhaled with the air, but may also infect
the lungs from the blood carrying them from tuberculosis in other
parts of the body. The bacilli are incapable of independent movement.
This difficulty is too readily overcome in the body, as the streams
of blood and lymph easily carry them along.

Their movements in the body may be aided by certain scavengers that
are crawling about in our tissues and circulating in our blood;
namely, the wandering cells of connective tissue and the white blood
corpuscles. These take up the bacilli by wrapping their substance
around them; then, for a time, they crawl about carrying with them
the bacilli. In this attempt to devour the tubercle bacillus,
they often find they have caught a Tartar, who in turn feeds and
multiplies in them, and thus their wandering days soon end.

Many other diseases are known to be caused by bacteria, such as
anthrax, cholera, pneumonia, typhoid fever, erysipelas, leprosy,
suppuration, and ordinary blood-poisoning. Before Sir Joseph Lister
introduced the system of antiseptic surgery, bacteria were a most
fertile source of danger in surgical operations by the decomposition
and suppuration they set up in the wounds.

In this short paper it is impossible to describe the characteristics
of any other pathogenic bacteria, but perhaps enough has been written
to show the great danger to which we are exposed from attacks by an
immense army of minute foes.




  FOREST FORMATIONS
  --M. J. SCHLEIDEN


It is difficult to give the character of the various wood-formations
in woods with even a small proportion of that vividness and reality
which the landscape painter so readily attains by drawing, foliage,
color, and effect of light. Nevertheless, the differences are
striking enough to all who approach nature with open senses. Even the
fir and pine woods exhibit essential differences in their features;
the former with straight stems arranged parallel to each other
like columns, with the conical crowns of verticillate branches; the
latter bearing on the gnarled, curved trunks, the lines of which
cross in all directions in perspective, a flat umbel of foliage, a
bearing which is most purely and nobly exhibited by the stone pine.
These pine-woods, which extend over miles of country in the Mark
of Brandenburg, are repeated in more luxuriant development in the
“pine-barrens” of North America. Here, as there, loving a sandy soil,
they extend in a broad band several hundred miles long, down to the
coast of North Carolina, forming by their mass a very prominent
feature in the physiognomy of the whole country.

Still more striking is the distinction between the particular
formations of the leafy woods; the crowded arrangement of the social
beeches, limes, or elms produces woods with dusky shades and a soil
void of vegetation, while the proud oak, repressing the growth of all
other trees in its immediate neighborhood, stands alone upon a soil
pleasantly clothed with grass and herbs, or unites in small groups to
form those wonderful woodland landscapes to which the immortal pencil
of Ruysdäel so often introduces us.

Differently acts the massive lustre of the magnolia woods of the
southern part of North America, from the elegant beauty of the
African acacia groves, or the ghost-like transparency of the northern
birch, and the whole tropical world unfolds a multiformity, the
description of which would be an inexhaustible theme.

When the dense foliage hinders the action of the sun and the
refreshing breeze, and thus retards the decomposition of the
vegetable masses, where the ground, flat and without any declivity,
allows the accumulation of water, and the more since the heaped-up
bodies of dead plants continually increase the barriers to the
efflux, and the humus formed greedily sucks up the moisture--there
are formed the most extensive swamps. By the progressive action of
the remains of vegetation the ground becomes elevated, and such
spongy, semi-fluid masses often lie, at length, far above the
level of the surrounding plain, the sun’s heat never sufficing,
even when storms remove the protecting roof, to dry up the marsh,
or to restrain its increase. Such a swamp rises twelve feet above
the surrounding plains in Virginia, between the towns of Suffolk
and Walden, and is called by the inhabitants “the Great Dismal,”
giving origin to considerable rivers and supplying them with water.
The North American cypress (Cupressus disticha) it is which with
its delicate but dense foliage gives rise to the formation of
these structures. It is the same tree which forms the terrible
evil-renowned cypress swamps of Louisiana, on the banks of the
Red River and the Mississippi. Gigantic trunks of unprecedented
mightiness crowd together, interweaving their branches and spreading
an obscure twilight in the brightest day. The soil consists
merely of half-decayed blocks piled one upon another, alternating
with a fathomless mud, in which the voracious alligators and
snapping-turtles wallow, the sole lords of this hell, steaming up
almost beneath the tropical sun--thus in the height of summer; in
the spring the thick, miry floods of the issuing streams impetuously
overflow this malignant vegetation for many miles. Thus these
cypress-swamps, of which Seatsfield has given us such a vivid
picture, correspond in inland countries to the mangrove-woods which
border the mouths of almost all the tropical rivers. Composed of a
very few species of plants, among which the mangrove-tree is the most
common, they are especially striking from the great number of strong
roots springing out high up the stem, and bearing this aloft above
the surface. The peculiar habitation of this plant is the _brackish
water_, which consists, at the ebb, of the fresh water of the river,
which is dislodged by the sea-water at the flood. The numerous roots
often form a so thickly entangled mass that the interspaces may be
stopped up by the falling leaves, collecting thus a soil for a new
vegetation, beneath which, at different hours of the day, roll the
waves of the river and the sea. But more frequently the roots merely
operate to retard the flow of the water and to retain in their
interlacements the vegetable and animal bodies driven down the river,
which then decay here in contact with sea-water and its salts. In
these regions the terrible sulphureted hydrogen gas is developed so
abundantly, poisoning the atmosphere, that the natives who have lived
in these abodes from their youth upward totter about as it were like
spectres, while death almost inevitably snatches off the Europeans
who enter there.

As the hill between mountain and level land, so between the
wood-formation and the plain a link is formed by the bush and the
plains, displaying merely small, isolated groups of trees.

A portion of the so-called woods on the northern coast of Australia
must be reckoned here, those which clothe the enormous tract
extending southward into the interior from Raffles Bay and Essington.
They exhibit a wholly peculiar physiognomy, which is repeated almost
everywhere throughout this strange country. The trees and bushes
have leathery leaves, the majority of them being covered with a
white, resinous powder, which gives them the most monotonous, dismal,
pallid look possible. The principal trees are species of Eucalyptus,
Acacia, Leptospermum and Melaleuca. Many other plants, scarcely to
be reckoned by the side of those named, live beneath the shelter
of those lofty grayish stems, which stand far apart, and by their
meagre, incessantly trembling foliage, remind us of the weeping
willow. Handsome tufts of grass, with long, slender halm, grow
throughout the whole extent of these bushes, and in them nestle the
kangaroo, with the ring-dove and other birds. The sun’s rays readily
penetrate the narrow leaves, always waving on their long petioles,
and produce an uncertain light mingled with fleeting shadows. The eye
sees far up through the vault of twigs and leaves, and is arrested,
not so much by the density of vegetation as by the continually
changing glance of an uncertain mystic light.

Still lighter, still less representative of the closed conditions of
woods, is the proper palm-form where the social kinds are grouped
together. The real palm-groves on the northern border of Sahara and
on the shores of the Brazilian rivers more resemble open columned
halls with perforated roofs; and on the dry soil of the elevated
plains of Mexico the stems of the yucca, fourcroya, and other
high-stemmed liliaceous plants are collected in a very peculiar way,
affording neither shade from the sun nor shelter from the wind. To
these approach the deformed masses of the Maguey-plants, with their
broad, thick, rigid, dull-green leaves, sharply toothed on their
borders, and their flowering stalks twenty feet high, rounded off
into strange, fantastic, and impenetrable bush by cacti of manifold
forms.

The impenetrable chaparrals in the extensive plains between the
Nueces and the Rio Grande, formed of mosquito-shrubs, six to seven
feet high, entwined with lianes; the palmetto-fields on the shores
of the Sabine, Natchez, and other rivers of Texas, formed of rush
and dwarf palms; the low acacia bush of Australia Felix, and
lastly the wide jungles traversed by the elephants and tigers in
the East Indies, and formed of bamboo and other lofty grasses, are
all peculiarly characterized formations of bush, which often not
attaining the height of a man, or but little exceeding it, do not
all betray at the first glance the frequently insuperable obstacle
they oppose to the intruder, and even after man has settled in the
neighborhood can only be traversed by paths which the wild animals
have made.

With a kind of feeling of disappointed expectation rides the traveler
in the prairies of the West, anything but refreshing appears the
monotonous surface uniformly overgrown with high grass, the line of
the horizon unbroken even by the smallest elevation. He rides and
rides, but ever boundless space expands before his eyes, in the same
uniformity, in the same calm simplicity.

[Illustration: Bacteria and Vegetable Germs

3, Pneumonia; 5, Anthrax; 7, Diphtheria; 8, Tuberculosis; 9, Leprosy;
10, Tetanus; 11, Influenza; 12, Typhus; 14, Cholera]

Situated under similar latitudes and climatal conditions, the pampas
of Buenos Ayres have a character similar to that of the North
American prairies, only man by his influence on nature has here and
there impressed a peculiar stamp. The thistle and artichoke, coming
with the Europeans, have quickly made themselves masters of the free
soil, and with incredible rapidity overspread districts of many
square miles with their spiny vegetation, which has here developed in
a luxuriance unknown in Europe. These thistle-wastes have become a
terrible nuisance, themselves robbers, depriving better plants of the
soil, inaccessible hiding-places for the great thievish, sanguinary
cats, and the still more dangerous human bandits, the thorny weed of
semi-civilization.

From the western border of northern France, through Belgium, North
Germany, and Russia, almost to the eastern confines of Siberia,
extends a broad plain rarely interrupted by low chains of hills,
and just as rarely affording fitting soil for extensive growth of
wood, which, on the whole, confines itself to the more favorable
soil moistened by the vicinity of rivers. Along the southern border
of this plain extends a chain of hills and mountains, now projecting
forward like capes into the broad surface, now retreating into
broad or narrow creeks, the coast of a sea formerly covering the
whole plain. Over all this endless expanse has one single species
of plant established an almost exclusive predominance, the heath,
which has lent its name to those tracts of land. Conditions similar
to those which produce the distinction between the pine barrens
and cypress swamps in North America are also active here to cause
an essential difference. The great flatness of the ground, even
geological conditions in many places, as where slight elevations of
the land forming flat inclosed basins, prevent, in many situations,
the free discharge of water, and the heath, backed by the special
vegetation produced by the moisture, forms by the annual accumulation
of vegetable matter, which in water only becomes to a certain degree
carbonized or decomposed, those black masses of the remains of
plants which as peat bear such an important part in the economy of
the inhabitants. Thus, in various modes of distribution, alternate
arid, dry sandy heaths with moist, spongy peat heaths or moors.
On the margin of the latter, more rarely actually upon them, and
on the heaths of Luneburg are often found splendid oaks, which,
overshadowing one of those pleasant straw-thatched houses and thrown
out by the background of the peculiar red tint of the glancing
heather, produce a picturesque charm which would not have been
expected here. With these great moors may be associated the peat
moors of some of the higher mountain chains of the Brocken, the Röhn,
and the Fichtel-Gebirge, and so on, and the so-called mosses of South
Germany and Switzerland.

In another climate, in another zone of vegetation, exist similar
conditions, stretching across the extreme north of Europe. As there
the arid sandy heaths alternate with the wet moors, so here in a
more varied manner do the dry, waterless tracts, with the marshy
grounds. But we are here in Wahlenberg’s region of lichens and
mosses. The arid situations are clothed, in expanses over which the
eye can not reach, with dry, lead-gray lichens, among which the
reindeer seeks his meagre sustenance, and in the half-fluid grounds,
which will not bear the lightest footsteps, a luxuriant vegetation
of mosses deceives us, in the distance, with the aspect of a smiling
meadow. Here the incautious wanderer sinks into the water, which is
rather concealed than displaced by the mosses, while on those lichen
heaths, tundras, the Laplanders call them, in summer the glowing soil
makes every step a torture.

The wood-formations of the South American catingas may be opposed
to the northern leafy woods and, in like manner, the plains of the
llanos of Venezuela to the Russian steppes. In the former, of which
A. von Humboldt has given such a vivid sketch, the sleep of nature
commences with summer, in the hot, dry season; the vegetation becomes
dried up and falls to dust, leaving the ground bare; animal life, in
the quadrupeds, flies from the dead land, while the crocodiles and
boas burrow into the mud of the gradually exhausted rivers of the
steppes, and with this become fixed, till the first torrent of rain,
which conjures up a fresh, youthful vegetation on the barren soil and
awakens them to life.

It is different in the steppes which stretch from southern Russia
eastward through central Asia. I will only mention the strange
salt-steppes, which in summer often glitter like newly fallen
snow, from the salt which effloresces from the soil and nourishes a
wholly peculiar vegetation. Yet I can not refrain from attempting
a brief description of the sparingly populated but still inhabited
Tartarian steppes of Pontus. These do not uniformly present a
level surface, being broken by the durrinas, low tracts of bush of
blackthorns, hawthorns, roses and brambles. But the remaining part of
the vegetation is also divided by the inhabitants of lesser Russia,
according to its use for pasture, into two essentially distinct
groups, the truwa, the turf, and the burian, the rough, branching
plants which, on account of their woody stem, afford no sustenance
to the herds of the steppes. The feather-grass[7] is the principal
among the Graminaceous plants. Directly after flowering, it expands
its long, delicately feathered awns, not unlike marabout feathers,
from the spike which rises high above the tuft of narrow, dry leaves.
The older the steppe, the higher develops the woody root-stock above
the soil, to the annoyance of the mower. Whoever travels but a few
miles into the steppes soon hears the word burian. Against the burian
inveighs the herdsman with his oxen and horses; over the burian
laments the husbandman; the burian is the curse of the gardener
and the hope of the cook. For in the soil of the steppe, which is
peculiarly fertile for certain plants, which we call weeds, these
shoot up to an incredible height, wherever cultivation has loosened
the solid soil, which they avoid, and their peculiar use is that,
dried up in the autumn, they furnish the only fuel of those regions.
Above all, as in the pampas of Buenos Ayres, the thistles distinguish
themselves, acquiring a size, a development, and ramification which
is really marvelous. Often do they stand like little trees around the
humble earth-hovels of the country people; on favorable soil, they
often form extensive bush, even overtopping the horseman, who is as
helpless in it as in a wood, since they intercept the sight and yet
afford no trunk which might be climbed. Beside the thistle rises
the wormwood, intermingled with the gigantic mullein or hightaper,
the “steppe-light” of lesser Russia. Even the little milfoil grows
several feet high and is not a little prized, since the inhabitants,
from their poor provision, value it as the best material for fuel.
But the most characteristic of all the plants of the burian is that
which the Russians call “Perekatipole,” the “Leaf in the Field,” and
the German colonists, almost more happily, the “Wind Witch.” A poor
thistle-plant, it divides its strength in the formation of numerous
dry, slender shoots, which spread out on all sides and are entangled
with one another. More bitter than wormwood, the cattle will not
touch it even in times of the utmost famine. The domes which it forms
upon the turf are often three feet high and sometimes ten to fifteen
in circumference, arched over with naked, delicate thin branches. In
the autumn the stem of the plant rots off, and the globe of branches
dries up into a ball, light as a feather, which is then driven
through the air by the autumnal winds over the steppe. Numbers of
such balls often fly at once over the plain with such rapidity that
no horseman can catch them; now hopping with short, quick springs
along the ground, now whirling in great circles round each other,
rolling onward in a spirit-like dance over the turf, now, caught by
an eddy, rising suddenly a hundred feet into the air. Often one wind
witch hooks on to another, twenty more join company, and the whole
gigantic yet airy mass rolls away before the piping east wind.




  THE HIGH WOODS
  --CHARLES KINGSLEY


My first feeling on entering the high woods was helplessness,
confusion, awe, all but terror. One is afraid at first to venture in
fifty yards. Without a compass or the landmark of some opening to or
from which he can look, a man must be lost in the first ten minutes,
such a sameness is there in the infinite variety. That sameness and
variety make it impossible to give any general sketch of a forest.
Once inside “you can not see the woods for the trees.” You can only
wander on as far as you dare, letting each object impress itself on
your mind as it may, and carrying away a confused recollection of
innumerable perpendicular lines, all straining upward, in fierce
competition, toward the light-food far above; and next on a green
cloud, or rather mist, which hovers round your head, and rises,
thickening and thickening to an unknown height. The upward lines are
of every possible thickness, and of almost every possible hue; what
leaves they bear, being for the most part on the tips of the twigs,
give a scattered, mist-like appearance to the under foliage. For the
first moment, therefore, the forest seems more open than an English
wood. But try to walk through it, and ten steps undeceive you. Around
your knees are probably Mamures, with creeping stems and fan-shaped
leaves, something like those of a young cocoanut palm. You try to
brush among them, and are caught up instantly by a string or wire
belonging to some other plant. You look up and round: and then you
find that the air is full of wires--that you are hung up in a network
of fine branches belonging to half a dozen sorts of young trees,
and intertwined with as many different species of slender creepers.
You thought at your first glance among the tree-stems that you were
looking through open air; you find that you are looking through a
labyrinth of wire-rigging, and must use the cutlass right and left
at every five steps. You push on into a bed of strong sedge-like
Sclerias, with cutting edges to their leaves. It is well for you if
they are only three, and not six, feet high. In the midst of them
you run against a horizontal stick, triangular, rounded, smooth,
green. You take a glance along it right and left, and see no end to
it either way, but gradually discover that it is the leaf-stalk of
a young Cocorite palm. The leaf is five-and-twenty feet long, and
springs from a huge ostrich plume, which is sprawling out of the
ground and up above your head a few yards off. You cut the leaf-stalk
through right and left, and walk on, to be stopped suddenly (for
you get so confused by the multitude of objects that you never see
anything till you run against it) by a gray lichen-covered bar, as
thick as your ankle. You follow it up with your eyes, and find it
entwine itself with three or four other bars, and roll over with
them in great knots and festoons and loops twenty feet high, and
then go up with them into the green cloud over your head and vanish,
as if a giant had thrown a ship’s cables into the tree-tops. One of
them, so grand that its form strikes even the negro and Indian, is
a Liantasse. You see that at once by the form of its cable--six or
eight inches across in one direction, and three or four in another,
furbelowed all down the middle into regular knots, and looking like a
chain cable between two flexible iron bars. At another of the loops,
about as thick as your arm, your companion, if you have a forester
with you, will spring joyfully. With a few blows of his cutlass he
will sever it as high up as he can reach, and again below, some three
feet down; and while you are wondering at this seemingly wanton
destruction, he lifts the bar on high, throws his head back, and
pours down his thirsty throat a pint or more of pure, cold water.
This hidden treasure is, strange as it may seem, the ascending sap,
or, rather, the ascending pure rain-water which has been taken up
by the roots, and is hurrying aloft, to be elaborated into sap, and
leaf, and flower, and fruit and fresh tissue for the stem up which
it originally climbed, and therefore it is that the woodman cuts the
water-vine through first at the top of the piece which he wants and
not at the bottom; for so rapid is the ascent of the sap that if
he cut the stem below the water would have all fled upward before
he could cut it off above. Meanwhile the old story of Jack and the
Beanstalk comes into your mind. In such a forest was the old dame’s
hut, and up such a beanstalk Jack climbed to fight a giant, and a
castle high above. Why not? What may not be up there? You look up
into the green cloud, and long for a moment to be a monkey. There
may be monkeys up there over your head--burly red Howler, or tiny,
peevish Sapajou, peering at you, but you can not peer up at them. The
monkeys and the parrots and the humming-birds and the flowers and all
the beauty are upstairs--up above the green cloud. You are in “the
empty nave of the cathedral,” and “the service is being celebrated
aloft in the blazing roof.”

We will hope that as you look up you have not been careless enough
to walk on, for if you have you will be tripped up at once; nor to
put your hand out incautiously to rest it against a tree, or what
not, for fear of sharp thorns, ants, and wasps’ nests. If you are all
safe, your next steps, probably, as you struggle through the bush
between tree-trunks of every possible size, will bring you face to
face with huge upright walls of seeming boards, whose rounded edges
slope upward till, as your eye follows them, you find them enter
an enormous stem, perhaps round, like one of the Norman pillars of
Durham nave, and just as huge; perhaps fluted, like one of William
of Wykeham’s columns at Winchester. There is the stem, but where is
the tree? Above the green cloud. You struggle up to it between two
of the board walls, but find it not so easy to reach. Between you
and it are half a dozen tough strings which you had not noticed at
first--the eye can not focus itself rapidly enough in this confusion
of distances--which have to be cut through ere you can pass. Some
of them are rooted in the ground, straight and tense; some of them
dangle and wave in the wind at every height. What are they? Air-roots
of wild pines, or of Matapolos, or of figs, or of Seguines, or of
some other parasite? Probably; but you can not see. All you can see
is, as you put your chin close against the trunk of the tree and look
up, as if you were looking up against the side of a great ship set
on end, that some sixty or eighty feet up in the green cloud arms
as big as English forest trees branch off, and that out of their
forks a whole green garden of vegetation has tumbled down twenty or
thirty feet, and half climbed up again. You scramble round the tree
to find whence this aerial garden has sprung; you can not tell. The
tree-trunk is smooth and free from climbers, and that mass of verdure
may belong possibly to the very cables which you met ascending into
the green cloud twenty or thirty yards back, or to that impenetrable
tangle a dozen yards on, which has climbed a small tree, and then a
taller one again, and then a taller still, till it has climbed out
of sight, and possibly into the lower branches of the big tree. And
what are their species? What are their families? Who knows? Not even
the most experienced woodman or botanist can tell you the names of
plants of which he only sees the stems. The leaves, the flowers, the
fruit, can only be examined by felling the tree; and not even always
then, for sometimes the tree, when cut, refuses to fall, linked as it
is by chains of liane to all the trees around. Even that wonderful
water-vine which we cut through just now may be one of three or even
four different plants.

Soon you will be struck by the variety of vegetation, and you will
recollect what you have often heard, that social plants are rare
in the tropic forests. Certainly they are rare in Trinidad, where
the only instances of social trees are the Moras (which I have
never seen growing wild) and the Moriche palms. In Europe a forest
is usually made up of one dominant plant--of firs or of pines, of
oaks or of beeches, of birch or of heather. Here no two plants
seem alike. There are more species on an acre here than in all the
New Forest, Savernake, or Sherwood. Stems rough, smooth, prickly,
round, fluted, stilted, upright, sloping, branched, arched, jointed,
opposite-leaved, alternate-leaved, leafless, or covered with leaves
of every conceivable pattern, are jumbled together, till the eye and
brain are tired of continually asking, “What next?” The stems are of
every color, copper, pink, gray, green, brown, black, as if burnt,
marbled with lichens, many of them silvery white, gleaming afar
in the bush, furred with mosses and delicate creeping film-ferns,
or laced with the air-roots of some parasite aloft. Up this stem
scrambles a climbing Seguine with entire leaves; up the next, another
quite different, with deeply cut leaves; up the next, the Ceriman
spreads its huge leaves latticed and forked again and again. So fast
do they grow, that they have not time to fill up the spaces between
their nerves, and are consequently full of oval holes; and so fast
does its spadix of flowers expand, that (as indeed do some other
Aroids) an actual genial heat, and fire of passion, which may be
tested by the thermometer, or even by the hand, is given off during
fructification. Beware of breaking it or the Seguines. They will
probably give off an evil smell, and as probably a blistering milk.
Look on at the next stem. Up it, and down again, a climbing fern,
which is often seen in hothouses, has tangled its finely cut fronds.
Up the next a quite different fern is crawling, by pressing tightly
to the rough bark its creeping root-stalks, furred like a hare’s
leg. Up the next, the prim little Griffechatte plant has walked,
by numberless clusters of small cat’s claws which lay hold of the
bark. And what is this delicious scent about the air? Vanille? Of
course it is; and up that stem zigzags the green fleshy chain of the
Vanille Orchis. The scented pod is far above, out of your reach, but
not out of the reach of the next parrot, or monkey, or negro-hunter
who winds the treasure. And the stems themselves--to what trees
do they belong? It would be absurd for one to try to tell you who
can not tell one-twentieth of them himself. Suffice it to say that
over your head are perhaps a dozen kinds of admirable timber which
might be turned to a hundred uses in Europe, were it possible to get
them thither: your guide will point with pride to one column after
another, straight as those of a cathedral, and sixty to eighty feet
without branch or knob. That, he will say, is Fiddle-wood; that a
Carap; that a cedar; that a Roble (oak); that, larger than all you
have seen yet, a locust; that a Poui; that a Guatecare; that an
Olivier--woods which, he will tell you, are all but incorruptible,
defying weather and insects. He will show you, as curiosities, the
smaller but intensely hard letter wood lignum-vitæ, and purple heart.
He will pass by as useless weeds Ceibas and sandbox-trees, whose bulk
appalls you. He will look up, with something like a malediction, at
the Matapalos, which every fifty yards have seized on mighty trees,
and are enjoying, I presume, every different stage of the strangling
art, from the baby Matapalo, who has let down his first air-root
along his victim’s stem, to the old sinner whose dark crown of leaves
is supported, eighty feet in air, on innumerable branching columns
of every size, cross-clasped to each other by transverse bars. The
giant tree on which his seed first fell has rotted away utterly, and
he stands in its place, prospering in his wickedness, like certain
folk whom David knew too well. Your guide walks on with a sneer, but
he stops with a smile of satisfaction as he sees lying on the ground
dark green glossy leaves, which are fading into a bright crimson, for
overhead somewhere there must be a Balata, the king of the forest;
and there, close by, is his stem--a madder-brown column, whose head
may be a hundred and fifty feet or more aloft. The forester pats the
sides of his favorite tree as a breeder might that of his favorite
race-horse. He goes on to evince his affection, in the fashion of
the West Indians, by giving it a chop with his cutlass, but not in
wantonness. He wishes to show you the hidden virtues of this (in his
eyes) noblest of trees--how there issues out swiftly from the wound
a flow of thick white milk, which will congeal, in an hour’s time,
into a gum intermediate in its properties between caoutchouc and
gutta-percha. He talks of a time when the English gutta-percha market
shall be supplied from the Balatas of the northern hills which can
not be shipped away as timber. He tells you how the tree is a tree
of a generous, virtuous, and elaborate race--“a tree of God, which
is full of sap,” as one said of old of such--and what could he say
better, less or more? For it is a Sapota, cousin to the Sapodilla,
and other excellent fruit-trees, itself most excellent even in its
fruit-bearing power; for every five years it is covered with such a
crop of delicious plums that the lazy negro thinks it worth his while
to spend days of hard work, besides incurring the penalty of the law
(for the trees are government property), in cutting it down for the
sake of its fruit.

But this tree your guide will cut himself; so he leaves a significant
mark on his new-found treasure and leads you on through the bush,
hewing his way with light strokes right and left, so carelessly
that you are inclined to beg him to hold his hand and not destroy
in a moment things so beautiful, so curious--things which would be
invaluable in an English hothouse.

And where are the famous orchids? They perch on every bough and
stem; but they are not, with three or four exceptions, in flower in
the winter; and if they were, I know nothing about them--at least I
know enough to know how little I know. Whosoever has read Darwin’s
_Fertilization of Orchids_, and finds in his own reason that the book
is true, had best say nothing about the beautiful monsters till he
has seen with his own eyes more than his master. And yet even the
three or four that are in flower are worth going many a mile to see.
In the hothouse they seem almost artificial from their strangeness;
but to see them “natural,” on natural boughs, gives a sense of their
reality which no unnatural situation can give. Even to look up at
them, as one rides by, and to guess what exquisite and fantastic
forms may issue, in a few months or weeks, out of those fleshy,
often unsightly, leaves, is a strange pleasure--a spur to the fancy
which is surely wholesome, if we will but believe that all these
things were invented by A Fancy, which desires to call out in us, by
contemplating them, such small fancy as we possess; and to make us
poets, each according to his power, by showing a world in which, if
rightly looked at, all is poetry.

Look here at a fresh wonder. Away in front of us a smooth gray
pillar glistens on high. You can see neither the top nor the bottom
of it. But its color and its perfectly cylindrical shape tell you
what it is--a glorious Palmiste; one of those queens of the forest
which you saw standing in the fields, with its capital buried in the
green cloud and its base buried in that bank of green velvet plumes,
which you must skirt carefully round, for they are a prickly dwarf
palm, called here Black Roseau. Close to it rises another pillar,
as straight and smooth, but one-fourth of the diameter--a giant’s
walking-cane. Its head, too, is in the green cloud. But near are two
or three younger ones only forty or fifty feet high, and you see
their delicate feather heads, and are told that they are Manacques;
the slender nymphs which attend upon the forest queen, as beautiful,
though not as grand, as she.

The land slopes down fast now. You are tramping through stiff mud,
and those Roseaux are a sign of water. There is a stream or gully
near; and now, for the first time, you can see clear sunshine through
the stems, and see, too, something of the bank of foliage on the
other side of the brook. You catch sight, it may be, of the head of
a tree aloft, blazing with golden trumpet-flowers, which is a Poui;
and of another lower one covered with hoar-frost, perhaps a Croton;
and of another, a giant covered with purple tassels: this is an
Angelim. Another giant overtops even him. His dark, glossy leaves
toss off sheets of silver light as they flicker in the breeze, for
it blows hard aloft outside while you are in stifling calm. That is
a Balata. And what is that on high--twenty or thirty square yards of
rich crimson a hundred feet above the ground? The flowers may belong
to the tree itself. It may be a mountain mangrove, which I have never
seen in flower; but take the glasses and decide. No. The flowers
belong to a liane. The “wonderful” Prince of Wales’s feather has
taken possession of the head of a huge Mombin, and tiled it all over
with crimson combs, which crawl out to the ends of its branches, and
dangle twenty or thirty feet down, waving and leaping in the breeze.
And over all blazes the cloudless blue.

You gaze astonished. Ten steps downward and the vision is gone. The
green cloud has closed again over your head and you are stumbling
in the darkness of the bush, half blinded by the sudden change from
the blaze to the shade. Beware. “Take care of the Croc-chien!”
shouts your companion; and you are aware of, not a foot from your
face, a long, green, curved whip armed with pairs of barbs some four
inches apart; and are aware also at the same moment that another
has seized you by the arm, another by the knees, and that you must
back out, unless you are willing to part with your clothes first and
your flesh afterward. You back out, and find that you have walked
into the tips--luckily only into the tips--of the fern-like fronds
of a trailing and climbing palm such as you see in the Botanic
Gardens. That came from the East, and furnishes the rattan canes.
This furnishes the gri-gri canes, and is rather worse to meet, if
possible, than the rattan. Your companion, while he helps you to
pick the barbs out, calls the palm laughingly by another name,
“Sueltami-Ingles,” and tells you the old story of the Spanish soldier
at San Josef. You are near the water now, for here is a thicket of
Balisiers. Push through, under their great plantain-like leaves--step
down the muddy bank to that patch of gravel. See first, though, that
it is not tenanted already by a deadly Mapepire, or rattlesnake,
which has not the grace, as his cousin in North America has, to use
his rattle.

The brooklet, muddy with last night’s rain, is dammed and bridged
by winding roots, in shape like the jointed wooden snakes which we
used to play with as children. They belong probably to a fig, whose
trunk is somewhere up in the green cloud. Sit down on one, and look,
around and aloft. From the soil to the sky, which peeps through here
and there, the air is packed with green leaves of every imaginable
hue and shape. Round our feet are Arums, with snow-white spadixes and
hoods, one instance among many here of brilliant color developing
itself in deep shade. But is the darkness of the forest actually
as great as it seems? Or are our eyes, accustomed to the blaze
outside, unable to expand rapidly enough, and so liable to mistake
for darkness air really full of light reflected downward, again and
again, at every angle, from the glossy surfaces of a million leaves?
At least we may be excused; for a bat has made the same mistake, and
flits past us at noonday. And there is another--no; as it turns, a
blaze of metallic azure off the upper side of the wings proves this
one to be no bat, but a Morpho--a moth as big as a bat. And what was
that second larger flash of golden green, which dashed at the moth
and back to yonder branch not ten feet off? A Jacamar--kingfisher,
as they miscall her here, sitting, fearless of man, with the moth in
her long beak. Her throat is snowy white, her under parts rich red
brown. Her breast and all her upper plumage and long tail glitter
with golden green. There is light enough in this darkness, it seems.
But now look again at the plants. Among the white flowered Arums
are other Arums, stalked and spotted, of which beware; for they are
the poisonous Seguine-diable, the dumb-cane, of which evil tales
were told in the days of slavery. A few drops of its milk, put into
the mouth of a refractory slave, or again into the food of a cruel
master, could cause swelling, choking, and burning agony for many
hours.

Over our heads bend the great arrow leaves and purple leaf-stalks of
the Tanias; and mingled with them leaves often larger still: oval,
glossy, bright, ribbed, reflecting from their under side a silver
light. They belong to Arumas; and from their ribs are woven the
Indian baskets and packs. Above these, again, the Balisiers bend
their long leaves, eight or ten feet long apiece; and under the shade
of the leaves their gay flower-spikes, like double rows of orange
and black birds’ beaks upside down. Above them, and among them, rise
stiff, upright shrubs, with pairs of pointed leaves, a foot long some
of them, pale green above, and yellow or fawn-colored beneath. You
may see, by the three longitudinal nerves in each leaf, that they
are Melastomas of different kinds--a sure token that you are in the
tropics--a probable token that you are in tropical America.

And over them, and among them, what a strange variety of foliage.
Look at the contrast between the Balisiers and that branch which has
thrust itself among them, which you take for a dark, copper-colored
fern, so finely divided are its glossy leaves. What a contrast
again, the huge feathery fronds of the Cocorite palms which stretch
right away hither over our heads, twenty and thirty feet in length.
And what is that spot of crimson flame hanging in the darkest spot of
all from an under bough of that low, weeping tree? A flower head of
the Rosa del Monte. And what that bright, straw-colored fox’s brush
above it, with a brown hood like that of an Arum, brush and hood nigh
three feet long each? Look--for you require to look more than once,
sometimes more than twice--here, up the stem of that Cocorite, or
as much of it as you can see in the thicket. It is all jagged with
the brown butts of its old fallen leaves; and among the butts perch
broad-leaved ferns and fleshy orchids, and above them, just below the
plume of mighty fronds, the yellow fox’s brush, which is its spathe
of flower.

What next? Above the Corcorites dangle, amid a dozen different
kinds of leaves, festoons of a liane, or of two, for one has purple
flowers, the other yellow--Bignonias, Bauhinias--what not? And
through them a Carat palm has thrust its thin, bending stem and
spread out its flat head of fan-shaped leaves twenty feet long each:
while over it, I verily believe, hangs eighty feet aloft the head of
the very tree upon whose roots we are sitting. For amid the green
cloud you may see sprigs of leaf somewhat like that of a weeping
willow; and there, probably, is the trunk to which they belong,
or rather what will be a trunk at last. At present it is like a
number of round edged boards of every size, set on end, and slowly
coalescing at their edges. There is a slit down the middle of the
trunk, twenty or thirty feet long. You may see the green light of the
forest shining through it. Yes, that is probably the fig; or, if not,
then something else. For who am I, that I should know the hundredth
part of the forms on which we look?

And above all you catch a glimpse of that crimson mass of Norantea
which we admired just now; and, black as yew against the blue sky
and white cloud, the plumes of one Palmiste, who has climbed toward
the light, it may be for centuries, through the green cloud; and
now, weary and yet triumphant, rests her dark head among the bright
foliage of a Ceiba, and feeds unhindered on the sun.

There, take your tired eyes down again; and turn them right or left,
where you will, to see the same scene, and yet never the same. New
forms, new combinations; wealth of creative Genius--let us use the
wise old word in its true sense--incomprehensible by the human
intellect or the human eye, even as He is who made it all, whose
garment, or rather whose speech, it is.




  MILK-SAP PLANTS
  --M. J. SCHLEIDEN


All the plants which count caoutchouc among their products belong to
the torrid zone. A. von Humboldt, in his _Ideas of a Geography of
Plants_, remarked that the plants yielding _milky_ juices multiply as
we approach the tropics. This _milky juice_ of plants it is which
contains the peculiar elastic substance. The tropical heat seems
to exert a distinct influence in its perfect formation, for it has
been remarked that the same plants which under the equator yield
abundance of caoutchouc contain instead, with us, even in hothouses,
a substance which resembles the bird-lime obtained from our native
mistletoe.

Who among my readers has not seen our indigenous wolf’s-milk
or spurge, the white milky juice of which popular superstition
recommends as a remedy against warts? Who has not in youth at least
become acquainted with the celandine, from the broken stalk and leaf
of which a bright orange-colored juice runs out? Who has not observed
that the lettuce, when it has run up to flower, ejects a milk-white
fluid at the slightest touch? But the occurrence of milky juices in
plants is not limited to these few. The vegetable world presents to
us most useful as well as poisonous matters in this milky sap, and I
will content myself at present with recalling to recollection opium,
the dried milky juice of our large garden poppy.

A great number of plants, which principally belong to three great
families, namely, the Spurges, the Apocynoceæ, and the Nettle plants,
are distinguished by a peculiar anatomical structure. In their bark,
and also partly in their pith, we find a quantity of long, variously
curved and branched tubes, which are not unlike the veins of animals.
In these tubes we find a thick juice of the consistence of very rich
milk, whence it is called milk-sap. Its color is usually milk-white,
but yellow, red, and, very rarely, blue milk-saps are met with,
but more frequently still they are wholly colorless. Like animal
milk, this juice consists of a colorless fluid and small globules.
The composition displays the most varied constituents, and upon the
variation of quantity and modes of mixture of these matters depend
the abundant varieties of this juice. All contain more or less
caoutchouc, which occurs in the form of little globules. These are
prevented from coalescing by an albuminous substance, in the same
way as are the butter globules in milk. Exactly like the cream (the
butter) in milk, the caoutchouc globules rise to the surface of the
milk-sap of plants when left to stand, here form a cream, and can
not, any more than butter, be separated again into their distinct
globules.

All those three great families which are distinguished by their
abundance of milk-sap, although differing very widely botanically,
exhibit some most remarkable agreements through the nature of their
milk-sap.

The spurges or Euphorbiaceæ constitute the most important group in
reference to the amount of caoutchouc contained. From the Port of
Para in South America, from Guiana, and the neighboring states, an
incredible quantity of India-rubber is shipped for Europe, and this
is principally obtained from a large tree growing in those regions,
called the Siphonia elastica. That beautiful tree, the Siphonia, is
about sixty feet high, and has a smooth brownish-gray bark, in which
the Indians make long and deep incisions down to the wood, from
whence the white juice then abundantly flows forth.

Many other plants of this group contain caoutchouc, but from none is
it so easy to obtain in large quantity. Though the sap of Siphonia is
at least harmless, though the juice of the Tabayba dolce (Euphorbia
balsamifera) is even similar to sweet milk and, thickened into a
jelly, eaten as a delicacy by the inhabitants of the Canary Islands,
as Leopold von Buch relates in his interesting description of the
Canaries; yet most of the plants of this group are to be counted
among the suspicious, or even most actively poisonous, on account
of this very juice. And yet, strangely enough, they also furnish
a most wholesome food, which we have scarcely anything to compare
with. Throughout all the hotter part of America the culture of the
mandioc-root (Jatropha Manihot) is one of the most important branches
of husbandry. The native savages and the Europeans, the black slave
and free man of color alike substitute for our white bread and rice
the tapioca and the Mandiocca farinha, or Cassava-meal, and the
cakes prepared from it (_pan de tierra caliente_ of the Mexicans).
The sweet yucca (Yuca dulce), which is the name applied there to the
mandioc plant, must be distinguished from the sour or bitter kind
(Yuca amara). The former, which is therefore cultivated with great
care, may be eaten at once without danger; while the latter, eaten
fresh, is an active poison. They serve the uncivilized son of the
South American tropics for food.

The sated savage saunters round to seek a new sleeping-place, but
woe to him! inadvertently he has prepared his couch beneath the
dreadful manchineel (Hippomane Mancinella), and in a sudden shower
the rain drips from its leaves upon him. In frightful pain he wakes
up, covered with blisters and ulcers, and if he escapes with life,
he is at least the richer of a fearful experience of the poisonous
properties of the Euphorbiaceæ. But this will seldom happen to a
native; the manchineel is avoided in America with the same mysterious
and almost superstitious awe as the fabulous poison-tree in Java.
Happily, the trumpet-tree (Bignonia leucoxylon), the sap of which
is the surest antidote against the manchineel, usually rears its
beautiful purple blossoms close at hand, the constant companion of
that dangerous Euphorbiacean.

The planter of the Cape strews over pieces of flesh the pounded fruit
of a plant that grows there (Hyænanche globosa), and lays them as an
infallible poison for the hyena. The wild inhabitants of southern
Africa, according to Bruce, poison their arrows with a spurge
(Euphorbia caput Medusæ). Virey states that the Ethiopians make a
similar application of others (Euphorbia heptagona, Euphorbia virosa,
Euphorbia cereiformis), while the savages of the most southern part
of America use the sap of a third (Euphorbia cotinifolia). Nay, even
our seemingly so innocent box, which also belongs to this family,
is so injurious that in places in Persia, where it much abounds, no
camels can be kept, because it is impossible to prevent their feeding
on this plant, which is deadly to them. I can not take leave of this
family without mentioning a remarkable phenomenon, reported to us by
Martius, in that work so full of information, his _Travels Through
Brazil_. A spurge grows there (Euphorbia phosphorea), the milk of
which, when it flows forth from the stem in the dark, hot summer
nights, emits a bright phosphoric light.

While the family just alluded to, the blossoms being generally
insignificant, attract the attention of our horticulturists almost
solely through their strange forms, which, in some of them, approach
to those of the cactus plants, the family of the Apocynaceæ is,
on the contrary, a rich ornament of our gardens and hothouses,
on account of the wonderful beauty of its blossoms, and is often
still more attractive from the remarkable structure of the flowers,
and the aberrant, also cactus-like form of the plant itself. What
lover of flowers knows not the splendid blossom of the species of
Carissa, Allamanda, Thevetia, Cerbera, Plumieria, Vinca, Nervium,
and Gelsemium; the strange stalk and toad-colored, ill-smelling
flowers of the Stapelia? But this family is not less interesting in
other respects. The best caoutchouc at present known, that from Pulo
Penang, comes from a plant of this family (Cynanchum ovalifolium).
Also that from Sumatra (Urceola elastica), from Madagascar (Vahea
gummifera), a part of the Brazilian Collophora utilis and Hancornia
speciosa, and the East Indian Willughbeia edulis are obtained from
plants which belong to the group of Apocynaceæ.

Most strangely, this family also, as well as the following and
last, exhibits the peculiar phenomenon which was described in the
first-named, the Euphorbiaceæ, namely, that the milk-sap is in some
species rich in India-rubber, in others it is tempered into a clear,
agreeably smelling and wholesome milk, while in certain others, on
the contrary, this fluid grows, step by step, through successively
increasing quantity of noxious matter to a most dreadful poison.
In the forests of British Guiana grows a tree which the natives
call Hya-Hya (Tabernæmontana utilis). Its bark and pith are so rich
in milk that an only moderate-sized stem, which Arnott and his
companions felled on the bank of a large forest brook, in the course
of an hour colored the water quite white and milky. This milk is
perfectly harmless, of a pleasant flavor, and is taken by the savages
as a refreshing drink. Still more pleasant must be the taste of the
milk of the Ceylon cow-tree, the Kiriaghuma (Gymneura lactiferum),
which, according to Burmann’s narrative, the Cingalese use exactly as
we do milk.

Dreadful, on the contrary, is the action of the terrible wourali
poison, which the inhabitants of the banks of the Orinoco concoct
with mystic conjurations, the chief ingredients of which are
furnished by the juice of a plant belonging here (Echites suberecta)
and the bark of another, likewise an Apocynaceous tree, Strychnos
guinanensis and Strychnos toxifera. The North Americans also use an
Apocynaceous plant (Gonolobium macrophyllum) to poison their arrows;
and Mungo Park related the like of the Mandingoes of the Niger
(according to him it is a species of Echites).

Many allied plants are among the most active poisons (Cerbera
Thevetia and Cerbera Ahovai), and the seeds of this group, in
particular, are almost more remarkable for their deadliness than
those of the foregoing, for two of the most violent vegetable
poisons, strychnine and brucine, occur in them. Some of our most
active medicinal substances are especially known on this account; for
instance, the St. Ignatius’s beans (Ignatia amara from Manila), and
the Nux vomica (Strychnos nux Vomica), distributed throughout the
tropics.

It would not be difficult to make some of the more important
characters of the two families I have mentioned so clear, even to a
person unacquainted with botany, that he would be enabled readily to
distinguish any plant belonging to them. Very different is it with
the following, the last group, the Jussieuan family of nettle-plants,
or Urticaceæ. The plants belonging to this vary in the most striking
manner in their external forms, from the smallest, most insignificant
weeds, like our common pellitory of the wall and our nettles, to
vast and stately trees like the breadfruits (Artocarpus integrifolia
and incisa), which, with their wide-stretched branches and broad,
beautifully formed leaves, overshadow the huts of the South Sea
Islander, who lives upon their savory fruit. As in the family of
the spurges, only some few plants bestow in their seed a pleasant
nut-like kernel (as Aleurites triloba in the Moluccas, Conceveiba
guianensis in South America); as in the Apocynaceous group, several
trees afford cooling, juicy, and therefore highly valued fruits
to the inhabitants of hot regions (Carissa Carandas in the East
Indies, Carissa edulis in Arabia, etc.), so the family of the
Urticaceæ includes the strangest multiplicity of fructifications. The
little oil grains of the hemp, the green grape-like bunches which
gracefully adorn the slender twining hop, the aromatic mulberry,
the sweet fig, the useful bread-fruit, all those so various forms
belong to one group of plants, and the botanist traces in all the
same fundamental structure, however incongruous these manifold shapes
may appear to the eye of the uninitiated. One peculiarity alone
extends without exception throughout all the species of this large
order, namely, the presence of fine but strong bass-fibres in the
bark. The German name for muslin, Nessel-tuch (nettle-cloth), denotes
the source from whence the fibre of which it is made was originally
obtained (Urtica cannabina), and the skilful industry of the gentle
Tahitan prepares the most delicate stuff, without spinning-wheel
or loom, from the fine white bass of the auté of paper-mulberry
(Broussonetia papyrifera).

An elegant tree, allied to the last, the Holquahuitl of the Mexicans,
or Ule di Papantla of the Spaniards (Castilloa elastica Deppe),
furnishes the caoutchouc of New Spain, and the inconceivable
quantities of this substance which are brought to our ports from the
East Indies are collected in great part from the venerable fig-trees
in which that Asiatic tropical world is so rich. On a trunk of giant
girth, but seldom more than fifteen feet high, rests the enormous
crown of the banyan, or holy fig (Ficus religiosa); the branches
often run a hundred feet horizontally out from the trunk, sending
down to the ground, at various intervals, long straight roots, which
quickly penetrate and take firm hold, thus becoming props to the long
branches. These wonderful trees, each one resembling a small wood,
are dedicated to the god Fo, and the helpless, lazy Bonze builds his
hut, not unlike a bird-cage, in its branches, in which he passes the
day, sometimes asleep, sometimes dreaming in contemplative indolence
in the pleasant cool shade. These great fig-trees (Ficus religiosa,
indica, benjaminea, elastica) have sweet fruits, and their milk-sap
contains the interesting caoutchouc. Some of these plants also yield
a harmless juice. By far the most remarkable in this respect is
the Palo de Vacca or Arbol de Leche, the cow-tree of South America
(Galactodendron utile), which was first made known to us by Alexander
von Humboldt. When a tolerably large incision is made into the trunk
of this tree, a white, oily, fragrant, and sweet fluid, very similar
to animal milk, flows out in sufficient quantity to refresh and
satisfy the hunger of several persons.

A striking contrast to this is afforded by the properties of other
nettle-plants. One is tempted to call them the serpents of the
vegetable kingdom; and the parallel is not difficult to carry out.
The similarity between the instruments with which both produce and
poison their wounds is very remarkable. The snakes have in the front
of the upper jaw two long, thin, somewhat curved teeth, which are
perforated lengthwise by a minute canal, which opens in front at the
sharp point. These teeth are not fixed firmly in the jaw like the
others, but movable, like, but in a less degree, the claws of a cat.
Beneath each tooth, in a cavity in the jaw, lies a little gland, in
which the poison is prepared, and the excretory duct of this gland
runs through the canal in the tooth, and opens at its apex. When
the animal bites, the resistance of the bitten body pushes back the
tooth, so that it presses upon the gland, which squeezes out of it
the deadly fluid into the wound. If we examine, now, the hairs on the
leaf of the nettle, we find a wonderful agreement. The stinging hair
consists of a single cell, terminating above in a little knob. Below,
it expands into a small sac, which contains the irritating juice.

The slightest touch breaks off the brittle point with the little
knob, the canal of the hair is thus opened, and it penetrates any
soft substance; in consequence of the pressure which the resistance
to its entry exerts upon the sac, a portion of the poisonous juice
is ejected out into the wound. The poisons of our native nettles and
snakes are not of much consequence, but the nearer we approach the
tropics, the more frequent and more deadly they both become. Where
the glowing Indian sun ripens the poison of the fearful spectacle
snake, there grow the most dangerous nettles.

Every one among us has felt the slight but irritating sting of the
nettle which it produces by its slender poisonous hair, but we have
no notion of the torture which its near allies (Urtica stimulaus,
Urtica crenulata) produce in the East Indies. A gentle touch suffices
to cause the arm to swell up with the most frightful pain, and the
suffering lasts for weeks; nay, a species growing in Timor (Urlica
urentissima) is called by the natives Daoun Setan (devil’s leaf),
because the pain lasts for years, and often even death can only be
avoided by the amputation of the injured limb.

We do, indeed, find many violent poisons in this family, and even
some species of fig are included among the most dangerous plants
(Ficus toxicaria), but it is not worth while to linger among those
of lesser importance. The tales recounted of the Upas and the
Poison-valley mingle almost like a dark and gloomy legend in our
knowledge of the East Indian islands.

In the Sixteenth Century stories circulated about the macassar
poison-tree of the Celebes; and physicians and naturalists came
gradually to tell of the action of the poison, the descriptions of
which had become so terrible that if the smallest quantity entered
the blood, not only immediate death resulted, but its action was so
fearfully destructive that within half an hour afterward the flesh
fell from the bones. From Rumph we learned that the poison-tree is
also met with in Sumatra, Borneo, and Bali, as well as in Celebes.
But the Dutch surgeon, Försch, first spread the wild tales of the
poison-tree of Java about the end of the Eighteenth Century.

Two very different trees grow in those little visited primeval
forests of Java. All the paths leading to them are closed and
watched, like those leading to the gates of the Holy of Holies.
With fire and axe must the road be made through the impenetrably
interwoven mass of lianes, the paullinias, with their clusters of
great scarlet blossoms several feet long, the cissi or wild vines,
on the widespread creeping roots of which thrives the gigantic
flower of the Rafflesia Arnoldi. Palms, with spines and thorns,
rush-like plants with cutting leaves, wounding like knives, warn the
intruder back by their attacks, and in every part of the thicket
threaten the fearful nettles formerly mentioned. Great black ants,
whose painful bite tortures the wanderer, and countless swarms of
tormenting insects pursue him. Are these obstacles overcome? Yet
follow the dense bundles of bamboo stems, as thick as a man’s arm,
and often fifty feet high, the firm glassy bark of which repels even
the axe. At last the way is opened and the majestic aisles of the
true primeval forest now display themselves. Gigantic trunks of the
bread-fruit, of the iron-like teak (Tectona grandis), of Leguminosæ,
with their beautiful blossoms, of Barringtonias, figs, and bays, form
the columns which support the massive green vault. From branch to
branch leap lively troops of apes, provoking the wanderer by throwing
fruit upon him. From a moss-clad rock the melancholy orang-outang
raises himself gravely on his staff, and wanders into deeper
thickets. All is full of animal life; a strong contrast to the desert
and silent character of many of the primeval forests of America. Here
a twining, climbing shrub, with a trunk as thick as one’s arm, coils
round the columns of the dome, overpassing the loftiest trees, often
quite simple and unbranched for a length of a hundred feet from the
root, but curved and winding in the most varied forms. The large,
shining green leaves alternate with the long and stout tendrils
with which it takes firm hold, and greenish-white heads of pleasant
smelling flowers hang pendent from it. This plant, belonging to the
Apocynaceæ, is the Tjettek of the natives (Strychnos Tieute), from
the roots of which the dreadful Upas Radia, or Sovereign Poison, is
concocted. A slight wound from a weapon poisoned with this--a little
arrow made of hard wood, and shot from the blow-tube, as by the South
Americans--makes the tiger tremble, stand motionless a minute, then
fall as though seized with vertigo, and die in brief but violent
convulsions. The shrub itself is harmless, and he whose skin may
have been touched with its juice need fear no consequences. As we
go forward, we meet with a beautiful slender stem, which overtops
the neighboring plants. Perfectly cylindrical, it rises sixty or
eighty feet, smooth and without a branch, and bears an elegant
hemispherical crown, which proudly looks down on the more humble
growths around, and the many climbers struggling up its stem. Woe to
him who heedlessly should touch the milk-sap that flows abundantly
from its easily wounded bark. Large blisters, painful ulcers, like
those produced by our poisonous sumach, only more dangerous, are the
inevitable consequences. This is the Antiar of the Javanese, the
Pohon Upas (signifying poison-tree) of the Malays, the Ipo of Celebes
and the Philippines (Antiaris toxicaria).




  NUTS
  --GRANT ALLEN


On the wooded slope where the park shelves slowly toward the Bourne
Brook, the ground to-day (October) is thickly strewn in many places
with the sharp, prickly husks and small, barren, angular nutlets
of the beautiful Spanish chestnuts. They are not truly indigenous
to Britain, these noble spreading forest trees, though they have
been planted so long in our pleasure grounds and lawns that we have
got to look upon them almost as naturalized British subjects; and
the climate, though it suits the leaves and wood well enough, is
not sufficiently kindly to ripen the fruits in due season; they
are almost always mere empty, shriveled shells here in England, so
that we have to import seed for sowing from the mountain regions
of Southern Europe. There we have all seen them growing in their
own wild luxuriance on the lower escarpments of the Alps or the
Apennines, and bringing forth fertile nuts sufficient to feed half
the teeming population of the Lombard plain in seasons of scarcity.
Side by side with them in the park here, the boys are impartially
shying sticks at the very similar, though wholly unrelated, clusters
of the common horse-chestnuts, which, in spite of their close
external likeness, belong in reality to a totally different and much
more restricted family. The true chestnut is a catkin bearer, a near
relation of the English oak, as one might almost guess at sight from
its foliage and habit; the horse-chestnut is a member of a tribe
unrepresented in our native English flora, but not very unlike the
maples and sycamores in its principal characters. It is interesting
to note how in the case of these two wholly different and originally
dissimilar trees similarity of circumstances has at last produced
such great similarity of adaptive peculiarities.

The key to this strange resemblance between the chestnut and
the horse-chestnut is to be found in the fact that they are both
_nuts_--they have survived in the struggle for existence by adopting
for their seed-vessels the exactly opposite tactics from those
adopted by the true fruits. A fruit, as we have often seen, is a
seed-vessel which lays itself out, by all the allurements of bright
color, sweet scent, sugary juices, and nutritive properties, to
attract animals who will aid it by swallowing it, and so eventually
dispersing its seeds. But a nut is a seed-vessel which, on the
contrary, being richly supplied with starches and oils for the supply
of the young plantlet, would be injured and diverted from its real
intent and purport if it were to be eaten and digested by any animal.
Accordingly, nuts have concentrated all their efforts upon repelling
rather than attracting the attention of animals; or, to put it in
a more strictly physical way, those nuts which have happened to
be least attractive in color and most protected by hairs, spines,
prickles, or bitter juices have best succeeded in escaping the
attacks of animals, and so have prospered best in the struggle for
existence. Thus, to drop into metaphor once more, while the fruits
want to be eaten, the nut, on the contrary, wants to escape.

We may take the chestnut as a very good example of the general result
which the necessity for protection usually produces in these peculiar
seed-vessels. While it still grows on the tree the entire fruit
is green and unobtrusive, hardly noticeable at a little distance
among the heavy foliage which covers it on every side. Compare this
shrinking and secretive habit with the brilliancy and vividness of
oranges and mangoes, or even with our own bright-colored northern
rose-hips, and haws, and mountain ashes, and holly-berries. Again,
instead of being smooth skinned and soft, like these bird-enticing
fruits, the outer rind of the chestnut is rough and repellent
with serried prickles, which rudely wound the tender nose of the
too inquisitive squirrel, or even the feathery cheeks of the more
protected nut-hatch. Once more, when the separate nuts inside have
fallen out upon the ground, they are no longer green like the foliage
upon the tree, but light brown or “chestnut,” like the dead leaves
and withered bracken into whose midst they have gently fallen.
Chestnuts themselves are apparently sufficiently protected by these
devices of color and prickliness; they do not seem further to require
the special nut-like covering of a hard and woody shell; but the
filbert, which suffers far more from the depredations of dormice,
squirrels, nut-hatches, and other birds or mammals, has not only
incased itself without in a green husk covered by sharp and annoying
little hairs, but has also acquired a very solid and difficult shell,
which often succeeds in baffling even the keen teeth or beaks of its
persistent and aggressive animal foes.

Indeed, even among British nuts, one may trace a regular gradation
(not, of course, genealogical) from the softest and least protected
to the hardest and most defensive kinds. The acorn, produced in vast
numbers by a very large and long-lived tree, the oak, has hardly
any need of a strong outer coat of armor, especially as its kernel
is rather bitter and far from attractive to most animals, though it
still feeds a considerable legion of hoarding squirrels, and must
once have been munched in immense quantities by the native wild
boars, or their mediæval successors, the half-tamed forest swine. In
the beech, the shell of the actual nut itself is merely leathery;
but the outer coat or involucre is sprinkled over with distinctly
protective prickles. (It is worth while to note in passing that the
beechnuts or mast rarely contain a kernel in Britain--in other words,
they are almost always sterile; whereas in other countries where the
beeches are more sturdy, the nuts are usually fertile; and this fact
may be put side by side with the corelative fact that the beech is
a decadent tree in England, where it was once dominant, but is now
rapidly dying out before our very eyes, at least in its indigenous
form.) In the lime, the very small nut has a decided shell, while
its globular shape also makes it difficult for quadrupeds to open
with their paws and teeth. Finally, in the hazel, the filbert has a
very hard integument indeed, and a disagreeable, husky covering of
smarting hairs.

Our own English nuts are only exposed to the attacks of extremely
small and comparatively harmless mammals, or of inconsiderable native
birds; and, therefore, their defensive tactics have never been
carried any further than in the case of the hedgerow filbert. But in
southern climates, and especially in the tropics, nuts are exposed
to far larger and more dangerous forestine foes, like the monkeys
and parrots, against whose teeth or bills, as we all know, even
the solid shell of the Barcelona cob is absolutely no protection.
Hence, under these circumstances, only the very hardest or most
disagreeable nuts have been able to survive and to grow up in due
time into flourishing nut-trees. Sometimes, as in the walnut, the
chief protection is afforded by a nauseous outer rind--a system which
reaches its climax in the South American cashews, whose pungent juice
blisters the skin like a cantharides plaster; sometimes, as in the
cocoanut, it is afforded by great thickness and hardness of shell,
which sets at naught the most persistent endeavors of the hungry
aggressor. In the Brazil nut, a number of sharp, angular nuts are
crowded together inside a large and hard outside shell, so that even
after the monkey has managed to crack the big outer nut, he has still
to open all the inside nuts one by one in detail. It is worth while
to notice, too, that an exactly similar modification is undergone in
the tropics by the stones of stone-fruits; which are really nuts in
disguise, covered only by a soft, sweet pulp that entices animals
to aid in dispersing them, by dropping the hard seed on to the
ground in favorable spots for its growth. In temperate climates the
stones are only hard enough to defy squirrels and birds: in tropical
countries they are hard enough to defy monkeys and parrots. Compare,
for example, the English sloe or bird-cherry with the peach-stone,
and the English haw with the mango or vegetable ivory. This last nut
is one of the oddest in the whole range of nature, for it is here
the actual kernel itself that grows so hard and horny. Yet even the
vegetable ivory, which consists really of very solid starchy cells,
softens and yields up its material to the growing plant as soon as
the embryo it incloses begins to sprout under the influence of warmth
and moisture.




  THE CACTUS TRIBE
  --M. J. SCHLEIDEN


Let us leave the forest of Guiana, the last mat-roof of the Guaranese
between the trunks of the Mauritius palm, and enter the pampas of
Venezuela, of which Humboldt has sketched such a clever and vivid
picture. No smiling verdure clothes the glowing rock-soil here;
here and there in its crevices the Melocactus displays its round
balls, “horrid” with threatening thorns. Ascend we thence the Andes;
instead of tender grass, the earth is covered with pale, gray-green
globes of spiny Mamillarias, while, intermingled, rises the solemn
and mournful old-man cactus, with its venerable-looking long gray
hair. Borne on the wings of fancy further north, we descend into
the plains of Mexico, where the gigantic fragments of the city of
the Aztecs, a product of a solitary era of civilization long lost
to history, display themselves; the landscape spreads out before us
as the bare and naked Tierra caliente, parched by the glowing sun;
of a dull green hue, without a branch or leaf, the angled-columns
of the torch-thistles rise twenty or thirty feet high, hemmed in
with an impenetrable thicket of irritably pricking Indian figs,
while round about appear the strangest, ugliest forms, in the
groups of the Echinocacti and little Cerei, between which creeps
snake-like, or as some great poisonous reptile, the long, dry stem
of the great flowered cactus (Cereus nycticallus). In short, one
family accompanies us through all our wanderings, that of the cactus
plants, which seems in all its wondrous forms to withdraw itself
entirely from the principle of beauty, and yet at the same time
presses forward so strikingly, so determinately marking the peculiar
character of the landscape, that we are compelled to turn our
attention to it. And in truth, a group which appears to retreat so
far from all the laws of other plants deserves our interest in a very
high degree.

Everything about these plants is wonderful. With the exception of
the genus Peireskia, no plant of the order possesses leaves. Those
parts of Cactus alatus, and the Indian fig, which are commonly called
leaves, are nothing but flattened expansions of the stem. On the
other hand, they are all distinguished by an extraordinarily fleshy
stem, which, clothed by a grayish-green, leathery cuticle, and
beset, in the places where leaves are situated in regular plants,
with various tufts of hair, spines, and points, gives by its very
varied degrees of development the varied character of the plants. The
torch-thistles rise in form of nine-angled or often round columns to
a height of thirty or forty feet, mostly branchless, but sometimes
ramifying in the strangest ways, and looking like candelabra; the
Indian figs are more humble; their oval, flat branches, arranged
upon one another on all sides, produce special forms. The lowest
and thickest torch-thistles connect themselves with hedgehog and
melon-cacti, with their projecting ribs, and thus lead us to the
almost perfectly globular Mamillarias, which are covered very
regularly with fleshy warts of various heights. Finally, there are
forms in which the growth in the longitudinal direction prevails,
which with long, thin, often whip-like stems, like those of the
serpent-cactus, hang down from the trees upon which they live as
parasites.

Few families have so limited a range of distribution upon the globe.
All the species of cactus, perhaps without a single exception, are
indigenous in America, between the parallels of 40° S. lat. and 40°
N. lat. But some of them were so rapidly distributed through the
Old World directly after the discovery of America, that they may
almost be looked upon as fully naturalized there. Almost all delight
in a dry situation, exposed to the burning rays of the sun, which
contrasts strangely with their fleshy tissue, tumid with watery and
not unpleasantly flavored with acid juice. This peculiarity gives
them inestimable value to the fainting traveler, and Bernardin de
St. Pierre has aptly called them the “Springs of the Desert.” The
wild ass of the llanos, too, knows well how to avail himself of
these plants. In the dry season, when all animal life flees from the
glowing pampas, when cayman and boa sink into death-like sleep in
the dried-up mud, the wild ass alone, traversing the steppe, knows
how to guard against thirst; cautiously stripping off the dangerous
spines of the Melocactus with his hoof, and then in safety sucking
the cooling vegetable juice. In vertical extension, the cacti are
not confined within such narrow limits, and they stretch from the
lowest tracts along the coast, through the vast plains, up to the
highest ridges of the Andes chain. On the shore of Lake Titicaca,
12,700 feet above the level of the sea, are seen the tall-stemmed
Peireskias with their splendid deep brown-red blossoms, and on the
plateaus of southern Peru, near the limit of vegetation, therefore
about 14,000 feet high, the wanderer is surprised by peculiar shapes
of a yellowish-red color, which at a distance look like reposing
savages, but which a closer inspection reveals to be shapeless heaps
of low cacti, closely beset with yellowish-red spines.

What Nature has withheld, however, in external aspect, she has, in
most, richly replaced in the magnificent blossom. We are astonished
to find the deformed gray-green mass of the Mamillaria decked with
the most beautiful purple-red flowers. Strange is the contrast
between the wretched and gloomy aspect of the naked, dry stem of
the large-flowered torch-thistle (Cereus grandiflorus), and its
large, splendid, Isabel-colored,[8] vanilla-scented, flowers, which,
unfolding under cover of the silent night, beam like suns, and in the
wonderful sporting of their stamens, seem almost to strive toward a
higher--an animal life.

But it is not the beauty of the blossom alone which gladdens us,
not the refreshing sap alone that revives the languishing traveler.
The economic uses are also manifold. Almost all the cacti bear
edible fruit, and a portion of them are among the most delightful
refreshments of the hot zones which ripen them. Almost all the
Opuntias, known by the name of Indian figs, furnish, in the West
Indies and Mexico, a favorite dessert fruit, and even the little
rose-red berries of the Mamillarias, which with us are tasteless,
have, beneath the tropics, a pleasant, acidulated, sweet juice. We
may say, in general terms, that their fruit is a nobler form of our
native gooseberry and currant, to which also they are the nearest
allies in a botanical point of view. Succulent as is the stem of
most of the cacti, yet, in the course of time, they perfect in it
a wood as firm as it is light. This is especially the case in the
tall columnar species of cereus, the old dead stems of which, after
the decay of the gray-green rind, remain erect, their white wood
standing ghost-like among the living stems, till a benighted traveler
seizes it in that scantily wooded region, to make a fire to protect
him from the mosquitoes, to bake his maize-cake, or burns it as a
torch to light up the dark tropical night. It is from the last use
that they have obtained the name of torch-thistles. These stems, on
account of their lightness, are carried up on mules to the heights
of the Cordilleras, to serve as beams, posts, and door-sills in the
houses; as, for instance, in the mayoral of Antisana, perhaps the
highest inhabited spot in the world (12,604 feet). Just as their
allies, the gooseberry bushes, are used by our country people to
form hedges to their gardens, are the Opuntias in Mexico, on the
west coast of South America and in the southern part of Europe, and
with greater success in the Canaries; their firm, shapeless branches
soon interweave themselves into an impenetrable barrier, opposing,
by their dreadful spines, an insuperable obstacle to the intruder.
Lastly, the medicine-chest does not go away empty, for the physicians
of America make abundant use of the acid juice for fomentations in
inflammations, not to mention some other prescriptions.

In the same way that grass and clover are not immediately valuable
to man, but serve as food for useful animals, so it is with a number
of cacti, which support an insect of extraordinary importance. This
is the cochineal insect (Coccus Cacti), a little, very insignificant
creature, externally just like the little, white, cottony parasite,
which is so often found upon the plants in our hothouses, and yet,
through the invaluable coloring matter it contains, so infinitely
different from it.

While the ugly form, the splendor of the blossom, and the manifold
uses of the cactus plants attract general interest in a high
degree, they are not less interesting, in a narrower sphere, to the
botanist. Zoologists have at all times found in the examination of
monstrosities and aberrant forms rich material toward the clearing
and expanding of their knowledge of the regularly developing
organism. It is to be expected, therefore, that similar conditions
will have similar value in the vegetable world; and what family could
be better selected for this purpose than the Cactaceæ, which seems
to be but a natural museum of monstrosities, where the forms are, in
some cases, so abnormal that no other name could be thought of for
one species but that of the deformed cactus (Cereus monstrosus)?

It is believed that from the vast amount of watery juice in the
cactus tribe, joined to the fact that most of them, and exactly
those richest in sap, vegetate on dry sand, almost wholly devoid of
vegetable mould, where they are besides exposed often three-fourths
of the year to the parching sunbeams of an eternally serene sky; from
this combination of circumstances, even, it is thought that we may
the more safely conclude that these plants draw their nourishment
from the air, since in our own hothouses also it has been observed
that the branches of cactus stems cut off and left forgotten in a
corner without further care, far from dying, have frequently grown on
and made shoots three feet long or more. De Candolle first found the
right path when he weighed such cactus shoots which had grown without
soil, and found that the plant, though larger, was always lighter,
therefore, instead of abstracting anything from the atmosphere, must
rather have given up something to it. All the growth takes place,
in such cases, at the expense of the nutritive matter previously
accumulated in the juicy tissue, and it generally exhausts the plant
to such a degree that it is no longer worth preserving. It is that
succulent tissue which enables the cactus plants--one might compare
them with the camels--to provide themselves beforehand with fluid,
and thus to brave the rainless season. Their anatomical structure
also assists them in this respect in a peculiar manner. We know from
the experiments of Hales that plants chiefly evaporate the water
they contain through their leaves, and the cactus tribe have none.
Their stem, too, unlike that of all other plants, is clothed with a
peculiar leathery membrane, which wholly prevents evaporation. This
membrane is composed of very strange, almost cartilaginous, cells,
the walls of which are often traversed by elegant little canals.
Its thickness varies in different species, and it is thickest, and
therefore most impenetrable, in the Melocacti, which grow in the
driest and hottest regions, while it is least remarkable in the
species of Rhipsalis, which are parasites on the trees of the damp
Brazilian forests.

Another striking point about this group is the formation of an
extraordinary quantity of oxalic acid. If this acid were collected
in large amount in the plant, it must necessarily be dead to it.
The plant, therefore, takes up from the soil on which it grows a
proportionate quantity of lime, which combines with the oxalic acid,
forming insoluble crystals, which occur in abundance in all the
Cactaceæ.

A third peculiarity is exhibited in the globular forms of Melocactus
and Mamillaria, in the structure of the wood, which differs entirely
from that of the common ligneous plants. Common wood, for example
that of the poplar, is composed of long _wood-cells_, the walls of
which are quite simple and uniform, and of cells containing air,
the so-called _vessels_, the walls of which are very thickly beset
with little pores. Wholly unlike this, the wood of the cactus,
above-mentioned, exhibits only short, spindle-shaped cells, inside
which wind most elegant spiral bands, looking like little spiral
staircases.

Lastly, the hair, spines, etc., situated in the places of leaves,
deserve a special mention. Generally speaking, three forms may be
distinguished, all three usually occurring together on the same
spot. The first are very flexible, simple hairs, which form a
little flat, soft cushion; among these is found a bunch of longish
but thin spines. These it is chiefly which, on account of their
peculiar structure, make the careless handling of the cactus plants
so dangerous. These little spines are very thin and brittle, so that
they readily break off, and are covered with barbed hooks directed
backward from the point. When touched, a whole bunch penetrate the
skin; if an attempt is made to draw them out, the separate spines
break in the skin, and the fragments pierce in other places; when the
hand is drawn over them, they catch in, and an insufferable itching,
terminating in a slight inflammation, spreads over all the parts
which have been touched. The Opuntia ferox is especially remarkable
for these spines, whence its name, the _savage_. Among the hairs and
smaller spines arise very long and thick spines, in different form
and number, which give the best characters for the determination of
the species. In some these are so hard and strong that they even lame
the wild asses which incautiously wound themselves, when kicking off
the spines to reach the means to still their thirst. In Opuntia Tuna,
which is the kind most frequently used for hedges, they are so large
that even the buffaloes are killed by the inflammation following from
these spines running into their breasts.




  FUNGI
  --HUGH MACMILLAN


Fungi are intimately associated with autumn; unrobed prophets that
see no sad visions themselves, but that bring to us thoughts of
change and decay. Indeed, so close is this association that they may
be called autumn’s peculiar plants. The bluebell still lingers on
the wayside bank, and in the woods a few bright but evanescent and
scentless flowers appear, but fungi and fruits form the wreath that
encircles the sober and melancholy brow of autumn: fruits, the death
of flower-life; fungi, the resurrection of plant-death. The seasonal
conditions which arrest the further progress of all other vegetation,
which cause the leaf to fall, and the flower to wither, and the robe
of nature everywhere to change and fade, give birth to new forms of
plant-life which flourish amid decay and death. From the relics of
the former creations of spring and summer reduced to chaos, springs
up a new creation of organic life; and thus nature is not a mere
continuous cycle of birth, maturity, and decay, but rather a constant
appearance of old elements in new forms.

In many respects they are the most mysterious and paradoxical of
all plants. In their origin, their shapes, their composition, their
rapidity of growth, the brevity of their existence, their modes of
reproduction, their inconceivable number and apparent ubiquity, they
are widely different from every other kind of vegetation with which
we are acquainted. In studying their history we walk amid surprises;
and as we lift each corner of the veil, more and more marvelous are
the vistas that reveal themselves.

The first thing that suggests remark in regard to these curious
organisms is their origin. Incapable of deriving the elements of
growth from the crude unorganized crust of the earth, they are
parasitical upon organic bodies, and are sustained by animal and
vegetable substances in a state of decomposition. That living and
often nutritious objects should spring from festering masses of
corruption and decay; that plants, endowed with all the organs
and capacities of life, should start into existence from the dead
tree that crumbles into dust at the slightest touch, or draw their
nourishment from dried and exhausted animal excretions, which have
lain for months under the influence of drenching rains and scorching
sunbeams, is indeed a profound mystery of nature. No sooner does the
majestic oak yield to the universal law of death, than several minute
existences, which had been previously bound up and hid within its
own, reveal themselves, seize upon the body with their tiny fangs,
fatten and revel upon its decaying tissues, and in a short space of
time reduce the patriarch and pride of the forest, which had braved
the storms of a thousand years, into a hideous mass of touchwood, or
into a heap of black dust. How strikingly do these plants illustrate
the great fact, that in nature nothing perishes; that in the
wonderful metamorphoses continually going on in the universe there
is change, but not loss; that there is no such thing as death, the
extinction of one form of existence being only the birth of another,
each grave being a cradle.

In many of their properties the fungi are closely allied to some
members of the animal kingdom. They resemble the flesh of animals in
containing a large proportion of albuminous proximate principles; and
produce in larger quantity than all other plants azote or nitrogen,
formerly regarded as one of the principal marks of distinction
between plants and animals. This element reveals itself by the
strong cadaverous smell, which most of them give out in decaying,
and also by the savory meat-like taste which others of them afford.
Of all known bodies, nitrogen is the most unstable. Its compounds
are decomposed by slight causes; and, therefore, its presence in the
animal frame is the cause of its activity and proneness to change.
To this circumstance also is owing the fugacious character of fungi,
their speedy growth and decay. Unlike other vegetables, fungi possess
the remarkable property of exhaling hydrogen gas; and the great
majority of species, like animals, absorb oxygen from the atmosphere,
and disengage in return from their surface a large quantity of
carbonic acid. By chemical analysis, they are found to contain,
besides sugar, gum, and resin, a yellow spirit like hartshorn, a
yellow empyreumatic oil, and a dry, volatile, crystalline salt, so
that their nature is eminently alkaline, like animal substances
extremely prone to corruption. The cream-like substance, of which
the family of Myxogastres is composed, resembles sarcode, and
exhibits Amœba-like movements. Some of them contain such a quantity
of carbonate of lime that a strong effervescence takes place on the
application of sulphuric acid. Fungi feed like animals upon organic
compounds elaborated by other plants. They contribute in no way as
vegetables to the balance of organic nature.

Another property they possess, which connects them with animals, is
their luminosity. This quality is very rare among plants, and is
almost peculiar to the lowest order of animals, particularly those
which inhabit the ocean. A species of mushroom (Agaricus olearius)
grows on the olive-tree which is often luminous at night, and
resembles the faint, lambent, flickering light emitted by the scales
of fish and sea-animals kept in a dark place. Anomalous conditions
of various species of Polyporus, Hypoxylon, etc., formerly referred
to the genus Rhizomorpha, from their root-like appearance, cover
the walls of dark mines with long, black, branchy, flat fibres, and
give out a remarkably vivid phosphorescent light, almost dazzling
the eye of the spectator. In the coal mines near Dresden, these
fungoid bodies are said to cover the roof, walls, and pillars with
an interlacing network of beautiful, flickering light like brilliant
gems in moonlight, giving the coal mine the appearance of an
enchanted palace on a festival night.

Fungi growing in mines exhibit the same characteristic colors which
they display on the surface of the ground. Sometimes, however,
species that grow in caves, or in hollow trees, assume the most
curious abnormal forms, their metamorphosis remaining incomplete, so
that instead of producing fructification the whole fungus becomes a
monstrous modification of the mycelium. Their love of seclusion and
darkness gives an etiolated, sickly complexion to the whole tribe. In
consequence of this habit, they are, as a rule, the most sombre of
all plants, although instances occur in which the prevailing neutral
tints are exchanged for the most brilliant scarlets and yellows.
Green, which is the most frequent of all colors, the household dress
of our mother earth, more characteristic of ferns, mosses, lichens,
and algæ than of the higher plants, is almost unknown in the fungi;
and even when it occurs, it is always more or less of a verdigris
tint, and does not appear to be owing to the action of light and
oxygen upon the contents of the cell.

Another of the remarkable peculiarities of the fungi is the extreme
rapidity of their growth, a peculiarity more frequently to be seen
among the lowest forms of animal life than among plants. They seem
special miracles of nature, rising from the ground, or from the
decaying trunk of the tree, full-formed and complete in all their
parts in a single night, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter, or
the armed soldiers from the dragon’s teeth of Cadmus, sown in the
furrows of Colchis. It has long been known that the growth of fungi
takes place with great rapidity during thundery weather, owing, in
all probability, to the nitrogenized products of the rain which then
falls. One is surprised after a thunderstorm in the beginning of
August, or a day of warm, moist, misty weather, such as often occurs
in September, to see in the woods thick clusters of these plants
which had sprung into existence in the short space of twenty-four
hours, covering almost every decayed stump and rotten tree. In
tropical countries, stimulated by the intense heat and light, the
rapidity of vegetable growth is truly astonishing; the stout, woody
stem of the bamboo-cane, for instance, shooting up in the dense
jungles of India at the rate of an inch per hour. In the Polynesian
Islands, so favorable to vegetable life are the climate and soil
that turnip, radish, and mustard seed when sown show their cotyledon
leaves in twenty-four hours; melons, cucumbers, and pumpkins spring
up in three days, and peas and beans in four. But swift as is this
development of vegetation in highly favorable circumstances, the
rapidity of fungoid growth, under ordinary conditions, is still more
astonishing. These plants usually form at the rate of twenty thousand
new cells every minute. The giant puff-ball (Lycoperdon giganteum),
occasionally to be seen in fields and plantations, increases from the
size of a pea to that of a melon in a single night; while the common
stinkhorn (Phallus impudicus) has been observed to attain a height of
four or five inches in as many hours.

Rapidity of growth in fungi is necessarily followed by rapidity
of decay. Though some of the larger and more corky species last
throughout the summer, autumn, and winter, and a few are perennial,
growing on the same trunk for many years, slowly and almost
insensibly adding layer to layer, and attaining an enormous size,
yet the vast generality of fungi are very fugacious. They are the
ephemera of the vegetable kingdom. The entire life of most of the
species ranges from four days to a fortnight or month; while there
are numerous microscopic species of the mould family whose lives are
so brief and evanescent as scarcely to allow sufficient time to make
drawings of their forms.

Fungi are extremely simple in their organization. They bring us back
to first principles, and reveal to us the secret manner in which
Nature builds up her most complicated vegetable structures. They
are composed entirely of cellular tissue, of a definite aggregation
of loose, more or less oval, elliptical cells with cavities between
them. These cells in many species may be seen by the naked eye, and
consist of little closed sacs of transparent colorless membrane. Here
is the starting-point of life. Such cells are the primary germ or
element from which every living thing, whether plant or animal, is
produced. The whole process of vegetable growth is but a continuous
multiplication of these cells.

Although the structure of fungi is generally of a loosely cellular
nature, yet they exhibit an astonishing variety of consistence. Each
genus, and in many instances each species, displays a different
texture. They range in substance from a watery pulp or a gelatinous
scum to a fleshy, corky, leathery, or even ligneous mass. Some are
mere thin fibres of airy cobweb spreading like a flocculent veil
over decaying matter; while others resemble large, irregular masses
of hard, tough wood. Their qualities are also exceedingly various.
Like the ferns, they all possess a peculiar odor by which they may
be easily recognized, although it is somewhat different in different
individuals, some smelling strongly of cinnamon and bitter almonds,
others of onions and tallow, while others yield an insupportable
stench. As regards their tastes, the fungi are equally diversified,
being insipid, acrid, styptic, caustic, or rich and sweet. Some have
no taste in the mouth while masticated, but shortly after swallowing
there is a dry, choking, burning sensation experienced at the back
of the throat, which lasts for a considerable time. Upward of 3,000
distinct species have been found and described in Britain alone;
while more than 20,000 species altogether are known to the scientific
world. In round numbers it may be said that fungi form about a third
of the flowerless plants.

The following instances may be brought forward as illustrations of
the remarkable shapes which many of the fungi exhibit. On the trunk
of the oak, the ash, the beech, and the chestnut may occasionally
be seen a fungus so remarkably like a piece of bullock’s liver that
it may be known from that circumstance alone. This is the Fistulina
hepatica, or liver fungus. Its substance is thick, fleshy, and juicy,
of a dark Modena red, tinged with vermilion. It is marbled like beet
root and consists of fibres springing from the base, from which a red
pellucid juice like blood slowly exudes. Of all vegetable substances
this exhibits the closest resemblance to animal tissue. Even in
the minutest particular it seems to be a caricature of nature, a
sportive imitation on an unfeeling oak tree of the largest gland of
the animal body. Like the liver it is also nutritious, and forms a
favorite article of food in Austria, though it is somewhat tough
and acrid in taste. Another remarkable species of fungus, called
Jew’s Ears (Hirneola Auricula-Judæ), from its close resemblance to
the human ear, clings to the trunks of living trees, particularly
the elder, throughout the whole autumnal season. Another remarkable
species, the Tremella mesenterica, common all the year round,
on furze and sticks in woods, bears a strong resemblance to the
human mesentery. It is of a rich orange color. This extraordinary
resemblance which different fungi bear to the different parts of the
animal body served to confirm the opinion of the ancient botanists
and herbalists that they were animal structures, or at least
intermediate links between the animal and vegetable kingdoms.

Although fungi in general are sober, nun-like plants, preferring
quiet Quaker colors suitable to the dim, secluded places which they
usually affect, yet some of them depart widely from this soberness
and exhibit themselves in the most gaudy hues. Some species are of a
brilliant scarlet color; others of a bright orange. Many are yellow,
while a few don the imperial purple. In short, they are to be found
of every color, from the purest white to the dingiest black, dark
emerald or leaf-green alone excepted. Some are beautifully zoned with
iridescent convoluted circles, or broad stripes of different hues.
Some shine as if sprinkled with mica; others are smooth as velvet,
and soft as kid-leather.

Let us take a specimen of one of the most perfectly formed and
highly developed fungi, the common, shaggy mushroom, for instance
(Agaricus procerus), which is also the most familiar example, and
endeavor to point out the peculiarities of its structure. Like all
plants, it consists of two distinct parts, the organs of nutrition
or vegetation and the organs of reproduction; the former bearing
but a very small proportion in size to the latter. The organs
of nutrition or vegetation consist of grayish-white interlacing
filaments, forming a flocculent net-like tissue, and penetrating
and ramifying through the decaying substances on which the mushroom
grows. These filaments are formed of elongated colorless cells. They
are developed under ground, and in other plants would be called
roots. This part of the fungus is called by botanists mycelium, and
is popularly known as the spawn by which the mushroom is frequently
propagated. In favorable circumstances this mycelium spreads with
great rapidity, sometimes, especially when prevented from developing
organs of reproduction, attaining enormous dimensions. It may be kept
dormant in a dry state for a long time, ready to grow up into perfect
plants when the necessary heat and moisture are applied. When the
requisite conditions are present and the mycelium begins to develop
the reproductive tissue, there is formed at first a small, round
tubercle, in which the rudiments or miniature organs of the future
plant may, after a while, be distinctly traced. In this infantile
condition, the mushroom is covered completely with a fine, silky veil
or volva, which afterward disappears. The tubercle rapidly increases,
until at last it produces from its interior a long, thick, fleshy
stem, or stipe, surmounted by a pileus, or round convex, concave, or
flat cap, similar to that anciently worn by the Scottish peasantry.
This is the organ of reproduction, equivalent to the thecæ of mosses
and the flowers of phanerogamous plants. This cap is covered with a
veil or wrapper, which is ruptured at a certain stage, and retires
to form an annulus or ring round the stem. When it is removed from
the under side of the pileus, a number of vertical plates or gills is
revealed of a pale pinkish-yellow or white color, different from the
rest of the plant, and radiating round the cap from a common centre.

The whole of this apparatus is called the hymenium. Each of the
gills when examined under the microscope is found to consist of a
number of elongated cells called basidia, united together on both
sides of a cellular stratum, and bearing at their summits four minute
spores supported on tiny stalks. It is by these spores, which become
detached when ripe, that the plant is propagated. These spores are
so very minute that many thousands of them are required to make a
body the size of a pin-head; and they are capable of enduring a
temperature at least equal to that of boiling water. While upon the
subject of spores I may mention here that the remarkable elastic
force with which many of the fungi eject their seed has often excited
attention, and is fully equal to anything of the same kind observed
among flowering plants.

The mushroom may be regarded as an ideal fungus of the highest
type. There are six large orders of fungi in which the organs of
fructification are widely different. The first order is called
Hymenomycetes, or naked fungi, because the seed-bearing organs are
naked or placed externally. This is the largest, most important, and
most highly developed order. The mushroom, toadstool, chantarelle,
amadou, are familiar examples of it. The hymenium assumes various
shapes in the different genera. In the mushroom it forms gills, in
the toadstool tubes, in the chantarelle veins, in the amadou pores,
and in the hydnum spines. The second order, called Gasteromycetes,
has the seed-bearing organs inclosed in a membraneous covering,
like the stomach of an animal, whence the name. The stinkhorn, the
Melanogaster, or red truffle of Bath, the bird’s-nest fungus, and the
puff-ball are familiar examples of this order. Some of the forms,
such as Stemonitis fusca, common on rotten wood, are exceedingly
elegant. The third order is called Concomycetes, or dust-fungi,
because the spore-cases are produced beneath the epidermis of plants,
or the matrix in which they are developed, in the form of a minute
collection of dust, entirely destitute of any covering or receptacle,
except that which is furnished by the skin of the plant raised around
them. This class is the most destructive of the whole tribe. Smut,
bunt, and rust are too familiar examples of this most notorious
class. The fourth order is called Hyphomycetes, or web-like fungi,
because the spores are free, developed or naked filament whose
terminal cells are often transformed into a series of spores like a
row of beads. The general appearance of the plants belonging to this
order is that of a quantity of dust-like seeds, imbedded in a flaky,
cottony substance, like a spider’s web. The different kinds of common
mould, blue, yellow, and green, the potato disease, caterpillar and
silkworm blights, and various kinds of mildew are common examples of
this order. The fifth order, called Physomycetes, is distinguished
by its stalked sacs containing numerous spores, or sporidea. It is
the smallest of all the orders. The black, felty cellar-fungus and
the gray mucor or mould on preserves are familiar illustrations of
this order. The sixth and last order is that of the Ascomycetes,
or asci-bearing fungi, whose spores, generally eight in number,
are produced in the interior of groups of elongated sacs or thecæ
contained in fleshy, leathery, or wart-like fructification. These
fungi, of which the morel, truffle, and vine disease are well-known
examples, resemble lichens in every respect except that they are
produced on decaying substances, and are possessed of a mycelium or
spawn destitute of the green cellular matter of lichens.

Although fungi are in an especial manner capable of universal
dissemination, yet we find that in their geographical distribution
they are as much restricted as other plants. Some representatives of
the class are found in every part of the world, and some particular
species have the power of indefinite extension and localization,
but, as a whole, like the higher cryptogams, they can only spread
within certain limited areas. In tropical forests, where the
exuberance of the vegetation excludes the rays of the sun, and
creates the dim light and the still, moist air which they love,
and where there is always an immense quantity of decaying organic
matter, we might expect to find them in the greatest quantity and
luxuriance. But, strange to say, fungi, as a class, are comparatively
rare in tropical woods. Their headquarters seem to be in northern
latitudes, where the temperature is mild and genial, and where
there is a constant supply of moisture. Professor Fries of Upsal,
the presiding genius of these plants, gathered in Sweden, within
a space of ground not exceeding a square furlong, more than two
thousand distinct species. “This country,” says Mr. Berkeley, “with
its various soils, large mixed forests, and warm summer temperature,
seems to produce more species than any part of the known world;
and next in order, perhaps, are the United States as far south as
South Carolina, where they absolutely swarm. A moist autumn after
a genial summer is most conducive to their growth, but cold, wet
summers are seldom productive. The portion of the Himalayas which
lies immediately north of Calcutta is, perhaps, almost as prolific
in point of individuals as the countries named above, but the number
of species on examination proves far less than might at first have
been suspected. It is probably not a fifth of what occurs in Sweden.
Great Britain, though possessing a considerable list of species, is
not abundant in individuals, except as regards a limited number of
species. The exuberance, even in the most favorable autumn, is not to
be compared with that of Sweden or many parts of Germany.” They are
found in Arctic and Antarctic regions, almost as far as the limits
of vegetation. They penetrate to the dreary regions of Greenland
and Lapland, supplying the natives with their tinder, and with an
excellent styptic for stopping blood and allaying pain; and they
announce to the hapless exiles of Siberia, when their gayly colored
forms spring forth from the crevices of the rocks, and in the dark
haunts of the gloomy fir-woods, that the stormy blasts of winter and
spring are past, and that the summer and autumn, those short, sweet
seasons of indescribable beauty and pleasure, have come.

Certain genera and species occur only in tropical and sub-tropical
regions, having their northern limit in the north of Africa or the
coast of the Mediterranean. Several genera and species are confined
to New Zealand, others to Ceylon and Java, others to the Cape de
Verde Islands and the United States. Like flowering plants, the fungi
of different climates and zones are found at different heights along
the sides of tropical mountains that rise above the snow-line. In the
Sikkim Himalayas, Polyporus Sanguineus, and Xanthopus luxuriate in
the stifling tropical woods at the base of the hills; higher up the
fungi peculiar to Ceylon and Java grow among the palms and tree-ferns
of the mid regions; higher still, the species of Southern Europe
abound in the deodar forests and among the rhododendron thickets of
the upper heights; while below the line of perpetual snow, on grassy
slopes and amid scrubby vegetation, may be seen species, if not
identical with, at least very closely allied to, those of Britain and
Sweden. One species has been found at a height of 18,000 feet, which
is probably the highest range of fungoid growth.




  FAIRY RINGS
  --A. B. STEELE


The green circles, or parts of circles in pastures, popularly known
as fairy rings, have given rise to many curious beliefs and sayings,
and their marvelously rapid growth has struck the uncultivated as
a supernatural phenomenon. The prevalent belief was that they were
caused by the midnight dancing and revelry of the fairies; and
Shakespeare speaks of the elves--

                    “Whose pastime
      Is to make midnight mushrooms.”

In the west of England these rings are called “hogs’ tracks.” In the
myths and folklore of Sweden they are said to be enchanted circles
made by fairies. The elves perform their midnight _stimm_, or dance,
and the grass produced after the dancing is called _ailfexing_. A
belief prevails in some parts of this country that any one treading
within the magic circles either loses consciousness, or can not
retrace his steps. Many absurd theories have been propounded as to
the cause of these rings. Aubrey, who wrote the _Natural History of
Wiltshire_, in the Seventeenth Century, says that they are generated
from the breaking out of a fertile subterraneous vapor, which comes
from a kind of conical concave, and endeavors to get out at a narrow
passage at the top, which forces it to make another cone, inversely
situated to the other, the top of which is the green circle. Another
remarkable theory by a writer, quoted in Captain Brown’s notes to
White’s _Selborne_, attributes these rings to the droppings of
starlings, which when in large flights frequently alight on the
ground in circles, and are sometimes known to sit a considerable time
in these annular congregations. It was also thought that such circles
were caused by the effects of electricity, and for this belief
the withered part of the grass within the circles may have given
foundation. Priestley was a strong advocate of the electric theory,
and was supported by many eminent men of his time.

      “So from the clouds the playful lightning wings,
      Rives the firm oak, and prints the fairy rings,”

says Dr. Darwin, and appends a note that flashes of lightning,
attracted by the moister part of grassy plains, are the actual cause
of fairy rings. Archæologists suggested that they might be the
remains of circles formed by the ancient inhabitants of Britain, in
the celebration of their sports, or the worship of their deities.
Naturalists formerly came to the conclusion that the rings were
caused by the underground workings of insects, and a few years ago a
writer in the _Transactions of the Woolhope Club_ attempted to prove
that they were the work of moles. These so-called fairy rings, which
have long puzzled philosophers, are caused by a peculiar mode of
the growth of certain species of fungi, the peculiarity being their
tendency to assume a circular form. A patch of spawn arising from a
single seed, or a collection of seeds, spreads centrifugally in every
direction and forms a common felt from which the fruit rises at its
extreme edge; the soil in the inner part of the disk is exhausted,
and the spawn dies or becomes effete there while it spreads all
round in an outward direction and produces another crop, whose spawn
spreads again. The circle is thus continually enlarged and extends
indefinitely until some cause intervenes to destroy it. This mode of
growth is far more common than is supposed, and may be constantly
seen in our woods, when the spawn can be spread only in the soil or
among the leaves and decaying fragments which cover it. In the fields
this tendency is illustrated by the formation of circles or parts of
circles of vigorous dark green grass. To get at the cause, however,
of the rank growth of the grass composing these rings is not without
its difficulties still. It is known that fungi exhaust the soil of
plant-food and store it up in their own substance. In the case of
these fairy rings they take up from the soil the organic nitrogen
which is not available to the grasses, and in some way become the
medium of the supply of the soil-nitrogen to the grasses forming
the circle. How exactly the nitrogen, one of the most important
plant-foods, is fixed by these fungi has not yet been discovered, but
the grasses immediately following the fungi have been analyzed and
found to contain a larger proportion of nitrogen than the herbage in
the neighborhood.

Fairy rings are sometimes distinctly seen visible on a hillside from
a considerable distance, many of them being years old and of enormous
dimensions. One recorded from Stebbing, in Essex, measured 120 feet
across, the grass all over it being very coarse and dark green in
color, chiefly of the cock’s-foot species. Rings found in pasture
lands are composed of several species of fungi, all of which are
edible. They are most frequently observed to be formed by marasmius
oreades, a little buff mushroom which most people know under the name
of champignons, or Scotch bonnets. It is abundant everywhere. For
several months in the year it comes up in successive crops in great
profusion after rain, and continually traces fairy rings among the
grass.

Another and very delicious mushroom, agaricus prunulus, sometimes
called the plum agaric, and known in America as the French mushroom,
occasionally succeeds a crop of the champignons which had recently
occupied the same site. It is sometimes found throughout the
summer, but autumn is the time to look for it. The only other good
edible fungi to be found in any quantity forming rings are the
horse-mushroom, the giant-mushroom, and St. George’s mushroom. The
first two are excellent eating, and to be had in the late summer
and autumn; but the last are reproduced in rings in spring every
year--the circle continuing to increase till it breaks up into
irregular lines. The continuity of the circle is a sign to the
collector that there will be a plentiful harvest next spring, while
the breaking up is conclusive proof that it is going to disappear
from that place. Spring is the only time it makes its appearance,
and the proper place to look for it is the borders of woodlands.
It is one of the most savory of mushrooms, and difficult to be
confounded with any other, as it appears at a time when scarcely any
other kinds occur. Like the champignon, it has an advantage over the
common mushroom in the readiness with which it dries, and is largely
employed in the preparation of ketchup. It is called St. George’s
mushroom on account of its appearing about St. George’s Day, the 23d
of April, and among the peasants of Austria is looked on as a special
gift from that saint. In Italy a basket of early specimens is a
favorite present among all classes.




  LICHENS
  --HUGH MACMILLAN


Lichens are exceedingly diversified in their form, appearance, and
texture. About five hundred different kinds have been found in
Great Britain alone, while upward of three thousand species have
been discovered in different parts of the world by the zealous
researches of naturalists. In their very simplest rudimentary
forms, they consist apparently of nothing more than a collection
of powdery granules, so minute that the figure of each is scarcely
distinguishable, and so dry and utterly destitute of organization
that it is difficult to believe that any vitality exists in them.
Some of these form ink-like stains on the smooth tops of posts
and felled trees; others are sprinkled like flower of brimstone or
whiting over shady rocks and withered tufts of moss; while a third
species is familiar to every one, as covering with a bright green
incrustation the trunks and boughs of trees in the squares and
suburbs of smoky towns, where the air is so impure as to forbid the
growth of all other vegetation. It also creeps over the grotesque
figures and elaborate carving on the roofs and pillars of Roslin
Chapel, near Edinburgh, and gives to the whole an exquisitely
beautiful and romantic appearance. One species, the Lepraria
Jolithus, is associated with many a superstitious legend. Linnæus,
in his journal of a tour through Œland and East Gothland, thus
alludes to it: “Everywhere near the road I saw stones covered with a
blood-red pigment, which on being rubbed turned into a light yellow,
and diffused a smell of violets, whence they have obtained the name
of violet stones; though, indeed, the stone itself has no smell at
all, but only the moss with which it is dyed.” At Holywell, in North
Wales, the stones are covered with this curious lichen, which gives
them the appearance of being stained with blood; and, of course, the
peasantry allege that it is the ineffaceable blood which dropped from
Ste. Winifred’s head, when she suffered martyrdom on that sacred
spot. A higher order of lichens (Bæomyces) is furnished besides this
powdery crust, with solid, fleshy, club-shaped fructification like a
minute pink fungus; while a singularly beautiful genus (Calicium),
usually of a very vivid yellow color, spreading in indefinite
patches over oaks and firs, is provided with capsules somewhat like
those of the mosses.

Most of the crustaceous lichens are merely gray filmy patches
inseparable from their growing places, indefinitely spreading, or
bounded by a narrow dark border, which always intervenes to separate
them when two species closely approximate, and studded all over with
black, brown, or red tubercles. The foliaceous species are usually
round rosettes of various colors, attached by dense black fibres
all over their under-surface, or by a single knot-like root in the
centre. Some are dry and membranaceous; while others are gelatinous
and pulpy, like aerial sea-weeds left exposed on island rocks by the
retiring waves of an extinct ocean. Some are lobed with woolly veins
underneath; and others reticulated above, and furnished with little
cavities or holes on the under-surface. The higher orders of lichens,
though destitute of anything resembling vascular tissue, exhibit
considerable complexity of structure. Some are scrubby and tufted,
with stem and branches like miniature trees; others bear a strong
resemblance to the corallines of our seashores; while a third class,
“the green-fringed cup-moss with the scarlet tip,” as Crabble calls
it, is exceedingly graceful, growing in clusters beside the black
peat moss or underneath the heather tuft,

                “And, Hebe-like, upholding
      Its cups with dewy offering to the sun.”

As an illustration of the extraordinary appearance which lichens
occasionally present, I may describe the Opegrapha, or written
lichen, perhaps the most curious and remarkable member of this
strange tribe. In her cacti and orchids sportive Nature often
displays a ludicrous resemblance to insects, birds, animals, and
even the “human face and form divine”; but this is one of the few
instances in which she has condescended to imitate in her vegetable
productions the written language of man. A cryptogam is in this case
a cryptogram! The crust of the curious autograph of nature is a
mere white tartareous film of indefinite extent, sometimes bounded
by a faint line of black, like a mourning letter. It spreads over
the bark of trees, particularly the beech, the hazel, and the ash.
On the birch-tree--whose smooth, snow-white vellum-like bark seems
designed by nature for the inscription of lovers’ names and magic
incantations--it may often be seen covering the whole trunk. The
fructification consists of long wavy black lines, sometimes parallel
like Runic inscriptions; sometimes arrow-headed, like the cuneiform
characters engraved upon the monumental stones of Persepolis and
Assyria; and sometimes gathered together in groups and clusters,
bearing a strong resemblance to Hebrew, Arabic, or Chinese letters.

Lichens are extremely simple in their construction. They are composed
of two parts, the nutritive and the reproductive system. The
nutritive portion is called the thallus, which, in the typical plant,
spreads equally on all sides from the original point of development,
in the from of an increasing circle; the circumference of which is
often healthy, while the central parts are decayed or completely
wanting.

Nature has bestowed upon the lichens a peculiar mode of reproduction
which appears quite different from that of the higher orders of the
vegetable kingdom; and yet they are propagated with as unerring
certainty and as great rapidity as the most prolific family of
flowers. Every one who has an attentive eye must have often noticed
the curious round disks or shields, usually of a different color from
the rest of the plant, with which their surface is often studded.
These are called apothecia, and correspond with the flowers of the
higher plants; for in them are lodged the seeds or germs by which the
lichens are perpetuated. When examined under the microscope they are
found to consist of a number of delicate flask-shaped cells, called
thecæ, containing 4, 8, 12, or 16 sporidia, that is, cells of an oval
form, with spores or seeds in their interior. The mode in which these
spores are ejected affords as wonderful a proof of design as in the
case of ferns and mosses.

[Illustration: Typical Nuts and Tree-Products

1, Cinnamon; 2, Camphire (Camphor); 3, Pomegranate; 4, Sycamore Figs;
5, Olive Twig and Fruit; 6, Theobroma Cacao (Chocolate)]

Lichens are very slow-growing plants. They spring up somewhat rapidly
during the first year or two, as is evinced by the luxurious growth
which they form over young fruit-trees and espaliers in gardens; but
after a circular frond is formed, they subside into a dormant state,
in which they remain unaltered for many years. The foliaceous and
scrubby species are the most fugacious, though even these have great
powers of longevity. We have no data from which to ascertain the age
of tartareous species, which adhere almost inseparably to stones.
Some of them are probably as old as any living organisms that exist
on the earth.

In the Arctic regions--those outer boundaries of the earth where
eternal winter presides--these humble plants constitute by far the
largest proportion of the flora, and by their prodigious development,
and their wide social distribution, give as marked and peculiar a
character to the scenery as the palms and tree-ferns impart to the
landscapes of the tropics. In the Southern Hemisphere also lichens
extend almost to the pole. They mark the extreme limit at which land
vegetation has been found; one scrubby species, with large, deep,
chestnut-colored fructification, called Usnea fasciata, having been
observed by Lieutenant Kendal on Deception Island, the Ultima Thule
of the Antarctic regions.

In tropical countries, where there is not too much moisture and
shade, the trees are shaggy with lichens; and some of the most
magnificent species, both as regards size and color, have been
gathered in the Cinchona forests which clothe the lower slopes of the
Andes, and in the warmer and more densely wooded parts of Australia
and New Zealand. The thick impervious forests of Brazil, however,
are said to be almost destitute of them. On the Alps of Switzerland
the last lichens are to be found on the highest summits, attached
to projecting rocks, exposed to the scorching heats of summer and
the fierce blasts of winter; and from forty to forty-five kinds
have been found in spots, surrounded by extensive masses of snow,
between 10,000 and 14,780 feet above the level of the sea. It is
interesting to know that the only plant found by Agassiz near the top
of Mont Blanc was the Lecidea geographica, a very beautiful lichen,
which covers the exposed rocks on the sides and summits of all the
British hills, with its bright-green, map-like patches. This species
was also gathered by Dr. Hooker at an elevation of 19,000 feet on
the Himalayas, and occupied the last outpost of vegetation which
gladdened the eyes of the illustrious Humboldt, when standing within
a few hundred feet of the summit of Chimborazo, the highest peak of
the Andes.

The Lecidea geographica affords, I may mention, the most remarkable
example of the almost universal diffusion of lichens, being the most
Arctic, Antarctic, and Alpine lichen in the world--facing the savage
cliffs of Melville Island in the extreme north, clinging to the
volcanic rocks of Deception Island in the extreme south, and scaling
the towering peak of Kinchin-junga, the most elevated spot on the
surface of the earth.

It is somewhat remarkable that Alpine lichens generally are more or
less of a brown or black color. This peculiarity seems to be owing
to the presence of usnine or usnic acid, which in a pure state is
of a green color, as in the lichens which grow in shady forests,
but which becomes oxidized, and changes to every shade of brown and
black, when exposed to the powerful agencies of light and heat on
the bleak barren rocks on the mountain side and summit. These gloomy
lichens, associated as they always are with the dusky tufts of
that singular genus of mosses, the Andræas, give a very marked and
peculiar character to many of the Highland mountains, especially to
the summit of Ben Nevis, where they creep, in the utmost profusion,
over the fragments of abraded rocks which strew the ground on every
side, otherwise bare and leafless, as was the world on the first
morning of creation, and reminding one of the ruin of some stupendous
castle, or the battlefield of the Titans. Some of the Alpine lichens,
however, are remarkable for the vividness and brilliancy of their
colors. The mountain cup-moss, with its light green stalk clothed
and filigreed with scales and emerald cup studded round with rich
scarlet knobs, presents no unapt resemblance to a double red daisy.
It grows in large clusters on the bare storm-scalped ridges, and
forms a kind of miniature flower-garden in the Alpine wilderness.
The loveliest, however, of all the mountain lichens is the Solorina
crocea, which spreads over the loose mould in the clefts of rocks,
and on the fragments of comminuted schist on the summits of the
highest Highland mountains, forming patches of the most beautiful
and vivid green, varied, when the under side of the lobes is curled
up, by reticulations of a very rich orange-saffron color. This
species is not found at a lower elevation than 4,000 feet; hence it
is unknown in England, Ireland, and Wales, whose highest mountains
fall considerably short of this altitude. I have gathered it on
Cairngorm, Ben Macdhui, and Ben Lawers. In this last locality, which
is well known to botanists as exhibiting a perfect garden of rare and
beautiful Alpine plants, it grows in greater abundance, I believe,
than in any other spot in the Highlands.

On account of the large quantity of starchy matter which they
contain, they often considerably, and sometimes even entirely, form
the diet of man and animals in those dreary inhospitable regions
where the wintry rigor, or the scorching heat of the climate, forbids
all other kinds of vegetation to grow. Every one is familiar with the
fact that the reindeer-moss (Cladonia rangiferina) forms altogether
the food of that animal during the prolonged northern winters. This
lichen grows sparingly in little tufts among the heather in Scotland,
and sometimes whitens the sides and plateaus of the Highland hills,
covering bare and verdureless places where the snow first falls in
winter and lingers longest in summer; but it is in the vast sandy
plains, called by the Laplanders Flechten-tundra and Moos-tundra, as
lichens or mosses predominate, which border the Arctic Ocean, that
it flourishes in the greatest profusion and luxuriance. There it
completely covers the ground with its snowy tufts, and occupies as
conspicuous a place in the economy of nature as the grass in warmer
regions. Linnæus says that no plant flourishes so luxuriantly as
this in the pine-forests of Lapland, the surface of the soil being
completely carpeted with it for many miles in extent; and that if by
an accident the forests are burned to the ground, in a very short
time the lichens reappear, and resume all their original vigor.

When the ground is covered with hard and frozen snow, so that the
reindeer can not obtain its usual food, it finds a substitute in a
very curious lichen called rock-hair (Alectoria jubata), which covers
with its beard-like tufts the trunk of almost every tree. In most
severe weather the Laplanders cut down whole forests of the largest
trees, that their herds may be enabled to browse at liberty upon the
tufts which cover the higher branches. The vast, dreary pine-forests
of Lapland possess a character which is peculiarly their own, and
are perhaps more singular in the eyes of the traveler than any other
feature in the landscapes of that remote and desolate region. This
character they owe to the immense number of lichens with which they
abound. The ground instead of grass is carpeted with dense tufts of
the reindeer moss, white as a shower of new-fallen snow; while the
trunks and branches of the trees are swollen far beyond their natural
dimensions with huge, dusky, funereal bunches of the rock-hair
hanging down in masses, exhaling a damp earthy smell, like an old
cellar, or stretching from tree to tree in long festoons, waving with
every breath of wind, and creating a perpetual melancholy twilight.

Another beard-like lichen (Usnea florida), often growing along with
the rock-hair, is gathered in great quantities in North America,
from the pine-forests, and stored up as winter fodder for cattle in
inclement seasons. Goats, and especially deer, are fond of it; and
in winter when other food is scarce, they hardly leave a vestige
of it on the trees within their reach. The tortoises of the small
rocky islands of the Galapagos Archipelago subsist almost entirely
upon it. In Scotland it is one of the most picturesque ornaments of
the pine-forests. When fully developed it forms tufts nearly a foot
in length. It is quite a miniature larch-tree, with root, stem, and
most intricate branches and twigs. Its color is pale sea-green;
and a central white thread or pith runs through the main stem, and
lateral branches, on which, when cracked with age, the segments
of cellular tissue are strung like beads on a necklace. A kind of
farinaceous meal is plentifully sprinkled on the ultimate branches.
Altogether it is one of the most beautiful and interesting lichens. A
reddish variety grows in such quantities on trees of Conyza arborea,
forming the alley near Napoleon Bonaparte’s residence in St. Helena,
that this hanging vegetation is the first thing that attracts the eye
of the visitor.

But it is not to animals alone that lichens furnish a supply of
food. There are few, I presume, who are not acquainted with some
particulars regarding the history and uses of that remarkable lichen
sold in chemists’ shops under the name of Cetraria islandica, or
Iceland moss. What barley, rye, and oats are to the Indo-Caucasian
races of Asia and western Europe; the olive, the grape, and the fig
to the inhabitants of the Mediterranean districts; the date-palm to
the Egyptian and Arabian; rice to the Hindu; and the tea-plant to
the Chinese--the Iceland moss is to the Laplanders, Icelanders, and
Esquimaux.

It may be mentioned that, notwithstanding its name, the Iceland moss
is not only more plentiful, but more largely developed in all its
varied forms in Norway than in Iceland, and it is in Norway that it
is now almost exclusively collected for the European market.

Those who have read the affecting account which Franklin and
Richardson give of their expedition to Arctic America must be
familiar with the name of the Tripe de Roche, which occurs on almost
every page, and is intimately associated with the fearful sufferings
which these brave men endured, a part of which only would have
sufficed to unseat the reason of most individuals. During their long
and terrible journey from the Coppermine River to Fort Enterprise,
one of the stations of the Hudson’s Bay Company, in the almost total
absence of every other kind of salutary food, their lives were
supported by a bitter and nauseous lichen, to which the name of Tripe
de Roche (Gyrophora) has been given as if in mockery.

The Tripe de Roche consists of various species of Gyrophora--black,
leather-like lichens, studded with small black points like coiled
wire buttons, and attached by an umbilical root, or by short strong
fibres to rocks on the mountains. Some of them bear no unapt
resemblance to a piece of shagreen; while others appear corroded,
like a fragment of burned skin, as if the rock on which they grew
had been subjected to the action of fire. They are found in cold
exposed situations on Alpine rocks of granite or micaceous schist,
in almost all parts of the world--on the Himalayas and Andes as well
as the British mountains. But it is in the Arctic regions alone that
they luxuriate, covering the surface of every rock, to the level of
the seashore, with a gloomy Plutonian vegetation that seems like the
charred cinders and shriveled remains of former verdure and beauty.




  MOSSES
  --HUGH MACMILLAN


Mosses belong to the foliaceous or highest division of flowerless
plants. Although consisting entirely of cellular tissue and
increasing by simple additions of matter to the growing point or
apex of parts already formed, they point to far higher orders
of vegetation; they are prefigurations of the flowering plants,
epitomes of archetypes in trees and flowers. There is nothing in the
appearance or structure of the lichens, fungi, or algæ to remind
the popular mind of higher plants; they form, as it were, a strange
microcosm of their own--a perfectly distinct and peculiar order of
vegetable existence. But when we ascend a step higher and come to
the mosses, we find for the first time the rudimental characters
and distinctions of root, stem, branches, and leaves--we recognize
an ideal exemplar of the flowering plants, all whose parts and
organs are, as it were, sketched out, in anticipation, in these
simple and tiny organisms. Through the small, densely cushioned,
moss-like Alpine flowers, they approximate analogically to the
phanerogamous plants in their leaves and habits of growth; and
through the cone-like spikes of the club-mosses they approximate to
the pine tribe in their fructification. From both these classes of
highly organized plants, however, they are separated by wide and
numerous intervening links. But still it is curious and interesting
to find in them an exemplification of the universal teleology of
nature--the humblest typical forms pointing to the grand archetypes,
the simplest structures anticipating and prefiguring the most highly
organized and complicated.

In no tribe of plants is there so great a similarity between the
different species as in the mosses. This remarkable similarity,
concealing a no less remarkable diversity, has led to the popular
belief that there is only one kind of moss. Closely examined,
however, by an educated eye, their exceeding variableness of form
will at once become evident, some being slender, hair-like plants;
some resembling miniature fir-trees, others cedars, and others
crested feathers and ostrich-plumes. In size they vary from a minute
film of green scarcely visible to the naked eye to wreaths and
clusters several feet in length. Nor are their colors less variable,
ranging from white through every shade of yellow, red, green, and
brown, to the deepest and most sombre black.

The leaves of mosses are their most prominent parts. To the careless
and superficial eye, accustomed to look at a tuft of moss as merely
a patch of velvety greenness, creeping over an old tree or dike, the
leaves of all mosses may appear precisely similar; but the attentive
observer who examines them under a microscope will find that the
leaves of different kinds of trees are not more distinct from each
other than are those of the mosses.

The organs of fructification, however, with which mosses are
furnished, are, perhaps, the most wonderful parts of their economy.
When the requisite conditions are present, these are generally
developed during the winter and spring months, and may be easily
recognized by their peculiar appearance. At first a forest of
hair-like stalks, of a pale pink color, rises above the general level
of the tuft of moss to the height of between one and three inches,
giving to the moss the appearance of a pincushion well provided with
pins. These stalks, through course of time, are crowned with little
wen-like vessels called capsules, which are covered at an early
stage with little caps, like those of the Normandy peasants, with
high peaks and long lappets--in one species bearing a remarkable
resemblance to the extinguisher of a candle--a curious provision
for protecting them alike from the sunshine and the rain, until the
delicate structures underneath are matured. When the fruit-stalk
lengthens and the capsules swell, this hood or cap is torn from
its support and carried up on the top of the seed-vessel, much in
the same way as the common garden annual, the Eschscholtzia or
Californian poppy is borne up on the summit of the cone-like petals
before they expand. When the seed-vessel is riper it falls off
altogether, and discloses a little lid covering the mouth of the
capsule, which is also removed at a more advanced stage of growth.
The mouth of the seed-vessel is then seen to be fringed all round
with a single or double row of teeth, which closely fit into each
other, and completely close up the aperture.

It is extremely interesting to note that the leaf is the type of
the plant in the moss as in the flowering plant; the veil being
merely a convolute leaf, the lid a metamorphosed leaf, the teeth
one or more whorls of minute, flat leaves. It is by no means rare
to find individual mosses in which leaves appear at the top of
the fruit-stalk in place of the spore-case, just as happens in the
phyllode of flowering plants, when the colored parts of the flower
are converted into green foliage.

Mosses possess in a high degree the power of reproducing such parts
of their tissue as have been injured or removed. They may be trodden
under foot; they may be torn up by the plow or the harrow; they may
be cropped down to the earth, when mixed with grass by graminivorous
animals; they may be injured in a hundred other ways; but, in a
marvelously short space of time they spring up as verdant in their
appearance and as perfect in their form as though they had never been
disturbed.

Mosses also possess the power of resisting, perhaps to a greater
extent than most plants, the injurious operation of physical agents;
and this likewise is a wise provision to qualify them for the uses
which they serve in the economy of nature. The influence of heat
and cold upon many of them is extremely limited; some species
flourishing indiscriminately on the mountains of Greenland and the
plains of Africa. They have been found growing near hot springs in
Cochin-China, and fringing the sides of the geysers of Iceland,
where they must have vegetated in a heat equal to 186 degrees;
while, on the other hand, they have been gathered in Melville
Island at 35 degrees, or only just above the freezing-point. Though
frozen hard under the snow-wreaths of winter for several months,
their vitality is unimpaired; and though subjected to the scorching
rays of the summer’s sun they continue green and unblighted. Even
when thoroughly desiccated into a brown, unshapen mass that almost
crumbles into dust when touched by the hand, they revive under the
influence of the genial shower, become green as an emerald; every
pellucid leaf serving as a tiny mirror on which to catch the stray
sunbeams. Specimens dried and pressed in the herbarium for half a
century, have been resuscitated on the application of moisture, and
the seed procured from their capsules has readily germinated. They
grow freely in the Arctic regions, where there is a long twilight
of six months’ duration; and they luxuriate in the dazzling,
uninterrupted light of the tropics. They are found thriving amid
moist, steam-like vapors, with orchids and tillandsias, in the deep
American forests; and they may be seen in tufts here and there on
the dry and arid sands of the Arabian deserts. It matters not to
the healthy exercise of their functions whether the surrounding air
be stagnant or in motion, for we find them on the mountain top amid
howling winds and driving storms, and in the calm, silent, secluded
wood, where hardly a breeze penetrates to ruffle their leaves.

Unlike the ferns, the size and number of which gradually diminish in
passing from tropical to temperate countries, the maximum of mosses
is found in cold climates, increasing in luxuriance, beauty, and
abundance as we approach the North Pole. Like the ferns, moisture and
shade are highly favorable to their growth and well-being; hence, as
a rule, they produce a larger number of species and individuals, and
spread over wider areas in islands and the vicinity of rivers and
lakes than in the interior of continents, unless when well wooded and
watered. Their favorite habitats appear to be rocky dells or ravines
at the foot of mountains, with streamlets murmuring through them and
dense trees interweaving their foliage over their sides and creating
a dim twilight in the recesses beneath. In such hermit seclusions the
botanist may expect to reap the richest harvest of species.

Mosses, in many instances, are limited to rocks and soils of the same
mineral character; their limits of distribution, and of the rocks and
soils possessing such character being identical. For instance, some
are confined to limestone districts and chalk cliffs; a calcareous
soil being indispensable to their existence. Others affect granite;
numerous species luxuriate in soil formed by the disintegration
of micaceous schist; while not a few are found growing chiefly on
sandstone and clay. Some are found only on and near the seashore;
others are confined to the beds of streams and cliffs moistened by
the spray of cascades, where, however impetuous the torrent may be,
they cling tenaciously to the rocks and form carpets of greenest
verdure for the white, glistening feet of the descending waters.
Some are restricted exclusively to trees whose trunks and boughs
they clasp like emerald bracelets; others lead a lonely, hermit-like
existence in the dim moist caves and crevices of rocks, where they
are discovered only by the glistening of a stray adventurous sunbeam
on the drops of dew trembling upon their shining golden leaves.

Mosses are sometimes found in an isolated state as single
individuals, but they are far oftener found in a social condition.
It is a peculiarity of the family to grow in tufts or clusters, the
appearance of which is always distinct and well-marked in different
species, and often affords a specific character. This disposition to
grow together, which is exhibited in no other plants so strongly,
redeems them from the insignificance of their individual state, and
enables them to modify in many places the appearance of the general
landscape. As social plants they often cover vast districts of land.
Along with the lichens they give a verdant appearance to the desert
steppes of Northern Europe, Asia, and America. Mixed with grass
they luxuriate in parks, lawns, and meadows, particularly in moist,
low-lying situations. They spread in large patches over the ground
in woods and forests; and at a certain elevation on mountain ranges
they take exclusive possession of the soil, forming immense beds
into which the foot sinks up to the ankles at every step, bleached
on the surface by the sunshine and rain, blackened here and there by
dissolving wreaths of snow which lie upon them through all the summer
months, and gradually decomposing underneath into black vegetable
mould.

The plants whose peculiarities have been described in the preceding
pages are called Urn Mosses, their fructification being urn-shaped,
furnished with teeth and closed with a lid. There is another large
class called Scale-Mosses, so closely allied to the true mosses that
they are frequently confounded even by an educated eye. There are
upward of a hundred species of scale mosses indigenous to Great
Britain and Ireland, some of which are so small as to be scarcely
visible and others much larger than any of the true mosses. With the
exception of a few prominent species, which are found in every moist
wood and on every shady rock, they are somewhat local and limited in
their distribution, many of them being remarkably rare and confined
to remote and isolated localities. The greatest number of species
occurs in the tropics; and nowhere do they luxuriate so much as in
the dark woods and mountain ravines of New Zealand. Some of them
grow in the bleakest spots in the world, and are to be found even at
a higher altitude than the urn-mosses on the great mountain ranges
of the globe. They form the faintest tint of green on the edges of
glaciers and on the bare, storm-seamed ridges of the Alps and Andes,
where not a tuft of moss or a trace of other vegetation can be seen;
and this almost imperceptible film of verdure, when cleansed from the
earth and moistened with water, presents under the microscope the
most beautiful appearance.

The peculiarities of these plants are so remarkable and interesting
that they deserve more than a passing notice. As a rule, to which,
however, there are a good many exceptions, they do not grow upright
in tufts like the mosses, but have a flat, creeping, lichen-like
habit, spreading over rocks and trees in closely applied circles
which radiate from a common centre. The whole typical plant is like a
series or necklace of roundish, flat, imbricated scales, several of
which branch from a common point in the middle. The leaves, unlike
those of the mosses, are entirely destitute of a central nerve, for
what is called the nervure in the membraneous or leafy species is
nothing more than the stalk itself on the edges of which the leaves
are fastened together in such a manner as to form apparently a
continuous whole.

The Hepaticæ, or scale-mosses, may be divided into two groups,
consisting of those species in which the vegetation is frondose, that
is, in which leaf and stem are confounded, and of those in which
the vegetation is foliaceous, that is, in which leaves and stem are
distinct.

The most interesting of all the frondose group of scale-mosses is
the common Marchantia or Liverwort (Marchantia polymorpha). It is
very common, creeping in large, dark-green patches over rocks in very
moist and shady situations, such as the banks of a densely wooded
stream in a deep, narrow glen, or the sides of rivers and fountains.
It may often be seen also on the moist walls of hothouses and in
the pots and tubs. It adheres closely to rocks, which it sometimes
completely covers with its imbricated fronds by the numerous white,
downy radicles with which the under surface is covered.

The second or foliaceous group of scale-mosses, in which the leaves
and stem are distinct, is called Jungermanniæ, and contains by far
the largest number of species and the richest variety of form and
color. On either side of the thread-like stem arise in a more or
less oblique position the membraneous overlapping leaves; while the
fruit-vessel springs from the end of the stem, and is produced upon
little silvery foot-stalks. It bursts into four valves, and when
fully expanded spreads out into the form of a cross. There is a class
of plants whose external appearance and mode of growth would indicate
that they belong to the tribe under review, but whose structure and
functions are so different that they are commonly supposed to bear a
closer analogy to the ferns. They occupy an intermediate position,
and form a connecting link between ferns and mosses; I allude to the
Lycopods, or club-mosses. They are usually found in bleak, bare,
exposed situations in all parts of the world, and sometimes attain a
large size; forsaking the creeping habit peculiar to the family, and
becoming slightly arborescent in tropical countries, particularly New
Zealand, rivaling in rank luxuriance the smaller shrubs of the forest.

The club-mosses are all very graceful and beautiful plants. The
Spanish moss (Lycopodium denticulatum) is a great ornament to
conservatories and hothouses, where it conceals with its luxuriant
drapery the mould in the pots, and keeps the roots of the plants
moist. Nothing can be lovelier or more elegant than a basket of
orchids in full flower, with clusters of this moss in careless grace
from its sides. Lycopods may be said to present the highest type of
cryptogamic vegetation, the highest limit capable of being reached by
flowerless plants.

The first pages of the earth’s history reveal to us very
extraordinary facts with relation to members and allies of the moss
tribe. The club-mosses, in particular, at a former period, seem to
have played a more important part, or to have found conditions more
suitable to their luxuriant development than is the case at the
present day. The two or three hundred species at present existing are
the mere remnant of a once magnificent group. Some of them are stated
to have formed lofty trees eighty feet high, with a proportionate
diameter of trunk. They are among the most ancient of all plants.
The oldest land-plant yet known is supposed to be a species of
lycopodium closely resembling the common species of the moors. In
the upper beds of the Upper Silurian rocks they are almost the only
terrestrial plants yet found. In the lower Old Red Sandstone they
also abounded; while they occupied a considerable space in the Oolite
vegetation. But it is in the Coal-measures that they seem to have
attained their utmost size and luxuriance, sigillaria, lepidodendron,
etc., being now considered by competent botanists to be highly
developed lycopodia. Along with ferns they covered the whole earth
from Melville Island in the Arctic regions to the Ultima Thule of the
Southern Ocean, with rank majestic forests of a uniform dull, green
hue.




  EUROPEAN SEA-WEEDS
  --P. MARTIN DUNCAN


The zones of life are (1) the littoral zone, or tract between
tide-marks; (2) the laminarian zone, from low water to fifteen
fathoms; (3) the coralline zone, from low water to fifteen fathoms.
Then come other zones leading to the great depths.

The broad-leaved tangles live in the laminarian zone, and it is
called so from their Latin name, and therefore they limit the plants
and animals of the shore, seaward.

It has been noticed that the animals and plants of the shores of our
coasts are not the same everywhere, and that in certain parts some
peculiar kinds are to be found. This is produced by climate, the
nature of the sediment on the shore, the geological nature of the
coast-line and inland parts, and the mineralogy of the district. And
with regard to this last, it may be noticed, that where the rocks
contain lime, or limestone and chalk, there certain shell-fish and
corallines abound; but where this mineral does not exist, there
they are comparatively or entirely absent. The British Islands,
extending to the north and south, and being washed by the North Sea,
the Atlantic, the German Ocean, and the Channel seas, come within
the limits of certain natural history provinces. One is called the
Boreal, and it extends across the Atlantic from Nova Scotia and
Massachusetts to Ireland, the Faroe Islands, and Shetland Islands,
and along the coast of Norway. That is to say, there are marine
animals and plants which are found on the American, Irish, Scottish,
and Norwegian shores, and which are either of the same kind or
species, or of the same genus or group.

The next province is the Celtic, and it includes the coasts of
England, Scotland, Denmark, southern Sweden, and the Baltic, and all
these places have animals of the shore and other zones in common. The
Channel Islands and parts of British south coasts come within range
of another province, called the Lusitanian, which is that of the west
coasts of France, Spain, and of the islands off the coast of Africa.
The Celtic province is that to which most of the British coasts
belong; and it is a subject of great interest to know that many of
the kinds of shelly mollusca, which are now living, lived in the last
geological ages, and their remains are found fossil; so that the
condition of the coast-lines and shores and a part of the assemblage
of animals and plants now living on them have a remote ancestry.

It is by no means easy to say where the seashore begins landward.
It may be limited by cliffs and mountain-ground, so that there is
but little shore, and the tide-water then comes up the sides of the
cliff; and it may reach for miles inland, among salt marshes, the
ditches of which have salt water and marine animals and plants in
them. Again, even when the shore is perfectly limited inland, there
are proofs that the sea is near, long before it is reached. Trees
usually get scarce, and often those which are seen are much gnarled
and bent and covered with lichens. A new set of flowering plants is
noticed, and the old favorites of the meadow and wood are absent;
and grasses, reeds, rushes, and many singular plants straggle on
the sand and pebbles, out of the range of the tide, but within that
of the spray sent in by a high wind. Common observation has enabled
even the most unscientific collectors of plants to recognize what
may be called a maritime, coast, or shore flora, just as they can
distinguish a marsh, mountain, or wood flora beyond the range of the
sea. A flora is the name for all the plants of a district, and it
has been found that the seaside and seashore floras of these islands
are very rich in kinds. Indeed, there are many little local floras
included in the great seaside one, for the landscape, the nature
of the rocks, and the vegetation of the shore, differ greatly in
different parts. Each particular landscape by the sea, and every kind
of soil there, has its little set of peculiar plants, some liking
limestone, others clay, many rejoicing in sand, and some even finding
nourishment among the highest pebbles.

Hence, on walking round British coasts, the plants, as a whole,
will differ from those found inland, and at every turn or change of
rock and scenery new kinds appear. But many of the inland plants do
go down far to the seaside, and the art of gardening and all sorts
of accidents have dispersed many plants which originally were not
dwellers near the sea; and, on the contrary, they have also removed
seaside plants, like sea-kale and asparagus, inland and into our
gardens. In many places, however, and where the sea comes up very
close, the inland plants are not found. There is a very remarkable
thing about this seashore and seaside flora, and it is this, that
nearly all the important groups, families, or genera of inland plants
have a kind or two in it, and that there are few extraordinary
novelties which would enable us to say that such a set of plants was
destined for the seaside. Thus the pod-bearing order, which contains
the pea, bean, clover, and such plants, has many species which are
only found near the sea. The toothed medick (Medicago denticulatus),
and the common melilot, love sand and gravel near the sea; the star
clover lives on a shingly beach near Shoreham; while two kinds of the
genus lotus live on dry places, two being found near the sea in Devon
and Cornwall. There is a vetch, with a pale purple flower, on the
pebbly beach of Weymouth, and another of a sulphur-color likes such
situations. Even the poppy order has a kind with large golden-yellow
flowers, with seed-cases from 6 to 12 inches long, living on sandy
seashores; and this “horned poppy” has a very interesting companion,
for a poppy with a bluish-white flower with a violet spot lives in
the fens and on sandy ground near the sea, and it is the kind which
yields opium. The cruciferous plants, of which the wall-flower,
the rocket, cabbage, mustard, etc., are examples, are well and
interestingly represented at the sea. There is a sea-stock living on
the sandy seacoasts of Wales, Cornwall, and Jersey. The wild cabbage,
the parent of all domestic cabbages, lives on cliffs by the sea; a
wild mustard is at St. Aubin’s Bay, Jersey; a white draba, not very
unlike the common whitlow grass, is on sandhills by the sea in Islay.
The scurvy grasses are all found on seashores, and constitute a
shore group. Finally, there are the purple sea-rocket and sea-kale,
loving sandy shores, and there is a rare wild sea-radish. Among
other well-known inland orders of plants, such as the violets, there
is a rare one with its flowers wholly yellow, or yellow with the
upper part purple, living on sands by the sea. Of another order, the
tamarisk may be seen close to the waves on the Essex coast; even the
pink tribe has a sea bladder-campion, an alsine, and a cerastium.
Again, the tree mallow lives on rocks by the sea. The rose tribe are
certainly not lovers of the seashore, but there is one kind belonging
to the whitethorn tribe (Cotoneaster) which ornaments the rocks of
the Great Orme’s Head, in Carnarvonshire; and a solitary kind of the
thick-leaved plants, a sedum, lives there also, loving the limestone
soil. The Corrigiola littoralis of the southwest of England has
white-stalked flowers. The sea-holly, with its blue flowers in a head
or umbel, lives on sandy seashores; the wild fennel, the Scottish
lovage, and the fleshy-leaved, whitish-flowered samphire love rocks
by the sea. The sea-carrot lives on the southwestern coasts.

The red valerian is found on chalk cliffs; but no other of its
tribe, or of the teazels or scabious set, is found particularly as
a seashore plant. Both the composite orders, of which the daisy
and the asters are examples, and which form so large a part of
the inland flora, have many seashore species. Thus, there is the
golden samphire, allied to the elecampane plant, the sea-diotis,
the sea-feverfew, and the sea-wormwood. There is, or was, a wild
cineraria on the rocks of Holyhead, and there is a thistle with pink
flowers which loves sandy places by the sea. The least lettuce likes
chalky places. One of the centaury kinds lives on sandy seashores,
and there is a seaside bindweed with very handsome pink flowers with
yellow bands. One of the bugloss tribe lives on northern seashores,
and there is a curious great snap-dragon which is to be found about
cliffs overhanging the sea. The primroses and pimpernels are not
inhabitants of the seashore, but two sets of plants, called glaux
and samolus, belonging to their order, frequent the shore and salt
marshes. Then there is the sea-lavender tribe with four kinds, all
living in England, or Ireland, on rocky shores and salt marshes;
and the thrift plant likes the shore as well as the mountain top, a
distribution which is noticed also in the sea-plantain. Many of the
spinach tribe, such as the glass worts, the sea-beet, the salsolas,
and the sea-purslane, inhabit the shores, and some of them were
formerly used in the preparation of barilla. Such a common thing as
the dock could hardly be found away from the sea, and there is really
a sea-dock found on the marshland; and the Channel Islands have a
sea-snake-weed. A thorny shrub with lancet-shaped silvery leaves,
and attaining the length of from four to six feet, frequents sandy
spots and cliffs, on the southeast and east coasts, and is called the
sea-buckthorn. There is also a sea-spurge. The wild asparagus, with
a stem not one-third of the height of the cultivated kind, but the
true parent of all asparagus, is a rare plant, but it has been found
at Kynance Cove, Cornwall, Callar Point, Pembroke, and at Gosford
Links in Scotland. Another important plant, the onion, has its
representatives on the rocks of Guernsey, and another called chives
is a Cornish cliff seaside dweller. The rushes have several kinds on
salt marshes and shores, and there is a plant called the zostera,
with long leaves, which flourishes under water on many parts of the
eastern coast. Belonging to the same botanical order is the Ruppia
maritima, found at Newhaven and Guernsey.

The sea-sedges, a cat’s-tail grass, a foxtail grass, an agrostis, a
sea reed, and a common poa grass, with a root-like bulb, are familiar
objects on swampy seashores; and a whole group of grass plants
belonging to a tribe called Sclerochloa inhabit sandy seasides. The
couch-grass dwells there also; and the list may be closed by noticing
the sea-barley, a tiny plant, but loving sandy pastures near the sea.
And among the ferns a spleenwort lives on rocks over the sea.

These are all plants of a complicated structure, and produce seed.
But those about to be noticed are the true sea-weeds, which have a
simple construction and belong to the cellular plants.

Where the land-plant ends, the sea-weed begins, and as some flowering
plants or grasses come close to the edge of the high spring tide, so
some sea-weeds choose that position, and appear to like a dry time
for a while, and a refreshing return of the salt water at distant
intervals.

One of these sea-weeds abounds on muddy seashores, at the entrance of
rivers and marshes, and positively adheres to the roots of flowering
plants. North Wales, Shoreham, the Essex coast, and the Shannon
are places where it is found in abundance. Moreover, like most of
the sea-weeds, it has a wide distribution, for it is found on the
Atlantic shores of Europe as far south as Spain. The plant is from
2 to 4 inches high, and consists of stems about as thick as stout
bristles. They branch and give off side-twigs, like the veins of
leaves in shape, and each ends in a curious curl. The whole plant
is limp, and easily squeezed flat. It is of a dull purple color,
and from its curl endings has received a Greek name, “bostrukos,” a
ringlet. Old authors called it “Amphibia,” from its locality, which
has just been noticed; and it is remarkable, because most of the
other red or reddish sea-weeds of its group live in deep water.

Another sea-weed which lives at the very top of high-water mark, but
which is also found on the shores down to low-water mark, and still
lower, is a fine plant often growing a foot in height. Its stem is
round and solid, and branched in what is called a pinnate manner,
like a mimosa leaf. It is yellow or livid green in color, and is very
small and starved at high-water mark, but it grows larger and larger
until well under the sea. One of the kind is found on loose stones,
where a rill of pure fresh water runs into the sea. In Scotland it
was formerly eaten under the name of pepper dulse; but better things
are now to be had. It is named Laurencia after a French botanist.

A membrane-like sea-weed, which grows upward with swellings like a
cactus which give it the appearance of a chain, is called the little
chain sea opuntia (Catenella Opuntia). It is also a dweller on rocks,
close up to high-tide mark, on our shores as far as the Orkneys.

Often at high-water mark, and on wood and stones down to half-tide
level, there is a quantity of dark olive-green sea-weed, in small
tufts, getting larger nearer the sea, which often looks dried
up, shriveled, and crisp. It grows in tufts when the water goes
off rapidly, and it evidently requires exposure to the air for
several hours in the day. Nearer the ever-rolling sea the plant
grows larger. It is called the channeled fucus, and has an expanded
part or root, and a stem which branches in twos, and ends in two
long cones of softish stuff which contain the reproductive organs
or spores, called receptacles. It belongs to the same group of
sea-weeds as the commonest of all, or that which has air-bladders on
it and which crackle and burst under the feet. A differently colored
high-water-mark weed is found at Yarmouth, Bantry Bay, Torquay, and
Sunderland on sand-covered rocks. It lies prostrate and is of a pale
green color, forming masses or layers of excessively minute threads
of vegetable tissue. It belongs to the genus Codium.

The sea-weeds called wracks or fucus are among the most common of
the dark greenish-olive kinds, and one of them lives in a curious
place on the shore. The stem or frond is from one to two feet long;
there is a kind of midrib to it, besides the cones or receptacles,
at the tip of each branch. It is common from Orkney to Cornwall in
many places, and is found where a good deal of fresh water mixes
with the sea, but it is not restricted to such peculiar positions,
for some of the most vigorous plants live in salt water, and some
very transparent and weak ones in brackish water. The common bladder
fucus is found everywhere on rocks and stones and wood left exposed
at low water, and on artificial quays in estuaries extending up
rivers as far as the water is decidedly brackish. Even in salt water
it is noticed to flourish. The plant or frond is in long, flat, thin
branches with a midrib, on either side of which are the bladders,
which contain air. The branches end in thick gummy-feeling masses,
which are turgid, rather pointed, and contain the spores. The color
is olive and it is lighter in the younger parts. It is found along
the shores of the Northern Atlantic, extending even to the tropics.
It is used as manure, and also in forming kelp for the purposes
of the manufacture of iodine. Cattle eat it in the winter, and of
late it has been used in baths. A larger kind of fucus grows from
high-tide mark to mid-tide level, and it has large swellings on its
stem, and the branches, which come off in whorls, are distended,
as it were. It is used in the kelp manufacture and for covering up
oysters. The Scotch shore-men call it the sea-whistle, for boys make
whistles out of the larger air-vessels.

The serrate fucus, so called from its saw-like edges, has no
bladders, it clothes the rocks at half-tide level, is very common,
and is found on the western shores.

On the rocky bottoms of submarine tide-pools, near low-water mark,
all round the coasts of Scotland and England, is a weed with narrow
fronds and pinnate ones of a lance-head shape, with spiny teeth on
their edges. It is a clear olive-brown plant, and gets a verdigris
tint when it is exposed. It is called the ligulate desmarestia.

Perhaps more beautiful, but not more interesting than these kinds
of fucus, are the ulvæ, those broad, flat, wrinkled edged, green
sea-weeds, looking like half-transparent membranes. One of them, the
broad ulva, has a small disk by way of a root, and grows from six
to twenty inches in length and from three to twelve in breadth, in
tufts of different shapes. It is very common on all shores, on rocks
and stones between tide-marks, and extends downward to a depth of
ten fathoms. It has a wonderful geographical distribution, for, with
the exception of the coldest regions of the globe, it inhabits every
shore. It used to be eaten under the title of oyster green, being
prepared like laver; and the Icelanders used to, and perhaps may
still, ascribe an anodyne virtue to it. They bind it on the forehead
in fevers, writes a Scottish botanist.

The other ulva, which is nearly as common as this, is smaller, and
grows in the form of an inflated bag, which opens and expands. It
is of a very bright and yellowish green, and it is thinner and more
delicate than the other kind. It is seldom seen except in spring or
early summer, on rocks, stones, and shells between tide-marks, and it
is generally distributed around British shores and those of Europe.

A very common green weed, found between tide-marks and also in
ditches running into the sea, was supposed by its first describers
to resemble an entrail or intestine; hence it has been called
Enteromorpha intestinalis, from the Greek words _enteron_, entrail,
and _morpha_, form. It grows from a few inches to a foot or more
in length, and from a line to three or four inches in diameter.
Seen where it is attached to a stone, it is like a tube, hollow,
membrane-like, and green; but further out it is larger and swells
out into an irregular bag, crisped and curled here and there. It is
very common all over the world, and finds its way sometimes into
fresh water. The Rev. J. Pollexfen notices that it is prepared for
culinary purposes by the Japanese for an ingredient in their soups.

The other common green Enteromorpha is called “the compressed.” It
is in the form of a branching green, delicate tube, flattened here
and there; and it clothes rocks between tide-marks, being sometimes
as fine as a hair. It gets narrower at its attachment and is broad
at the ends. Near high-water mark it forms a short, shaggy pile of
slender fronds spreading over rocks and stones, and most treacherous
to the stepping of unwary feet, being most slippery. A little lower
down, in the rock-pools, it is larger, tubular, branched, and thin
near the root; and where fresh water runs in close to it, the fronds
get larger, broader, and more inflated. Almost everything on floating
timber or on stone is this kind of weed. From being more or less
tubular, these Enteromorphæ have a double green membrane. Now there
is a beautiful ribbon-shaped ulva which has this double formation
and which is found at half-tide level. It is long, even reaching to
two feet, and is only half an inch to two inches broad. Very elegant
and graceful are its tapering, curling, wrinkling, and plaiting of
the edges; it is called Ulva linza, and is of a bright green color.
Among the commonest of the small green sea-weeds are the confervæ,
hairy-like green threads, which collect in layers and fleeces and
cover much surface, or wave in the rock-pools. One kind called the
sandy conferva lives at half-tide level at Bantry Bay and also in
Scotland at Appin. It forms fleeces a yard or more in extent, made
up of thin layers placed over each other, but so slightly connected
that they may be separated like gauze, for some inches, without
breaking. The hairs or filaments are five or six inches long and
are rather rigid; they are very long-pointed, and consist of a
delicate tube membrane which incloses a series of long cells. Another
conferva, found attached to other sea-weeds at Bantry Bay, Berwick,
Firth of Forth, and Torquay, has its filaments forming densely
interwoven layers which cling over their supporting plant. It is of a
dark green color. A third frequents salt pools by the edge of the sea
and rocks at half-tide level. It is a very twisted thing, and forms
crisped layers from a few inches to several feet thick, which closely
adhere to the inequalities of the rock, or to the plants which grow
on it. It is of a glossy brilliant green color, and is called the
tortuous conferva.

There is a pretty green hair-like plant which branches and gives off
branchlets on one side more than on the other. It comes from a little
group of stems on a stone, and forms a small stunted but very elegant
bush, three or four inches high. This cladophora lives in the purest
and clearest sea-water only, and in rocky pools left by the tide near
low-water mark. It is only got at low spring tides at Dingle and
Dublin, and it evidently likes the cool sea-water and darkness. A
sea-weed called the Adherent Codium forms a velvet-like pile on the
surface of rocks in the southwest of England near low-water mark, but
it is rare. Sometimes the green velvet-looking film may be three feet
across, and it consists of myriads of short cylindrical filaments
with simple club-shaped hairs on them. It is soft and gelatinous,
sticks to paper, and appears to grow slowly. Another codium, called
the amphibious, has been mentioned already. It occupies a different
position on the shore to the other. It frequents turf banks on the
west of Ireland, in County Galway, where the bog touches the shore.
It is a very mesh of entangled filaments, and it dries up to almost
nothing in dry weather, and increases and grows again on the coming
of the welcome tide, spray, or rain. There is also a large codium
with branches, which looks like a sponge.

Barnacles and shells, living at low-water mark, in exposed situations
on the western shores of Scotland and Ireland, Falmouth, and the
Land’s End, have a weed upon them of a purplish-brown color like
a “crop of threads” (Nemaleon) of from three to ten inches long.
They are slender, solid, and divide in twos from a little expanded
base. In some places it chooses particular positions, and in our
Irish localities it grows in shallow pools on the granite rocks, and
nowhere else.

A common weed, sometimes twenty inches in length, varies from pale
yellow in shallow water to dark purple in deeper places; it lives
at half-tide level, and is made up of tubular fronds filled with
watery gelatine. Its tube swells, here and there, and bends at the
end in a curious manner. It is called, after a French naturalist,
Dumontia. Another weed with a cylindrical stem has many branches,
and has swellings at their origin like so many knots. These are
air-vessels and help to support the plant, which is rather leathery.
It is found on the English and Irish shores, and is called the
bladder chain-weed (Cystoseira). But the most elegant of the weeds
with air-bladders is called the sea oak (Halidrys) and it is found
commonly on rocks and stones in the sea, below half-tide level. The
fronds are from one to four feet in length, and the branches bear
numerous long pods with compartments in them, the whole looking like
a mustard-pod, and these are the air-chambers.

The waving, slender, long weed, so slimy to the touch, and which is
so abundant on all British shores--the dread of the bather when it
forms submarine meadows, over mud flats--is called the cord-weed
(Corda filum). It is sometimes forty feet, but usually from one to
twenty feet in length, and is not twice as thick as a bristle where
it starts from a stone, tapering and clothed with delicate hair,
getting wider in the middle, and slender and hairy at the top.

There are some remarkable sea-weeds, which certainly do not look like
things belonging to the sea, but rather to the land, where lichens
and fungi live on stones and trees. One often is called rivularia,
and is found on rocks, at half-tide level, on the southern shores of
England, and in the South and west of Ireland. It incrusts the rocks,
rising in short lobes, and it feels fleshy and firm. It begins with
a globe-shaped substance, which sends forth ragged-looking pieces;
and although it is so dense, the surface is covered with a close pile
of exquisite filaments. Many a dark rock, otherwise perfectly barren
at the end of summer, is clothed with the bright green patches of
this singular weed. Another of these incrusting things is often as
round as a half-crown, and looks like a lichen. It is leathery, and
gets ragged and warty with age, and is of a coffee-brown color. It is
called Ralfsia, after Mr. Ralf. A third kind looks like a flat thin
clot or stain of blood; hence its name cruoria, from “cruor,” blood.
It forms a scum on the smooth, exposed rocks between tide-marks, and
is especially abundant in the west of Ireland and Jersey. The patches
are from one to three inches in diameter, and their edges are very
clearly curved; they are brown and red, and the hairs or filaments of
which they are composed are purplish red. It can be removed in flakes
with a knife.

Many sea-weeds are found upon others; and indeed some of the most
beautiful kinds are thus parasitic upon larger ones. An instance of
this occurs to one of the humble crust-like weeds which is found on
pebbles at half-tide mark. So small is the parasite that a slight
magnifying power is required to make it distinct, and then it is
found to be made up of thousands of minute forked threads, each of
which consists of several long cells, one placed before the other,
and some of the cells are large and egg-shaped, and contain the seeds
or spores. It is called the Myrionema, from two Greek words which
mean numberless thread.

The next great group of sea-weeds to be noticed on the shore has many
more kinds below low-water mark, where they are never uncovered,
than above. They are the great dark, olive-colored, ribbon-shaped,
wavy-edged weeds, which have a tough skin and roots, which adhere
to rocks, and which are called tangles and laminariæ by botanists.
Their proper position, as a rule, is not on the shore, for they
almost characterize a particular zone of depth; but there are kinds
to be met with on rocks and timber, close to the low-water mark,
and on the shore. Some of them are very remarkable when they are
placed, as they are in the north of England, on the sea-beaten parts
of white or gray rocks. They then often form a dense layer--a sort
of black, moving fringe, which is sometimes uncovered. Most of them
flourish in the most boisterous seas, and it would appear that those
which may, with some reason, be called shore-plants, because they
are close to low-water mark, and now and then uncovered, are smaller
and more delicate. Thus one kind, which has been called the weak,
or the papery tangle (Laminaria fascia), has a stem not bigger than
a bristle, which gradually widens into a frond about twelve inches
long and two broad. It is greenish or brownish-olive in color, and is
very fragile. It has the remarkable geographical distribution which
is very common to all those weeds living on the brink of the sea, for
it is found as far off as the Falkland Islands. On British coasts it
covers sandy rocks and stones near low-water mark, and is to be found
in the north of Ireland, the western islands of Scotland, and the
southwest of England.

Another kind fringes precipitous rocks at low-water mark, and is
abundant on the shores of Scotland and of the north and west of
Ireland, the west and southwest coasts of England, and the northeast
coast. Mr. Harvey notices it as one of the kind luxuriating in a
furious sea, although its frond can be readily torn with the hand. It
has a stem as thick as a quill, and a root of many branching fibres.
The frond, or ribbon-shaped leaf, is from three to twenty feet in
length, and only grows three to eight inches broad. It has a midrib
running down its whole length, and the following peculiarities: there
are many little leaflets on either side of the stem before it merges
into the broad frond, and the surface is perforated with small pores,
out of which come tufts of shred-like fibres. It seems to be an
everlasting weed, and the first growth in the frond occurs from the
stem.

The new parts are lighter colored than the old, and after a while
intersection takes place, where the new part joins the old, and
the old leaf falls. This plant, from the side leaves giving it a
winged appearance, is called the Alaria (from _ala_, a wing), and it
is eaten in some parts of Scotland and Ireland. The midrib is the
delicacy, but it is very insipid. The Scottish name is badderlocks,
or henware, and the Irish, murlins.

A most graceful and delicate tangle is to be found on the south and
east coasts of England, all round Scotland, and at Bantry Bay, Howth,
Balbriggan, and Kingston, in Ireland, on rocks and stones in pools
left by the tide. When fresh, it is a clear brown-olive in color,
and it changes to green when dry or when placed in fresh water. The
leaf comes from a stalked root, tapers to the end, is frilled at the
sides, and may be from six inches to three or more feet in length,
and from one to six inches broad. It is thin, but is traversed by a
double layer of large air-cells.

There is a large tangle which goes by the name of furbelows; and when
spread out on the shore may make a circle of fronds twelve feet in
diameter. It is a clear brown-olive in color, and the root gives rise
to a stem with large hollow knobs on it. The leaf is oblong, and is
deeply split into many parts. The plant grows on rocks at low-water
mark, and is abundant.

But the commonest of all these tangles, with its long stem and
branching roots, and beautiful, slippery, crumpled leaf, forms a
belt, about low-water mark, round rocky shores, where its long,
ribbon-like fronds wave gracefully in the water. When it is in deeper
water it is much larger, and is then called the broad-leaved tangle.
The great tangles which are employed to form kelp are not shore
plants, but live covered with water.

The gems of the seashore are, however, not the olive and green
weeds, but the red kinds, and they abound. There is a very large
and handsome one, which is rare in deep, shady pools at extreme
low-water mark, but which is often washed up in storms, about the
southwest coast of England, Bantry Bay, Antrim, Down, and Orkney. It
is somewhat kidney-shaped, in the outlines of the large blood-red
fronds, and has a stout, round stem. It is made up of three layers,
and some plants are male, and others are female. This plant is called
Kalymenia, from the Greek words that mean beautiful and membrane.
Another kind of the Kalymenia, found at Falmouth, Plymouth, and
Bantry Bay, is something like a short, broad tangle with crisped
leaves in shape. It is red, and the root is a disk, and the fronds
are about a foot in length. It is found on rocks and stones, within
tide-marks, in land-locked bays. It is very thin and delicate, and
may be compared with a totally different-feeling red sea-weed, which
has flat fronds of irregular shape, fringed with little leaflets,
the whole being half-gristly to the touch, and of a dull purplish
color. It is common on the shores of the south and west of Ireland
and Jersey. The root is very fibrous, and altogether it is a most
peculiar weed. There is another of these leathery weeds which grows
to some size, and has well-grown leaflets on its edges, besides large
circular markings on its purple surface, which is pretty common
everywhere. They belong to the genus Rhodymenia, so called from the
Greek words red and membrane.

The last kind is the dulse of the Scotch, and the dillisk of the
Irish. Mr. Harvey thus notices its edible peculiarities: “In Ireland
and Scotland this plant is much used by the poor as a relish for
their food. It is commonly dried, in its unwashed state, and eaten
raw, the flavor being brought out by long chewing. On many parts of
the west of England it forms the only addition to potatoes in the
meals of the poorest class. The variety which grows on mussel shells
between tide-marks is preferred, being less tough than other forms,
and the minute mussel-shells and other small shell-fish which adhere
to its folds are nowise unpleasing to the consumers of this simple
luxury, who rather seem to enjoy the additional _goût_ imparted by
the crunched mussels. In the Mediterranean this plant is used in a
cooked form, entering into ragouts and made dishes; and it formed a
chief ingredient in one of the soups recommended under the name of
St. Patrick’s Soup by M. Soyer to the starving Irish peasantry.” It
should be noticed that Dr. Harvey was keeper of the herbarium in the
University of Dublin, and that he wrote in 1846.

Another dark-red sea-weed, which is very iridescent, when waving
under water at low spring tides, is also said to be eaten in
Cornwall, but, Harvey says, more by women than men. It is called the
Edible Iridæa from its rainbow colors, is about six inches in length,
is gristly to the touch, and is rather like a battledore in shape.

The supposed luxury which is served at the tables of many, and which
is called laver in England, and sloke, sloak, or sloukawn in Ireland,
comes from some sea-weeds which are delicately membranaceous, flat,
and more or less purple. The color gives the name Porphyra, from the
Greek word “porphuros,” purple. One kind is something like a large,
crumpled lettuce-leaf in shape, without the veins and stalk, and the
other, which is the commonest, has a long frond like a tangle, of one
or two feet long; but there is no long stalk. The edges are crisped,
and the end of the frond is rather sharp and long. It is very thin,
glossy, and more or less of a vivid purple. It is abundant on rocks
and stones between tide-marks on our British shores, and is an annual.

There is a handsome sea-weed called Nitophyllum punctatum, “a
shining leaf.” It is of a rose-red color, and its membranaceous frond
has its edge cleft; it is veinless, or has irregular veins toward
its base. The thin expansion is very delicate, and is characterized
by the want of “nervures” or veins, and the presence of spots or
tubercles immersed in it. These are large, oblong, and very general,
and contain the spores. In other plants of the same kind the spots
contain tetraspores. The root is from a small disk, and the fronds
grow in small tufts from twelve to twenty inches in length. They are
attached to other weeds at low-water mark; and are found on rocks
down to fifteen fathoms. It is very abundant on the coast of Antrim,
and all round the British coasts.

A rose-red filamentous sea-weed being from two to six inches in
height, with the stems not much thicker than bristles, their fronds
being long, is found on rocks near low-water mark, and generally
in deep pools from Orkney to Cornwall. It is called Griffithsia
Corallina.

Other kinds of Rhodymenia are common on rocks and stones, or on the
stems of the tangles, near the very verge of low-water, or higher
up. One found in the first situation is most common in the southwest
of England, but is found everywhere on the British shores. It has
a little disk for a root, and a long, slender stem, rather round
near the root and flat above, where it gradually expands into a red
membrane in the shape of a fan. But it is not whole, for it rather
resembles a skeleton of a fan with notches at the edges, a dark spot
being at their ends. The whole may be four inches long. The other
kind is purplish, and the stem has branches, each of which ends in a
ragged fan. It has little knobs on the side of the stem and on the
membraneous parts which bear the spores. It is sometimes called by
another generic name, that of leaf-bearer, or Phyllophora.

A rose-red sea-weed which has a midrib along all its thin branching
fronds, and which is like a flat miniature bushy tree, is common all
round British coasts, between tide-marks and more deeply. The tips of
the fronds have little bodies on them which are whiter than the rest,
and which contain peculiar spores, and there are also little knobs
or tubercles which are attached to the midrib, and these contain
another kind of spore. It belongs to a number of sea-weeds which have
been named Delesseria, after Baron Delessert, a former distinguished
botanist. Another, which is called Delesseria sanguinea, from its
blood-red, or rather rose-fed color, has a frond like a laurel-leaf,
but it is crumpled at the edges. It is thin, has a midrib, and
several spring from a stalk. Little fronds come from the midrib, in
the middle of the larger fronds. It is one of the many weeds that
fruit in winter time, and it is to be found in deep rock-pools,
between tide-marks, and generally at the shady side of the pool under
projecting ledges of rock. It is a great favorite, and grows to a
considerable size, the fronds reaching sometimes ten inches in length.

Perhaps the most beautiful of the red weeds is found on rocks, and
on other sea-weeds, at low-water mark. It resembles a number of
skeleton leaves on a stem dyed a fine red, for the frond is not a
membrane, but a number of branching threads or hairs, and it arises
from a stem. It is from six to eight inches in length, and is named
Dasya, from _dasus_, the Greek for hairy. It is much used for
ornamental purposes in the collections of sea-weeds.

One of these dissected skeleton-leaved sea-weeds is found on rocks
and on other sea-weeds, near low-water mark around British coasts.
It is a tender and soft plant of a fine carmine color, and it arises
from a stem, which, after growing for a while, branches in twos. Then
side-twigs come off opposite each other, and one on either side of
the stems and branches, and numerous hairy-looking projections arise
from the upper edge of each of the twigs. Each hairy process has
others on one side of it, and some of them bear little bulbs which
contain the spores. It is singularly regular in its growth, and, as
it is small, it looks well under low magnifying power. It is a pretty
shrub-like thing, and hence its name beautiful little shrub, or
Callithamnion. Another Callithamnion is that branching weed which is
seen waving under water upon the stems and fronds of the tangle. It
is a robust and shrubby-looking weed, which, even when dry, retains
some of its elegance of form. It is of a brownish-red color, and when
fresh water is added it becomes of a brilliant orange tint, and gives
out a rose-colored powder.

One of the many instances in which one kind of sea-weed is much more
luxurious in growth on the Irish than on the British shore is noticed
in the case of a beautiful skeleton-looking, crisp, red weed called
“Wrangelia,” after a Swedish naturalist. Its fine stem has little
whorls of fibrils one above the other, so that it presents a most
strange resemblance to the common horsetails of our marsh ground.
Branches come off from the whorls, which, horsetail fashion, have
their bracelets on successive whorls. It has a root of fibres, and
a good-sized specimen would cover a quarto page of paper. They are
found on the steep sides of pools near low-water mark, under the
shade of other sea-weeds, and they are to be picked on the south of
England, Jersey, Belfast, and the west of Ireland.

The braided-hair weed, Plocamium, from plokamos, braided hair, is the
pinky-red, ribless, much-branched, rather gristly weed, which, from
its elegant arborescence and beautiful color, is an especial favorite
with the workers in ornamental sea-weed decorations. It is cast up
in quantities on the British shores; but, as a rule, it lives beyond
the shore, that is to say, below low-tide level. Another equally
common weed has a slightly darker red color, and its frond is horny,
flat, branching in twos, and with little fronds on the edges. It is
found from the very verge of high water to the extreme of low water,
fringing the margins of the rock-pools, and is very common. From its
hard condition and horny nature it has been called Gelidium, from
_gelu_, frost. The beautiful red weed, whose resemblance to a great
branching tree pressed flat is so great, and which bears thousands
of little berry-looking knobs on short stalks, on the sides of its
fronds, is called Sphærococcus, or globe-fruit or berry. It is not
known on the eastern coast of Britain, but is common on the Irish
shores at extreme low-water mark. Another red weed, with a dull
purple color, has a frond of from six inches to two feet in length,
and every minute ramification of its skeleton-leaved frond has one or
more berry-shaped swellings. It is common all round the coast within
tide-marks, and has been called after a genus of mosses, Hypnæa.

The last kinds of filamentous, or skeleton-leaved red weeds, to be
noticed, are remarkable for their tufty nature, their spreading out
in water and showing tree-like branching from a stem, which, when
magnified, is seen to be made up of many long cells placed side by
side. Some live between tides on rocks, and others at the edge of low
tide, but the most interesting are parasitic upon other weeds. From
their many-tubed nature they are called Polysiphonia. The parasitic
kind (so named) is rather rare, and settles on some of the calcareous
weeds. The lanceolate kind is found on the stems and fronds of
the tangle; and a dark red species, called Formosa, is found near
low-water mark. Brodie’s Polysiphonia is known by the little tufts of
branches which come from the main branches, and it has a good stem.
It is found on corallines and on rocks.

The fibrous Polysiphonia has tufts at the end of its branches, and
is found on mussel-shells; and the violet kind is brownish-red or
purple, has a small root-like disk, and fronds which are from six to
ten inches in length. It is feathery and much branched.

It has been noticed that some sea-weeds are parasitic, or live
on others, fixed certainly, but whether they get any nourishment
through their roots is doubtful. One of these is very common on Fuci,
the bladder one especially; and it occurs as dense little tufts on
the leaves. These, when examined, are found to be made up of long,
flaccid, olive-colored hair-like filaments, about an inch in length.
They rise from a little hard spot, and form a tuft with a broad
circular outline. They belong to a genus called Elachista, from the
Greek word for “the least.” The hairy Ceramium is a tufty weed, which
is sometimes parasitic and sometimes not. It has a very peculiar
shape, being made up of filaments placed side by side in great
numbers, but they branch and rebranch, have little whorls of minute
prickles along them, and the ends curl gracefully.

Among the more remarkable sea-weeds is the Carrageen, or Irish moss.
It is a very variable plant in its color and shape, and it may be a
yellowish-green, a livid purple, or of a brownish tint, and it may
be in the shape of a wrinkled, crumpled fern, or of a bush. It has
a root-stem, reaches a foot in height, and the largest are found in
estuaries where mud comes down with fresh water. The weed is found
abundantly on the shores of Great Britain, and formerly was used in
the place of isinglass for making blanc-mange, an edible which has
degenerated with the progress of imitative culinary art. It was a
fashionable remedy for consumption, and many of the peasantry of the
west coast of Ireland used to collect it.

A most extraordinary fan-shaped sea-weed has a root covered with
woolly filaments and fronds, from two to five inches in length, wide
at the base, and expanding in almost perfect half-circles. The frond
is curved, marked across, and has a disposition to form funnel-shaped
pieces. A fringe of orange-colored filaments is on the markings, and
at the edge, which is often strongly rolled inward. The outer surface
is covered with a kind of whitish powder. The general color is yellow
and olive, with a dash of red. This peacock-tail weed is found on
rocks in shallow pools, on parts of the south of England coast, and
is abundant at Torquay. It is remarkable for being an extension,
northward, of a common tropical sea-weed.

A very common plant is to be found, either growing in little tufts
on the rocks at low-tide mark, or as a waif cast up by the waves, in
bunches, near where the coast contains rocks or earths which have
carbonate of lime in them. It is also a dweller in deeper water on
the floor of the sea, and oftentimes it may be seen waving lightly
in a rock-pool; but it does not look like a plant. There are no
leafy fronds, and it does not resemble any other common sea-weed in
outside appearance. It has a stony look, and is hard to the touch; it
will stand a pinch, and although it may break into separate pieces
it can hardly be crushed by the finger and thumb. Usually, as seen
by most people, it is of a glistening white color, with some purple
about it, and is made up of a number of joints. The coralline, for
so it is called, has a sort of broad crust where it adheres to the
rock, which gives out a stem. This stem is slender, and is made up
of many pieces, placed one before the other, narrow where they join,
and rather swollen in the middle or at the end. Other pieces, usually
two, come off from the piece at the joint, and there may be hundreds
of them or only a few. The end of the plant is made up of tufts of
pieces, some of which have a little hole in the end, as if there were
a hollow place. Now, if the spots where the pieces join be looked
at carefully, there appears to be something like very thin threads
uniting one piece to another, and they are not covered, as all the
rest is, with the glistening white stuff, which feels gritty between
the teeth. These corallines, if placed in vinegar, begin to bubble as
if they were made up of chalk, and their outsides are composed of a
mineral called carbonate of lime. After a while the vinegar dissolves
all the hard white part, and leaves the threads, which are now seen
to run the whole length of the coralline. These threads are portions
of vegetable fibre, and constitute the inside stem as it were, which
is surrounded by a sort of bark of carbonate of lime.

[Illustration: Lichens and Small Fungi

1, Lecanora; 2, Opeographa; 3, Parmelia; 4, Cetraria Islandica; 5,
11, Cladonia; 6, Usnea Barbata; 7, Red Wart Fungus; 8, Pertusaria; 9
Bæomyses; 10, Erysiphe; 12, Cyanthus]

But this is only a popular manner of explaining, for if more care
is taken, it will be found that, although some fibres run through
more than one joint, others, when they are in the midst of a piece,
turn outward from the middle, and come near the surface where the
carbonate of lime is. There they end in delicate bags or cells in
rows, the last of which is quite at the surface; so that the outside
of the pieces is made up of a mass of these small microscopic
cells, and the rest of the long fibres. The older the plant, the
more carbonate of lime is there in this mass of cells; but in very
young plants, in the spring of the year, there is but little of the
mineral, and they may sometimes be got quite soft. They are then
short little stumps fixed on to the expanded root, which sticks on
to stones, and they are not white, but of a beautiful claret or
port-wine color, the joints, where the fibres are, being greenish
or without color. This immature plant can be examined with the
microscope, and then the secret of how the carbonate of lime is
put in is divulged. First, it appears that any part of the young
coralline which is growing, does not have any of the opaque mineral
in it, and that the fibres never have it in them, nor has a very
delicate skin which covers the whole, and which is very difficult
to get a sight of, for it is easily washed off. By putting a young
piece in weak acid, bubbles come out, and every now and then one
blows up this exquisitely thin pavement-looking film from off the
surface. It is then seen to be made up of flat cells, placed side by
side, and colorless. This is the important tissue by which the plant
lives, for it exists long after all within is hard. It is always
growing and being repaired; and in the tropics, where the water is
warm, the little cells of it are covered with very long hairs, and,
indeed, they may sometimes be traced in English specimens. Leaving
these outside cells and the membrane for a while, it is necessary to
consider those beneath, and which are more or less connected with the
long fibres of the joints. A row of these more deeply seated cells
is on the outside, just beneath the membrane, and other rows are
deeper and deeper still, until the ends of the fibres are seen
to end, as it were, in contact with the innermost. The outer row
of all these is of a pale green color, and gradually the port-wine
tint comes with depth from the edge. Each of the cells of these rows
is not quite covered with the hard mineral, and they communicate
their fluid contents to another; and it is found that it is between
the cells that the carbonate of lime is deposited, and which can be
dissolved out by vinegar. As soon as a set of cells has done growing,
the mineral is deposited, invests, and comes outside them, until
it invades the delicate membranes of their bag as well. How does
this plant live? and where does it get its lime from? It does not
absorb anything by its root, for it is placed on a stone, but all
nourishment enters by the thin outside layer.

In all sea-water there is some organic stuff or sea soup, the
result of the decomposition of tiny things, and there is some air
in the water which contains oxygen and nitrogen and carbonic acid.
Under the influence of life, the organic stuff is absorbed by the
cell-membrane, and is rendered useful to the rest of the plant, into
whose cells, not quite walled up by carbonate of lime, it enters like
sap, and circulates. The carbonate of lime can only get in by there
being some minute quantity in the sea-water, and there is sufficient
in the chalky spots and limestone shores, not only dissolved by the
sea-water, but held in suspension by it. The water is ever on the
move, passing over the coralline, and in a few weeks a few grains,
for they make a great show, are absorbed and deposited in it. Small
sea-snails browse on the corallines, and have to thank them for their
lime, which is necessary for their shell.

There are some other plants found at low-tide marks which are
calcareous, but instead of being jointed, like the corallines, they
form irregular and rounded little blocks, or simple papery-looking
expansions on some of the larger-leaved sea-weeds. They are usually
white and hard, and no one would consider them to be of a vegetable
nature were their microscopic anatomy not known. They have a great
resemblance in mineral structure to the coralline, and are called
Melobesia or Nullipores.

The sea-weeds are, as may have been gleaned from the last few pages,
divisible into red, olive, or dark and green kinds, and one of their
most interesting studies relates to the method of reproduction.
Many sea-weeds are annual and die in the winter, so they must be
reproduced by seed, or something like it; others are of two or more
years’ growth, and outlive the winter, but in the end they must
have some method of perpetuating their kind. Some are perennial, or
constantly growing. Certain kinds are only found in the spring and
summer, others are always to be met with, and some produce spores, or
the matter out of which future weed grows, in summer, and others in
the autumn and winter. The geographical range of some of the British
sea-weeds is immense, and not a few kinds are found at the Antipodes.




  SARGASSUM
  --CUTHBERT COLLINGWOOD


Among the many remarkable phenomena connected with the Gulf Stream
not the least remarkable is the existence of those floating meadows
of sea-weed commonly known as the Gulf-weed or Sargassum, whose
accumulations, within certain parallels of latitude and longitude,
have given to that area the name of the Sargasso Sea. These marine
prairies, as they have been called, have attracted the notice of all
navigators since the time of Columbus, who, in his first voyage,
received his earliest check upon falling in with them. The great
pioneer entered the Sargasso Sea in lat. 26° N., and long. 48°
W., and his timid shipmates at once took fright at the marvelous
appearance, feeling assured that their ships would be entangled in
the weed until they were starved to death, or that they were about
to strike on some unknown coast. In this part, he says, “the sea was
covered with such a quantity of sea-weed, like little branches of the
fir-trees which bear the pistachio nuts, that we believed the ships
would run aground for want of water.” They could not understand how
such vast quantities of vegetation could merely float on the surface,
and the appearance of a lobster among the weed confirmed their fears;
and deeming it necessary that they must be either in, or approaching
shoal water, they entreated the heroic discoverer to turn the ship’s
head. But happily he never wavered, and on the tropic, in long. 66°,
the first vessel which had ever entered the Sargasso Sea emerged
again into clear water.

The extent of the Sargasso Sea is in due proportion to the vast
natural agency to which it primarily owes its existence. It stretches
from 20° to about 65° West longitude, and from between the parallels
of 20° and 45° is of considerable width, narrowing from 12° in its
widest part to about 4° or 5° where least developed; while the
remaining 20° of westerly extent takes the form of a narrow belt
of various detached tracts, influenced as to situation by local
currents, and averaging 4° or 5° only in width. An idea may be
obtained of its area by the comparison of Maury, who states that it
is equal to the great valley of the Mississippi; or still better,
perhaps, from Humboldt’s estimate, that it was about six times as
large as the Germany of his day.

But, although the geographical boundaries given above are those
usually recognized by hydrographers for the Sargasso Sea, it must not
be supposed that they are invariable. It may, however, be correctly
stated, that it occupies the great sweep made by the Azores,
Canaries, and Cape de Verde Islands in the East; while the elongated
westerly belt extends as far as between the Bermudas and West Indian
islands.

The earlier navigators often found the Gulf-weed a serious impediment
to their progress. Lærius mentions that for fifteen continuous
days he passed through one unbroken meadow (Praderias de yerva, or
sea-weed prairies, as Oviedo characteristically calls them), so that
he could find no way through for oars. On certain occasions it has
been found that the speed of vessels through the Sargasso Sea has
been materially retarded; and it has been described as so thick that,
to the eye, at a little distance it appears to be substantial enough
to walk upon.

That this is not the condition met with under all circumstances
is proved by the fact that passing through this region in 1867,
the writer made a seven days’ voyage through its central portion,
during which the sea was at no time covered with the weed, so as to
form a continuous meadow. It made its appearance usually in large
patches, generally upon the surface, but sometimes apparently sunk
to some distance below it. It varied considerably in appearance--was
sometimes dark-colored, dense, and compact, and covered with berries;
at others, pale and attenuated, with few berries. The masses, on
some days were round and shapely, and usually scattered somewhat
indiscriminately over the surface of the sea. Occasionally only a
few small tufts appeared for many hours; and on one day the only
sign of its presence was a long narrow streak, extending across the
ocean as far as the eye could reach in the direction of the wind.
The fact, indeed, is that the Sargasso Sea, dependent as it is upon
a great physical phenomenon, changes its position according to the
seasons, storms, and winds: its mean position remaining the same
as it has been ascertained by observations during many years past.
The Gulf Stream is the great power which maintains these marine
pastures--a current whose impulse and origin, according to Humboldt,
are to be sought to the south of the Cape of Good Hope--after a
long circuit it pours itself from the Caribbean Sea and the Mexican
Gulf through the Straits of the Bahamas, and following a course from
south-southwest to north-northeast, continues to recede from the
shores of the United States until, further deflected to the eastward
by the banks of Newfoundland, it approaches the European coast.
At the point where the Gulf Stream is deflected from the banks of
Newfoundland toward the east, it sends off branches to the south near
the Azores. This is the situation of the Sargasso Sea.

Patches of the weed are always to be seen floating along the outer
edge of the Gulf Stream. Now, if bits of cork, or chaff, or any
floating substance, says Captain Maury, be put in a basin, and a
circular motion be given to the water, all the light substances will
be found crowding together near the centre of the pool, where there
is the least motion. Just such a basin is the Atlantic Ocean to the
Gulf Stream; and the Sargasso Sea is the centre of the whirl.

The Gulf-weed itself has so peculiar a history that it forms not the
least remarkable point of interest in the description of the Sargasso
Sea. It is one of the numerous species of the genus Sargassum,
which is among the most natural and readily distinguished genera of
the family of Fucaceæ. The great cryptogamist, Agardh, enumerates
sixty-two species of Sargassum, of which the one concerning which
we are speaking is the Sargassum bacciferum, called Fucus natans by
Linnæus, and Fucus sargasso by Gmelin. The Spanish word Sargazo, or
Sargaço, meaning sea-weed, supplies its common English name.

The integument is leathery and the general color brown, of varying
shades, sometimes light and sometimes dark. The most striking
peculiarity, on a cursory view, is the abundance of globular cells,
which have been taken by the unlearned for fruit, but which are in
reality merely receptacles of air, by means of which the plant not
only floats upon the surface of the ocean, but also is enabled to
support vast numbers of marine animals, which find shelter among its
tangled fronds. Columbus, the first discoverer of the Sargasso Sea,
described the meadows as yellow like dry hay-seed, bearing leaves of
common rue, with numerous berries, which turn black in drying like
juniper berries. These berries have received the name of rasins de
tropique.

There is one point in the history of the Sargassum which has excited
the attention of all observers, and more particularly of botanists.
It is the fact that the Sargassum is always found floating upon the
deep sea, and is yet destitute of any apparent means of propagation.
Agardh remarked that no fruit nor root could be detected; and
expressed his belief that it grew in the depths of the ocean and
was torn up by the waves. This belief was very general at one
time, and it was supposed that the perfect plant was unknown; but
that the Gulf Stream collected together the torn-off masses of its
vesicular summits. Rumphius suggested that the Sargassum fed upon the
fat exhalations and oily effluvia of dead fish, and other organic
substances entangled in it. Even modern publications state that
there is reason to think that it is first attached to the bottom
of the comparatively shallow parts of the sea; but the Gulf-weed
is never found so attached. It always floats; and is healthy
and abundant in that condition, never exhibiting any organs of
fructification, though constantly putting out new fronds.

It does not appear that any other species of Sargassum is originally
destitute of roots, even those most closely allied to Sargassum
bacciferum, though some of them are not infrequently found both
in the fixed, and in considerable masses in the floating state,
retaining vitality, and probably propagating themselves in the same
manner. Professor Hervey conjectured that the Gulf-weed might be a
pelagic variety of Sargassum vulgare, in the same way as the variety
subcostatus of Fucus vesiculosus has never been found attached,
growing in salt marshes. In the Mediterranean vast quantities of
Fucus vesiculosus occur under a peculiar form, consisting entirely of
specimens derived from sea-born weed, carried in by the current which
sets in to that sea from the Atlantic.




GLOSSARY OF BOTANICAL TERMS


  A

  ABBREVIATE (_abbreviare_, to shorten), used to indicate that one
  part is shorter than another.

  ABERRANT, deviating from the natural form.

  ABORTION, suppression of an organ, depending on non-development.

  ABRADED, rubbed off.

  ABRUPT, ending in an abrupt manner, as the truncated leaf of the
  tulip-tree; _abruptly pinnate_, ending in two pinnæ--in other
  words, paripinnate; _abruptly acuminate_, a leaf with a broad
  extremity, from which a point arises.

  ACAULESCENT, without an evident stem.

  ACCESSORY, an addition to a usual number.

  ACCRESCENT, when parts continue to grow and increase after
  flowering, as the calyx of _Physalis_ and the styles of _Anemone
  pulsatilla_.

  ACCRETION, growing of one part to another.

  ACCUMBENT, applied to the embryo of _Cruciferæ_ when the
  cotyledons have their edges applied to the folded radicle.

  ACEROSE, needle-like, narrow and slender, with a sharp point.

  ACHÆNE, or ACHÆNIUM, a monospermous seed-vessel which does not
  open, but the pericarp of which is separable from the seed.

  ACHLAMYDEOUS, having no floral envelope.

  ACHROMATIC, applied to lenses which prevent chromatic aberration,
  _i. e._, show objects without any prismatic colors.

  ACICULAR, like a needle in form.

  ACICULUS, a strong bristle.

  ACINACIFORM, shaped like a sabre or cimeter.

  ACOTYLEDONOUS, having no cotyledons.

  ACROCARPI, mosses having their fructification terminating the
  axis.

  ACROGENOUS, having a stem increasing by its summit.

  ACULEATE, furnished with prickles.

  ACULEUS, a prickle, a process of the bark, not of the wood, as in
  the rose.

  ACUMINATE, drawn out into a long point.

  ACUTE, terminating in a sharp point.

  ADHERENT, adhesion of parts that are normally separate, as when
  the calyx is united to the ovary.

  ADNATE, when an organ is united to another throughout its whole
  length; as the stipules to the petiole in roses, and the filament
  and anther in _Ranunculus_.

  ADPRESSED, or APPRESSED, closely applied to a surface.

  ADULT, full grown.

  ADVENTITIOUS, organs produced in abnormal positions, as roots
  arising from aerial stems.

  ÆRUGINOUS, having the color of verdigris.

  ÆSTIVATION, the arrangements of the parts of the flower in the
  flower-bud.

  AGGLOMERATED, collected in a heap or head.

  AGGREGATE, gathered together.

  ALA, a wing, applied to the lateral petals of papilionaceous
  flowers, and to membranous appendages of the fruit, as in the
  elm, or of the seed, as in pines.

  ALBUMEN, the nutritious matter stored up with the embryo within
  the seed, called also Perisperm and Endosperm.

  ALBURNUM, the outer young wood of a dicotyledonous stem.

  ALEXIPHARMIC, that which counteracts poisons.

  ALGOLOGY, the study of sea-weeds.

  ALTERNATE, arranged at different heights on the same axis, and
  toward different sides.

  ALVEOLÆ, regular cavities on a surface, as in the receptacle of
  the sunflower, and in that of _Nelumbium_.

  ALVEOLATE, like a honeycomb.

  AMENTUM, a catkin, or deciduous unisexual spike; plants having
  catkins are _Amentiferous_.

  AMNIOS, the fluid or semi-fluid matter in the embryo-sac.

  AMORPHOUS, without definite form.

  AMPHISARCA, an indehiscent, multilocular fruit, with a hard
  exterior, and pulpy round the seeds, as seen in the Baobab.

  AMPHITROPAL, an ovule, curved on itself, with the hilum in the
  middle.

  AMPLEXICAUL, embracing the stem over a large part of its
  circumference.

  AMPULLA, a hollow leaf, as in _Utricularia_.

  AMYLACEOUS, starch-like.

  ANASTOMOSING, inosculation of vessels.

  ANASTOMOSIS, union of vessels; union of the final ramifications
  of the veins of a leaf.

  ANATROPAL, an inverted ovule, the hilum and micropyle being near
  each other, and the chalaza at the opposite end.

  ANCEPS, two-edged.

  ANDRŒCIUM, the male organs of the flower.

  ANDROGYNOUS, male and female flowers on the same peduncle, as in
  some species of _Carex_.

  ANDROPHORE, a stalk supporting the stamens, often formed by a
  union of the filaments.

  ANFRACTUOSE, wavy or sinuous, as the anthers of _Cucurbitaceæ_.

  ANGIOSPERMOUS, having seeds contained in a seed-vessel.

  ANISOSTEMONOUS, stamens not equal in number to the floral
  envelopes, nor a multiple of them.

  ANNOTINUS, a year old.

  ANNULUS, applied to the elastic rim surrounding the sporangia of
  some ferns, also to a cellular rim on the stalk of the mushroom,
  being the remains of the veil.

  ANTERIOR, same as inferior when applied to the parts of the
  flower in their relation to the axis.

  ANTHELMINTIC, a vermifuge.

  ANTHER, the part of the stamen containing pollen.

  ANTHERIDIUM, the male organ in cryptogamic plants, frequently
  containing moving filaments.

  ANTHERIFEROUS, bearing anthers.

  ANTHEROZOIDS, moving filaments in an antheridium.

  ANTHESIS, the opening of the flower.

  ANTHOCARPOUS, applied to fruits, formed by the ovaries of several
  flowers.

  ANTHODIUM, the capitulum or head of flowers or the Composite
  plants.

  ANTHOPHORE, a stalk supporting the inner floral envelopes, and
  separating them from the calyx.

  ANTHOS, a flower; in composition, _Antho_; in Latin, _Flos_.

  ANTHOTAXIS, the arrangement of the flowers on the axis.

  APETALOUS, without petals; in other words, monochlamydeous.

  APHYLLOUS, without leaves.

  APICULATE, having an apiculus.

  APICULUS, or APICULUM, a terminal soft point, springing abruptly.

  APOCARPOUS, ovary and fruit composed of numerous distinct carpels.

  APOPHYSIS, a swelling at the base of the theca in some mosses.

  APOTHECIUM, the rounded, shield-like fructification of lichens.

  APTEROUS, without wings or membraneous margins.

  ARACHNOID, applied to fine hairs so entangled as to resemble a
  cobweb.

  ARBOREOUS, tree-like.

  ARCHEGONIUM, the female organ in cryptogamic plants.

  ARCUATE, curved in an arched manner.

  AREOLÆ, little spaces on a surface.

  AREOLATE, divided into distinct angular spaces, or areolæ.

  ARILLATE, having an arillus.

  ARILLUS and ARILLODE, an extra covering on the seed; the former
  proceeding from the placenta, the latter from the exostome, as in
  mace.

  ARISTA, an awn, a long pointed process.

  ARMATURE, the hairs, prickles, etc., covering an organ.

  ARTICULATED, jointed, separated easily and cleanly at some point.

  ASCENDING, applied to a procumbent stem which rises gradually
  from its base: to ovules attached a little above the base of
  the ovary; and to hairs directed toward the upper part of their
  support.

  ASCI, tubes containing the sporidia of the cryptogamia.

  ASCIDIUM, a pitcher-like leaf, as in _Nepenthes_.

  ASPERITY, roughness, as on the leaves of _Boraginaceæ_.

  ATROPAL, the same as orthotropous.

  ATTENUATE, thin and slender.

  AURICULATE, having appendages; applied to leaves having lobes
  (ear-shaped) or leaflets at their base.

  AWN and AWNED. See _Arista_.

  AXIL, the upper angle, where the leaf joins the stem.

  AXILE, or AXIAL, belonging to the axis.

  AXIL-FLOWERING, flowering in the axilla.

  AXILLARY, arising from the axil of a leaf.

  AXIS is applied collectively to the stem and root--the ascending
  and descending axis, respectively.


  B

  BACCA, berry, a unilocular fruit, having a soft outer covering
  and seeds immersed in pulp.

  BACCATE, resembling a berry.

  BALAUSTA, the fruit of the pomegranate.

  BARBATE, bearded, having tufts of hair.

  BARK (_cortex_), the outer cellular and fibrous covering of the
  stem; separate from the wood in dicotyledons.

  BARREN, not fruitful; applied to male flowers, and to the
  non-fructifying fronds of ferns.

  BASAL, or BASILAR, attached to the base of an organ.

  BASIDIUM, a cell bearing on its exterior one or more spores in
  some fungi, which are hence called _Basidiosporous_.

  BAST, or BASS, the inner fibrous bark of dicotyledonous trees.

  BEAKED, like the sharp-pointed beak of a bird in form.

  BEDEGUAR, a hairy excrescence on the branches and leaves of
  roses, caused by an attack of a cynips.

  BIDENTATE, having two tooth-like processes.

  BIFARIOUS, in two rows, one on each side of an axis.

  BIFID, two-cleft, cut down to near the middle into two parts.

  BIFORINE, a raphidian cell with an opening at each end.

  BILABIATE, having two lips.

  BILOBED, divided into two lobes.

  BILOCULAR, having two cells.

  BINATE, applied to a leaf composed of two leaflets at the
  extremity of a petiole.

  BIPARTITE, cut down to near the base into two parts.

  BIPINNATE, a compound leaf, divided twice in a pinnate manner.

  BIPINNATIFID, a simple leaf, with lateral divisions extending to
  near the middle, and which are also similarly divided.

  BIPINNATIPARTITE, differing from bipinnatifid in the divisions
  extending to near the midrib.

  BIPLICATE, doubly folded in a transverse manner.

  BISERRATE, when the serratures are themselves serrate.

  BITERNATE, a compound leaf divided into three, and each division
  again divided into three.

  BLADE, the lamina or broad part of a leaf, as distinguished from
  the petiole or stalk.

  BLANCHING. See _Etiolation_.

  BLETTING, a peculiar change in an austere fruit, by which, after
  being pulled, it becomes soft and edible, as in the medlar.

  BLISTERED, applied to raised spots in leaves.

  BOLE, the trunk of a tree.

  BOTHRENCHYMA, dotted or pitted vessels.

  BRACT, a leaf more or less changed in form, from which a flower
  or flowers proceed; flowers having bracts are called _bracteated_.

  BRACTEOLE, a small bract at the base of a separate flower in a
  multifloral inflorescence.

  BRANCHLETS, little branches.

  BRYOLOGY, the study of mosses; same as muscology.

  BULB, an underground stem covered with scales.

  BULBIL, or BULBLET, separate buds in the axil of leaves, as in
  some lilies.

  BYSSOID, very slender, like a cobweb.


  C

  CADUCOUS, falling off very early, as the calyx of a poppy.

  CÆSIOUS, gray.

  CÆSPITOSE, growing in tufts.

  CALCAR, a spur, projecting hollow or solid process from the base
  of an organ, as in the flower of Larkspur or Snap-dragon; such
  flowers are called _calcarate_, or spurred.

  CALCEOLATE, slipper-like, applied to the hollow petals of some
  orchids; also to the corolla of _Calceolaria_.

  CALLOSITY, or CALLOUS, a leathery or hardened thickening on a
  limited portion of an organ.

  CALYCIFLORÆ, a sub-class of polypetalous Exogens, having the
  stamens attached to the calyx.

  CALYCINE, belonging to the calyx.

  CALYPTRATE, in form, resembling an extinguisher.

  CALYX, the outer envelope of a flower.

  CAMBIUM, the young active cells between the bark and the young
  wood.

  CAMPANULATE, shaped like a bell, as the flower of harebell.

  CAMPYLOTROPAL, a curved ovule, with the hilum, micropyle, and
  chalaza near each other.

  CANALICULATE, channeled, having a longitudinal groove or furrow.

  CANCELLATE, latticed, composed of veins alone.

  CANESCENT, hoary.

  CAPILLARY, filiform, thread-like, or hair-like.

  CAPITATE, pin-like, having a rounded summit, as some hairs.

  CAPITULUM, head of flowers in _Compositæ_.

  CAPREOLATE, having tendrils.

  CAPSULE, a dry seed-vessel, opening by valves, teeth, pores, or a
  lid.

  CARINA, keel, the two partially united lower petals of
  papilionaceous flowers.

  CARINATE, keel-shaped.

  CARPEL, the leaf which contains the ovules. Several carpels may
  enter into the composition of one pistil.

  CARPOLOGY, the study of fruits.

  CARPOPHORE, a stalk bearing the pistil, and raising it above the
  whorl of the stamens, as in _Lychnis_ and _Capparis_.

  CARUNCLE, a fleshy or thickened appendage of the raphe of the
  seed.

  CARYOPSIS, the monospermal seed-vessel of a grass, the pericarp
  being adherent with the seed.

  CATKIN, same as Amentum.

  CAUDATE, having a tail or feathery appendage.

  CAUDEX, the stem of palms and of tree ferns.

  CAUDICLE, the process supporting a pollen mass in orchids.

  CAULESCENT, having an evident stem.

  CAULICLE, the rudimentary axis of the embryo.

  CAULINE, produced on the stem.

  CAUSTICITY, having a burning quality.

  CELLULAR, composed of cells.

  CELLULOSE, the chemical substance of which the cell wall is
  composed.

  CENTIMETRE, a French measure, equal to 0.3937079 British inch.

  CENTRIFUGAL, applied to that kind of inflorescence in which the
  central flower opens first.

  CENTRIPETAL, applied to that kind of inflorescence in which the
  flowers at the circumference or base open first.

  CERAMIDIUM, an ovate conceptacle, having a terminal opening, and
  with a tuft of spores arising from the base; seen in Algæ.

  CEREAL, a general term applied to wheat, oats, barley, and rye.

  CHALAZA, the place where the nourishing vessels enter the nucleus
  of the ovule.

  CHLOROPHYLL, the green coloring matter of leaves.

  CHORISIS, separation of a lamina from one part of an organ, so
  as to form a scale or a doubling of the organ; it may be either
  transverse or collateral.

  CHROMULE, the coloring matter of the cells of flowers; also of
  the lower _Algæ_.

  CILIA (_cilium_), short, stiff hairs fringing the margin of a
  leaf; also the delicate vibratile hairs of zoospores.

  CILIATO-DENTATE, toothed and fringed with hairs.

  CIRCINATE, rolled up like a crosier, as the young fronds of ferns.

  CIRCUMSCISSILE, cut round in a circular manner, such as
  seed-vessels opening by a lid.

  CIRCUMSCRIPTION, the periphery or margin of a leaf.

  CIRRHUS, a modified leaf in the form of a tendril.

  CLATHRATE, latticed, like a grating.

  CLAVATE, club-shaped, becoming gradually thicker toward the top.

  CLAW, the narrow base of some petals, corresponding with the
  petiole or leaves.

  CLEFT, divided to about the middle.

  CLOVES, applied to young bulbs, as in the onion.

  CLYPEATE, having the shape of a buckler.

  COCCIDIUM, a rounded conceptacle in _Algæ_ without pores, and
  containing a tuft of spores.

  COCHLEAR, a kind of æstivation, in which a helmet-shaped part
  covers all the others in the bud.

  COCHLEARIFORM, shaped like a spoon.

  COCHLEATE, shaped like a snail shell.

  COLEORHIZA, a sheath, surrounding the radicles of a
  monocotyledonous embryo.

  COLLATERAL, placed side by side, as in the case of some ovules.

  COLLUM, neck, the part where the plumule and radicle of the
  embryo unite.

  COLUMELLA, central column in the sporangia of mosses.

  COLUMN, a part of a flower of an orchid supporting the anthers
  and stigma, and formed by the union of the styles and filaments.

  COMA, a tuft of hair on a seed.

  COMMISSURE, union of the faces of the two achænes in the fruit of
  _Umbelliferæ_.

  COMOSE, furnished with hairs, as the seeds of the willow.

  COMPOUND, composed of several parts, as a leaf formed by several
  leaflets.

  COMPRESSED, flattened laterally or lengthwise.

  CONCENTRIC, curves with common centre.

  CONCEPTACLE, a hollow sac containing a tuft or cluster of spores.

  CONCRETE, hardened into a mass.

  CONDUCTING TISSUE, applied to the loose cellular tissue in the
  interior of the style.

  CONDUPLICATE, followed upon itself, applied to leaves and
  cotyledons.

  CONE, a dry multiple fruit, formed by bracts covering naked seeds.

  CONFERRUMINATE, indistinguishably united together.

  CONFERVOID, formed of a single row of cells, or having
  articulations like a _Conferva_.

  CONFLUENT, when parts unite together in the progress of growth.

  CONJUGATION, union of two cells, so as to develop a spore.

  CONNATE, when parts are united, even in the early state of
  development; applied to two leaves united by their bases.

  CONNECTIVE, the part which connects the anther-lobes.

  CONNIVENT, when two organs, as petals, arch over so as to meet
  above.

  CONSTRICTED, contracted in some particular place.

  CONTORTED, when the parts in a bud are imbricated and regularly
  twisted in one direction.

  CONVOLUTE, when a leaf in the bud is rolled upon itself.

  CORDATE, of leaves heart-shaped at the base.

  CORDIFORM, having the shape of a heart.

  CORIACEOUS, having a leathery consistence.

  CORM, thickened underground stem, as in _Arum_ and _Colchicum_.

  CORNUTE, horned.

  COROLLA, the inner envelope of the flower.

  COROLLIFLORÆ, gamopetalous exogens.

  CORONA, a coralline appendage, as the crown of the daffodil.

  CORPUSCLE, a small body or particle.

  CORRUGATED, wrinkled or shriveled.

  CORTEX, the bark.

  CORTICAL, belonging to the bark.

  CORYMB, a raceme, in which the lower stalks are the longest, and
  all the flowers come very nearly to a level above.

  COSTATE, provided with ribs; primary.

  COTYLEDON, the temporary leaf of the embryo.

  CREMOCARP, the fruit of _Umbelliferæ_, composed of two separable
  achænes or mericarps.

  CRENATE, having superficial, rounded, marginal notches.

  CRENATURES, divisions of the margin of a crenate leaf.

  CREST, an appendage to fruits or seeds.

  CRIBRIFORM, riddled with holes.

  CRISP, having an undulated margin.

  CRUCIFORM, arranged like the parts of a cross, as the flowers of
  _Cruciferæ_.

  CRUSTACEOUS, hard, thin, and brittle.

  CRYPTOGAMOUS, with the organs of reproduction obscure.

  CUCULLATE, formed like a hood or cowl.

  CULM, stem or stalk of grasses.

  CUNEIFORM, or CUNEATE, shaped like a wedge.

  CUPULA, the cup of the acorn, formed by aggregate bracts.

  CUSPIDATE, prolonged into an attenuated point.

  CUTICLE, the thin membrane that covers the epidermis.

  CYCLOSIS, movement of the latex in laticiferous vessels, and of
  the fluid cell contents within the cell.

  CYMBIFORM, shaped like a boat.

  CYME, a kind of definite inflorescence, in which the flowers are
  in racemes, corymbs, or umbels, the successive central flowers
  expanding first.

  CYPSELA, monospermal fruit of _Compositæ_.

  CYTOBLAST, the nucleus of a cell.

  CYTOGENESIS, cell development.


  D

  DECIDUOUS, falling off after performing its functions for a
  limited time, as the calyx of _Ranunculus_.

  DECIDUOUS TREES, those which lose their leaves annually.

  DECIMETRE, the tenth part of a metre, or ten centimetres.

  DECLINATE, directed downward from its base.

  DECOMPOUND, a leaf cut into numerous compound divisions.

  DECORTICATED, deprived of bark.

  DECUMBENT, lying flat along the ground, and rising from it at the
  apex.

  DECURRENT, leaves which are attached along the side of a stem
  below their point of insertion; such stems are often called
  winged.

  DECUSSATE, opposite leaves crossing each other in pairs at right
  angles.

  DEDUPLICATION, same as Chorisis.

  DEFINITE, applied to inflorescence when it ends in a single
  flower, and the expansion of the flower is centrifugal; also
  when the number of the parts of an organ is limited, as when the
  stamens are under twenty.

  DEFLEXED, bent downward in a continuous curve.

  DEFOLIATION, the fall of the leaves.

  DEGENERATION, when an organ is changed from its usual appearance,
  and becomes less highly developed as when scales take the place
  of leaves.

  DEHISCENCE, mode of opening of an organ, as of the seed-vessels
  and anthers.

  DELTOID, like the Greek Δ in form.

  DEMULCENT, an emollient.

  DENTATE, toothed, having short triangular divisions of the margin.

  DENTICULATE, finely toothed, having small tooth-like projections
  along the margin.

  DENTIFORM, tooth-shaped.

  DEPENDENT, hanging down.

  DEPRESSED, flattening of a solid organ from above downward.

  DETERGENT, having a cleansing power.

  DIADELPHOUS, stamens in two bundles, united by their filaments.

  DIANDROUS, having two stamens.

  DIAPHANOUS, transparent.

  DICHLAMYDEOUS, having calyx and corolla.

  DICHOTOMOUS, stem dividing by twos.

  DICLINOUS, unisexual flower either monœcious or diœcious.

  DICOTYLEDONOUS, embryo having two cotyledons.

  DICTYOGENOUS, applied to monocotyledons having netted veins.

  DIDYNAMOUS, two long and two short stamens.

  DIFFUSE, scattered.

  DIGITATE, compound leaf, composed of several leaflets attached to
  one point.

  DIGYNOUS, having two styles.

  DIMEROUS, when the parts of a flower are in twos.

  DIMIDIATE, when one-half of an organ is smaller than the other
  half.

  DIŒCIOUS, staminiferous and pistilliferous flowers on separate
  plants.

  DIPLOSTEMONOUS, stamens double the number of the petals or sepals.

  DIPTEROUS, having two wings.

  DISCOID, in the form of a disk or flattened sphere; _discoid
  pith_, divided into cavities by disks.

  DISK, a part intervening between the stamens and the pistils in
  the form of scales, a ring, etc.

  DISKS, the peculiar rounded and dotted markings on the fibres of
  coniferous wood.

  DISSECTED, cut into a number of narrow divisions.

  DISSEPIMENT, a division in the ovary; true when formed by the
  edges of the carpels, false when formed otherwise.

  DISTICHOUS, in two rows on opposite sides of a stem.

  DIVARICATING, branches coming off from the stem at a very wide or
  obtuse angle.

  DODECANDROUS, having twelve stamens.

  DOLABRIFORM, shaped like an axe.

  DORSAL, applied to the suture of the carpel which is furthest
  from the axis.

  DOUBLE FLOWER, when the organs of reproduction are converted into
  petals.

  DRUPE, a fleshy fruit like the cherry, having a stony endocarp.

  DRUPELS, small drupes aggregated to form a fruit, as in the
  raspberry.

  DURAMEN, heart-wood of dicotyledonous trees.


  E

  ELATERS, spiral fibres in the spore-cases of _Hepaticæ_.

  ELLIPTICAL, having the form of an ellipse.

  EMARGINATE, with a notch at the end.

  EMBRACING. This is said to be the case when a leaf clasps the
  stem.

  EMBRYO, the young plant contained in the seed.

  EMBRYO-SAC, the cell in which the embryo is formed.

  ENDOCARP, the inner layer of the pericarp, next the seed.

  ENDOCHROME, the coloring matter within the cells of the lower
  plants.

  ENDOGEN, a monocotyledon.

  ENDOPHLŒUM, the fibrous inner bark or liber.

  ENDOPLEURA, the inner covering of the seed.

  ENDORHIZAL, numerous rootlets arising from _within_ a common
  radicle, and passing through sheaths, as in endogenous
  germination.

  ENDOSMOSE, movement of fluids inward through a membrane.

  ENDOSPERM, albumen formed within the embryo-sac.

  ENDOSTOME, the inner foramen of the ovule.

  ENDOTHECIUM, the inner coat of the anther.

  ENSIFORM, in the form of a sword, as the leaves of _Iris_.

  ENTIRE (_integer_), without marginal divisions.

  ENVELOPES, FLORAL, the calyx and corolla.

  EPICALYX, outer calyx formed either of sepals or bracts, as in
  mallow and _Potentilla_.

  EPICARP, the outer covering of the fruit.

  EPICHILIUM, the terminal portion of the lip (_labellum_) in
  orchids.

  EPIDERMIS, the cellular layer covering the external surface of
  plants.

  EPIGYNOUS, above the ovary by adhesion to it.

  EPIPETALOUS, inserted on the petals.

  EPIPHYLLOUS, growing upon a leaf.

  EPIPHYTES, attached to another plant, and growing suspended in
  the air.

  EPISPERM, the external covering of the seed.

  EQUITANT, applied to leaves folded longitudinally, and
  overlapping each other without any involution.

  ERECT, applied to an ovule which rises from the base of the ovary.

  ERODED, gnawed or bitten.

  EROSE, irregularly toothed, as if gnawed.

  ERUMPENT, as if bursting through the epidermis.

  ESCHAROTIC, having the power to scar or burn the skin.

  ETÆRIO, the aggregate drupes forming the fruit of _Rubus_.

  ETIOLATION, blanching; losing color through growth in the dark.

  EXALBUMINOUS, without a separate store of albumen or perisperm.

  EXANNULATE, without a ring; applied to some ferns.

  EXCENTRIC, removed from the centre or axis; applied to a lateral
  embryo.

  EXCIPULUS, a receptacle containing fructification in lichens.

  EXCORIATED, stripped of skin or bark.

  EXCURRENT, running out beyond the edge or point.

  EXOGEN, dicotyledon.

  EXORHIZAL, radicle proceeding directly from the axis, and
  afterward branching, as in exogens.

  EXOSMOSE, the passing outward of a fluid through a membrane.

  EXOSTOME, the outer opening of the foramen of the ovule.

  EXOTHECIUM, the outer coat of the anther.

  EXSERTED, extended beyond an organ, as stamens beyond the corolla.

  EXSICCATED, dried up.

  EXSTIPULATE, without stipules.

  EXTINE, the outer covering of the pollen grain.

  EXTRA-AXILLARY, removed from the axil of the leaf, as in the case
  of some buds.

  EXTRORSE, applied to anthers which dehisce on the side furthest
  removed from the pistil.


  F

  FÆCULA, starchy matter.

  FALCATE, or FALCIFORM, bent like a sickle.

  FARINACEOUS, mealy, containing much starch.

  FASCIATION, union of branches of stems so as to present a
  flattened ribbon-like form.

  FASCICLE, a shortened umbellate cyme, as in some species of
  _Dianthus_.

  FASCICULATE, arranged in bundles.

  FASTIDIATE, having a pyramidal form, from the branches being
  parallel and erect, as in Lombardy poplar.

  FAUCES, the gaping part of a monopetalous corolla.

  FEATHER-VEINED, a leaf having the veins passing from the midrib
  at a more or less acute angle, and extending to the margin.

  FECUNDATION, fertilization.

  FENESTRATE, applied to a leaf with perforations.

  FERRUGINOUS, rusty.

  FERTILE, applied to pistillate flowers, and to the fruit-bearing
  fronds of ferns.

  FIBROUS, composed of numerous fibres, as some roots.

  FIBRO-VASCULAR TISSUE, containing vessels and fibres.

  FILAMENT, stalk supporting the anther.

  FILAMENTOUS, a string of cells placed end to end.

  FILIFORM, like a thread.

  FIMBRIATED, fringed at the margin.

  FISSIPAROUS, dividing spontaneously into two parts by means of a
  septum.

  FISSURE, a straight slit in an organ for the discharge of its
  contents.

  FISTULOUS, hollow, like stems of grasses.

  FLABELLIFORM, fan-shaped, as the leaves of some palms.

  FLACCID, feeble, weak.

  FLAGELLUM, a runner, a weak creeping stem, bearing rooting buds
  at different points, as in the strawberry.

  FLEXUOSE, having alternate curvations in opposite directions.

  FLOCCOSE, covered with wool-like tufts.

  FLORETS, little florets forming a compound flower.

  FOLIACEOUS, having the form of leaves.

  FOLLICLE, a fruit formed by a single carpel dehiscing by one
  suture, which is usually the ventral.

  FOVEOLATE, having pits or depressions, called foveæ or foveolæ.

  FOVILLA, minute granular matter in the pollen grain.

  FROND, the leaf-like organ of ferns, bearing the fructification.

  FRONDOSE, applied to cryptogams with foliaceous or leaf-like
  expansions.

  FRUCTIFICATION, the seed or fruit of plants.

  FRUSTULES, the parts or fragments into which diatomaceæ separate.

  FRUTICOSE, shrubby.

  FUGACIOUS, evanescent, falling off early, as the petals of
  _Cistus_.

  FULVOUS, tawny, yellow.

  FUNGOUS, having the substance of fungi or mushrooms.

  FUNICULUS, the cord connecting the hilum of the ovule to the
  placenta.

  FURCATE, divided into two branches, like a two-pronged fork.

  FURFURACEOUS, scaly or scurfy.

  FUSCOUS, blackish brown.

  FUSIFORM, shaped like a spindle.


  G

  GALBULUS, the polygynœcial fruit of juniper.

  GAMOPETALOUS, same as monopetalous, petals united.

  GAMOPHYLLOUS and GAMOSEPALOUS, same as monophyllous and
  monosepalous, sepals united.

  GEMINATE, twin organs combined in pairs; same as binate.

  GEMMATION, the development of leaf-buds.

  GEMMULE, same as plumule, the first bud of the embryo.

  GENICULATE, bent like a knee.

  GERMEN, or GERM, a name for the ovary.

  GERMINAL VESICLE, a germ contained in the embryo-sac, from which
  the embryo is developed.

  GERMINATION, the sprouting of the young plant.

  GIBBOSITY, a swelling at the base of an organ, such as the calyx
  or corolla.

  GIBBOUS, swollen at the base, or having a distinct swelling at
  some part of the surface.

  GLABROUS, smooth, without hairs.

  GLAND, an organ of secretion consisting of cells, and generally
  occurring on the epidermis of plants.

  GLANDULAR HAIRS, hairs tipped with a gland, as in _Drosera_ and
  Chinese primrose.

  GLANS, nut, applied to the acorn and hazel-nut, which are
  inclosed in an involucre formed of consolidated bracts.

  GLAUCOUS, covered with a pale green bloom.

  GLOBOSE, round-shaped.

  GLOBULE, male organ of Chara.

  GLOCHIDIATE, barbed; applied to hairs with two reflexed points at
  their summits.

  GLOMERULE, a rounded cymose inflorescence, as in _Urtica_.

  GLUMACEOUS, chaffy.

  GLUME, a bract covering the organs of reproduction in the
  spikelets of grasses.

  GLUTEN, a highly nitrogenous substance found in seeds.

  GONIDIA, green cells in the thallus of lichens.

  GRAIN, caryopsis, the fruit of grasses.

  GRUMOUS, collected into granular masses.

  GYMNOGEN, a plant with naked seeds, _i. e._, seed not in a true
  ovary.

  GYMNOSPERMOUS, plants with naked seeds, _i. e._, seeds not in a
  true ovary; such as conifers.

  GYNANDROUS, stamen and pistil united in a common column, as in
  the _Orchidaceæ_.

  GYNOBASE, a central axis, to the base of which the carpels are
  attached.

  GYNŒCIUM, the female organs of the flower.

  GYNOPHORE, a stalk supporting the ovary.

  GYRATE, same as circinate.


  H

  HABIT, general external appearance.

  HASTATE, halbert-shaped, applied to a leaf with two portions at
  the base projecting more or less completely at right angles to
  the blade.

  HAULM, dead stems of herbs, as of the potato.

  HAUSTORIUM, the sucker at the extremity of the parasitic root of
  dodder.

  HEART-WOOD, same as Duramen.

  HELICOIDAL, having a coiled appearance like the shell of a snail;
  applied to inflorescence.

  HERB, a plant with an annual stem, opposed to a woody plant.

  HERBACEOUS, green succulent plants which die down to the ground
  in winter; annual shoots, with green-colored cellular parts.

  HERMAPHRODITE, stamens and pistils in the same flower.

  HESPERIDIUM, the fruit of the orange and other _Aurantiaceæ_.

  HETEROCYSTS, peculiar large cells in _Nostochineæ_.

  HETEROGAMOUS, composite plants having hermaphrodite and unisexual
  flowers on the same head.

  HETEROPHYLLOUS, presenting two different forms of leaves.

  HILUM, the base of the seed to which the placenta is attached
  either directly or by means of a cord. The term is also applied
  to the mark at one end of some grains of starch.

  HIRSUTE, covered with long stiff hairs.

  HISPID, covered with long, very stiff hairs.

  HISTOLOGY, the study of microscopic tissues.

  HOMOGENEOUS, having a uniform structure or substance.

  HYALINE, transparent or colorless.

  HYBRID, a plant resulting from the fecundation of one species by
  another.

  HYMENIUM, the part which bears the spores in Agarics.

  HYPANTHODIUM, the receptacle of _Dorstenia_, bearing many flowers.

  HYPOCHILUM, the lower part of the labellum of orchids.

  HYPOCRATERIFORM, shaped like a salver, as the corolla of
  _Primula_.

  HYPOGEOUS, under the surface of the soil; applied to cotyledons.

  HYPOGYNOUS, inserted below the ovary or pistil.


  I

  IMBRICATE, parts overlying each other like tiles on a house.
  _Imbricated æstivation_, the parts of the flower-bud alternately
  overlapping each other, and arranged in a spiral manner.

  IMPARI-PINNATE, unequally pinnate; pinnate leaf ending in an odd
  leaflet.

  INARCHING, a mode of grafting by bending two growing plants
  toward each other, and causing a branch of the one to unite to
  the other.

  INARTICULATE, without joints or interruption to continuity.

  INCISED, cut down deeply.

  INCLUDED, applied to the stamens when inclosed within the
  corolla, and not pushed out beyond its tube.

  INCUMBENT, cotyledons with the radicle on their back.

  INCURVED, bending inward.

  INDEFINITE, applied to inflorescence with centripetal expansion;
  also to stamens above twenty, and to ovules and seeds when very
  numerous.

  INDEHISCENT, not opening, having no regular line of suture.

  INDIGENOUS, an aboriginal native in a country.

  INDUPLICATE, edges of the sepals or petals turned slightly inward
  in æstivation.

  INDUSIUM, epidermal covering of the fructification in some ferns.

  INFERIOR, applied to the ovary where it seems to be situated
  below the calyx, and to the part of the flower furthest from the
  axis.

  INFLEXED, bending inward.

  INFLORESCENCE, the mode in which the flowers are arranged on the
  axis.

  INFUNDIBULIFORM, in shape like a funnel, as seen in some
  gamopetalous corollas.

  INNATE, applied to anthers when attached to the top of the
  filament.

  INSPISSATED, thickened or dried-up juice or sap.

  INTERNODE, the portion of the stem between two nodes or leaf-buds.

  INTERPETIOLAR, between the petioles.

  INTERRUPTEDLY-PINNATE, a pinnate leaf in which pairs of small
  pinnæ occur between the larger pairs.

  INTINE, the inner covering of the pollen grains.

  INTRAMARGINAL, within the margin.

  INTRORSE, applied to anthers which open on the side next the
  pistil.

  INVERSE, inverted.

  INVOLUCEL, bracts surrounding the partial umbel of _Umbelliferæ_.

  INVOLUCRE, bracts surrounding the general umbel in _Umbelliferæ_,
  the heads of flowers in _Compositæ_, and in general any
  verticillate bracts surrounding numerous flowers.

  INVOLUTE, edges of leaves rolled inward spirally on each side in
  æstivation.

  IRREGULAR, a flower in which the parts of any of the verticils
  differ in size.

  ISOMEROUS, when the whorls of a flower are composed each of an
  equal number of parts.

  ISOSTEMONOUS, when stamens and floral envelopes have the same
  number of parts or multiples.

  ISOTHERMAL, lines passing through places which have the same mean
  annual temperature.


  J

  JUGATE, applied to the pairs of leaflets in compound leaves;
  _Unijugate_, having one pair; _Bijugate_, two pairs, and so on.


  K

  KEEL, same as Carina.

  KNOTTED, when a cylindrical stem is swollen at intervals into a
  knob.


  L

  LABELLUM, lip. one of the divisions of the inner whorl of the
  flower in orchids. This part is in reality superior, but becomes
  inferior by the twisting of the ovary.

  LABIATE, lipped; applied to irregular gamopetalous flowers, with
  an upper and under portion separated more or less by a hiatus or
  gap.

  LACINIATE, irregularly cut into narrow segments.

  LACTESCENT, yielding milky juice.

  LACUNA, a large space in the midst of a group of cells.

  LAMELLÆ, gills of an Agaric; also applied to flat divisions of
  the stigma.

  LAMINA, the blade of the leaf; the broad part of the petal or
  sepal.

  LANCEOLATE, tapering to each end, but broadest _below_ the middle.

  LATERAL, arising from the side of the axis, not terminal.

  LATEX, granular fluid contained in laticiferous vessels.

  LATICIFEROUS, vessels containing latex which is anastomose.

  LAX, not compact.

  LEAFLETS, the small portions of compound leaves.

  LEGUME, a pod composed of one carpel, opening usually by a
  ventral and dorsal suture, as in the pea.

  LEGUMINOUS, plants bearing pods.

  LENTICEL, a small cellular process on the bark of the willow and
  other plants.

  LENTICULAR, in the form of a doubly-convex lens.

  LEPIDOTE, covered with scales or scurf.

  LIANES, twining woody plants.

  LIBER, the fibrous inner bark of endophlœum.

  LID, the calyx which falls from the flower in one piece.

  LIGNINE, woody matter which thickens the cell walls.

  LIGULATE, strap-shaped.

  LIGULE, a process arising from the petiole of grasses, where it
  joins the blade.

  LIGULIFLORÆ, composite plants having ligulate florets.

  LIMB, the blade of the leaf; the broad part of a petal or sepal.
  When sepals or petals are united, the combined broad parts are
  denominated collectively the limb.

  LINE, the twelfth part of an inch.

  LINEAR, very narrow when the length greatly exceeds the breadth.

  LINGUIFORM, strap-shaped.

  LIPPED, having a distinct lip or labellum.

  LOBE, large division of a leaf or any other organ, applied often
  to the divisions of the anther.

  LOCULAMENTS, divisions of the cells of a seed-vessel.

  LOCULICIDAL, fruit dehiscing through the back of the carpels.

  LOCULUS, a cavity in an ovary. The terms are also applied to the
  anther.

  LOCUSTA, a spikelet of grasses.

  LODICULE, a scale at the base of the ovary of grapes.

  LOMENTUM, an indehiscent legume or pod with transverse
  partitions, each division containing one seed.

  LURID, a color combining yellow, purple, and gray.

  LYRATE, a pinnatifid leaf with a large terminal lobe, and smaller
  ones as we approach the petiole.


  M

  MACROPODOUS, applied to the thickened radicle of a
  monocotyledonous embryo.

  MARCESCENT, withering, but not falling off until the part bearing
  it is perfected.

  MEDULLA, the pith.

  MEDULLARY RAYS, cellular prolongation uniting the pith and the
  bark.

  MEDULLARY SHEATH, sheath containing spiral vessels, surrounding
  the pith in exogens.

  MEMBRANEOUS, having the consistence, aspect, and structure of a
  membrane.

  MERICARP, carpel forming one-half of the fruit of _Umbelliferæ_.

  MERITHAL, a term used in place of internode; applied by
  Gaudichaud to the different parts of the leaf.

  MESOCARP, middle covering of the fruit.

  MESOCHILUM, middle portion of the labellum of orchids.

  MESOPHLŒUM, middle layer of bark.

  METRE, equal to 39.3707 inches British.

  MICROMETER, instrument for measuring microscopic objects.

  MICROPYLE, the opening or foramen of the seed.

  MILLIMETRE, equal to 0.0393707 English inch.

  MONADELPHOUS, stamens united into one bundle by union of their
  filaments.

  MONILIFORM, beaded; cells united with interruptions, so as to
  resemble a string of beads.

  MONOCARPIC, producing flowers and fruit once during life, and
  then dying.

  MONOCHLAMYDEOUS, flowers having a single envelope.

  MONOCLINOUS, stamens and pistils in the same flower.

  MONOCOTYLEDONOUS, having one cotyledon in the embryo.

  MONŒCIOUS, stamens and pistils in different flowers on the same
  plant.

  MONOPETALOUS, same as gamopetalous.

  MONOPHYLLOUS, same as gamophyllous.

  MONOSEPALOUS, having one sepal or division in the calyx. Same as
  gamosepalous.

  MONSTROSITY, an abnormal development; applied more especially to
  double flowers.

  MORPHOLOGY, the study of the forms which the different organs
  assume, and the laws that regulate their metamorphoses.

  MUCILAGE, a thick viscid fluid.

  MUCRO, a stiff point abruptly terminating an organ.

  MUCRONATE, having a mucro.

  MUCRONULATE, having a little hard point.

  MURICATE, covered with firm sharp points or excrescences.

  MURIFORM, like bricks in a wall; applied to cells.

  MYCELIUM, the cellular spawn of fungi.


  N

  NAKED, applied to seeds not contained in a true ovary; also to
  flowers without any floral envelopes.

  NAPIFORM, shaped like a turnip.

  NATURALIZED, originally introduced by artificial means, but
  become apparently wild.

  NAVICULAR, hollowed like a boat.

  NECTARY, any abnormal part of a flower. It ought to be restricted
  to organs secreting a honey-like matter, as in the Crown Imperial.

  NERVATION, same as Nevation.

  NERVES, the veins of leaves.

  NETTED, applied to reticulated nevation.

  NODDING, drooping.

  NODE, the part of a stem from which the leaf-bud proceeds.

  NODOSE, having swollen nodes or articulations.

  NUCLEUS, the body which gives origin to new cells; also applied
  to the central cellular portion of the ovule and seed.

  NUCULE, female part of fructification in the _Characeæ_.

  NUT, any dry one-celled indehiscent fruit with hard pericarp.


  O

  OBCORDATE, inversely heart-shaped, with the divisions of the
  heart at the opposite end from the stalk.

  OBLONG, about three-fourths as long as broad.

  OBOVATE, reversely ovate, the broad part of the egg being
  uppermost.

  OBSOLETE, imperfectly developed or abortive; applied to the calyx
  when it is in the form of a rim.

  OBTUSE, not pointed, with a rounded or blunt termination.

  OCHRACEOUS, clay or ochre color.

  OCHREA, the sheathing stipule of _Polygonaceæ_.

  OFFICINAL, sold in the shops.

  OLERACEOUS, used as an esculent pot-herb.

  OLIVACEOUS, having the color of olives.

  OOPHORIDIUM, organ, in Lycopodiaceæ containing large spores.

  OPAQUE, dull, not shining.

  OPERCULAR, covered with a lid.

  OPERCULUM, lid; applied to the separable part of the theca of
  mosses; also applied to the lid of certain seed-vessels.

  OPPOSITE, applied to leaves placed on opposite sides of the same
  stem at the same level.

  ORBICULAR, rounded leaf with petiole attached to the centre of it.

  ORGANOGRAPHY, the description of the organs of plants.

  ORTHOTROPAL, ovule with foramen opposite to the hilum; embryo
  with radicle next the hilum.

  OSMOSE, the force with which fluids pass through membranes in
  experiments on exosmose and endosmose.

  OVAL, elliptical, blunt at each end.

  OVARY, the part of the pistil which contains the ovules.

  OVATE, shaped like an egg; applied to the broader end of the egg
  next the petiole or axis.

  OVOID, egg-shaped.

  OVULE, the young seed contained in the ovary.


  P

  PALE, the part of the flower of grasses within the glume; also
  applied to the small scaly laminæ which occur in the receptacle
  of some _Compositæ_.

  PALÆPHYTOLOGY, the study of fossil plants.

  PALEACEOUS, chaffy, covered with small, erect, membraneous scales.

  PALMATE and PALMATIFID, applied to a leaf with radiating
  venation, divided into lobes to about the middle.

  PALMATIPARTITE, applied to a leaf with radiating venation, cut
  nearly to the base in a palmate manner.

  PANDURIFORM, shaped like a fiddle.

  PANICLE, inflorescence of grasses, consisting of spikelets on
  long peduncles coming off in a racemose manner.

  PANICULATE, forming a panicle.

  PAPILIONACEOUS, corolla composed of vexillum, two alæ, and
  carina, as in the pea.

  PAPILLOSE, covered with small nipple-like prominences.

  PAPPUS, the hairs at the summit of the ovary in _Compositæ_. They
  consist of the altered calycine limb. _Pappose_, provided with
  pappus.

  PARAPHYSES, filaments, sometimes articulated, occurring in the
  fructification of mosses and other cryptogams.

  PARASITE, attached to another plant, and deriving nourishment
  from it.

  PARENCHYMA, cellular tissue.

  PARIETAL, applied to placentas on the wall of the ovary.

  PARIPINNATE, a compound of pinnate leaf ending in two leaflets.

  PARTHENOGENESIS, production of perfect seed with embryo, without
  the application of pollen.

  PATENT, spreading widely.

  PATULUS, spreading less than when patent.

  PECTINATE, divided laterally into narrow segments like the teeth
  of a comb.

  PEDATE and PEDATIFID, a palmate leaf of three lobes, the lateral
  lobes bearing other equally large lobes on the edges next the
  middle lobe.

  PEDICEL, the stalk supporting a single flower.

  PEDUNCLE, the general flower-stalk or floral axis; sometimes it
  bears one flower, at other times it bears several sessile or
  pedicellate flowers.

  PELAGIC, growing in the ocean.

  PELLUCID, transparent.

  PELORIA, a name given to a teratological phenomenon, which
  consists in a flower that is usually irregular becoming regular;
  for instance, when _Linaria_, in place of one spur, produces five.

  PELTATE, shield-like, fixed to the stalk by a point within the
  margin; peltate hairs, attached to their middle.

  PENDULOUS, applied to ovules which are hung from the upper part
  of the ovary.

  PENICILLATE, resembling a camel’s-hair pencil.

  PENNI-NERVED, and PENNI-VEINED, the veins disposed like a
  feather, running from the middle of the leaf to the margin.

  PENTAMEROUS, composed of different whorls in five, or multiples
  of that number.

  PEPO, the fruit of the melon, cucumber, and other _Cucurbitaceæ_.

  PERENNIAL, living, or rather flowering, for several years.

  PERFOLIATE, a leaf with the lobes at the base, united on the side
  of the stem opposite the blade, so that the stalk appears to pass
  through the leaf.

  PERIANTH, a general name for the floral envelopes; applied in
  cases where there is only a calyx, or where the calyx and corolla
  are alike.

  PERICARP, the covering of the fruit.

  PERICHÆTIAL, applied to the leaves surrounding the fruit-stalk or
  seta of mosses.

  PERICLADIUM, the large sheathing petiole of _Umbelliferæ_.

  PERIDERM, a name applied to the outer layer of the barks.

  PERIDIUM, the envelope of the fructification in gasteromycetous
  fungi.

  PERIGONE, same as Perianth. Some restrict the term to cases in
  which the flower is female, or pistilliferous. It has also been
  applied to the involucre of _Jungermannieæ_.

  PERIGYNOUS, applied to the corolla and stamens when attached to
  the calyx.

  PERIGYNUM, applied to the pistil in the genus _Carex_.

  PERIPHERICAL, applied to an embryo curved so as to surround the
  albumen, following the inner part of the covering of the seed.

  PERISPERM, the albumen or nourishing matter stored up with the
  embryo in the seed.

  PERISTOME, the opening of the sporangium of mosses after the
  removal of the calyptra and operculum.

  PERITHECIUM, a conceptacle in cryptogams, containing spores, and
  having an opening at one end.

  PERSISTENT, not falling off, remaining attached to the axis until
  the part which bears it is matured.

  PERSONATE, a gamopetalous irregular corolla, having the lower lip
  pushed upward, so as to close the hiatus between the two lips.

  PERTUSE, having slits or holes.

  PERULÆ, the scales of the leaf-bud.

  PETALOID, like a petal.

  PETALS, the leaves forming the coralline whorl.

  PETIOLATE, having a stalk or petiole.

  PETIOLE, a leaf-stalk; _Petiolule_, the stalk of a leaflet in a
  compound leaf.

  PHÆNOGAMOUS, same as Phanerogamous.

  PHANEROGAMOUS, having conspicuous flowers.

  PHYCOLOGY, the study of _Algæ_, or sea-weeds.

  PHYLLARIES, the leaflets forming the involucre of composite
  flowers.

  PHYLLODIUM, the leaf-stalk, enlarged so as to have the appearance
  of a leaf.

  PHYLLOTAXIS, the arrangement of the leaves on the axis.

  PHYSIOGNOMY, general appearance, without reference to botanical
  characters.

  PHYSIOLOGY, vegetable, the study of the functions of plants.

  PHYTOLOGY, the study of plants; same as botany.

  PHYTOZOA, moving filaments in the antheridia of cryptogams.

  PILEATE, having a cup or lid like the cup of a mushroom.

  PILEORHIZA, a covering of the root, as in _Lemna_.

  PILEUS, the cap-like portion of the mushroom, bearing the
  hymenium on its under side.

  PILOSE, provided with hairs; applied to pappus composed of simple
  hairs.

  PINNA, the leaflet of a pinnate leaf.

  PINNATE, a compound leaf having leaflets arranged on each side of
  a central rib.

  PINNATIFID, a simple leaf cut into lateral segments to about the
  middle.

  PINNATIPARTITE, a simple leaf cut into lateral segments, the
  divisions extending nearly to the central rib.

  PINNULE, the small pinnæ of a bipinnate or tripinnate leaf.

  PISTIL, the female organ of the flower, composed of one or more
  carpels; each carpel being composed of ovary, style, and stigma.

  PISTILLATE and PISTILLIFEROUS, applied to a female flower or a
  female plant.

  PISTILLIDIUM, the female organ in cryptogams.

  PITCHERS, vessels of this form at the end of the leaves of
  _Nepenthes_, etc.

  PITH, same as Medulla.

  PLACENTA, the cellular part of the carpel, bearing the ovule.

  PLACENTATION, the formation and arrangement of the placentas.

  PLEURENCHYMA, woody tissue.

  PLEUROCARPI, mosses with the fructification proceeding laterally
  from the axils of the leaves.

  PLICATE, folded like a fan.

  PLUMOSE, feathery; applied to hairs having two longitudinal rows
  of minute cellular processes.

  PLUMULE, the first bud of the embryo, usually inclosed by the
  cotyledons.

  PLURILOCULAR, having many loculaments.

  PODETIUM, a stalk bearing the fructification in some lichens.

  PODOSPERM, the cord attaching the seed to the placenta.

  POLLARD-TREES, cut down so as to leave only the lower part of the
  trunk, which gives off numerous buds and branches.

  POLLEN, the powdery matter contained in the anther.

  POLLEN-TUBE, the tube emitted by the pollen grain after it is
  applied to the stigma.

  POLLINIA, masses of pollen found in orchids and asclepiads.

  POLYADELPHOUS, stamens united by their filaments so as to form
  more than two bundles.

  POLYANDROUS, stamens above twenty.

  POLYCARPIC, plants which flower and fruit many times in the
  course of their life.

  POLYCOTYLEDONOUS, an embryo having many cotyledons, as in firs.

  POLYGAMOUS, plants bearing hermaphrodite as well as male and
  female flowers.

  POLYMORPHOUS, assuming many shapes.

  POLYPETALOUS, a corolla composed of separate petals.

  POLYPHYLLOUS, a calyx or involucre composed of separate leaflets.

  POLYSEPALOUS, a calyx composed of separate sepals.

  POME, a fruit like the apple and pear.

  POROUS VESSELS, same as pitted or dotted vessels.

  POSTERIOR, applied to the part of the flower placed next the
  axis; same as Superior.

  POUCH, the short pod or silicle of some _Cruciferæ_.

  PREMORSE, bitten; applied to a root terminating abruptly, as if
  bitten off.

  PRICKLES, hardened epidermal appendages of a nature similar to
  hairs.

  PRIMINE, the outer coat of the ovule.

  PRIMORDIAL UTRICLE, the lining membrane of cells in their early
  state.

  PROCESS, any prominence or projecting part, or small lobe.

  PROCUMBENT, lying on the ground.

  PROEMBRYO, cellular body in an ovary, from which the embryo
  and its suspensor are formed. Sometimes Proembryo is used for
  Prothallus.

  PROLIFEROUS, bearing abnormal buds.

  PRONE, prostrate, lying flat on the earth.

  PROPAGULUM, an offshoot or germinating bud attached by a thickish
  stalk to the parent plant.

  PROSENCHYMA, fusiform tissue forming wood.

  PROTHALLIUM, or PROTHALLUS, names given to the first part
  produced by the spore of an acrogen in germinating.

  PROTOPLASM, the nitrogenous gelatinous matter in which the vital
  activity of cells resides.

  PSEUDO-BULB, the peculiar aerial stem of many epiphytic orchids.

  PUBESCENCE, short and soft hairs covering a surface.

  PULULATING, budding.

  PULVERULENT, covered with fine powdery matter.

  PULVINATE, shaped like a cushion or pillow.

  PULVINOUS, cellular swelling at the point where the leaf-stalk
  joins the axis.

  PUNCTATED, applied to the peculiar dotted woody fibres of
  _Coniferæ_.

  PUTAMEN, the hard endocarp of some fruits.

  PYCNIDES, cysts containing stylospores found in some lichens.

  PYXIS, a capsule opening by a lid.


  Q

  QUATENARY, composed of parts in fours.

  QUINARY, composed of parts in fives.

  QUINATE, five leaves coming off from one point.

  QUINCUNX, when the leaves in the bud are five, of which two are
  exterior, two interior, and the fifth covers the interior with
  one margin, and has its other margin covered by the exterior.
  _Quincuncial_, arranged in a quincunx.


  R

  RACE, a permanent variety.

  RACEME, an indefinite inflorescence, in which there is a primary
  axis bearing stalked flowers.

  RACEMOSE, flowering in racemes.

  RACHIS, the axis of inflorescence; also applied to the stalk of
  the frond in ferns, and to the common stalk bearing the alternate
  spikelets in some grasses.

  RADICAL, belonging to the root; applied to leaves close to the
  ground, clustered at the base of a flower-stalk.

  RADICLE, the young root of the embryo.

  RAMENTA, little brown withered scales with which the stems of
  some plants are covered.

  RAMIFICATIONS, subdivisions of roots or branches.

  RAPHE, the line which connects the hilum and the chalaza in
  anatropal ovules.

  RAPHIDES, crystals found in cells, which are hence called
  _Raphidian_.

  RECEPTACLE, the flattened end of the peduncle rachis, bearing
  numerous flowers in a head; applied also generally to the
  extremity of the peduncle or pedicel.

  RECLINATE, curved downward from the horizontal, bent back up.

  RECURVED, bent backward.

  REDUPLICATE, edges of the petals or sepals turned outward in
  æstivation.

  REGMA, seed-vessels composed of elastic cocci, as in _Euphorbia_.

  REGULAR, applied to an organ, the parts of which are of similar
  form and size.

  RELIQUIÆ, remains of withered leaves attached to the plant.

  RENIFORM, in shape like a kidney.

  REPAND, having a slightly undulated or sinuous margin.

  REPLUM, a longitudinal division in a pod formed by the placenta,
  as in _Cruciferæ_.

  RESUPINATE, inverted by a twisting of the stalk.

  RETICULATE, netted, applied to leaves having a network of
  anastomosing veins.

  RETINACULUM, the glandular viscid portion at the extremity of the
  caudicle in some Pollinia.

  RETRORSE, turned backward.

  RETUSE, when the extremity is broad, blunt, and slightly
  depressed.

  REVOLUTE, leaf with its edges rolled backward in vernation.

  RHIZOME, a stem creeping horizontally, more or less covered by
  the soil, giving off buds above and roots below.

  RHIZOTAXIS, the arrangement of the roots.

  RHOMBOID, quadrangular form, not square with equal sides.

  RIB, the projecting vein of a leaf.

  RINGENT, a labiate flower in which the upper lip is much arched.

  ROOT-STOCK, same as Rhizome.

  ROSETTE, leaves disposed in close circles forming a cluster.

  ROSTELLUM, a prolongation of the upper edge of the stigmas in
  orchids.

  ROSTRATE, beaked.

  ROTATE, a regular gamopetalous corolla, with a short tube, the
  limbs spreading out more or less at right angles.

  RUBEFACIENT, that which reddens the surface.

  RUDIMENTARY, an organ in an abortive state arrested in its
  development.

  RUFOUS, rust-red.

  RUGOSE, wrinkled.

  RUMINATE, applied to mottled albumen.

  RUNCINATE, a pinnatifid leaf with a triangular termination, and
  sharp divisions pointing downward, as in dandelion.

  RUNNERS, procumbent shoots which root at their extremity.

  RUSTY, rust-colored.


  S

  SAGITTATE, like an arrow; a leaf having two prolonged
  sharp-pointed lobes projecting downward beyond the insertion of
  the petiole.

  SAMARA, a winged dried fruit, as in the elm.

  SAPONACEOUS, soap-like.

  SARMENTOSE, yielding runners.

  SARMENTUM, sometimes meaning the same as Flagellum, or runner; at
  other times applied to a twining stem which supports itself by
  means of others.

  SCABROUS, rough, covered with very stiff short hair.

  SCALARIFORM, vessels having bars like a ladder, seen in ferns.

  SCALES, small processes resembling minute leaves.

  SCANDENT, climbing by means of supports, as on a wall or rock.

  SCAPE, a naked flower-stalk, bearing one or more flowers arising
  from a short axis, and usually with radical leaves at its base.

  SCARIOUS, or SCARIOSE, having the consistence of a dry scale,
  membraneous, dry, and shriveled.

  SCION, the young twig used as a graft.

  SCLEROGEN, the thickening matter of woody cells.

  SCORPIOIDAL, like the tail of a scorpion; a peculiar twisted
  cymose inflorescence, as in _Boraginaceæ_.

  SCURFY, applied to stems and leaves covered with loose scales.

  SECUND, turned to one side.

  SECUNDINE, the second coat of the ovule, within the primine.

  SEGMENTS, divisions.

  SEGREGATE, separated from each other.

  SEMINAL, applied to the cotyledons, or seed-leaves.

  SEPAL, one of the leaflets forming the calyx.

  SEPTATE, divided by septa or partitions.

  SEPTICIDAL, dehiscence of a seed-vessel through the septa or
  edges of the carpels.

  SEPTIFRAGAL, dehiscence of a seed-vessel through the back of the
  loculaments, the valves also separating from the septa.

  SEPTUM, a division in an ovary formed by the sides of the carpels.

  SERICEOUS, silky; covered with fine, close-pressed hairs.

  SERRATE, having sharp processes arranged like the teeth of a saw;
  _Biserrate_, when these are alternately large and small, or where
  the teeth are themselves serrated.

  SERRULATE, with very fine serratures.

  SESSILE, without a stalk, as a leaf without a petiole.

  SETA, a bristle or sharp hair; also applied to the gland-tipped
  hairs of _Rosaceæ_ and _Hieracium_, and to the stalk bearing the
  theca of mosses.

  SETACEOUS and SETIFORM, in the form of bristles.

  SETIFORM, bristle-shaped.

  SETOSE, covered with setæ and bristles.

  SHEATH, the lower part of the leaf surrounding the stem.

  SILICULA, a short pod with a double placenta and replum, as in
  some _Cruciferæ_.

  SILIQUA, a long pod, similar in construction to the silicle.

  SIMPLE, not branching, not divided into separate parts. Simple
  fruits are those formed by one flower.

  SINUOUS, with a wavy or flexuous margin.

  SINUS, the base or recesses formed by the lobes of leaves.

  SLASHED, divided by deep and very acute incisions.

  SOCIAL PLANTS, such as grow naturally in groups or masses.

  SOREDIA, powdery cells on the surface of the thallus of some
  lichens.

  SPADIX, a succulent spike bearing male and female flowers, as in
  _Arum_.

  SPATHE, large membraneous bract covering numerous flowers.

  SPAWN, same as Mycelium.

  SPECIFIC CHARACTER, the essential character of a species.

  SPERMAGONE, a microscopic conceptacle in lichens, containing
  reproductive bodies called spermatia; also a conceptacle
  containing fructification in fungi.

  SPERMATIA, motionless spermatozoids in the spermagones of lichens
  and fungi.

  SPERMODERM, the general covering of the seed, sometimes applied
  to the episperm or outer covering.

  SPHEROIDAL, nearly spherical.

  SPIKE, inflorescence consisting of numerous flowers sessile on an
  axis.

  SPINE, or THORN, an abortive branch with a hard, sharp point.

  SPIRAL VESSELS, having a spiral fibre coiled up inside a tube.

  SPONGIOLE, the cellular extremity of a young root.

  SPORANGIUM, a case containing spores.

  SPORE, a cellular germinating body in cryptogamic plants.

  SPORIDIUM, a cellular germinating body in cryptogamia, containing
  two or more cells in its interior.

  SPORULES, the small spores in cryptogamia.

  SQUAMIFORM, like scales.

  SQUAMOSE, covered with scales.

  SQUARROSE, covered with processes spreading at right angles, or
  in a greater degree.

  STAMEN, the male organ of the flower formed by a stalk or
  filament, and the anther containing pollen.

  STAMINATE, applied to a male flower, or to plants bearing male
  flowers.

  STAMINODIUM, an abortive stamen.

  STANDARD, same as Vexillum.

  STELLATE, like a star.

  STERIGMATA, cells bearing naked spores; also cellular filaments
  bearing spermata and stylospores in the spermogones and pycnides.

  STERILE, male flowers not bearing fruit.

  STICHIDIA, pod-like receptacles, containing spores.

  STIGMA, the upper cellular secreting portion of the pistil
  uncovered with epidermis.

  STIGMATIC, belonging to the stigma.

  STIPE, the stalk of fern fronds; the stalk bearing the pileus in
  Agarics.

  STIPEL, appendage at the base of a leaflet.

  STIPITATE, supported on a stalk.

  STIPULATE, furnished with stipules.

  STIPULE, appendage at the base of leaves.

  STOLON, a sucker at first aerial, and then rooting.

  STOLONIFEROUS, having creeping runners, which root at the joints.

  STOMATA, openings in the epidermis of plants, especially in the
  leaves.

  STOOL, a plant from which layers are propagated by bending down
  the branches so as to root in the soil.

  STRAP-SHAPED, same as Ligulate; linear, or about six times as
  long as broad.

  STRIATED, marked by streaks or striæ.

  STRIGOSE, covered with rough, strong, adpressed hairs.

  STROBILUS, a cone, applied to the fruit of firs, as well as to
  that of the hop.

  STROPHIOLE, a swelling on the surface of a seed.

  STRUMA, a cellular swelling at the point where a leaflet joins
  the midrib; also a swelling below the sporangium of mosses.

  STYLE, the stalk interposed between the ovary and the stigma.

  STYLOPOD, an epigynous disk seen at the base of the styles of
  _Umbelliferæ_.

  STYLOSPORE, a spore-like body, borne on a sterigma, or cellular
  stalk, in the pycnides of lichens.

  SUBEROUS, having a corky texture.

  SUBTERRANEAN, underground; same as Hypogeal.

  SUBULATE, shaped like a cobbler’s awl.

  SUCCULENT, soft and juicy.

  SUFFRUTICOSE, having the characters of an under-shrub.

  SULCATE, furrowed or grooved.

  SUPERIOR, applied to the ovary when free, or not adherent to the
  calyx; to the calyx, when it is adherent to the ovary; to the
  part of a flower placed next the axis.

  SUPERNATANT, floating on the surface.

  SUPRA-DECOMPOUND, doubly compounded.

  SUSPENDED, applied to an ovule which hangs from a point a little
  below the apex of the ovary.

  SUSPENSOR, the cord which suspends the embryo, and is attached to
  the radicle in the young state.

  SUTURAL, applied to that kind of dehiscence which takes place at
  the sutures of the fruit.

  SUTURE, the part where separate organs unite, or where the edges
  of a folded organ adhere; the ventral suture of the ovary is that
  next the centre of the flower; the dorsal suture corresponds with
  the midrib.

  SYMMETRY, applied to the flower, has reference to the parts being
  of the same number, or multiples of each other.

  SYNANTHEROUS, anthers united together.

  SYNCARPOUS, carpels united so as to form one ovary or pistil.

  SYNGENESIOUS, same as Synantherous.


  T

  TAP-ROOT, root descending deeply in a tapering, undivided manner.

  TEGMEN, the second covering of the seed; called also Endopleura.

  TEGMENTA, scales protecting buds.

  TENDRILS, curling, twining organs, with which plants grasp
  supports.

  TERATOLOGY, study of monstrosities and morphological changes.

  TERCINE, the third coat of the ovule, forming the covering of the
  central nucleus.

  TERETE, nearly cylindrical.

  TERMINAL, at the top or end.

  TERNARY, parts arranged in threes.

  TERNATE, compound leaves composed of three leaflets.

  TESTA, the outer covering of the seed; some apply it to the
  coverings taken collectively.

  TETRADYNAMOUS, four long stamens and two short, as in _Cruciferæ_.

  TETRAGONOUS, having four angles.

  TETRAMEROUS; a flower is tetramerous when its envelopes are in
  fours.

  TETRASPORE, a germinating body in Algæ, composed of spore-like
  cells, but also applied to those of three cells.

  THALAMIFLORAL, parts of the floral envelope inserted separately
  into the receptacle of the thalamus.

  THALAMUS, the receptacle of the flower, or the part of the
  peduncle into which the floral organs are inserted.

  THALLOGENS, or THALLOPHYTES, plants producing a thallus.

  THALLUS, cellular expansion in lichens and other cryptogams,
  bearing the fructification.

  THECA, sporangium or spore-case, containing spores.

  THROAT, the orifice of a gamopetalous corolla.

  THYRSUS, a sort of panicle, in form like a bunch of grapes, the
  inflorescence being mixed.

  TIGELLUS, the young embryonic axis.

  TOMENTOSE, covered with cottony, entangled pubescence, called
  tomentum.

  TOMENTUM, dense, close hair.

  TOOTHED, dentated.

  TORUS, another name for Thalamus; sometimes applied to a
  much-developed thalamus, as in _Nelumbium_.

  TRANSPIRATION, the exhalation of fluids by leaves, etc.

  TRIADELPHOUS, stamens united in three bundles by their filaments.

  TRIANGULAR, having three angles, the faces being flat.

  TRICHOTOMOUS, divided successively into three branches.

  TRIFOLIATE, or TRIFOLIOLATE, same as Ternate. When the three
  leaves come off at one point the leaf is _ternately trifoliate_;
  when there are a terminal stalked leaflet and two lateral ones,
  it is _pinnately trifoliate_.

  TRIGONOUS, having three angles, the faces being convex.

  TRIMEROUS; a trimerous flower has its envelopes in three or
  multiples of three.

  TRIPARTITE, deeply divided into three.

  TRIPINNATE, a compound leaf three times divided in a pinnate
  manner.

  TRIPINNATIFID, a pinnatifid leaf with the segments twice divided
  in a pinnatifid manner.

  TRIQUETROUS, having three angles, the faces being concave.

  TRITERNATE, three times divided in a ternate manner.

  TRUNCATE, terminating abruptly, as if cut off at the end.

  TRYMA, drupaceous fruit like the walnut.

  TUBER, a thickened underground stem, as the potato.

  TUBERCLE, the swollen root of some terrestrial orchids.

  TUBERCULATE, covered with knobs or tubercles.

  TUBEROUS, applied to roots in the form of tubercles.

  TUBULAR, bell-shaped; applied to a campanulate corolla, which is
  somewhat tubular in its form.

  TUMID, swelling.

  TUNIC, a coat or envelope.

  TUNICATED, applied to a bulb covered by thin external scales, as
  the onion.

  TURBINATE, in the form of a top.

  TURGID, swollen.

  TYPICAL, applied to a specimen which has eminently the
  characteristics of the species, or to a species or genus
  characteristic of an order.


  U

  UMBEL, inflorescence in which numerous stalked flowers arise from
  one point.

  UMBELLULE, a small umbel, seen in the compound umbellate flowers
  of many _Umbelliferæ_.

  UMBILICATE, fixed to a stalk by a point in the centre.

  UMBILICUS, the hilum or base of a seed.

  UNARMED, without prickles or spines.

  UNCINATE, provided with an uncus, or hooked process.

  UNCTUOUS, oily.

  UNDULATE, waved.

  UNGUICULATE, furnished with a short unguis.

  UNGUIS, claw, the narrow part of a petal; such a petal is called
  _Unguiculate_.

  UNICELLULAR, composed of a single cell, as some Algæ.

  UNILATERAL, arranged on one side, or turned to one side.

  UNISEXUAL, of a single sex; applied to plants having separate
  male and female flowers.

  URGEOLATE, urn-shaped; applied to a gamopetalous globular corolla
  with a narrow opening.


  V

  VALVATE, opening by valves, like the parts of certain
  seed-vessels, which separate at the edges of the carpels.

  VALVATE ÆSTIVATION and VERNATION, when leaves in the flower-bud
  and leaf-bud are applied to each other by the margins only.

  VALVES, the portions which separate in some dehiscent capsules.

  VASCULAR TISSUE, composed of vessels.

  VEINS, fibro-vascular skeleton of leaves.

  VELUM, veil; the cellular covering of the gills of an Agaric in
  its early state.

  VENATION, the arrangement of the veins.

  VENTRAL, applied to the part of the carpel which is next the axis.

  VERNATION, the arrangement of the leaves in the bud.

  VERRUCOSE, covered with wart-like excrescences.

  VERSATILE, applied to an anther which is attached by one point of
  its back to the filament, and hence is very easily turned about.

  VERTEX, the uppermost point.

  VERTICAL, perpendicular.

  VERTICIL, a whorl; parts arranged opposite to each other at the
  same level, or, in other words, in a circle round an axis. The
  parts are said to be _Verticillate_.

  VERTICILLASTER, a false whorl, formed of two nearly sessile
  cymes, placed in the axils of opposite leaves, as in dead nettles.

  VESICLE, another name for a cell or utricle.

  VEXILLARY, applied to æstivation when the vexillum is folded over
  the other parts of the flower.

  VEXILLUM, standard, the upper or posterior petal of a
  papilionaceous flower.

  VILLOUS, covered with long soft hairs, and having a wooly
  appearance.

  VIRESCENT, green.

  VIRGATE, long and straight, like a wand.

  VISCOUS, or VISCID, clammy, like bird-lime.

  VITELLUS, the embryo-sac when persistent in the seed.

  VITTÆ, cells or clavate tubes containing oil in the pericarp of
  _Umbelliferæ_.

  VIVIPAROUS, plants producing leaf-buds instead of fruit.

  VOLUBILE, twining; a stem or tendril twining round other plants.

  VOLVA, wrapper; the organ which incloses the parts of
  fructification in some fungi in their young state.

  VULNERARY, having a healing power.


  W

  WATTLED, having processes like the wattles of a cock.

  WHORLED, same as Verticillate.

  WINGS, the two lateral petals of a papilionaceous flower, or the
  broad flat edge of any organ.


  X

  XANTHOPHYLL, yellow coloring matter in plants.


  Z

  ZONES, stripes or belts.

  ZOOSPORE, a moving spore provided with cilia, called also
  Zoosperm and Sporozoid.


END OF VOLUME THREE




FOOTNOTES:

[1] In the Eocene of Australia.

[2] The writer has shown that much of the material of the great
lignite beds of the Canadian Northwest consists of wood of _Sequoia_
of both the modern types.

[3] This famous tree was blown down by a storm in 1868. It was
believed to have been five or six thousand years old.--E. S.

[4] Asplenium Ruta muraria.

[5] I need hardly observe that, botanically, these are not true
seeds, but rather motile buds.

[6] Some two out of one hundred and fifty species of Solanum are
useful to man.

[7] Silk-plant, Stipa pennata.

[8] Isabel color is a pale yellow, or buff, the shade of old linen,
and received its name from Isabel of Austria, daughter of Philip II
of Spain, who at the siege of Ostende, made the singular vow not
to change her linen until that town fell into her hands. The siege
lasted over three years.--E. S.




  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

  Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
  corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
  the text and consultation of external sources.

  Some hyphens in words have been silently removed, some added,
  when a predominant preference was found in the original book.

  Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
  and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.

  Pg 913: ‘sucessfully cultivated’ replaced by ‘successfully cultivated’.
  Pg 932: ‘in in this zone’ replaced by ‘in this zone’.
  Pg 954: ‘aborescent grasses’ replaced by ‘arborescent grasses’.
  Pg 1105: ‘of Delphinum’ replaced by ‘of Delphinium’.
  Pg 1180: ‘the Mauritus palm’ replaced by ‘the Mauritius palm’.
  Pg 1233: ‘in differnt parts’ replaced by ‘in different parts’.
  Pg 1236: ‘slivery leaves’ replaced by ‘silvery leaves’.
  Pg 1272: ‘hav- a terminal’ replaced by ‘having a terminal’.
  Pg 1276: ‘sepals or p tals’ replaced by ‘sepals or petals’.
  Pg 1277: ‘which anastomose’ replaced by ‘which is anastomose’.
  Pg 1280: ‘Peoliferous’ replaced by ‘Proliferous’.
  Pg 1282: ‘adpresse  hairs’ replaced by ‘adpressed hairs’.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 77827 ***