Chapter II: What May Be Seen Upon the Earth (2)

Unquestionably, it is only too true that the cultivated ground, whether on the northern or the southern slope of the forest, is infested, from the beginning of summer to the beginning of winter, by Lilliputian horrors, like so many tiny red points, which cling obstinately to the skin, and there deposit, under the epidermis, their microscopic brood. Once planted there, the _rougets_, as the French call them, or _harvest bugs_, as we English call them, effect considerable mischief; and if, to relieve one's self, one indulges in "a scratch," the cutaneous surface is quickly covered by small blisters, which on a cursory examination might be taken for a skin affection not generally named in polite hearing.

But one does not perceive the galleries excavated by these annoying insects, positive tunnels or covered ways, through which they proceed to pour forth elsewhere the superfluity of their numerous progeny. Less prolific than the _Acari_, which create upon the skin immense patches of irritation, the harvest bugs confine themselves to a few circumscribed localities: their favourite choice being the legs, the arms, and the corners of the eyes, especially among young children. They are not above domestic animals; cats and dogs frequently suffer from them,--not, indeed, over the whole surface of the body, for they are not so wandering as the _Acari_,--but particularly inside the shell of the ear.

At the first glance you would scarcely believe that those red points, apparently immovable, could be living beings,--could be animals belonging to an order of some importance.

* * * * *

Let us attempt to isolate one of the animalcules with the point of a pin: it is not an easy thing to do, because they usually adhere to the epidermis in clusters of three or four individuals. There, now we have succeeded, and here is one before us: it is only the fifth of a millimètre in diameter, which is, for most people, the very last limit of the visual function (see the small white line in Fig. 76, _a_). And, in truth, it _would_ be imperceptible to the eye but for its bright red colour. To study it carefully, of course, you must make use of a very strong lens, or, rather, of a microscope. (See Fig. 76, _b_.)

To this tiny animal has been given the name of _Leptus autumnalis_; the first, on account of its extreme delicacy; the second, because it is visible up to the end of autumn.

When examined through a microscope, it produces on the spectator the impression of a spider; but, like all other insects, it has only six legs.

Our naturalists, however, have found some difficulty in classifying it; and by way of cutting the Gordian knot of their embarrassments, some have placed it in a separate family of _Microphthiræ_ (literally "little lice"), which is made to include all Arachnidæ with six legs. Others, who regard the wheat worm as an insect, rank it among the parasitical Apteræ.

In effect, it has all the characters of the parasitical insect--its protracted head, distinct from the rest of its body, is sometimes thrust forward in quest of its food, sometimes drawn back or concealed, to protect it from danger. Intended to suck rather than to knead or bruise, it has a sucker, but no mandibles. The head is without antennæ, and its palpi are very short, barely visible, and of a conical form. The body is ovular and very soft (whence the Grecian name _leptus_, λεπτός, signifying "soft"). The anterior part, corresponding to the thorax, is broader than it is long, and is marked underneath, on each side of the central line, by a black point: these two points, symmetrically placed, appear to represent the eyes.

The posterior portion, corresponding to the abdomen, is longer than it is broad, and covered with hairs. Each leg consists of six joints, easily distinguished by the hairs inserted at each articulation; and each terminates in a couple of strong crooked _claws_, which enable the animal to obtain a firm hold on the skin.

* * * * *

Thus, then, to judge from the aggregate of its characters, the harvest bug, _Leptus autumnalis_, belongs to the class Arachnidæ, while the number of its feet places it in the class Insects. But this is a detail which causes little annoyance to a person being devoured by the "red beasts," and only anxious to rid himself of them.

But if such be his desire, let me tell him that the best remedies are bathing the afflicted part with lotions of vinegar, or rubbing it with sulphur ointment.

I have been asked whether certain tiny parasites, such as the _Ocypete rubra_,--which is also red, and has six feet like the _Leptus autumnalis_, but which, instead of attacking man and his domestic companions, attaches itself to flies,--I have been asked whether these insectiform Arachnidæ may not be species of larva not yet arrived at their matured condition.

For my part, I must acknowledge that, whether the _Ocypete rubra_ is or is not the transitory state of a more perfect animal, I do not know. But I am sure that the _Leptus autumnalis_ lives and dies on the skin where it has selected its dwelling-place,--a _living_ dwelling-place.

* * * * *

It is impossible to be too circumspect in the determination of certain genera and species, whose different phases of existence are little known, and which seem, so far as their characteristics are concerned, to participate of several orders or classes of articulated animals. The errors which have been committed in this respect ought at least to teach us caution.

Thus, the red, oval, six-legged animalcules, whose mobile heads are furnished with a proboscis shaped like an angular beak, and whose two palpi are large and semi-transparent,--the singular animalcules which, in June or July, are hatched in the spongy stems of certain aquatic vegetables,--notably the _Potamogeton natans_,--have been described[83] as forming a peculiar genus of Arachnidæ, the genus _Achlysia_; and this genus, created by Audouin, was ranked along with the _Leptus_ and _Ocypete_ in the family of Microphthiræ. Yet nothing is less exact. These Achlysia are simply the larvæ of a kind of _Hydrachna_ or water-acarus. To be convinced of this, you have but to watch their development. At first very small and pear-shaped, these larvæ, deprived, like all larvæ, of the reproductive organs, rapidly increase in size. At the end of a few weeks you will see them adhering to a leaf of potamogeton; they thrust their proboscis into the stem, and cling to it with their palpi. Little by little, the legs, the proboscis, and the palpi, are drawn back towards the body, abandoning the skin which has hitherto formed for each of these organs a kind of horny sheath. From the larva state, the animal passes into that of the nymph. But this nymph continues to feed and enlarge; proboscis, legs, and palpi grow thinner and harder; claws, ciliæ, and hairs are developed; and, finally, through a fissure in the skin emerges the perfect animal, red as wine, with eight feet, and about two millimetres in length. This animal, placed in the family of the _Hydrachnellæ_, has been described by De Geer under the name of _Acarus aquaticus globosus_, and by Dugès under that of _Hydrachna globosa_, on account of its globular form.

THE CHEESE MITE.

From the crust of a dry old cheese,--such a kind of cheese as a _bon-vivant_ likes with a glass of "good old ale,"--a very fine powder often crumbles off, like the dust made by wood-eating worms.

Examine this powder with your lens, or if you have good eyes, you may make use of _them_. You will quickly detect something moving in it, and by degrees you will see that this movement pervades the whole mass; that there is a general stir and commotion in all directions.

But you find it impossible to distinguish clearly the form of the animals which are thus agitated. You are certain, however, that they are not maggots, for _they_ affect moist cheeses; besides, they are visible enough to everybody, and at need can make themselves _felt_ upon your hands, and even upon your face, for they have a faculty of launching themselves to a distance by a little manœuvre familiar enough to serpents: bringing the head round towards the tail, they curve themselves like the spring of a watch, then abruptly uncoiling themselves with the help of some solid _appui_, they fling forth into the air, and are thus launched to very considerable distances. It is a curious species of locomotion, not unworthy the attention of the mechanician.

To clear up the mystery of a movement whose cause is not apparent at the first glance, let us sprinkle with this impalpable débris,--with this kind of sawdust, or _cheese_-dust,--a little strip of glass, and place it beneath the focus of a microscope.

Ah! you exclaim, what a frightful creature! These long sharp ciliæ seem to be so many lancets covering the whole body, and especially the legs; its head, like that of the harvest-bug, protrudes and recedes under a transparent carapace; thus communicating to the animal something of the aspect of a turtle. In all other respects its form exactly resembles the harvest-bug; only its body is more elongated towards the anterior extremity than that of the latter. While the harvest-bug makes us think of a spider, the body of the Acarus has a greater likeness to an insect's. (Fig. 77.) Yet the Acarus has eight legs, like a spider, and the harvest-bug six, like an insect. Attempt, then, to establish your absolute rules!

Let us continue our observation of this cheese-worm. The well-defined thorax forms nearly one-third of the fore-part of the body, which is of a shining whitish-red or reddish-white. The proboscis, shaped like a conical tube, is armed with two projecting mandibles, which, like true pincers, can be brought close together, or moved wide apart, thrust forward singly or simultaneously. Our animal, which a small lens makes very distinct, has been more than once confounded with the _Sarcoptes scabiei_.

Let us resume. Our cheese-dust, which to all appearance walks alone, encloses legions of mites; the old you may detect by their eight feet, the young by having six. The germs, or eggs, whence they spring, are found mixed among the excrements of the living, and the débris of the dead.

It is in this way that a crust of cheese offers us a true, a vivid image of the terrestrial crust. So may we learn to compare small things with great.

HOW MANY ANIMAL SPECIES ARE THERE DISTRIBUTED OVER THE SURFACE OF THE GLOBE?

In the present condition of scientific knowledge, no satisfactory answer can be given to this important and most interesting question.

The truth is, that what we may call Geographical Zoology is as yet in its very infancy. The few works which have been published on the subject have been published within the last eighty or ninety years; and they embrace only the vertebrate animals, notably the mammals, birds, and reptiles, or amphibia. We shall attempt to place before the reader an outline of the results that have so far been obtained.

* * * * *

Of all the Vertebrata, we are best acquainted with the mammals. And yet our zoologists differ very widely in respect to the number of their species, though the calculations have been made at very short intervals. For instance, in 1829, Minding computed that the globe contained 1230 species of mammals. In 1832, Charles Bonaparte reduced the total to 1149. Oken estimates it at 1500; and this last figure would seem to be the most probable.

Nothing is more curious than the distribution of these 1500 species of mammals, according to the different regions and climates of the globe.

Man, according to the best-considered data of science, forms a single family, a single genus, a single species. He alone possesses the power of adapting himself to every climate, and of taking possession of countries the most widely opposite in character. We find him among the snows of the North Pole; we find him under the blazing sun of the Tropics. We find him in the palm-fringed islands of Southern Seas, and in the barren burning waste of the inhospitable Sahara. Considered as an animal who feeds and reproduces himself, he forms alone the order of _Bimana_; so named in opposition to the _Quadrumana_, or apes, who make use of their fore-feet as we do of our two hands. Deprive man of his progressive and transmissible intellect--of those mysterious powers which we call the mind and the soul--and he would become at once the most useless and the most wretched member of the animal world.

The warm regions of the old and new continents are the true home and haunt of the apes. They are not sufficiently developed to be able to frequent the temperate or frigid zone. In our European menageries the specimens nearly all die of consumption. The Quadrumana form about one-fourteenth of the whole number of species of Mammalia.

The _Carnivora_, characterised by the development of their canine
teeth, are spread over the whole globe. They are found in greater
numbers in the torrid, however, than in the frigid zone. Their
species compose at least one-third of the Mammalia.

The _Rodentia_, characterised by the development of the incisors,
are wanting in Polynesia, and are rare in Australia. They are
found in their maximum number in the torrid zone. Like the
Carnivora, they form about one-third of the Mammalia.

The _Ruminantia_, remarkable for the development of their
digestive apparatus, are distributed into 165 species,
representing something less than one-ninth of the Mammalia.
Africa, of all the continents, is richest in the Ruminants.

The _Marsupialia_, so strangely distinguished by the membranous
pouch in which they enclose their young, belong to America, and
especially Australia. At present about 123 species are known, or
a little more than one-thirteenth of the Mammalia.

The _Edentata_, so named on account of their incomplete
dentition, inhabit the tropical regions of the Old and New
World. They are distributed into 32 species, 19 of which belong
to America. The Edentata, therefore, do not form more than
one-fiftieth of the Mammalia.

The _Pachydermata_, which owe their name to the thickness of
their skin or hide, almost exclusively belong to the Old World.
None are found in Australia. The number of their species is 38,
of which 5 only belong to Southern and Central America. The
Pachyderms form, therefore, nearly one-thirty-seventh of the
Mammalia.

The _Cetaceæ_,--which the naturalists of antiquity ranked among
the fishes, though the females bear their young alive, and
are furnished with a mammary apparatus,--chiefly frequent the
Northern waters, but some of their species are found in the South
Pacific. They represent, it may be assumed, about a one-hundredth
part of the Mammalia.

The _Birds_, by their feather-clad bodies, and by the
transformation of their two fore-limbs into wings, form the
best-characterised class in the whole animal kingdom. But
naturalists can no more agree as to the number of their species
than as to the number of species composing the Mammalia. Some,
taking as a foundation the rich ornithological collection in the
Berlin Museum, allow for 6000 species being distributed over the
surface of the globe; others, like Lessen, increase the total to
6266; while Dr Gray, no mean authority, raises it to at least
8000.

The majority of the _Raptores_, or birds of prey (vulture, falcon, eagle), as well as nearly all the _Waders_ (stork, crane, heron), and _Palmipedes_ (duck, goose, water-hen), are cosmopolitan birds. The other orders, such as the _Scansores_ (parrot, parroquet, magpie), the _Passeres_ (comprising nearly all the singing birds), and the _Gallinaceæ_ (pheasant, pintado), prefer, as a general rule, the warm temperate regions. They are not found in the extreme north, nor in the equatorial climes, except in limited numbers.

SUMMARY OF THE MAMMALIA.

_Assumed total, 1600 species._

Bimana form 1 species.
Quadrumana " 105 (?) "
Carnivora " 510 (?) "
Rodentia " 508 (?) "
Ruminantia " 165 "
Marsupialia " 123 "
Edentata " 152 "
Pachydermata " 38 "
Cetaceæ " 18 (?) "
----
1600

[Of course, the foregoing is but an approximative estimate, but it will provide the reader with a tolerably accurate notion of the proportion borne by the different classes of Mammalia.]

* * * * *

About 5000 species of birds have been classified. By Cuvier's system they are divided into six orders:--

1. _Raptores_, or birds of prey.

2. _Passerine birds_, now generally called _Insessores_, or
Perching-birds.

3. _Scansores_, or Climbing, frequently called _Zygodactyli_ or
_Zygodactylous_ birds.

4. _Gallinaceæ_, now more frequently known as _Rasores_.

5. _Grallatores_, Waders, or Stilt birds.

6. _Palmipedes_, or Web-footed birds, now more generally
recognised as _Natatores_, or Swimmers.

It has been proposed to separate the _Brevipennes_, or short-winged birds, from the Grallatores, and erect them into a separate order.

* * * * *

The _Reptiles_, of which the majority possess the faculty of living upon land and in water,--whence their name of Amphibia,--never pass beyond the limits of warm and temperate climates: their blood, which has the same temperature as the medium wherein they live--whence their name of "cold-blooded animals"--does not circulate where the mean annual temperature descends below freezing-point. Yet frogs and salamanders have been met with in Greenland, and on the banks of the Mackenzie River, in North America, under 67° latitude.

* * * * *

Linnæus was not acquainted with more than 215 species of _Amphibia_, divided into four orders:--the Chelonians, or tortoises; the Saurians (as the lizard and crocodile); the Ophidians (serpents); and the Batrachians (frogs). In 1789, Lacépède raised the total to 303; in 1820, Merrem estimated it at 677. At present, the number of species of Reptilia classified and described amounts to 2000, and the four orders into which they are distributed are--

1. _Ophidia_, or Serpents.
2. _Sauria_, or Lizards.
3. _Loricata_, or Crocodiles.
4. _Chelonia_, or Tortoises.

According to Sching, there are 7 tortoises, 33 serpents, and 35 lizards.

* * * * *

_Fishes_ are the least known of those superior animals whose skeleton and vertebral column are situated in the interior of the body, and which are thence named _Vertebrata_. The richest collections, such as those of the British Museum, and those of the Museum of Natural History in Paris, which contain about 3000 species, do not represent probably more than a fourth of the existing total, including fresh-water and salt-water fish. How many rivers and streams in both hemispheres still remain to be explored! How far we are from a knowledge of the fishes which people the different strata of the great ocean.

Agassiz divides this great class of vertebrated animals into the four orders of _Cycloid, Ctenoid, Placoid, and Ganoid_, according to the character of their scales. Cuvier, into _Osseous_ fishes (with true bones), and _Cartilaginous_; subdividing the former into _Acanthopterygii_ and _Malacopterygii_.

* * * * *

The difficulty of the problem we are here considering increases when we come to the inferior animals. Who would pretend to determine the number of species of _Mollusca_ which inhabit the earth, the fresh waters and the salt? This much is certain, that it cannot be less than that of the Vertebrates.

* * * * *

In the vast aggregate of the _Articulata_, the inquirer finds himself utterly astray and bewildered. This great division is not divided into those which have, and those which have not, articulated members.

The first subdivision includes _Insects_, _Arachnida_, _Crustacea_, and _Myriapoda_; the second, _Annelida_ and _Entozoa_.

Some naturalists, be it said, rank the _Cirrhopoda_ as intermediate between the two; others place them among the Mollusca. Others, again, include the _Rotifera_ in the second subdivision.

We shall in this place confine our remarks to the _Insects_. According to the most distinguished entomologists, the average number of species at present, described or not described, and preserved in entomological collections, is between 150,000 and 170,000.

This estimate is obviously below the truth. Take only the Coleoptera, which forms but one, though, it is true, the most numerous order of insects. Thirty years ago the most complete collections contained about 7000 species. In 1850, the museum at Berlin, according to Alexander von Humboldt, contained nearly 32,000. We would here call the reader's attention to the just remarks of the author of the "Natural History of the Coleoptera," an entomologist of great authority, whom a long residence in America had peculiarly qualified to pronounce an opinion on the subject before us:--

"If we remember," says the Count de Castelnau, "that there are immense regions in Asia and the two Americas of which we do not possess a single coleoptera; if we reflect that the interior of the vast continent of New Holland is, from this standpoint, entirely unknown, and that most of the archipelagoes of the great ocean have never been entomologically explored, we may conclude, without any fear of mistake, that the number of existing coleopteras exceeds _one hundred thousand_. However frightful this number may appear, it will seem less so if we examine only the species discovered in the neighbourhood of Paris, within a radius of twelve to fifteen leagues; and we do not hesitate to say, that in a few years the Parisian fauna alone will present material for a considerable work, which shall not treat of less than 3000 to 4000 species of Coleoptera."[84]

* * * * *

If we admit that the other orders of insects, the Lepidoptera, the Hemiptera, the Hymenoptera, the Neuroptera, the Orthoptera, the Diptera, the Strepsiptera, comprise, taken altogether, at least the same number of species as the Coleoptera alone, we shall gain, for the class of insects, a total of 200,000. And we shall certainly keep within the truth if we assign the same number of species to the Annelida, the Crustacea, the Arachnida, the Myriapoda, and the Monomorpha, to which, with some modification, we may apply the remarks already called forth by the Coleoptera.

Let us recapitulate. The four classes of _Vertebrate Animals_ include approximatively:--

1,600 species Mammals.
5,000 " Birds.
2,000 " Reptiles.
12,000 " Fishes.
------
20,600

If we add to these 20,600 species of Vertebrate Animals, 200,000 species of Articulata, and 22,000 Mollusca (a minimum), we shall have a total of 242,600.

But to complete the grand whole of beings "who grow, and live, and feel" (the definition of animals laid down by Linnæus), we must add the Intestinal Worms, the Echinodermata, the Acalephæ (or Sea-nettles), and the Polypes. The history of these singular creatures, which apparently form the transition between the animal and vegetable kingdom, and have thence been designated _Zoophytes_, leaves much, very much, to be desired before it will be possible to indicate, even approximatively, the number of their species.

* * * * *

And, finally, what shall we say of the Infusoria? These microscopic forms of life seem, by their extreme multiplicity, to animate all nature. It is in studying these that the inquirer needs to be constantly on his guard, that he may not mistake transitory conditions--or larvæ--for actual species, and it behoves him to understand thoroughly the difficult delimitation of specific characters. It would be far easier to ascertain the exact number of human beings who at present people the terrestrial surface, than to fix the total of the species of Infusoria now in existence; assuredly it exceeds 250,000. What an infinite variety of design is here! What a picture it presents of the inexhaustibility of the Creative Mind!

* * * * *

Add, then,--let us say, in conclusion,--to this last great total the aggregate of the Vertebrates, the Articulates, and the Molluscs, and for our grand whole we have a minimum of _half a million_ of ANIMAL SPECIES! This is the very figure, observe, at which we arrived as representing the lowest limit of the totality of VEGETABLE SPECIES, living and moving, flourishing, and dying, and reproducing, on the surface of the globe.

We leave the reader to meditate--as meditate he surely must--on the sublime thoughts, the overpowering ideas of Power and Wisdom which these considerations suggest.

WHAT IS CHLOROPHYLL?

We are drawing towards the close of autumn; we shall soon be in sight of the "melancholy days of the year;" when, for a while, the "voice of the turtle" will cease in the leafless groves, and the banks and braes will be sadly bare of their floral garniture. As yet, however, the trees retain their glorious vesture, though streaked and varied with the gorgeous colours of decay; and in the sheltered corners of the woods, on the sunny southern slope of the grassy hill, and beneath the covert of the still fragrant hedgerow, many a blossom appeals to our souls with its promptings of sweet images and tender fancies. The arum still raises its clusters of deep-scarlet berries, and spreads its spotted leaf--

"Armed with keen tortures for the unwary tongue;"

the blue-bells hang their delicate cups among the thick herbage; and the wild marigold contrasts its yellow splendour with all this crimson and azure magnificence. The daisy, too, has not forsaken us--sweet shield of silver, embossed with gold!--but brightens still the pleasant meadow and the sloping bank.

"The rose has but a summer reign,
The daisy never dies;"

and though it first makes its appearance in the merry spring-time, and is truly a child of the early year, it lingers on to become a precious ornament of our scanty autumn wreaths. Sweet flower of song!--dearer to the poet than even lily or violet!--who does not remember, and remembering feel, all the pathos of the dying exclamation of poor Keats,--"I feel the daisies already growing over me!" They heighten the commonest and cheer the saddest corners of the earth, and are ever ready, in their simple loveliness, to awaken thoughts of grateful tenderness and love--

"So glad am I when in the daisy's presence,
That I am fain to do it reverence."

To what do the leaves, now changing their hues so rapidly, and varying through all the tints of purple, brown, and yellow,--to what do they owe their normal colour, the fresh, vivid, beautiful green?

To a substance called _chlorophyll_--(χλωρὸς, green, and φυλλον, a leaf).

Well, what _is_ chlorophyll?

The colouring matter of plants, which, accompanied by grains of starch, floats like very minute seeds in the fluid of their cells. In some respects it is analogous to wax; it will not dissolve in water, but is easily affected by ether or alcohol.

Chlorophyll is dependent upon the action of light, if not for its formation, at all events for its development. Keep a plant in a dark room or cellar, and it will become blanched and sickly; the colouring matter dries up, and the white, wan tissue of the leaf is all that survives. The more a plant is exposed to the light, the deeper will be its green. In a shrubbery you may notice that the brown leaves of any particular ever-green or bush, if so situated as to lose the direct action of the sun's rays, will soon change colour. Instead of their natural brightness of tint, they assume a sickly greenish-yellow hue, and are said to be suffering from _chlorosis_. The formation of the chlorophyll is obstructed, or takes place too slowly. Of course, this peculiar condition will frequently arise from bad soil, or a long continuance of damp weather; but it is also the result of a want of light.

It should be observed that young leaves are always of a lighter green than old; simply because the latter have been exposed for a longer time to the light. And so the leaf goes on deepening and deepening in colour, until the sad days of autumn come, and the green gives way to yellow and brown and red, owing to the influence of the changing season on the chlorophyll of the plant.

In reference to this interesting subject,--which deserves to be more closely investigated,--we may place before the reader the results of certain recent experiments.[85]

MM. Prillieux, Brongniart, and Roze (_Comptes Rendus_, Jan. 3 and 17) have made some important observations on the apparently spontaneous movements of the grains of chlorophyll within the leaves of plants. These had been observed by Böhm to congregate under the direct action of the sun; Famitzin, confirmed by Borodine, had also recorded very marked movements in the leaves of a moss under the influence of light. This class of plants offer great facilities for these observations, inasmuch as the movements can be observed in them under the microscope without dissection. M. Prillieux kept a moss in the dark for several days, when the cells presented the appearance of a green network, between the meshes of which was a clear transparent ground. All the grains of chlorophyll were applied to the walls which separate the cells from one another; there were none on the upper or under walls which form the surfaces of the leaf. Under the influence of light the grains change their position from the lateral to the superficial walls; under favourable circumstances this change takes place in about a quarter of an hour. On attaining their new position, the grains do not remain absolutely immovable, but continually approach and separate from one another. If again darkened, they leave their new position and return to the lateral walls. Artificial light produces the same effect as daylight. M. Brongniart further observed that this movement of the chlorophyll, under the influence of light, does not consist in the change of position of isolated grains, but of masses of network, each containing a certain number of grains. In addition, M. E. Roze states that, besides the grains of chlorophyll which coat the walls of the cell, each cell is lined with a transparent mucous plasma formed of very fine threads, the extremities of which unite together the grains of chlorophyll. This protoplasm exhibits, under a high magnifying power, a very slow motion, and carries the grains of chlorophyll along with it. M. Roze believes, therefore, that the motion is a plasmic one, the protoplasm being the vital and animating part of the cell.

CARNATIONS AND PINKS.

Among the latest flowers of the autumnal garden are those old favourites, the "July-flowers," or _Carnations_, which, because they were "fair and sweet and medicinal," Jeremy Taylor preferred to "the prettiest tulips, that are good for nothing." I remember a time when they were among the best-prized ornaments of our parterres, and very delicious it was to inhale the balmy breath that rose into the warm air of an autumn evening from rich masses of carnations and pinks. The carnations were also called--_sub consule Planco_--in the merry days when I haunted the green lanes of a pretty Devonshire village, carnations, and clove July-flowers or gilliflowers; and an ancient name for the pink was that of sops-in-wine, because they were infused in the wine-cups of our much-drinking ancestors. So Drayton says:--

"Bring hither the pink and purple columbine,
With gilliflowers;
Bring coronations, and sops-in-wine,
Worn of paramours."

The same poet alludes to them under their more modern appellations:--

"The brave carnation, then, of sweet and sovereign power
(So of his colour called, although a July flower),
With the other of his kind, the speckled and the pale;--
Then the odoriferous pink, that sends forth such a gale
Of sweetness, yet in scents as various as in sorts."

The scientific name of this beautiful family of plants, whose rich dyes are not less conspicuous than their Sabæan odours, is _Dianthus_, or "Flower of God." They form a genus of the natural order Carophyllaceæ; the calyx is tubular, and five-toothed; there are five petals, which at the throat of the corolla are lightened (as it were) into a linear "claw." The stamens are double the number of the petals; the capsule is of a cylindrical outline, and one-celled.

I am quite prepared to agree with a sympathetic writer on flowers that, during summer, and far into the autumn months, the greatest beauty of our gardens is the varied tribe of Carnations, while their exquisite, subtle, yet potent aroma is not to be excelled, I think, or, at all events, is not far surpassed, in strength and sweetness, by the much-lauded rose. A carnation seems, to my humble taste, the very embodiment, as it were, of the favourite qualities so insisted upon by Mr Matthew Arnold, "sweetness and light." And even in winter, when its radiant petals have disappeared, there is something graceful to the eye in the long slender leaves of the pink, covered with their sea-green powdery bloom.

The two species commonly grown in gardens are, the garden pink (_Dianthus hortensis_) and the carnation proper (_Dianthus caryophyllus_); both of which are generally referred to one original, the castle-pink, July-flower, or clove-gilliflower. The carnation, as a garden flower, was originally brought into England from Germany, where it has always been a favourite object of cultivation.

There are several hundred varieties of it, which are arranged into three principal divisions: _flakes_, which are diversified by broad stripes of two colours only; _bizarres_, which are of several colours, and very irregularly streaked; and _picotees_ (from _piquetté_, spotted), whose flowers are besprinkled with different colours, and their petals fringed or serrated.

In England, the _native_ species of pink are five in number, but they are mostly rare, or, when abundant, are found in very limited habitats.

The commonest kind is the little _Deptford Pink_ (_Dianthus Armeria_), which sometimes grows in thick clusters among the meadow grass. In shape, its blossom resembles that of the garden pink; in size, it is about equal to that of the sweet william; and its flowers grow in a very similar manner. It is a scentless pink, however, with serrated or notched petals, and its rose-coloured petals curiously besprinkled with tiny spots of white.

A very pretty species is the _Maiden Pink_ (_Dianthus deltoides_), which some botanists think to have been the original of our garden favourite; and a kind deserving notice for its large and fragrant flowers is the _Dianthus superbus_.

The maiden pink, I should add, has delicate rose-coloured blossoms, daintily touched with silver, and a white eye encircled by a deep purple ring. It is not unworthy of its fanciful and highly suggestive name.

A rare British variety is the _Clustered Pink_, or _Childing Pink_ (_Dianthus prolifer_), which produces its flowers in plentiful clusters, but is only allowed a season's sunshine.

The _India_ or _China Pink_ (_Dianthus chinensis_) is a native of Eastern Asia, but has now become a frequent denizen in our English gardens.

One wild species, the _Mountain Pink_ (_Dianthus cœsius_), it has never been my fortune to gather in its native home. It is described as a large handsome flower, and it loves to breathe the "difficult air" of the lofty mountain-top. "Never," we are told, "is it found in plain or valley; but it is one of those blossoms whose beauty gladdens the mountaineer, or bids the traveller wonder that so lovely a flower should be blushing on the lone summit, scarcely accessible to his footstep; or cheering a rock, where only the yellow lichen, or the verdant or gray moss, reminds him of vegetation. Such a sight might bid one think of the old motto, which accompanied a wild flower, 'I trust only in Heaven.' How beautiful is it in its loneliness! Scarce an eye meets it but that of the towering bird, as he dashes through the air above it, yet is it as full of lustre as the flowers we daily see and admire. Surely it should arrest the eye and the thoughts of the traveller as certainly as would a monument of human skill on such a spot. Like a lone ruin, it is a page of story, telling not only of the past, but the present, and reminding us of a Being who has reared it there, where it stands a memento of power and goodness."

"Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

--WORDSWORTH.

Of greater interest, however, because a native species, and more easily attained, is the _Castle Pink_, to which brief reference has already been made. Its perfume is like that of precious spices, and after a shower of rain, the air, for some distance, is actually interpenetrated with it. As its name indicates, it loves to grow upon the shattered walls of

"Chiefless castles breathing stern farewells;"

and it may be found, unless swept away by barbarous "improvements," adorning the gray old masonry of Sandown Castle, and on ruins in the neighbourhood of Norwich. On the walls of Rochester's stately keep it grows at a height which defies the spoiler's hand; and on the time-worn ruins of an ancient minster, it shines, in the summer-noon, "with a flush of flowers." It blossoms in July, and there are not, it is said, more than half-a-dozen spots in England where it may be found wild.

* * * * *

To this dainty and beautiful tribe belongs that common but handsome and most fragrant flower, the _Bearded Pink_ or _Sweet William_ (_Dianthus barbatus_),--a native of central Europe and southern France, with long lanceolate leaves, bearded petals, ornamental bracts, and dense clusters or tufts of crimson or rose-coloured blossoms. It has long been a favourite with the cottager, for it is so hardy that it will grow in any soil, and will flourish even in the odd corner known as the "children's garden." Its popular name, "long, long ago," was "London tuftes;" and it owes its specific appellation of _barbatus_, or "bearded," to the nature of its calyx. That quaintest of quaint old botanists, delightful Gerarde, lavishes encomiums upon its beauty, and pronounces it meet "to deck up the bosoms of the beautiful, and garlands and crowns for pleasure." I suspect that now-a-days it seldom figures in a posy.

* * * * *

To the same order as the Dianthi--that is, to the _Caryophyllaceæ_--belong many wild flowers of lowly growth but abounding interest; as, for example, the corn-cockle, whose lilac-coloured petals, soaring conspicuously among the tall waving corn, have procured for it the right royal appellation of _Agrostemma_, or "the crown of the field." So, too, the numerous species of campion and catchfly (_Silene_), with their singular expanded calices; and those handsome flowers, the white and rosy lychnises, which love to air their charms by the side of running waters. The cottony down upon these plants was wont to be much used for the wicks of lamps.

* * * * *

Then, too, the whole tribe of chickweeds are included in the Caryophyllaceæ. They are spring flowers, with pearly white blossoms, five-petalled, like a five-rayed star, and long slender drooping leaves. Their resemblance to a star has suggested their scientific name, _Stellaria_; and they are truly the "stars of the earth," glistering among the thick herbage with a modest beauty. The _Stellaria media_ supplies our song-birds with an abundant and a wholesome provision.

A handsome wild plant of this order is the Soapwort (_Saponaria officinalis_). It is common in Kent, and some of the neighbouring shires, but in many parts of England is never seen. Its full cluster of rose-hued blossoms is rather larger, and more loosely set together, than those of the sweet william; which, however, it much resembles in its leaves, these being opposite to each other, and nearly sheathing or surrounding the stalk at their bases.

"The juice of the soapwort," says Miss Pratt, "is one of those vegetable substances which, by making a lather with water, will cleanse linen, and remove grease as effectually as soap. It grows more generally in the neighbourhood of villages than in any other situation, as if providence had placed it there especially for the service of the cottager; yet it is very little used, either from ignorance of its properties, or because it would require some cultivation to render it sufficiently plentiful for household purposes. It needs the addition of ashes to make it a good soap for washing linen; but it is of much service to the shepherds on the Alps, who wash their flocks, previously to shearing them, with soapsuds made by boiling this plant in water. The large fruit of the horse-chestnut has similar cleansing properties, and may be used by cutting it into small pieces, or scraping it into water. It has even been suggested that if the nuts were reduced to powder, and made into balls, with some unctuous substance, they would answer all the purposes of our manufactured soap; and yet numbers of poor people see these nuts lying decaying in their neighbourhood, and have no idea of making them of any service."

On the Continent, however, the peasantry are wiser, and not only provide themselves with chestnuts for soap, but gather the beech-leaves to stuff their mattresses.

Returning to the Caryophyllaceæ, we may add that some of the plants of this order have poisonous qualities, which are due to the principle called _saponine_ existing in many of the species of Saponaria, Silene, Lychnis, and Dianthus.

According to Lindley, the order includes no less than 53 genera, and 1055 species. They inhabit chiefly temperate and cold regions, and are ranked in three sub-orders,--Alsineæ, Sileneæ, and Mollugineæ.

THE EGLANTINE AND THE CONVOLVULUS.

What plant do our poets mean by the eglantine? What by the woodbine? Are they one and the same, or are they different?

We cannot answer those questions until we have referred to three or four passages in which they are introduced. And, first, let us take an example from Spenser:--

"And over him, art striving to compare
With nature, did an arbour green dispread,
Framèd of wanton ivy, flowering fair,
Through which the fragrant eglantine did spread
His pricking arms, entrailed with roses red,
Which dainty odours round about them threw,
And all within with flowers was garnishèd,
That when wild Zephyrus amongst them blew,
Did breathe out bounteous smells, and painted colours shew."

And now from Milton:--

"Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,
Or the twisted eglantine."

The following is from Sir Walter Scott:--

"On the hill
Let the white heath-bell flourish still,
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine,
But freely let the woodbine twine,
And leave untrimmed the eglantine."

From Burns:--

"The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near,
And the diamond draps of dew shall be her een sae clear."

From Michael Drayton:--

"The azured harebell next with them they neatly mixt:
T' allay whose luscious smell they woodbine placed betwixt ...
The columbine amongst they sparingly do set,
And now and then among, of eglantine a spray."

And lastly, from Shakespeare:--

"And leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweetened not thy breath."

There is evidently some confusion here, and the eglantine of one poet is not the eglantine of another. Sir Walter Scott, we take it, is thinking of the wild clematis or virgin's bower, when he wishes the eglantine to remain untrimmed. And Milton undoubtedly refers to the honeysuckle, which, twisting round the framework of a cottage-porch, tempts the neighbouring bees to rifle its calyxes of their honeyed sweets. But the _true_ eglantine of our earlier poets seems to have been the prickly sweetbriar, formerly called _Rosa eglantina_; now known as _Rosa rubiginosa_. No plant is of greater value for a garden hedge, owing to the delicious fragrance exhaled not only by its flowers but by its leaves.

On the other hand, the "lush woodbine," which so often finds honourable mention in our poets, is none other than the honeysuckle, the "twisted eglantine" of Milton. Its botanical name is _Caprifolium_.

The eglantine and the woodbine, therefore, though occasionally confounded by careless writers, are two entirely distinct plants; the former being the sweetbriar of modern gardens, and the latter the honeysuckle.

It has been justly said by a writer (whom we have already quoted), that of all the flowers which, towards the end of summer and the beginning of autumn, adorn our pastoral scenery, "filling the air with fragrance, and the earth with beauty," none are more generally attractive than the wild climbing plants of our leafy hedgerows. By interlacing their delicate boughs, covered with foliage and flowers,--or with berries bright and sparkling,--or, as in the wild clematis, crowned with the lightest, feathery seeds,--they wind about the trees and bushes in festoons and wreaths of the utmost elegance,--and contribute in no slight degree to the aspect of richness and beauty which the landscape exhibits at this time of the year. As their stems are so slender and delicate that they would be crushed by the burthen of their flowery clusters and numerous leaves, or rent and uprooted by the wind, unless they found support from other plants, we see them hanging by their tendrils, or by their pliant arms, about the trunks of aged trees,--the ancestral elms, or "those green-robed senators of mighty woods, tall oaks,"--like a frail maiden to the sturdy arm of some strong-shouldered brother, or, it may be, of some one "nearer and dearer still."

In reference to those climbing plants, one curious circumstance deserves to be noted.

Some of them follow the sun's apparent course, that is, from east to west,--and always twine around the stem which supports them in the direction of left to right. Such is the case with the common black briony, so common in our woods and groves.

Others invariably twine _contrary_ to the sun, or from right to left; as is the case with the convolvulus, or large white bindweed.

This singular tendency, be it observed, is always constant in each individual of the species, and if you endeavour to train one of these plants in a different direction, you will infallibly kill it.

The convolvulus will not grow from left to right, and the black briony will not grow from right to left. _Crede experto._

The convolvulus, or white bindweed (_Convolvulus sepium_, or _Calystegia sepium_), is one of the most elegant, though one of the commonest climbing plants which festoon our willows, or creep over our grassy banks, or wind in and about our hedges. Its large white bells, which the country people unpoetically call "old men's nightcaps," are remarkable for their purity of hue and exquisite beauty of outline; and the leaves, which are heart-shaped, equally claim our admiration. Like the pink field-convolvulus (_Convolvulus arvensis_), or the rosy-hued seaside bindweed (_Calystegia soldanella_), it is very tenacious of life, and if it once secures a footing, is eradicated with difficulty. Hence it is dearer to the poet and artist than to the farmer and gardener, each of whom pursues it with a determined hostility.

The Convolvulaceæ form a distinct family or order, containing forty-five genera, and upwards of seven hundred species. They are found in temperate and tropical countries; and include the dodder, sweet potato, scammony, spomœa, and the jalap plant.

METAMORPHOSIS.--A PHYSICO-PHILOSOPHICAL MEDITATION.[86]

If we are to understand by the term _metamorphosis_ simply "a change," it is evident that everybody undergoes metamorphosis, is changed or transformed; nothing _is_, all _becomes_.

The water which flows on for ever, but never twice washes the same pebbly bed, will afford us an apt image of this perpetual "to become."

But even the said pebbly bed, like the hardest rock, like the seemingly everlasting granite, must and does change. The compact, chrystalline, azoic rock, without a trace of life in its dense mass, would eventually decompose if constantly assailed and affected by the moving waves of that gaseous ocean whose bed is formed by the terrestrial crust. If the rock is found covered by more or less stratified layers, its presence in the bosom of the earth will attest to passing generations the primordial incandescence of our planet at some epoch when life as yet was _not_,--when the liquid element, hurled far away into space under the form of vapour, exhibited the aspect of a "bearded meteor," or a comet, with blazing nucleus and incandescent tail. Many the changes which since that distant epoch have taken place upon the earth, and many more must occur before our planet ceases to contribute its strain to the grand harmony of the spheres. Our world will _end_ as surely as it once had a beginning: its duration, though it be computed by hundreds of thousands of years, is nothing, will be nothing, compared with that of the revolution of yonder sun, circling, with its wondrous train of planets, around some mysterious centre as yet unknown. And in this period, hitherto incalculable, what chances of perturbation will necessarily arise?

Let us suppose that the centre around which oscillates, on the one part, the moon while drawing near and receding from the earth; on the other, the earth while drawing near and receding from the sun: let us suppose that these centres oscillate in the same manner around other centres as yet undetermined,--and this hypothesis is very rational, since it is based on the principle that everything moves or changes,--it may happen that in these periodical oscillations, one or more of the circulating masses will eventually fall into their focus of attraction, or will start so widely astray that the wheelwork of our world, the various parts of our planetary system, will separate,--not to be annihilated, for nothing in the universe can be _annihilated_,--but to be metamorphosed, and group themselves elsewhere in a different order.[87]

It is thus that in chemistry, which I would call the _astronomy of atoms_, it is shown that bodies are only so far decomposed as to admit of their recombination in new forms; the end of one is the beginning of another.

Now, that which is true of the systems of the elementary bodies composing terrestrial matter, is, in all probability, true also--why should it not be?--of the systems of the celestial bodies.

Differences of magnitude, of space, and of time, which overwhelm our feeble imaginations, vanish before the unity of plan of the Creator's thought. A crystalline molecule, which will not affect the finest balance, is a world, with an equator and poles of its own, and its central atom round which atomic satellites gravitate. Whether these atoms are infinitely small or infinitely great, whether the time of their revolutions is measured by thousandths of a second or by myriads of years, is of little importance so far as their gravitation (_ponderation_, or _poising_) is concerned. For this ponderation is absolutely identical, whether we call it _affinity_,--when speaking of the atomic movements of chemically decomposable matter; or _gravitation_ or _attraction_, when referring to those atoms of the great whole which we call stars, and whose metamorphic scale is far beyond the range of beings planted on the surface of one of the stellar atoms. However profound may be the researches of our astronomers, they will never attain to a knowledge of the metamorphoses of worlds. The spectacle of celestial spheres rising anew from their ashes, like "the Arabian bird" of fable, will be as impossible for them as the knowledge of the decompositions and recompositions of our material bodies would be for chemists, planted on the surface of an atom of carbon. How, from such a standpoint, could they contemplate the manifold forms of matter, and embrace at a glance all its changes?... Well, we are relatively as powerless as these imaginary denizens of an atom of matter, rooted as we are to the crust of a planet,--a molecule suspended in the eternal ocean.

What shall we now say of the forms and movements of _living matter_?

In the first place, that they are infinitely more varied and more changeful than those of inanimate nature. Next, that the difference between their metamorphoses is very wide. The eye can follow the transformations of a rock exposed to the decomposing action of the agents which surround us on every side. This action is calculable, and the elements which it has dissociated may be determined and weighed. The effects of the force, called either affinity or attraction, which maintains these elements united, are not beyond the range of our observation; tables of affinity, and of atomic weights, have been constructed, which enable the chemist to dominate over matter, just as the astronomer embraces the stars, the atoms of the world, by the law of universal gravitation.

But no sooner is matter interpenetrated by that mysterious force which we call life, than our most potent means of investigation suddenly cease to be efficient. Undoubtedly, you may analyse the seed before you sow it, and thus may ascertain that it consists of _carbon_, _hydrogen_, _oxygen_, and _azote_. But with the same elements attempt to recompose your seed, using exactly the same proportions as those you discovered in it; and if you think that your synthesis has been successful, ensure that your grain, once confided to the earth, shall become a focus of divers movements, giving birth below to the ramifications of the root, terminated by the spongioles,--above, to the ramifications of the stem, garnished with leaves, flowers, and fruits; finally, ensure that this aggregate of organs, multiplying millions of times the weight and volume of the seed, shall always and exactly reproduce the same type or the same species.

If, with your apparatus,--if, with the means at the disposal of humanity,--you should succeed in achieving all these marvels of nature; then perhaps you might settle the great problem of what life is,--whether an independent force, or a simple modification of an universal force, of which heat, light, electricity, and magnetism, will be but different modes of manifestation.