The Beauties of Nature, and the Wonders of the World We Live In
by Sir John Lubbock · English · Gutenberg #28274 · 418,624 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Beauties of Nature, and the Wonders of the World We Live In
Author: Sir John Lubbock
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Language: English
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THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE
[Illustration: _Frontispiece._
GROUP OF BEECHES, BURNHAM. _Page 167._]
THE
BEAUTIES OF NATURE
AND THE
WONDERS OF THE WORLD
WE LIVE IN
BY
THE RIGHT HON.
SIR JOHN LUBBOCK, BART., M.P.
F.R.S., D.C.L., LL.D.
New York
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON
1892
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1892,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
TYPOGRAPHY BY J. S. CUSHING & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.
PRESSWORK BY BERWICK & SMITH, BOSTON, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
Beauty and Happiness 3
The Love of Nature 5
Enjoyment of Scenery 14
Scenery of England 19
Foreign Scenery 21
The Aurora 33
The Seasons 34
CHAPTER II
ON ANIMAL LIFE 39
Love of Animals 41
Growth and Metamorphoses 43
Rudimentary Organs 45
Modifications 48
Colour 50
Communities of Animals 57
Ants 58
CHAPTER III
ON ANIMAL LIFE--_continued_ 71
Freedom of Animals 73
Sleep 78
Senses 84
Sense of Direction 93
Number of Species 96
Importance of the Smaller Animals 97
Size of Animals 100
Complexity of Animal Structure 101
Length of Life 102
On Individuality 104
Animal Immortality 112
CHAPTER IV
ON PLANT LIFE 115
Structure of Flowers 128
Insects and Flowers 134
Past History of Flowers 136
Fruits and Seeds 137
Leaves 138
Aquatic Plants 144
On Hairs 148
Influence of Soil 151
On Seedlings 152
Sleep of Plants 152
Behaviour of Leaves in Rain 155
Mimicry 156
Ants and Plants 156
Insectivorous Plants 158
Movements of Plants 159
Imperfection of our Knowledge 163
CHAPTER V
WOODS AND FIELDS 165
Fairy Land 172
Tropical Forests 179
Structure of Trees 185
Ages of Trees 188
Meadows 192
Downs 194
CHAPTER VI
MOUNTAINS 201
Alpine Flowers 205
Mountain Scenery 206
The Afterglow 213
The Origin of Mountains 214
Glaciers 227
Swiss Mountains 232
Volcanoes 236
Origin of Volcanoes 243
CHAPTER VII
WATER 249
Rivers and Witchcraft 251
Water Plants 252
Water Animals 253
Origin of Rivers 255
The Course of Rivers 256
Deltas 272
CHAPTER VIII
RIVERS AND LAKES 277
On the Directions of Rivers 279
The Conflicts and Adventures of Rivers 301
On Lakes 312
On the Configuration of Valleys 323
CHAPTER IX
THE SEA 335
The Sea Coast 337
Sea Life 344
The Ocean Depths 351
Coral Islands 358
The Southern Skies 365
The Poles 367
CHAPTER X
THE STARRY HEAVENS 373
The Moon 377
The Sun 382
The Planets 387
Mercury 388
Venus 390
The Earth 391
Mars 392
The Minor Planets 393
Jupiter 394
Saturn 395
Uranus 396
Neptune 397
Origin of the Planetary System 398
Comets 401
Shooting Stars 406
The Stars 410
Nebulæ 425
ILLUSTRATIONS
FIG. PAGE
1. Larva of Choerocampa porcellus 53
2. Bougainvillea fruticosa; natural size. (After Allman) 107
3. Do. do. magnified 108
4. Do. do. Medusa-form 109
5. Medusa aurita, and progressive stages of development.
(After Steenstrup) 110
6. White Dead-nettle 124
7. Do. 125
8. Do. 125
9. Salvia 127
10. Do. 127
11. Do. 127
12. Primrose 131
13. Do. 131
14. Arum 135
15. Twig of Beech 140
16. Arrangement of leaves in Acer platanoides 142
17. Diagram to illustrate the formation of Mountain Chains 216
18. Section across the Jura from Brenets to Neuchâtel. (After Jaccard) 219
19. Section from the Spitzen across the Brunnialp, and the
Maderanerthal. (After Heim) 221
20. Glacier of the Blümlis Alp. (After Reclus) 228
21. Cotopaxi. (After Judd) 237
22. Lava Stream. (After Judd) 239
23. Stromboli, viewed from the north-west, April 1874. (After Judd) 242
24. Upper Valley of St. Gotthard 257
25. Section of a river valley. The dotted line shows a slope or
talus of debris 260
26. Valley of the Rhone, with the waterfall of Sallenches, showing
a talus of debris 261
27. Section across a valley. _A_, present river valley; _B_, old
river terrace 262
28. Diagram of an Alpine valley, showing a river cone. Front view 263
29. Diagram of an Alpine valley, showing a river cone. Lateral view 265
30. Map of the Valais near Sion 266
31. View in the Rhone Valley, showing a lateral cone 267
32. Do. showing the slope of a river cone 268
33. Shore of the Lake of Geneva, near Vevey 269
34. View in the district of the Broads, Norfolk 271
35. Delta of the Po 273
36. Do. Mississippi 274
37. Map of the Lake District 281
38. Section of the Weald of Kent, _a, a_, Upper Cretaceous strata,
chiefly Chalk, forming the North and South Downs; _b, b_, Escarpment of
Lower Greensand, with a valley between it and the Chalk; _c, c_, Weald
Clay, forming plains; _d_, Hills formed of Hastings Sand and Clay. The
Chalk, etc., once spread across the country, as shown in the dotted
lines 283
39. Map of the Weald of Kent 284
40. Sketch Map of the Swiss Rivers 291
41. Diagram in illustration of mountain structure 296
42. Sketch Map of the Aar and its tributaries 299
43. River system round Chur, as it used to be 308
44. River system round Chur, as it is 309
45. River system of the Maloya 311
46. Final slope of a river 317
47. Do. do. with a lake 318
48. Diagrammatic section of a valley (exaggerated). _R R_, rocky basis of
a valley; _A A_, sedimentary strata; _B_, ordinary level of river;
_C_, flood level 329
49. Whitsunday Island. (After Darwin) 359
50. A group of Lunar volcanoes; Maurolycus, Barocius, etc.
(After Judd) 380
51. Orbits of the inner Planets. (After Ball) 388
52. Relative distances of the Planets from the Sun. (After Ball) 389
53. Saturn, with the surrounding series of rings. (After Lockyer) 395
54. The Parallactic Ellipse. (After Ball) 413
55. Displacement of the hydrogen line in the spectrum of Rigel.
(After Clarke) 416
PLATES
BURNHAM BEECHES _Frontispiece_
WINDSOR CASTLE. (From a drawing by J. Finnemore) _To face page_ 13
AQUATIC VEGETATION, RIO. (Published by Spooner and Co.) 145
TROPICAL FOREST, WEST INDIES. (After Kingsley) 179
SUMMIT OF MONT BLANC 203
THE MER DE GLACE, MONT BLANC 229
RYDAL WATER. (From a photograph by Frith and Co., published by
Spooner and Co.) 247
WINDERMERE 253
VIEW IN THE VALAIS BELOW ST. MAURICE 264
VIEW UP THE VALAIS FROM THE LAKE OF GENEVA 268
THE LAND'S END. (From a photograph by Frith and Co., published by
Spooner and Co.) 334
VIEW OF THE MOON NEAR THE THIRD QUARTER. (From a photograph by Prof.
Draper) 371
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
If any one gave you a few acres, you would say that you had
received a benefit; can you deny that the boundless extent of
the earth is a benefit? If any one gave you money, you would
call that a benefit. God has buried countless masses of gold
and silver in the earth. If a house were given you, bright with
marble, its roof beautifully painted with colours and gilding,
you would call it no small benefit. God has built for you a
mansion that fears no fire or ruin ... covered with a roof
which glitters in one fashion by day, and in another by
night.... Whence comes the breath you draw; the light by which
you perform the actions of your life? the blood by which your
life is maintained? the meat by which your hunger is
appeased?... The true God has planted, not a few oxen, but all
the herds on their pastures throughout the world, and furnished
food to all the flocks; he has ordained the alternation of
summer and winter ... has invented so many arts and varieties
of voice, so many notes to make music.... We have implanted in
us the seed of all ages, of all arts; and God our Master brings
forth our intellects from obscurity.--SENECA.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
The world we live in is a fairyland of exquisite beauty, our very
existence is a miracle in itself, and yet few of us enjoy as we might,
and none as yet appreciate fully, the beauties and wonders which
surround us. The greatest traveller cannot hope even in a long life to
visit more than a very small part of our earth, and even of that which
is under our very eyes how little we see!
What we do see depends mainly on what we look for. When we turn our eyes
to the sky, it is in most cases merely to see whether it is likely to
rain. In the same field the farmer will notice the crop, geologists the
fossils, botanists the flowers, artists the colouring, sportsmen the
cover for game. Though we may all look at the same things, it does not
at all follow that we should see them.
It is good, as Keble says, "to have our thoughts lift up to that world
where all is beautiful and glorious,"--but it is well to realise also
how much of this world is beautiful. It has, I know, been maintained, as
for instance by Victor Hugo, that the general effect of beauty is to
sadden. "Comme la vie de l'homme, même la plus prospère, est toujours au
fond plus triste que gaie, le ciel sombre nous est harmonieux. Le ciel
éclatant et joyeux nous est ironique. La Nature triste nous ressemble et
nous console; la Nature rayonnante, magnifique, superbe ... a quelque
chose d'accablant."[1]
This seems to me, I confess, a morbid view. There are many no doubt on
whom the effect of natural beauty is to intensify feeling, to deepen
melancholy, as well as to raise the spirits. As Mrs. W. R. Greg in her
memoir of her husband tells us: "His passionate love for nature, so
amply fed by the beauty of the scenes around him, intensified the
emotions, as all keen perception of beauty does, but it did not add to
their joyousness. We speak of the pleasure which nature and art and
music give us; what we really mean is that our whole being is quickened
by the uplifting of the veil. Something passes into us which makes our
sorrows more sorrowful, our joys more joyful,--our whole life more
vivid. So it was with him. The long solitary wanderings over the hills,
and the beautiful moonlight nights on the lake served to make the
shadows seem darker that were brooding over his home."
But surely to most of us Nature when sombre, or even gloomy, is soothing
and consoling; when bright and beautiful, not only raises the spirits,
but inspires and elevates our whole being--
Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.[2]
Kingsley speaks with enthusiasm of the heaths and moors round his home,
"where I have so long enjoyed the wonders of nature; never, I can
honestly say, alone; because when man was not with me, I had companions
in every bee, and flower and pebble; and never idle, because I could not
pass a swamp, or a tuft of heather, without finding in it a fairy tale
of which I could but decipher here and there a line or two, and yet
found them more interesting than all the books, save one, which were
ever written upon earth."
Those who love Nature can never be dull. They may have other
temptations; but at least they will run no risk of being beguiled, by
ennui, idleness, or want of occupation, "to buy the merry madness of an
hour with the long penitence of after time." The love of Nature, again,
helps us greatly to keep ourselves free from those mean and petty cares
which interfere so much with calm and peace of mind. It turns "every
ordinary walk into a morning or evening sacrifice," and brightens life
until it becomes almost like a fairy tale.
In the romances of the Middle Ages we read of knights who loved, and
were loved by, Nature spirits,--of Sir Launfal and the Fairy Tryamour,
who furnished him with many good things, including a magic purse, in
which
As oft as thou puttest thy hand therein
A mark of gold thou shalt iwinne,
as well as protection from the main dangers of life. Such times have
passed away, but better ones have come. It is not now merely the few,
who are so favoured. All those who love Nature she loves in return, and
will richly reward, not perhaps with the good things, as they are
commonly called, but with the best things, of this world; not with money
and titles, horses and carriages, but with bright and happy thoughts,
contentment and peace of mind.
Happy indeed is the naturalist: to him the seasons come round like old
friends; to him the birds sing: as he walks along, the flowers stretch
out from the hedges, or look up from the ground, and as each year fades
away, he looks back on a fresh store of happy memories.
Though we can never "remount the river of our years," he who loves
Nature is always young. But what is the love of Nature? Some seem to
think they show a love of flowers by gathering them. How often one finds
a bunch of withered blossoms on the roadside, plucked only to be thrown
away! Is this love of Nature? It is, on the contrary, a wicked waste,
for a waste of beauty is almost the worst waste of all.
If we could imagine a day prolonged for a lifetime, or nearly so, and
that sunrise and sunset were rare events which happened but a few times
to each of us, we should certainly be entranced by the beauty of the
morning and evening tints. The golden rays of the morning are a fortune
in themselves, but we too often overlook the loveliness of Nature,
because it is constantly before us. For "the senseless folk," says King
Alfred,
is far more struck
At things it seldom sees.
"Well," says Cicero, "did Aristotle observe, 'If there were men whose
habitations had been always underground, in great and commodious houses,
adorned with statues and pictures, furnished with everything which they
who are reputed happy abound with; and if, without stirring from thence,
they should be informed of a certain divine power and majesty, and,
after some time, the earth should open, and they should quit their dark
abode to come to us; where they should immediately behold the earth, the
seas, the heavens; should consider the vast extent of the clouds and
force of the winds; should see the sun, and observe his grandeur and
beauty, and also his creative power, inasmuch as day is occasioned by
the diffusion of his light through the sky; and when night has obscured
the earth, they should contemplate the heavens bespangled and adorned
with stars; the surprising variety of the moon, in her increase and
wane; the rising and setting of all the stars, and the inviolable
regularity of their courses; when,' says he, 'they should see these
things, they would undoubtedly conclude that there are Gods, and that
these are their mighty works.'"[3]
Is my life vulgar, my fate mean,
Which on such golden memories can lean?[4]
At the same time the change which has taken place in the character of
our religion has in one respect weakened the hold which Nature has upon
our feelings. To the Greeks--to our own ancestors,--every River or
Mountain or Forest had not only its own special Deity, but in some sense
was itself instinct with life. They were not only peopled by Nymphs and
Fauns, Elves and Kelpies, were not only the favourite abodes of Water,
Forest, or Mountain Spirits, but they had a conscious existence of their
own.
In the Middle Ages indeed, these spirits were regarded as often
mischievous, and apt to take offence; sometimes as essentially
malevolent--even the most beautiful, like the Venus of Tannhäuser, being
often on that very account all the more dangerous; while the Mountains
and Forests, the Lakes and Seas, were the abodes of hideous ghosts and
horrible monsters, of Giants and Ogres, Sorcerers and Demons. These
fears, though vague, were none the less extreme, and the judicial
records of the Middle Ages furnish only too conclusive evidence that
they were a terrible reality. The light of Science has now happily
dispelled these fearful nightmares.
Unfortunately, however, as men have multiplied, their energies have
hitherto tended, not to beautify, but to mar. Forests have been cut
down, and replaced by flat fields in geometrical squares, or on the
continent by narrow strips. Here and there indeed we meet with oases, in
which beauty has not been sacrificed to profit, and it is then happily
found that not only is there no loss, but the earth seems to reward even
more richly those who treat her with love and respect.
Scarcely any part of the world affords so great a variety in so small an
area as our own island. Commencing in the south, we have first the blue
sea itself, the pebbly beaches, the white chalk cliffs of Kent, the
tinted sands of Alum Bay, the Red Sandstone of Devonshire, Granite and
Gneiss in Cornwall: inland we have the chalk Downs and clear streams,
the well-wooded weald and the rich hop gardens; farther westwards the
undulating gravelly hills, and still farther the granite tors: in the
centre of England we have to the east the Norfolk Broads and the Fens;
then the fertile Midlands, the cornfields, rich meadows, and large oxen;
and to the west the Welsh mountains; farther north the Yorkshire Wolds,
the Lancashire hills, the Lakes of Westmoreland; lastly, the swelling
hills, bleak moors, and picturesque castles of Northumberland and
Cumberland.
There are of course far larger rivers, but perhaps none lovelier than
The crystal Thamis wont to glide
In silver channel, down along the lee,[5]
[Illustration: WINDSOR CASTLE.
_To face page 13._]
by lawns and parks, meadows and wooded banks, dotted with country houses
and crowned by Windsor Castle itself (see Frontispiece). By many
Scotland is considered even more beautiful.
And yet too many of us see nothing in the fields but sacks of wheat, in
the meadows but trusses of hay, and in woods but planks for houses, or
cover for game. Even from this more prosaic point of view, how much
there is to wonder at and admire, in the wonderful chemistry which
changes grass and leaves, flowers and seeds, into bread and milk, eggs
and cream, butter and honey!
Almost everything, says Hamerton, "that the Peasant does, is lifted
above vulgarity by ancient, and often sacred, associations." There is,
indeed, hardly any business or occupation with reference to which the
same might not be said. The triviality or vulgarity does not depend on
what we do, but on the spirit in which it is done. Not only the regular
professions, but every useful occupation in life, however humble, is
honourable in itself, and may be pursued with dignity and peace.
Working in this spirit we have also the satisfaction of feeling that, as
in some mountain track every one who takes the right path, seems to make
the way clearer for those who follow; so may we also raise the
profession we adopt, and smooth the way for those who come after us.
But, even for those who are not Agriculturists, it must be admitted that
the country has special charms. One perhaps is the continual change.
Every week brings some fresh leaf or flower, bird or insect. Every month
again has its own charms and beauty. We sit quietly at home and Nature
decks herself for us.
In truth we all love change. Some think they do not care for it, but I
doubt if they know themselves.
"Not," said Jefferies, "for many years was I able to see why I went the
same round and did not care for change. I do not want change: I want the
same old and loved things, the same wild flowers, the same trees and
soft ash-green; the turtle-doves, the blackbirds, the coloured
yellow-hammer sing, sing, singing so long as there is light to cast a
shadow on the dial, for such is the measure of his song, and I want
them in the same place. Let me find them morning after morning, the
starry-white petals radiating, striving upwards up to their ideal. Let
me see the idle shadows resting on the white dust; let me hear the
humble-bees, and stay to look down on the yellow dandelion disk. Let me
see the very thistles opening their great crowns--I should miss the
thistles; the reed grasses hiding the moor-hen; the bryony bine, at
first crudely ambitious and lifted by force of youthful sap straight
above the hedgerow to sink of its weight presently and progress with
crafty tendrils; swifts shot through the air with outstretched wings
like crescent-headed shaftless arrows darted from the clouds; the
chaffinch with a feather in her bill; all the living staircase of the
spring, step by step, upwards to the great gallery of the summer, let me
watch the same succession year by year."
After all then he did enjoy the change and the succession.
Kingsley again in his charming prose idyll "My Winter Garden" tries to
persuade himself that he was glad he had never travelled, "having never
yet actually got to Paris." Monotony, he says, "is pleasant in itself;
morally pleasant, and morally useful. Marriage is monotonous; but there
is much, I trust, to be said in favour of holy wedlock. Living in the
same house is monotonous; but three removes, say the wise, are as bad as
a fire. Locomotion is regarded as an evil by our Litany. The Litany, as
usual, is right. 'Those who travel by land or sea' are to be objects of
our pity and our prayers; and I do pity them. I delight in that same
monotony. It saves curiosity, anxiety, excitement, disappointment, and a
host of bad passions."
But even as he writes one can see that he does not convince himself.
Possibly, he admits, "after all, the grapes are sour"; and when some
years after he did travel, how happy he was! At last, he says,
triumphantly, "At last we too are crossing the Atlantic. At last the
dream of forty years, please God, would be fulfilled, and I should see
(and happily not alone), the West Indies and the Spanish Main. From
childhood I had studied their Natural History, their Charts, their
Romances; and now, at last, I was about to compare books with facts, and
judge for myself of the reported wonders of the Earthly Paradise."
No doubt there is much to see everywhere. The Poet and the Naturalist
find "tropical forests in every square foot of turf." It may even be
better, and especially for the more sensitive natures, to live mostly in
quiet scenery, among fields and hedgerows, woods and downs; but it is
surely good for every one, from time to time, to refresh and strengthen
both mind and body by a spell of Sea air or Mountain beauty.
On the other hand we are told, and told of course with truth, that
though mountains may be the cathedrals of Nature, they are generally
remote from centres of population; that our great cities are grimy,
dark, and ugly; that factories are creeping over several of our
counties, blighting them into building ground, replacing trees by
chimneys, and destroying almost every vestige of natural beauty.
But if this be true, is it not all the more desirable that our people
should have access to pictures and books, which may in some small
degree, at any rate, replace what they have thus unfortunately lost? We
cannot all travel; and even those who can, are able to see but a small
part of the world. Moreover, though no one who has once seen, can ever
forget, the Alps, the Swiss lakes, or the Riviera, still the
recollection becomes less vivid as years roll on, and it is pleasant,
from time to time, to be reminded of their beauties.
There is one other advantage not less important. We sometimes speak as
if to visit a country, and to see it, were the same thing. But this is
not so. It is not every one who can see Switzerland like a Ruskin or a
Tyndall. Their beautiful descriptions of mountain scenery depend less on
their mastery of the English language, great as that is, than on their
power of seeing what is before them. It has been to me therefore a
matter of much interest to know which aspects of Nature have given the
greatest pleasure to, or have most impressed, those who, either from
wide experience or from their love of Nature, may be considered best
able to judge. I will begin with an English scene from Kingsley. He is
describing his return from a day's trout-fishing:--
"What shall we see," he says, "as we look across the broad, still, clear
river, where the great dark trout sail to and fro lazily in the sun?
White chalk fields above, quivering hazy in the heat. A park full of
merry hay-makers; gay red and blue waggons; stalwart horses switching
off the flies; dark avenues of tall elms; groups of abele, 'tossing
their whispering silver to the sun'; and amid them the house,--a great
square red-brick mass, made light and cheerful though by quoins and
windows of white Sarsden stone, with high peaked French roofs, broken by
louvres and dormers, haunted by a thousand swallows and starlings. Old
walled gardens, gay with flowers, shall stretch right and left. Clipt
yew alleys shall wander away into mysterious glooms, and out of their
black arches shall come tripping children, like white fairies, to laugh
and talk with the girl who lies dreaming and reading in the hammock
there, beneath the black velvet canopy of the great cedar tree, like
some fair tropic flower hanging from its boughs; and we will sit down,
and eat and drink among the burdock leaves, and then watch the quiet
house, and lawn, and flowers, and fair human creatures, and shining
water, all sleeping breathless in the glorious light beneath the
glorious blue, till we doze off, lulled by the murmur of a thousand
insects, and the rich minstrelsy of nightingale and blackcap, thrush and
dove.
"Peaceful, graceful, complete English country life and country houses;
everywhere finish and polish; Nature perfected by the wealth and art of
peaceful centuries! Why should I exchange you, even for the sight of all
the Alps?"
Though Jefferies was unfortunately never able to travel, few men have
loved Nature more devotedly, and speaking of his own home he expresses
his opinion that: "Of all sweet things there is none so sweet as fresh
air--one great flower it is, drawn round about; over, and enclosing us,
like Aphrodite's arms; as if the dome of the sky were a bell-flower
drooping down over us, and the magical essence of it filling all the
room of the earth. Sweetest of all things is wild-flower air. Full of
their ideal the starry flowers strained upwards on the bank, striving to
keep above the rude grasses that push by them; genius has ever had such
a struggle. The plain road was made beautiful by the many thoughts it
gave. I came every morning to stay by the star-lit bank."
Passing to countries across the ocean, Humboldt tells us that: "If I
might be allowed to abandon myself to the recollection of my own distant
travels, I would instance, amongst the most striking scenes of nature,
the calm sublimity of a tropical night, when the stars, not sparkling,
as in our northern skies, shed their soft and planetary light over the
gently heaving ocean; or I would recall the deep valleys of the
Cordilleras, where the tall and slender palms pierce the leafy veil
around them, and waving on high their feathery and arrow-like branches,
form, as it were, 'a forest above a forest'; or I would describe the
summit of the Peak of Teneriffe, when a horizon layer of clouds,
dazzling in whiteness, has separated the cone of cinders from the plain
below, and suddenly the ascending current pierces the cloudy veil, so
that the eye of the traveller may range from the brink of the crater,
along the vine-clad slopes of Orotava, to the orange gardens and banana
groves that skirt the shore. In scenes like these, it is not the
peaceful charm uniformly spread over the face of nature that moves the
heart, but rather the peculiar physiognomy and conformation of the land,
the features of the landscape, the ever-varying outline of the clouds,
and their blending with the horizon of the sea, whether it lies spread
before us like a smooth and shining mirror, or is dimly seen through the
morning mist. All that the senses can but imperfectly comprehend, all
that is most awful in such romantic scenes of nature, may become a
source of enjoyment to man, by opening a wide field to the creative
power of his imagination. Impressions change with the varying movements
of the mind, and we are led by a happy illusion to believe that we
receive from the external world that with which we have ourselves
invested it."
Humboldt also singles out for especial praise the following description
given of Tahiti by Darwin[6]:--
"The land capable of cultivation is scarcely in any part more than a
fringe of low alluvial soil, accumulated round the base of mountains,
and protected from the waves of the sea by a coral reef, which encircles
at a distance the entire line of coast. The reef is broken in several
parts so that ships can pass through, and the lake of smooth water
within, thus affords a safe harbour, as well as a channel for the native
canoes. The low land which comes down to the beach of coral sand is
covered by the most beautiful productions of the inter-tropical regions.
In the midst of bananas, orange, cocoa-nut, and breadfruit trees, spots
are cleared where yams, sweet potatoes, sugar-cane, and pine-apples are
cultivated. Even the brushwood is a fruit tree, namely, the guava,
which from its abundance is as noxious as a weed. In Brazil I have often
admired the contrast of varied beauty in the banana, palm, and orange
tree; here we have in addition the breadfruit tree, conspicuous from its
large, glossy, and deeply digitated leaf. It is admirable to behold
groves of a tree, sending forth its branches with the force of an
English Oak, loaded with large and most nutritious fruit. However little
on most occasions utility explains the delight received from any fine
prospect, in this case it cannot fail to enter as an element in the
feeling. The little winding paths, cool from the surrounding shade, led
to the scattered houses; and the owners of these everywhere gave us a
cheerful and most hospitable reception."
Darwin himself has told us, after going round the world that "in calling
up images of the past, I find the plains of Patagonia frequently cross
before my eyes; yet these plains are pronounced by all to be most
wretched and useless. They are characterised only by negative
possessions; without habitations, without water, without trees, without
mountains, they support only a few dwarf plants. Why then--and the case
is not peculiar to myself--have these arid wastes taken so firm
possession of my mind? Why have not the still more level, the greener
and more fertile pampas, which are serviceable to mankind, produced an
equal impression? I can scarcely analyse these feelings, but it must be
partly owing to the free scope given to the imagination. The plains of
Patagonia are boundless, for they are scarcely practicable, and hence
unknown; they bear the stamp of having thus lasted for ages, and there
appears no limit to their duration through future time. If, as the
ancients supposed, the flat earth was surrounded by an impassable
breadth of water, or by deserts heated to an intolerable excess, who
would not look at these last boundaries to man's knowledge with deep but
ill-defined sensations?"
Hamerton, whose wide experience and artistic power make his opinion
especially important, says:--
"I know nothing in the visible world that combines splendour and purity
so perfectly as a great mountain entirely covered with frozen snow and
reflected in the vast mirror of a lake. As the sun declines, its
thousand shadows lengthen, pure as the cold green azure in the depth of
a glacier's crevasse, and the illuminated snow takes first the tender
colour of a white rose, and then the flush of a red one, and the sky
turns to a pale malachite green, till the rare strange vision fades into
ghastly gray, but leaves with you a permanent recollection of its too
transient beauty."[7]
Wallace especially, and very justly, praises the description of tropical
forest scenery given by Belt in his charming _Naturalist in
Nicaragua_:--
"On each side of the road great trees towered up, carrying their crowns
out of sight amongst a canopy of foliage, and with lianas hanging from
nearly every bough, and passing from tree to tree, entangling the giants
in a great network of coiling cables. Sometimes a tree appears covered
with beautiful flowers which do not belong to it, but to one of the
lianas that twines through its branches and sends down great rope-like
stems to the ground. Climbing ferns and vanilla cling to the trunks, and
a thousand epiphytes perch themselves on the branches. Amongst these are
large arums that send down long aerial roots, tough and strong, and
universally used instead of cordage by the natives. Amongst the
undergrowth several small species of palms, varying in height from two
to fifteen feet, are common; and now and then magnificent tree ferns
send off their feathery crowns twenty feet from the ground to delight
the sight by their graceful elegance. Great broad-leaved heliconias,
leathery melastomæ, and succulent-stemmed, lop-sided leaved and
flesh-coloured begonias are abundant, and typical of tropical American
forests; but not less so are the cecropia trees, with their white stems
and large palmated leaves standing up like great candelabra. Sometimes
the ground is carpeted with large flowers, yellow, pink, or white, that
have fallen from some invisible tree-top above; or the air is filled
with a delicious perfume, the source of which one seeks around in vain,
for the flowers that cause it are far overhead out of sight, lost in the
great over-shadowing crown of verdure."
"But," he adds, "the uniformity of climate which has led to this rich
luxuriance and endless variety of vegetation is also the cause of a
monotony that in time becomes oppressive." To quote the words of Mr.
Belt: "Unknown are the autumn tints, the bright browns and yellows of
English woods; much less the crimsons, purples, and yellows of Canada,
where the dying foliage rivals, nay, excels, the expiring dolphin in
splendour. Unknown the cold sleep of winter; unknown the lovely
awakening of vegetation at the first gentle touch of spring. A ceaseless
round of ever-active life weaves the fairest scenery of the tropics into
one monotonous whole, of which the component parts exhibit in detail
untold variety of beauty."
Siberia is no doubt as a rule somewhat severe and inhospitable, but M.
Patrin mentions with enthusiasm how one day descending from the frozen
summits of the Altai, he came suddenly on a view of the plain of the
Obi--the most beautiful spectacle, he says, which he had ever witnessed.
Behind him were barren rocks and the snows of winter, in front a great
plain, not indeed entirely green, or green only in places, and for the
rest covered by three flowers, the purple Siberian Iris, the golden
Hemerocallis, and the silvery Narcissus--green, purple, gold, and white,
as far as the eye could reach.
Wallace tells us that he himself has derived the keenest enjoyment from
his sense of colour:--
"The heavenly blue of the firmament, the glowing tints of sunset, the
exquisite purity of the snowy mountains, and the endless shades of green
presented by the verdure-clad surface of the earth, are a never-failing
source of pleasure to all who enjoy the inestimable gift of sight. Yet
these constitute, as it were, but the frame and background of a
marvellous and ever-changing picture. In contrast with these broad and
soothing tints, we have presented to us in the vegetable and animal
worlds an infinite variety of objects adorned with the most beautiful
and most varied hues. Flowers, insects, and birds are the organisms
most generally ornamented in this way; and their symmetry of form, their
variety of structure, and the lavish abundance with which they clothe
and enliven the earth, cause them to be objects of universal admiration.
The relation of this wealth of colour to our mental and moral nature is
indisputable. The child and the savage alike admire the gay tints of
flowers, birds, and insects; while to many of us their contemplation
brings a solace and enjoyment which is both intellectually and morally
beneficial. It can then hardly excite surprise that this relation was
long thought to afford a sufficient explanation of the phenomena of
colour in nature; and although the fact that--
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air,
might seem to throw some doubt on the sufficiency of the explanation,
the answer was easy,--that in the progress of discovery man would,
sooner or later, find out and enjoy every beauty that the hidden
recesses of the earth have in store for him."
Professor Colvin speaks with special admiration of Greek scenery:--
"In other climates, it is only in particular states of the weather that
the remote ever seems so close, and then with an effect which is sharp
and hard as well as clear; here the clearness is soft; nothing cuts or
glitters, seen through that magic distance; the air has not only a new
transparency so that you can see farther into it than elsewhere, but a
new quality, like some crystal of an unknown water, so that to see into
it is greater glory." Speaking of the ranges and promontories of sterile
limestone, the same writer observes that their colours are as austere
and delicate as the forms. "If here the scar of some old quarry throws a
stain, or there the clinging of some thin leafage spreads a bloom, the
stain is of precious gold, and the bloom of silver. Between the blue of
the sky and the tenfold blue of the sea these bare ranges seem, beneath
that daylight, to present a whole system of noble colour flung abroad
over perfect forms. And wherever, in the general sterility, you find a
little moderate verdure--a little moist grass, a cluster of
cypresses--or whenever your eye lights upon the one wood of the
district, the long olive grove of the Cephissus, you are struck with a
sudden sense of richness, and feel as if the splendours of the tropics
would be nothing to this."
Most travellers have been fascinated by the beauty of night in the
tropics. Our evenings no doubt are often delicious also, though the mild
climate we enjoy is partly due to the sky being so often overcast. In
parts of the tropics, however, the air is calm and cloudless throughout
nearly the whole of the year. There is no dew, and the inhabitants sleep
on the house-tops, in full view of the brightness of the stars and the
beauty of the sky, which is almost indescribable.
"Il faisait," says Bernardin de St. Pierre of such a scene, "une de ces
nuits délicieuses, si communes entre les tropiques, et dont le plus
abile pinceau ne rendrait pas le beauté. La lune paraissait au milieu du
firmament, entourée d'un rideau de nuages, que ses rayons dissipaient
par degrés. Sa lumière se répandait insensiblement sur les montagnes de
l'île et sur leurs pitons, qui brillaient d'un vert argenté. Les vents
retenaient leurs haleines. On entendait dans les bois, au fond des
vallées, au haut des rochers, de petits cris, de doux murmures
d'oiseaux, qui se caressaient dans leurs nids, réjouis par la clarté de
la nuit et la tranquillité de l'air. Tous, jusqu'aux insectes,
bruissaient sous l'herbe. Les étoiles étincelaient au ciel, et se
réfléchissaient au sein de la mer, qui répétait leurs images
tremblantes."
In the Arctic and Antarctic regions the nights are often made quite
gorgeous by the Northern Lights or Aurora borealis, and the
corresponding appearance in the Southern hemisphere. The Aurora borealis
generally begins towards evening, and first appears as a faint glimmer
in the north, like the approach of dawn. Gradually a curve of light
spreads like an immense arch of yellowish-white hue, which gains rapidly
in brilliancy, flashes and vibrates like a flame in the wind. Often two
or even three arches appear one over the other. After a while coloured
rays dart upwards in divergent pencils, often green below, yellow in the
centre, and crimson above, while it is said that sometimes almost
black, or at least very dark violet, rays are interspersed among the
rings of light, and heighten their effect by contrast. Sometimes the two
ends of the arch seem to rise off the horizon, and the whole sheet of
light throbs and undulates like a fringed curtain of light; sometimes
the sheaves of rays unite into an immense cupola; while at others the
separate rays seem alternately lit and extinguished. Gradually the light
flickers and fades away, and has generally disappeared before the first
glimpse of dawn.
We seldom see the Aurora in the south of England, but we must not
complain; our winters are mild, and every month has its own charm and
beauty.
In January we have the lengthening days.
" February " the first butterfly.
" March " the opening buds.
" April " the young leaves and spring flowers.
" May " the song of birds.
" June " the sweet new-mown hay.
" July " the summer flowers.
" August " the golden grain.
" September " the fruit.
" October " the autumn tints.
" November " the hoar frost on trees and the pure snow.
" December " last not least, the holidays of Christmas, and the
bright fireside.
It is well to begin the year in January, for we have then before us all
the hope of spring.
Oh wind,
If winter comes, can spring be long behind?[8]
Spring seems to revive us all. In the Song of Solomon--
My beloved spake, and said unto me,
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For, lo, the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
The time of the singing of birds is come,
The voice of the turtle is heard in our land,
The fig tree putteth forth her green figs,
And the vines with the tender grape give a good smell.
"But indeed there are days," says Emerson, "which occur in this climate,
at almost any season of the year, wherein the world reaches its
perfection, when the air, the heavenly bodies, and the earth make a
harmony, as if nature would indulge her offspring.... These halcyon days
may be looked for with a little more assurance in that pure October
weather, which we distinguish by the name of the Indian summer. The day,
immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm wide fields. To
have lived through all its sunny hours, seems longevity enough." Yet
does not the very name of Indian summer imply the superiority of the
summer itself,--the real, the true summer, "when the young corn is
bursting into ear; the awned heads of rye, wheat, and barley, and the
nodding panicles of oats, shoot from their green and glaucous stems, in
broad, level, and waving expanses of present beauty and future promise.
The very waters are strewn with flowers: the buck-bean, the
water-violet, the elegant flowering rush, and the queen of the waters,
the pure and splendid white lily, invest every stream and lonely mere
with grace."[9]
For our greater power of perceiving, and therefore of enjoying Nature,
we are greatly indebted to Science. Over and above what is visible to
the unaided eye, the two magic tubes, the telescope and microscope, have
revealed to us, at least partially, the infinitely great and the
infinitely little.
Science, our Fairy Godmother, will, unless we perversely reject her
help, and refuse her gifts, so richly endow us, that fewer hours of
labour will serve to supply us with the material necessaries of life,
leaving us more time to ourselves, more leisure to enjoy all that makes
life best worth living.
Even now we all have some leisure, and for it we cannot be too grateful.
"If any one," says Seneca, "gave you a few acres, you would say that you
had received a benefit; can you deny that the boundless extent of the
earth is a benefit? If a house were given you, bright with marble, its
roof beautifully painted with colours and gilding, you would call it no
small benefit. God has built for you a mansion that fears no fire or
ruin ... covered with a roof which glitters in one fashion by day, and
in another by night. Whence comes the breath which you draw; the light
by which you perform the actions of your life? the blood by which your
life is maintained? the meat by which your hunger is appeased?... The
true God has planted, not a few oxen, but all the herds on their
pastures throughout the world, and furnished food to all the flocks; he
has ordained the alternation of summer and winter ... he has invented so
many arts and varieties of voice, so many notes to make music.... We
have implanted in us the seeds of all ages, of all arts; and God our
Master brings forth our intellects from obscurity."[10]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] _Choses Vues._
[2] Wordsworth.
[3] Cicero, _De Natura Deorum_.
[4] Thoreau.
[5] Spenser.
[6] Darwin's _Voyage of the Beagle_.
[7] Hamerton's _Landscape_.
[8] Shelley.
[9] Howitt's _Book of the Seasons_.
[10] Seneca, _De Beneficiis_.
CHAPTER II
ON ANIMAL LIFE
If thy heart be right, then will every creature be to thee a
mirror of life, and a book of holy doctrine.
THOMAS À KEMPIS.
CHAPTER II
ON ANIMAL LIFE
There is no species of animal or plant which would not well repay, I
will not say merely the study of a day, but even the devotion of a
lifetime. Their form and structure, development and habits, geographical
distribution, relation to other living beings, and past history,
constitute an inexhaustible study.
When we consider how much we owe to the Dog, Man's faithful friend, to
the noble Horse, the patient Ox, the Cow, the Sheep, and our other
domestic animals, we cannot be too grateful to them; and if we cannot,
like some ancient nations, actually worship them, we have perhaps fallen
into the other extreme, underrate the sacredness of animal life, and
treat them too much like mere machines.
Some species, however, are no doubt more interesting than others,
especially perhaps those which live together in true communities, and
which offer so many traits--some sad, some comical, and all
interesting,--which reproduce more or less closely the circumstances of
our own life.
The modes of animal life are almost infinitely diversified; some live on
land, some in water; of those which are aquatic some dwell in rivers,
some in lakes or pools, some on the sea-shore, others in the depths of
the ocean. Some burrow in the ground, some find their home in the air.
Some live in the Arctic regions, some in the burning deserts; one little
beetle (Hydrobius) in the thermal waters of Hammam-Meskoutin, at a
temperature of 130°. As to food, some are carnivorous and wage open war;
some, more insidious, attack their victims from within; others feed on
vegetable food, on leaves or wood, on seeds or fruits; in fact, there is
scarcely an animal or vegetable substance which is not the special and
favourite food of one or more species. Hence to adapt them to these
various requirements we find the utmost differences of form and size
and structure. Even the same individual often goes through great
changes.
GROWTH AND METAMORPHOSES
The development, indeed, of an animal from birth to maturity is no mere
question of growth. The metamorphoses of Insects have long excited the
wonder and admiration of all lovers of nature. They depend to a great
extent on the fact that the little creatures quit the egg at an early
stage of development, and lead a different life, so that the external
forces acting on them, are very different from those by which they are
affected when they arrive at maturity. A remarkable case is that of
certain Beetles which are parasitic on Solitary Bees. The young larva is
very active, with six strong legs. It conceals itself in some flower,
and when the Bee comes in search of honey, leaps upon her, but is so
minute as not to be perceived. The Bee constructs her cell, stores it
with honey, and lays her egg. At that moment the little larva quits the
Bee and jumps on to the egg, which she proceeds gradually to devour.
Having finished the egg, she attacks the honey; but under these
circumstances the activity which was at first so necessary has become
useless; the legs which did such good service are no longer required;
and the active slim larva changes into a white fleshy grub, which floats
comfortably in the honey with its mouth just below the surface.
Even in the same group we may find great differences. For instance, in
the family of Insects to which Bees and Wasps belong, some have grub
larvæ, such as the Bee and Ant; some have larvæ like caterpillars, such
as the Sawflies; and there is a group of minute forms the larvæ of which
live inside the eggs of other insects, and present very remarkable and
abnormal forms.
These differences depend mainly on the mode of life and the character of
the food.
RUDIMENTARY ORGANS
Such modifications may be called adaptive, but there are others of a
different origin that have reference to the changes which the race has
passed through in bygone ages. In fact the great majority of animals do
go through metamorphoses (many of them as remarkable, though not so
familiar as those of insects), but in many cases they are passed through
within the egg and thus escape popular observation. Naturalists who
accept the theory of evolution, consider that the development of each
individual represents to a certain extent that which the species has
itself gone through in the lapse of ages; that every individual contains
within itself, so to say, a history of the race. Thus the rudimentary
teeth of Cows, Sheep, Whales, etc. (which never emerge from their
sockets), the rudimentary toes of many mammals, the hind legs of Whales
and of the Boa-constrictor, which are imbedded in the flesh, the
rudimentary collar-bone of the Dog, etc., are indications of descent
from ancestors in which these organs were fully developed. Again, though
used for such different purposes, the paddle of a Whale, the leg of a
Horse and of a Mole, the wing of a Bird or a Bat, and the arm of a Man,
are all constructed on the same model, include corresponding bones, and
are similarly arranged. The long neck of the Giraffe, and the short one
of the Whale (if neck it can be called), contain the same number of
vertebræ.
Even after birth the young of allied species resemble one another much
more than the mature forms. The stripes on the young Lion, the spots on
the young Blackbird, are well-known cases; and we find the same law
prevalent among the lower animals, as, for instance, among Insects and
Crustacea. The Lobster, Crab, Shrimp, and Barnacle are very unlike when
full grown, but in their young stages go through essentially similar
metamorphoses.
No animal is perhaps in this respect more interesting than the Horse.
The skull of a Horse and that of a Man, though differing so much, are,
says Flower,[11] "composed of exactly the same number of bones, having
the same general arrangement and relation to each other. Not only the
individual bones, but every ridge and surface for the attachment of
muscles, and every hole for the passage of artery or nerve, seen in the
one can be traced in the other." It is often said that the Horse
presents a remarkable peculiarity in that the canine teeth grow but
once. There are, however, in most Horses certain spicules or minute
points which are shed before the appearance of the permanent canines,
and which are probably the last remnants of the true milk canines.
The foot is reduced to a single toe, representing the third digit, but
the second and fourth, though rudimentary, are represented by the splint
bones; while the foot also contains traces of several muscles,
originally belonging to the toes which have now disappeared, and which
"linger as it were behind, with new relations and uses, sometimes in a
reduced, and almost, if not quite, functionless condition." Even Man
himself presents traces of gill-openings, and indications of other
organs which are fully developed in lower animals.
MODIFICATIONS
There is in New Zealand a form of Crow (Hura), in which the female has
undergone a very curious modification. It is the only case I know, in
which the bill is differently shaped in the two sexes. The bird has
taken on the habits of a Woodpecker, and the stout crow-like bill of the
cock-bird is admirably adapted to tap trees, and if they sound hollow,
to dig down to the burrow of the Insect; but it lacks the horny-pointed
tip of the tongue, which in the true Woodpecker is provided with
recurved hairs, thus enabling that bird to pierce the grub and draw it
out. In the Hura, however, the bill of the hen-bird has become much
elongated and slightly curved, and when the cock has dug down to the
burrow, the hen inserts her long bill and draws out the grub, which
they then divide between them: a very pretty illustration of the wife as
helpmate to the husband.
It was indeed until lately the general opinion that animals and plants
came into existence just as we now see them. We took pleasure in their
beauty; their adaptation to their habits and mode of life in many cases
could not be overlooked or misunderstood. Nevertheless the book of
Nature was like some missal richly illuminated, but written in an
unknown tongue. The graceful forms of the letters, the beauty of the
colouring, excited our wonder and admiration; but of the true meaning
little was known to us; indeed we scarcely realised that there was any
meaning to decipher. Now glimpses of the truth are gradually revealing
themselves, we perceive that there is a reason, and in many cases we
know what the reason is, for every difference in form, in size, and in
colour; for every bone and every feather, almost for every hair.[12]
COLOUR
The colours of animals, generally, I believe, serve as a protection. In
some, however, they probably render them more attractive to their mates,
of which the Peacock is one of the most remarkable illustrations.
In richness of colour birds and insects vie even with flowers. "One fine
red admiral butterfly," says Jefferies,[13] "whose broad wings,
stretched out like fans, looked simply splendid floating round and round
the willows which marked the margin of a dry pool. His blue markings
were really blue--blue velvet--his red and the white stroke shone as if
sunbeams were in his wings. I wish there were more of these butterflies;
in summer, dry summer, when the flowers seem gone and the grass is not
so dear to us, and the leaves are dull with heat, a little colour is so
pleasant. To me colour is a sort of food; every spot of colour is a drop
of wine to the spirit."
The varied colours which add so much to the beauty of animals and
plants are not only thus a delight to the eye, but afford us also some
of the most interesting problems in Natural History. Some probably are
not in themselves of any direct advantage. The brilliant mother-of-pearl
of certain shells, which during life is completely hidden, the rich
colours of some internal organs of animals, are not perhaps of any
direct benefit, but are incidental, like the rich and brilliant hues of
many minerals and precious stones.
But although this may be true, I believe that most of these colours are
now of some advantage. "The black back and silvery belly of fishes" have
been recently referred to by a distinguished naturalist as being
obviously of no direct benefit. I should on the contrary have quoted
this case as one where the advantage was obvious. The dark back renders
the fish less conspicuous to an eye looking down into the water; while
the white under-surface makes them less visible from below. The animals
of the desert are sand-coloured; those of the Arctic regions are white
like snow, especially in winter; and pelagic animals are blue.
Let us take certain special cases. The Lion, like other desert animals,
is sand-coloured; the Tiger which lives in the Jungle has vertical
stripes, making him difficult to see among the upright grass; Leopards
and the tree-cats are spotted, like rays of light seen through leaves.
An interesting case is that of the animals living in the Sargasso or
gulf-weed of the Atlantic. These creatures--Fish, Crustacea, and
Mollusks alike--are characterised by a peculiar colouring, not
continuously olive like the Seaweed itself, but blotched with rounded
more or less irregular patches of bright, opaque white, so as closely to
resemble fronds covered with patches of Flustra or Barnacles.
Take the case of caterpillars, which are especially defenceless, and
which as a rule feed on leaves. The smallest and youngest are green,
like the leaves on which they live. When they become larger, they are
characterised by longitudinal lines, which break up the surface and thus
render them less conspicuous. On older and larger ones the lines are
diagonal, like the nerves of leaves. Conspicuous caterpillars are
generally either nauseous in taste, or protected by hairs.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--_Choerocampa porcellus._]
I say "generally," because there are some interesting exceptions. The
large caterpillars of some of the Elephant Hawkmoths are very
conspicuous, and rendered all the more so by the presence of a pair of
large eyelike spots. Every one who sees one of these caterpillars is
struck by its likeness to a snake, and the so-called "eyes" do much to
increase the deception. Moreover, the ring on which they are placed is
swollen, and the insect, when in danger, has the habit of retracting its
head and front segments, which gives it an additional resemblance to
some small reptile. That small birds are, as a matter of fact, afraid of
these caterpillars (which, however, I need not say, are in reality
altogether harmless) Weismann has proved by actual experiment. He put
one of these caterpillars in a tray, in which he was accustomed to place
seed for birds. Soon a little flock of sparrows and other small birds
assembled to feed as usual. One of them lit on the edge of this tray,
and was just going to hop in, when she spied the caterpillar.
Immediately she began bobbing her head up and down in the odd way which
some small birds have, but was afraid to go nearer. Another joined her
and then another, until at last there was a little company of ten or
twelve birds all looking on in astonishment, but not one ventured into
the tray; while one bird, which lit in it unsuspectingly, beat a hasty
retreat in evident alarm as soon as she perceived the caterpillar. After
waiting for some time, Weismann removed it, when the birds soon attacked
the seeds. Other caterpillars also are probably protected by their
curious resemblance to spotted snakes. One of the large Indian
caterpillars has even acquired the power of hissing.
Among perfect insects many resemble closely the substances near which
they live. Some moths are mottled so as to mimic the bark of trees, or
moss, or the surface of stones. One beautiful tropical butterfly has a
dark wing on which are painted a series of green leaf tips, so that it
closely resembles the edge of a pinnate leaf projecting out of shade
into sunshine.
The argument is strengthened by those cases in which the protection, or
other advantage, is due not merely to colour, but partly also to form.
Such are the insects which resemble sticks or leaves. Again, there are
cases in which insects mimic others, which, for some reason or other,
are less liable to danger. So also many harmless animals mimic others
which are poisonous or otherwise well protected. Some butterflies, as
Mr. Bates has pointed out, mimic others which are nauseous in taste, and
therefore not attacked by birds. In these cases it is generally only the
females that are mimetic, and in some cases only a part of them, so that
there are two, or even three, kinds of females, the one retaining the
normal colouring of the group, the other mimicking another species. Some
spiders closely resemble Ants, and several other insects mimic Wasps or
Hornets.
Some reptiles and fish have actually the power of changing the colour of
their skin so as to adapt themselves to their surroundings.
Many cases in which the colouring does not at first sight appear to be
protective, will on consideration be found to be so. It has, for
instance, been objected that sheep are not coloured green; but every
mountaineer knows that sheep could not have had a colour more adapted to
render them inconspicuous, and that it is almost impossible to
distinguish them from the rocks which so constantly crop up on hill
sides. Even the brilliant blue of the Kingfisher, which in a museum
renders it so conspicuous, in its native haunts, on the contrary, makes
it difficult to distinguish from a flash of light upon the water; and
the richly-coloured Woodpecker wears the genuine dress of a
Forester--the green coat and crimson cap.
It has been found that some brilliantly coloured and conspicuous animals
are either nauseous or poisonous. In these cases the brilliant colour
is doubtless a protection by rendering them more unmistakable.
COMMUNITIES
Some animals may delight us especially by their beauty, such as birds or
butterflies; others may surprise us by their size, as Elephants and
Whales, or the still more marvellous monsters of ancient times; may
fascinate us by their exquisite forms, such as many microscopic shells;
or compel our reluctant attention by their similarity to us in
structure; but none offer more points of interest than those which live
in communities. I do not allude to the temporary assemblages of
Starlings, Swallows, and other birds at certain times of year, nor even
to the permanent associations of animals brought together by common
wants in suitable localities, but to regular and more or less organised
associations. Such colonies as those of Rooks and Beavers have no doubt
interesting revelations and surprises in store for us, but they have not
been as yet so much studied as those of some insects. Among these the
Hive Bees, from the beauty and regularity of their cells, from their
utility to man, and from the debt we owe them for their unconscious
agency in the improvement of flowers, hold a very high place; but they
are probably less intelligent, and their relations with other animals
and with one another are less complex than in the case of Ants, which
have been so well studied by Gould, Huber, Forel, M'Cook, and other
naturalists.
The subject is a wide one, for there are at least a thousand species of
Ants, no two of which have the same habits. In this country we have
rather more than thirty, most of which I have kept in confinement. Their
life is comparatively long: I have had working Ants which were seven
years old, and a Queen Ant lived in one of my nests for fifteen years.
The community consists, in addition to the young, of males, which do no
work, of wingless workers, and one or more Queen mothers, who have at
first wings, which, however, after one Marriage flight, they throw off,
as they never leave the nest again, and in it wings would of course be
useless. The workers do not, except occasionally, lay eggs, but carry on
all the affairs of the community. Some of them, and especially the
younger ones, remain in the nest, excavate chambers and tunnels, and
tend the young, which are sorted up according to age, so that my nests
often had the appearance of a school, with the children arranged in
classes.
In our English Ants the workers in each species are all similar except
in size, but among foreign species there are some in which there are two
or even more classes of workers, differing greatly not only in size, but
also in form. The differences are not the result of age, nor of race,
but are adaptations to different functions, the nature of which,
however, is not yet well understood. Among the Termites those of one
class certainly seem to act as soldiers, and among the true Ants also
some have comparatively immense heads and powerful jaws. It is doubtful,
however, whether they form a real army. Bates observed that on a
foraging expedition the large-headed individuals did not walk in the
regular ranks, nor on the return did they carry any of the booty, but
marched along at the side, and at tolerably regular intervals, "like
subaltern officers in a marching regiment." He is disposed, however, to
ascribe to them a much humbler function, namely, to serve merely "as
indigestible morsels to the ant thrushes." This, I confess, seems to me
improbable.
Solomon was, so far as we yet know, quite correct in describing Ants as
having "neither guide, overseer, nor ruler." The so-called Queens are
really Mothers. Nevertheless it is true, and it is curious, that the
working Ants and Bees always turn their heads towards the Queen. It
seems as if the sight of her gave them pleasure. On one occasion, while
moving some Ants from one nest into another for exhibition at the Royal
Institution, I unfortunately crushed the Queen and killed her. The
others, however, did not desert her, or draw her out as they do dead
workers, but on the contrary carried her into the new nest, and
subsequently into a larger one with which I supplied them, congregating
round her for weeks just as if she had been alive. One could hardly
help fancying that they were mourning her loss, or hoping anxiously for
her recovery.
The Communities of Ants are sometimes very large, numbering even up to
500,000 individuals; and it is a lesson to us, that no one has ever yet
seen a quarrel between any two Ants belonging to the same community. On
the other hand it must be admitted that they are in hostility, not only
with most other insects, including Ants of different species, but even
with those of the same species if belonging to different communities. I
have over and over again introduced Ants from one of my nests into
another nest of the same species, and they were invariably attacked,
seized by a leg or an antenna, and dragged out.
It is evident therefore that the Ants of each community all recognise
one another, which is very remarkable. But more than this, I several
times divided a nest into two halves, and found that even after a
separation of a year and nine months they recognised one another, and
were perfectly friendly; while they at once attacked Ants from a
different nest, although of the same species.
It has been suggested that the Ants of each nest have some sign or
password by which they recognise one another. To test this I made some
insensible. First I tried chloroform, but this was fatal to them; and as
therefore they were practically dead, I did not consider the test
satisfactory. I decided therefore to intoxicate them. This was less easy
than I had expected. None of my Ants would voluntarily degrade
themselves by getting drunk. However, I got over the difficulty by
putting them into whisky for a few moments. I took fifty specimens,
twenty-five from one nest and twenty-five from another, made them dead
drunk, marked each with a spot of paint, and put them on a table close
to where other Ants from one of the nests were feeding. The table was
surrounded as usual with a moat of water to prevent them from straying.
The Ants which were feeding soon noticed those which I had made drunk.
They seemed quite astonished to find their comrades in such a
disgraceful condition, and as much at a loss to know what to do with
their drunkards as we are. After a while, however, to cut my story
short, they carried them all away: the strangers they took to the edge
of the moat and dropped into the water, while they bore their friends
home into the nest, where by degrees they slept off the effects of the
spirit. Thus it is evident that they know their friends even when
incapable of giving any sign or password.
This little experiment also shows that they help comrades in distress.
If a Wolf or a Rook be ill or injured, we are told that it is driven
away or even killed by its comrades. Not so with Ants. For instance, in
one of my nests an unfortunate Ant, in emerging from the chrysalis skin,
injured her legs so much that she lay on her back quite helpless. For
three months, however, she was carefully fed and tended by the other
Ants. In another case an Ant in the same manner had injured her antennæ.
I watched her also carefully to see what would happen. For some days she
did not leave the nest. At last one day she ventured outside, and after
a while met a stranger Ant of the same species, but belonging to another
nest, by whom she was at once attacked. I tried to separate them, but
whether by her enemy, or perhaps by my well-meant but clumsy kindness,
she was evidently much hurt and lay helplessly on her side. Several
other Ants passed her without taking any notice, but soon one came up,
examined her carefully with her antennæ, and carried her off tenderly to
the nest. No one, I think, who saw it could have denied to that Ant one
attribute of humanity, the quality of kindness.
The existence of such communities as those of Ants or Bees implies, no
doubt, some power of communication, but the amount is still a matter of
doubt. It is well known that if one Bee or Ant discovers a store of
food, others soon find their way to it. This, however, does not prove
much. It makes all the difference whether they are brought or sent. If
they merely accompany on her return a companion who has brought a store
of food, it does not imply much. To test this, therefore, I made
several experiments. For instance, one cold day my Ants were almost all
in their nests. One only was out hunting and about six feet from home. I
took a dead bluebottle fly, pinned it on to a piece of cork, and put it
down just in front of her. She at once tried to carry off the fly, but
to her surprise found it immovable. She tugged and tugged, first one way
and then another for about twenty minutes, and then went straight off to
the nest. During that time not a single Ant had come out; in fact she
was the only Ant of that nest out at the time. She went straight in, but
in a few seconds--less than half a minute,--came out again with no less
than twelve friends, who trooped off with her, and eventually tore up
the dead fly, carrying it off in triumph.
Now the first Ant took nothing home with her; she must therefore somehow
have made her friends understand that she had found some food, and
wanted them to come and help her to secure it. In all such cases,
however, so far as my experience goes, the Ants brought their friends,
and some of my experiments indicated that they are unable to send them.
Certain species of Ants, again, make slaves of others, as Huber first
observed. If a colony of the slave-making Ants is changing the nest, a
matter which is left to the discretion of the slaves, the latter carry
their mistresses to their new home. Again, if I uncovered one of my
nests of the Fuscous Ant (Formica fusca), they all began running about
in search of some place of refuge. If now I covered over one small part
of the nest, after a while some Ant discovered it. In such a case,
however, the brave little insect never remained there, she came out in
search of her friends, and the first one she met she took up in her
jaws, threw over her shoulder (their way of carrying friends), and took
into the covered part; then both came out again, found two more friends
and brought them in, the same manoeuvre being repeated until the whole
community was in a place of safety. This I think says much for their
public spirit, but seems to prove that, in F. fusca at least, the powers
of communication are but limited.
One kind of slave-making Ant has become so completely dependent on their
slaves, that even if provided with food they will die of hunger, unless
there is a slave to put it into their mouth. I found, however, that they
would thrive very well if supplied with a slave for an hour or so once a
week to clean and feed them.
But in many cases the community does not consist of Ants only. They have
domestic animals, and indeed it is not going too far to say that they
have domesticated more animals than we have. Of these the most important
are Aphides. Some species keep Aphides on trees and bushes, others
collect root-feeding Aphides into their nests. They serve as cows to the
Ants, which feed on the honey-dew secreted by the Aphides. Not only,
moreover, do the Ants protect the Aphides themselves, but collect their
eggs in autumn, and tend them carefully through the winter, ready for
the next spring. Many other insects are also domesticated by Ants, and
some of them, from living constantly underground, have completely lost
their eyes and become quite blind.
But I must not let myself be carried away by this fascinating subject,
which I have treated more at length in another work.[14] I will only say
that though their intelligence is no doubt limited, still I do not think
that any one who has studied the life-history of Ants can draw any
fundamental line of separation between instinct and reason.
When we see a community of Ants working together in perfect harmony, it
is impossible not to ask ourselves how far they are mere exquisite
automatons; how far they are conscious beings? When we watch an ant-hill
tenanted by thousands of industrious inhabitants, excavating chambers,
forming tunnels, making roads, guarding their home, gathering food,
feeding the young, tending their domestic animals--each one fulfilling
its duties industriously, and without confusion,--it is difficult
altogether to deny to them the gift of reason; and all our recent
observations tend to confirm the opinion that their mental powers differ
from those of men, not so much in kind as in degree.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] _The Horse._
[12] Lubbock, _Fifty Years of Science_.
[13] _The Open Air._
[14] _Ants, Bees, and Wasps._
CHAPTER III
ON ANIMAL LIFE--_continued_
An organic being is a microcosm--a little universe, formed of a
host of self-propagating organisms, inconceivably minute and
numerous as the stars of heaven.
DARWIN.
CHAPTER III
ON ANIMAL LIFE--_continued._
We constantly speak of animals as free. A fish, says Ruskin, "is much
freer than a Man; and as to a fly, it is a black incarnation of
freedom." It is pleasant to think of anything as free, but in this case
the idea is, I fear, to a great extent erroneous. Young animals may
frolic and play, but older ones take life very seriously. About the
habits of fish and flies, indeed, as yet we know very little. Any one,
however, who will watch animals will soon satisfy himself how diligently
they work. Even when they seem to be idling over flowers, or wandering
aimlessly about, they are in truth diligently seeking for food, or
collecting materials for nests. The industry of Bees is proverbial. When
collecting honey or pollen they often visit over twenty flowers in a
minute, keeping constantly to one species, without yielding a moment's
dalliance to any more sweet or lovely tempter. Ants fully deserve the
commendation of Solomon. Wasps have not the same reputation for
industry; but I have watched them from before four in the morning till
dark at night working like animated machines without a moment's rest or
intermission. Sundays and Bank Holidays are all the same to them. Again,
Birds have their own gardens and farms from which they do not wander,
and within which they will tolerate no interference. Their ideas of the
rights of property are far stricter than those of some statesmen. As to
freedom, they have their daily duties as much as a mechanic in a mill or
a clerk in an office. They suffer under alarms, moreover, from which we
are happily free. Mr. Galton believes that the life of wild animals is
very anxious. "From my own recollection," he says, "I believe that every
antelope in South Africa has to run for its life every one or two days
upon an average, and that he starts or gallops under the influence of a
false alarm many times in a day. Those who have crouched at night by the
side of pools in the desert, in order to have a shot at the beasts that
frequent it, see strange scenes of animal life; how the creatures gambol
at one moment and fight at another; how a herd suddenly halts in
strained attention, and then breaks into a maddened rush as one of them
becomes conscious of the stealthy movements or rank scent of a beast of
prey. Now this hourly life-and-death excitement is a keen delight to
most wild creatures, but must be peculiarly distracting to the
comfort-loving temperament of others. The latter are alone suited to
endure the crass habits and dull routine of domesticated life. Suppose
that an animal which has been captured and half-tamed, received
ill-usage from his captors, either as punishment or through mere
brutality, and that he rushed indignantly into the forest with his ribs
aching from blows and stones. If a comfort-loving animal, he will
probably be no gainer by the change, more serious alarms and no less
ill-usage awaits him: he hears the roar of the wild beasts, and the
headlong gallop of the frightened herds, and he finds the buttings and
the kicks of other animals harder to endure than the blows from which he
fled: he has peculiar disadvantages from being a stranger; the herds of
his own species which he seeks for companionship constitute so many
cliques, into which he can only find admission by more fighting with
their strongest members than he has spirit to undergo. As a set-off
against these miseries, the freedom of savage life has no charms for his
temperament; so the end of it is, that with a heavy heart he turns back
to the habitation he had quitted."
But though animals may not be free, I hope and believe that they are
happy. Dr. Hudson, an admirable observer, assures us with confidence
that the struggle for existence leaves them much leisure and famous
spirits. "In the animal world," he exclaims,[15] "what happiness reigns!
What ease, grace, beauty, leisure, and content! Watch these living
specks as they glide through their forests of algæ, all 'without hurry
and care,' as if their 'span-long lives' really could endure for the
thousand years that the old catch pines for. Here is no greedy jostling
at the banquet that nature has spread for them; no dread of each other;
but a leisurely inspection of the field, that shows neither the pressure
of hunger nor the dread of an enemy.
"'To labour and to be content' (that 'sweet life' of the son of
Sirach)--to be equally ready for an enemy or a friend--to trust in
themselves alone, to show a brave unconcern for the morrow, all these
are the admirable points of a character almost universal among animals,
and one that would lighten many a heart were it more common among men.
That character is the direct result of the golden law 'If one will not
work, neither let him eat'; a law whose stern kindness, unflinchingly
applied, has produced whole nations of living creatures, without a
pauper in their ranks, flushed with health, alert, resolute,
self-reliant, and singularly happy."
It has often been said that Man is the only animal gifted with the
power of enjoying a joke, but if animals do not laugh, at any rate they
sometimes play. We are, indeed, apt perhaps to credit them with too much
of our own attributes and emotions, but we can hardly be mistaken in
supposing that they enjoy certain scents and sounds. It is difficult to
separate the games of kittens and lambs from those of children. Our
countryman Gould long ago described the "amusements or sportive
exercises" which he had observed among Ants. Forel was at first
incredulous, but finally confirmed these statements; and, speaking of
certain tropical Ants, Bates says "the conclusion that they were engaged
in play was irresistible."
SLEEP
We share with other animals the great blessing of Sleep, nature's soft
nurse, "the mantle that covers thought, the food that appeases hunger,
the drink that quenches thirst, the fire that warms cold, the cold that
moderates heat, the coin that purchases all things, the balance and
weight that equals the shepherd with the king, and the simple with the
wise." Some animals dream as we do; Dogs, for instance, evidently dream
of the chase. With the lower animals which cannot shut their eyes it is,
however, more difficult to make sure whether they are awake or asleep. I
have often noticed insects at night, even when it was warm and light,
behave just as if they were asleep, and take no notice of objects which
would certainly have startled them in the day. The same thing has also
been observed in the case of fish.
But why should we sleep? What a remarkable thing it is that one-third of
our life should be passed in unconsciousness. "Half of our days," says
Sir T. Browne, "we pass in the shadow of the earth, and the brother of
death extracteth a third part of our lives." The obvious suggestion is
that we require rest. But this does not fully meet the case. In sleep
the mind is still awake, and lives a life of its own: our thoughts
wander, uncontrolled, by the will. The mind, therefore, is not
necessarily itself at rest; and yet we all know how it is refreshed by
sleep.
But though animals sleep, many of them are nocturnal in their habits.
Humboldt gives a vivid description of night in a Brazilian forest.
"Everything passed tranquilly till eleven at night, and then a noise so
terrible arose in the neighbouring forest that it was almost impossible
to close our eyes. Amid the cries of so many wild beasts howling at once
the Indians discriminated such only as were (at intervals) heard
separately. These were the little soft cries of the sapajous, the moans
of the alouate apes, the howlings of the jaguar and couguar, the peccary
and the sloth, and the cries of (many) birds. When the jaguars
approached the skirt of the forest our dog, which till then had never
ceased barking, began to howl and seek for shelter beneath our hammocks.
Sometimes, after a long silence, the cry of the tiger came from the tops
of the trees; and then it was followed by the sharp and long whistling
of the monkeys, which appeared to flee from the danger which threatened
them. We heard the same noises repeated during the course of whole
months whenever the forest approached the bed of the river.
"When the natives are interrogated on the causes of the tremendous noise
made by the beasts of the forest at certain hours of the night, the
answer is, they are keeping the feast of the full moon. I believe this
agitation is most frequently the effect of some conflict that has arisen
in the depths of the forest. The jaguars, for instance, pursue the
peccaries and the tapirs, which, having no defence, flee in close
troops, and break down the bushes they find in their way. Terrified at
this struggle, the timid and distrustful monkeys answer, from the tops
of the trees, the cries of the large animals. They awaken the birds that
live in society, and by degrees the whole assembly is in commotion. It
is not always in a fine moonlight, but more particularly at the time of
a storm of violent showers, that this tumult takes place among the wild
beasts. 'May heaven grant them a quiet night and repose, and us also!'
said the monk who accompanied us to the Rio Negro, when, sinking with
fatigue, he assisted in arranging our accommodation for the night."
Life is indeed among animals a struggle for existence, and in addition
to the more usual weapons--teeth and claws--we find in some animals
special and peculiar means of offence and defence.
If we had not been so familiarised with the fact, the possession of
poison might well seem a wonderful gift. That a fluid, harmless in one
animal itself, should yet prove so deadly when transferred to others, is
certainly very remarkable; and though the venom of the Cobra or the
Rattlesnake appeal perhaps more effectively to our imagination, we have
conclusive evidence of concentrated poison even in the bite of a midge,
which may remain for days perceptible. The sting of a Bee or Wasp,
though somewhat similar in its effect, is a totally different organ,
being a modified ovipositor. Some species of Ants do not sting in the
ordinary sense, but eject their acrid poison to a distance of several
inches.
Another very remarkable weapon is the electric battery of certain Eels,
of the Electric Cat Fish, and the Torpedoes, one of which is said to be
able to discharge an amount of electricity sufficient to kill a Man.
Some of the Medusæ and other Zoophytes are armed by millions of minute
organs known as "thread cells." Each consists of a cell, within which a
firm, elastic thread is tightly coiled. The moment the Medusa touches
its prey the cells burst and the threads spring out. Entering the flesh
as they do by myriads, they prove very effective weapons.
The ink of the Sepia has passed into a proverb. The animal possesses a
store of dark fluid, which, if attacked, it at once ejects, and thus
escapes under cover of the cloud thus created.
The so-called Bombardier Beetles, when attacked, discharge at the enemy,
from the hinder part of their body, an acrid fluid which, as soon as it
comes in contact with air, explodes with a sound resembling a miniature
gun. Westwood mentions, on the authority of Burchell, that on one
occasion, "whilst resting for the night on the banks of one of the
large South American rivers, he went out with a lantern to make an
astronomical observation, accompanied by one of his black servant boys;
and as they were proceeding, their attention was directed to numerous
beetles running about upon the shore, which, when captured, proved to be
specimens of a large species of Brachinus. On being seized they
immediately began to play off their artillery, burning and staining the
flesh to such a degree that only a few specimens could be captured with
the naked hand, and leaving a mark which remained a considerable time.
Upon observing the whitish vapour with which the explosions were
accompanied, the negro exclaimed in his broken English, with evident
surprise, 'Ah, massa, they make smoke!'"
Many other remarkable illustrations might be quoted; as for instance the
web of the Spider, the pit of the Ant Lion, the mephitic odour of the
Skunk.
SENSES
We generally attribute to animals five senses more or less resembling
our own. But even as regards our own senses we really know or
understand very little. Take the question of colour. The rainbow is
commonly said to consist of seven colours--red, orange, yellow, green,
blue, indigo, and violet.
But it is now known that all our colour sensations are mixtures of three
simple colours, red, green, and violet. We are, however, absolutely
ignorant how we perceive these colours. Thomas Young suggested that we
have three different systems of nerve fibres, and Helmholtz regards this
as "a not improbable supposition"; but so far as microscopical
examination is concerned, there is no evidence whatever for it.
Or take again the sense of Hearing. The vibrations of the air no doubt
play upon the drum of the ear, and the waves thus produced are conducted
through a complex chain of small bones to the fenestra ovalis and so to
the inner ear or labyrinth. But beyond this all is uncertainty. The
labyrinth consists mainly of two parts (1) the cochlea, and (2) the
semicircular canals, which are three in number, standing at right angles
to one another. It has been supposed that they enable us to maintain
the equilibrium of the body, but no satisfactory explanation of their
function has yet been given. In the cochlea, Corti discovered a
remarkable organ consisting of some four thousand complex arches, which
increase regularly in length and diminish in height. They are connected
at one end with the fibres of the auditory nerve, and Helmholtz has
suggested that the waves of sound play on them, like the fingers of a
performer on the keys of a piano, each separate arch corresponding to a
different sound. We thus obtain a glimpse, though but a glimpse, of the
manner in which perhaps we hear; but when we pass on to the senses of
smell and taste, all we know is that the extreme nerve fibres terminate
in certain cells which differ in form from those of the general surface;
but in what manner the innumerable differences of taste or smell are
communicated to the brain, we are absolutely ignorant.
If then we know so little about ourselves, no wonder that with reference
to other animals our ignorance is extreme.
We are too apt to suppose that the senses of animals must closely
resemble, and be confined to ours.
No one can doubt that the sensations of other animals differ in many
ways from ours. Their organs are sometimes constructed on different
principles, and situated in very unexpected places. There are animals
which have eyes on their backs, ears in their legs, and sing through
their sides.
We all know that the senses of animals are in many cases much more acute
than ours, as for instance the power of scent in the dog, of sight in
the eagle. Moreover, our eye is much more sensitive to some colours than
to others; least so to crimson, then successively to red, orange,
yellow, blue, and green; the sensitiveness for green being as much as
750 times as great as for red. This alone may make objects appear of
very different colours to different animals.
Nor is the difference one of degree merely. The rainbow, as we see it,
consists of seven colours--red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and
violet. But though the red and violet are the limits of the visible
spectrum, they are not the limits of the spectrum itself, there are
rays, though invisible to us, beyond the red at the one end, and beyond
the violet at the other: the existence of the ultra red can be
demonstrated by the thermometer; while the ultra violet are capable of
taking a photograph. But though the red and violet are respectively the
limits of our vision, I have shown[16] by experiments which have been
repeated and confirmed by other naturalists, that some of the lower
animals are capable of perceiving the ultra-violet rays, which to us are
invisible. It is an interesting question whether these rays may not
produce on them the impression of a new colour, or colours, differing
from any of those known to us.
So again with hearing, not only may animals in some cases hear better
than we do, but sounds which are beyond the reach of our ears, may be
audible to theirs. Even among ourselves the power of hearing shrill
sounds is greater in some persons than in others. Sound, as we know, is
produced by vibration of the air striking on the drum of the ear, and
the fewer are the vibrations in a second, the deeper is the sound, which
becomes shriller and shriller as the waves of sound become more rapid.
In human ears the limits of hearing are reached when about 35,000
vibrations strike the drum of the ear in a second.
Whatever the explanation of the gift of hearing in ourselves may be,
different plans seem to be adopted in the case of other animals. In many
Crustacea and Insects there are flattened hairs each connected with a
nerve fibre, and so constituted as to vibrate in response to particular
notes. In others the ear cavity contains certain minute solid bodies,
known as otoliths, which in the same way play upon the nerve fibres.
Sometimes these are secreted by the walls of the cavity itself, but
certain Crustacea have acquired the remarkable habit of selecting after
each moult suitable particles of sand, which they pick up with their
pincers and insert into their ears.
Many insects, besides the two large "compound" eyes one on each side of
the head, have between them three small ones, known as the "ocelli,"
arranged in a triangle. The structure of these two sets of eyes is quite
different. The ocelli appear to see as our eyes do. The lens throws an
inverted image on the back of the eye, so that with these eyes they must
see everything reversed, as we ourselves really do, though long practice
enables us to correct the impression. On the other hand, the compound
eyes consist of a number of facets, in some species as many as 20,000 in
each eye, and the prevailing impression among entomologists now is that
each facet receives the impression of one pencil of rays, that in fact
the image formed in a compound eye is a sort of mosaic. In that case,
vision by means of these eyes must be direct; and it is indeed difficult
to understand how an insect can obtain a correct impression when it
looks at the world with five eyes, three of which see everything
reversed, while the other two see things the right way up!
On the other hand, some regard each facet as an independent eye, in
which case many insects realise the epigram of Plato--
Thou lookest on the stars, my love,
Ah, would that I could be
Yon starry skies with thousand eyes,
That I might look on thee!
Even so, therefore, we only substitute one difficulty for another.
But this is not all. We have not only no proof that animals are confined
to our five senses, but there are strong reasons for believing that this
is not the case.
In the first place, many animals have organs which from their position,
structure, and rich supply of nerves, are evidently organs of sense; and
yet which do not appear to be adapted to any one of our five senses.
As already mentioned, the limits of hearing are reached when about
35,000 vibrations of the air strike on the drums of our ears. Light, as
was first conclusively demonstrated by our great countryman Young, is
the impression produced by vibration of the ether on the retina of the
eye. When 700 millions of millions of vibrations strike the eye in a
second, we see violet; and the colour changes as the number diminishes,
400 millions of millions giving us the impression of red.
Between 35 thousand and 400 millions of millions the interval is
immense, and it is obvious that there might be any number of sensations.
When we consider how greatly animals differ from us, alike in habits and
structure, is it not possible, nay, more, is it not likely that some of
these problematical organs are the seats of senses unknown to us, and
give rise to sensations of which we have no conception?
In addition to the capacity for receiving and perceiving, some animals
have the faculty of emitting light. In our country the glow-worm is the
most familiar case, though some other insects and worms have, at any
rate under certain conditions, the same power, and it is possible that
many others are really luminous, though with light which is invisible to
us. In warmer climates the Fire-fly, Lanthorn-fly, and many other
insects, shine with much greater brilliance, and in these cases the
glow seems to be a real love-light, like the lamp of Hero.
Many small marine animals, Medusæ, Crustacea, Worms, etc., are also
brilliantly luminous at night. Deep-sea animals are endowed also in many
cases with special luminous organs, to which I shall refer again.
SENSE OF DIRECTION
It has been supposed that animals possess also what has been called a
Sense of Direction. Many interesting cases are on record of animals
finding their way home after being taken a considerable distance. To
account for this fact it has been suggested that animals possess a sense
with which we are not endowed, or of which, at any rate, we possess only
a trace. The homing instinct of the pigeon has also been ascribed to the
same faculty. My brother Alfred, however, who has paid much attention to
pigeons, informs me that they are never taken any great distance at
once; but if they are intended to take a long flight, they are trained
to do so by stages.
Darwin suggested that it would be interesting to test the case by taking
animals in a close box, and then whirling them round rapidly before
letting them out. This is in fact done with cats in some parts of
France, when the family migrates, and is considered the only way of
preventing the cat from returning to the old home. Fabre has tried the
same thing with some wild Bees (Chalicodoma). He took some, marked them
on the back with a spot of white, and put them into a bag. He then
carried them a quarter of a mile, stopping at a point where an old cross
stands by the wayside, and whirled the bag rapidly round his head. While
he was doing so a good woman came by, who seemed not a little surprised
to find the Professor solemnly whirling a black bag round his head in
front of the cross; and, he fears, suspected him of Satanic practices.
He then carried his Bees a mile and a half in the opposite direction and
let them go. Three out of ten found their way home. He tried the same
experiment several times, in one case taking them a little over two
miles. On an average about a third of the Bees found their way home. "La
démonstration," says Fabre, "est suffisante. Ni les mouvements
enchevêtrés d'une rotation comme je l'ai décrite; ni l'obstacle de
collines à franchir et de bois à traverser; ni les embûches d'une voie
qui s'avance, rétrograde, et revient par un ample circuit, ne peuvent
troubler les Chalicodomes dépaysés et les empêcher de revenir au nid."
I must say, however, that I am not convinced. In the first place, the
distances were I think too short; and in the second, though it is true
that some of the Bees found their way home, nearly two-thirds failed to
do so. It would be interesting to try the experiment again, taking the
Bees say five miles. If they really possess any such sense, that
distance would be no bar to their return. I have myself experimented
with Ants, taking them about fifty yards from the nest, and I always
found that they wandered aimlessly about, having evidently not the
slightest idea of their way home. They certainly did not appear to
possess any "sense of direction."
NUMBER OF SPECIES
The total number of species may probably be safely estimated as at least
2,000,000, of which but a fraction have yet been described or named. Of
extinct species the number was probably at least as great. In the
geological history of the earth there have been at least twelve periods,
in each of which by far the greatest number were distinct. The Ancient
Poets described certain gifted mortals as having been privileged to
descend into the interior of the earth, and exercised their imagination
in recounting the wonders thus revealed. As in other cases, however, the
realities of Science have proved far more varied and surprising than the
dreams of fiction. Of these extinct species our knowledge is even more
incomplete than that of the existing species. But even of our
contemporaries it is not too much to say that, as in the case of
plants, there is not one the structure, habits, and life-history of
which are yet fully known to us. The male of the Cynips, which produces
the common King Charles Oak Apple, has only recently been discovered,
those of the root-feeding Aphides, which live in hundreds in every nest
of the yellow Meadow Ant (Lasius flavus) are still unknown; the habits
and mode of reproduction of the common Eel have only just been
discovered; and we may even say generally that many of the most
interesting recent discoveries have relation to the commonest and most
familiar animals.
IMPORTANCE OF THE SMALLER ANIMALS
Whatever pre-eminence Man may claim for himself, other animals have done
far more to affect the face of nature. The principal agents have not
been the larger or more intelligent, but rather the smaller, and
individually less important, species. Beavers may have dammed up many of
the rivers of British Columbia, and turned them into a succession of
pools or marshes, but this is a slight matter compared with the action
of earthworms and insects[17] in the creation of vegetable soil; of the
accumulation of animalcules in filling up harbours and lakes; or of
Zoophytes in the construction of coral islands.
Microscopic animals make up in number what they lack in size. Paris is
built of Infusoria. The Peninsula of Florida, 78,000 square miles in
extent, is entirely composed of coral debris and fragments of shells.
Chalk consists mainly of Foraminifera and fragments of shells deposited
in a deep sea. The number of shells required to make up a cubic inch is
almost incredible. Ehrenberg has estimated that of the Bilin polishing
slate which caps the mountain, and has a thickness of forty feet, a
cubic inch contains many hundred million shells of Infusoria.
In another respect these microscopic organisms are of vital importance.
Many diseases are now known, and others suspected, to be entirely due to
Bacteria and other minute forms of life (Microbes), which multiply
incredibly, and either destroy their victims, or after a while diminish
again in numbers. We live indeed in a cloud of Bacteria. At the
observatory of Montsouris at Paris it has been calculated that there are
about 80 in each cubic meter of air. Elsewhere, however, they are much
more numerous. Pasteur's researches on the Silkworm disease led him to
the discovery of Bacterium anthracis, the cause of splenic fever.
Microbes are present in persons suffering from cholera, typhus,
whooping-cough, measles, hydrophobia, etc., but as to their history and
connection with disease we have yet much to learn. It is fortunate,
indeed, that they do not all attack us.
In surgical cases, again, the danger of compound fractures and
mortification of wounds has been found to be mainly due to the presence
of microscopic organisms; and Lister, by his antiseptic treatment which
destroys these germs or prevents their access, has greatly diminished
the danger of operations, and the sufferings of recovery.
SIZE OF ANIMALS
In the size of animals we find every gradation from these atoms which
even in the most powerful microscopes appear as mere points, up to the
gigantic reptiles of past ages and the Whales of our present ocean. The
horned Ray or Skate is 25 feet in length, by 30 in width. The
Cuttle-fishes of our seas, though so hideous as to resemble a bad dream,
are too small to be formidable; but off the Newfoundland coast is a
species with arms sometimes 30 feet long, so as to be 60 feet from tip
to tip. The body, however, is small in proportion. The Giraffe attains a
height of over 20 feet; the Elephant, though not so tall, is more bulky;
the Crocodile reaches a length of over 20 feet, the Python of 60 feet,
the extinct Titanosaurus of the American Jurassic beds, the largest land
animal yet known to us, 100 feet in length and 30 in height; the
Whalebone Whale over 70 feet, Sibbald's Whale is said to have reached
80-90, which is perhaps the limit. Captain Scoresby indeed mentions a
Rorqual no less than 120 feet in length, but this is probably too great
an estimate.
COMPLEXITY OF ANIMAL STRUCTURE
The complexity of animal structure is even more marvellous than their
mere magnitude. A Caterpillar contains more than 2000 muscles. In our
own body are some 2,000,000 perspiration glands, communicating with the
surface by ducts having a total length of some 10 miles; while that of
the arteries, veins, and capillaries must be very great; the blood
contains millions of millions of corpuscles, each no doubt a complex
structure in itself; the rods in the retina, which are supposed to be
the ultimate recipient of light, are estimated at 30,000,000; and
Meinert has calculated that the gray matter of the brain is built up of
at least 600,000,000 cells. No verbal description, however, can do
justice to the marvellous complexity of animal structure, which the
microscope alone, and even that but faintly, can enable us to realise.
LENGTH OF LIFE
How little we yet know of the life-history of Animals is illustrated by
the vagueness of our information as to the age to which they live.
Professor Lankester[18] tells us that "the paucity and uncertainty of
observations on this class of facts is extreme." The Rabbit is said to
reach 10 years, the Dog and Sheep 10-12, the Pig 20, the Horse 30, the
Camel 100, the Elephant 200, the Greenland Whale 400 (?): among Birds,
the Parrot to attain 100 years, the Raven even more. The Atur Parrot
mentioned by Humboldt, talked, but could not be understood, because it
spoke in the language of an extinct Indian tribe. It is supposed from
their rate of growth that among Fish the Carp is said to reach 150
years; and a Pike, 19 feet long, and weighing 350 lbs., is said to have
been taken in Suabia in 1497 carrying a ring, on which was inscribed, "I
am the fish which was first of all put into the lake by the hands of the
Governor of the Universe, Frederick the Second, the 5th Oct. 1230." This
would imply an age of over 267 years. Many Reptiles are no doubt very
long-lived. A Tortoise is said to have reached 500 years. As regards the
lower animals, the greatest age on record is that of Sir J. Dalzell's
Sea Anemone, which lived for over 50 years. Insects are generally
short-lived; the Queen Bee, however, is said by Aristotle, whose
statement has not been confirmed by recent writers, to live 7 years. I
myself had a Queen Ant which attained the age of 15 years.
The May Fly (Ephemera) is celebrated as living only for a day, and has
given its name to all things short-lived. The statement usually made is,
indeed, very misleading, for in its larval condition the Ephemera lives
for weeks. Many writers have expressed surprise that in the perfect
state its life should be so short. It is, however, so defenceless, and,
moreover, so much appreciated by birds and fish, that unless they laid
their eggs very rapidly none would perhaps survive to continue the
species.
Many of these estimates are, as will be seen, very vague and doubtful,
so that we must still admit with Bacon that, "touching the length and
shortness of life in living creatures, the information which may be had
is but slender, observation is negligent, and tradition fabulous. In
tame creatures their degenerate life corrupteth them, in wild creatures
their exposing to all weathers often intercepteth them."
ON INDIVIDUALITY
When we descend still lower in the animal scale, the consideration of
this question opens out a very curious and interesting subject connected
with animal individuality. As regards the animals with which we are
most familiar no such question intrudes. Among quadrupeds and birds,
fishes and reptiles, there is no difficulty in deciding whether a given
organism is an individual, or a part of an individual. Nor does the
difficulty arise in the case of most insects. The Bee or Butterfly lays
an egg which develops successively into a larva and pupa, finally
producing Bee or Butterfly. In these cases, therefore, the egg, larva,
pupa, and perfect Insect, are regarded as stages in the life of a single
individual. In certain gnats, however, the larva itself produces young
larvæ, each of which develops into a gnat, so that the egg produces not
one gnat but many gnats.
The difficulty of determining what constitutes an individual becomes
still greater among the Zoophytes. These beautiful creatures in many
cases so closely resemble plants, that until our countryman Ellis proved
them to be animals, Crabbe was justified in saying--
Involved in seawrack here we find a race,
Which Science, doubting, knows not where to place;
On shell or stone is dropped the embryo seed,
And quickly vegetates a vital breed.
We cannot wonder that such organisms were long regarded as belonging to
the vegetable kingdom. The cups which terminate the branches contain,
however, an animal structure, resembling a small Sea Anemone, and
possessing arms which capture the food by which the whole colony is
nourished. Some of these cups, moreover, differ from the rest, and
produce eggs. These then we might be disposed to term ovaries. But in
many species they detach themselves from the group and lead an
independent existence. Thus we find a complete gradation from structures
which, regarded by themselves, we should unquestionably regard as mere
organs, to others which are certainly separate and independent beings.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.--Bougainvillea fruticosa; natural size. (After
Allman.)]
Fig. 2 represents, after Allman, a colony of Bougainvillea fruticosa of
the natural size. It is a British species, which is found growing on
buoys, floating timber, etc., and, says Allman, "When in health and
vigour, offers a spectacle unsurpassed in interest by any other
species--every branchlet crowned by its graceful hydranth, and budding
with Medusæ in all stages of development (Fig. 3), some still in the
condition of minute buds, in which no trace of the definite Medusa-form
can yet be detected; others, in which the outlines of the Medusa can be
distinctly traced within the transparent ectotheque (external layer);
others, again, just casting off this thin outer pellicle, and others
completely freed from it, struggling with convulsive efforts to break
loose from the colony, and finally launched forth in the full enjoyment
of their freedom into the surrounding water. I know of no form in which
so many of the characteristic features of a typical hydroid are more
finely expressed than in this beautiful species."
[Illustration: Fig. 3.--Bougainvillea fruticosa; magnified to show
development.]
Fig. 4 represents the Medusa or free form of this beautiful species.
[Illustration: Fig. 4.--Bougainvillea fruticosa, Medusa-form.]
If we pass to another great group of Zoophytes, that of the
Jelly-fishes, we have a very similar case. For our first knowledge of
the life-history of these Zoophytes we are indebted to the Norwegian
naturalist Sars. Take, for instance, the common Jelly-fish (Medusa
aurita) (Fig. 5) of our shores.
The egg is a pear-shaped body (_1_), covered with fine hairs, by the aid
of which it swims about, the broader end in front. After a while it
attaches itself, not as might have been expected by the posterior but by
the anterior extremity (_2_). The cilia then disappear, a mouth is
formed at the free end, tentacles, first four (_3_), then eight, and at
length as many as thirty (_4_), are formed, and the little creature
resembles in essentials the freshwater polyp (Hydra) of our ponds.
[Illustration: Fig. 5.--Medusa aurita, and progressive stages of
development.]
At the same time transverse wrinkles (_4_) are formed round the body,
first near the free extremity and then gradually descending. They become
deeper and deeper, and develop lobes or divisions one under the other,
as at _5_. After a while the top ring (and subsequently the others one
by one) detaches itself, swims away, and gradually develops into a
Medusa (_6_). Thus, then, the life-history is very similar to that of
the Hydroids, only that while in the Hydroids the fixed condition is the
more permanent, and the free swimming more transitory, in the Medusæ,
on the contrary, the fixed condition is apparently only a phase in the
production of the free swimming animal. In both the one and the other,
however, the egg gives rise not to one but to many mature animals.
Steenstrup has given to these curious phenomena, many other cases of
which occur among the lower animals, and to which he first called
attention, the name of alternations of generations.
In the life-history of Infusoria (so called because they swarm in most
animal or vegetable infusions) similar difficulties encounter us. The
little creatures, many of which are round or oval in form, from time to
time become constricted in the middle; the constriction becomes deeper
and deeper, and at length the two halves twist themselves apart and swim
away. In this case, therefore, there was one, and there are now two
exactly similar; but are these two individuals? They are not parent and
offspring--that is clear, for they are of the same age; nor are they
twins, for there is no parent. As already mentioned, we regard the
Caterpillar, Chrysalis, and Butterfly as stages in the life-history of
a single individual. But among Zoophytes, and even among some insects,
one larva often produces several mature forms. In some species these
mature forms remain attached to the larval stock, and we might be
disposed to regard the whole as one complex organism. But in others they
detach themselves and lead an independent existence.
These considerations then introduce much difficulty into our conception
of the idea of an Individual.
ANIMAL IMMORTALITY
But, further than this, we are confronted by by another problem. If we
regard a mass of coral as an individual because it arises by continuous
growth from a single egg, then it follows that some corals must be
thousands of years old.
Some of the lower animals may be cut into pieces, and each piece will
develop into an entire organism. In fact the realisation of the idea of
an individual gradually becomes more and more difficult, and the
continuity of existence, even among the highest animals, gradually
forces itself upon us. I believe that as we become more rational, as we
realise more fully the conditions of existence, this consideration is
likely to have important moral results.
It is generally considered that death is the common lot of all living
beings. But is this necessarily so? Infusoria and other unicellular
animals multiply by division. That is to say, if we watch one for a
certain time, we shall observe, as already mentioned, that a
constriction takes place, which grows gradually deeper and deeper, until
at last the two halves become quite detached, and each swims away
independently. The process is repeated over and over again, and in this
manner the species is propagated. Here obviously there is no birth and
no death. Such creatures may be killed, but they have no natural term of
life. They are, in fact, theoretically immortal. Those which lived
millions of years ago may have gone on dividing and subdividing, and in
this sense multitudes of the lower animals are millions of years old.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Address to Microscopical Society, 1890.
[16] _Ants, Bees, and Wasps_, and _The Senses of Animals_.
[17] Prof. Drummond (_Tropical Africa_) dwells with great force on the
manner in which the soil of Central Africa is worked up by the White
Ants.
[18] Lankester, _Comparative Longevity_. See also Weismann, _Duration of
Life_.
CHAPTER IV
ON PLANT LIFE
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower--but _if_ I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
TENNYSON.
CHAPTER IV
ON PLANT LIFE
We are told that in old days the Fairies used to give presents of
Flowers and Leaves to those whom they wished to reward, or whom they
loved best; and though these gifts were, it appears, often received with
disappointment, still it will probably be admitted that flowers have
contributed more to the happiness of our lives than either gold or
silver or precious stones; and that our happiest days have been spent
out-of-doors in the woods and fields, when we have
... found in every woodland way
The sunlight tint of Fairy Gold.[19]
To many minds Flowers acquired an additional interest when it was shown
that there was a reason for their colour, size, and form--in fact, for
every detail of their organisation. If we did but know all that the
smallest flower could tell us, we should have solved some of the
greatest mysteries of Nature. But we cannot hope to succeed--even if we
had the genius of Plato or Aristotle--without careful, patient, and
reverent study. From such an inquiry we may hope much; already we have
glimpses, enough to convince us that the whole history will open out to
us conceptions of the Universe wider and grander than any which the
Imagination alone would ever have suggested.
Attempts to explain the forms, colours, and other characteristics of
animals and plants are by no means new. Our Teutonic forefathers had a
pretty story which explained certain points about several common plants.
Balder, the God of Mirth and Merriment, was, characteristically enough,
regarded as deficient in the possession of immortality. The other
divinities, fearing to lose him, petitioned Thor to make him immortal,
and the prayer was granted on condition that every animal and plant
would swear not to injure him. To secure this object, Nanna, Balder's
wife, descended upon the earth. Loki, the God of Envy, followed her,
disguised as a crow (which at that time were white), and settled on a
little blue flower, hoping to cover it up, so that Nanna might overlook
it. The flower, however, cried out "forget-me-not, forget-me-not," and
has ever since been known under that name. Loki then flew up into an oak
and sat on a mistletoe. Here he was more successful. Nanna carried off
the oath of the oak, but overlooked the mistletoe. She thought, however,
and the divinities thought, that she had successfully accomplished her
mission, and that Balder had received the gift of immortality.
One day, supposing Balder proof, they amused themselves by shooting at
him, posting him against a Holly. Loki tipped an arrow with a piece of
Mistletoe, against which Balder was not proof, and gave it to Balder's
brother. This, unfortunately, pierced him to the heart, and he fell
dead. Some drops of his blood spurted on to the Holly, which accounts
for the redness of the berries; the Mistletoe was so grieved that she
has ever since borne fruit like tears; and the crow, whose form Loki had
taken, and which till then had been white, was turned black.
This pretty myth accounts for several things, but is open to fatal
objections.
Recent attempts to explain the facts of Nature are not less fascinating,
and, I think, more successful.
Why then this marvellous variety? this inexhaustible treasury of
beautiful forms? Does it result from some innate tendency in each
species? Is it intentionally designed to delight the eye of man? Or has
the form and size and texture some reference to the structure and
organisation, the habits and requirements of the whole plant?
I shall never forget hearing Darwin's paper on the structure of the
Cowslip and Primrose, after which even Sir Joseph Hooker compared
himself to Peter Bell, to whom
A primrose by a river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.
We all, I think, shared the same feeling, and found that the explanation
of the flower then given, and to which I shall refer again, invested it
with fresh interest and even with new beauty.
A regular flower, such, for instance, as a Geranium or a Pink, consists
of four or more whorls of leaves, more or less modified: the lowest
whorl is the Calyx, and the separate leaves of which it is composed,
which however are sometimes united into a tube, are called sepals; (2) a
second whorl, the corolla, consisting of coloured leaves called petals,
which, however, like those of the Calyx, are often united into a tube;
(3) of one or more stamens, consisting of a stalk or filament, and a
head or anther, in which the pollen is produced; and (4) a pistil, which
is situated in the centre of the flower, and at the base of which is the
Ovary, containing one or more seeds.
Almost all large flowers are brightly coloured, many produce honey, and
many are sweet-scented.
What, then, is the use and purpose of this complex organisation?
It is, I think, well established that the main object of the colour,
scent, and honey of flowers is to attract insects, which are of use to
the plant in carrying the pollen from flower to flower.
In many species the pollen is, and no doubt it originally was in all,
carried by the air. In these cases the chance against any given grain of
pollen reaching the pistil of another flower of the same species is of
course very great, and the quantity of pollen required is therefore
immense.
In species where the pollen is wind-borne as in most of our trees--firs,
oaks, beech, ash, elm, etc., and many herbaceous plants, the flowers are
as a rule small and inconspicuous, greenish, and without either scent or
honey. Moreover, they generally flower early, so that the pollen may not
be intercepted by the leaves, but may have a better chance of reaching
another flower. And they produce an immense quantity of pollen, as
otherwise there would be little chance that any would reach the female
flower. Every one must have noticed the clouds of pollen produced by
the Scotch Fir. When, on the contrary, the pollen is carried by insects,
the quantity necessary is greatly reduced. Still it has been calculated
that a Peony flower produces between 3,000,000 and 4,000,000 pollen
grains; in the Dandelion, which is more specialised, the number is
reduced to about 250,000; while in such a flower as the Dead-nettle it
is still smaller.
The honey attracts the insects; while the scent and colour help them to
find the flowers, the scent being especially useful at night, which is
perhaps the reason why evening flowers are so sweet.
It is to insects, then, that flowers owe their beauty, scent, and
sweetness. Just as gardeners, by continual selection, have added so much
to the beauty of our gardens, so to the unconscious action of insects is
due the beauty, scent, and sweetness of the flowers of our woods and
fields.
Let us now apply these views to a few common flowers. Take, for
instance, the White Dead-nettle.
The corolla of this beautiful and familiar flower (Fig. 6) consists of
a narrow tube, somewhat expanded at the upper end (Fig. 7), where the
lower lobe forms a platform, on each side of which is a small projecting
tooth (Fig. 8, _m_). The upper portion of the corolla is an arched hood
(_co_), under which lie four anthers (_a a_), in pairs, while between
them, and projecting somewhat downwards, is the pointed pistil (_st_);
the tube at the lower part contains honey, and above the honey is a row
of hairs running round the tube.
[Illustration: Fig. 6--White Dead-nettle.]
Now, why has the flower this peculiar form? What regulates the length of
the tube? What is the use of the arch? What lesson do the little teeth
teach us? What advantage is the honey to the flower? Of what use is the
fringe of hairs? Why does the stigma project beyond the anthers? Why is
the corolla white, while the rest of the plant is green?
[Illustration: Fig. 7.]
[Illustration: Fig. 8.]
The honey of course serves to attract the Humble Bees by which the
flower is fertilised, and to which it is especially adapted; the white
colour makes the flower more conspicuous; the lower lip forms the stage
on which the Bees may alight; the length of the tube is adapted to that
of their proboscis; its narrowness and the fringe of fine hairs exclude
small insects which might rob the flower of its honey without performing
any service in return; the arched upper lip protects the stamens and
pistil, and prevents rain-drops from choking up the tube and washing
away the honey; the little teeth are, I believe, of no use to the
flower in its present condition, they are the last relics of lobes once
much larger, and still remaining so in some allied species, but which in
the Dead-nettle, being no longer of any use, are gradually disappearing;
the height of the arch has reference to the size of the Bee, being just
so much above the alighting stage that the Bee, while sucking the honey,
rubs its back against the hood and thus comes in contact first with the
stigma and then with the anthers, the pollen-grains from which adhere to
the hairs on the Bee's back, and are thus carried off to the next flower
which the Bee visits, when some of them are then licked off by the
viscid tip of the stigma.[20]
[Illustration: Fig. 9.]
[Illustration: Fig. 10.]
[Illustration: Fig. 11.]
In the Salvias, the common blue Salvia of our gardens, for instance,--a
plant allied to the Dead-nettle,--the flower (Fig. 9) is constructed on
the same plan, but the arch is much larger, so that the back of the Bee
does not nearly reach it. The stamens, however, have undergone a
remarkable modification. Two of them have become small and functionless.
In the other two the anthers or cells producing the pollen, which in
most flowers form together a round knob or head at the top of the
stamen, are separated by a long arm, which plays on the top of the
stamen as on a hinge. Of these two arms one hangs down into the tube,
closing the passage, while the other lies under the arched upper lip.
When the Bee pushes its proboscis down the tube (Fig. 11) it presses the
lower arm to one side, and the upper arm consequently descends, tapping
the Bee on the back, and dusting it with pollen. When the flower is a
little older the pistil (Fig. 9, _p_) has elongated so that the stigma
(Fig. 10, _st_) touches the back of the Bee and carries off some of the
pollen. This sounds a little complicated, but is clear enough if we take
a twig or stalk of grass and push it down the tube, when one arm of each
of the two larger stamens will at once make its appearance. It is one of
the most beautiful pieces of plant mechanism which I know, and was first
described by Sprengel, a poor German schoolmaster.
SNAPDRAGON
At first sight it may seem an objection to the view here advocated that
the flowers in some species--as, for instance, the common Snapdragon
(Antirrhinum), which, according to the above given tests, ought to be
fertilised by insects--are entirely closed. A little consideration,
however, will suggest the reply. The Snapdragon is especially adapted
for fertilisation by Humble Bees. The stamens and pistil are so
arranged that smaller species would not effect the object. It is
therefore an advantage that they should be excluded, and in fact they
are not strong enough to move the spring. The Antirrhinum is, so to
speak, a closed box, of which the Humble Bees alone possess the key.
FURZE, BROOM, AND LABURNUM
Other flowers such as the Furze, Broom, Laburnum, etc., are also opened
by Bees. The petals lock more or less into one another, and the flower
remains at first closed. When, however, the insect alighting on it
presses down the keel, the flower bursts open, and dusts it with pollen.
SWEET PEA
In the above cases the flower once opened does not close again. In
others, such as the Sweet Pea and the Bird's-foot Lotus, Nature has
been more careful. When the Bee alights it clasps the "wings" of the
flower with its legs, thus pressing them down; they are, however, locked
into the "keel," or lower petal, which accordingly is also forced down,
thus exposing the pollen which rubs against, and part of which sticks
to, the breast of the Bee. When she leaves the flower the keel and wings
rise again, thus protecting the rest of the pollen and keeping it ready
until another visitor comes. It is easy to carry out the same process
with the fingers.
[Illustration: Fig. 12. Fig. 13.
Flower and Pollen of Primrose]
PRIMULA
In the Primrose and Cowslip, again, we find quite a different plan. It
had long been known that if a number of Cowslips or Primroses are
examined, about half would be found to have the stigma at the top of the
tube and the stamens half way down, while in the other half the stamens
are at the top and the stigma half way down. These two forms are about
equally numerous, but never occur on the same stock. They have been long
known to children and gardeners, who call them thrum-eyed and pin-eyed.
Mr. Darwin was the first to explain the significance of this curious
difference. It cost him several years of patient labour, but when once
pointed out it is sufficiently obvious. An insect thrusting its
proboscis down a primrose of the long-styled form (Fig. 12) would dust
its proboscis at a part (_a_) which, when it visited a short-styled
flower (Fig. 13), would come just opposite the head of the pistil
(_st_), and could not fail to deposit some of the pollen on the stigma.
Conversely, an insect visiting a short-styled plant would dust its
proboscis at a part farther from the tip; which, when the insect
subsequently visited a long-styled flower, would again come just
opposite to the head of the pistil. Hence we see that by this beautiful
arrangement insects must carry the pollen of the long-styled form to the
short-styled, and _vice versâ_.
The economy of pollen is not the only advantage which plants derive from
these visits of Insects. A second and scarcely less important is that
they tend to secure "cross fertilisation"; that is to say, that the seed
shall be fertilised by pollen from another plant. The fact that "cross
fertilisation" is of advantage to the plant doubtless also explains the
curious arrangement that in many plants the stamen and pistil do not
mature at the same time--the former having shed their pollen before the
pistil is mature; or, which happens less often, the pistil having
withered before the pollen is ripe. In most Geraniums, Pinks, etc., for
instance, and many allied species, the stamens ripen first, and are
followed after an interval by the pistil.
THE NOTTINGHAM CATCHFLY
The Nottingham Catchfly (Silene nutans) is a very interesting case. The
flower is adapted to be fertilised by Moths. Accordingly it opens
towards evening, and as is generally the case with such flowers, is pale
in colour, and sweet-scented. There are two sets of stamens, five in
each set. The first evening that the flower opens one set of stamens
ripen and expose their pollen. Towards morning these wither away, the
flower shrivels up, ceases to emit scent, and looks as if it were faded.
So it remains all next day. Towards evening it reopens, the second set
of stamens have their turn, and the flower again becomes fragrant. By
morning, however, the second set of stamens have shrivelled, and the
flower is again asleep. Finally on the third evening it reopens for the
last time, the long spiral stigmas expand, and can hardly fail to be
fertilised with the pollen brought by Moths from other flowers.
THE HEATH
In the hanging flowers of Heaths the stamens form a ring, and each one
bears two horns. When the Bee inserts its proboscis into the flower to
reach the honey, it is sure to press against one of these horns, the
ring is dislocated, and the pollen falls on to the head of the insect.
In fact, any number of other interesting cases might be mentioned.
BEES AND FLIES
Bees are intelligent insects, and would soon cease to visit flowers
which did not supply them with food. Flies, however, are more stupid,
and are often deceived. Thus in our lovely little Parnassia, five of the
ten stamens have ceased to produce pollen, but are prolonged into
fingers, each terminating in a shining yellow knob, which looks exactly
like a drop of honey, and by which Flies are continually deceived.
Paris quadrifolia also takes them in with a deceptive promise of the
same kind. Some foreign plants have livid yellow and reddish flowers,
with a most offensive smell, and are constantly visited by Flies, which
apparently take them for pieces of decaying meat.
[Illustration: Fig. 14.--Arum.]
The flower of the common Lords and Ladies (Arum) of our hedges is a very
interesting case. The narrow neck bears a number of hairs pointing
downwards. The stamens are situated above the stigma, which comes to
maturity first. Small Flies enter the flower apparently for shelter, but
the hairs prevent them from returning, and they are kept captive until
the anthers have shed their pollen. Then, when the Flies have been well
dusted, the hairs shrivel up, leaving a clear road, and the prisoners
are permitted to escape. The tubular flowers of Aristolochia offer a
very similar case.
PAST HISTORY OF FLOWERS
If the views here advocated are correct, it follows that the original
flowers were small and green, as wind-fertilised flowers are even now.
But such flowers are inconspicuous. Those which are coloured, say yellow
or white, are of course much more visible and more likely to be visited
by insects. I have elsewhere given my reasons for thinking that under
these circumstances some flowers became yellow, that some of them became
white, others subsequently red, and some finally blue. It will be
observed that red and blue flowers are as a rule highly specialised,
such as Aconites and Larkspurs as compared with Buttercups; blue
Gentians as compared with yellow, etc. I have found by experiment that
Bees are especially partial to blue and pink.
Tubular flowers almost always, if not always, contain honey, and are
specially suited to Butterflies and Moths, Bees and Flies. Those which
are fertilised by Moths generally come out in the evening, are often
very sweetly scented, and are generally white or pale yellow, these
colours being most visible in the twilight.
Aristotle long ago noticed the curious fact that in each journey Bees
confine themselves to some particular flower. This is an economy of
labour to the Bee, because she has not to vary her course of proceeding.
It is also an advantage to the plants, because the pollen is carried
from each flower to another of the same species, and is therefore less
likely to be wasted.
FRUITS AND SEEDS
After the flower comes the seed, often contained in a fruit, and which
itself encloses the future plant. Fruits and seeds are adapted for
dispersion, beautifully and in various ways: some by the wind, being
either provided with a wing, as in the fruits of many trees--Sycamores,
Ash, Elms, etc.; or with a hairy crown or covering, as with Thistles,
Dandelions, Willows, Cotton plant, etc.
Some seeds are carried by animals; either as food--such as most edible
fruits and seeds, acorns, nuts, apples, strawberries, raspberries,
blackberries, plums, grasses, etc.--or involuntarily, the seeds having
hooked hairs or processes, such as burrs, cleavers, etc.
Some seeds are scattered by the plants themselves, as, for instance,
those of many Geraniums, Violets, Balsams, Shamrocks, etc. Our little
Herb Robert throws its seeds some 25 feet.
Some seeds force themselves into the ground, as those of certain
grasses, Cranes'-bills (Erodiums), etc.
Some are buried by the parent plants, as those of certain clovers,
vetches, violets, etc.
Some attach themselves to the soil, as those of the Flax; or to trees,
as in the case of the Mistletoe.
LEAVES
Again, as regards the leaves there can, I think, be no doubt that
similar considerations of utility are applicable. Their forms are
almost infinitely varied. To quote Ruskin's vivid words, they "take all
kinds of strange shapes, as if to invite us to examine them.
Star-shaped, heart-shaped, spear-shaped, arrow-shaped, fretted, fringed,
cleft, furrowed, serrated, sinuated, in whorls, in tufts, in spires, in
wreaths, endlessly expressive, deceptive, fantastic, never the same from
foot-stalk to blossom, they seem perpetually to tempt our watchfulness
and take delight in outstepping our wonder."
But besides these differences of mere form, there are many others: of
structure, texture, and surface; some are scented or have a strong
taste, or acrid juice, some are smooth, others hairy; and the hairs
again are of various kinds.
I have elsewhere[21] endeavoured to explain some of the causes which
have determined these endless varieties. In the Beech, for instance
(Fig. 15), the leaf has an area of about 3 square inches. The distance
between the buds is about 1-1/4 inch, and the leaves lie in the general
plane of the branch, which bends slightly at each internode. The basal
half of the leaf fits the swell of the twig, while the upper half
follows the edge of the leaf above; and the form of the inner edge being
thus determined, decides that of the outer one also.
[Illustration: Fig. 15.--Beech.]
The weight, and consequently the size of the leaf, is limited by the
strength of the twig; and, again, in a climate such as ours it is
important to plants to have their leaves so arranged as to secure the
maximum of light. Hence in leaves which lie parallel to the plane of the
boughs, as in the Beech, the width depends partly on the distance
between the buds; if the leaves were broader, they would overlap, if
they were narrower, space would be wasted. Consequently the width being
determined by the distance between the buds, and the size depending on
the weight which the twig can safely support, the length also is
determined. This argument is well illustrated by comparing the leaves of
the Beech with those of the Spanish Chestnut. The arrangement is
similar, and the distance between the buds being about the same, so is
the width of the leaves. But the terminal branches of the Spanish
Chestnut being much stronger, the leaves can safely be heavier; hence
the width being fixed, they grow in length and assume the well-known and
peculiar sword-blade shape.
In the Sycamores, Maples (Fig. 16), and Horse-Chestnuts the arrangement
is altogether different. The shoots are stiff and upright with leaves
placed at right angles to the branches instead of being parallel to
them. The leaves are in pairs and decussate with one another; while the
lower ones have long petioles which bring them almost to the level of
the upper pairs, the whole thus forming a beautiful dome.
For leaves arranged as in the Beech the gentle swell at the base is
admirably suited; but in a crown of leaves such as those of the
Sycamore, space would be wasted, and it is better that they should
expand at once, so soon as their stalks have carried them free from the
upper and inner leaves.
[Illustration: Fig. 16.--Acer platanoides.]
In the Black Poplar the arrangement of the leaves is again quite
different. The leaf stalk is flattened, so that the leaves hang
vertically. In connection with this it will be observed that while in
most leaves the upper and under surfaces are quite unlike, in the Black
Poplar on the contrary they are very similar. The stomata or breathing
holes, moreover, which in the leaves of most trees are confined to the
under surface, are in this species nearly equally numerous on both.
The "Compass" Plant of the American prairies, a plant not unlike a small
sunflower, is another species with upright leaves, which growing in the
wide open prairies tend to point north and south, thus exposing both
surfaces equally to the light and heat. Such a position also affects the
internal structure of the leaf, the two sides becoming similar in
structure, while in other cases the upper and under surfaces are very
different.
In the Yew the leaves are inserted close to one another, and are linear;
while in the Box they are further apart and broader. In other cases the
width of the leaves is determined by what botanists call the
"Phyllotaxy." Some plants have the leaves opposite, each pair being at
right angles with the pairs above and below.
In others they are alternate, and arranged round the stem in a spiral.
In one very common arrangement the sixth leaf stands directly over the
first, the intermediate ones forming a spiral which has passed twice
round the stem. This, therefore, is known as the 2/5 arrangement. Common
cases are 1/2, 1/3, 2/5, 3/8, and 5/13. In the first the leaves are
generally broad, in the 3/8 arrangement they are elliptic, in the 5/13
and more complicated arrangements nearly linear. The Willows afford a
very interesting series. Salix herbacea has the 1/3 arrangement and
rounded leaves, Salix caprea elliptic leaves and 2/5, Salix pentandra
lancet-shaped leaves and 3/8, and S. incana linear leaves and a 5/13
arrangement. The result is that whether the series consists of 2, 3, 5,
8, or 13 leaves, in every case, if we look perpendicularly at a twig the
leaves occupy the whole circle.
In herbaceous plants upright leaves as a rule are narrow, which is
obviously an advantage, while prostrate ones are broad.
[Illustration: AQUATIC VEGETATION, BRAZIL. _To face page 145._]
AQUATIC PLANTS
Many aquatic plants have two kinds of leaves; some more or less rounded,
which float on the surface; and others cut up into narrow segments,
which remain below. The latter thus present a greater extent of surface.
In air such leaves would be unable even to support their own weight,
much less to resist the force of the wind. In still air, however, for
the same reason, finely-divided leaves may be an advantage, while in
exposed positions compact and entire leaves are more suitable. Hence
herbaceous plants tend to have divided, bushes and trees entire, leaves.
There are many cases when even in the same family low and herb-like
species have finely-cut leaves, while in shrubby or ligneous ones they
more or less resemble those of the Laurel or Beech.
These considerations affect trees more than herbs, because trees stand
more alone, while herbaceous plants are more affected by surrounding
plants. Upright leaves tend to be narrow, as in the case of grasses;
horizontal leaves, on the contrary, wider. Large leaves are more or less
broken up into leaflets, as in the Ash, Mountain-Ash, Horse-Chestnut,
etc.
The forms of leaves depend also much on the manner in which they are
packed into the buds.
The leaves of our English trees, as I have already said, are so arranged
as to secure the maximum of light; in very hot countries the reverse is
the case. Hence, in Australia, for instance, the leaves are arranged not
horizontally, but vertically, so as to present, not their surfaces, but
their edges, to the sun. One English plant, a species of lettuce, has
the same habit. This consideration has led also to other changes. In
many species the leaves are arranged directly under, so as to shelter,
one another. The Australian species of Acacia have lost their true
leaves, and the parts which in them we generally call leaves are in
reality vertically-flattened leaf stalks.
In other cases the stem itself is green, and to some extent replaces the
leaves. In our common Broom we see an approach to this, and the same
feature is more marked in Cactus. Or the leaves become fleshy, thus
offering, in proportion to their volume, a smaller surface for
evaporation. Of this the Stonecrops, Mesembryanthemum, etc., are
familiar instances. Other modes of checking transpiration and thus
adapting plants to dry situations are by the development of hairs, by
the formation of chalky excretions, by the sap becoming saline or
viscid, by the leaf becoming more or less rolled up, or protected by a
covering of varnish.
Our English trees are for the most part deciduous. Leaves would be
comparatively useless in winter when growth is stopped by the cold;
moreover, they would hold the snow, and thus cause the boughs to be
broken down. Hence perhaps the glossiness of Evergreen leaves, as, for
instance, of the Holly, from which the snow slips off. In warmer
climates trees tend to retain their leaves, and some species which are
deciduous in the north become evergreen, or nearly so, in the south of
Europe. Evergreen leaves are as a rule tougher and thicker than those
which drop off in autumn; they require more protection from the weather.
But some evergreen leaves are much longer lived than others; those of
the Evergreen Oak do not survive a second year, those of the Scotch Pine
live for three, of the Spruce Fir, Yew, etc., for eight or ten, of the
Pinsapo even eighteen. As a general rule the Conifers with short leaves
keep them on for several years, those with long ones for fewer, the
length of the leaf being somewhat in the inverse ratio to the length of
its life; but this is not an invariable criterion, as other
circumstances also have to be taken into consideration.
Leaves with strong scent, aromatic taste, or acrid juice, are
characteristic of dry regions, where they run especial danger of being
eaten, and where they are thus more or less effectively protected.
ON HAIRS
The hairs of plants are useful in various ways. In some cases (1) they
keep off superfluous moisture; in others (2) they prevent too rapid
evaporation; in some (3) they serve as a protection against too glaring
light; in some (4) they protect the plant from browsing quadrupeds; in
others (5) from being eaten by insects; or, (6) serve as a quickset
hedge to prevent access to the flowers.
In illustration of the first case I may refer to many alpine plants, the
well-known Edelweiss, for instance, where the woolly covering of hairs
prevents the "stomata," or minute pores leading into the interior of the
leaf, from being clogged up by rain, dew, or fog, and thus enable them
to fulfil their functions as soon as the sun comes out.
As regards the second case many desert and steppe-plants are covered
with felty hairs, which serve to prevent too rapid evaporation and
consequent loss of moisture.
The woolly hairy leaves of the Mulleins (Verbascum) doubtless tend to
protect them from being eaten, as also do the spines of Thistles, and
those of Hollies, which, be it remarked, gradually disappear on the
upper leaves which browsing quadrupeds cannot reach.
I have already alluded to the various ways in which flowers are adapted
to fertilisation by insects. But Ants and other small creeping insects
cannot effectually secure this object. Hence it is important that they
should be excluded, and not allowed to carry off the honey, for which
they would perform no service in return. In many cases, therefore, the
opening of the flower is either contracted to a narrow passage, or is
itself protected by a fringe of hairs. In others the peduncle, or the
stalk of the plant, is protected by a hedge, or chevaux de frise, of
hairs.
In this connection I might allude to the many plants which are more or
less viscid. This also is in most cases a provision to preclude creeping
insects from access to the flowers.
There are various other kinds of hairs to which I might refer--glandular
hairs, secretive hairs, absorbing hairs, etc. It is marvellous how
beautifully the form and structure of leaves is adapted to the habits
and requirements of the plants, but I must not enlarge further on this
interesting subject.
The time indeed will no doubt come when we shall be able to explain
every difference of form and structure, almost infinite as these
differences are.
INFLUENCE OF SOIL
The character of the vegetation is of course greatly influenced by that
of the soil. In this respect granitic and calcareous regions offer
perhaps the best marked contrast.
There are in Switzerland two kinds of Rhododendrons, very similar in
their flowers, but contrasted in their leaves: Rhododendron hirsutum
having them hairy at the edges as the name indicates; while in R.
ferrugineum they are rolled, but not hairy, at the edges, and become
ferrugineous on the lower side. This species occurs in the granitic
regions, where R. hirsutum does not grow.
The Yarrows (Achillea) afford us a similar case. Achillea atrata and A.
moschata will live either on calcareous or granitic soil, but in a
district where both occur, A. atrata grows so much the more vigorously
of the two if the soil is calcareous that it soon exterminates A.
moschata; while in granite districts, on the contrary, A. moschata is
victorious and A. atrata disappears.
Every keen sportsman will admit that a varied "bag" has a special charm,
and the botanist in a summer's walk may see at least a hundred plants in
flower, all with either the interest of novelty, or the charm of an old
friend.
ON SEEDLINGS
In many cases the Seedlings afford us an interesting insight into the
former condition of the plant. Thus the leaves of the Furze are reduced
to thorns; but those of the Seedling are herbaceous and trifoliate like
those of the Herb Genet and other allied species, subsequent ones
gradually passing into spines. This is evidence that the ancestors of
the Furze bore leaves.
Plants may be said to have their habits as well as animals.
SLEEP OF PLANTS
Many flowers close their petals during rain; the advantage of which is
that it prevents the honey and pollen from being spoilt or washed away.
Everybody, however, has observed that even in fine weather certain
flowers close at particular hours. This habit of going to sleep is
surely very curious. Why should flowers do so? In animals we can better
understand it; they are tired and require rest. But why should flowers
sleep? Why should some flowers do so, and not others? Moreover,
different flowers keep different hours. The Daisy opens at sunrise and
closes at sunset, whence its name "day's-eye." The Dandelion (Leontodon)
is said to open about seven and to close about five; Arenaria rubra to
be open from nine to three; the White Water Lily (Nymphæa), from about
seven to four; the common Mouse-ear Hawk-weed (Hieracium) from eight to
three; the Scarlet Pimpernel (Anagallis) to waken at seven and close
soon after two; Tragopogon pratensis to open at four in the morning, and
close just before twelve, whence its English name, "John go to bed at
noon." Farmers' boys in some parts are said to regulate their dinner
time by it. Other flowers, on the contrary, open in the evening.
Now it is obvious that flowers which are fertilised by night-flying
insects would derive no advantage from being open by day; and on the
other hand, that those which are fertilised by bees would gain nothing
by being open at night. Nay it would be a distinct disadvantage, because
it would render them liable to be robbed of their honey and pollen, by
insects which are not capable of fertilising them. I have ventured to
suggest then that the closing of flowers may have reference to the
habits of insects, and it may be observed also in support of this, that
wind-fertilised flowers do not sleep; and that many of those flowers
which attract insects by smell, open and emit their scent at particular
hours; thus Hesperis matronalis and Lychnis vespertina smell in the
evening, and Orchis bifolia is particularly sweet at night.
But it is not the flowers only which "sleep" at night; in many species
the leaves also change their position, and Darwin has given strong
reasons for considering that the object is to check transpiration and
thus tend to a protection against cold.
BEHAVIOUR OF LEAVES IN RAIN
The behaviour of plants with reference to rain affords many points of
much interest. The Germander Speedwell (Veronica) has two strong rows of
hairs, the Chickweed (Stellaria) one, running down the stem and thus
conducting the rain to the roots. Plants with a main tap-root, like the
Radish or the Beet, have leaves sloping inwards so as to conduct the
rain towards the axis of the plant, and consequently to the roots;
while, on the contrary, where the roots are spreading the leaves slope
outwards.
In other cases the leaves hold the rain or dew drops. Every one who has
been in the Alps must have noticed how the leaves of the Lady's Mantle
(Alchemilla) form little cups containing each a sparkling drop of icy
water. Kerner has suggested that owing to these cold drops, the cattle
and sheep avoid the leaves.
MIMICRY
In many cases plants mimic others which are better protected than
themselves. Thus Matricaria Chamomilla mimics the true Chamomile, which
from its bitterness is not eaten by quadrupeds. Ajuga Chamæpitys mimics
Euphorbia Cyparissias, with which it often grows, and which is protected
by its acrid juice. The most familiar case, however, is that of the
Stinging and the Dead Nettles. They very generally grow together, and
though belonging to quite different families are so similar that they
are constantly mistaken for one another. Some Orchids have a curious
resemblance to insects, after which they have accordingly been named the
Bee Orchis, Fly Orchis, Butterfly Orchis, etc., but it has not yet been
satisfactorily shown what advantage the resemblance is to the plant.
ANTS AND PLANTS
The transference of pollen from plant to plant is by no means the only
service which insects render.
Ants, for instance, are in many cases very useful to plants. They
destroy immense numbers of caterpillars and other insects. Forel
observing a large Ants' nest counted more than 28 insects brought in as
food per minute. In some cases Ants attach themselves to particular
trees, constituting a sort of bodyguard. A species of Acacia, described
by Belt, bears hollow thorns, while each leaflet produces honey in a
crater-formed gland at the base, as well as a small, sweet, pear-shaped
body at the tip. In consequence it is inhabited by myriads of a small
ant, which nests in the hollow thorns, and thus finds meat, drink, and
lodging all provided for it. These ants are continually roaming over the
plant, and constitute a most efficient bodyguard, not only driving off
the leaf-eating ants, but, in Belt's opinion, rendering the leaves less
liable to be eaten by herbivorous mammalia. Delpino mentions that on one
occasion he was gathering a flower of Clerodendrum, when he was himself
suddenly attacked by a whole army of small ants.
INSECTIVOROUS PLANTS
In the cases above mentioned the relation between flowers and insects is
one of mutual advantage. But this is by no means an invariable rule.
Many insects, as we all know, live on plants, but it came upon botanists
as a surprise when our countryman Ellis first discovered that some
plants catch and devour insects. This he observed in a North American
plant, Dionsea, the leaves of which are formed something like a
rat-trap, with a hinge in the middle, and a formidable row of spines
round the edge. On the surface are a few very sensitive hairs, and the
moment any small insect alights on the leaf and touches one of these
hairs the two halves of the leaf close up quickly and catch it. The
surface then throws out a glutinous secretion, by means of which the
leaf sucks up the nourishment contained in the insect.
Our common Sun-dews (Drosera) are also insectivorous, the prey being in
their case captured by glutinous hairs. Again, the Bladderwort
(Utricularia), a plant with pretty yellow flowers, growing in pools and
slow streams, is so called because it bears a great number of bladders
or utricles, each of which is a real miniature eel-trap, having an
orifice guarded by a flap opening inwards which allows small water
animals to enter, but prevents them from coming out again. The
Butterwort (Pinguicula) is another of these carnivorous plants.
MOVEMENTS OF PLANTS
While considering Plant life we must by no means confine our attention
to the higher orders, but must remember also those lower groups which
converge towards the lower forms of animals, so that in the present
state of our knowledge the two cannot always be distinguished with
certainty. Many of them differ indeed greatly from the ordinary
conception of a plant. Even the comparatively highly organised Sea-weeds
multiply by means of bodies called spores, which an untrained observer
would certainly suppose to be animals. They are covered by vibratile
hairs or "cilia," by means of which they swim about freely in the water,
and even possess a red spot which, as being especially sensitive to
light, may be regarded as an elementary eye, and with the aid of which
they select some suitable spot, to which they ultimately attach
themselves.
It was long considered as almost a characteristic of plants that they
possessed no power of movement. This is now known to be an error. In
fact, as Darwin has shown, every growing part of a plant is in continual
and even constant rotation. The stems of climbing plants make great
sweeps, and in other cases, when the motion is not so apparent, it
nevertheless really exists. I have already mentioned that many plants
change the position of their leaves or flowers, or, as it is called,
sleep at night.
The common Dandelion raises its head when the florets open, opens and
shuts morning and evening, then lies down again while the seeds are
ripening, and raises itself a second time when they are ready to be
carried away by the wind.
Valisneria spiralis is a very interesting case. It is a native of
European rivers, and the female flower has a long spiral stalk which
enables it to float on the surface of the water. The male flowers have
no stalks, and grow low down on the plant. They soon, however, detach
themselves altogether, rise to the surface, and thus are enabled to
fertilise the female flowers among which they float. The spiral stalk of
the female flower then contracts and draws it down to the bottom of the
water so that the seeds may ripen in safety. Many plants throw or bury
their seeds.
The sensitive plants close their leaves when touched, and the leaflets
of Desmodium gyrans are continually revolving. I have already mentioned
that the spores of sea-weeds swim freely in the water by means of cilia.
Some microscopic plants do so throughout a great part of their lives.
A still lower group, the Myxomycetes, which resemble small, more or less
branched, masses of jelly, and live in damp soil, among decaying
leaves, under bark and in similar moist situations, are still more
remarkably animal like. They are never fixed, but in almost continual
movement, due to differences of moisture, warmth, light, or chemical
action. If, for instance, a moist body is brought into contact with one
of their projections, or "pseudopods," the protoplasm seems to roll
itself in that direction, and so the whole organism gradually changes
its place. So again, while a solution of salt, carbonate of potash, or
saltpetre causes them to withdraw from the danger, an infusion of sugar,
or tan, produces a flow of protoplasm towards the source of nourishment.
In fact, in the same way it rolls over and round its food, absorbing
what is nutritious as it passes along. In cold weather they descend into
the soil, and one of them (Oethalium), which lives in tan pits,
descends in winter to a depth of several feet. When about to fructify it
changes its habits, seeks the light instead of avoiding it, climbs
upwards, and produces its fruit above ground.
IMPERFECTION OF OUR KNOWLEDGE
The total number of living species of plants may be roughly estimated at
500,000, and there is not one, of which we can say that the structure,
uses, and life-history are yet fully known to us. Our museums contain
large numbers which botanists have not yet had time to describe and
name. Even in our own country not a year passes without some additional
plant being discovered; as regards the less known regions of the earth
not half the species have yet been collected. Among the Lichens and
Fungi especially many problems of their life-history, some, indeed, of
especial importance to man, still await solution.
Our knowledge of the fossil forms, moreover, falls far short even of
that of existing species, which, on the other hand, they must have
greatly exceeded in number. Every difference of form, structure, and
colour has doubtless some cause and explanation, so that the field for
research is really inexhaustible.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Thomson.
[20] Lubbock, _Flowers and Insects_.
[21] _Flowers, Fruits, and Leaves._
CHAPTER V
WOODS AND FIELDS
"By day or by night, summer or winter, beneath trees the heart
feels nearer to that depth of life which the far sky means. The
rest of spirit, found only in beauty, ideal and pure, comes
there because the distance seems within touch of thought."
JEFFERIES.
CHAPTER V
WOODS AND FIELDS
Rural life, says Cicero, "is not delightful by reason of cornfields only
and meadows, and vineyards and groves, but also for its gardens and
orchards, for the feeding of cattle, the swarms of bees, and the variety
of all kinds of flowers." Bacon considered that a garden is "the
greatest refreshment to the spirits of man, without which buildings and
palaces are but gross handyworks, and a man shall ever see, that when
ages grow to civility and elegancy men come to build stately sooner than
to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection."
No doubt "the pleasure which we take in a garden is one of the most
innocent delights in human life."[22] Elsewhere there may be scattered
flowers, or sheets of colour due to one or two species, but in gardens
one glory follows another. Here are brought together all the
quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf sucked the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk rose, and the well attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.[23]
We cannot, happily we need not try to, contrast or compare the beauty of
gardens with that of woods and fields.
And yet to the true lover of Nature wild flowers have a charm which no
garden can equal. Cultivated plants are but a living herbarium. They
surpass, no doubt, the dried specimens of a museum, but, lovely as they
are, they can be no more compared with the natural vegetation of our
woods and fields than the captives in the Zoological Gardens with the
same wild species in their native forests and mountains.
Often indeed, our woods and fields rival gardens even in the richness of
colour. We have all seen meadows white with Narcissus, glowing with
Buttercups, Cowslips, early purple Orchis, or Cuckoo Flowers; cornfields
blazing with Poppies; woods carpeted with Bluebells, Anemones,
Primroses, and Forget-me-nots; commons with the yellow Lady's Bedstraw,
Harebells, and the sweet Thyme; marshy places with the yellow stars of
the Bog Asphodel, the Sun-dew sparkling with diamonds, Ragged Robin, the
beautifully fringed petals of the Buckbean, the lovely little Bog
Pimpernel, or the feathery tufts of Cotton Grass; hedgerows with
Hawthorn and Traveller's Joy, Wild Rose and Honeysuckle, while
underneath are the curious leaves and orange fruit of the Lords and
Ladies, the snowy stars of the Stitchwort, Succory, Yarrow, and several
kinds of Violets; while all along the banks of streams are the tall red
spikes of the Loosestrife, the Hemp Agrimony, Water Groundsel, Sedges,
Bulrushes, Flowering Rush, Sweet Flag, etc.
Many other sweet names will also at once occur to us--Snowdrops,
Daffodils and Hearts-ease, Lady's Mantles and Lady's Tresses, Eyebright,
Milkwort, Foxgloves, Herb Roberts, Geraniums, and among rarer species,
at least in England, Columbines and Lilies.
But Nature does not provide delights for the eye only. The other senses
are not forgotten. A thousand sounds--many delightful in themselves, and
all by association--songs of birds, hum of insects, rustle of leaves,
ripple of water, seem to fill the air.
Flowers again are sweet, as well as lovely. The scent of pine woods,
which is said to be very healthy, is certainly delicious, and the effect
of Woodland scenery is good for the mind as well as for the body.
"Resting quietly under an ash tree, with the scent of flowers, and the
odour of green buds and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder lighting up the
lichen and the moss on the oak trunk, a gentle air stirring in the
branches above, giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether,
there comes into the mind a feeling of intense joy in the simple fact of
living."[24]
The wonderful phenomenon of phosphorescence is not a special gift to the
animal kingdom. Henry O. Forbes describes a forest in Sumatra: "The stem
of every tree blinked with a pale greenish-white light which undulated
also across the surface of the ground like moonlight coming and going
behind the clouds, from a minute thread-like fungus invisible in the
day-time to the unassisted eye; and here and there thick dumpy mushrooms
displayed a sharp, clear dome of light, whose intensity never varied or
changed till the break of day; long phosphorescent caterpillars and
centipedes crawled out of every corner, leaving a trail of light behind
them, while fire-flies darted about above like a lower firmament."[25]
Woods and Forests were to our ancestors the special scenes of
enchantment.
The great Ash tree Yggdrasil bound together Heaven, Earth, and Hell. Its
top reached to Heaven, its branches covered the Earth, and the roots
penetrated into Hell. The three Normas or Fates sat under it, spinning
the thread of life.
Of all the gods and goddesses of classical mythology or our own
folk-lore, none were more fascinating than the Nature Spirits--Elves and
Fairies, Neckans and Kelpies, Pixies and Ouphes, Mermaids, Undines,
Water Spirits, and all the Elfin world
Which have their haunts in dale and piny mountain,
Or forests, by slow stream or tingling brook.
They come out, as we are told, especially on moonlight nights. But while
evening thus clothes many a scene with poetry, forests are fairy land
all day long.
Almost any wood contains many and many a spot well suited for Fairy
feasts; where one might most expect to find Titania, resting, as once we
are told,
She lay upon a bank, the favourite haunt
Of the Spring wind in its first sunshine hour,
For the luxuriant strawberry blossoms spread
Like a snow shower then, and violets
Bowed down their purple vases of perfume
About her pillow,--linked in a gay band
Floated fantastic shapes; these were her guards,
Her lithe and rainbow elves.
The fairies have disappeared, and, so far as England is concerned, the
larger forest animals have vanished almost as completely. The Elk and
Bear, the Boar and Wolf have gone, the Stag has nearly disappeared, and
but a scanty remnant of the original wild Cattle linger on at
Chillingham. Still the woods teem with life; the Fox and Badger, Stoat
and Weasel, Hare and Rabbit, and Hedgehog,
The tawny squirrel vaulting through the boughs,
Hawk, buzzard, jay, the mavis and the merle,[26]
the Owls and Nightjar, the Woodpecker, Nuthatch, Magpie, Doves, and a
hundred more.
In early spring the woods are bright with the feathery catkins of the
Willow, followed by the soft green of the Beech, the white or pink
flowers of the Thorn, the pyramids of the Horse-chestnut, festoons of
the Laburnum and Acacia, and the Oak slowly wakes from its winter sleep,
while the Ash leaves long linger in their black buds.
Under foot is a carpet of flowers--Anemones, Cowslips, Primroses,
Bluebells, and the golden blossoms of the Broom, which, however, while
Gorse and Heather continue in bloom for months, "blazes for a week or
two, and is then completely extinguished, like a fire that has burnt
itself out."[27]
In summer the tints grow darker, the birds are more numerous and full of
life; the air teems with insects, with the busy murmur of bees and the
idle hum of flies, while the cool of morning and evening, and the heat
of the day, are all alike delicious.
As the year advances and the flowers wane, we have many beautiful fruits
and berries, the red hips and haws of the wild roses, scarlet holly
berries, crimson yew cups, the translucent berries of the Guelder Rose,
hanging coral beads of the Black Bryony, feathery festoons of the
Traveller's Joy, and others less conspicuous, but still exquisite in
themselves--acorns, beech nuts, ash keys, and many more. It is really
difficult to say which are most beautiful, the tender greens of spring
or the rich tints of autumn, which glow so brightly in the sunshine.
Tropical fruits are even more striking. No one who has seen it can ever
forget a grove of orange trees in full fruit; while the more we examine
the more we find to admire; all perfectly and exquisitely finished
"usque ad ungues," perfect inside and outside, for Nature
Does in the Pomegranate close
Jewels more rare than Ormus shows.[28]
In winter the woods are comparatively bare and lifeless, even the
Brambles and Woodbine, which straggle over the tangle of underwood being
almost leafless.
Still even then they have a beauty and interest of their own; the mossy
boles of the trees; the delicate tracery of the branches which can
hardly be appreciated when they are covered with leaves; and under foot
the beds of fallen leaves; while the evergreens seem brighter than in
summer; the ruddy stems and rich green foliage of the Scotch Pines, and
the dark spires of the Firs, seeming to acquire fresh beauty.
Again in winter, though no doubt the living tenants of the woods are
much less numerous, many of our birds being then far away in the dense
African forests, on the other hand those which remain are much more
easily visible. We can follow the birds from tree to tree, and the
Squirrel from bough to bough.
It requires little imagination to regard trees as conscious beings,
indeed it is almost an effort not to do so.
"The various action of trees rooting themselves in inhospitable rocks,
stooping to look into ravines, hiding from the search of glacier winds,
reaching forth to the rays of rare sunshine, crowding down together to
drink at sweetest streams, climbing hand in hand among the difficult
slopes, opening in sudden dances among the mossy knolls, gathering into
companies at rest among the fragrant fields, gliding in grave procession
over the heavenward ridges--nothing of this can be conceived among the
unvexed and unvaried felicities of the lowland forest; while to all
these direct sources of greater beauty are added, first the power of
redundance, the mere quantity of foliage visible in the folds and on the
promontories of a single Alp being greater than that of an entire
lowland landscape (unless a view from some Cathedral tower); and to this
charm of redundance, that of clearer visibility--tree after tree being
constantly shown in successive height, one behind another, instead of
the mere tops and flanks of masses as in the plains; and the forms of
multitudes of them continually defined against the clear sky, near and
above, or against white clouds entangled among their branches, instead
of being confused in dimness of distance."[29]
There is much that is interesting in the relations of one species to
another. Many plants are parasitic upon others. The foliage of the Beech
is so thick that scarcely anything will grow under it, except those
spring plants, such as the Anemone and the Wood Buttercup or Goldilocks,
which flower early before the Beech is in leaf.
There are other cases in which the reason for the association of
species is less evident. The Larch and the Arolla (Pinus Cembra) are
close companions. They grow together in Siberia; they do not occur in
Scandinavia or Russia, but both reappear in certain Swiss valleys,
especially in the cantons of Lucerne and Valais and the Engadine.
Another very remarkable case which has recently been observed is the
relation existing between some of our forest trees and certain Fungi,
the species of which have not yet been clearly ascertained. The root
tips of the trees are as it were enclosed in a thin sheet of closely
woven mycelium. It was at first supposed that the fungus was attacking
the roots of the tree, but it is now considered that the tree and the
fungus mutually benefit one another. The fungus collects nutriment from
the soil, which passes into the tree and up to the leaves, where it is
elaborated into sap, the greater part being utilized by the tree, but a
portion reabsorbed by the fungus. There is reason to think that, in some
cases at any rate, the mycelium is that of the Truffle.
[Illustration: TROPICAL FOREST.
_To face page 179._]
The great tropical forests have a totally different character from ours.
I reproduce here the plate from Kingsley's _At Last_. The trees strike
all travellers by their magnificence, the luxuriance of their
vegetation, and their great variety. Our forests contain comparatively
few species, whereas in the tropics we are assured that it is far from
common to see two of the same species near one another. But while in our
forests the species are few, each tree has an independence and
individuality of its own. In the tropics, on the contrary, they are
interlaced and interwoven, so as to form one mass of vegetation; many of
the trunks are almost concealed by an undergrowth of verdure, and
intertwined by spiral stems of parasitic plants; from tree to tree hang
an inextricable network of lianas, and it is often difficult to tell to
which tree the fruits, flowers, and leaves really belong. The trunks run
straight up to a great height without a branch, and then form a thick
leafy canopy far overhead; a canopy so dense that even the blaze of the
cloudless blue sky is subdued, one might almost say into a weird gloom,
the effect of which is enhanced by the solemn silence. At first such a
forest gives the impression of being more open than an English wood, but
a few steps are sufficient to correct this error. There is a thick
undergrowth matted together by wiry creepers, and the intermediate space
is traversed in all directions by lines and cords.
The English traveller misses sadly the sweet songs of our birds, which
are replaced by the hoarse chatter of parrots. Now and then a succession
of cries even harsher and more discordant tell of a troop of monkeys
passing across from tree to tree among the higher branches, or lower
sounds indicate to a practised ear the neighbourhood of an ape, a sloth,
or some other of the few mammals which inhabit the great forests.
Occasionally a large blue bee hums past, a brilliant butterfly flashes
across the path, or a humming-bird hangs in the air over a flower like,
as St. Pierre says, an emerald set in coral, but "how weak it is to say
that that exquisite little being, whirring and fluttering in the air,
has a head of ruby, a throat of emerald, and wings of sapphire, as if
any triumph of the jeweller's art could ever vie with that sparkling
epitome of life and light."[30]
Sir Wyville Thomson graphically describes a morning in a Brazilian
forest:--
"The night was almost absolutely silent, only now and then a peculiarly
shrill cry of some night bird reached us from the woods. As we got into
the skirt of the forest the morning broke, but the _réveil_ in a
Brazilian forest is wonderfully different from the slow creeping on of
the dawn of a summer morning at home, to the music of the thrushes
answering one another's full rich notes from neighbouring thorn-trees.
Suddenly a yellow light spreads upwards in the east, the stars quickly
fade, and the dark fringes of the forest and the tall palms show out
black against the yellow sky, and almost before one has time to observe
the change the sun has risen straight and fierce, and the whole
landscape is bathed in the full light of day. But the morning is yet for
another hour cool and fresh, and the scene is indescribably beautiful.
The woods, so absolutely silent and still before, break at once into
noise and movement. Flocks of toucans flutter and scream on the tops of
the highest forest trees hopelessly out of shot, the ear is pierced by
the strange wild screeches of a little band of macaws which fly past you
like the wrapped-up ghosts of the birds on some gaudy old brocade."[31]
Mr. Darwin tells us that nothing can be better than the description of
tropical forests given by Bates.
"The leafy crowns of the trees, scarcely two of which could be seen
together of the same kind, were now far away above us, in another world
as it were. We could only see at times, where there was a break above,
the tracery of the foliage against the clear blue sky. Sometimes the
leaves were palmate, or of the shape of large outstretched hands; at
others finely cut or feathery like the leaves of Mimosæ. Below, the tree
trunks were everywhere linked together by sipos; the woody flexible
stems of climbing and creeping trees, whose foliage is far away above,
mingled with that of the taller independent trees. Some were twisted in
strands like cables, others had thick stems contorted in every variety
of shape, entwining snake-like round the tree trunks or forming gigantic
loops and coils among the larger branches; others, again, were of zigzag
shape, or indented like the steps of a staircase, sweeping from the
ground to a giddy height."
The reckless and wanton destruction of forests has ruined some of the
richest countries on earth. Syria and Asia Minor, Palestine and the
north of Africa were once far more populous than they are at present.
They were once lands "flowing with milk and honey," according to the
picturesque language of the Bible, but are now in many places reduced to
dust and ashes. Why is there this melancholy change? Why have deserts
replaced cities? It is mainly owing to the ruthless destruction of the
trees, which has involved that of nations. Even nearer home a similar
process may be witnessed. Two French departments--the Hautes- and
Basses-Alpes--are being gradually reduced to ruin by the destruction of
the forests. Cultivation is diminishing, vineyards are being washed
away, the towns are threatened, the population is dwindling, and unless
something is done the country will be reduced to a desert; until, when
it has been released from the destructive presence of man, Nature
reproduces a covering of vegetable soil, restores the vegetation,
creates the forests anew, and once again fits these regions for the
habitation of man.
In another part of France we have an illustration of the opposite
process.
The region of the Landes, which fifty years ago was one of the poorest
and most miserable in France, has now been made one of the most
prosperous owing to the planting of Pines. The increased value is
estimated at no less than 1,000,000,000 francs. Where there were fifty
years ago only a few thousand poor and unhealthy shepherds whose flocks
pastured on the scanty herbage, there are now sawmills, charcoal kilns,
and turpentine works, interspersed with thriving villages and fertile
agricultural lands.
In our own country, though woodlands are perhaps on the increase, true
forest scenery is gradually disappearing. This is, I suppose,
unavoidable, but it is a matter of regret. Forests have so many charms
of their own. They give a delightful impression of space and of
abundance.
The extravagance is sublime. Trees, as Jefferies says, "throw away
handfuls of flower; and in the meadows the careless, spendthrift ways of
grass and flower and all things are not to be expressed. Seeds by the
hundred million float with absolute indifference on the air. The oak has
a hundred thousand more leaves than necessary, and never hides a single
acorn. Nothing utilitarian--everything on a scale of splendid waste.
Such noble, broadcast, open-armed waste is delicious to behold. Never
was there such a lying proverb as 'Enough is as good as a feast.' Give
me the feast; give me squandered millions of seeds, luxurious carpets of
petals, green mountains of oak-leaves. The greater the waste the greater
the enjoyment--the nearer the approach to real life."
It is of course impossible here to give any idea of the complexity of
structure of our forest trees. A slice across the stem of a tree shows
many different tissues with more or less technical names, bark and
cambium, medullary rays, pith, and more or less specialised tissue;
air-vessels, punctate vessels, woody fibres, liber fibres, scalariform
vessels, and other more or less specialised tissues.
Let us take a single leaf. The name is synonymous with anything very
thin, so that we might well fancy that a leaf would consist of only one
or two layers of cells. Far from it, the leaf is a highly complex
structure. On the upper surface are a certain number of scattered hairs,
while in the bud these are often numerous, long, silky, and serve to
protect the young leaf, but the greater number fall off soon after the
leaf expands. The hairs are seated on a layer of flattened cells--the
skin or epidermis. Below this are one or more layers of "palisade
cells," the function of which seems to be to regulate the quantity of
light entering the leaf. Under these again is the "parenchyme," several
layers of more or less rounded cells, leaving air spaces and passages
between them. From place to place in the parenchyme run "fibro-vascular
bundles," forming a sort of skeleton to the leaf, and comprising
air-vessels on the upper side, rayed or dotted vessels with woody fibre
below, and vessels of various kinds. The under surface of the leaf is
formed by another layer of flattened cells, supporting generally more or
less hairs, and some of them specially modified so as to leave minute
openings or "stomata" leading into the air passages. These stomata are
so small that there are millions on a single leaf, and on plants growing
in dry countries, such as the Evergreen Oak, Oleander, etc., they are
sunk in pits, and further protected by tufts of hair.
The cells of the leaf again are themselves complex. They consist of a
cell wall perforated by extremely minute orifices, of protoplasm, cell
fluid, and numerous granules of "Chlorophyll," which give the leaf its
green colour.
While these are, stated very briefly, the essential parts of a leaf, the
details differ in every species, while in the same species and even in
the same plant, the leaves present minor differences according to the
situation in which they grow.
Since, then, there is so much complex structure in a single leaf, what
must it be in a whole plant? There is a giant sea-weed (Macrocystis),
which has been known to reach a length of 1000 feet, as also do some of
the lianas of tropical forests. These, however, attain no great bulk,
and the most gigantic specimens of the vegetable kingdom yet known are
the Wellingtonia (Sequoia) gigantea, which grows to a height of 450
feet, and the Blue Gum (Eucalyptus) even to 480.
One is apt to look on animal structure as more delicate, and of a higher
order, than that of plants. And so no doubt it is. Yet an animal, even
man himself, will recover from a wound or an operation more rapidly and
more perfectly than a tree.[32]
Trees again derive a special interest from the venerable age they
attain. In some cases, no doubt, the age is more or less mythical, as,
for instance, the Olive of Minerva at Athens, the Oaks mentioned by
Pliny, "which were thought coeval with the world itself," the Fig tree,
"under which the wolf suckled the founder of Rome and his brother,
lasting (as Tacitus calculated) 840 years, putting out new shoots, and
presaging the translation of that empire from the Cæsarian line,
happening in Nero's reign."[33] But in other cases the estimates rest on
a surer foundation, and it cannot be doubted that there are trees still
living which were already of considerable size at the time of the
Conquest. The Soma Cypress of Lombardy, which is 120 feet high and 23 in
circumference, is calculated to go back to forty years before the birth
of Christ. Francis the First is said to have driven his sword into it in
despair after the battle of Padua, and Napoleon altered his road over
the Simplon so as to spare it.
Ferdinand and Isabella in 1476 swore to maintain the privileges of the
Biscayans under the old Oak of Guernica. In the Ardennes an Oak cut down
in 1824 contained a funeral urn and some Samnite coins. A writer at the
time drew the conclusion that it must have been already a large tree
when Rome was founded, and though the facts do not warrant this
conclusion, the tree did, no doubt, go back to Pagan times. The great
Yew of Fountains Abbey is said to have sheltered the monks when the
abbey was rebuilt in 1133, and is estimated at an age of 1300 years;
that at Brabourne in Kent at 3000. De Candolle gives the following as
the ages attainable:--
The Ivy 450 years
Larch 570 "
Plane 750 "
Cedar of Lebanon 800 "
Lime 1100 "
Oak 1500 "
Taxodium distichum 4000 to 6000
Baobab 6000 years
Nowhere is woodland scenery more beautiful than where it passes
gradually into the open country. The separate trees, having more room
both for their roots and branches, are finer, and can be better seen,
while, when they are close together, "one cannot see the wood for the
trees." The vistas which open out are full of mystery and of promise,
and tempt us gradually out into the green fields.
What pleasant memories these very words recall, games in the hay as
children, and sunny summer days throughout life.
"Consider," says Ruskin,[34] "what we owe to the meadow grass, to the
covering of the dark ground by that glorious enamel, by the companies of
those soft countless and peaceful spears. The fields! Follow but forth
for a little time the thought of all that we ought to recognise in those
words. All spring and summer is in them--the walks by silent scented
paths, the rests in noonday heat, the joy of herds and flocks, the power
of all shepherd life and meditation, the life of sunlight upon the
world, falling in emerald streaks, and soft blue shadows, where else it
would have struck on the dark mould or scorching dust, pastures beside
the pacing brooks, soft banks and knolls of lowly hills, thymy slopes of
down overlooked by the blue line of lifted sea, crisp lawns all dim with
early dew, or smooth in evening warmth of barred sunshine, dinted by
happy feet, and softening in their fall the sound of loving voices.
* * * * *
"Go out, in the spring time, among the meadows that slope from the
shores of the Swiss lakes to the roots of their lower mountains. There,
mingled with the taller gentians and the white narcissus, the grass
grows deep and free, and as you follow the winding mountain paths,
beneath arching boughs all veiled and dim with blossom,--paths, that for
ever droop and rise over the green banks and mounds sweeping down in
scented undulation, steep to the blue water, studded here and there with
new mown heaps, filling all the air with fainter sweetness,--look up
towards the higher hills, where the waves of everlasting green roll
silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the pines; and we
may, perhaps, at last know the meaning of those quiet words of the 147th
Psalm, 'He maketh the grass to grow upon the mountains.'"
"On fine days," he tells us again in his _Autobiography_, "when the
grass was dry, I used to lie down on it, and draw the blades as they
grew, with the ground herbage of buttercup or hawkweed mixed among them,
until every square foot of meadow, or mossy bank, became an infinite
picture and possession to me, and the grace and adjustment to each other
of growing leaves, a subject of more curious interest to me than the
composition of any painter's masterpieces."
In the passage above quoted, Ruskin alludes especially to Swiss meadows.
They are especially remarkable in the beauty and variety of flowers. In
our fields the herbage is mainly grass, and if it often happens that
they glow with Buttercups or are white with Ox-eye-daisies, these are
but unwelcome intruders and add nothing to the value of the hay. Swiss
meadows, on the contrary, are sweet and lovely with wild Geraniums,
Harebells, Bluebells, Pink Restharrow, Yellow Lady's Bedstraw, Chervil,
Eyebright, Red and White Silenes, Geraniums, Gentians, and many other
flowers which have no familiar English names; all adding not only to the
beauty and sweetness of the meadows, but forming a valuable part of the
crop itself.[35] On the other hand "turf" is peculiarly English, and no
turf is more delightful than that of our Downs--delightful to ride on,
to sit on, or to walk on. The turf indeed feels so springy under our
feet that walking on it seems scarcely an exertion: one could almost
fancy that the Downs themselves were still rising, even higher, into the
air.
The herbage of the Downs is close rather than short, hillocks of sweet
thyme, tufts of golden Potentilla, of Milkwort--blue, pink, and
white--of sweet grass and Harebells: here and there pink with Heather,
or golden with Furze or Broom, while over all are the fresh air and
sunshine, sweet scents, and the hum of bees. And if the Downs seem full
of life and sunshine, their broad shoulders are types of kindly
strength, they give also an impression of power and antiquity, while
every now and then we come across a tumulus, or a group of great grey
stones, the burial place of some ancient hero, or a sacred temple of our
pagan forefathers.
On the Downs indeed things change slowly, and in parts of Sussex the
strong slow oxen still draw the waggons laden with warm hay or golden
wheat sheaves, or drag the wooden plough along the slopes of the Downs,
just as they did a thousand years ago.
I love the open Down most, but without hedges England would not be
England. Hedges are everywhere full of beauty and interest, and nowhere
more so than at the foot of the Downs, when they are in great part
composed of wild Guelder Roses and rich dark Yews, decked with festoons
of Traveller's Joy, the wild Bryonies, and garlands of Wild Roses
covered with thousands of white or delicate pink flowers, each with a
centre of gold.
At the foot of the Downs spring clear sparkling streams; rain from
heaven purified still further by being filtered through a thousand feet
of chalk; fringed with purple Loosestrife and Willowherb, starred with
white Water Ranunculuses, or rich Watercress, while every now and then a
brown water rat rustles in the grasses at the edge, and splashes into
the water, or a pink speckled trout glides out of sight.
In many of our midland and northern counties most of the meadows lie in
parallel undulations or "rigs." These are generally about a furlong (220
yards) in length, and either one or two poles (5-1/2 or 11 yards) in
breadth. They seldom run straight, but tend to curve towards the left.
At each end of the field a high bank, locally called a balk, often 3 or
4 feet high, runs at right angles to the rigs. In small fields there are
generally eight, but sometimes ten, of these rigs, which make in the one
case 4, in the other 5 acres. These curious characters carry us back to
the old tenures, and archaic cultivation of land, and to a period when
the fields were not in pasture, but were arable.
They also explain our curious system of land measurement. The "acre" is
the amount which a team of oxen were supposed to plough in a day. It
corresponds to the German "morgen" and the French "journée." The furlong
or long "furrow" is the distance which a team of oxen can plough
conveniently without stopping to rest. Oxen, as we know, were driven
not with a whip, but with a goad or pole, the most convenient length for
which was 16-1/2 feet, and the ancient ploughman used his "pole" or
"perch" by placing it at right angles to his first furrow, thus
measuring the amount he had to plough. Hence our "pole" or "perch" of
16-1/2 feet, which at first sight seems a very singular unit to have
selected. This width is also convenient both for turning the plough, and
also for sowing. Hence the most convenient unit of land for arable
purposes was a furlong in length and a perch or pole in width.
The team generally consisted of eight oxen. Few peasants, however,
possessed a whole team, several generally joining together, and dividing
the produce. Hence the number of "rigs," one for each ox. We often,
however, find ten instead of eight; one being for the parson's tithe,
the other tenth going to the ploughman.
When eight oxen were employed the goad would not of course reach the
leaders, which were guided by a man who walked on the near side. On
arriving at the end of each furrow he turned them round, and as it was
easier to pull than to push them, this gradually gave the furrow a turn
towards the left, thus accounting for the slight curvature. Lastly,
while the oxen rested on arriving at the end of the furrow, the
ploughmen scraped off the earth which had accumulated on the coulter and
ploughshare, and the accumulation of these scrapings gradually formed
the balk.
It is fascinating thus to trace indications of old customs and modes of
life, but it would carry us away from the present subject.
Even though the Swiss meadows may offer a greater variety, our English
fields are yet rich in flowers: yellow with Cowslips and Primroses, pink
with Cuckoo flowers and purple with Orchis, while, however, unwelcome to
the eye of the farmer,
the rich Buttercup
Its tiny polished urn holds up,
Filled with ripe summer to the edge,[36]
turning many a meadow into a veritable field of the cloth of gold, and
there are few prettier sights in nature than an English hay field on a
summer evening, with a copse perhaps at one side and a brook on the
other; men with forks tossing the hay in the air to dry; women with
wooden rakes arranging it in swathes ready for the great four-horse
waggon, or collecting it in cocks for the night; while some way off the
mowers are still at work, and we hear from time to time the pleasant
sound of the whetting of the scythe. All are working with a will lest
rain should come and their labour be thrown away. This too often
happens. But though we often complain of our English climate, it is yet,
take it all in all, one of the best in the world, being comparatively
free from extremes either of heat or cold, drought or deluge. To the
happy mixture of sunshine and of rain we owe the greenness of our
fields,
sparkling with dewdrops
Indwelt with little angels of the Sun,[37]
lit and
warmed by golden sunshine
And fed by silver rain,
which now and again sprinkles the whole earth with diamonds.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] _The Spectator._
[23] Milton.
[24] Jefferies.
[25] Forbes, _A Naturalist's Wanderings in the Eastern Archipelago_.
[26] Tennyson.
[27] Hamerton.
[28] Marvell.
[29] Ruskin.
[30] Thomson, _Voyage of the Challenger_.
[31] Thomson, _Voyage of the Challenger_.
[32] Sir J. Paget, _On the Pathology of Plants_.
[33] Evelyn's _Sylva_.
[34] _Modern Painters._
[35] M. Correvon informs me that the Gruyère cheese is supposed to owe
its peculiar flavour to the alpine Alchemilla, which is now on that
account often purposely sown elsewhere.
[36] J. R. Lowell.
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