The Harvest Bug.

"I very much wish," said my friend T. to me one day, "to buy a small estate in the vicinity of —— Forest. If there should be one to sell, pray let me know of it."

It was not long before an opportunity arose for my friend to satisfy his desire. But after I had made him acquainted with it, he declared himself no longer willing to purchase a property in a district where, as he had learned, one was devoured by red beasts all through the finest months of the year. What a frightful neighbourhood to live in, where you were forbidden to walk in your garden under pain of catching an itch in your legs!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For my part, I must acknowledge that, whether the Ocypete rubra is or is not the transitory state of a more perfect animal, I do not know. But I am sure that the Leptus autumnalis lives and dies on the skin where it has selected its dwelling-place,—a living dwelling-place.

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

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

The Cheese Mite.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How many Animal Species are there Distributed over the Surface of the Globe?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Edentata, so named on account of their incomplete dentition, inhabit the tropical regions of the Old and New

World. They are distributed into 32 species, 19 of which belong to America. The Edentata, therefore, do not form more than one-fiftieth of the Mammalia.

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

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

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

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

Summary of the Mammalia.

Assumed total, 1600 species.

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

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

1. Raptores, or birds of prey.

2. Passerine birds, now generally called Insessores, or Perching-birds.

3. Scansores, or Climbing, frequently called Zygodactyli or Zygodactylous birds.

4. Gallinaceæ, now more frequently known as Rasores.

5. Grallatores, Waders, or Stilt birds.

6. Palmipedes, or Web-footed birds, now more generally recognised as Natatores, or Swimmers.

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

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

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

1. Ophidia, or Serpents.

2. Sauria, or Lizards.

3. Loricata, or Crocodiles.

4. Chelonia, or Tortoises.

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

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

Agassiz divides this great class of vertebrated animals into the four orders of Cycloid, Ctenoid, Placoid, and Ganoid, according to the character of their scales. Cuvier, into Osseous fishes (with true bones), and Cartilaginous; subdividing the former into Acanthopterygii and Malacopterygii.

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

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

The first subdivision includes Insects, Arachnida, Crustacea, and Myriapoda; the second, Annelida and Entozoa.

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

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

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

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

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

Let us recapitulate. The four classes of Vertebrate Animals include approximatively:—

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

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

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

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

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

What is Chlorophyll?

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

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

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

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

To a substance called chlorophyll—(χλωρὸς, green, and φυλλον, a leaf).

Well, what is chlorophyll?

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

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

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

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

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

Carnations and Pinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A very pretty species is the Maiden Pink (Dianthus deltoides), which some botanists think to have been the original of our garden favourite; and a kind deserving notice for its large and fragrant flowers is the Dianthus superbus.

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

A rare British variety is the Clustered Pink, or Childing Pink (Dianthus prolifer), which produces its flowers in plentiful clusters, but is only allowed a season's sunshine.

The India or China Pink (Dianthus chinensis) is a native of Eastern Asia, but has now become a frequent denizen in our English gardens.

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