The Prunella, or Self-Heal.

In your summer-walks, dear reader,—summer-walks through green lanes rejoicing in the shade of over-arching elms, or along woodland glades, carpeted with odorous turf,—you must frequently have met with an herbaceous plant, whose purple-blue flowers, arranged in regular succession, form the prettiest coloured cones imaginable at the extremity of the stem and branches. To this plant, the self-heal, we shall return immediately. Perhaps you have passed it by somewhat indifferently, for we pay little heed to common things, and on the threshold of woods, and in their winding avenues, the self-heal is very common. The celebrated German botanist, Bock (or Tragus) bestowed upon it, two centuries before the epoch of Linnæus, the name of Prunella vulgaris. The specific appellation, vulgaris, is here employed very appropriately, but we should commit a grave error if we supposed every species qualified as vulgaris to be "common." For example, the Lysimachia vulgaris, a species of Primulaceæ, is far from being found everywhere.

Pray, take the trouble to pick one lowly specimen; being specially careful to take up the whole plant, stem, root, and branch. Lying along the ground, it seems larger than it really is. Its root is a creeper; at the level of the insection of the leaves some small shoots project, the fibrous radicles which compel the lower part of the stem to crawl like the bugle, Ajuga reptans.

Does the prunella belong to the family of Labiatæ, like the bugle?

See for yourself. The stem is quadrangular; the branches and leaves composed of two lips. The stamens are four in number, two of which are longer than the others; finally, by means of a lens, you can easily distinguish, at the very bottom of the calyx, four tiny seeds (a tetrachænium) grouped around the style. These features indicate that our plant belongs, in effect, like the bugle, to the Labiatæ family.

But mark the difference. In the bugle, as in all the species of the same genus (Ajuga), as well as in all the Teucriums—of which wild sage (Teucrium scorodonia) is the most widely-diffused type—in all the Labiatæ, the corolla is apparently unilabiate,—that is to say, the upper lip is so shortened that only the lower is prominently visible. This is not the case with our self-heal: it is distinctly bilabiate. The upper lip of the corolla here forms a positive hood, sufficiently ample to protect the didynamous stamens (two long and two short), as in Fig. 50, a; the lower lip is three-lobed, and the central lobe is largest of the three. By separating the two lips, you can see the two short stamens fixed to the base of the lower one, and the two long attached to the central part of the upper. (See Fig. 50, b.)

Let us pursue the analysis of the flowery cone you hold in your hand.

The least practical eye is immediately struck by the arrangement of the parts and the variety of the colours. To recognise these things more thoroughly, please to cast your glances alternately from the top to the base, and from the base to the apex of its terminal flower. A little below the base you will see a pair of opposite, entire, and sinuous leaves, with shorter stalks than any of the others. The base is defined by two opposite, whitish, and nearly triangular leaves, with green points. The top of the floral spike is likewise marked by a couple of bracts; but these are much smaller, and red-coloured, like the two leaves of the calyx. The interval is occupied by bracts, which diminish in size from the base to the top of the spike; on a level with each pair six flowers are inserted, three for each bract.

The flowers, thus arranged by whorls, present some interesting peculiarities. The lower and upper show only their reddish calices; the middle, for the most part, display both a calyx and a corolla, varying from blue to pale-rose, which gives the plant a very peculiar appearance. In the under flowers, the corolla has already fallen; by separating the lips of the calyx, you may catch sight of the tetrachænium, that is, the four-seeded fruit, which is developed at the bottom of the tube. In the upper flowers, the corolla is not yet expanded. It resembles a small deep-coloured globe; you may say an eye, a bull's-eye, which, from the depths of the calyx, regards you with a piercing glance. Hence, perhaps, the French name for this plant, prunelle, an eye.

We often meet with a variety of self-heal with a white corolla, green calyx, and pinnatifid leaves, a variety of which some botanists have erroneously made a separate species, under the name of Prunella alba. It is equally wrong, in our opinion, to convert the large-flowered variety into a distinct species, by taking as its specific character the lateral cleft of the upper lip of the calyx overlapping the middle cleft; for this same characteristic is found in many individuals of the common species. The dentiform appendage which the two longest stamens exhibit at the top of their filaments is also an uncertain feature; you must have recourse to your magnifying-glass to see if this appendage is obtuse and very short, as in the large-flowered prunella, or sharp, as in the common species. As for the size of the corolla, it is, in fact, very marked; but, as a characteristic, is wholly insufficient. The creation of the varieties Pinnatifida, Laciniifolia, and Integrifolia is no better justified. For it is no rare thing to see on the same stalk, at different heights, pinnatifid, whole, and laciniate leaves.

The prunella is remarkable for the long hairs which garnish the calyx, and, principally, the edges of the bracts. Examined in the microscope, they assume the form of tiny, pointed bamboos; the knots bulge out a little, and the intervals are punctuated.

The botanists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are by no means sparing in their eulogiums on the marvellous virtues of our flower, which, by the way, Bock (Tragus) was the first to figure with tolerable accuracy.[62]

Tournefort thus dwells upon its medicinal properties:—

"It forms an ingredient in arquebusade water and vulnerary potions. It is ordered in possets and broths, in apozèmes for the spitting of blood, dysentery, hæmorrhages, and the like. It has also been used for ulcers in the mouth, and a remedy against headaches; after being mixed with rose-oil and vinegar, the temples were bathed with it."

In the Pharmacopœia of to-day, however, it finds no place.

The Scutellaria.

At the first glance, the Scutellaria has no resemblance to the prunella. Yet the classificators have united these plants in one small tribe, under the name of Scutellarinaceæ. These are the characters which they give to them: Lower or anterior stamens longer than the superior or posterior; calyx closed at maturity by the approximation of the two lips. The latter character is not nearly so marked in the prunella as in the scutellaria.

The two commonest species of scutellaria in England are the Scutellaria galericulata and Scutellaria minor. They do not inhabit the same localities. The former, which is at the same time the commonest, grows on the river-banks, and especially delights in the mould accumulated in the hollow trunks of old willows. It is easily known by its tender blue corolla, but especially by its calyx, which, after the fall of the corolla, develops itself in a singular manner. If you compress its sides, it will open so as to disclose, at the bottom of its throat, its seeds, which are white, red, or brown, according to their degrees of maturity. (Fig. 52, a.) Now look at these two jaws: the upper resembles a small helmet (Lat. galericula), or, if you prefer it, a judge's cap. As for the lower, it has exactly the shape of a shield (Lat. scutum),—whence its name, scutellaria. (Fig. 52, b.) Thus, the emblems of military and judicial rank are found united in the calyx of our pretty labiate.

The second species (Scutellaria minor), rarer than the former, is met with on the banks of ponds and in damp woodland paths. It attracts your gaze by its tiny caps or helmets: the moment you see it, you exclaim, "That's a scutellaria!" More diminutive in all its parts than its congener, it is also distinguished by its whole leaves (they are crenelated or dentate in the Scutellaria galericulata), by its soft, rose-hued corolla, with brown lips coquettishly pointed with red, and by its hairy calyx.

The Scutellaria Columnæ[63] is very rare. It may be recognised by its erect stems and flowers of a bright violet hue, arranged in terminal spikes and garnished with bracts; while the flowers are axillary, and form no spike, in the two species above described.

The Scutellariæ were first described with accuracy and classified by Linnæus, who included them among his Didynamia, a class of vegetables distinguished by the unequal length of the stamens.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

"How beautiful," says Miss Pratt, in one of her agreeable little books,[65]—"how beautiful are the little islands of the stream, edged with the tall white meadow sweet, which sends its perfume far up over the green lands that lie around, and contrasts with the deep blue colour of the purple loose-strife! The willow herb, or codlins-and-cream, as the children call it, grows in perfection there; and there, too, bloom the little yellow water-flag, and the vetches, and the rich water-lily, which, seated on its round leaf, seems to swim over the crystal stream. The water-plantain, with its numerous small pink blossoms, grows in thick clusters quite down in the water, mingling with the white flowers and large spear-shaped leaves of the arrow-head, or half shading the large cup of the yellow water-lily. Then, too, the blue-eyed forget-me-not covers the little isles in such abundance that many of them well deserve the name of azure islands. The water-rat hides among the flowers, nibbling with much glee at the arrow-head, or rushing out from under its broad green leaves; and the water-fowl, followed by her young, sails across the stream in all the stateliness of matron dignity; and the little meek-eyed daisy grows beside the yellow velvet flower of the silver-weed, or the blue blossoms and succulent leaves of the brook-lime."

The true Forget-me-not, Myosotis palustris, is invariably found in marshy localities or on the banks of streams; but the Meadow Scorpion-grass, Myosotis arvensis, is frequently mistaken for it. The "genuine article" has a bright blue blossom, much smaller than, but in shape something resembling, the primrose; in its bract it has a drop of gold, and on each segment of the coloured portion of the flower is a small streak or fleck of white.

Both the true forget-me-not and the false belong to the Borage family, or Boraginaceæ, which includes sixty-seven known genera, and nearly nine hundred species.

It is said that after the battle of Waterloo, a remarkable number of forget-me-nots sprung up all over the fatal field. The circumstance might well be made the theme of a poet's lay, were it not for a suspicion that the little blue flowers belonged to the Myosotis arvensis species, and not to the Myosotis palustris.

But why Myosotis? This Greek compound surely means "mouse-ear," and what have these plants to do with the auricular organs of mice? Why, their leaves were supposed to resemble in form the ear of Mus domesticus. The name of "scorpion-grass" originated in the fact that the top of the stem coils round while the buds are unblown, like a scorpion's tail. It is strange how quick the common people have been to detect these analogies, and to perpetuate them in the appellations they have bestowed on the flowers of the meadow, the wood, and the green lane.

The singularly beautiful name of the Myosotis palustris—we mean its common and non-scientific name,—is ascribed, in a well-known German legend, to the dying knight who, having ventured at a dangerous spot to pluck a handful of the bright blue blossoms for his lady-love, fell into the stream, and as he sank, flung the dear-bought spoil towards her, exclaiming, "Forget me not!"

A more probable origin is suggested by Miss Strickland. "Henry of Lancaster (Henry IV.)," she says, "appears to have been the person who gave it its emblematical and poetical meaning, by uniting it, at the period of his exile, with the initial letters of his watchword, Souveigne vous de moi; thus rendering it the symbol of remembrance, and, like the subsequent fatal roses of York and Lancaster and Stuart, the lily of Bourbon, and the violet of Napoleon, an historical flower."

We have said that the scorpion-grass belongs to the natural family Boraginaceæ, which receives its name from the common borage, a bright blue flower with very rough leaves. All its members are rough or hairy, except those which, like the forget-me-not, become smooth from living partly under water. The black stalks of the borage burn, it is said, like match-paper, and its root enters largely into the composition of rouge. Its flowers were at one time held in great respect as a wholesome bitter ingredient for a tankard of ale. According to Pliny, "if the leaves and flowers of the borage be immersed in wine, and that wine drunken, the potion will make men blithe and merry, and drive away all heavy sadness and dull melancholy."

Burton, in his "Anatomy of Melancholy," also says of it—

Most of the Boraginaceæ are weeds, but they include a few ornamental garden-flowers; as, for example, the Peruvian heliotrope—the "cherry-pie" of the children—which is well known for the fragrance of its blue blossoms. Its Greek name refers to an ancient belief that it always "turned" to meet the sun; but neither heliotrope nor sunflower exhibits any such devotedness towards the great "orb of day." The poet's comparison—

is very pretty and suggestive, but unfortunately it is not true.

The Lilies.

Are we justified in classing these among our summer flowers? Well, the lily of the valley may, perhaps, be more justly claimed by Spring, as it generally unveils its beauty in the month of May; but the water-lily belongs to Summer; and, at all events, it will be most convenient to speak of them in this category.

The lily of the valley (Convallaria majalis),—the May-lily of old writers,—has long been a favourite type of retiring modesty and tender loveliness. It affects the silence and solitude of the woodlands, where, in the shadow of broad leaves and sweeping branches, the inquiring botanist discovers—

Shakspeare, who neglected nothing, refers to its gentle humility of attitude:—

Our lily is a native of cold and temperate countries, and never shakes its pendant bells at the bidding of a hot Eastern breeze. It is very abundant in Norway. That agreeable writer and observant traveller, Henry Inglis, says:—"It stood everywhere around, scenting the air, and in such profusion, that it was scarcely possible to step without bruising its tender stalks and blossoms. I have not seen this flower mentioned in any enumeration of Norwegian plants, but it grows in all the western parts of Norway in latitude 59° and 60°, wherever the ground is free from forest, in greater abundance than any other wild-flower."

As it will not live in hot countries, it cannot be the "lily of the field" which furnished our Saviour with so fruitful a text for warning and instruction. This, in all probability, was the yellow amaryllis, or Amaryllis lutea, a flower bearing some resemblance to our yellow crocus, but much larger, and with broader leaves. Its delicate blossoms escape from an undivided spathe, or sheath, and are bell-shaped, with six clefts and six stamens, which are alternately short and long. The flower seldom rises more than three or four inches above the soil, accompanied by green leaves, which, after the flowering has passed, continue to preserve their freshness throughout the winter.

But some authorities are not content with the yellow amaryllis, and put forth as the true "lily of the field," either the narcissus, or the golden lily, or the stately crinum, according to their several tastes.

Not connected with these flowers by any botanical relationship, and surpassing them all in beauty, is the Water-lily (Nymphæa alba), whose large round leaves and full white blossoms are the glory of so many of our secluded lakes and quiet streams. Everybody knows old Izaak Walton's quaint eulogium on the strawberry: "Doubtless God could have made a better fruit, but doubtless He never hath." In like manner I am inclined to say: "Doubtless God might have created a fairer flower, but doubtless He never hath." Alas! like most things rare and beautiful, its existence is very brief! pluck it, and straightway it vanishes,—like a poet's dream, the moment he attempts to realise it.

It is sometimes asserted of our wild water-lily that it retires below the surface of the stream shortly after noon, remaining in the liquid depths during night, and rising again into the light of day at early dawn. Those who are acquainted with the haunts and habits of these beautiful flowers know that this is not strictly correct, as they may often be seen, "by the pale moonlight," lying folded above the water. It is not impossible, however, that some may sink; and certain it is, that as the sun sets they close their silver vases.

So says Keats; but this is true only while the sun is asserting his supremacy in the azure sky. And then, the spectacle of a calm, rush-fringed pool, nestling in the shadow of some ancient elms or drooping willows, and brightened by the uplifted cups of our delicate naiads, is a scene of surpassing beauty. We turn from this favourite flower regretfully, "murmuring," as novelists say, Mrs Hemans's graceful apostrophe:—

Permit me, reader, another quotation. I take it from your and my favourite, Wordsworth:—

The lily of golden hue, the yellow water-lily, is the Nuphar lutea of botanists. The country people, on account of its peculiar scent, most unpoetically call it "brandy-bottle." It is far more plentiful than the regal nymphæa; its flower is not so full of petals; and it is by no means so handsome. Yet, with its smooth, glossy leaves, and golden cups, and long floating stems, it favourably attracts the eye. We are told that "its roots are nutritious, and are frequently powdered and eaten for bread in Sweden;" that, mixed with the bark of the Scotch fir, they form a cake much relished by the Swedes; in which case the Swedish palate certainly cannot be censured as fastidious. "These roots are also burnt on the hearths of farmhouses, because their smoke is reputed to drive away the crickets, whose chirping is sometimes too loud and shrill to be deemed musical." Assuredly this is untrue of many parts of England, as the cricket is popularly supposed to be "lucky," and no old country-wife would allow it to be driven away from her sanctum.

The water-lily of the East, the beautiful Lotus,—the Nelumbium speciosum, which is figured on so many Egyptian and Indian monuments,—is rich in blue and red, as well as in white blossoms. These are said to sink quite below the surface in the evening and during the night shadows; whence Moore says of them, with his artificial prettiness—

It was formerly abundant on the Nile, and the Egyptians consecrated it to their supreme god, Osiris; but, with the splendour and mysticism of ancient Egypt, it has completely passed away.

But it is scarcely less prized by the Hindus, who have also consecrated it to one of their deities. A traveller thus speaks of the sacred Ganges in connexion with it:—"The rich and luxuriant clusters of the lotus float in quick succession upon the silvery current. Nor is it the sacred lotus alone which embellishes the wavelets of the Ganges; large white, yellow, and scarlet flowers pay an equal tribute; and the prows of the numerous native vessels navigating the stream are garlanded by long wreaths of the most brilliant daughters of the parterre. India may be called a paradise of flowers: the most beautiful lilies grow spontaneously upon the sandy shores of the rivers, and from every projecting cliff some shrub dips its flowers in the waters below."

No reader of English poetry but is familiar with Tennyson's "Lotus-Eaters"—a poem founded on the old myth of a people who lived upon the insane root that takes the reason prisoner, and, beguiled by its sweet intoxication, abandoned themselves to a state of dreamy repose.

But the lotus of poetry is not the Nelumbium speciosum. There is some difficulty in identifying it with any modern plant; but the general opinion seems to be, that it was the Zizyphus lotus, a species allied to the Zizyphus jujuba, and included in the Buckthorn family (Rhamnaceæ).

The reader will be by this time aware that of the plants called by the general English name of "lily," some have very little kinship to each other, and others none at all. The little garden flowers named Lilium (from the Celtic word lis, "whiteness") are mostly very handsome. Ben Jonson, speaking of the ordinary lily, says, very finely—

The white garden-lily is a native of the Levant, but has become thoroughly naturalised in England, and is one of the commonest but most admired ornaments of our cottage-gardens. The old herbalists thought highly of its medicinal properties, and pronounced it a certain remedy for the bite of a serpent. It is true, at all events, that its bruised petals are an excellent cure for any ordinary wound or bruise.

Our ancestors, among their other superstitious fancies, entertained the extraordinary belief that the price of a bushel of wheat in the ensuing season was foretold by the number of white cups which crowned the white lily's stem, each cup being estimated at one shilling. I opine that our modern farmers would feel dissatisfied if the Mark Lane averages were regulated by this simple standard.

The common Turk's-cap lily (Lilium martagon) is identified with the ancient hyacinth, the "sanguine flower inscribed with woe." The orange lily (Lilium bulbiferum) is a native of Southern Europe. When the Dutch were at feud with the House of Orange, they were accustomed to root up this flower from their gardens, as some solace to their indignant feelings.

The garden lilies belong to the natural family of the Liliaceæ, which includes the following sub-orders:—

1. Tulipeæ, tulip tribe; bulbous plants, with the segments of the perianth scarcely adherent in a tube.

2. Hemerocallideæ, day-lily tribe; bulbous plants, with a tubular perianth.

3. Scilleæ, or Alliæ, squill or onion tribe; bulbous, with black and brittle testa.

4. Anthericeæ or Asphodeleæ, asphodel tribe; roots fascicled or fibrous, leaves neither coriaceous nor permanent.

5. Convollarieæ, lily of the valley tribe; stem developed as a rhizome or tuber.

6. Asparageæ, asparagus tribe; stem usually fully developed, arborescent, branched in some cases, and leaves frequently permanent and coriaceous.

7. Alonieæ, aloes tribe; stem usually developed, arborescent, with succulent leaves.

8. Aphyllantheæ, grass-tree tribe; characterised by a rush-like habit and membranous imbricated bracts.

The Gentians.

Let me now direct your attention, reader, to a pretty plant, of very elegant appearance: crowned, as it is, by a cluster of rosy flowers, it would not disgrace our well-kept parterres. It is called the common Centaury (Erythræa centaurium). You will never see it in the fields side by side with the Delphinium; but in July and August will meet with it frequently on the borders of woodland paths and open glades.

Would you create for yourself by the study of nature a source of enjoyment equally pure and inexhaustible, adopt a method of classification for your own use, and, to facilitate you in the task, take for your types those plants which are at once the commonest and most characteristic of each season. Quite at your ease, you may begin your analysis by examining the parts which, like the calyx and the corolla, most attract your attention. The most rational plan, however, would be, to commence with the seed, and to follow it through all the wonderful phases of its life, from the development of the embryo to the maturity of the fruit. Unfortunately, we are all compelled to take time into account; time is so much more precious than money,—it is the measurement of our existence. Undoubtedly, the mind, with its gigantic strides, like those of an Homeric god, tends to overleap the confines both of time and space. But the senses, without whose co-operation the intellect could not create science, never fail to remind us that we are, alas! but mortals. By this incessant appeal to order, we are under the necessity of doing, not what we would, but what we can. And the part we really play is, consequently, much more modest than that which we love to imagine ourselves as playing.

But to return to our flowers.

What see you in the little centaury which you hold in your hand? (Fig. 56.)

In the first place, a corolla with five petals of a delicate rose-hue, very pleasant to the sight.

Take care! those foliola are not petals, if you give that name to the free parts of the corolla. Look at them thoroughly. Your foliola are prolonged at their base in a narrow tube, which is easily removed. If you had begun here,—if, instead of proceeding from the top to the bottom, you had, in your analysis, proceeded from the bottom to the top, you would have acquired a wholly different view of things. You would have said that the corolla is tubular, greenish, with a rosy limb, deeply divided into five lobes. And in so doing, you would have run no risk of deceiving yourself. The indications given by Nature herself are the most precious; they are the lessons of a teacher who cannot err: never pass them by with indifference or neglect. In your study of the different parts of a vegetable, follow, as far as possible, the actual movement of the sap.

The calyx of our gentian has, like its corolla, the form of a five-divided tube; which, indeed, is one of the usual characters of the Gentian family.

But it is important here to take notice of this fact, because it is not, as at first sight you would suppose, the corolla, but the calyx, which encircles the base of the ovary. The tube of the corolla stops towards the middle of the latter organ, and nearly on a level with the linear divisions of the calyx. You must be careful not to confound with these calycine divisions the green foliola which lie around the base of the flower, and which are neither more nor less than abortive leaves.

Now call to mind that the flower is an union of concentric whorls, or of rings set one within another. The staminal whorl and the carpellary whorl, surrounded by a double perianth (corolla and calyx), are here composed—the first, of five stamens, and the second of a bilobed ovary, surmounted by a twisted style. We may now examine more closely the reproductive organs.

The stamens are inserted upon the top of the tube of the corolla, and if you look at the base of their filaments you would be inclined to pronounce it a foliaceous expansion, or, rather, a metamorphic doubling of the corolla. Suppose the stamens to be the result of the transformation of the petals, the filament would be the "claw," and the anther the "limb" of a foliole. At least, theory would tell you so. But observation will show that these are not petals changing into stamens, but, on the contrary, stamens changing into petals; as is seen in the sterile (or "double") flowers of many of our ornamental plants, and even of some of our fruit trees. How, then, shall we conciliate theory with observation? Look, and you shall find.

Observe the anthers which surmount the filaments. There is something peculiarly characteristic in them. As they open and spread abroad the pollen, they visibly coil themselves up in the form of a spiral. (Fig. 58.) Owing to this twisting, they are found more or less inclined upon their filaments, and are gifted with a considerable mobility. Thoroughly to understand the relation between the continuous anther and the filament, we must examine the stamens before their expansion, while they are still folded up within the floral bud, their matrix. The anthers are then quite straight, and, with a magnifying-glass, you can easily see how they are inserted, by the lower part of their back, upon the top of the filament, whose (so-called) connective prolongation separates the two lobes of the pollen receptacle. The anthers are then introrse (introrsum, inwardly)—that is to say, their face being inclined inwards, they look towards the centre of the flower, occupied by the style, a filiform prolongation of the ovary; the apex of the style (stigma) is thick, globulose, and of a glandular structure. The fruit, resulting from the metamorphosis of the ovary, is an elongated fusiform capsule, composed of two lobes, each containing a very large number of extremely small seeds.

The characters we have just enumerated apply, or the majority of them, to the interesting family of the Gentianaceæ—a natural group of plants, nearly all remarkable for their bitter, febrifugal, and anti-scrofulous properties. The flowering cymes of the common centaury are very frequently employed as a substitute for the medicinal gentian, so well known as a valuable tonic.

The medicinal gentian is the Gentiana lutea,—a plant growing about three feet high,—which thrives abundantly on the Pyrenees, and the Alps of Switzerland and Austria, at an elevation of 3000 to 5000 feet. It is not, however, so common now as formerly on the Alpine heights, owing probably to its great consumption, but it is spreading into many districts of Central Europe.

Frequent enough in the vicinity of Paris is the Chlora perforata, a gentian remarkable for its glaucous leaves and yellow terminal flowers.

The Gentiana kurroo of the Himalayas, and the British species, Gentiana campestris and Gentiana amarella, possess the tonic properties of the family. The Cheritta of the pharmacopœia is the herb and root of Agathotes chirayta (Ophelia chirata), a herbaceous plant which flourishes in the Himalayas.

We must not omit a reference to a Lilliputian gentian, the filiform gentian of Linnæus, and the Exacum filiforme or Cicendia filiformis of other botanical authorities.

Its stem, from two and a half to four inches in length, is embellished with radical oblong leaves, disposed in fours, and short caulinary leaves, opposite and linear; the corolla is yellow, the calyx has four triangular lobes; the stamens also are four. It is this predominant number which has induced some botanists to elevate our little gentian into a species of Exacum or Cicendia,—two genera, of which the first was named by Adamson, the second by De Candolle. As for the tiny Gentiana pusilla, or Exacum pusillum, we may look upon it as a simple variety of the Exacum filiforme, differing from the latter only in its shorter and feebler stem, in the somewhat narrower divisions of its calyx, and the tint of its corolla, which is of a paler yellow, sometimes inclining to rose.

Botanists, or lovers of flowers, may grow as passionately fond of gentians as some persons do of tulips or hyacinths. But it is not in England or Scotland, it is in the Alpine pastures of Switzerland only, that you can hope to satisfy your Gentianomania.

An Alpine Excursion.

Permit me, dear reader, to set down a few hints, in case you should at any time be disposed to make a pilgrimage into the Golden Land, or El Dorado, of botanists and geologists.

Before you plunge into the Alps, you will meet, in the sub-alpine regions, among the valleys which intersect and the meadows which clothe the lower spurs of the Jura, the Gentiana campestris. It is a plant of from five to six inches in height, whose blue, five-lobed corolla, with its velvety gorge, changes into yellow when dried; the two outer teeth of the calyx are elliptical, and much larger than the others. Your attention will hardly be drawn to this tiny gentian among the crowd of more beautiful and attractive plants blooming around it.

One excursion which you should not fail to make is the ascent of the Dent de Jaman,—the hieroglyphic summit of one of those charming mountains which mirror themselves in the Lake of Geneva. This classical, and, moreover, very easy ascent, has the advantage of carrying you up a series of terraces, so that the character of the vegetation changes rapidly. The acclivity begins at the little town of Montreux, situated near the point where the blue arrowy Rhone pours its waters into the enchanted lake. From Montreux to the village of Glion, you will be delighted to greet your old acquaintances: the familiar faces of your native fields, meadows, and woodlands. But soon a difference in the character of the flora forces itself upon you. Species which are rarer at home become tolerably common, as, for instance, the yellow digitalis (Digitalis lutea), so easily recognised by its cymes of tiny flowers. The vulneraria (Anthyllis vulneraria) is as widely diffused as the trefoil in our English pastures.

A little above Glion,—a picturesque village apparently hung over the lake—the sub-alpine region commences. Around villas and mansions, nearly all inhabited by English families, you will find in abundance the English mercury (Chenopodium Bonus Henricus), and in the shady hedges the narcotic Herb-Paris (Paris quadrifolia).

The apparition of the Astrantia major, which resembles an artificial or fancy-created flower, warns us that we are passing beyond the limits of the ordinary flora. I believe that we have no representative in England of that singular umbellifer. The Alpine pastures of the narrow-ridged Mount Caü, which resembles the back of a dromedary, exhale a fragrance like that of the famous Swiss tea, so much extolled as a remedy against cholera. The odour of the hay-lofts attached to the châlets—true shepherd's huts—which rise at intervals along the back of Mont Dromedary, is so penetrating as to produce headache. The hay owes its aromatic fragrance to the musk-chervil (Myrrhis odorata), whose strong stems form such thick luxuriant pasturages; to various orchideæ, particularly to the Nigritella suaveolens, remarkable for the intense colour—nearly black—of its flowers; and finally, to the gentians, whose scent is strongly brought out by drying.

The rich close sward which borders on the Dent de Jaman provides the herboriser with more than one agreeable surprise. You will be struck by the beauty of the flowery tufts of the Linaria Alpina, rejoicing in a deep sapphire blue. You will also have an opportunity of making acquaintance with a campanula which is abundant on Mont Cenis (Campanula Cœnisia); its beautiful terminal flower, of a pale blue, is characterised by the long hairs which line the opening of the corolla.

Among the gentians, those great ornaments of the Alpine pasturages, we shall direct the attention of our readers to—

The purple gentian (Gentiana purpurea), and the spotted gentian (Gentiana punctata). These are distinguished by their plentiful appearance: their large oval leaves, and the height of their vigorous stems, recall those of the yellow gentian. The features which separate these two species are not very distinct: the corolla of the former is purple without and yellow within; that of the latter is of a bright yellow, marked by spots of deep purple, which, however, are not permanent; the calyx is campanulated, with upright and lanceolate foliola.

The Gentiana acaulis contrasts singularly with the preceding species, its stem being so short that one is almost tempted to deny the existence of any; its large corollas, of a bright celestial blue, lie on the ground as if they had fallen fresh from a bouquet. We must not confound this species with the Gentiana pumila, a much smaller plant, with a very elongated calyx, which grows abundantly on the turf of Mont St Bernard.

The Gentiana verna and the Gentiana nivalis, with a corolla of the finest azure, inhabit the loftiest points of the Alps, where all vegetation begins to disappear. The former, or the gentian of spring, flowers, in these frozen regions, in June and July; it is one of twenty-four phanerogamous plants of the last vegetable station of Mont Blanc. This station is formed by a series of vertical layers of protogene, which separates the upper part of the Glacier des Bossons from that of Taconay. The débris of the rock, decomposed under the influence of atmospheric agencies, form, in the midst of the nevé, tiny flowering parterres—oases in the desert, islands in the vast ocean of ice and snow. There, sheltered by the rocks, and warmed by the sun, and refreshed by the snow, which rapidly melts in summer, these pretty plants thrive and grow beautiful, though their brief existence is summed up in a few short weeks.

According to Charles Martins, the phanerogamous plants which flourish at an elevation of 10,000 feet are the following:—

Mean temperature, 47° to 36°.

1. Gentiana verna.
2. Silena acaulis.
3. Draba frigida.[66]
4. Draba fladnizensis.
5. Cardamine bellidifolia.
6. Cardamine resedifolia.
7. Potentilla frigida.
8. Phyteuma hemisphericum.
9. Pyrethrum Alpinum.
10. Erigeron uniflorum.
11. Saxifraga bryoides.
12. Saxifraga Groenlandica.
13. Saxifraga muscoides.
14. Saxifraga oppositifolia.
15. Androsace Helvetica.
16. Androsace pubescens.
17. Lazula spicata.
18. Festuca Halleri.
19. Poa laxa.[67]
20. Poa cæsia.
21. Poa Alpina.
22. Trisetum subspicatum.
23. Agrostis rupestris.
24. Carex nigra (Cariceæ).

The Pimpernel.

Accompany me to the corn-field; not for any discourse upon the state and prospect of the crops, or on the comparative value to man of wheat or barley, but for the sake of the little red flower which shines like a star among the growing harvest.

You cannot mistake it, for, with the exception of the tiny chaff-weed, the smallest wild plant which bears a distinct flower, it is the only scarlet blossom in the wheat-field, except, indeed, the red poppy, which every good farmer seeks to banish from his land. Mark me,—I say the only scarlet flower; for there are several—as, for instance, the pheasant's eye, or Adonis—of a deep crimson.

The pimpernel belongs to the Primrose family, or Primulaceæ. It has a five-cleft calyx, and a monopetalous corolla. Its stamens, of an equal number, are inserted on the corolla, opposite its segments. It is a meteoric flower; so-called, because it keeps itself shut during wet or cloudy weather. Hence, it is known among country people as "the shepherd's warning" or "poor man's weather-glass." And Darwin, enumerating the various signs of rain, says of it—