THE PLANT COMMUNITY AND ITS VILLAINS.
No paradise could be complete for us without a pervading freshness of green in wood and field. In lazy moods and calm sunshiny weather there are few men who will not condescend to stretch out their limbs under a spreading beech, or at least to envy one who is taking life easily for a time in the shade. We all know what a pleasant faint rustle of leaves there is above, and what a flickering of mellowed sunlight comes over the eyes, and how these steal into the heart with a sense of soft content, till we are apt to become like little children, enjoying without much thought, yielding ourselves up to the delight of the mere living, letting our consciousness float along lazily on the current of being. But if we can in such circumstances nerve ourselves to reflect just a little, we shall—if we possess even a very slight knowledge of the processes of nature—become conscious that there are great silent energies and activities at work around us in every blade of grass, and above us in the cool green foliage. The leaves have myriads of invisible little mouths eagerly drinking in the unseen air, and the minute grains that give the green color to these leaves are all the while laying hold of the infinitesimal percentage of carbonic acid impurity in that air, and, invigorated by the quickening sunlight, are able to tear this gaseous impurity to pieces, to wrench the two elements that form it asunder, making the one into nutriment for themselves, and letting the other go free in its purity into the wide atmosphere. What man—with all his sound and fury, his hammering and clanking—has never achieved, is thus quietly done in summer days by every green leaf in God’s world, and inorganic matter is forced to live. While the sun shines these honest workers are striving with all their might to lay hold of every atom of this gas that fouls the atmosphere for animals, and thus, while finding food for themselves, they are keeping the air sweet and pure for other living things. The necessity is laid on them to maintain themselves by honest work; and it is interesting to reflect how massive are the material results that gather round their task. We are apt to forget that by far the greater part of the solid matter of vegetation—of the giant trees of California as well as of the tiniest grasses and green herbs—is thus gathered atom by atom from the atmosphere. One eats his potato thankfully, usually without bothering himself much as to how it came to be a potato; how the green leaves labored away, seizing the scanty atoms of an invisible gas and making them into starch; how this insoluble starch became a soluble thing, and melting away into the sap flowed through the stem to the tubers, there to form again into little grains and be laid up for future use. The rest of the nourishment of such honest plants is usually derived from the soil. The more stimulating food—within certain limits—that crops, for instance, take up by the roots, the harder do their green parts work in the sunlight, making starch and kindred substances out of what they can snatch from the atmosphere. Hence the value of manures; they are stimulants to increased endeavor. Such honest, hard-working plants form by far the greater bulk of vegetation, and of those that grow on land nearly all are conspicuously green. Sometimes—but rarely—the green is disguised a little by another color associated with it, or some tint that is but skin-deep. Take a leaf of the copper beech, for instance, scratch the surface, and you will find the honest green beneath. Even the despised field-weeds, that come up wherever man digs or plows, and linger lovingly about his agriculture, so be it that they are green, are honest in their way, and only take hold of what earth they can find to root in, that they may participate with their fellows in the blessings to be got and given by keeping the atmosphere pure. Man wants to grow grain, or something of the kind, where they prefer to grow, and so, as they foul his husbandry, he ruthlessly roots them out, or tries at least. It is their misfortune that man does not wish them there; but still, contemned creatures as they are, they have honest ways about them, and every green grain in their being is struggling hard to do something genuinely useful. It is only an earnest striving to hold their own against man and brute, that makes humble nettles clothe themselves with stings full of formic acid and fury, and rude thistles bristle with a sharp nemo me impune lacessit at every prickle point. They are armed for defense, not aggression. It is not of stuff such as this that vegetable villains are made.
Since there is so much honesty, however, in the plant world, rogues, and thieves, and pilferers must abound. Consider the animal kingdom. Where herds of deer roam in the wilds there beasts of prey are on the prowl, or sportsmen stalk with murderous guns in hand. Where herrings and pilchards crowd in shoals clouds of gulls and gannets hover, and porpoises with rapacious maws tumble and roll about. Where earthworms abound there moles with ravenous appetite are furiously driving mines, or birds that have sharp, quick bills keep watch with keen eyes. And so in this honest plant community, preying on it and pilfering from it, live and flourish hosts of vegetable villains; some without a trace of green in their whole being, living by theftuous practices alone; some with just the faintest suspicion of green and the slightest indications of a true nature; others with a good deal of the better color about them, but still only indifferently honest. There is something of marvel and mystery about these plant pilferers—of strange peculiarities in their modes of life, and in their adaptations for plundering and preying, which can hardly fail to interest intelligent minds, even when brought before them in a sketch such as this, which does not profess to take in more than the outermost fringe of a wide field. Without terms and technicalities and a strange jargon of crabbed words that would be dry as dust, and meaningless to most readers, little professing to be thorough can be done; yet, after all, something more generally comprehensive may ooze through in comparatively plain English.
With regard to their pilfering habits, such plants are usually proportioned off into two great groups. They either attach themselves to other beings and absorb their juices, in which case they form a mighty host of plants of prey usually known as parasites; or they seek their nurtriment, and find it, in dead and decaying organisms, and are then known as saprophytes, a somewhat hard word to begin with, for which I can not find a popular equivalent, but which merely signifies plants that grow on decomposing matter. All land plants that are not blessed with a true green color belong to one or other of these groups, and are villains in their various degrees. They make no effort to free the air from the gaseous impurity that haunts it, but, like animals, they keep fouling it instead. With a very few exceptions, all of them subsist on organic matter in some form, and this they usually draw from the plants, living or dead, on which they grow, or from decaying matter in the soil. But many of these vegetable villains run into half-honest vagaries, and succeed in raising themselves slightly above the common ruck. If they can not seize and break up carbonic acid gas, they may do a little toward atmospheric purification of a kind by laying fast hold on such organic particles as are floating in the air or brought to them in falling moisture. Plants such as these are sometimes found growing on barren sand, on hard gravel, on parapets of bridges, on leaden cisterns, on plastered walls, on slag, and in like inhospitable places, where they are compelled to turn mainly to the atmosphere and trickling moisture for food. Some such haunt mines like phosphorescent ghosts, others make themselves at home on places like the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. In a mass two feet in length, similar strange plants were one morning long ago found by a smith on a piece of iron that he had taken, on the previous night, red-hot from his fire, and laid on his water trough. Many similar vagaries they run into that would in the telling sound almost incredible. Indeed, the whole group of the saprophytes is not to be accounted so utterly abandoned as that of the parasites. To these they are certainly nearly related, but there is more of the useful scavenger about them than of the useless thief. No sooner has death overtaken any plant than a host of them set to work to clear away the now useless organism from the world, breaking down herbaceousness into putrescence, timber into touchwood, and all at last into vegetable mould. Their mission is to seize upon decaying matter and endow it with life in a new form; and thus out of rottenness often comes wholesomeness, decay moulding itself into pleasant mushrooms, or into things unfit for human food perhaps, but that may bring the blessings of abundance to many little living creatures. If such as are edible are to be considered villains, then people of delicate palate who smack their lips over some of them have a right to insist that these should be specially classed as dainty little rogues.
Still this useful scavengering habit is nearly allied to the pilfering one. Decay attacks part of a tree, for instance, and saprophytes set to work at the dead branch, but they are apt to extend their operations to the adjoining living tissues, which die, too, and decay, till in the end the tree may be entirely destroyed. The scavenger, we can thus understand, is apt on occasion to relapse into the thief and the out-and-out villain.
To one or other of these two great groups, or occasionally to both, belong, besides a few flowering plants, the whole extensive division of the fungi, and it is to be noted that none of this curious class of plants is ever blessed with leaf-green or starch in any part of its substance. Whether minute even under powerful microscopes or measuring several feet across; whether hard as wood or a mere mass of jelly; whether horny, fleshy, or leathery; whether resisting the action of the elements for years or hardly able to outlive a puff of wind; whether beautiful, commonplace, or ugly; whether sweet-scented or otherwise, in this they agree, that in all of them is wanting that greenness which makes honest work possible, and those little grains of starch that come from honest work done.—Good Words.
I am afraid that a lightsome disposition and a relish for humor are not so common in those whose benevolence takes an active turn as in people of sentiment, who are always ready with their tears and abounding in passionate expressions of sympathy. Working philanthropy is a practical specialty, requiring not a mere impulse, but a talent, with a peculiar sagacity for finding its objects, a tact for selecting its agencies, an organizing and arranging faculty, a steady set of nerves, and a constitution such as Sallust describes in Catiline, patient of cold, of hunger, and of watching. Philanthropists are commonly grave, occasionally grim, and not very rarely morose. Their expansive social force is imprisoned as a working power, to show itself only through its legitimate pistons and cranks. The tighter the boiler, the less it whistles and sings at its work.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
SLAVONIC MYTHOLOGY.[B]
By ADLEY H. CUMMINGS.
The mythology of various tribes and races has of late attracted much attention, while that of our own ancestors of the North has been studied with the greatest care.
Little attention, however, has been devoted to the religious belief of the ancient Slavonic race, and yet it is replete with interest for all who yield to the fascination of ancient myth.
We unfortunately possess no Slavic Edda, or Veda, to throw illumination upon the ancient creed of the tribes, but a few scattered facts have come down to modern times—principally contained in popular songs—but sufficient to enable us to observe the similarity between Slavonic mythology and that of the other members of the Indo-European stock—all pointing to that immensely ancient time when the ancestors of the combined race could have been gathered within the circuit of the same camp; when they passed the same lives and worshiped the same divinities; wept when the “serpents of the night” strangled the god appointed to preside over the day, and rejoiced together with an exceeding great joy when the day-god, victorious over his foes, gilded the hills again.
In Slavonic tradition Swarog is represented as the most ancient of their gods, as the one who was originally—before Perkunas—the supreme deity of those tribes, corresponding to Sanskrit Surya, like Helios in Greece, the dweller in the orb of the sun. Swarog was the pervading, irresistible luminary, the solar deity, par excellence, of the race, and vague recollections of him still exist. In some places Swarog seems to have yielded to another solar deity, Dazhbog, the god of fruitfulness, represented as the son of Swarog.
The etymological signification of Dazhbog is the “day-god.” With him, as a representative of the sun, was a god named Khors—probably, however, but another name of the day-god.
Ogon, answering closely to Sanskrit Agni, Latin, ignis (fire), was the god of fire, brother of Dazhbog; his worship was principally connected with the domestic hearth.
But the deity who stands out most prominently, who became the supreme divinity of the race, though corresponding to the Scandinavian Thor, was Perkunas, or Perun, whose name, yielding to certain laws of phonetic change, may correspond to Greek Keraunos (thunder), but more closely to Sanskrit Parjanya, called in the Rig-Veda, “The thunderer, the showerer, the bountiful, who impregnates the plants with rain.” This god was forgotten by the Hellenic Aryans, who exalted Dyaus (Zeus, Jove) to the supreme position, but the Letto-Slavonic tribes bestowed upon him the endearing appellation of the “All-Father,” a title which they only conferred upon the creator of the lightnings. It is said that the Russians still say, when the thunder rolls, “Perkuna gromena;” in Lithuanian, “Perkuns grumena.”
The South-Slavic term for the rainbow is “Perunika,” “Perun’s flower,” or “beauty.”
“White-Russian traditions,” says Afanasief,[C] “describe Perun as tall and well shaped, with black hair and a long golden beard. He rides in a flaming car, grasping in his left hand a quiver full of arrows, and in his right a fiery bow.”
He is also represented as carrying a mace, answering to Thor’s hammer, mjolnir.
After the introduction of Christianity the prophet Elijah became credited with many of the honors and functions of Perkunas. He was termed, “Gromovit Ilija” (Thunder Elijah), and the origin of the notion, and the strange metamorphosis of that sweet spirit into a Boanerges, undoubtedly lie in his flight to heaven in a chariot of fire, and in his power, when on earth, of calling down fire from heaven, and of bringing the rain. Thus, II. Kings, i:10, he says, “If I be a man of God, then shall fire come down from heaven and consume thee and thy fifty.” Again, Kings, i., 18:41, “And Elijah said unto Ahab: Get thee up; eat and drink, for there is a sound of abundance of rain.”
The Slavs considered that the thunder and lightning were given into the prophet’s hands, and that he closed the gates of heaven, i. e., the clouds, to sinful men, who thus might not share in his blessed reign. There is evidence of the same belief among the Teutonic tribes, and in the old High-German poem, “Muspilli,” a form of that saga which prevailed throughout all the middle ages with regard to the appearance of anti-Christ shortly before the end of the world. Elijah takes the place which Thor assumes in Scandinavian myth at Ragnarok, and fights the evil one:
“Daz hôrtih rahhôn dia werol trehtwison,
Daz sculi der anti-Christo mit Eliase pâgan.”
I have heard the very learned say,
That anti-Christ shall with Elijah fight.
The poem then proceeds to say that Elijah shall be wounded, and recounts the many signs and wonders that shall occur before the Muspell-doom, the Judgment Day.
Volos, or Veles, was another solar deity. It has been held that the Greek Helios appears in this name, while others have identified him with Odin, or Woden, pronounced with an epenthetic l, and with other changes, but the etymology seems far-fetched.
He was the special protector of cattle. The name survives to Christian times in St. Blasius. Mr. Ralston says: “In Christian times the honors originally paid to Volos were transferred to his namesake, St. Vlas, or Vlasy (Blasius), who was a shepherd by profession. To him the peasants throughout Russia pray for the safety of their flocks and herds, and on the day consecrated to him (February 11) they drive their cows to church, and have them secured against misfortune by prayer and the sprinkling of holy water. . . . Afanasief considers that the name was originally one of the epithets of Perun, who, as the cloud-compeller—the clouds being the cattle of the sky—was the guardian of the heavenly herds, and that the epithet ultimately became regarded as the name of a distinct deity.”
By the names of Volus and Perun the Russians used to swear and confirm their sayings and treaties by oath.
Stribog was the wind-god. According to Russian ideas the four winds are the sons of one mother, and in the Old-Russian Igor song the wind is addressed as Sir. These winds are called Stribog’s grandsons. So in India, the winds are regarded as sentient beings; thus in the Nalopákhyánam:
“Thus adjured, a solemn witness, spake the winds from out the air.
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Even as thus the wind was speaking, flowers fell showering all around,
And the gods’ sweet music sounded on the zephyr light.”
Byelbog and Chernobog, the representatives of light and darkness, are of antagonistic nature—the warring principles of good and evil. Byelbog is the white, shining god, the bringer of the day, the benignant Phœbus, while Chernobog, a black god, belongs to the diabolical order.
The goddess of spring and love was Lada—corresponding closely to Freya in the Scandinavian traditions. Lovers and the newly married addressed their prayers to her, praising her name in songs. Lado, the Slavonic counterpart of Norse Freyr, has many of the same attributes as the goddess Lada, to whom the same adoration and praise were offered. Mr. Ralston says that “one Lithuanian song distinctly couples the name Lado with that of the sun. A shepherd sings, ‘I fear thee not O wolf! The god with the sunny curls will not let thee approach. Lado, O Sun-Lado!’ In one of the old chronicles Lado is mentioned as the god of marriage, of mirth, of pleasure, and of general happiness, to whom those about to marry offered sacrifices in order to secure a fortunate union.”
Kupàlo was the god of harvests, and before the harvest—on the 23d of June—sacrifices were offered to him. Young people lighted fires and danced around them in the evening, adorned with garlands of flowers, singing harvest ditties to the god. This custom still survives in the fires kindled on St. John’s eve, through which sometimes the people jump and drive their cattle. The Poles and other Slavonians, especially in remote districts, keep up many of their ancient heathen rites.
The 24th of December was sacred to the goddess Kolyada, a solar deity, to whom songs were sung in celebration of the renewed life of the sun after the winter solstice “when the gloom of the long winter nights begins to give way to the lengthening day.” This festival became blended with the Christmas celebration upon the advent of Christianity, and songs are still to be heard at that time containing the name of the goddess, as
Kolyada! Kolyada!
Kolyada has arrived
On the eve of the Nativity.
These ditties are called Kolyadki.
Inferior deities were believed in and many supernatural beings were supposed to haunt the woods and waters. The Russalkas, which are naiads, though no more seen, are still believed in, and are of a nature similar to the elves and fairies of western nations. “They are generally represented under the form of beauteous maidens, with full and snow-white bosoms, and with long and slender limbs. Their feet are small, their eyes are wild, their faces are fair to see, but their complexion is pale, their expression anxious. Their hair is long and thick and wavy, and green as is the grass.” The Russians are very superstitious in regard to them, fearing to offend them, while the maidens go into the woods and throw garlands to them, asking for rich husbands in return.
Then there are Mavkas, or Little-Russian fairies and water-nymphs, wood demons, house spirits and numerous other minor spirits and powers which teem in the folk songs of the peasants.
Among the eastern Slavs there seem to have been no temples or priests, while the contrary was true of the west. They burned their dead and greatly reverenced the spirits of the departed, in whose honor festivals were held.
A form of Sutteeism undoubtedly prevailed, widows destroying themselves in order to accompany their husbands to the spirit land, while slaves were sometimes sacrificed upon the same occasions—a practice common to most barbarous states of society.
Upon a general view of ancient Slavonic mythology we observe the same characteristics as among all the other Indo-European tribes—the same nature-worship and inclination to personify the powers of the air and sky; to worship the beneficent sun, which brings to man prosperity, light and happiness; to execrate the night, the enemy of the bright, the beautiful god of day. Men in the childhood of the human race were as simple as children ever have been. The same characteristics mark them. When the mother leaves her child for a moment, the babe with piteous cries calls on her to return. Why is this so? Because in the mind of the child there is no connecting link between the ideas of her going and returning; in other words, the child cannot reason enough to consider it possible—not to say probable, certain—that she will return.
Thus in the simple pastoral days of extreme antiquity, when the glorious sun, the light of men’s eyes, the joy of their hearts, sank below the horizon, the idea of its return failed to suggest itself to their minds. Each sun-setting was a grief, each rising of the blessed orb a joy unspeakable.
And thus upon the plains of Iran, in the flowery meads of Asia Minor and on the Russian steppes, when man beheld the sun, his joy appeared, he fell on his face and thanked the regent of the sky for his light again.
Had the earth been nearer to the sun the face of Comparative Mythology had been changed; the sun-myth would have had to seek a different origin and home, and the history of that greatest of all studies—the study of man—would have had a different course.
It is sincerely to be hoped that the future of the Slavonic tribes may be such as God and nature have intended for them, and that their name may be changed again from slaves to Slavs—“men of glory”—is the aspiration of all who have hopes for the race; in short, of all who wish well to our common humanity.