This explains the riddle of the rose. The disparity of the five pieces of the calyx, apparently an irrational structure, a capricious anomaly, is really the corollary of a mathematical law, the natural consequence of an immanent algebraical relation. Disorder is eloquent of order; irregularity bears evidence of a ruling principle.
Let us continue our excursion into the realm of the plants. The quinary order allots to the flower five petals arranged in a [[270]]whorl of perfect accuracy. Well, a good many corollas depart from the normal grouping, as instance the labiate and the personate corollas. In the former, five lobes compose the limb expanding at the end of a tubular portion and represent the five regulation petals. They are arranged in two wide-open lips, one pointing upwards and one downwards. The upper lip has two lobes, the lower three.
The personate corolla likewise is divided into two lips, the upper having two lobes, the lower three; only, the latter is expanded into an arch that closes the entrance to the flower. A pressure of the fingers on the sides opens the two lips, which close again as soon as the pressure ceases. Hence a certain resemblance to the jaws—the mufle or gueule—of an animal, a resemblance which has earned for the plant in which this formation is most clearly seen, the name of Snapdragon, muflier or gueule-de-loup. A certain analogy has also been drawn between the appearance of the two thick lips of the snapdragon and the exaggerated features of the masks, or personæ, with which the actors in the ancient theatres used to cover their faces to represent the characters whom they [[271]]were playing. Hence the expression “personate corolla.”
The anomaly of the two-lipped corolla entails modifications in the stamens, which have to adapt themselves to the exigencies of the space enclosed, which is narrower at one point and roomier at another. Of the five stamens, one is suppressed, while often leaving a vestige at its base, as a certificate that it was once there. The four others are grouped into two pairs of unequal length, with a tendency to the suppression of the lesser pair.
The sage achieves this suppression. It has only two stamens, those of the longer pair. Moreover, on each of the staminal filaments it preserves only half an anther. According to the rule in the vast majority of cases, an anther consists of two compartments, placed back to back and separated by a slender partition, known as the connective. The sage exaggerates the size of this connective and makes of it the beam of a balance placed crosswise on the filament. At the end of one arm of this beam is the half of an anther, that is to say, a pollen-sac; at the other end is nothing. The whole of the staminal verticil, all save that which is strictly [[272]]necessary, is sacrificed to the beautiful strangeness of the corolla.
Now why do the Labiatæ, the Personatæ and other vegetable orders present these anomalies which completely disarrange the regular structure of the flower? Let us in this connection venture upon an architectural comparison. The first men who ventured to balance heavy hewn stones over empty space, thereby deserving the proud title of pontifex, or bridge-builder, took as the pattern of their fabric the semicircular arch, which rests the thrust of the load on uniform voussoirs. The result is strong and majestic, but also monotonous and lacking in elegance.
Next came the pointed arch, which opposes two arcs described from different centres. With the new type, soaring curves, slender ribs and magnificent superstructures are possible. Variety, inexhaustible in its graceful combinations, replaces monotony.
Well, the regular corolla is, so to speak, the semicircular arch of the flower. Whether campanulate, rotate, urceolate, stellate, or of any other shape, it is always a grouping of similar parts around a circumference. The irregular corolla is the ogive, with its wonderful audacities; it lends to the poetry [[273]]of the flower the admired disorder of all true poetry. The thick-lipped mask of the snapdragon, the gaping jaws of the sage are every whit as effective as the rosette of the hawthorn or the sloe. They are so many chromatic notes added to the gamut, so many charming variations upon one glorious theme, so many discords that enhance the value of the harmonies. The floral symphony gains if interrupted by occasional solos.
The Pedestrian Locust, hopping among the saxifrage amid the lofty summits of the hills, explains his incapacity to fly by reasons of a like order; so does the Staphylinus his skimpy jacket, the Necydalis his short coat, the Myodites her Fly-like aspect. Each after his fashion varies the monotony of the general theme; each strikes a special note in the universal concert. It is not so easy to see why the Scarab abandons his fore-tarsi, why the Iris-beetle has only one claw to her fingers, why the Geotrupes-grub is born mutilated. To what are these minute aberrations due? Before answering, let us once again take counsel with the plant.
One of the inmates of our hothouses is the Alstrœmeria pelegrina, or Inca lily, a [[274]]native of Peru. This curious plant sets us a puzzling problem. At the first glance, its leaves, shaped more or less like those of the willow, offer nothing that deserves attentive examination; but look at them more closely. The leaf-stalk, flattened into a ribbon of some length, is tightly twisted upon itself; and the twist is repeated on every one of the leaves. From one end of the plant to the other we find this clearly-marked torsion.