(Tale 11) CARL LINNÉ, KING OF THE FLOWERS 

Years ago there grew on the Jonsboda farm in Småland, Sweden, a linden tree that was known far and wide for its great age and size.  So beautiful and majestic was the tree, and so wide the reach of its spreading branches, that all the countryside called it sacred.  Misfortune was sure to come if any one did it injury.  So thought the people.  It was not strange, then, that the farmer's boys, when they grew to be learned men and chose a name, should call themselves after the linden.  The peasant folk had no family names in those days.  Sven Carlsson was Sven, the son of Carl; and his son, if his given name were John, would be John Svensson.  So it had always been.  But when a man could make a name for himself out of the big dictionary, that was his right.  The daughter of the Jonsboda farmer married; and her son played in the shadow of the old tree, and grew so fond of it that when he went out to preach he also called himself after it.  Nils Ingemarsson was the name he received in baptism, and to that he added Linnæus, never dreaming that in doing it he handed down the name and the fame of the friend of his play hours to all coming days.  But it was so; for Parson Nils' eldest son, Carl Linné, or Linnæus, became a great man who brought renown to his country and his people by telling them and all the world more than any one had ever known before about the trees and the flowers.  The King knighted him for his services to science, and the people of every land united in acclaiming him the father of botany and the king of the flowers.  

They were the first things he learned to love in his baby world.  If he was cross, they had but to lay him on the grass in the garden and put a daisy in his hand, and he would croon happily over it for hours.  He was four years old when his father took him to a wedding in the neighborhood.  The men guests took a tramp over the farm, and in the twilight they sat and rested in the meadow, where the spring flowers grew.  The minister began telling them stories about them; how they all had their own names and what powers for good or ill the apothecary found in the leaves and root of some of them.  Carl's father, though barely out of college, was a bright and gifted man.  One of his parishioners said once that they couldn't afford a whole parson, and so they took a young one; but if that was the way of it, the men of Stenbrohult made a better bargain than they knew.  They sat about listening to his talk, but no one listened more closely than little Carl.  After that he had thought for nothing else.  In the corner of the garden he had a small plot of his own, and into it he planted all the wild flowers from the fields, and he asked many more questions about them than his father could answer.  One day he came back with one whose name he had forgotten.  The minister was busy with his sermon.  

"If you don't remember," he said impatiently, "I will never tell you the name of another flower." The boy went away, his eyes wide with terror at the threat; but after that he did not forget a single name.  

When he was big enough, they sent him to the Latin school at Wexiö, where the other boys nicknamed him "the little botanist." His thoughts were outdoors when they should have been in the dry books, and his teachers set him down as a dunce.  They did not know that his real study days were when, in vacation, he tramped the thirty miles to his home.  Every flower and every tree along the way was an old friend, and he was glad to see them again.  Once in a while he found a book that told of plants, and then he was anything but a dunce.  But when his father, after Carl had been eight years in the school, asked his teachers what they thought of him, they told him flatly that he might make a good tailor or shoemaker, but a minister—never; he was too stupid.  

That was a blow, for the parson of Stenbrohult and his wife had set their hearts on making a minister of Carl, and small wonder.  His mother was born in the parsonage, and her father and grandfather had been shepherds of the parish all their lives.  There were tears in the good minister's eyes as he told Carl to pack up and get ready to go back home; he had an errand at Dr.  Rothman's, but would return presently.  The good doctor saw that his patient was heavy of heart and asked him what was wrong.  When he heard what Carl's teachers had said, he flashed out: 

"What! he not amount to anything?   There is not one in the whole lot who will go as far as he.  A minister he won't be, that I'll allow, but I shall make a doctor of him such as none of them ever saw.  You leave him here with me." And the parson did, comforted in spite of himself.  But Carl's mother could not get over it.  It was that garden, she declared, and when his younger brother as much as squinted that way, she flew at him with a "You dare to touch it!" and shook him.  

When Dr.  Rothman thought his pupil ready for the university, he sent him up to Lund, and the head-master of the Latin School gave him the letter he must bring, to be admitted.  "Boys at school," he wrote in it, "may be likened to young trees in orchard nurseries, where it sometimes happens that here and there among the saplings there are some that make little growth, or even appear as wild seedlings, giving no promise; but when afterwards transplanted to the orchard, make a start, branch out freely, and at last yield satisfactory fruit." By good luck, though, Carl ran across an old teacher from Wexiö, one of the few who had believed in him and was glad to see him.  He took him to the Rector and introduced him with warm words of commendation, and also found him lodgings under the roof of Dr.  Kilian Stobæus.  

Dr.  Stobæus was a physician of renown, but not good company.  He was one-eyed, sickly, lame in one foot, and a gloomy hypochondriac to boot.  Being unable to get around to his patients, he always had one or two students to do the running for him and to learn as best they might, in doing it.  Carl found a young German installed there as the doctor's right hand.  He also found a library full of books on botany, a veritable heaven for him.  But the gate was shut against him; the doctor had the key, and he saw nothing in the country lad but a needy student of no account.  Perhaps the Rector had passed the head-master's letter along.  However, love laughs at locksmiths, and Carl Linnæus was hopelessly in love with his flowers.  He got on the right side of the German by helping him over some hard stiles in the materia medica.  In return, his fellow student brought him books out of the library when the doctor had gone to bed, and Carl sat up studying the big tomes till early cockcrow.  Before the house stirred, the books were back on their shelves, the door locked, and no one was the wiser.  

No one except the doctor's old mother, whose room was across the yard.  She did not sleep well, and all night she saw the window lighted in her neighbor's room.  She told the doctor that Carl Linnæus fell asleep with the candle burning every single night, and sometime he would upset it and they would all be burned in their beds.  The doctor nodded grimly; he knew the young scamps.  No doubt they both sat up playing cards till dawn; but he would teach them.  And the very next morning, at two o'clock, up he stumped on his lame foot to Carl's room, in which there was light, sure enough, and went in without knocking.  

Carl was so deep in his work that he did not hear him at all, and the doctor stole up unperceived and looked over his shoulder.  There lay his precious books, which he thought safely locked in the library, spread out before him, and his pupil was taking notes and copying drawings as if his life depended upon it.  He gave a great start when Dr.  Stobæus demanded what he was doing, but owned up frankly, while the doctor frowned and turned over his notes, leaf by leaf.  

"Go to bed and sleep like other people," he said gruffly, yet kindly, when he had heard it all, "and hereafter study in the daytime;" and he not only gave him a key to his library, but took him to his own table after that.  Up till then Carl had merely been a lodger in the house.  

When he was at last on the home stretch, as it seemed, an accident came near upsetting it all.  He was stung by an adder on one of his botanizing excursions, so far from home and help that the bite came near proving fatal.  However, Dr.  Stobæus' skill pulled him through, and in after years he got square by labelling the serpent furia infernalis—hell-fury—in his natural history.  It was his way of fighting back.  All through his life he never wasted an hour on controversy.  He had no time, he said.  But once when a rival made a particularly nasty attack upon him, he named a new plant after him, adding the descriptive adjective detestabilis—the detestable so-and-so.  On the whole, he had the best of it; for the names he gave stuck.  

It was during his vacation after the year at Lund that Linnæus made a catalogue of the plants in his father's garden at Stenbrohult that shows us the country parson as no mean botanist himself; for in the list, which is preserved in the Academy of Sciences at Stockholm, are no less than two hundred and twenty-four kinds of plants.  Among them are six American plants that had found their way to Sweden.  The poison ivy is there, though what they wanted of that is hard to tell, and the four-o'clock, the pokeweed, the milkweed, the pearly everlasting, and the potato, which was then (1732) classed as a rare plant.  Not until twenty years later did they begin to grow it for food in Sweden.  

When Carl Linnæus went up to Upsala University, his parents had so far got over their disappointment at his deserting the ministry that they gave him a little money to make a start with; but they let him know that no more was coming—their pocket-book was empty.  And within the twelvemonth, for all his scrimping and saving, he was on the point of starvation.  He tells us himself that he depended on chance for a meal and wore his fellow students' cast-off clothes.  His boots were without soles, and in his cheerless attic room he patched them with birch bark and card board as well as he could.  He was now twenty-three years old, and it seemed as if he would have to give up the study that gave him no bread; but still he clung to his beloved flowers.  They often made him forget the pangs of hunger.  And when the cloud was darkest the sun broke through.  He was sitting in the Botanical Garden sketching a plant, when Dean Celsius, a great orientalist and theologian of his day, passed by.  The evident poverty of the young man, together with his deep absorption in his work, arrested his attention; he sat down and talked with him.  In five minutes Carl had found a friend and the Dean a helper.  He had been commissioned to write a book on the plants of the Holy Land and had collected a botanical library for the purpose, but the work lagged.  Here now was the one who could help set it going.  That day Linnæus left his attic room and went to live in the Dean's house.  His days of starvation were over.  

In the Dean's employ his organizing genius developed the marvellous skill of the cataloguer that brought order out of the chaos of groping and guessing and blundering in which the science of botany had floundered up till then.  Here and there in it all were flashes of the truth, which Linnæus laid hold of and pinned down with his own knowledge to system and order.  Thus the Frenchman, Sebastian Vaillant, who had died a dozen years before, had suggested a classification of flowers by their seed-bearing organs, the stamens and pistils, instead of by their fruits, the number of their petals, or even by their color, as had been the vague practice of the past.  Linnæus seized upon this as the truer way and wrote a brief treatise developing the idea, which so pleased Dr.  Celsius that he got his young friend a license to lecture publicly in the Botanical Garden.  

The students flocked to hear him.  His message was one that put life and soul into the dry bones of a science that had only wearied them before.  The professor of botany himself sat in the front row and hammered the floor with his cane in approval.  But his very success was the lecturer's undoing.  Envy grew in place of the poverty he had conquered.  The instructor, Nils Rosén, was abroad taking his doctor's degree.  He came home to find his lectures deserted for the irresponsible teachings of a mere undergraduate.  He made grievous complaint, and Linnæus was silenced, to his great good luck.  For so his friend the professor, though he was unable to break the red tape of the university, got him an appointment to go to Lapland on a botanical mission.  His enemies were only too glad to see him go.  

Linnæus travelled more than three thousand miles that summer through a largely unknown country, enduring, he tells us, more hardships and dangers than in all his subsequent travels.  Again and again he nearly lost his life in swollen mountain streams, for he would not wait until danger from the spring freshets was over.  Once he was shot at as he was gathering plants on a hillside, but happily the Finn who did it was not a good marksman.  Fish and reindeer milk were his food, a pestilent plague of flies his worst trouble.  But, he says in his account of the trip, which is as fascinating a report of a scientific expedition as was ever penned, they were good for something, after all, for the migrating birds fed on them.  From his camps on lake or river bank he saw the water covered far and near with swarms of ducks and geese.  The Laplander's larder was easily stocked.  

He came back from the dangers of the wild with a reputation that was clinched by his book "The Flora of Lapland," to find the dragon of professional jealousy rampant still at Upsala.  His enemy, Rosén, persuaded the senate of the university to adopt a rule that no un-degreed man should lecture there to the prejudice of the regularly appointed instructors.  Tradition has it that Linnæus flew into a passion at that and drew upon Rosén, and there might have been one regular less but for the interference of bystanders.  It may be true, though it is not like him.  Men wore side-arms in those days just as some people carry pistols in their hip-pockets to-day, and with as little sense.  At least they had the defence, such as it was, that it was the fashion.  However, it made an end of Linnæus at Upsala for the time.  He sought a professorship at Lund, but another got it.  Then he led an expedition of his former students into the Dalecarlia mountains and so he got to Falun, where Baron Reuterholm, one of Sweden's copper magnates, was seeking a guide for his two sons through the region where his mines were.  

Linnæus was not merely a botanist, but an all around expert in natural science.  He took charge of the boys and, when the trip was ended, started a school at Falun, where he taught mineralogy.  It had been hit or miss with the miners up till then.  There was neither science nor system in their work.  What every-day experience or the test of fire had taught a prospector, in delving among the rocks, was all there was of it.  Linnæus was getting things upon a scientific basis, when he met and fell in love with the handsome daughter of Dr.  Moræus.  The young people would marry, but the doctor, though he liked the mineralogist, would not hear of it till he could support a wife.  So he gave him three years in which to go abroad and get a degree that would give him the right to practise medicine anywhere in Sweden.  The doctor's daughter gave him a hundred dollars she had saved, and her promise to wait for him.  

He went to Harderwyk in Holland and got his degree at the university there on the strength of a thesis on the cause of malarial fever, with the conclusions of which the learned doctors did not agree; but they granted the diploma for the clever way in which he defended it.  On the way down he tarried in Hamburg long enough to give the good burghers a severe jolt.  They had a seven-headed serpent that was one of the wonders of the town.  The keen sight of the young naturalist detected the fraud at once; the heads were weasels' heads, covered with serpent's skin and cunningly sewed on the head of the reptile.  The shape of the jaws betrayed the trick.  But the Hamburgers were not grateful.  The serpent was an asset.  There was a mortgage on it of ten thousand marks; now it was not worth a hundred.  They took it very ill, and Linnæus found himself suddenly so unpopular that he was glad to get out of town overnight.  What became of the serpent history does not record.  

Linnæus had carried more than his thesis on malarial fever with him to Holland.  At the bottom of his trunk were the manuscripts of two books on botany which, he told his sweetheart on parting, would yet make him famous.  Probably she shook her head at that.  Pills and powders, and broken legs to set, were more to her way of thinking, and her father's, too.  If only he had patients, fame might take care of itself.  But now he put them both to shame.  At Leyden he found friends who brought out his first book, "Systema Naturæ," in which he divides all nature into the three kingdoms known to every child since.  It was hardly more than a small pamphlet, but it laid the foundation for his later fame.  To the enlarged tenth edition zoölogists point back to this day as to the bed-rock on which they built their science.  The first was quickly followed by another, and yet another.  Seven large volumes bearing his name had come from the press before he set sail for home, a whole library in botany, and a new botany at that, so simple and sensible that the world adopted it at once.  

Dr.  Hermann Boerhaave was at that time the most famous physician in Europe.  He was also the greatest authority on systematic botany.  Great men flocked to his door, but the testy old Dutchman let them wait until it suited him to receive them.  Peter the Great had to cool his heels in his waiting-room two long hours before his turn came.  Linnæus he would not see at all—until he sent him a copy of his book.  Then he shut the door against all others and summoned the author.  The two walked through his garden, and the old doctor pointed proudly to a tree which was very rare, he said, and not in any of the books.  Yes, said Linnæus, it was in Vaillant's.  The doctor knew better; he had annotated Vaillant's botany himself, and it was not there.  Linnæus insisted, and the doctor, in a temper, went for the book to show him.  But there it was; Linnæus was right.  Nothing would do then but he must stay in Holland.  Linnæus demurred; he could not afford it.  But Dr.  Boerhaave knew a way out of that.  He had for a patient Burgomaster Cliffort, a rich old hypochondriac with whom he could do nothing because he would insist on living high and taking too little exercise.  When he came again he told him that what he needed was a physician in daily attendance upon him, and handed him over to Linnæus.  

"He will fix your diet and fix your garden, too," was his prescription.  The Burgomaster was a famous collector and had a wondrous garden that was the apple of his eye.  He took Linnæus into his house and gave him a ducat a day for writing his menu and cataloguing his collection.  That was where his books grew, and the biggest and finest of them was "Hortus Cliffortianus," the account of his patron's garden.  

Armed with letters from Dr.  Boerhaave and the Burgomaster, he took one stronghold of professional prejudice after another.  Not without a siege.  One of them refused flatly to surrender.  That was Sir Hans Sloan, the great English naturalist, to whom Dr.  Boerhaave wrote in a letter that is preserved in the British Museum: "Linnæus, who bears this letter, is alone worthy of seeing you, alone worthy of being seen by you.  He who shall see you both together shall see two men whose like will scarce ever be found in the world." And the doctor was no flatterer, as may be inferred from his treatment of Peter the Great.  But the aged baronet had had his own way so long, and was so well pleased with it, that he would have nothing to do with Linnæus.  At Oxford the learned professor Dillenius received him with no better grace.  "This," he said aside to a friend, "is the young man who confounds all botany," and he took him rather reluctantly into his garden.  A plant that was new to him attracted Linnæus' attention and he asked to what family it belonged.  

"That is more than you can tell me," was the curt answer.  

"I can, if you will let me pluck a flower and examine it." 

"Do, and be welcome," said the professor, and his visitor after a brief glance at the flower told its species correctly.  The professor stared.  

"Now," said Linnæus, who had kept his eyes open, "what did you mean by the crosses you had put all through my book?" He had seen it lying on the professor's table, all marked up.  

"They mark the errors you made," declared the other.  

"Suppose we see about that," said the younger man and, taking the book, led the way.  They examined the flowers together, and when they returned to the study all the pride had gone out of the professor.  He kept Linnæus with him a month, never letting him out of his sight and, when he left, implored him with tears to stay and share his professorship; the pay was enough for both.  

A letter that reached him from home on his return to Holland made him realize with a start that he had overstayed his leave.  It was now in the fourth year since he had left Sweden.  All the while he had written to his sweetheart in the care of a friend who proved false.  He wanted her for himself and, when the three years had passed, told her that Carl would never come back.  Dr.  Moræus was of the same mind, and had not a real friend of the absent lover turned up in the nick of time Linnæus would probably have stayed a Dutchman to his death.  Now, on the urgent message of his friend, he hastened home, found his Elisabeth holding out yet, married her and settled down in Stockholm to practise medicine.  

Famous as he had become, he found the first stretch of the row at home a hard one to hoe.  His books brought him no income.  Nobody would employ him, "even for a sick servant," he complained.  Envious rivals assailed him and his botany, and there were days when herring and black bread was fare not to be despised in Dr.  Linnæus' household.  But he kept pegging away and his luck changed.  One well-to-do patient brought another, and at last the queen herself was opportunely seized with a bad cough.  She saw one of her ladies take a pill and asked what it was.  Dr.  Linnæus' prescription for a cold, she said, and it always cured her right up.  So the doctor was called to the castle and his cure worked there, too.  Not long after that he set down in his diary that "Now, no one can get well without my help." 

But he was not happy.  "Once, I had flowers and no money," he said; "now, I have money and no flowers." That they appointed him professor of medicine at Upsala did not mend matters.  His lectures were popular and full of common sense.  Diet and the simple life were his hobbies, temperance in all things.  He ever insisted that where one man dies from drinking too much, ten die from overeating.  Children should eat four times a day, grown-ups twice, was his rule.  The foolish fashions and all luxury he abhorred.  He himself in his most famous years lived so plainly that some said he was miserly, and his clothes were sometimes almost shabby.  The happiest day of his life came when he and his old enemy Rosén, whom he found filling the chair of botany at the university, and with whom he made it up soon after they became fellow members of the faculty, exchanged chairs with the ready consent of the authorities.  So, at last, Linnæus had attained the place he coveted above all others, and the goal of his ambition was reached.  

He lived at Upsala thirty-seven years and wrote many books.  His students idolized him.  They came from all over the world.  Twice a week in summer, on Wednesday and Saturday, they sallied forth with him to botanize in field and forest, and when they had collected specimens all the long day they escorted the professor home through the twilight streets with drums and trumpets and with flowers in their hats.  But however late they left him at his door, the earliest dawn saw him up and at his work, for the older he grew the more precious the hours that remained.  In summer he was accustomed to rise at three o'clock; in the dark winter days at six.  

He found biology a chaos and left it a science.  In his special field of botany he was not, as some think, the first.  He himself catalogued fully a thousand books on his topic.  But he brought order into it; he took what was good and, rejecting the false, fashioned it into a workable system.  In the mere matter of nomenclature, his way of calling plants, like men, by a family name and a given name wrought a change hard to appreciate in our day.  The common blue grass of our lawns, for instance, he called, and we call it still, Poa pratensis.  Up to his time it had three names and one of them was Gramen pratense paniculatum majus latiore folio poa theophrasti.  Dr.  Rydberg, of the New York Botanical Gardens, said aptly at the bicentenary of his birth, that it was as if instead of calling a girl Grace Darling one were to say "Mr.  Darling's beautiful, slender, graceful, blue-eyed girl with long, golden curls and rosy cheeks." 

The binomial system revolutionized the science.  What the lines of longitude and latitude did for geography Linnæus' genius did for botany.  And he did not let pride of achievement persuade him that he had said the last word.  He knew his system to be the best till some one should find a better, and said so.  The King gave him a noble name and he was proud of it with reason—vain, some have said.  But vanity did not make the creature deny the Creator.  He ever tried to trace science to its author.  When the people were frightened by the "water turning to blood" and overzealous priests cried that it was a sign of the wrath of God, he showed under the magnifying glass the presence of innumerable little animals that gave the water its reddish tinge, and thereby gave offence to some pious souls.  But over the door of his lecture room were the words in Latin: "Live guiltless—God sees you!" and in his old age, seeing with prophetic eye the day of bacteriology that dawned a hundred years after his death, he thanked God that He had permitted him to "look into His secret council room and workshop." 

He was one of the clear thinkers of all days, uniting imagination with sound sense.  It was Linnæus who discovered that plants sleep like animals.  The Pope ordered that his books, wherever they were found in his dominions, should be burned as materialistic and heretical; but Linnæus lived to see a professor in botany at Rome dismissed because he did not understand his system, and another put in his place who did, and whose lectures followed his theories.  When he was seventy he was stricken with apoplexy, while lecturing to his students, and the last year of his life was full of misery.  "Linnæus limps," is one of the last entries in his diary, "can hardly walk, speaks unintelligibly, and is scarce able to write." Death came on January 10, 1778.  

Under the white flashes of the northern lights in the desolate land he explored in his youth, there grows in the shelter of the spruce forests a flower which he found and loved beyond any other, the Linnæa borealis, named after him.  In some pictures we have of him, he is seen holding a sprig of it in his hand.  It is the twin flower of the northern Pacific coast and of Labrador, indeed of the far northern woods from Labrador all the way to Alaska, that lifts its delicate, sweet-scented pink bells from the moss with gentle appeal, "long overlooked, lowly, flowering early" despite cold and storm, typical of the man himself.