The Common Objects of the Country

The currant clear-wing may be found on the leaves of currant bushes, where it loves to rest. In 1856 I took a great number of them in one small garden, often finding two or more specimens on one currant bush.

Next come two beautiful examples of the Plume Moth, the White Plume and the Twenty Plume.

The first of these insects is very common on hedges or the skirts of copses, and comes out just about dusk, when it may be easily captured, its white wings making it very conspicuous. See Plate H (#x7_plateH), fig. 9.

The chief distinguishing point in the plume moth is that the wings are deeply cut from the point almost to the very base, and thus more resemble the wings of birds than those of insects.

In the white plume there are five of these rays or plumes, three belonging to the upper pair of wings and two to the lower.

From the peculiarly long and delicate down with which the body and wings are covered, it is no easy matter to secure the moth without damaging its aspect. The scissors-net is, perhaps, the best that can be used for their capture; for, as they always sit on leaves and grass with their wings extended, they are inclosed at once in a proper position, and cannot struggle. A sharp pinch in the thorax from the forceps, which a collector ought always to have with him, kills the creature instantly; for it holds life on very slender tenure. The slender entomological pin can then be passed through the thorax, while the net is still closed, and thus the head of the pin can be drawn through the meshes of the net when it is opened.

In this way the moth may be preserved without the least injury to its appearance, or without ruffling the vanes of one of its beautiful plumes.

Of all the plume moths this is the largest, as a fine specimen will sometimes measure more than an inch across the wings. There is a brown species, nearly as large, and quite as common; but which is often overlooked on account of its sober colouring; and as often mistaken for a common “daddy-long-legs,” to which fly it bears a close resemblance.

The Twenty-plume Moth (plate C (#x7_plateC), fig. 9) is hardly named as it deserves; for as the wings on each side are divided into twelve plumes, it ought to be named the twenty-four plume. A better title is that of the “Many-plume Moth”.

It is very much smaller than either of the preceding “plumes”; and its radiating feathers are so small and so numerous, that at a hasty glance it scarcely seems to present any remarkable structure. It must be examined with the aid of a magnifying glass before its real beauty can be distinguished.

The moth is common enough, and may be easily caught, as it has a strange liking for civilised society, and constantly enters houses. As insects generally do, it flies to the window, and scuds unceasingly up and down the panes of glass, just as if it wished to make itself as conspicuous as possible.

The last of our moths is the beautiful Long-horn, for a figure of which see plate H (#x7_plateH), fig. 4. Another Long-horn Moth, the Green Adela, is shown on plate C (#x7_plateC), fig. 10. It is nearly as common as the last-mentioned insect.

It is a horrid name, for its agricultural associations are so potent, that the idea conveyed to the mind by the term “Long-horn” is that of a huge bovine quadruped, with sleek solid sides telling of oil-cake, with horns that are long enough to spike four men at once, two on each horn, and with a ponderous tread that rivals that of the hippopotamus.

Whereas, our little moth is the epitome of every fragile, fairy-like beauty, and seems fitter for fairy tale, “once upon a time,” than for this nineteenth century. Its “horns,” as the antennæ are called, are wondrously long and slender. I have just taken measurement of one of these moths, and find that the body and head together are barely a quarter of an inch in length, while the antennæ are an inch and a quarter long. It is hardly possible to conceive any living structure more delicately slender than their antennæ. The moth delights in sunny glades, as so sunny a creature ought to do; it sits on a leaf, basking in the glaring sunbeams, while its antennæ, waving about in graceful curves, are only to be traced by the light that sparkles along them. They are as slender as the gossamer threads floating in the air, and like them only seen as lines of light. They are too delicate even for Mab’s chariot traces. The grey-coated gnat might use one of them as his whip: but it would only be for show, as beseemeth the whip of a stage-coach; for it could not hurt the tiniest atomy ever harnessed.

And yet the little Adela, for such is her scientific title, flies undauntedly among the trees, threading her way with perfect ease through the thickest foliage, her wondrous antennæ escaping all injury, and gleaming now and then as a stray sunbeam touches them.

There is nothing very striking in the Adela’s external appearance; she is just a pretty, unobtrusive, bronze-coloured little thing, from whom many an eye would turn with indifference, if not with contempt. Truly, in vain are there pearls, while the swinish nature prefers dry husks.

Place this quiet, bronze-coloured little creature under a microscope, and Cinderella herself never exhibited such a transformation. The mind of man has never conceived a robe so gorgeous as that which enwraps a small brown moth. Refulgent golden feathers cover its body and wings, sparkling gemlike points scatter light in all directions, while on the edges of each feather rainbow tints dance and quiver. It seems as if the creature wore two robes—a loose golden-feather vesture above, and the rainbow itself beneath. Each fibre of the fringe that edges the wings is a prism, and even the slender antennæ are covered with golden feathers. Words cannot describe the wondrous beauty of this creature.

Methinks a view of these earthly creatures can the better enable one to appreciate the ineffable glories of the heavenly beings. Even the earth-insect is beautiful beyond the power of words to describe—how much more so the heavenly angel!

When the study of entomology first rose to the dignity of a science, it was found necessary that each insect should be distinguished by a definite title. Formerly, it was necessary to describe the insect when speaking of it; and in consequence both cabinets and memories were overloaded with words.

For example, the Meadow-brown Butterfly was named “Papilio media alis superioribus superne media parte rufis”. In English: “The middle-sized butterfly, the centre of whose upper wings are reddish on the upper surface”. Cromwell’s Puritan soldier might have taken a lesson in nomenclature from an entomologist cabinet; and it is not easy to say which would occupy the greater time in reading, the list of butterflies or the regimental roll-call. These difficulties being patent, the nomenclators leaped at once, as is the habit of human nature, into the opposite extreme; and so, instead of making an insect name an elaborate description of its appearance, gave it a title which did not describe it at all, and would have been just as applicable to any other insect. Old Homer’s pages afforded a valuable treasury of names; and accordingly, Greek and Trojan may reasonably be astonished to find their names again revived on earth.

Even our British butterflies have appropriated Homeric titles. For example, the two first on the list are named Machaon and Podalirius, known to students of Homer as the two medical officers that accompanied the Greek army.

Numerous, however, as are the Homeric heroes and heroines, the insects far outnumbered them. So, after exhausting Homer, the dramatists were called into requisition, and plundered of their “personæ”. Fiction failing, history, or that which is dignified by the name of history, was next sought; and kings, queens, generals, and statesmen lent their names to swell the insect catalogue.

The Latin authors now are required to make up the deficiency, Terence being especially useful. We have in our English list Davus, Pamphilus, and Chrysis, all out of one play, the “Andria”.

At last, when Greek and Latin, prose and verse, history and mythology, had been quite exhausted, some enterprising and imaginative men boldly invented new names for new insects. The import of the name was of no consequence to them, and any harmonious combination of syllables was all that they required. Many a valuable hour have they wasted, or rather caused others to waste, in seeking through lexicons and dictionaries for the purpose of discovering the derivation of those unmeaning and underived names.

At last men of science began to see that the name ought to be descriptive of the creature, or its habits, and yet as short as possible; and when this idea was matured, true nomenclature began. In the reformed system, insects are gathered together in societies, through which some general characteristic runs, and each individual bears the name of its genus, as the society is called; and also a second name that distinguishes its species.

The first butterfly which will be mentioned in these pages is seen figured on plate D (#x7_plateD), fig. 4; and very appropriately bears the name of Atalanta. Those skilled in mythology, or Mangnall’s skimmings thereof, will remember that Atalanta was a young lady, so swift of foot that she could run over the sea without splashing her ankles, or on the corn-fields without bending an ear of corn under her weight. The flight of this butterfly is so easy and graceful, that poetical entomologists invested it with the name of the swift-footed Atalanta.

Also it is called the Scarlet-Admiral, in which two names is to be seen the confusion respecting sexes which is found in nautical matters generally. Perhaps the discrepancy might have been avoided by calling the butterfly Cleopatra, that lady being her own admiral.

Few insects are so conspicuous, or have so magnificent an effect on the wing, as the Atalanta; its velvety-black wings, with their scarlet bands, white spots, and azure edges, presenting a bold contrast of colour that is seldom seen, and in its way cannot be surpassed. It is certainly a grand insect; and it seems to be quite aware of its own beauty as it comes sailing through the sunny glades, gracefully inclining from side to side, as if to show its colours to the best advantage. Perhaps its best aspect is when it sits upon a teazle-head, quietly fanning its wings in the sun; for the quiet purple and brown tints of the teazle set off the magnificent pure colours of the insect.

These brilliant colours are only found on the upper surface of the wings, the under surface being covered with elaborate tracery of blacks, browns, ambers, sober blues, and dusky reds, so that when the wings are closed over the creature’s back, it is hardly to be distinguished from a dried leaf, unless examined closely.

This distinction of tint often proves to be the insect’s best refuge; for, if it can only slip round a tree or a bush, it suddenly settles on some dark spot, shuts up its wings, and there remains motionless until the danger is past. The rough, brown elm bark is a favourite refuge under these circumstances; and it takes a sharp eye to discover the butterfly when settled.

Sometimes the creature is not quite so magnificent, and even appears shorn of its fair proportions. I have now such a specimen before me, which I found on a sandy bank, unable to fly.

My attention was drawn to it by observing a curious fluttering movement of the grasses that covered the bank; and on going up to the spot to see what was the cause, I discovered an Atalanta butterfly that had apparently lost both wings of the left side, and was endeavouring to fly with the remaining pair. Of course it could only make short leaps into the air, turn over, and again fall to the ground. Wishing to put it out of pain, I killed it, and on examination found that it had never been endowed with wings on its left side, and that those organs had still remained in the undeveloped state in which they had lain under the chrysalis case. Even the right pair had not attained their full development; but in every other respect the insect was perfect.

I suppose that the caterpillar must have selected too dry a spot for its habitation when it became a pupa; and that in consequence the pupa shell was so dry and hard that the butterfly could not make its escape in proper time, I have often seen similar examples in my own caterpillar-breeding experiences. There are also in one of my insect cases two specimens of the little white butterfly, which have met with even a worse fate; for they have not been able to escape at all out of the chrysalis, and so present the curious appearance of a chrysalis furnished with head, antennæ, wings, and legs. The cause of the disaster was probably the same in both cases.

The caterpillar of the Atalanta is shown on plate D (#x7_plateD), fig. 4 a, and is a creature worthy of notice.

It is a well-known saying, that “what is one man’s meat, is another’s poison”; and the proverb holds good in the case of the Atalanta caterpillar. For its meat is the common stinging-nettle, which is, undoubtedly, poisonous enough to qualify any such proverb.

The colour of the caterpillar is green-black, and along each side runs a spotty yellowish band. Its general shape and appearance can be seen by referring to the figure.

After passing through the usual coat-changing common to all caterpillars, it begins, just before its last change, to prepare a spot where it may pass its pupal state. Its mode of so doing is very curious, and is briefly as follows:—

The chrysalis is intended to remain in an attitude which we should think singularly uncomfortable, but which seems to suit the constitution of certain creatures, such as bats and chrysalides; namely, with its head downward. Why some insects should be thus suspended, while others lie horizontally, is not known as yet. But there can be no doubt but that some purpose is served by the various positions and localities assumed by insects in their pupal state.

Any one of a reflective mind, on hearing that a chrysalis was to be suspended by its tail, would feel some perplexity as to the means by which such a position could be attained. For the old caterpillar’s skin has to be shed, and thus the legless, limbless chrysalis is left without any apparent power to suspend itself. The attitude which it assumes may be seen on plate D (#x7_plateD), fig. 4 b. On examining the chrysalis itself, and the leaf or twig to which it is suspended, it will be seen that a little silken mound is fastened to the leaf, and the chrysalis is furnished with some hooked processes on its tail, which are hitched upon the silken threads, and thus hold the creature in the proper position.

The Peacock Butterfly, plate H (#x7_plateH), fig. 8, is an insect of very similar habits and manners. The under side of the wings is very dark, and when they are closed over the back, the butterfly looks more like a flat piece of brown paper than an insect. The spots on the upper surface of the wing are especially beautiful; and the mode in which those spots are coloured by their feathers is shown in plate L (#x7_plateL), fig. 4, where a portion of the wing-spot is slightly magnified. This figure shows also the manner in which the feather-dust of the butterfly’s wing is arranged. The larva of this beautiful insect is shown on fig. 8 b. Like that of the Atalanta, it feeds on the stinging-nettle.

On plate D (#x7_plateD), fig. 1, is drawn a very lovely insect, one of the numerous blue butterflies that may be seen flitting about the flowers in a garden, themselves of so flower-like an azure, that they may often be mistaken for a blue blossom. The caterpillar, fig. 1 b, is, as may be seen, rather curious in shape, and the pupa, fig. 1 c, is hardly less so.

Among the scales of this insect occur certain specimens called from their shape “battledore” scales, some of which may be seen on plate K (#x7_plateK), fig. 8, contrasted with the ordinary scales.

On the same plate as the blue butterfly, fig. 2, is seen a very pretty and common insect, called the “Orange-tip,” on account of the colour of the wings. Only the male butterfly possesses these decorations, the female having wings merely white above, although she retains the beautiful green speckling of the under-wings.

Two more butterflies, and those the commonest of all, will complete this chapter. One will be at once recognised from the drawing, plate I (#x7_plateI), fig. 4, as the White Cabbage Butterfly. The specimen here represented is the female; the male is smaller and has darker spots.

This is the parent of those green and black caterpillars which devastate our cabbage-beds, make sieves of the leaves, and are so disagreeably tenacious of their rights of possession. Pest as it is to the gardeners, to cooks, and sometimes, alas! to consumers, it would be a hundredfold worse but for the exertions of a fly so small as hardly to be noticed, but by its effects. This insect belongs to the same order as the bees, and is shown upon plate J (#x7_plateJ), fig. 6. Small though it be, one such insect can compass the destruction of many a caterpillar, though not one thousandth part of the size of a single victim. While the caterpillar is feeding, the ichneumon fly, as it is called, settles upon its back, pierces its skin with a little drill, wherewith it is furnished, and in the wound deposits an egg. This process is repeated until the ichneumon’s work is done.

As each wound is made, the caterpillar seems to wince, but shows no farther sense of uneasiness, and proceeds with its eating as usual. But its food serves very little for its own nourishment, because the ichneumon’s eggs are speedily hatched into ichneumon grubs, and consume the fatty portions of the caterpillar as fast as it is formed.

In process of time the caterpillar ought to take the chrysalis shape, and for that purpose leaves its food and seeks a convenient spot for its change.

That change never comes, for the ichneumons have been growing as fast as the caterpillar, with whose development they keep pace. And no sooner has their victim ceased to feed, than they simultaneously eat their way out of the doomed creature, and immediately spin for themselves a number of bright yellow cocoons, among which the dying caterpillar is often hopelessly fixed. Sometimes it has sufficient strength to escape, but it never survives.

In the later summer months, these cocoon masses may be seen abundantly on walls, palings, and similar spots.

Plate I (#x7_plateI), fig. 3, shows the Brimstone Butterfly, one of the first to appear as the herald of spring.