WHAT BUTTERFLIES NEVER DO--GROUNDLESS TERROR--A MISTAKE--USES OF
BUTTERFLIES--MORAL OF BUTTERFLY LIFE--PSYCHE--THE BUTTERFLY AN EMBLEM
OF THE SOUL--THE ARTIST AND THE BUTTERFLY.
Among the _negative_ attributes of butterflies, I may state positively,
that _no butterfly whatever can either sting or bite in the least degree_;
and from their total harmlessness towards the person of man, conjoined with
their outward attractiveness, they merit and enjoy an exemption from those
feelings of dread and disgust that attach to many, or, I may say, to almost
all other tribes of insects; even to their equally harmless near relatives
the larger moths. At least, it has never been my misfortune to meet with a
person weak-minded enough to be afraid of a butterfly, though I have seen
some exhibit symptoms of the greatest terror at the proximity of a large
Hawk-moth, and some of the thick-bodied common moths--"Match-owlets," the
country folk call them.
Once, also, I listened to the grave recital--by a classical scholar too--of
a murderous onslaught made by a Privet Hawk-moth on the neck of a lady, and
how it "_bit a piece clean out_." Of course I attempted to prove, by what
seemed to me very fair logic, that the {33} moth, having neither teeth nor
even any mouth capable of opening, but only a weak hollow tongue to suck
honey through, was utterly incapable of biting or inflicting any wound
whatever. But, as is usual in such cases, my entomological theory went for
nothing in face of the gentleman's knock-down battery of _facts_--_ocular_
facts; he had _seen_ the _moth_, and he had _seen_ the _wound_: surely,
there was proof enough for me, or any one else. So, I suppose, he
steadfastly believes to this day, that the moth was a truculent,
bloodthirsty monster; whilst I still presume to believe, that if any wound
was caused at the moment in question, it was by the nails of the lady
attacked, or her friends, in clutching frantically at the terrific
intruder; who, poor fellow, might have been pardoned for mistaking the fair
neck for one of his favourite flowers (a _lily_, perhaps), while the utmost
harm he contemplated was to pilfer a sip of nectar from the lips he
doubtless took for rosebuds.
Utilitarians may, perhaps, inquire the _uses_ of butterflies--what they do,
make, or can be sold for; and I must confess that my little favourites
neither make anything to wear, like the silkworm, nor anything to eat, like
the honey-bee, nor are their bodies saleable by the ton, like the cochineal
insects, and that, commercially speaking, they are just worth nothing at
all, excepting the few paltry pence or shillings that the dealer gets for
their little dried bodies occasionally; so they are of no more use than
poetry, painting, and music--than flowers, rainbows, and all such {34}
unbusinesslike things. In fact, I have nothing to say in the butterfly's
favour, except that it is a joy to the deep-minded and to the
simple-hearted, to the sage, and, still better, to the child--that it gives
an earnest of a better world, not vaguely and generally, as does every
"thing of beauty," but with clearest aim and purpose, through one of the
most strikingly perfect and beautiful analogies that we can find throughout
that vast Creation, where--
"All animals are living hieroglyphs."[5]
The butterfly, then, in its own progressive stages of caterpillar,
chrysalis, and perfect insect, is an emblem of the human soul's progress
through earthly life and death, to heavenly life.
Even the ancient Greeks, with their imperfect lights, recognised this
truth, when they gave the same name, Psyche ([Greek: Psuchê]), to the soul,
or spirit of life, and to the butterfly, and sculptured over the effigy of
one dead the figure of a butterfly, floating away, as it were, in his
breath; while poets of all nations have since followed up the simile.
And this analogy is not only a mere general resemblance, but holds good
through its minute details to a marvellous extent; to trace which fully
would require volumes, while in this place the slightest sketch only can be
given.
First, there is the grovelling caterpillar-state, {35} emblematical of our
present imperfection, but yet the state of preparation and increase towards
perfection, and that, too, which largely influences the future existence.
Many troubles and changes are the lot of the caterpillar. Repeated
skin-shiftings and ceaseless industry in his vocation are necessary, that
within his set time he may attain full growth and vigour.
Then comes a mighty change: the caterpillar is to exchange his worm-like
form and nature for an existence unspeakably higher and better. But, as we
have seen, to arrive at this glory there is only one condition, which is,
that the creature must pass through another, and, as it might seem, a
gloomy state--one anything but cheerful to contemplate; for it must cease
to eat, to move, and--_to the eye_--_to live_. Yet, is it really dead now,
or do we, who have watched the creature thus far, despair and call it lost?
Do we not rather rejoice that it rests from its labours, and that the
period of its glorification is at hand?
In the silent chrysalis state then our _Psyche_ sleeps away awhile,
unaffected by the vicissitudes around it; and, at last, when its appointed
day arrives, bursts from its cerements, and rises in the air a winged and
joyous being, to meet the sun which warmed it into new life. Now it is a
_butterfly_,--bright emblem of pleasure unalloyed.
This happy consummation, however, is only for the chrysalis which has not
within it the devouring worm, the fruit of the ichneumon's egg, harboured
during the {36} caterpillar state--and emblem, in the human soul, of some
deadly sin yielded to during life, and which afterwards becomes the gnawing
"worm that dieth not." For in this case, instead of the bright butterfly,
there issues forth from the chrysalis-shell only a swarm of black,
ill-favoured flies, like a troop of evil spirits coming from their feast on
a fallen soul.
If a caterpillar were gifted with a foreknowledge of his butterfly future,
so far transcending his inglorious present, we could imagine that he would
be only impatient to get through his caterpillar duties, and rejoice to
enter the chrysalis state as soon as he was fitted for it. How
short-sighted then would a caterpillar appear who should endeavour, while
in that shape, to emulate the splendour of the butterfly by some wretched
temporary substitute, adding a few more, or brighter stripes than nature
had given it; or, again, if one whose great change was drawing near, should
attempt to conceal its visible approach by painting over the fading hues of
health, and plastering up the wrinkles of its outward covering, so soon to
be thrown off altogether; instead of striving for inward strength and
beauty, which would never decline, but be infinitely expanded in the
butterfly--and regarding the earthly beauty's wane as the dawn of the
celestial.
[Illustration: VI.]
{37} With these and similar reflections before us (which might be
multiplied _ad infinitum_), we shall no longer look upon the caterpillar as
a mere unsightly and troublesome reptile, the chrysalis as an
unintelligible curiosity, and the butterfly as a pretty painted thing and
nothing more; but regard them as _together_ forming one of those beautiful
and striking illustrations with which the book of Nature has been so
profusely enriched by its GREAT AUTHOR; not to be taken as _substitutes_
for His revealed Word, but as harmonious adjuncts, bringing its great
truths more home to our understandings, just as the engravings in a book
are not designed as substitutes for the text, but to elucidate and
strengthen the ideas in the reader's mind.
While the poet draws from the butterfly many a pleasant similitude, and the
moralist many a solemn teaching, the artist (who should be poet and
moralist too) dwells upon these beings with fondest delight, finding in
them images of joy and life when seen at large in the landscape, and rich
stores of colour-lessons when studied at home in the cabinet.
The owners of many a name great in the arts have been enthusiastic
collectors of butterflies. Our distinguished countryman, Thomas Stothard,
was one of their devotees, and the following anecdote, extracted from his
published life, shows how he was led to make them his special study:--
"He was beginning to paint the figure of a reclining sylph, when a
difficulty arose in his own mind how best to represent such a being of
fancy. A friend who was present said, 'Give the sylph a butterfly's wing,
and then you have it.' 'That I will,' exclaimed Stothard; 'and to be
correct I will paint the wing {38} from the butterfly itself.' He sallied
forth, extended his walk to the fields, some miles distant, and caught one
of those beautiful insects; it was of the species called the Peacock. Our
artist brought it carefully home, and commenced sketching it, but not in
the painting room; and leaving it on the table, a servant swept the pretty
little creature away, before its portrait was finished. On learning his
loss, away went Stothard once more to the fields to seek another butterfly.
But at this time one of the tortoise-shell tribe crossed his path, and was
secured. He was astonished at the combination of colour that presented
itself to him in this small but exquisite work of the Creator, and from
that moment determined to enter on a new and difficult field--the study of
the insect department of Natural History. He became a hunter of
butterflies. The more he caught, the greater beauty did he trace in their
infinite variety, and he would often say that no one knew what he owed to
these insects--they had taught him the finest combinations in that
difficult branch of art--colouring."
The above doubtless has its parallel in the experience of many artistic
minds, whose very nature it is to appreciate to the full the perfections
set forth in a butterfly, admiring--
"The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight,
His broad outstretched horns, his airy thigh,
His glorious colours and his glistening eye."
SPENSER.
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