notes, their nests, their eggs, and all the economy of their lives; nor
have we, throughout the orders of creation, any beings that so
continually engage our attention as these our feathered companions.
Winter takes from us all the gay world of the meads, the sylphs that
hover over our flowers, that steal our sweets, that creep, or gently
wing their way in glittering splendor around us; and of all the
miraculous creatures that sported their hour in the sunny beam, the
winter gnat[57] (tipula hiemalis) alone remains to frolic in some rare
and partial gleam. The myriads of the pool are dormant, or hidden from
our sight; the quadrupeds, few and wary, veil their actions in the
glooms of night, and we see little of them; but birds are with us
always, they give a character to spring, and are identified with it;
they enchant and amuse us all summer long with their sports, animation,
hilarity, and glee; they cluster round us, suppliant in the winter of
our year, and, unrepining through cold and want, seek their scanty meal
amidst the refuse of the barn, the stalls of the cattle, or at the doors
of our house; or, flitting hungry from one denuded and bare spray to
another, excite our pity and regard; their lives are patterns of gaiety,
cleanliness, alacrity, and joy.
There are very many subjects and employments of mankind, which, if we
would obtain a competent knowledge of them, will require an almost
undivided attention; yet, after all our “rising early and late taking
rest,” we shall know too little to be weighed in competition with what
is beyond our attainment or comprehension. As in ascending mountainous
regions we may reach the summit of one hill with comparative ease, that
of a higher with more laborious efforts, and a still higher is attained
by a gifted few, beyond which our breath fails us, our natural powers
become inadequate; so a small number may ascend the Alps of science, but
pant, unable to attain the Himmala ranges of their wishes. If
proficiency be the object, all the branches of natural history require
undivided attention; but amusement, admiration, and intelligence, may be
obtained by even superficial observation; and of all these departments,
perhaps entomology, or the investigation of the insect world, from the
variety it embraces, the season, the subjects, and the vigilance
necessary to catch every momentary action, requires from its followers
an homage more absolute, an attention more devoted, than most others.
Amid those few branches of science on which I have sought for blossoms,
that of entomology I have least investigated; yet, perhaps it may be
said, that such slight notices as the foregoing need not have usurped
the time that the study of this department required. To this truth I
cannot but assent, and say with the eminent man, whose “Centuries of
Experiments” I have often quoted, that they are indeed more the
suggestions of “light than of fruit;” proficiency was beyond my powers;
I have sought for amusement, and gratefully record the many peaceful
hours, and oblivion of pain, which the perusal of nature’s volume gave
me, superficial as that perusal was.
On whatever side we turn our attention in this world of wonders by which
we are surrounded, we constantly find some subject that calls forth our
admiration; and, as far as our very imperfect vision is permitted to
penetrate, we observe the same unremitting order and provision for a
seemingly mean and worthless purpose, as is bestowed upon a higher and
apparently more worthy object. We consider insects as one of the lower
orders of creation, but are as perfectly unacquainted, generally
speaking, with the objects of their being, though they have for ages
crawled and winged their way around us, as the first man Adam was; yet
there is a care manifested for the preservation and accommodation of
these, which we often designate as contemptible creatures, that is most
elaborate and wonderful. The forethought with which many of them have
been furnished to deposit their eggs in safety from the contingencies of
seasons and hostile incidents, and precisely in the situation most
fitting, must call forth the admiration of all who have observed it.
Some of these are lodged in summer and autumn deep in the earth, on that
part of a plant which in due time is to be raised up, constituting a
stalk or blade, bearing with it by gentle steps these eggs, to be
vivified by the summer’s air and warmth. Others fix them on some portion
of an herb hidden beneath the mud in the pool; and this being elevated
by the warmth of spring, conveys them with its growth above the element
that protected them, and they hatch, the infants feeding on the
substance that has borne them to the air. In their chrysalis state, a
cradle of preparation for a final change, the same wisdom and care are
more particularly obvious from their size and frequent occurrence: but
to enlarge sufficiently upon the contrivances and manifestations of
regard brought to our observance in all the stages of an insect’s life,
would almost require a detail of the race.
A particularly curious covering for a moth, or butterfly, (phalæna
pavonia?) fell into my hands, which might be well known to a more
experienced entomologist, but was new to me. The species I do not know,
as it never arrived at perfection. This case was formed of the fine
silky substance that wraps up so many of the race. The summit for some
cause was less closed than usual; but to obviate any injury to the
creature from this circumstance, a conical hood of similar materials was
placed over the exposed part of the aurelia, through which it received
air in perfect security. This veil being formed of elastic threads, and
opening upon pressure, would constitute no impediment to the escape of
the fly when perfected. More care and forethought than these
contrivances manifest, we are not acquainted with for any order of
beings. I conjecture it would have produced the emperor moth.
June 16.—I this day captured in a neighboring meadow a fine specimen of
the four-spotted dragon-fly (libellula quadrimaculata), and note this
for my entomological friends; being the first certain instance I am
acquainted with of its being taken in England of late years, for Ray
mentions it. Another, I believe, escaped by its shyness. It is a
handsome creature, about three inches in breadth between the extremities
of its wings. The two dark linear marks on the upper margin of each
wing, and tapering downy body, distinguish this fly from any other. I
can add nothing regarding its history or manners.
The ghost moth[58] (hepialus humuli) is commonly seen here, as I believe
it to be in most other places, but is mentioned to point out to any
young person unacquainted with this insect its singular habit when on
the wing, which at once distinguishes it from any other moth. The larva
which produces this creature is hidden in the ground during the season
of winter; the fly being formed in the month of May, and soon rising
from the soil, then commences its short career. At this time one or more
of them may frequently be observed under some hedge in a mead, or some
low place in a damp pasture, only a few feet from the ground,
persevering for a length of time together in a very irregular flight,
rising, and falling, and balancing about in a space not exceeding a few
yards in circumference, an action not observable in any other, and fully
indicating this moth. This procedure is not the meanless vagary of the
hour, but a frolicsome dance, the wooing of its mate, which lies
concealed in the herbage over which it sports. The two insects are
something similar in their general form, but very differently marked.
The male exhibitor is known by its four glossy, satiny, white wings,
bordered with buff; the lady reposer has her upper wings of a tawny
yellow, spotted and banded with deep brown. They are very inert
creatures, easily captured, and their existence appears to be of very
short duration, as we soon cease to observe them, either in action or at
rest. The male probably becomes the prey of every bird that feeds by
night; his color and his actions rendering him particularly obnoxious to
dangers of this nature, and the frequency with which we find his wings
scattered about, points out the cause of death to most of them. The bat
pursues with great avidity all those creatures that fly in the evening;
and by its actions it seems to meet with constant employment, and has
greater probability of success, than some insectivorous birds that feed
by day, as all the myriads which abound at this time are the sole prey
of itself and a few nocturnal ramblers. From this singular flight in the
twilight hour, haunting as it were one particular spot, the fancy of
some collector, considering it as a spectrelike action, named it the
“ghost moth.”
[Illustration:
_plate. 2._ _p. 192._
_Fig. 1. p. 191, 192._
_Fig. 2. p. 235, 236._
]
The fern owl,[59] but chiefly, I conjecture, the larger bats, are the
creatures that have caused me to experience at times both envy and
regret, when I have observed scattered in some woodland path, amidst the
fragments of their nightly banquet, the relics of such beautiful insects
as the emperor of the woods, the verdigris moth, and twenty other rare
insects, to be obtained only after the patience of years, or fortune of
the hour; and yet our merciless birds devour these choice dainties
without compunction or regard. This ghost moth discharges her eggs in a
very singular manner, and frequently immediately upon capture, not
deliberately protruding them, but dismissing them from the oviduct in
rapid succession, until it is exhausted, with a slight elastic force,
that conveys them clear from the abdomen. They are perfectly dry and
unadhesive.
It requires more than usual delicate management to preserve an uninjured
specimen of the male of this species, as the slightest touch robs the
wings of the fine scaly plumage which is affixed to their film or
substance by an extreme point, as is the case with most others of our
moths, but in this instance so loosely, that a very gentle friction rubs
it off. The plumage which covers the wings and bodies of many of our
lepidopterous insects is variously colored, and like the feathers of
birds, gives them their splendor: in the butterflies I have not observed
it to vary greatly in form, but in the moths the same uniformity does
not appear to be maintained, as a few specimens will manifest:—
[Illustration:
No. 1. Scales from wings of phalæna pronuba—yellow under-wing. 2.
Ghost moth. 3. Phalæna bucephala—buff tip. 4. Ph. vinula—puss moth.
5. Ph. potatoria, a, the female—drinker moth. 6. Papilio
brassicæ—great white. 7. Pap. Napi—green-veined butterflies. 8.
Large brown moth (name omitted). 9. Acherontia atropos—death’s head.
]
But the variety of clothing with which insects are decorated, is most
admirable and curious! The upper and the under vestiture of the wings,
their fringes, that which covers the body in different parts, varies
greatly; the bird, splendidly habited as he sometimes is, frequently
will be found draped with less variety of form and color than the insect
which escapes our notice by his actions, and the power of our eyes by
the smallness of its parts. Our lepidopterous creatures seem to be most
characteristically framed and constituted for the different hours and
places in which they delight to move; so much so, that I think if we
were to invert the order of their appearance, the singular unfitness of
many of them for their stations would be immediately manifest to us. The
butterfly, light, airy, joyous, replete with life, sports in the
sunshine, wantons on the flower, and trips from bloom to bloom, gay as
the brilliant morn, and cheerful as the splendor of heaven: heat and
light appear to be the very principle of his being; in a cloudy or a
chilly atmosphere his energies become suspended, and, closing his wings,
reposes like a sickly thing upon some drooping flower: but let the cloud
disperse, the sun break out, he springs again to active life;
associating with the birds of day, and denizen of the same scenes, he
only seems of a less elevated order. But the moth, though possessing at
times sufficient activity for self-preservation, is less buoyant, less
sprightly on the wing, avoids the heat and light, the higher ranges of
the air, and seeks his mate or his food in the shelter of the hedge or
the ditch, amidst foliage and shade, where we may see him hovering
sedately around some flower, or passing on his way with quiet steady
flight, accordant with the silence and twilight of the hour: companion
of the owl and the bat, his grave actions are quite unsuitable to the
gaiety, the flutter of a summer’s sun; the former is emblematic of
levity and display, the latter of retirement and shade. And thus each,
though but slightly seen, is in admirable harmony with the season in
which it moves, manifesting the peculiar fitness of things to their
several stations in this vast world of wisdom; an observation obvious to
all, and a truth everywhere admitted, yet, as a Christian moralizer I
could not pass by unheeded any evidence of foresight and of power.
Basking in the glare of an August or a July sun, in our pastures we see
the little elegant blue argus butterfly (papilio argus), noted and
admired by all, now warmed into active life. A few of our lepidopterous
creatures, especially the common white butterflies of our gardens, are
contentious animals, and drive away a rival from their haunts. We see
them progressively ascending into the air, in ardent unheeding contest;
and thus they are observed, captured, and consumed in a moment by some
watchful bird: but we have few more jealous and pugnacious than this
little argus. When fully animated, it will not suffer any of its tribe
to cross its path, or approach the flower on which it sits, with
impunity; even the large admiral (vanessa atalanta) at these times it
will assail and drive away. There is another small butterfly (papilio
phlæas), however, as handsome, and perhaps still more quarrelsome,
frequenting too the same station and flowers; and a constant warfare
exists between them. We shall see these diminutive creatures, whenever
they come near each other, dart into action, and continue buffeting one
another about till one retires from the contest; when the victor returns
in triumph to the station he had left. Should the enemy again advance,
the combat is renewed; but should a cloud obscure the sun, or a breeze
chill the air, their ardor becomes abated, and contention ceases.
The papilio phlæas enjoys a combat even with its kindred. Two of them
are seldom disturbed, when basking on a knot of asters in September,
without mutual strife ensuing. Being less affected by cold and moisture
than the argus, they remain with us longer, and these contentions are
protracted till late in the autumn. The pugnacious disposition of the
argus butterfly soon deprives it of much of its beauty; and, unless
captured soon after its birth, we find the margins of its wings torn and
jagged, the elegant blue plumage rubbed from the wings, and the creature
become dark and shabby.
This spring, 1827, fostered into active life an insect unknown in our
district, or at least unnoticed before by me; a pretty little blue
butterfly, for which I know no common appellation, and so have named it
the “spring azure,” (papilio argiolus). It appeared quite at the end of
April, and in some numbers, but was yet a transient visitor with us, as
after the first week in May only a lingering specimen or so was visible.
Few wild flowers are then in bloom; but, leaving all herbaceous plants,
it frequented chiefly the holly, the laurel, and the black currant,
feeding on the honey secreted by the nectaries in their blossoms. If
this butterfly be anywhere common, it may be mistaken by indifferent
observers for the little blue argus of our pastures; but it appears some
months earlier than that insect is accustomed to do; does not flit from
blossom to blossom, and bask upon the disks of the lowly herbs; and,
though a feebler creature on the wing, takes a much higher range in
flight, and sports in altitudes which the argus, with all its animation,
is very rarely inclined to attempt. When in captivity, the dark margins
of the upper wings, the black specks, not eyes, and the pale blue of the
reverse, without any other character, render it perfectly
distinguishable from the papilio argus, corydon, or any other butterfly
found with us. A small hatch again takes place about the end of July,
and this pretty insect haunts anew our currant bushes; but, enlivened by
the warmth of the season, it becomes more wild and wary, and avoids our
approach.
The hummingbird hawk-moth (sphinx stellatarum) visits us annually, and
occasionally in some numbers, frisking about all the summer long, and in
very fine seasons continues with us as late as the second week in
October. The vigilance and animation of this creature are surprising,
and seem to equal those of its namesake, that splendid meteoric bird of
the tropics, “that winged thought,” as some one has called it; though
our plain and dusky insect can boast none of its glorious hues. Our
little sphinx appears chiefly in the mornings and evenings of the day,
rather avoiding the heat of the mid-day sun, possibly roused from its
rest by the scent, that “aromatic soul of flowers,” which is principally
exhaled at these periods; delighting in the jasmine, marvel of Peru,
phlox, and such tubular flowers; and it will even insert its long,
flexible tube into every petal of the carnation, to extract the honey-
like liquor it contains. It will visit our geraniums and green-house
plants, and, whisking over part of them with contemptuous celerity,
select some composite flower that takes its fancy, and examine every
tube with rapidity, hovering over its disk with quivering wings, while
its fine hawklike eyes survey all surrounding dangers. The least
movement alarms it, and it darts away with the speed of an arrow; yet
returns, and with suspicious vigilance continues its employ, feeding
always on the wing. Nature seems to have given this creature some
essential requisites for its safety; its activity, when on the wing,
renders its capture difficult; and when it rests, it is on a wall, the
bark of a tree, or some dusky body, that assimilates so nearly to its
own color, as to render it almost invisible, though watched to its
settlement; and the larva is seldom found. We sometimes see it enter our
rooms, attracted by flowers in the open windows; but it seems to be
immediately aware of its danger, disappears in an instant, and is safe
from capture. Wild and fearful as this creature is by nature, yet
continued gentle treatment will remove much of its timidity, and render
it familiar to our presence. Perfectly free from any annoyance as they
are when ranging from sweet to sweet on my borders, and accustomed to a
close inspection of all their operations, I have frequently touched
their wings with my fingers, while hovering over a flower, and dipping
their long tubes into the corolla of a geranium: they would retire a
little, confused with such freedoms and interruptions, but, experiencing
no harm, they would return and finish their meal, unmindful of such
petty annoyances. I have known this creature, like some other insects,
counterfeit death when apprehensive of danger, fall on its back, and
appear in all respects devoid of life when in a box; and, as soon as a
fit opportunity arrived, dart away with its usual celerity.
On the blue heads of the pasture scabious (scabiosa succisa) we
occasionally see, toward the end of the summer, the painted lady
butterfly (papilio cardui); but this is a creature that visits us at
very uncertain periods, and is vivified by causes infinitely beyond the
comprehension of the entomologist, seeming to require a succession and
variety of seasons and their change, and then springing into life we
know not how. This was particularly obvious in the summer of 1815, and
the two following, which were almost unceasingly cold and rainy;
scarcely a moth or butterfly appeared. And in the early part of 1818,
the season was not less ungenial; a few half-animated creatures alone
struggled into being; yet this “painted lady” was fostered into life,
and became the commonest butterfly of the year: it has, however, but
very partially visited us since that period. The keenest entomologist,
perhaps, would not much lament the absence of this beauty, if such
cheerless seasons were always requisite to bring it to perfection. Some
years ago a quantity of earth was raised in cutting a canal in this
county; and, in the ensuing summer, on the herbage that sprang up from
this new soil on the bank, this butterfly was found in abundance, where
it had not been observed for many years before.
The marble butterfly (papilio galathea) is an equally capricious
visitant of our fields. I have known intervals of ten or twelve years
when none could be found, and in some following seasons it would be a
prevailing species.
The common wasp (vespa vulgaris) is infinitely uncertain in its numbers.
A mild winter, and a dry spring or summer, we might conclude to be
favorable circumstances for the increase of this creature; yet such is
not always the case. Years productive of the plum are said to be
congenial likewise to the wasp. A local rhyme will have it, that
“When the plum hangs on the tree,
Then the wasp you’re sure to see.”
Amid the tribes of insects so particularly influenced by seasons, there
are a few which appear little affected by common events; the brown
meadow butterfly (papilio janira), so well known to every one, I have
never missed in any year; and in those damp and cheerless summers, when
even the white cabbage butterfly is scarcely to be found, this creature
may be seen in every transient gleam, drying its wings, and tripping
from flower to flower with animation and life, nearly the sole possessor
of the field and its sweets. Dry and exhausting as the summer may be,
yet this dusky butterfly is uninjured by it, and we see it in profusion
hovering about the sapless foliage. In that arid summer of 1826, the
abundance of these creatures, and of the lady-bird (coccinella septem
punctata), was so obvious, as to be remarked by very indifferent
persons.
There is a large yellow under-wing moth (phalæna pronuba), too, which is
generally abundant. It hides itself during the day in the thickest
foliage, and screens itself from the light in the moist grass crops of
the mead, where it is perpetually disturbed, and roused from its rest,
by the scythe of the mower. That elegant little bird, the yellow
wagtail, is a great destroyer of this insect. It is very soon apprized
of these movements, and will often attend the steps of the mower,
fearless of harm, to watch for its prey. As soon as the moth rises, it
is chased; and its exertions and shiftings to escape, and the activity
and perseverance of the bird to capture it, are very amusing.