COLEMAN'S BRITISH BUTTERFLIES.

A cheap Edition of this Work, in boards, with plain Illustrations is also published, price 1s.

B R I T I S H B U T T E R F L I E S

FIGURES AND DESCRIPTIONS OF

EVERY NATIVE SPECIES

WITH AN ACCOUNT OF

BUTTERFLY DEVELOPMENT, STRUCTURE, HABITS, LOCALITIES,

MODE OF CAPTURE, AND PRESERVATION

By W. S. COLEMAN

AUTHOR OF "OUR WOODLANDS, HEATHS, AND HEDGES"

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

PRINTED IN COLOURS BY EDMUND EVANS

L O N D O N

G E O R G E R O U T L E D G E A N D S O N S

Broadway, Ludgate Hill

GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME,

WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS.

COMMON OBJECTS OF THE SEA-SHORE.

By the Rev. J. G. Wood.

COMMON OBJECTS OF THE COUNTRY.

By the Rev. J. G. Wood.

OUR WOODLANDS, HEATHS, and HEDGES.

By W. S. Coleman.

BRITISH BIRDS, EGGS, AND NESTS. By

the Rev. J. C. Atkinson.

COMMON BRITISH MOTHS. By the Rev.

J. G. Wood.

COMMON BRITISH BEETLES. By the Rev.

J. G. Wood.

P R E F A C E.

A desire to extend the knowledge of, and by so doing to extend the love for, those sunny creatures called Butterflies, has prompted the author to undertake this little work, which, though making no pretence to a technically scientific character, will, it is hoped, be found sufficiently complete and accurate to supply all information needful to the young entomologist as to the names, appearance, habits, localities, &c. of all our British Butterflies, together with a general history of butterfly life—the mode of capture, preservation, and arrangement in cabinets—the apparatus required, &c. At the same time it is so inexpensive as to be accessible to every schoolboy.

The subject is one which has formed the delight and study of the author from early boyhood, and butterfly-hunting still preserves its fascinations, redoubling the pleasure of the country ramble in summer.

Should this volume be the means of inciting some to seek this source of healthful enjoyment, and to join in the peaceful study which may be so easily pursued by all dwellers in the country, it will have succeeded in its purpose.

The whole of the illustrative portraits of the butterflies have been drawn from nature by the author, and with one exception from specimens in his own collection. At least one figure of each species (of the natural size) is given; but in very many instances, where the sexes differ considerably from each other, both are figured, and the under sides are also frequently added.

The greater number of the caterpillars and chrysalides, however, being rarely met with, the figures on the first plate are nearly all borrowed from the splendid and accurate works of Continental authors—chiefly from Hübner and Duponchel.

With great pleasure, the author here acknowledges his obligations, for many biographical facts relating to butterflies, to those highly useful periodicals, the Zoologist and the Entomologist's Weekly Intelligencer, the former devoted to general natural history, the latter especially to entomology, and whose pages register a

mass of interesting and original communications from correspondents who, living in wide-spread localities, and possessing varied opportunities of observation, have gradually brought together, under able editorship, a store of facts that could never have come within the personal experience of any one man, however industrious and observant.

The capture during the past year of a new and interesting butterfly for the first time in this country, is recorded in this volume, in which the insect is also figured and described.

Bayswater, April 1860.

BRITISH BUTTERFLIES.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTION.

WHAT IS A BUTTERFLY—BUTTERFLIES AND MOTHS—BUTTERFLY LIFE—THE EGG STAGE—SCULPTURED CRADLES—BUTTERFLY BOTANY—THE CATERPILLAR STAGE—FEEDING UP—COAT CHANGING—FORMS OF CATERPILLARS—THE CHRYSALIS—MEANING OF PUPA, CHRYSALIS, AND AURELIA—FORMS OF CHRYSALIDES—DIFFICULTIES OF TRANSFORMATION—INFLUENCE OF TEMPERATURE.

Occasionally a missive arrives from some benevolent friend, announcing the capture of a "splendid butterfly," which, imprisoned under a tumbler, awaits one's acceptance as an addition to the cabinet. However, on going to claim the proffered prize, the expected "butterfly" turns out to be some bright-coloured moth (a Tiger moth being the favourite victim of the misnomer), and one's entomological propriety suffers a shock; not so much feeling the loss of the specimen, as concern for the benighted state of an otherwise intelligent friend's mind with regard to insect nomenclature.

It is clearly therefore not so superfluous as it might at first otherwise seem, to commence the subject by defining even such a familiar object as a butterfly, and more especially distinguishing it with certainty from a moth, the only other creature with which it can well be confounded.

The usual notion of a butterfly is of a gay fluttering thing, whose broad painted wings are covered with a mealy stuff that comes off with handling. This is all very well for a general idea, but the characters that form it are common to some other insects besides butterflies. Moths and hawk-moths have mealy wings, and are often gaily coloured too; whilst, on the other hand, some butterflies are as dusky and plain as possible. Thus the crimson-winged Tiger, and Cinnabar moths get the name of butterflies, and the Meadow brown butterfly is as sure to be called a moth. So, as neither colouring nor mealy wings furnish us with the required definition, we must find some concise combination of characters that will answer the purpose. Butterflies, then, are insects with mealy wings, and whose horns (called "antennæ") have a clubbed or thickened tip, giving them more or less resemblance to a drum-stick. So the difference in the shape of the antennæ is the chief outward mark of distinction between butterflies and moths, the latter having antennæ of various shapes, threadlike or featherlike, but never clubbed at the tip.

Having thus settled how a butterfly is to be recognized at sight, let us see what butterfly life is: how the creature lives, and has lived, in the stages preceding its present airy form.

In like manner with other insects, all butterflies commence their existence enclosed in minute eggs; and these eggs, as if shadowing forth the beauty yet undeveloped whose germ they contain, are themselves such curiously beautiful objects, that they must not be passed over without admiring notice. It seems, indeed, as if nature determined that the ornamental character of the butterfly should commence with its earliest stage; form, and not colour, being employed in its decoration, sculpture being here made the forerunner of painting.

Some of these forms are roughly shown on [Plate II]. (figs. 1-7), but highly magnified; for as these eggs are really very tiny structures, such as would fall easily through a pin-hole, the aid of a microscope is of course necessary to render visible the delicate sculpture that adorns their surface. The egg (fig. 1, [Plate II].) of the common Garden white butterfly (Pieris Brassicæ) is among the most graceful and interesting of these forms, and also the most easily obtained. It reminds us of some antique vessel, ribbed and fluted with consummate elegance and regularity.

Others—such as those of the Large Heath butterfly (fig. 3), and the Queen of Spain Fritillary (fig. 2), simulate curious wicker-work baskets. The Peacock butterfly has an egg like a polygonal jar (fig. 4), while that of its near ally, the large Tortoise-shell (fig. 5), is simply pear-shaped, with the surface unsculptured and smooth

(fig. 5). The eggs of the Meadow Brown (fig. 6), and the Wood Argus (fig. 7), are globular—the former with lines on its surface like the meridian lines on a geographical globe, and a pretty scalloping at the top that gives a flower-like appearance to that portion; the latter has the whole surface honey-combed with a network of hexagonal cells. Such are a few of the devices that ornament the earliest cradle of the butterfly; but probably those of every species would well repay their examination to any one who possesses a microscope.

Prompted by a most remarkable instinct, and one that could not have originated in any experience of personal advantage, the female butterfly, when seeking a depository for her eggs, selects with unerring certainty the very plant which, of all others, is best fitted for the support of her offspring, who, when hatched, find themselves surrounded with an abundant store of their proper food.

Many a young botanist would be puzzled at first sight to tell a sloe-bush from a buckthorn-bush. Not so, however, with our Brimstone butterfly: passing by all the juicy hedge-plants, which look quite as suitable, one would think, she, with botanical acumen, fixes upon the buckthorn; either the common one, or, if that is not at hand, upon another species of rhamnus—the berry-bearing alder—which, though a very different looking plant, is of the same genus, and shares the same properties. She evidently works out the natural system of botany, and might have been a pupil of Jussieu, had she not been tutored by a far higher Authority.

This display of instinct would seem far less wonderful did the mother butterfly herself feed on the plant she commits her eggs to. In that case, her choice might have appeared as the result of personal experience of some peculiar benefit or pleasure derived from the plant, and then this sentiment might have become hereditary; just as, for example, the acquired taste for game is hereditary with sporting dogs. Whereas the fact is, that a butterfly only occasionally, and as a matter of accident rather than rule, derives her own nectareous food from the flowers of the plant, whose leaves nourish her caterpillar progeny. So that this, as well as numberless other phenomena of instinct, remains a mystery to be admired, but not explained by any ordinary rule of cause and effect.

Having thus efficiently provided, as far as board and lodging are concerned, for the welfare of the future brood, the mother seems to consider them settled for life, takes no further care of them, nor even awaits the opening of the sculptured caskets that contain their tiny life-germs; but, trusting them to the sun's warmth for their hatching, and then to their own hungry little instincts to teach them good use of the food placed within their reach, she sees them no more.

But though abandoning her offspring to fate in this manner, it must not be imagined that the butterfly mother takes her pattern of maternity from certain

human mothers, and in a round of "butterfly's balls," and such like dissipations, forgets the sacred claims of the nursery. No, she has far other and better excuses for absenting herself from her family; one of which is, that she usually dies before the latter are hatched; and if that is not enough, that the young can get on quite as well without her; for probably she could not teach them much about caterpillar economics, unless, indeed, she remembered her own infantile habits of lang syne, so totally different from those of her perfected butterfly life.

The space of time passed in the egg state varies much according to the temperature—from a few days when laid in genial summer weather, to several months in the case of those laid in the autumn, and which remain quiescent during the winter, to hatch out in the spring.

The eggs of butterflies, in common with those of insects in general, are capable of resisting not only vicissitudes, but extremes of temperature that would be surely destructive of life in most other forms. The severest cold of an English winter will not kill the tender butterfly eggs, whose small internal spark of vitality is enough to keep them from freezing under a much greater degree of cold than they are ever subjected to in a state of nature. For example, they have been placed in an artificial freezing mixture, which brought down the thermometer to 22° below zero—a deadly chill—and yet they survived with apparent

impunity, and afterwards lived to hatch duly. Then as to their heat-resisting powers, some tropical insects habitually lay their eggs in sandy, sun-scorched places, where the hand cannot endure to remain a few moments; the heat rising daily to somewhere about 190° of the thermometer—and we know what a roasting one gets at 90° or so. Yet they thrive through all this.

For a short time previous to hatching, the form and colour of the caterpillar is faintly discoverable through the semi-transparent egg-shell. The juvenile Caterpillar, or Larva, gnaws his way through the shell into the world, and makes his appearance in the shape of a slender worm, exceedingly minute of course, and bearing few of the distinctive marks of his species, either as to shape or colouring. On finding himself at liberty, in the midst of plentiful good cheer, he at once falls vigorously to work at the great business of his life—eating; often making his first meal—oddly enough—off the egg-shell, lately his cradle. This singular relish, or digestive pill, swallowed, he addresses himself to the food that is to form the staple fare during the whole of his caterpillar existence—viz. the leaves of his food-plant, which at the same time is his home-plant too.

At this stage his growth is marvellously rapid, and few creatures can equal him in the capacity for doubling his weight—not even the starved lodging-house "slavey," when she gets to her new place, with carte blanche allowance and the key of the pantry; for, in the course

of twenty-four hours, he will have consumed more than twice his own weight of food: and with such persevering avidity does he ply his pleasant task, that, as it is stated, a caterpillar in the course of one month has increased nearly ten thousand times his original weight on leaving the egg; and, to furnish this increase of substance, has consumed the prodigious quantity of forty thousand times his weight of food—truly, a ruinous rate of living, only that green leaves are so cheap.

But the life of a caterpillar, after all, is not merely the smooth continual feast he would doubtless prefer it to be; it is interrupted, several times in its course, by the necessity nature has imposed upon him of now and then changing his coat—to him a very troublesome, if not a painful affair.

For some time previous to this phenomenon, even eating is nearly or quite suspended,—the caterpillar becomes sluggish and shy, creeping away into some more secluded spot, and there remaining till his time of trouble is over. Various twitchings and contortions of the body now testify to the mal-aise of the creature in his old coat, which, though formed of a material capable of a moderate amount of stretching, soon becomes outgrown, and most uncomfortably tight-fitting, with such a quick-growing person inside it: so off it must come, but it being unprovided with buttons, there's the rub. However, with a great deal of fidgeting and shoulder-shrugging, he manages to tear his coat down the back, and lastly, by patient efforts, shuffles off the old rag;

when, lo! underneath is a lustrous new garment, somewhat similar, but not exactly a copy of the last, for our beau has his peculiar dress for each epoch of his life,—the most splendid being often reserved for the last.

This change of dress ("moulting," it is sometimes called) is repeated thrice at least in the creature's life, but more generally five or six times. Not only does the outer husk come off at these times, but, wonderful to relate! the lining membrane of all the digestive passages, and of the larger breathing tubes, is cast off and renewed also.

After each moult, the caterpillar makes up for his loss of time by eating more voraciously even than before, in many instances breaking his fast by making a meal of his "old clo'"—an odd taste, first evinced, as we have seen, in earliest infancy, when he swallowed his cradle.

On [Plate I]. are shown the chief varieties of form taken by the caterpillars of our British butterflies, and a glance at these will give, better than verbal descriptions, a general idea of their characteristics.

Their most usual shape is elongated and almost cylindrical, or slightly tapering at one or both ends. Of these, some are smooth, or only studded with short down or hairs; such are the caterpillars of the Swallow-tail butterfly (fig. 1), of the Brimstone (fig. 2), Clouded Yellows, and Garden, and other white butterflies. Others, of the same general form, are beset with long branched spines, making perfect chevaux-de-frise; such

are those of the Peacock, Red Admiral, Painted Lady, and the Silvery Fritillaries.

The caterpillars of another large section have the body considerably thicker in the middle (rolling-pin shaped), and the tail part two-forked, or bifurcate. This form belongs to the numerous family that includes the Meadow-brown (fig. 3), the Ringlets, and many others.

The bizarre personage, at fig. 4, turns to the graceful White Admiral butterfly.

The Purple Emperor begins his royal career in the curious form shown at fig. 5—a shape unique among British butterflies, as beseems that of their sovereign; and he carries a coronet on his brow already.

All those beautiful little butterflies called the Hair-streaks (fig. 9), the Blues (fig. 10), and the Coppers, have very short and fat caterpillars, that remind one forcibly of wood-lice—a shape shared also by that small butterfly with a big name, the Duke of Burgundy Fritillary (fig. 8), an insect very distinct from the Fritillaries above mentioned with thorny caterpillars.

The legs of a caterpillar are usually sixteen in number, and composed of two distinct kinds, viz. of six true legs, answering to those of the perfect insect, and placed on the foremost segments of the body; and of ten others, called "prolegs;" temporary legs, used principally for strengthening the creature's hold upon leaf or branch.

Like the rest of its body, the caterpillar's head widely

differs in structure from that of the perfect insect, being furnished with a pair of jaws, horny and strong, befitting the heavy work they have to get through, and shaped like pincers, opening and shutting from side to side, instead of working up and down after the manner of the jaws in vertebrate animals. This arrangement offers great convenience to the creature, feeding, as it is wont to do, on the thin edge of a leaf. It is a curious sight to watch a caterpillar thus engaged. Adhering by his close-clinging prolegs, and guiding the edge of the leaf between his forelegs, he stretches out his head as far as he can reach, and commences a series of rapid bites, at each nibble bringing the head nearer the legs, till they almost meet; then stretching out again the same regular set of mouthfuls is abstracted, and so on, repeating the process till a large semi-circular indentation is formed, reaching perhaps to the midrib of the leaf; then shifting his position to a new vantage ground, the marauder recommences operations, another sweep is taken out, then another, and soon the leaf is left a mere skeleton.

But a change, far more important than mere skin-shifting, follows close upon the animal's caterpillar-maturity, complete as soon as it ceases to grow.

The form and habits of a worm are to be exchanged for the glories and pleasures of winged life; but this can only be done at the price of passing through an intermediate state; one neither of eating, nor of flying, but motionless, helpless and death-like.

This is called the Chrysalis or Pupa state.

Pupa is a Latin word, signifying a creature swathed, or tied up; and is applied to this stage of all insects, because all, or some, of their parts are then bound up, as if swathed.

The term Chrysalis is applicable to butterflies only, and, strictly, only to a few of these—Chrysalis[^[1]] being derived from the Greek χρυσός (chrysos), gold—in allusion to the splendid gilding of the surface in certain species, such as the Vanessas, Fritillaries, and some others.

In the older works on entomology we frequently meet with the term Aurelia applied to this state, and having the same meaning as chrysalis, but derived from the Latin word Aurum, gold.

Here the reader is again referred to [Plate I]. for a series of the principal forms assumed by the chrysalides of our native butterflies, and as these for the most part represent the next stage of the caterpillars previously figured, an opportunity is afforded of tracing the insect's form through its three great changes; the whole of the butterflies in their perfect state being given in their proper places in the body of the work.

The complicated and curious processes by which various caterpillars assume the chrysalis form, and suspend themselves securely in their proper attitudes, have been most accurately and laboriously chronicled by the French naturalist, Réaumur; but his memoirs on the subject, which have been frequently quoted into the larger entomological works, are too long for insertion here in full, and any considerable abbreviation would fail to convey a clear idea of the process, on account of the intricacy of the operations described. So I can only here allude to the difficult problems that the creature has to solve, referring the reader to the above-mentioned works for a detailed description of the manner of doing so; or, better still, I would recommend the country resident to witness all this with his own eyes. By keeping a number of the caterpillars of our common butterflies, feeding them up, and attentively watching them when full-grown, he will now and then detect one in the transformation act, and have an opportunity of wondering at the curious manœuvres of the animal, as it triumphs over seeming impossibilities.

By reference to the figures of chrysalides on [Plate I]. it will be seen that there are two distinct modes of suspension employed among them; one, by the tail only, the head hanging down freely in the air:—in the other, the tail is attached to the supporting object; but the head, instead of swinging loosely, is kept in an upright position by being looped round the waist with a silken girdle.

To appreciate the difficulty of gaining either of the above positions, we must bear in mind that, before doing so, the caterpillar has to throw off its own skin, carrying with it the whole of its legs, and the jaws

too—leaving itself a mere limbless, and apparently helpless mass—its only prehensile organs being a few minute, almost imperceptible hooks on the end of the tail; and the required position of attachment and security is accomplished by a series of movements so dexterous and sleight-of-hand like, as to cause infinite astonishment to the looker-on, and, as Réaumur justly observes, "It is impossible not to wonder, that an insect, which executes them but once in its life, should execute them so well. We must necessarily conclude that it has been instructed by a Great Master; for He who has rendered it necessary for the insect to undergo this change, has likewise given it all the requisite means for accomplishing it in safety."

If we examine a chrysalis we are able to make out, through the thin envelope, all the external organs of the body stowed away in the most orderly and compact manner. The antennæ are very conspicuous, folded down alongside of the legs; and precisely in the centre will be seen the tongue, unrolled and forming a straight line between the legs. The unexpanded wings are visible on each side—very small, but with all their veinings distinctly seen; and the breathing holes, called spiracles, are placed in a row on each side of the body.

The duration of the chrysalis stage, like that of the egg, is extremely variable, and dependent on difference of temperature. As an instance of this, one of our common butterflies has been known to pass only seven

or eight days in the chrysalis state; this would be in the heat of summer. Then, in the spring, the change occupies a fortnight; but when the caterpillar enters the chrysalis state in the autumn, the butterfly does not make its appearance till the following spring. Furthermore, it has been proved by experiment, that if the condition of perpetual winter be kept up by keeping the chrysalis in an icehouse, its development may be retarded for two or three years beyond its proper time; while, on the other hand, if in the middle of winter the chrysalis be removed to a hothouse, the enclosed butterfly, mistaking the vivifying warmth for returning summer, makes its début in ten days or a fortnight.

CHAPTER II.

"COMING OUT"—ICHNEUMONS—THE BUTTERFLY PERFECTED—ITS WINGS—LEPIDOPTERA—MEANING OF THE WORD—MICROSCOPIC VIEW—NEW BEAUTIES—MAGNIFIED "DUST"—THE HEAD AND ITS ORGANS—THE TONGUE—THE EYES—THE ANTENNÆ—THEIR USES—INSECT CLAIRVOYANCE—AN UNKNOWN SENSE—FORMS OF ANTENNÆ—THE LEGS.

We now arrive at the last stage, the consummation of all this strange series of transformations; for veritable transformations they are to all intents and purposes; though some learned naturalists have discovered—or imagined so—that the butterfly, in all its parts, really lies hid under the caterpillar's skin, and can be distinguished under microscopical dissection; and that, therefore, the so-called transformations are merely the throwing off of the various envelopes or husks, as they become in turn superfluous, as a mountebank strips off garment after garment, till lastly the sparkling harlequin is discovered to view; or, in more exact language, they consider these changes in the light rather of successive developments and emancipations of the various organs than as their actual transformations. Still, it seems to me, the difference is chiefly one of terms. The real wondrous fact remains undiminished and

unexplained; that a creeping wormlike creature, in process of time, is changed into a glorious winged being, differing from the former in form, habits, food, and every essential particular, as widely as any two creatures can well differ, as widely as a serpent from a bird, for instance.

As the imprisoned butterfly approaches maturity, a change is observable in the exterior of the chrysalis, the skin becomes dry and brittle, usually darkens in colour, and if the enclosed butterfly be a strongly marked one, the pattern of its wings shows through, often quite distinctly.

When the fulness of time arrives, the creature breaks through its thin casings, which divide in several places, and the freed insect crawls up into some convenient spot to dry itself, and allow the wings to expand.

All the organs are at first moist and tender, but on exposure to the air soon acquire strength and firmness.

At the moment of emergence, the wings are very miniature affairs, sometimes hardly one-twentieth of their full size when expanded; but so rapid is their increase in volume, that they may actually be seen to grow, as the fluids from the body are pumped into the nervures that support the wing-membrane, and keep it extended.

In the more strongly marked, or richly coloured species, it is a wonderfully beautiful sight to watch this expansion of the wings, and to see the various features

of their painted devices growing under the eye and developing gradually into their true proportions.

Generally within an hour the development is complete, and the wings, having gained their full expanse and consistency by drying in the sun, are ready for flight, and the glad creature wings his way to the fields of air, and enters on that life of sunshine and hilarity which is associated with the very name of "Butterfly."

But not every chrysalis arrives at this happy consummation of its existence. Supposing that you have reared and watched a caterpillar to apparently healthy maturity, that it has duly become a chrysalis, and you are awaiting its appearance in butterfly splendour—peeping into your box some morning to see if the bright expected one is "out," be not surprised if in its stead you find the box tenanted by a swarm of little black flies—an impish-looking crew. Whence came all these? Why they and the empty chrysalis shell are all that remains of your cherished prize; so look no more for the fair sunny butterfly, devoured ere born by that ill-favoured troop of darklings who have just now issued from the lifeless shell.

The truth is, that long since, perhaps in early larva-hood, the creature's fate was sealed; a deadly enemy to his race is ever on the alert, winging about in the shape of a small black fly, in search of an exposed and defenceless caterpillar. Having selected her victim, she pierces his body with a sharp cutting instrument she is armed with, and in the wound deposits an egg; the

caterpillar winces a little at this treatment, but seems to attach little importance to it. Meanwhile his enemy repeats her thrusts till some thirty or forty eggs, germs of the destroyers, are safely lodged in his body, and his doom is certain beyond hope. The eggs quickly hatch into grubs, who begin to gnaw away at the unhappy creature's flesh, thus reducing him gradually, but by a profound instinct keeping clear of all the vital organs, as if knowing full well that the creature must keep on feeding and digesting too, or their own supply would speedily fail; as usurers, while draining a client, keep up his credit with the world as long as they can.

Weaker grows the caterpillar as the gnawing worms within grow stronger and nearer maturity. Sometimes he dies a caterpillar, sometimes he has strength left to take the chrysalis shape, but out of this he never comes a butterfly—the consuming grubs now finish vitals and all, turn to pupæ in his empty skin, and come out soon, black flies like their parent.

But, supposing that it has escaped this great danger, we now see the creature in its completest form, as the

IMAGO, OR PERFECT BUTTERFLY.

The first term, Imago, is a Latin one, merely signifying an image, or distinct unveiled form; as distinguished from the previous larva, or masked state, and the pupa, or swathed and enveloped state. The word imago then, in works on entomology, always means the

perfect and last stage of insect life, and is applied to all insects with wings—for it must be borne in mind that no insect is ever winged till it reaches the last stage of its existence.

If the progressive development of these lovely beings is so marvellous, no less so is their structure when perfected, and of this some general description must now be attempted.

In contemplating a butterfly, one feels that the mind is first engaged by that ample spread, and exquisite painting of the wings that form the creature's glory; let therefore these remarkable organs have our first attention.

Wherein do these wings chiefly differ from all other insect wings? Certainly in being covered thickly with a variously coloured powdery material, easily removed by handling. This apparent dust is composed, in reality, of a vast number of regularly and beautifully formed scales—feathers they are sometimes called, but they are more comparable to fish scales than to any other kind of natural covering. The general term Lepidoptera, applied to all butterflies and moths, is derived from these scaly-wings; Lepis[^[2]] being the Greek for a scale, and ptera meaning wings in the same language.

The use of a tolerably powerful pocket lens will afford some insight into the exquisite mode of painting

employed in these matchless pieces of decoration; but the possessor of a regular microscope may, by applying it to some of our commonest butterflies, open for himself a world of beauty, and feast his eyes on a combination of refined sculpture with splendour of colouring; now melting in softest harmony, then relieved by boldest contrast—a spectacle, the first sight of which seldom fails to call forth expressions of wonderment and warm delight; and, truly, little to be envied is the mind untouched by such utter beauty as here displayed.

As an example of the method by which this admirable effect is produced, let us take a small portion of the wing of the Peacock, a very beautiful, though an abundant species, and one admirably adapted for microscopic examination, and to illustrate the subject, from the great variety of rich tints brought together in a small space, the part selected being the eye-like spot at the outer corner of each upper wing. Even to the naked eye this appears as a very splendidly coloured object, yet but little of its exquisite mechanism can be discovered by the unassisted organ. Something more is brought out by a moderately strong lens: we then see the colours disposed in rows, reminding us of the surface of Brussels carpet, or of certain kinds of tapestry work.

Now let us place the wing on the stage of a good microscope, with the root of the wing pointing towards the light (that is the best position for it); we shall then first perceive that the whole surface is covered, or, so to

speak, tiled over with distinct, sharply cut scales, arranged as in fig. 16, [Plate II]., with the outer or free edges of one row overlapping the roots of the next. These roots being all planted towards the base of the wing, if we place that end next the light (as above directed), the free edges of the scales throw a strong shadow on the next row, which brings out the imbricated effect most strikingly.

Beginning our observations at the outer edge of the wing, we first notice a delicate fringe of scales or plumes, more elongated and pointed than the surface scales, and of a quiet brown colour. This tint is continued inwards for a short space, gradually lightening, when (as we shift the field of view towards the centre of the wing) the colour of the scales suddenly changes to an intense black; then a little further, and the black ground is all spangled with glittering sapphires, then strewed deep with amethyst round a heap of whitest pearls. Golden topaz—(jewels only will furnish apt terms of comparison for these insect gems)—golden topaz ends the bright many-coloured crescent, and in the centre is enclosed a spot of profoundest black, gradating into a rich unnameable red, whose velvet depth and softness contrast deliciously with the adjacent flashing lustre; then comes another field of velvet black, then more gold, and so on till the gorgeous picture is complete.

Subject a piece of finest human painting to the scrutiny of a strong magnifying glass, and where is the beauty thereof? Far from being magnified, it will have wholly vanished: its cleverest touches turned to coarse, repulsive daubs and stains.

Now, bring the microscope's most searching powers to bear upon the painting of an insect's wing, and we find only pictures within pictures as the powers increase; the very pigments used turn out to be jewels, not rough uncut stones, but cut and graven gems, bedded in softest velvet.

If by gentle rubbing with the finger-tip the scales be removed from both sides of the wing (for each side is scale-covered, though generally with a very different pattern), there remains a transparent membrane like that of a bee's or fly's wing, tight stretched between stiff branching veins, but bearing no vestige of its late gay painting, thus showing that the whole of the colouring resides in the scales, the places occupied by the roots of the latter being marked by rows of dots.

Hitherto we have been looking at these scales as the component parts of a picture, like the tesseræ of mosaic work; but they are no less interesting as individual objects, when viewed microscopically. To do this, delicately rub off a little of the dust or scales with the finger; then take a slip of glass, and pressing the finger with the adhering dust upon it, the latter will come off and remain on the glass, which is then to be placed under the microscope. These scales may be treated either as opaque or transparent objects, and in both conditions display exceeding beauty, some of these single atoms showing, by aid of the microscope, as

much complexity of structure as the whole wing does to the unassisted vision.

A few of the highly varied forms they present are shown on [Plate II]. Figs. 23 to 38 are selected from among the commoner forms, as seen by a comparatively low power. The small stalk-like appendage is the part by which the scale is affixed to the wing: it may be called the root. Figs. 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, show some very remarkable forms, which are, so far as has been ascertained, peculiar to butterflies of the male sex, though the use or reason of this masculine badge, only visible to highly magnifying optics, is neither known nor probably to be known at present; but singularly beautiful and curious they are to look at. The little balls at the end of threads are the root portion, and fit into cup-like sockets, placed here and there among the ordinary scales. The surface of these scales is beautifully ribbed and cross-ribbed, and at the upper end is a plume-like tuft of delicate filaments. The curious scale aptly called, from its shape, the Battledore scale, and shown at fig. 22, also belongs to the male of various butterflies, especially those pretty little ones known as the "Blues." Its surface is most curiously ornamented with rows of bead-like prominences.

Probably one would imagine that in such wee specks as are these scales, one single layer of substance would suffice for their whole thickness (if we can talk of thickness, with objects almost immeasurable in their thinness). But such is not the case, for when scales have

been injured by rubbing we now and then find a part with the sculptured surfaces torn off on each side, showing a plain central layer, so that at least three layers—two ornamented and one plain—go to form a filmy body, only a small fraction of the thickness of paper.

But there are other portions of a butterfly to claim our interest besides its wondrous wings.

On the creature's head are grouped together some most beautiful and important organs. The most peculiar of these is the long spiral "sucker," which extracts the honied food from the blossoms to which its wings so gracefully waft it. This organ is shown, slightly magnified, at fig. 8, [Plate II]., and a most delicate piece of animal mechanism it is. Any human workman would, to a certainty, be not only puzzled, but thoroughly beaten, in an attempt to construct a tube little thicker than a horse-hair, yet composed throughout its length of two distinct pieces, capable of being separated at pleasure, and then joined again so as to form an air-tight tube. This redoubtable problem, however, is solved in the construction of this curious little instrument that every butterfly carries.

The junction of the two grooved surfaces that form the tube is effected by the same contrivance that reunites the web of a feather when it has been pulled apart. We all know how completely it is made whole again, and on examining by what means this result is brought about, we find that it is by the interlacing of a

number of small fibres or hairs, just as, on a larger scale, a pair of brushes adhere when pressed face to face; and so in the butterfly's sucker, the two edges that join to form the tube are closely set with minute bristles that, when brought together, interlock so closely as to make an air-tight surface.

Fig. 9, [Plate II]., is a transverse section taken near the base of the sucker, the small opening at the top being the food passage, those at the side the air-tubes that supply air for respiration and perhaps assist in suction.

The tube is probably made with separable parts in order that if its interior should become at any time clogged by grosser particles drawn up with the flower nectar, it may be opened and cleansed by the insect; otherwise, the tube once rendered impassable, the insect would speedily starve, as this narrow channel is the only inlet for the creature's nourishment—its only mouth, in fact, for no butterfly possesses jaws to bite with, or can take any but the liquid food pumped up by suction through this pipe.

At the end of the proboscis—or, as it is called scientifically, the Haustellum[^[3]]—there are visible in some butterflies a number of small projections, of the form shown at fig. 10, [Plate II]., which is a highly magnified figure of the end of the Red Admiral's proboscis. These appendages are generally supposed to be organs of taste,

and to aid in the discrimination of food when the pipe is unrolled and thrust down deep into the nectary of a flower.

The compound eye of a butterfly, wonderful as its structure is, does not greatly differ from that of many other insects, being like them composed of an immense number of little lenses set together to form a hemisphere large in comparison with the insect's head. A portion of one of these eyes forms a pretty and interesting object for the microscope, presenting a honey-comb appearance, the hexagonal lines that mark the division of the lenses being most beautifully geometrical and regular in their arrangement. More than seventeen hundred of these lenses have been counted in a single eye, and each of these is considered to possess the qualities of a complete and independent eye. If this be true, the butterfly may be said to be endowed with at least thirty-four thousand eyes!

There exist also, as in other insects, two simple eyes, placed on the top of the head, but so buried in down and scales as to be neither visible, nor useful for vision as far as we can perceive; probably the creature finds that his allowance of thirty-four thousand windows to his soul lets in as much light as he requires.

Every one looking at a butterfly must have remarked its long horns, called antennæ,[^[4]] which project from above the eyes, like jointed threads, thickening—in some

species gradually, in others suddenly—into a club or knob at the extremity; a peculiarity which, it will be remembered, was pointed out at the commencement, as a prominent mark of distinction between butterflies and moths.

Very graceful appendages are these waving antennæ, and evidently of high importance to their owner; but still, their exact office or function is unknown, notwithstanding that many guesses and experiments have been made with a view of settling that question.

Investigators have perhaps erred, by assuming at the outset that these antennæ must be organs of some sense that we ourselves possess; whereas, I think that there is much evidence to show that insects are gifted with a certain subtle sense, for which we have no name, and of which we can have as little real idea, as we could have had of the faculty of sight, had all the world been born blind.

For example; if you breed from the chrysalis a female Kentish Glory Moth, and then immediately take her—in a closed box, mind—out into her native woods, within a short space of time an actual crowd of male "Glories" come and fasten upon, or hover over, the prison-house of the coveted maiden. Without this magic attraction, you might walk in these same woods for a whole day and not see a single specimen, the Kentish Glory being generally reputed a very rare moth; while as many as some 120 males have been thus decoyed to their capture in a few hours, by the charms of a couple of lady "Glories," shut up in a box.

Now, which of our five senses, I would ask—even if developed into extraordinary acuteness in the insect—would account for such an exhibition of clairvoyance as this?

May not, then, this undiscovered sense, whatever may be its nature, reside in the antennæ? for it is a remarkable fact, that the very moths, such as the Eggers, the Emperor, the Kentish Glory, &c., which display the above-mentioned phenomenon most signally, have the antennæ in the males amplified with numerous spreading branches, so as to present an unusually large sensitive surface. This seems to point to some connexion between those organs and the faculty of discovering the presence, and even the condition, of one of their own race, with more, perhaps, than a mile of distance, and the sides of a wooden box, intervening between themselves and their object.

Whilst writing this, the current number of the "Entomologist's Weekly Intelligencer" has arrived, and I there read that Dr. Clemmens, an American naturalist, has been lately experimenting on the antennæ of some large American moths, for the purpose of gaining some information as to their function. The article, though very interesting, is too long for quotation here; but it appears that with the moths in question, a deprivation of the whole, or even part of the antennæ, interferes with, or entirely annihilates the power

of flight, so that the creature when thus shorn, but not otherwise injured, if thrown into the air seems to have no idea of using his wings properly, but with a purposeless flutter tumbles headlong to the earth. Still this merely goes to prove that the antennæ are the instruments of some important sense, one of whose uses is to guide the creature's flight; but as many wingless insects have large antennæ, this evidently is not their only function.

The antennæ are also often styled the "feelers;" but with our present incomplete knowledge of their nature, the former term is preferable, as it does not attempt to define their use as the word "feelers" does.

Considerable variety of form exists in the clubbed tip of the antennæ in various butterflies, as will be seen by reference to [Plate II]., where three of the most distinct forms are shown considerably magnified. Fig. 12 is the upper part of the antenna of the High-brown Fritillary (Argynnis Adippe), the end suddenly swelling into a distinct knob. Fig. 13 is that of the Swallow-tail Butterfly (Papilio Machaon), the enlargement here being more gradual; and fig. 14 is that of the Large Skipper Butterfly (Pamphila Sylvanus), distinguished by the curved point that surmounts the club. These differences in the forms of the antennæ are found to be excellent aids in the classification of butterflies, and I shall therefore have occasion to refer to them more minutely in describing the insects in detail.

The stems of these organs are found to be tubular,

and at the point of junction with the head the base is spread out (as shown at fig. 15), forming what engineers call a "flange," to afford sufficient support for the long column above.

The legs are the last portions of the butterfly framework that require especial notice, on account of a peculiar variation they are subject to in different family groups.

It may be laid down as an axiom, that all true insects have six legs, in one shape or another; and butterflies, being insects, are obedient to the same universal rule, and duly grow their half-dozen legs; but in certain tribes the front pair, for no apparent reason, are so short and imperfect as to be totally useless for walking purposes, though they may possibly be used as hands for polishing up the proboscis, &c. So the butterfly in this case appears, to a hasty observer, to have only four legs.

This peculiarity is a constant feature in several natural groups of butterflies, and therefore, in conjunction with other marks, such as the veining of the wings and the shape of the antennæ, its presence or absence is a most useful mark of distinction, in classifying or searching out the name and systematic place of a butterfly.

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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 (Ψυχή), 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,

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

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.

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

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.

CHAPTER IV.

BUTTERFLIES IN THE CABINET—HOW TO CATCH THEM—APPARATUS—GOING OUT—WEATHER—LOCALITIES—LOCAL BUTTERFLIES—INCOGNITOS—FIELD WORK—FAVOURITE STATIONS—BEWARE OF THE BRAMBLE.

The mention of butterflies "in the cabinet" leads at once to the question, how to get them there; or, in other words, How to catch a Butterfly.

This is a question often less difficult to answer in words than in action, for many of our butterflies are gifted not only with strong prejudices against the inside of a net, but with very strong powers of escaping from that unpleasant situation. Still, by aid of proper apparatus, a sure eye and hand, and often, of a good pair of legs, there is no butterfly, however fleet and wary, that we may not feel ourselves a tolerable match for.

Firstly, then, as to the out-door apparatus required.

This is simple enough, a net and pocket-boxes, with a few pins, being the only essentials.[^[6]]

Variously constructed nets are used, according to fancy, but the choice may lie between two chief forms: the Clap-net and the Ring-net.

The former certainly gives more power in a fair chase, but the latter has the advantage of being the

lighter, more portable, and less conspicuous of the two. Both of these instruments are shown in the accompanying figures.

The clap-net (fig. 1) usually has the sticks that compose the framework made each in three separate pieces, joined by ferrules—a couple of light fishing-rods will do excellently, a piece of bent cane being substituted for the top joint. The manner in which the gauze is extended between, and fitted on, these rods will be sufficiently obvious on looking at the cut, which represents the net half open. In taking an insect, one handle is held in each hand, the net opened wide, and thrown over, or made to intercept the insect, when, by suddenly closing the handles together, a closed bag is made, and the little prisoner is secured.

The ring-net (fig. 2), which is the implement most generally in vogue, may be constructed in several ways. The cheapest, and at the same time a highly serviceable one, is made by getting from a tinman a tin "socket" of this form, the larger end fitting on to the end of a straight stick, and the two smaller tubes receiving the ends of a hoop of cane, which carries the net, it being passed through a loose hem round the top of the latter. The cane, taken out of the socket, can be rolled up closely with the net and carried in the pocket to the scene of action, while the handle may be a strong common walking-stick, a

most useful auxiliary in getting across country, and thus this net becomes really no incumbrance to the tourist, who may have other matters in hand besides butterfly hunting—perhaps sketching and botanizing—when the larger clap-net becomes quite embarrassing.

Another form of this net has the ring made of metal, and jointed in several places, so as to fold within a small pocketable compass, and arranged to screw into a brass socket on the top of the stick. This is a very commendable net—not so easily home-made as the last, certainly, but it can be readily procured complete from the London dealers (or "naturalists," as they style themselves).

A net that has been a good deal used of late opens and shuts on the umbrella principle, and with the same celerity, forming a ring-net when open—when shut going into a case like that of an umbrella.

Some entomologists, nervously sensitive to public opinion, are, however, somewhat shy of sporting these umbrella nets, for should rain perchance come down while he is on the road, the villagers may be astonished at the insane spectacle of a man scuttling along through the torrent and getting drenched through, while he carries a good-looking umbrella carefully under his arm for fear it should get wet; and if, on the other hand, the weather be fine, the carrying such a protective would seem an equally eccentric whim. But only the very thin-skinned would be driven from the use of a good weapon by such a harmless contingency as I have here supposed.

Other necessary equipments for the fly-catcher are two or three light wooden boxes, as large as can conveniently be carried in the pockets, and having either the bottom, or, if deep enough, both bottom and top lined with a layer of cork, about one-eighth of an inch in thickness.

A pin-cushion, well furnished with entomological pins, should also be carried, and will be found to be most accessible when suspended by a loop and button (or otherwise) inside the breast of the coat.

The pins here mentioned, which are an important item among butterfly-collecting requisites, are of a peculiar manufacture—very small-headed, long and thin, but strong. Any good London dealer will supply them on application, or send them by post into the country.

Armed with the above simple paraphernalia, viz. net to catch, boxes and pins to contain and detain, the insect hunter may sally forth on any fine summer's day, with a pretty sure prospect of sport, and the chance, at least, of a prize. Much depends, however, on the choice of a day, and the nature of the locality that is to form the hunting ground.

As to weather, it must be remembered that winged insects have a great objection to face a north, or north-east wind, during the prevalence of which you will probably find hardly one stirring, however prolific the locality may at other times be.

Butterflies, as a rule, do not appear to be at all

influenced by an eye for the picturesque and romantic in the choice of their favourite haunts. Often have I been disappointed in this way, finding a delicious spot, basking in sunshine, and bedight with all manner of flowers such as a butterfly loves, yet with scarcely a stray butterfly to enliven it; while, on the other hand, a piece of the most unpromising flat waste land will be all alive with insect beauty. Those, for example, who would see those splendid creatures, the Swallow-tail butterfly and the large Copper (if this exists with us at all now), must go to the dreary fen districts that form their almost exclusive haunts.

It is, in fact, very hard to say what influences bring a swarm of butterflies together, to populate one particular spot, to the utter neglect of others close at hand, and, to all appearance, just as eligible.

Some species are most remarkable for their excessive localness (as it is called), or, limiting their range to an exceedingly small circumscribed space; so much so, that some rare species have been known to haunt just one corner of one particular field, year after year, while not a single specimen could be found in all the neighbouring fields, though precisely similar, to all appearance. This phenomenon is quite inexplicable with regard to insects endowed so pre-eminently with locomotive powers as butterflies are.

The local nature of his game should, however, induce the collector to leave no nook or corner unexplored when he is "working" a district; as the passing over (or rather, neglecting to pass over) a single field may lose him the very species it would joy him most to find.

I would also advise the beginner—and, indeed, all but the very experienced hands—to catch, not necessarily for slaughter, but for inspection, every attainable individual whose species he cannot positively declare to when on the wing, lest he pass by some rarities unawares. Thus the valued Queen of Spain, and the much-disputed Dia Fritillaries, the Melitæas, the Brown Hair-streak, and (on the mountains) the rare Erebias, perhaps some new to this country,—any of these might be mistaken by a novice for some of the commoner brown species. Among the "Whites," too, the Black-veined White, that great prize, the Bath White, and the white varieties of the Clouded Yellow and Clouded Sulphur, might share the same fate, or fortune rather, of being reckoned as "Cabbage Whites."

Then, with the "Blues." Who is there that could at once distinguish with certainty the very rare Mazarine Blue (P. Acis) from the common Blues when on the wing? Perhaps it would turn out to be less rare than supposed, if all the Blues in a fresh locality were netted as they came near, and set at liberty after passing muster.

Why, only last season a very curious Blue,[^[7]] never before observed in this country, was captured near

Brighton by a collector, who, at the moment, thought it was only a Common Blue, so precisely similar did it look when flying.

As to the manipulation of the net, it will be better to leave the young collector to find that out for himself, which, if he has the use of his hands, he will quickly do when he gets into the field. He will soon perceive that with most of the swifter butterflies, it is of no use to make a rush at them. A surprise answers better than a charge; for they easily take alarm at open violence, and then go off straight ahead at a pace that renders pursuit, over bad ground especially, most trying, if not hopeless work. So the "suaviter in modo" principle is best here as elsewhere:—gently follow up and watch your butterfly till he pauses over or settles upon a flower, or whatever it may be; then, with caution, you can generally come within striking distance without giving alarm, and one vigorous, well-aimed stroke usually settles the matter; if, after that, he is outside of your net instead of in, you will find it a difficult matter to get another chance, at least, with most of the larger and strong-flying kinds. But there is much diversity of disposition among these creatures, and some are unscared by repeated attacks. These points of character the collector will soon learn when he has been among these lively little people for a season.

The different species have also their own favourite positions, on which they delight to perch.

Thus the Clouded Yellow loves the low flowers of

the railway-bank and the down; often seen toying with a breeze-rocked flower as yellow-coated as himself, as though he had mistaken it, in its fluttering, for one of his mates.

Then the Peacock and Red Admiral are attached to several plants of the composite order, such as the thistles, teazle, and above all (as far as I have observed), to that fine, stalwart plant that frequently abounds in thickets, &c., and known as Hemp Agrimony (Eupatorium cannabinum). I seldom, at the proper season, visit a clump of this growing in a sunny opening, without finding, besides a store of other insects, one or both of these grand butterflies enthroned on the ample purplish flower-heads, and fanning their gorgeous wings, after the custom of their genus, then launching into the air, and, after a few circling evolutions in that element, returning to the self-same flower-heads, their chosen seats.

Both of these flies are easily captured when in this position, as they allow a near approach, and can be without hindrance swept off by a rapid side-stroke of the net.

The glorious Purple Emperor is celebrated for his predilection for a throne on the oak, though some other lofty trees, such as the ash, are occasionally honoured by the imperial presence; but his habits and locale will be referred to more particularly hereafter.

That lovely butterfly, the Silver-washed Fritillary, has a penchant for settling on the bramble, which

justifies the preference by proving itself the insect's best friend; but withal a most provoking opponent to his would-be captor, who may get him safely within the net's mouth at the first stroke, when, ten to one, the trusty bramble-hooks clutch into the gauze, and effectually prevent the quick turn of the net that should close it, while the prisoner, seeing his chance, darts out with a sharp rustle that one's irritated feelings easily interpret into a derisive laugh.

But experience will in time teach the fly-catcher the required adroitness to avoid this humiliating defeat.

CHAPTER V.

HOW TO KILL A BUTTERFLY—AN APOLOGY—A TEST FOR LUNACY—CHARGE OF CRUELTY AGAINST ENTOMOLOGISTS—THEIR JUSTIFICATION ATTEMPTED—PAINLESS DEATH—CHLOROFORM—SETTING BUTTERFLIES—CABINETS AND STORE BOXES—CLASSIFICATION—LATIN NAMES—SAVING TIME AND MONEY.

Having complied with the old adage, "First catch your hare," the next point naturally is—how to cook it. So, having caught our butterfly, what are we to do with him?—a question that generally resolves itself firstly into

HOW TO KILL A BUTTERFLY.

This truculent sentence may, I fear, look like a blot on the page to some tender-hearted reader, and, in truth, this killing business is the one shadow on the otherwise sunshiny picture, which we would all gladly leave out, were it possible to preserve a butterfly's beauty alive; but this cannot be done, and yet we have made up our minds to possess that beauty—to collect butterflies, in short; there is but one way for it, and so a butterfly's pleasure must be shortened for a few

days, to add to our pleasure and instruction, perhaps for years after.

In the time of the great Ray, in such mean repute was the science of entomology held, mainly, I believe, on account of the small size of its objects, that an action at law was brought to set aside the will of an estimable woman, Lady Glanville, on the ground of insanity, the only symptom of which that they could bring forward in evidence was her fondness for collecting insects!

But this was some two centuries ago, and matters have greatly mended for the entomologist since then. Now he may collect butterflies, or other flies, as he pleases, without bringing down a commission "de lunatico" on his head, but still the goodness of his heart is sometimes called in question, and he has to encounter the equally obnoxious charge of cruelty to the objects of his admiration—that, too, from intelligent and worthy friends, whose good opinion he would most unwillingly forfeit.

He, therefore, is naturally most anxious that those friends should be led to share his own conviction, that the pursuit of entomology—the needful butterfly killing and all included—may be not only not cruel, but actually beneficent in theory and practice.

So I will briefly try to act as apologist for the "brotherhood of the net," myself included.

In the first place, I will state roundly my sincere belief that insects cannot feel pain. This is no special pleading, or "making the wish the father to the thought,"

but a conviction founded on an ample mass of evidence, on my own observations and experiments, and strengthened by analogical reasoning. I wish I had space to lay this evidence in full before the reader; but this being here impracticable, I will not damage the argument by taking a few links out of a chain of facts which depend on their close connexion with each other for their strength and value.

There is, however, one fact which may be taken by itself, and goes a long way in our favour, that I must mention here.

Insects, when mutilated in a way that would cause excessive pain and speedy death to vertebrate animals, afterwards perform all the functions of life—eating, drinking, &c. with the same evident gusto and power of enjoyment as before. Plenty of striking instances of this are on record, and, as an example, I have seen a wasp that had been snipped in two, afterwards regale himself with avidity upon some red syrup, which, as he imbibed, gathered into a large ruby bead just behind the wings (where the stomach should have been); but really the creature's pleasure seemed to be only augmented by the change in his anatomy, because he could drink ten times his ordinary fill of sweets, without, of course, getting any the fuller. I could almost fancy a scientific epicure envying the insect his ever fresh appetite and gastronomic capabilities.

After all that can be said on this subject, there will still probably be misgivings in the mind of many, both

as to the question of insect feelings and also as to our right to shorten their existence, even by a painless death.

As to the first point, we have now the means of giving any insect an utterly painless quietus, be it capable of feeling pain or no.

In regard to the second, I think few will deny that man enjoys a vested right to make use of any of the inferior animals, even to the taking of their life, if the so doing ministers to his own well-being or pleasure, and practically every one assumes this right in one way or another. Game animals are shot down (and they assuredly do feel pain), not as necessaries of life, but confessedly as luxuries. Fish are hooked, crabs, lobsters, shrimps perish by thousands, victims to our fancies. Unscrupulously we destroy every insect whose presence displeases us, harmless as they may be to our own persons. The aphides on our flowers, the moths in our furs, the "beetles" in our kitchens—all die by thousands at our pleasure. Then, if all this be right, are we not also justified in appropriating a little butterfly life to ourselves, and does not the mental feast that their after-death beauty affords us at least furnish an equal excuse for their sacrifice with any that can be urged in favour of any animal slaughter, just to tickle the palate or minister to our grosser appetites? To this query there can be, I think, but one fair answer, so we may return with a better face to the question, "How to kill a butterfly."

I have alluded above to a painless mode of doing so, doubtless applicable to all insects. I know it answers admirably with the large moths, so tenacious of life under other circumstances. This potent agent is chloroform, whose pain-quelling properties are so well known as regards the human constitution.

There is a little apparatus[^[8]] constructed for carrying this fluid safely to the field, and letting out a drop at a time into the box with the captured insect, taking care that the drop does not go on to the insect. Or a wide-mouthed bottle may be used, having at the bottom a pad of blotting-paper, or some absorbent substance, on which a few drops of chloroform may now and then be dropped. The insect being slipped into this, and the stopper or hand being placed over the bottle's mouth, insensibility (in the insect) follows immediately, and in a few minutes, at most, it is completely lifeless.

But the usual and quickest mode of despatch is by a quick nip between the finger and thumb applied just under the wings, causing, for the most part, instantaneous death: and this can be done through the net, when the

inclosed butterfly shuts his wings, as he usually does when the net wraps round him.

Now take one of your thin pins, and pass it through the thorax of the butterfly, while open or shut, and put it into the corked lining of your pocket-box. So secured, the butterfly will travel uninjured till you reach home; but a heap of dead butterflies in a box together will, in the course of a long walk, so jostle together, as to entirely destroy each other's beauty, rubbing off all their painted scales, when, of course, they are as butterflies no longer.

When you get home, take out all the pins, excepting such as may be stuck perpendicularly through the middle of the thorax, and as soon as possible proceed to "set" your captures.

Preparatory to this, some articles called setting-boards must be provided. A section of one of these is shown in the accompanying cut; but in reality they are made much longer, so as to accommodate a column of half-a-dozen butterflies or more: the breadth may vary,

according to the width of the butterflies that are to be set thereon.

The bottom is usually a thin slip of deal, on which are glued two strips of cork, bevelled off towards the edges, with a slightly curved face. Sometimes, however, the whole board is made of soft pine, with a groove planed down the middle, and with care will answer pretty well; but the corked board is far preferable.