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EARLY BUTTERFLY. MOTH. SONNET TO A GLOWWORM. MIMOSA. DORMOUSE. 44 45 MRS. TALBOT. Whence do you come, my dear George? GEORGE. After I had been, as you desired me, to enquire after the poor little girl, who is as well as if nothing had happened, I went to see Farmer Warwood's men reaping the rye.—I tried if I could cut some down myself, but I was so awkward, that the men were afraid I should cut myself, and desired me not to attempt it.—Afterwards in crossing from the meadows towards the home field, just in the middle of the path, I saw something brown, travelling slowly along; upon approaching it quickly, it rolled itself up in a moment.—It was this hedge-
46 hog—and that it might not share the fate of that which I tried in vain to rescue from the village boys a little time ago, I put it into my handkerchief, and brought it home, meaning to let it go in the copse. MRS. TALBOT. Do so then, and unpromising as it appears for a subject of poetry, we will try if something cannot be made of it, to encrease our collection of animals, as subjects of natural history in verse.
47 Should man to whom his God has given MRS. TALBOT. Well, you have liberated your captive, and here is my address to him. GEORGE. I beg your pardon, my dear mother, but you know that last verse is not quite right, for the word is pronounced tangere, and not tangere. MRS. 48 MRS. TALBOT. Your remark is perfectly just, my son—and you see, that read properly, there is a false quantity in the line.—But such licences are now very frequently taken in short and trifling pieces like this.—So we will relax in the severity of our criticism, and return to the history of the urchin, or hedge-hog. This inoffensive animal is among those to which superstition once affixed malignant qualities.—The witches in Macbeth name its cry among those of evil omen. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd' And you know Caliban complains of it as one of the creatures that his master, Prospero, sent to torment him. For ever trifle they are set upon me— And 49 And the vulgar still believe, that hedge-hogs are unlucky, and even more actively mischievous—for, that they eat the roots of corn; suck the cows, causing their udders to ulcerate; and many other misdemeanors are laid to the charge of this poor little ugly beast; who, being guilty of none of them, lives in remote hedge-rows, copses, and the bottoms of dry ditches, under leaves and fern, and feeds on beetles, worms, and flies.—Sometimes with its snout, it digs up the roots of the plantain among the grass, and makes them a part of its food.—And now, my Emily, we will have this copied into our little book.—It will serve for your writing lesson to-morrow. GEORGE. Mother, I wanted to tell you, that yesterday I was reading the history of moths and butterflies; I knew it indeed before, and so did Emily, but I was not aware of the immense variety there are, especially of moths. EMILY. Those eggs, brother, on a leaf
50 which you bade me put in a box, are not yet hatched.—It will be so long before they become butterflies, that I shall not have patience to watch them. GEORGE. If my mother does not dislike it, I will search for some of these insects in a more advanced state; that is when they are become chrysalis's—which is their intermediate form between the caterpillar and the butterfly. My book says they are to be found at all times of the year. MRS. TALBOT. And a very likely place is the old room at the end of the green-house; I have hardly ever failed to meet with several sorts there—and as early as last March, I found one of the most beautiful and delicate of English butterflies. Probably, the next night's frost killed it, for on the following day I could not find it—and if it had got out, it would have found no flowers to feed on, for the weather afterwards became very severe. However, there is a
51 yellow butterfly with dark iron coloured spots, and pointed wings, which is frequently seen abroad before the common cabbage-fly, so usual and so destructive in gardens, is hardly enough to venture. When I was very young, I was very fond of catching butterflies, to paint from nature, but I was soon disgusted with the attempt to kill them. It appeared so cruel, to impale an insect on a pin, and let it flutter for hours and even days in misery, that I could never bear to do it. I was afterwards shown how to kill them immediately, by pouring a drop of æther on their heads; but I thought I had no right to deprive one of these beautiful creatures of their short existence, which in some sorts lasts only a day. And therefore I contented myself with copying from flies in collections already made. There are some of these insects in the East and West Indies, of a very large size and the most dazzling beauty. GEORGE. 52 GEORGE. But, mother, though you did not like to destroy the butterflies you speak of, you might have found in them good objects for our poetry. MRS. TALBOT. It is difficult, George, to say any thing that is not mere common place on so obvious and hackneyed a subject; but open the drawer in my chiffonier, and take out my book; I have just recollected a few stanzas to the butterfly, called Rhamni, which makes its appearance early in March.
53 But insect! in a luckless hour That last line, you know, is from Gray—that admirable poet, who speaks of in
54 sect life so beautifully in his Ode to Spring. The insect youth are on the wing, The moth, however, or phalena, which the French call papillione de soir, or night butterflies, are by no means fond of showing their varied plumage to the sun; while the butterfly, as soon as he quits the armour with which nature has provided him, dries his moist and newly unfolded wings in the rays of noon, and encouraged by the warmth, launches into the air; the moth, though his case, or skin, may at the same time burst, yet never thinks of venturing from the leaf or piece of wood to which he is attached, till the sun is set; then you may see millions of moths of different sorts flitting about and feeding on flowers. EMILY. 55 EMILY. But, Mamma, about a week ago, while the weather was so very hot, I went up stairs into your book-closet with a wax taper—the window was open, and I put a candle down on your table under it, when in an instant there were I don't know how many moths round it, and one so large flew against it that it was put out; which was fortunate enough for the rest, at least for a little time, since they seemed determined to be burnt to death. However, as I wanted a book which I could not find in the dark, I rang for another candle, and in an instant the foolish insects were trying which could singe itself first. I remember thinking then, that they were like silly people who will not take advice, for many of them, even after they were singed, flew back to the candle. MRS. TALBOT. The comparison is obvious, my dear little girl, yet it is not every little girl who would have made it. The obstinacy with which the moth per
56 severes in fluttering around the flame that inevitably destroys it, has been the subject of many comparisons.—Like verses on the butterfly, any attempt on the subject of the moth may perhaps be trite; but, as George has finished, I see, what he was about, he will be my scribe while I dictate.
57 Eluding him, on lacey plume MRS. 58 MRS. TALBOT. Well! that being completed, let us prepare for our walk.—It is a lovely evening after the slight rain, and every blade of grass and leaf will give us their delightful odours. I remember too, my Emily, that you were desirous of finding another glow-worm, since the turkeys or guinea-fowl certainly devoured those you so carefully places on the lawn the other night; and these shining creatures will not appear above a week or ten days longer. Come, George, will you not accompany us? GEORGE. As soon, Mother, as I have written out "the Moth" fair in my book; I have already finished Emily's. MRS. TALBOT. Hasten then, dear boy,—and we will go down the green lane which leads to the woodlands. It was there that Emily and I found several glow-worms a few nights ago; and as we brought them home on the leaves and blades of grass, Emily would hardly be persuaded that they were by day-light very
59 ugly insects, without either lustre or beauty of shape. EMILY. Indeed, Mamma, the sonnet you taught me was quite discouraging.—Here, however, is a glow-worm, and here comes my dear George to help me collect two or three to take home. GEORGE. I don't remember the sonnet, Emily, what is it?
EMILY. 60 EMILY. I will not look at these insects by day-light, for if I do I shall never admire them any more, or fancy them the fairies illuminations. MRS. TALBOT. Thus it is but too often, my dear girl, in matter of more importance than our disquisition on insect beauty. We are frequently determined to see only the bright and glittering part of any object of our immediate pursuit, and will not believe, nor see even when it is evident the object as it really is. It is not only the glow-worm that will not bear inspection when its lustre is lost by the light of day; but all those luminous insects that bear the same phosphoric fire about them; such as the lanthorn fly of the West-Indies, and of China, of which there are several sorts; some of which carry their light in a sort of snout, so that when you see them in a collection they are remarkably ugly. There is also an insect of this luminous sort common in Italy, called the lucciola.
61 An intelligent traveller relates, that some Moorish ladies having been made prisoners by the Genoese, lived in an house near Genoa till they could be exchanged; and on seeing some of the luccioula, or flying glow-worms, darting about in the evening in the garden near them, they caused the windows to be shut in great alarm, from a strange idea which seized them, that these shining flies were the souls of their deceased relations. GEORGE. But what could possibly put such an absurd notion into their heads? MRS. TALBOT. It is not possible to say, unless more was known of the popular superstition of their country. But chimeras equally wild and absurd have often been entertained by persons, who have the advantage of living in countries where knowledge is more universally diffused. Some particular noises, though they can easily be accounted for, have appalled persons of reason and courage; and as you remember I told you, when we were talk
62 ing of the hedge-hog, that some animals and birds are thought by the illiterate country people to be unlucky and to betoken misfortune. I actually knew a woman of sense, who was much discomposed if in beginning a journey or a walk she happened to meet three magpies. EMILY. Indeed, Mamma, she must have been very silly, for if any harm was going to happen to her, the magpies could certainly know nothing of the matter. MRS. TALBOT. Assuredly not. It is not by such means that a foreknowledge of events would be communicated. I knew another poor woman, who lost half her time in waiting for lucky days, and made it a rule never to begin any work, write a letter on business, or set out on a journey on a Friday—so her business was never done, and her fortune suffered accordingly. It would have been much wiser for her to have considered, that every day is lucky in which we possess strength of mind and body to do our duty,
63 in whatever line of life we are placed; and that persons who trifle away their time in waiting for fortunate days, will probably be unfortunate in proportion as they are idle and foolish. GEORGE. But, Mother, I want to hear more of these lanthorn or fire flies. MRS. TALBOT. I have no books at hand, George, that enable me to give you correct information on this subject; but I will write to a friend, who has a great collection of natural history, to send me such books as may help you in your enquiry—Perhaps we may inform ourselves on this subject. GEORGE. I was reading in some voyage, that the sea is sometimes all bright with light, something like that of the glow-worm, and that it was supposed to be occasioned by sea insects. MRS. TALBOT. Many different opinions have arisen as to that appearance. Some have thought the light owing, as you say, to sea insects, and others to a
64 degree of putridity; because whiting, and some other fish which are in a state of decay, shine if taken into a dark room. But there may be other causes. It has happened in particular states of the air at sea, that phosphoric light have been seen on the rigging and masts of ships; and on the land such phenomena are not very unfrequent. A gentleman and his servant were once riding up one of the high Sussex downs in a gloomy or rather stormy evening in Autumn, and on a sudden the servant, who followed his master, cried out in extreme terror that his horse's ears and mane were on fire. The master, a man of great coolness, replied as he jogged on, "Don't be frightened, Thomas, for my horse's ears and mane are on fire too." And in fact the fire continued wavering about for some time, and was probably of the same nature as those wandering fires which are called ingeus fatuus; and seem to have been always known under the names of Will with the wisp, Jack o'lan
65 thorn, or the friar's lanthorn. Though Dr. Darwin says, he has travelled in all countries, and at all hours of the night, and at all seasons of the year, yet never happened to see any of these exhalations. But it is time to go to our early dinner, that we may prepare for our walk in the afternoon. MRS. TALBOT. There are few sights, my children, that afford me so much pleasure as a collection of plants, where the produce of every quarter of the world is assembled. In the stove the natives of the torrid zone; in the conservatory the inhabitants of milder regions, which are yet too tender to bear the winter in this coun
66 try. There, planted in a swampy soil, brought from heaths and moors, are the beautiful productions of North America; in another spot of compost earth are Alpine plants; and on that artificial rock those that flourish on dry and stony places, where little else will vegetate. Can any thing exceed in loveliness those orange trees, bearing at once the most fragrant flowers, and fruit in every stage, from the first falling of the blossom to the golden orange in its utmost perfection? These myrtles too, aspiring like cypresses to the top of the conservatory, are delightful. GEORGE. And that beautiful tree which seems to bear white lilies, what is it? MRS. TALBOT. The datura arborea, or tree strammonium, which is a native of Peru and Mexico, and is of the same species as the datura, or thorn apple; a plant common enough in lanes, and among rubbish by the sides of roads, and which is of so poisonous a nature, that village
67 children have sometimes been destroyed by eating the fruit it bears. EMILY. Oh Mamma! how I should like to have such a place as this to walk in! when abroad it is cold, and wet, and comfortless, when there are no leaves on the trees, no flowers in the fields.— MRS. TALBOT. Yet it so happens, that many of those who have these enviable luxuries have no taste for them; and having once built and stored them with plants, hardly enter them again. GEORGE. Then what is the use of their having spent so much money? MRS. TALBOT. Very frequently because it is the fashion to have, or to affect a taste for plants; just as it is to do many other things, which perhaps those who appear the most eager had much rather let alone, if they were not governed by fashion. The pleasure afforded, however, by these, the loveliest of nature's productions, is in some degree common to almost all the human race; and the humblest inhabitants of
68 a garret has a few sprigs of mint or angelica, faintly attempting to vegetate in his wretched abode in some narrow alley, where it is hardly possible to breathe; while the very fine lady, when she gives a splendid fete in town, goes to an immense expence to ornament her rooms in the middle of winter with lilacs, syringas, and roses; and winds her festoons of coloured lamps round orange trees and laurels. GEORGE. I have been in the stove, Mother, but I could not remain there long, it is so extremely hot and sultry The gardener has shown me coffee, cocoa, and the bread fruit tree—the sugar cane, indigo, and ginger—Will you not go for a moment? MRS. TALBOT. Yes, and I am very glad you have seen these plants, as they give you a much clearer idea of those productions thus growing, than can be conveyed by any description. GEORGE. Was it not the bread fruit which the Indian from the South sea
69 islands was so affected by, when he saw it in the King's garden at Paris; because it brought to his memory his dear native country? MRS. TALBOT. I am not sure: nor do I now recollect whether the Abbe de Lille, who has so happily introduced the circumstance into his Poem des Jardins, has told us what tree it was. We must not forget to look for the passage, when we return home. EMILY. Mamma, I touched a very light pretty plant that is like an acacia, only much smaller and with finer leaves, and instantly it withered away. GEORGE. I could have told you what that is—It is the sensitive plant—I saw them, you know, Mamma, at a nursery gardener's. MRS. TALBOT. And perhaps you may remember that I then told you, it is called the emblem of excessive sensibility; and a great many fine things have been said of persons whose delicate nerves make them
70 resemble this plant; of which, however, there are several sorts, some with more and others with less of this extraordinary quality; while the more robust of the genera do not possess it at all. There is one sort which bears no flower in this country, and is of so very frail a texture, or the breathings of the air, cause its leaves immediately to fall, and fold over each other. Your aunt compared this singular species of the mimosa, to persons who yield to an excess of sensiblitiy, or what is termed so; which arises much oftener than is generally imagined, from their having too much feeling for themselves, and too little feeling for others. While we sit in the this recess, and recover ourselves from the faintness occasioned by the heat of the stove, I will endeavour to recollect and repeat the lines she addressed to THE 71
But 72 But it is time to return home, and we will walk through the lanes, though it is a little farther than over the fields. At every period of the year, I am delighted with the scents in forest walks and copses; and at this season of ripened summer they are particularly delicious. Nor are such scenes as those we are now entering upon entirely divested of pleasure in winter; though then they are wholly silent; or the silence is broken only by the cawing here and there of a solitary rook; an hare sometimes limps fearfully across the path, or a pheasant shakes the frozen snow from the trees, as he flies up among the branches. The other animals of the woods are then torpid, at least partly so. GEORGE. What animals? MRS. TALBOT. The squirrel and the dormouse. The squirrel indeed does not altogether confine himself to the nest he has built, and the stores he has laid up; but the dormouse, like a larger creature of the same species, the marmot, an inha
73 bitant of the Alps, becomes torpid in cold weather, and rolling himself into a ball which has hardly any appearance of life, he remains snug within his nest, till the first warm day calls him out to nibble a little of his winter store; but the chill winds of evening again congeal his blood, and he sleeps soundly. This little creature is not classed with the common rat or mouse, but with the marmot, squirrel and hare. Of these the marmot inhabits the highest Alps, where trees will not grow, and forms little societies of fourteen or twenty, feeding on roots, grass, and such plants as grow on those bleak summits. They make burrows, something like those of rabbits, and line them very industriously with moss and dried grass. They go into these retreats as soon as the first frosts set in, and sleep with great perseverance till March. They are easily tamed; but are in winter so much disposed to sleep, that even in a warm room they are hardly kept awake.—So much for the marmot; and
74 when I tell you, that the first rhymes I ever made were on the loss of a favourite dormouse, killed by an accident, which I then, at about six years old, really thought the greatest calamity that ever was endured by an unhappy little girl, you will easily comprehend how it happens, that I am even now rather partial to that small animal, which certainly is not half so lively and entertaining as many others, that are usually kept by children for their amusement. EMILY. Mamma, you never showed us those verses; I should be so pleased to read them. GEORGE. Do Mother, let us hear them, they must be quite curiosities. MRS. TALBOT. My dear children, I have forgotten them many many years ago; nor have I the least notion whether they were more or less supposed to make; but to make you ample amends, and add a little sleeper, as the country people call it,
75 to your collection of minor poetry, it has just occurred to me, that I have some quatrains on the imprisonment of a dormouse, written some years ago by your aunt, which, as soon as we have rested a little after our long walk, I will try to find in a book, where several of our poetical attempts in former days are inserted.— — — — — — — — — — — I have fortunately found it; and perhaps there are other verses in it that may amuse you. In a short time your brother and sister, returning from their long visit, will open to us new sources of enjoyment.—Here, George, with good emphasis and discretion read—this Address to a Mouse, taken in its insensible state, and presented to a little girl.
76 What barbarous hand could thus molest 77 Warm is the lodging, soft is the bed, CON- 78 |
