Strength of Insects—Necrophoi-us
Vespillo ,
or Burying-Beetle—Foetid smell of—How Willie Grimmond earned an Honest
Penny in Glencoe.
The strength
of insects, proportionally to their weight and size, was probably the
first characteristic in the minor world to arrest the attention and call
forth the admiration of entomologists; and soon afterwards, we may
believe, the ingenuity, patience, and perseverance displayed by these
pigmies in dealing with any self-imposed piece of labour, must have made
the intelligent observer feel and acknowledge, even if he could not
repeat and had never heard of the mad-wise Hamlet's dictum,
that—
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Take an example of something wonderful in insect life, as
it chanced to come under our notice a few days ago [September 1872]. We
were raking hay—raking hay, too, after others had raked the same ground
shortly before us, for we are most particular that, both for the look of
the thing, as well as for the profit, not a wisp, not a strawlet shall
be left upon the ground—when, as we raked, we came across a dead mole.
No rare or wonderful thing, the reader may exclaim, but rare enough when
you come to think of it, and wonderful enough, too, to attract the
attention of any one even less observant of natural history than Nether
Lochaber. Lying on its side was the mole, already half-hidden by the
swiftly growing aftermath. Touching it with the corner of our rake, and
moving it slightly, we got a glimpse of a yellow-banded beetle busy
underneath; and at once understanding what was going on, we called our bairns, a
couple of girls and a hoy, who were raking and laughing a
la Madame de Sevigne in
the field beside us, to give them a lesson on entomology; and as our
lesson was fresh and to the point, and interesting, though we say it
ourselves, and rather out of the common track of entomological
experience, we give it to the reader, that he may know and believe, and
reverently ponder, a truth that has never been so well expressed as by
St. Augustine, the sturdy, old, bellicose Bishop of Hippo, who of all
the Fathers had the most sensitive nose for the out-ferreting of a
heretic, and who, when he got hold of one, treated him very much as a
Scotch terrier does a rat—but who could say and do good things
notwithstanding. Deus
magnus in magnis, maximus in minimis. God
is great, that is, in great things, but greatest of all in least things.
The mole, as we have said, was lying on his side on a grassy patch of
fast-growing aftermath, and our glimpse of the beetle beneath showed us
that it was the Necrophorus
vespillo, or
burying-beetle, rare anywhere in Britain, and so rare in Lochaber and
the west coast, that this was only the third or fourth instance in which
we had met with it. It is a black beetle, rather more than an inch in
length, with two bright orange-coloured bands across the back, and more
active in all its movements than any of its congeners. There were just
two beetles, observe—a pair, male and female—engaged upon the mole, and
the "mole" of Adrianus, when a-building, showed not more labour and not
half the mechanical skill or indomitable perseverance on the part of its
constructors exhibited by these tiny but thoroughly skilled excavators
in the case of their mole.
"You see that mole," we said to our attentive audience, leaning upon our
rake for the moment, as if it were a sceptre of prerogative and power,
as in truth it was. "It is almost as big as an ordinary sized
rat—bigger, you will confess, than three full-grown mice. It has only
been dead, say, a dozen of hours; his sleek and still glossy coat proves
it. This pair of beetles, then, a single pair remember, have discovered
him by an instinct and sense of smell which must be wonderfully delicate
and keen. They are now, as you may see, busy digging under and around
him, and after breakfast to-morrow morning we shall come and see the
result. "Suppose, papa," said one of the girls, with a demure look,
though with a merry twinkle in her eye the while, "Suppose, sir, that
this afternoon a passing kestrel or owl should pick up our mole and make
a meal of him, what then could we see in the morning?" ""What you
suggest is, no doubt, possible enough," was our rejoinder, "but we
believe the mole will be here to-morrow morning all the same, provided
you take example from the animal's proverbial wakefulness, and are up
and have breakfast ready for us all in good time." Meantime, that they
might know it again, should they ever come across it, we took up the
male beetle, distinguishing the sex from his being somewhat smaller and
rather more active than his mate, on the palm of our left hand, and with
the fingers of the right turned him on his back to show him properly,
the delicate markings of his abdomen, his muscular thorax and cas-chrom shaped
antennae. We soon wished we had not done it; it was a thoughtless
proceeding on our part, and we should have known better. We nearly
fainted, and our children started back in horror and alarm at the foul
and foetid smell of the carrion-eating Vespillo. It
was horrible; never in all our experience were our olfactory nerves so
offended. A pot of stale assafoetida from a druggist's shop, all the
proverbial many dozen stinks of Cologne in combination, would have been
a joke to it, a bouquet of roses compared with our Vespillo. It
made us quite sick and ill for the moment; but we had the presence of
mind to lay down our malodorous beetle beside his beloved mole ere we
followed our audience, who were by this time scampering in all
directions across the field, with their fingers tightly-compressing
their nostrils, and vowing that they would have no more to do with dead
moles or burying-beetles, be they ever so brightly banded or interesting
from papa's point of view. A message now came forth that tea was ready ;
but no tea could we drink, nor bread could we handle, on account of the
horrible smell that still adhered to our fingers and palm. Washing with
soap and water had no effect upon it, for it seemed to have instantly
and thoroughly penetrated and permeated skin, flesh, and muscle, and to
have reached and lodged in the very bone itself, whence it refused to be
extirpated. It was only late at night, sitting by a briny rock-pool, and
using the viscous clay of the beach after the manner of soap, that we
managed to get quit of the foul odour; and even after a final washing
with hot water and scented soap, as we retired for the night, we still
persuaded ourselves that the loathsome smell had not altogether
departed. All the carrion beetles, without exception, and most of the
ground beetles proper, have always more or less of a disagreeable,
sickening smell about them, but in this respect the burying-beetle is
worse than all the rest put together; seeming to have centered in his
own person a combination of the essences of all possible stenches in
their worst and foulest form. In the case of the Vespillo, it
is to be noted that the foetid smell, though always there, and easily
perceptible, is bearable enough while the animal is quiescent and
undisturbed, and you do not approach it too closely. Tease it, however,
in any way ; touch it with the point of a switch, or take it up, as we
foolishly did, in your hand, and the stench, emitted probably in self-defence,
as in the case of the skunk and
polecat, is of all others the most abominable in itself, and the most
difficult to get rid of. Next morning, then, on visiting the mole, as
proposed, we found it completely buried, with at least half an inch
depth of earth neatly shovelled over it, with a slight ridge in the
centre, and sloping sides, showing that the Vespillones are
practised grave-diggers. Averse to disturbing a work that had cost the
tiny excavators so much labour, we only removed the earth sufficiently
to bring a small patch of the mole's fur to view, in proof to those
accompanying us that the animal had really been buried by the beetles,
as we had said it would be. A full-grown elephant buried by a pair of
field mice would hardly be a more wonderful labour. The rationale and raison
d'etre of
the whole labour thus carried out with so much diligence and engineering
skill is this : the carrion of the dead mole, mouse, or bird thus
operated upon, serves in the first instance partly as food for the
beetles themselves (and they richly deserve a feast, such as it is, in
reward for their arduous labours), after which the female lays her eggs
in the fast-rotting carcase, and it is then left as the doubtless
savoury banquet of the larvae, while the parent pair cruise about in
search of another dead bird or quadruped of the proper size, whereupon
to bestow similar attentions. It is principally owing to the labours of
these beetles that it happens that although you may see a dead mole,
mouse, or bird lying in the corner of a field to-day, you shall look for
it in vain next morning elsewhere than in a beetle-dug grave, as in the
above instance. That a single pair of these comparatively small insects
should be able to perform such a gigantic task in so short a time is, in
truth, very wonderful, and must seem incredible to any one unacquainted
with the habits and economy of the order.
There are doubtless many odd and curious ways of earning
even an honest livelihood in this world, but the oddest, and to us,
while uninitiated, the most puzzling we have met with for a long time,
was the following :—On a fine day lately, we took our boat to the mouth
of the Coe, and were leisurely proceeding up the far-famed glen, when we
saw, a little before us, a diminutive but still active old man, whom,
from his peculiar style of dress, we had no difficulty in recognising as
a peripatetic vendor of ballads, letter-paper,
steel pens, and other knick-knacks, who frequently pays us a visit in
Lochaber, and with whom, in lieu of better company, Ave have had many a
far from uninteresting roadside crack. As, Avith a longer and livelier
stride than his, we Avere rapidly
overtaking him, Ave noticed
that he frequently stopped and picked up something, now from the middle
of the road, now from the footpath at the side, and occasionally from
the grass beyond, which something he instantly deposited in a sort of
canvas side-pouch or Avallet slung
at his side. "Well, "Willie," we
exclaimed,
as we came
up with him,
"what in the world are you doing in the glen to-day, and where's
your pack? I wish to have a look at your bundle of ballads." "Weel,
sir," was Willie's
response, "my pack is laid by at Duror just now ; my present wark"—here
he made a dart at something on the grass that looked to us uncommonly
like a big black beetle, and transferred it to his wallet,—"my present
wark," he went on to say, "pays far better, and is mair pleasant,
besides, in this dreadfu' hot weather." "But what is your present work, Willie?" we inquired,
"what are you so industriously picking up along the road and
transferring to your wallet? Snails? beetles? what?"
"No mony snails, or beetles either, sir," said Willie, with more
entomological good sense than we gave him credit for, "abroad
in such hot and dry weather as this is. I'm no very
fond of telling what I am doing to everybody; and when I see anybody
coming, I generally sit down and let them pass;
but I saw you
coming, sir, and I kent ye brawly, and
didn't mind. And now I'll
tell ye what I'm gathering." With this he
put his hand in his capacious pouch, and took out a handful of cigar
and cheroot dumps, of
all shapes and sizes. Some had been "smoked out," that is, till only an
inch or so remained; others were only
half smoked, and a few had
only afforded the smoker a whiff or two, when, from a disinclination to
smoke any further, or, perhaps, from some defect in the cigar itself, it
was thrown away as of no further use. Of these cigar stumps "Willie" had
at that moment nearly a pound weight in his wallet, the result of his
forenoon's labours. We daresay we looked, as we really were, very much
puzzled, which, Willie observing, he politely asked us for a light for
his pipe, and invited us to sit on a ledge of rock by the roadside, and
he would "tell us a' aboot it." Our pipes alight, we sat down
accordingly, and Willie proceeds as follows:—"Weel, sir, I doubt if ever
there was such a number of strangers—'tourists, as they ca' them—day
after day in Glencoe as there are this year. And a' the gentlemen that
goes up the glen smoke, and I have seen some of the ladies—forrenders, I
suspect—smoking too, the mair shame to them. They a' maistly smoke
cigars, and they throw them from them when they're done with them;
sometimes only a short stump, and sometimes almost a hail ane, as I have
shown ye; and I pick them up and sell them in Greenock or Glasgow for
three ha'pence or tuppence the ounce, and that's a' aboot it." "But
what," we inquired, "do they make of them in Glasgow?" "Weel, sir," he
replied, "I believe some of them, the cleanest, langest, and best bits,
are unrolled, and made up anew into cigars, and the shorter and dirtier
stumps are dried and broken down to mix with other tobacco, in making
the mixtures called 'bird's eye,' 'shag,' exetry,
exetry." We
ordered Willie a glass of beer at Clachaig, and went on our way with a
bit of curious information, till that particular date undreamt of in all
our philosophy. |