Part 12

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THE want of balance in man’s appreciation of things, and the unreasonable nature of his prejudices, are in nothing shown more strikingly than in the view he takes of the spider. His objection to the spider is based upon the fact that it kills its prey and devours it. So do the great majority of creatures on earth. The next objection is that it catches it in a net; but for every fly the spider catches the fisherman will take a thousand fish, also in a net, and no one imputes it to him as harm. The fisherman, indeed, is regarded with a sort of special affection by the community. He is spoken of as the hardy fisherman, the honest fisherman, and, at any rate in his case, the fact that he catches his fish in a net is not considered in any way reprehensible. Then, it is urged against the spider that, having set its net, it hides from view, and, having enticed the fly into its bower, rushes out and devours it. But how about man? The fly-fisher casts cunningly devised and tempting lures over the fish, while himself keeping, as far as possible, hidden from view. The trawler arms himself with glittering imitations of fish, studded with deadly hooks; the wild-duck gunner paddles up noiselessly in a punt, and shoots down his birds while feeding; or hides himself in a bower, and brings them down as they pass unsuspectingly overhead. Man uses craft, and skill, and cunning to capture his prey of all sorts, and exults in his success. He would laugh to scorn the accusation that he was a lurking assassin, and yet he assumes a tone of lofty moral superiority towards the spider, who uses the gifts nature has bestowed upon him not for sport or amusement, but for existence. No spider is recorded as having employed a large body of his friends to drive up two or three thousand half-tamed flies to be slaughtered by him as a form of amusement. We have no doubt that such spiders as may be engaged about their business, within view of slaughter so perpetrated by human beings, must quiver in their webs with righteous indignation. Let us, then, have no more maudlin sentimentality about the cruelty of the spider. It obtains its food by the chase, and in so doing exhibits a skill, a dexterity, and a patience unsurpassed by any living creature.

The spider has a wonderful power of adaptability to circumstances. The great fat-bodied spider of our gardens is necessarily slow-moving, and therefore builds its web and waits. There are others less burdened by nature who are fierce and active, who hunt their prey on a sunny wall as a dog might hunt a rabbit, quartering the ground with restless activity, and pouncing upon the prey with the spring of a tiger. Some for preference build thick webs in dark corners, festooning cornices with filmy drapery, to the annoyance of good housewives. Others, tiny creatures these, will throw out a few threads, and, floating upon them, allow themselves to be wafted vast distances through the air. There is the water spider, who, long before man invented the diving bell, dwelt below the water, building its nest there like a thimble, open at the bottom, and then laboriously carrying down little globules of air and releasing them beneath it, until the water is expelled, and it can dwell in the little silver bell it has prepared for itself. Then, too, there is the spider who builds for itself a box in the ground with a hinged lid as skilfully contrived as any of man’s inventions, and, holding this tightly down, can defy the efforts of any foe likely to assail it. Not even the ant shows a wider intelligence, a more perfect aptitude for using the tools with which nature has provided it, and a greater power of adapting itself to circumstances than does the spider, and yet, while the ant and the bee are held up as examples to our children, the spider is passed over as an objectionable creature, of no account.

The spider is capable of being tamed, and has before now been made a pet of by prisoners, who have so domesticated it that it would come at their call, take food from their fingers, and come to treat them with absolute fearlessness, if not affection. It is not to be pretended that the spider possesses no bad qualities. Were it otherwise, it would stand on a far loftier level with man. With individuals of its own species it is exceptionally quarrelsome, and will not only kill, but eat a conquered adversary. It is, undoubtedly, an advanced socialist. So long as its supply of the viscid fluid from which it constructs its web holds out, it will build its house and defend it against all comers. But when this is exhausted, it immediately adopts radical principles, and upon the theory that there is no right in property, proceeds at once to rob a neighbour of the fruits of its labour, and to instal itself in the property from which it has ejected the owner. It is a little singular that the socialists have not adopted the spider as the badge and emblem of their creed, in recognition of the identity of their principles.

Unhappily, a far darker blot than this rests upon the character of the female spider, who is much larger and more powerful than the male. She is an excellent mother, and will defend her bag of eggs with her life; but she is a mournful example of the working of the rights of women carried out to the fullest extent. This can never occur in the human race, because, fortunately for man, he is the stronger. Were it otherwise, we may be sure that that section of females who clamour for equality would be content with nothing less than absolute supremacy. The female spider lives up to this. Being the stronger, she does not argue with her husband, but when she has no further use for him she simply kills him and eats him. Looking at the matter from man’s point of view, we are unable to find any justification for this conduct. Our escape from the fate of the male spider is largely due to the fact that our females are less strong than we: indeed, in spite of physical weakness they not unfrequently hold us in subjection, and occasionally rule us with a rod of iron. Metaphorically, they may devour us by their extravagance; but they have, happily, no ability to carry out to the fullest the methods of the female spider. The spider, it must be owned, stands almost, if not altogether, alone in the commission of this crime of uxoricide. So strange an exception is this to the general rule of nature, that one is driven to suppose that the female spiders must, perhaps in remotely distant times, have suffered from terrible treatment and ill usage at the hand of the males, and that having in course of ages attained to greater strength than is possessed by their mates, they now revenge upon them the wrongs of their far back ancestors. We do not assert that this is absolutely the true explanation of their conduct; but it is clear that some events of an altogether exceptional kind must have occurred in the history of the spider to bring about so unexampled and unnatural a state of things among the two sexes, and to embitter to such a degree the female against the male. It is lamentable to have to record so evil a trait in the character of one of the most intelligent and intellectual of insects, but it would be unfair to other and less highly gifted creatures were we to pass it over in silence.

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THE GNAT.

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HAD the gnat been endowed with as great a power of making itself obnoxious as its first cousin the mosquito, it would have been the subject of anxious inquiry and investigation by man. As it is, it attracts but slight attention, and lives and dies in undisturbed obscurity. In this respect it closely resembles what are called the working classes among man. The noisy spouter, the obnoxious demagogue, the troublesome striker attract attention; the vast patient herd live and die almost unnoticed. There is no reason for supposing, however, that the gnat takes the neglect of man to heart, fond as he undoubtedly is of man’s companionship. In this respect he stands almost, if not quite alone among created things, for the attentions paid to man by the flea, the bug, and the mosquito are strictly selfish. Gnats, however, appear to be purely disinterested in their attentions, and to regard the doings of man with pleased and curious interest. They will attend him in his walks, flying in a cloud over his head or a pace or two in front of him; while their interest in him when engaged in fishing, sketching, or other pursuits is unbounded. They do not, like the midge, interfere with him in any other way, but keep at a respectful distance. A young couple strolling through a lane as the shades of evening are falling are a spectacle specially attractive to gnats. They will frequently on such occasions form themselves into filmy clouds, rising and falling in rhythmical measure, expressive of satisfaction and goodwill.

The summer evening gnat must not be confused with a cousin of his which occasionally infests low-lying and marshy neighbourhoods. This bears both in point of size, appearance, and habits, a much closer relation to the mosquito than to the gnat, and it may, indeed, be termed the English mosquito. It is many times larger than the gnat which is the subject of our remarks, has dark limbs and body, a stinging proboscis, and a bare head. The gnat is scarce more substantial than a cobweb, and has upon its head a lovely plume. It is silent, or, at least, if it utters a sound, its vibrations are too rapid for the ears of man to detect.

The life of the gnat, although short, would seem to be more full of pleasure and enjoyment than that of any other creature. Other insects that consort together in large numbers do so for mutual convenience or protection. Multitudes are needed for the various work of the bee, wasp, and ant cities. Caterpillar communities dwell together, partly because they were born so, but probably more because the web, their common work, is a protection against their enemies, and specially against their most deadly foe, the ichneumon. The aphis feed crowded in close herds, but their power of locomotion is so small that they live and die where they were born. Gnats, however, congregate simply to enjoy the companionship of their friends. Their gatherings are great balls and dances. Flying in a soft cloud scarce more palpable than steam, and ever changing in form, they rise and fall in constant motion, and it is impossible to doubt that this action partakes, to some extent, of the character of a dance. A faint, low hum accompanies the motion, caused partly, perhaps, by the beating of the innumerable gossamer wings, partly by the whispered conversation or song from innumerable throats. Naturalists have puzzled themselves in vain for any explanation of the object of these dancings. The natural one, that it is the outcome of a joyous and happy disposition, an exercise expressive of pleasure and happiness, is too simple to be received with approval by the scientific mind.

Man does not so rejoice in his existence. He has not such unbounded satisfaction in the companionship of multitudes of his fellows, nor throughout all nature is there any parallel to the great gatherings and dancings of the gnats. Flies, indeed, do join in sportive chases and flights, but these are engaged in by few individuals only. Flights of starlings and some other gregarious birds approach more nearly to the gnat assemblies, and are also frequently marked by rhythmical fallings and risings; but they are comparatively short outbursts of playful joyousness, and not comparable with the constant and prolonged dances in which the gnat spends the greater portion of its existence as a perfect insect. Well may the gnat be transparent, for it is doubtful whether it takes any solid food from the time of its emergence from its pupa case to that when, its existence terminated, it drops lifeless on the surface of a stream. It drinks, however, and a dewdrop is sufficient to afford refreshment to thousands.

The gnat’s life, like that of most insects, is a dual one; but unlike most others, the first—and much the longest portion—is spent in the water. The female gnat selects some quiet and sheltered piece of water, a stagnant pool for preference, and lays her eggs upon its surface. In form they may be compared to long small-bore bullets, pointed at the upper end. They are placed closely together and adhere lightly to each other, and when the tiny mass is examined through a magnifying glass it presents the appearance of a honeycomb studded with tiny points. If no accident befall it, the little raft floats until the young ones are ready to take to the water; then the lower ends of the tiny tubes open and the larvæ swim away. Their life in the water resembles that of most other aqueous creatures. They feed upon organisms even more diminutive than themselves, and are the prey of the smaller water beetles and tiny fish. The gnat larva obtains the animalculæ on which it feeds by means of two ciliated organs on the head. These are in constant motion, and create a current by which its food is drawn into its mouth. But, though an inhabitant of the water, the gnat even in this stage is obliged to breathe, and therefore frequently ascends close to the surface, where it draws in the air through a little tube situated at the apex of the body.

At the end of about fifteen days this state of its existence is completed, and it assumes the pupa state. It is now doubled up, and somewhat rounded in form, but it is, nevertheless, still active; it still breathes, drawing in the air by two little tubes, situated now on the anterior part of the body. When the perfect insect is formed inside the pupa case, the air contained within the latter causes it to float on the surface. The gnat breaks through the upper side and stands upon the skin it has quitted, which serves as a little raft until it has attained sufficient strength to fly. This is the most critical moment of the gnat’s existence; the fluid in which it has lately existed would now be fatal to it, and the tiniest ripple caused by a breath of wind, or the passage close by of a fish or water beetle, before the gnat has gained strength to fly, would upset the boat and drown its occupant.

Man has not been able to solve the problem whether thought as well as life is continuous during the three stages of existence of the gnat, or, indeed, in those of any other insect; and knows not whether the gnat has any remembrance of the very different existence it passed beneath the surface of the water over which, in its perfect state, it delights to disport itself. The fact that all insects deposit their eggs in situations unsuitable for their own existence, but suitable for that of the larvae, is no proof for or against the theory, since it may be the result of blind instinct only.

Whether man will ever be able to place himself sufficiently en rapport with the lower creation as to be able to solve this and many other problems must be left to future ages to determine. So far, able as he is to acquire with more or less difficulty the languages of all other varieties of man, he has failed signally in comprehending that of even the birds and animals with whom he is most in contact. The dog and the horse are in this respect distinctly his superior, and the former, when admitted to close companionship, unquestionably understands at least the gist of his master’s words. As it is not the custom of the gnat to waste its strength by travelling ahead in a straight line, we have no means of determining the actual rate of speed at which it can fly. That it is very great is certain. A swarm of gnats caught in a heavy rain-shower will continue their gyrations apparently undisturbed, their sight and movement being so quick that they are able to dodge the raindrops in their descent; and at the termination of the storm, however heavy, their numbers will be apparently undiminished. This would seem to show an amount of speed and activity relatively unrivalled in any other living creature.

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THE ANT.

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THE ant has been so thoroughly exploited by Sir John Lubbock and others, that it is altogether unnecessary to enter upon any description of its customs and habits. It may at once be assumed that, for its size, it is the most intelligent of all created beings. Were each particle of the brain of man animated by a vigour and sagacity equal to that which vivifies the tiny speck of brain matter in the head of an ant, imagination altogether fails to picture the result, or to appreciate even faintly the wisdom and power that man would in that case possess. But even as matters stand, we may with advantage learn much from the ant, especially from the more highly organised tropical varieties, in which we may include the termite, popularly known as the white ant, although in reality belonging to another family. Here we see regular communities dwelling together, governed by their own laws and customs, and exhibiting the spectacle of a nation acting in accordance with natural laws. It must be painful to republicans to find that in the great majority of communities of what we are pleased to consider inferior creatures, the monarchical principle distinctly prevails. In ants, bees, and wasps, the most completely organised of such communities, there is a natural head, not elected or chosen by vote, but born to the purple. Among animals that congregate for mutual protection and convenience, such as horses, stags, and elephants, there is always a leader; but in this case he assumes the position by right of superior strength, valour, and sagacity. No scientific man has been able to discover in his election to the post any trace of the process known in the United States as lobbying. There is neither intriguing nor currying for popular favour—the strongest and bravest assumes the position by right of his strength and bravery, and may be termed a natural dictator. These communities are evidently inferior in order and perfection to those of the first class.

Thirdly, come creatures of duller brain, of which the sheep may be taken as a type. And here we come to nature’s example of a republic, the dull level of equality and fraternity, where none are superior to others, and there is no emulation, no gradation of rank, and no rising of one individual above the rest. One cannot doubt, with these examples before us, that Nature has very clearly pointed out that in all highly organised communities the monarchical system is that best adapted for securing order and progress, and for the general benefit of the whole; that for those in a less advanced stage of progress a dictatorship is the preferable form of government, while among those of the lowest type of intelligence a republic serves the purpose as well as any other system.

In the ant nation, which stands at the head of such communities, the monarchical principle is carried out to the fullest extent. We have the Queen, the ruler and mother of the whole; her courtiers, who attend upon her; the military class, who may be considered as the nobles, who do not labour personally, but furnish the fighting and are ready to die in defence of their country. The overseers, generally larger and more intelligent than the mass of workers, direct the operations, chastise the indolent, see that all is done with order and regularity, and generally supervise and control the operations. These may be taken as the type of the middle class, the merchants and manufacturers. Then there are the nurses, who take charge of the eggs, feed the young, transport the pupæ into the sun, and carry them back into the recesses of the city when rain threatens; while below them are the bulk of the community, the labourers and masons, the huntsmen, and the cowherds who tend the insects from whom the ants obtain a supply of natural honey. Lastly, there are the slave population, captives in war, who are the servants of the whole community. The result of this perfect combination of labour is the erection of edifices, by the side of which man’s greatest efforts are in comparison utterly dwarfed and puny.

One reason of the great success of the ant communities, and of the perfect order and regularity with which they conduct their operations, is that strikes and labour combinations are unknown to them, and all classes are content to do their allotted work contentedly, willingly, and zealously. It must be painful to members of peace societies to know that they are warlike in the extreme, and that among them the principles of universal brotherhood have made absolutely no progress. The bravest knight of the days of early romance, riding out to attack the giants, was but a poor creature by the side of the warrior ant, who will do battle fearlessly with the largest and strongest animal that may venture to disturb the peace of his city, and, having once fixed his hold upon his foe, will suffer himself to be torn limb from limb without relaxing his grasp. Advantage is taken of this extraordinary tenacity of grip by some primitive peoples, who, if suffering from severe cuts, draw the edges of the wound together and then apply ants, who fix their jaws one on each side of the cut. The bodies of the insects are then nipped off, but the heads retain their grip, and form a perfect suture until the wound is completely healed.

Well it is for man that the scheme of Nature did not bestow upon the ant bulk as well as wisdom, valour, and industry. Had the ant been only of the size of the domestic cat, he would have been absolutely Lord of Creation. The fishes alone would survive. A single ant hill would furnish an army infinitely more numerous and formidable than the hosts of Tamerlane or Attila. The earth would shake under their tread; forests would fall before the power of their jaws; the elephant himself would be unable to resist their onset. Even now all smaller animals fly in terror at the approach of an ant army, and if overtaken fall victims to their furious assaults. Such an army, were the individuals no larger than mice, would yet be irresistible. Among the many reasons man has for gratitude to Providence, not the least is that the ant was not endowed with bulk in addition to its other gifts. To attain to the full power of its intellect, it requires a warm climate, differing in this respect from man, who suffers intellectually both from the extremes of heat and cold. The ant of temperate regions bears the same relation to the tropical ant that the savage of the tropical zone bears to the civilised communities of more temperate climes. The ant of the villa garden and the red ant of the woods are but very ignorant savages compared with the termite, for while the one inhabits caves and tunnels in the ground, and the other rough huts, thatched with the spines of the fir, the white ant dwells in a palace far larger in proportion to its size than the abodes of the most powerful monarchs of the human race to that of their inhabitants.

It is not only man who may with advantage take lessons from the ant; the domestic hen would do well in one respect to imitate it. The white ant lays eighty-six thousand eggs a day throughout the season—an amount that may well cause the hen to be ashamed of her miserable total of three or four eggs a week. It is by no means improbable that the partiality of all birds for the pupæ of ants is less due to a gastronomic liking for them, than to spite at the superior fecundity of the ant. There would be a great future opened to the farmer if our scientific men could but discover some method of producing a bird which would be a combination of the domestic hen with the ant, uniting the size and tranquil habits of the one with something of the fecundity of the other. We should not demand the full tale of eighty thousand eggs a day; but even were that amount divided by a thousand, the result would still be satisfactory. The collection and packing of the eggs would furnish employment to the juvenile rural population, and eggs would become the commonest and cheapest of all diets. There is a book already in existence that gives instructions for cooking eggs in a hundred different ways. Doubtless many fresh methods would be discovered in preparing the abundant and nourishing food that would be thus placed at the service of humanity. There would be the additional advantage, that the problem, now so much mooted, of our raising eggs sufficient for our consumption without dependence upon foreign sources, would be in this way finally solved. Whether such a much-to-be-desired consummation is to be arrived at by the inoculation of the hen with the blood of the female white ant, or by some other method, is a point that must be left to scientific men. It is only necessary for us to indicate a subject of research towards which their studies and investigations may be directed, with the certainty that, if successful, they would be of real utility to the human race.

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THE BEAVER.

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