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No. 79.]

London Magazine:

A JOURNAL OF ENTERTAINMENT AND INSTRUCTION
FOR GENERAL READING.

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NATURE'S WITCHCRAFT.

ONE of the most distinguished cultivators of science in Paris, in the middle part of the eighteenth century, was the Abbé Nollet. He was the first to give to his countrymen a popular account of the brilliant discoveries of Newton on Light; and he was associated with Dufay in researches in Electricity, then occupying the attention of all Europe. His extensive acquirements in natural knowledge, his simple eloquence, and

benevolent disposition, gained him general love and

esteem.

One day, at the beginning of July, 1736, he was seated in his study, preparing a lecture, when a country gentleman, a landowner of Andelis, a village on the Seine, was announced, requesting permission to ask the advice of the abbé on a point of importance. He was accompanied by several domestics, among whom was one whose pale and anxious face displayed the terrors of his mind. The gentleman briefly stated that, being in

VOL. IV.

Paris on business, he was surprised that morning by a visit from his gardener, with the report that his garden was bewitched, and that, if means were not taken to arrest the evil, his tenants feared the whole estate might be similarly cursed.

"What leads you to suppose that your garden is bewitched?" asked the abbé.

"My gardener here," said the proprietor," has brought me sundry rolls of leaves, which he says have been concealed here and there under the surface of the ground. I took them to my physician, who, though a very skilful man in his profession, was unable to explain the matter; but recommended me to apply to you as more skilled in such things than himself."

"Let us see these rolls of leaves," said the abbé. Whereupon the gardener produced a small box, which he opened, and turned out upon the table some half-dozen rolls of leaves, curiously twisted into cylinders, two or three inches long. The abbé looked at them attentively, and inquired when they were found. "The night before last, your reverence," said the gardener.

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"How did you happen to find them?" asked the abbé. Why, your reverence, I was cleaning up the garden, and, thinking the walks did not look so tidy as they ought to do, I determined to put down a little new gravel. While walking along them, and looking down, my attention was caught by a number of holes. Stooping down to see the cause, I saw something green, like a leaf, sticking out. The gravel about it was very loose, and on removing some of the pebbles I saw one of these rolls. I had not to search far before I found a good many more."

"And you think these rolls are the work of a witch ?" asked the abbé.

"Of a witch or a sorcerer," said the gardener, "and the abbé of our village thinks so too, and recommends holy water, and I don't know what."

A slight blush and a smile passed over the Abbé Nollet's face at the latter remark. Perhaps he thought the Abbé of Andelis would not be a worse curé if he knew something of natural history. "And why do you think these rolls of leaves the work of a witch, or a sorcerer?" he asked.

"Oh, because I don't believe a man could make such things; and if he could, why should he bury them in master's garden, if it were not by way of a charm? The whole village is full of alarm about it, and something terrible will happen if your reverence cannot help us.' "Have you opened any of these rolls?" asked the abbé.

"God forbid !" exclaimed the terrified gardener, as if the very mention of the thing was as dangerous as the thing itself.

"Well," said the abbé, "I strongly suspect these rolls are the work of neither witches nor sorcerers, but simply of insects, and are, in fact, nests for their young. I have in my possession some rolls not unlike these, which I know to be the work of insects. I will show them to you." The abbé then opened a cabinet, and pulled out a sliding shelf, on which various insects, their nests and eggs, were arranged; and among them was a roll similar in construction, but not of the same size, as those which had excited the terror of our honest gardener.

This," said the abbé, "is an insect's nest; now let us open one of these which have caused you so much alarm." Whereupon he pulled one apart, and a large 'white grub fell out before the astonished eyes of his company.

The gardener's face, which before had expressed terror and dismay, now suddenly changed to delight and surprise. He rubbed his hands, laughed, and appeared like a man who had just escaped from some heavy calamity. His master exchanged a smile with the abbé, and the gardener was beginning to express his gratitude, when the abbé told him he would do him

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At an early hour the next morning, the Abbé Nollet proceeded to Bercy, in the neighbourhood of Paris, to the house of his friend and benefactor, M. Réaumur, the celebrated naturalist, who was then engaged in those studies on the habits and economy of insects, which have secured to him the reputation, which still attaches to his name, of being the best observer of insects that ever lived.'

"You remember," said the abbé, "our conversation respecting some curious nests formed by insects out of leaves, a single specimen of which was sent me from Martinique."

"Perfectly," said Réaumur, "and I have been anxiously looking for similar nests in our own country. My rose-trees are visited every year by some insect which cuts out circular and oval pieces from the leaves; but I have never been able to find how they are used, although I have diligently dug up the ground all about the trees, and watched for hours, both by night as well as by day."

"A very odd adventure happened to me yesterday, which I think will help you out of your difficulty," said the abbé; who then related the adventure of the gardener, and ended by placing a number of the rolls before the delighted naturalist.

"Thanks, my kind friend," he said, and proceeded at once to examine his treasure. It consisted of a roll of leaf, or rather of several large oval pieces of leaf of the elm tree, perfectly dry and brittle; on removing the first two or three pieces, which appeared to form an outer case or envelope, about half a dozen little cups were seen fitting into each other like so many thimbles, the smaller end of one passing into the larger open end of the other, and forming altogether a sort of cylinder. On pulling this apart, a large worm was discovered lodged in a silken cocoon.

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My honest gardener has engaged to send you some more of these nests," said the abbé; who did not prolong his visit, since he saw how eager his friend was to study the specimens without interruption.

It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader that insects provide for the continuance of their species by depositing their eggs in some safe place, with food at hand for the sustenance of the young grubs as soon as they are hatched. In many cases, the parent insect constructs a separate cell for each individual grub, filling it with food, depositing a single egg in the midst of the food, and then carefully sealing up the cell. In due time,-in some species not before the following spring,--the grub is hatched and begins to consume the food provided by its careful mother; it grows rapidly, and fills up its narrow cell in proportion as its food disappears. When nothing more is left to eat, the grub prepares for its metamorphosis; it spins a silken shroud or cocoon,

(1) His Mémoires pour servir à l'Histoire des Insectes extend to six thick quarto volumes, illustrated by numerous plates. They were published between 1734 and 1742, and contain the result of numerous observations made principally in his own garden, where he kept insects of all kinds, for the purpose of studying their habits, metamorphoses, &c. His style is somewhat diffuse, but for sagacity of observation, ingenuity of means, and cautious deduction, they are perfect models for the naturalist, and possess all the

charms of a romance for the general reader.

(2) Bee-bread is a mixture of honey and the pollen of flowers, with which bees feed their young.

in which it entirely conceals itself, remaining perfectly motionless and without food often during the whole winter. It is now called a chrysalis, and is the transition state between a caterpillar with perhaps sixteen legs, powerful jaws, and a voracious appetite, and a winged insect with six legs and a tube or proboscis for sipping the nectar of flowers, or other liquid or juicy food. This is the imago or perfect insect, which passes a short but active life, employed chiefly in providing for another generation, which she is destined never to behold; for as soon as her nest is complete, and all her eggs deposited, she falls a victim to the first cold of autumn. Such is the general outline of insect existence; there are many variations, it is true, but these need not occupy our attention here.

As soon as M. Réaumur had received the promised supply of leaf nests from Andelis, he examined them very minutely. Each roll contained six or seven little cups of equal size, all concealed under a common envelope of leaves. These cups, as already noticed, fitted into each other, end to end, forming cells, each of which was destined to shelter a single worm from the time of its birth until it had attained the perfect insect form, and containing also the proper supply of liquid honey, or bee-bread, for its nourishment. All this was done with morsels of leaf skilfully arranged without paste or glue, but simply by lapping over each other in a curved .form.

The pieces which compose each cell are of nearly the same shape. When cut from the leaf each piece is of course flat, but the bee knows how to bend it to her purpose, and she even folds down a portion of each piece so as to form a base to the cell. Three similar and equal pieces of a somewhat oval form are more than sufficient to form a cell three lines in diameter and about six lines long. Strength is given to the cell by making the pieces which compose it lap over each other, and they are retained in their places by the spring which they acquire in drying. A cell, however, of three pieces is not sufficiently strong to hold the grub securely, and prevent the escape of its liquid food; the careful mother, therefore, folds three more pieces round the cell, and adjusts them in the same manner, and sometimes three or even six more; so that it is not uncommon to find a cell composed of twelve pieces of leaf, all of the same size, or nearly so, skilfully and artistically folded into the form of a hollow cup, capable of holding liquid honey.

Nor is this all. The little pot of honey being placed horizontally, a cover must be provided to prevent the liquid from flowing out. As soon, therefore, as the bee has filled the cell with bee-bread, within about half a line of the top, and has deposited an egg, she cuts out a circular piece of leaf and fits it accurately into the open mouth of the cell. If one does not seem sufficient, she applies another, or even a third of these circular plates, which are kept in their places by the slightly conical form of the cell. The rim of the cell projects above these covers, forming a slight hollow, into which the bee carefully inserts the base of a new cell which is finished as before; and in this way she completes a pile of six or seven cells, forming a tolerably equal cylinder. Lastly, she covers up these cells with an envelope formed of larger pieces of leaf than those previously used, and thus the nest is complete.

M. Réaumur found the bee-bread in the cells to be of a reddish colour, of a sweet yet acid taste, and as fluid as honey.

Quand on sait ce que l'on doit chercher à voir, et où on le peut voir, on a une grande avance pour y parvenir, thought M. Réaumur on entering his garden, after having carefully examined the nests of the leaf-cutter bee. He examined his rose-trees, and found that portions had been cut out of the leaves exactly correspond ing to the sections which composed the nests. He therefore determined to watch during several hours at different parts of the day, in hopes of seeing the insect

at work. He had not long to wait, for, about noon on the second day of his watch, he observed a bee alight on a shrub near the rose-bush to which he chiefly directed his attention, and, apparently finding every thing quiet, the insect came over to the rose-bush, placed herself beneath a leaf, seized with her two mandibles the edge nearest to her, and cut it as easily as with a pair of scissors, advancing first towards the principal nervure of the leaf, and then sweeping round again to its edge, soon detached a piece, with which she flew away. All this was done with as much rapidity as one could cut out a similar piece from a sheet of paper with a pair of good scissors.

M. Réaumur did not see this operation repeated more than two or three times during this season; but, in the following spring, no sooner were his rose-trees in leaf, than he cast an eye upon them every time he went into his garden, and, as soon as any of the leaves had been cut, he began to watch them: this was about the end of May, and he soon had the satisfaction of frequently witnessing the little artisans at work in collecting sections of leaves for their nests. During this season he made an immense number of observations, from which we select the following general remarks:

When a bee arrives at a rose-bush, it generally hovers over it for some seconds as if to select a leaf. In the very act of alighting she seizes it between her mandibles, and begins to cut, not ceasing until the whole piece is detached. As the piece is cut, the bee bends it between her legs, and, when in the act of separating it from the leaf, she vibrates her wings; then, giving the final cut, she falls through a few inches, recovers herself, and flies merrily away. The facility and precision with which she cuts the different pieces, the oval, the semi-oval, and the circular, varying their size according to circumstances, are truly wonderful; without any guide but the instinct with which the Almighty has furnished her, she cuts out geometric figures in a position which one would think most disadvantageous to correct workmanship. Without rule or measure, and even without seeing the line along which she cuts, she is able to tell at a distance from her nest the exact size of the little circular lids to her honey pots, and also to adjust the varying dimensions of the oval pieces for the cells, and for their common envelope.

But, before the little insect begins to form her nest, she must excavate a tunnel in the earth for its reception, This is a work of great labour, in which she is entirely unassisted (the male taking no part in the concerns of the household): she has to dig and to remove much loose earth before a nicely rounded cylinder is completed, proper to mould the leaves to the necessary degree of curvature. This being done, M. Réaumur supposed her proceedings to go on in the following order: she first lines the tunnel with leaves, which, in fact, form the outer case or envelope of the pile of cells already noticed. Entering the tunnel with the piece folded hetween her legs, she spreads it out, pressing it carefully against the sides; she repeats this process many times, always using large oval pieces, until a very compact lining is formed. She then proceeds to construct the first cell at the bottom of this tube, and, having completed it, goes out to collect the nectar of flowers, covering herself at the same time with pollen; she elaborates the one in her stomach into honey, and disgorging it into the cell mixes the other with it, thus forming her bee-bread. She next deposits an egg, and then once more visits the tree to cut out a disk of leaf, with which she stops up the cell. This cell being completed, and not before, a second is begun and finished in like manner, then a third, and so on until the whole is finished.

Although a great number of bees flew away every day with their segments of leaves, M. Réaumur had not as yet succeeded in tracing the locality of any one nest. Were he able to follow a bee to her home he would not be able, it is true, to watch her proceedings in her dark

abode; yet, by examining the nest when about half finished, some new circumstances might be developed tending to confirm the view taken of the course of the insect's proceedings in constructing her nest.

M. Réaumur was one day at Charenton, watching, with the patience of a naturalist, a bee excavating a tunnel for her nest, when, happening to raise his eyes to the surface of a terrace near him, he saw something green disappear in a crack between two badly joined stones. On cautiously approaching the spot he saw fly out therefrom a bee of a larger size than the rose-leaf cutters. She flew to a young chesnut-tree ten or twelve feet off, and cut out a large oval piece, with which she returned. She was soon out again for another piece, and in less than half an hour had made more than twelve excursions, returning laden each time.

As none of the pieces which the bees had cut were circular, M. Réaumur judged that the nest was only just begun, and that no cell was yet finished. He therefore determined to examine the work, to see if an outer case

or envelope was really made first, as he supposed. The
stones (below one of which the nest was situated) were
covered with a grassy turf some inches thick, which
being removed, he gently disengaged one of the stones,
choosing for the purpose the moment when the bee had
quitted the nest, after having remarked that her jour-
neys occupied more and more time. As soon as the
stone was removed, the pieces of leaf were seen rolled
up into a sort of tube which immediately sprung open
when relieved from pressure, because, not having had
time to dry, they still retained their natural elasticity.
It was, however, perfectly evident, that nothing but the
outer case or envelope of the nest was as yet prepared.
M. Réaumur put everything in order as well as he could,
removed some of the loose earth which had fallen among
the leaf cuttings, and carefully replaced the stone.
had not time to replace the turf when the bee arrived:
she had no sooner entered her nest than she darted out,
doubtless in alarm and amazement at the disorder and
confusion in which she found her household. Soon,
however, she took courage, and returned; and began to
repair the damage, removing the loose earth by pushing
it out with her hind legs. M. Réaumur watched her till
eight o'clock in the evening, when he was obliged to
return to Paris.

He

circumstances. It may also be stated that the grub is
quite white; that its cocoon consists of a thick solid
silk attached to the sides of the cell. The exterior of
the cocoon is of a coffee-brown colour, but the interior
is a fine whitish silk, smooth and lustrous, like satin.
So that, should the leaves become damp and decay, the
cocoons afford a warm and dry abode, in which the in-
sect, in one of its states of worm, nymph, or perfect fly,
passes the whole of the winter.
C. T.

SOME PASSAGES FROM THE JOURNAL OF
A WILTSHIRE CURATE.

[GOLDSMITH'S Vicar of Wakefield was first printed in London in the year 1772. This circumstance, but little interesting to the generality of his readers, is merely mentioned, because it is possible that celebrated author took the first idea of his work from the British Magazine of 1766, which contains the Journal, or, more properly speaking, some Extracts from the Journal of a poor Wiltshire Curate. The editor of the British Magazine assures the reader of the undoubted authenticity of the Extracts, which are not indebted for any of their beauty to poetical additions or embellishments.

It is, however, difficult to establish this authenticity upon any other grounds than inward conviction; and the kind reader is therefore requested to peruse these extracts, in all faith and confidence; perhaps he may be sufficiently pleased with them to regret that they are but extracts.]

December 15, 1764.-This day I received from Dr. Snarl, my rector, the sum of ten pounds sterling, being the amount of my half year's salary; but even this hardly-earned pittance was not obtained without underdoing much mortification. After waiting for threequarters of an hour, I was at last shown into the rector's study. He was sitting in a large arm-chair at his At the end of two days he returned to Charenton ex-writing table; my money was ready counted out beside pressly to see how the little architect was getting on with her nest. He arrived at about five o'clock in the evening, and saw her enter the chink without carrying any leaf; he therefore thought it probable she was bringing in a supply of bee-bread. After she had gone out and returned two or three times without conveying any leaf, M. Réaumur removed the stone and found the nest now to consist of a tube nearly five inches in length. The leaves did not burst open as on the former occasion, for they had taken in drying a permanent bend. On introducing a straw at the open end, it penetrated only to the third of its length, the remaining two thirds being evidently occupied with cells. The stone was again carefully readjusted; but the bee, on returning, was evidently aware that all was not quite right, for she flew out in evident alarm; gradually, however, she took courage, and returned to her nest, which in due time was filled with the usual number of cells.

Such is the history of the leaf-cutter bee, for the knowledge of which we are indebted, first, to the simplicity of the gardener of Andelis, next to the enlightened and benevolent Abbé Nollet, and lastly, to the genius and skill of M. Réaumur; and it is highly creditable to this naturalist, to be able to state, that he made this history so complete, that little or nothing has been added to it. Mr. Newport has recorded a curious fact of one of these bees, which, being about to construct her nest in a brick wall, and finding the hole uneven, first carefully lined it with cotton, thus proving that the insect can vary its proceedings according to

him. He replied to my salute by a majestic nod, just removing for an instant the black silk cap which covered his head. Certainly, there is a great deal of dignity about him; I always feel somehow as if I was afraid of him. I do not think I should feel more awe in the presence of the king himself. The rector pointed to the money; and my heart beat powerfully when I attempted to give utterance to a request for a slight increase to my miserable salary. Although this request had long been prepared, and I had almost learned by rote the words in which I intended it should be proffered, yet my unconquerable mauvaise honte (which gives me the feelings of a criminal, even when doing the most innocent things) quite overcame me. I stammered, I trembled; thrice I began in vain; voice and memory both deserted me: large drops of perspiration stood upon my forehead.

"What is it you wish for?" said the rector, in a most condescending manner.

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What I wish is . . . . every thing is so dear... with my small income, in these bad times, I can scarcely manage to live."

"Small income, Sir!-What are you talking about? Why, I could find another curate for fifteen pounds a-year, any day I pleased!"

"For fifteen pounds!-Well, if he has no family he might possibly manage to live upon it; but...." "I imagine your family is not increased, Sir? You have but two daughters?"

"No, Sir, but they are growing up. Jane, the eldest, is not eighteen, and her sister Polly is twelve years old."

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