Of all the plume moths this is the largest, as a fine specimen will sometimes measure more than an inch across the wings. There is a brown species, nearly as large, and quite as common; but which is often overlooked on account of its sober colouring; and as often mistaken for a common “daddy-long-legs,” to which fly it bears a close resemblance.
The Twenty-plume Moth ([plate C], fig. 9) is hardly named as it deserves; for as the wings on each side are divided into twelve plumes, it ought to be named the twenty-four plume. A better title is that of the “Many-plume Moth”.
It is very much smaller than either of the preceding “plumes”; and its radiating feathers are so small and so numerous, that at a hasty glance it scarcely seems to present any remarkable structure. It must be examined with the aid of a magnifying glass before its real beauty can be distinguished.
The moth is common enough, and may be easily caught, as it has a strange liking for civilised society, and constantly enters houses. As insects generally do, it flies to the window, and scuds unceasingly up and down the panes of glass, just as if it wished to make itself as conspicuous as possible.
The last of our moths is the beautiful Long-horn, for a figure of which see [plate H], fig. 4. Another Long-horn Moth, the Green Adela, is shown on [plate C], fig. 10. It is nearly as common as the last-mentioned insect.
It is a horrid name, for its agricultural associations are so potent, that the idea conveyed to the mind by the term “Long-horn” is that of a huge bovine quadruped, with sleek solid sides telling of oil-cake, with horns that are long enough to spike four men at once, two on each horn, and with a ponderous tread that rivals that of the hippopotamus.
Whereas, our little moth is the epitome of every fragile, fairy-like beauty, and seems fitter for fairy tale, “once upon a time,” than for this nineteenth century. Its “horns,” as the antennæ are called, are wondrously long and slender. I have just taken measurement of one of these moths, and find that the body and head together are barely a quarter of an inch in length, while the antennæ are an inch and a quarter long. It is hardly possible to conceive any living structure more delicately slender than their antennæ. The moth delights in sunny glades, as so sunny a creature ought to do; it sits on a leaf, basking in the glaring sunbeams, while its antennæ, waving about in graceful curves, are only to be traced by the light that sparkles along them. They are as slender as the gossamer threads floating in the air, and like them only seen as lines of light. They are too delicate even for Mab’s chariot traces. The grey-coated gnat might use one of them as his whip: but it would only be for show, as beseemeth the whip of a stage-coach; for it could not hurt the tiniest atomy ever harnessed.
And yet the little Adela, for such is her scientific title, flies undauntedly among the trees, threading her way with perfect ease through the thickest foliage, her wondrous antennæ escaping all injury, and gleaming now and then as a stray sunbeam touches them.
There is nothing very striking in the Adela’s external appearance; she is just a pretty, unobtrusive, bronze-coloured little thing, from whom many an eye would turn with indifference, if not with contempt. Truly, in vain are there pearls, while the swinish nature prefers dry husks.
Place this quiet, bronze-coloured little creature under a microscope, and Cinderella herself never exhibited such a transformation. The mind of man has never conceived a robe so gorgeous as that which enwraps a small brown moth. Refulgent golden feathers cover its body and wings, sparkling gemlike points scatter light in all directions, while on the edges of each feather rainbow tints dance and quiver. It seems as if the creature wore two robes—a loose golden-feather vesture above, and the rainbow itself beneath. Each fibre of the fringe that edges the wings is a prism, and even the slender antennæ are covered with golden feathers. Words cannot describe the wondrous beauty of this creature.