Homes Without Hands: Being a Description of the Habitations of Animals, Classed According to Their Principle of Construction - Page 51

The nest of the tatua, which has recently been described, must not be confounded with that of the PASTEBOARD Wasp (Chartergus nidulans), although both insects inhabit the same country, and the nest of the latter bears a great external resemblance to the pendulous nest of the tatua. But, when examined closely, this nest is seen to have a remarkable addition to its structure, the hole through which the branch is passed being very large, so as to permit the nest to swing freely in the wind. In most specimens of these nests the hole is simply made through the thick upper end of the structure, but in a few examples the pasteboard-like substance is so moulded that it looks as if a ring had been added to the top of the nest.

The dimensions of the Chartergus' nest are extremely variable, each structure appearing to be capable of unlimited enlargement. The mode by which the wasps increase the size of their pensile home is equally simple and efficacious. When the number of the inhabitants becomes so large that a fresh series of cells is required, the insects enlarge their home with perfect ease, and at the same time without destroying its symmetry, a point which is often forgotten when human architects undertake the enlargement of some fine old edifice. Taking the bottom of the nest as the starting-point, they build upon it a series of cells, taking care to add another row or two to the circumference, so as to increase its length. They  They then add another row or two to the diameter in proportion to the length. They then add fresh material to the outer wall, which is lengthened so as to include the new tier of cells, and then the bottom is closed with a new floor, which in its turn will become the ceiling of the next tier of cells.

Chartergus Nidulans.

These nests are therefore permanent; unlike the habitations of the common British wasps, which are only used for a single season and then deserted, the few surviving females seeking their winter quarters elsewhere, and always choosing some fresh spot for the nucleus of a fresh colony. On the average, a well-sized nest of the Chartergus is about one foot in length and of proportionate width, a few being found of larger dimensions, and many of smaller. Now and then a positive giant of a nest is discovered, where the colony has not only been undisturbed, but surrounding circumstances have been favorable to its continued increase. The name Chartergus is derived from two Greek words, signifying paper-maker.

One of the largest, if not the very largest of these pasteboard nests that has yet been discovered, was found in Ceylon, attached to the inside of a huge palm-leaf, and was of the astonishing length of six feet. Now, to form an idea of a nest six feet in length is not very easy. It is as easy to write the words six feet as six inches, but the idea which is to be conveyed is another matter, the cubical measurement being absolutely enormous.

The gigantic wasp's nest which has lately been described is so conspicuous an object that, although it is only a little more than three feet in length, no one can enter the room without noticing it. But a nest six feet in length is so huge as scarcely to be credited except from actual sight. Such a nest could hardly be taken through an ordinary doorway, and there are few houses of the modern build which could receive it into any room except through the window after both sashes have been removed. We all know how conspicuous among ordinary men is one who measures six feet in height, and we shall form a better idea of the nest in question if we reckon it to be equal in length to a "six-foot" man, and of course to occupy much more space, on account of its bell-like shape.

Mr. Westwood mentions the nest of an allied species of wasp, which is about eight inches in diameter, and is so hard and smooth on the exterior that it almost seems to be made of pottery instead of vegetable fibre. This nest is in the museum of the Jardin des Plantes, in Paris.

I HAVE already mentioned that there are many genera of nest-making insects, whose habitations are in some degree similar, and yet present such salient points of difference that they must be classed under different heads. Such, for example, is the strange genus Polistes, which is spread over a large portion of the globe, and which makes so singular a variety of nests. However different they may be, there is always one point of union among them—that the cells are exposed to the air without any covering at all, and, in consequence, are made of stouter material than those of ordinary wasps, which protect the cells from the weather by a covering.

Many of this species make a nest of a nearly circular shape, and attach it sideways to branches, walls, trunks of trees, or other supports; but there is a very curious nest in the British Museum which is made on a totally different principle, the combs looking as if they were soft, flexible, and hung carelessly over a twig. There are three of these remarkable combs, having the cells very like those of the common hive-bee, both in shape and size, but all being of a dark brown hue. The cells are laid on their sides like those of the bee, and the combs are long and narrow, looking like one large comb cut into three strips. This curious nest came from Siam.

In the accompanying illustration are represented two nests, both from tropical America, and both found in similar localities. These are the habitations of two species of wasp, which are remarkable for their honey-making powers.

In the year 1780, a Spanish officer named Don Felix de Azara was raised from the rank of captain to that of lieutenant colonel, and sent to Paraguay, in order to decide a dispute concerning the limits of the possessions respectively held by Spain and Portugal.

He was then thirty-four years of age, and, being a man of great energy, set to work out the construction of a map of Paraguay. This was a Herculean task, occupying thirteen years in its completion, and forcing De Azara to explore regions before unknown, and to trust himself to the native tribes, who had never before seen the face of a white man. While engaged in this occupation, he made a vast collection of notes upon the native tribes of Paraguay, as well as upon the beasts, birds, insects, and vegetation, together with an account of the method by which the Jesuit missionaries established themselves and ruled the country for many years.

After his return to Europe in 1801, he published the account of his travels, and met with the usual fate of those who first penetrate into unknown countries. His statements were not believed, and among those which raised the greatest discredit was an account of certain wasps which made honey. Some persons said that the whole statement was a fabrication, and others remarked that the honey-making insects were simply bees, which De Azara had erroneously considered to be wasps. Time, however, had its usual effect, and De Azara has been proved to be perfectly trustworthy in his remarks. The two specimens which are represented in the illustration are now in the British Museum, and afford tangible proofs that De Azara was right and his detractors wrong.

The right-hand figure represents the nest of a curious insect, named by Mr. Adam White Myrapetra scutellarius. The generic title is not very appropriate, being simply a fanciful name, composed of the names of two ancient cities, one called Myra, in Lycia, and the other Petra, the capital town of Arabia Petræa.

Nectarinia.

Myrapetra.

It is much to be regretted that this plan of inventing fanciful names and giving them to newly-discovered species should have been so common a practice among systematic zoologists. I hold that both the generic and specific name of every animal and plant should be intelligible, and refer either to some peculiarity of form, habit, color, or locality. There is no great difficulty in doing so. Greek is a language that affords an inexhaustible supply of compound words, and even if the nomenclator be no scholar, any one who is moderately versed in the classics would compose the desired names if he were only furnished with the necessary information.

The vagaries in which some nomenclators indulge are so absurd as scarcely to be believed. Firstly, they will invent some word that exists in no language whatever, merely because the sound pleases their ears, and they like to amuse themselves with the conjectures of future zoologists. Then they will divide the word into its syllables, and make new words with them. Then they will break it up into its component letters, and make as many anagrams as can be pronounced.

It is quite bad enough to name a new species after some particular friend, or after your favorite dog, horse, or cat, or after the name of your house; or, as in the present instance, to name an American insect after two defunct cities of Asia and Africa. The former cases show that you have a friend, or a dog, or a cat, or a horse, as the case may be; and the latter affords conjecture that you have a Lempriere's Dictionary. But the allocation of meaningless syllables in order to form a word which was never intended to have any meaning at all, is so utterly senseless, and so completely without excuse, that no words of reprobation are too strong for it. The very essence of scientific nomenclature is to convey ideas, whereas the names invented by the delinquents in question are chosen just because they convey no ideas at all.

Such persons shelter themselves behind the great name of Linnæus, saying that his fanciful separation of the butterflies into Greeks and Trojans, knights and commoners, was quite as indefensible as their own system, and that the name of an ancient warrior conveys no idea of a butterfly. But in the days of Linnæus, the father of scientific nomenclature, the art was in its infancy, and necessarily crude and imperfect; and there is no doubt that if Linnæus had foreseen the enormous discoveries of later times, he would have carried out fully the plan which he generally followed, and have made all his names descriptive.

Scientific nomenclature is of necessity quite complicated and crabbed enough without the infusion of a meaningless element, and those authors who introduce such terms are doing their best to deter future students of zoology, and to render it a repulsive rather than a fascinating science.

When we look at the remarkable nest which is made by the Myrapetra, one can not but see a vast number of peculiarities which would have furnished an appropriate name—a name which would have stamped upon the mind something of the character of the insect architect.

This beautiful nest was presented to the Museum in the year 1841 by Walter Hawkins, Esq., and a very elaborate memoir by Mr. Adam White is to be found in the "Annals of Natural History," vol. vii, page 315.

On looking at the exterior of the nest, our attention is at once excited by the material of which it is made, and the vast number of sharp tubercular projections which stud its surface. In color it is dark, dull, blackish-brown, and its texture somewhat resembles very rough papier-maché. On examining it with a pocket magnifier a matted structure is plainly visible, as if it were made of short vegetable fibres. This appearance accords with the accounts of the natives, who say that it is made from the dung of the capincha, one of the aquatic cavies of tropical America.

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