THE names of our butterflies are so familiar now that it is easy to miss how strange they are. Some are baldly descriptive: there's a large white (Pieris brassicae) and a small white (Pieris rapae); a large blue (Phengaris arion) and a small blue (Cupido minimus). Yet we also have the more cryptic grayling (Hipparchia semele), gatekeeper (Pyronia tithonus), Scotch argus (Erebia aethiops) and wall (Lasiommata megera). We have a quintet with linear markings called hairstreaks and a group with chequered wings called fritillaries. These names are full of words that passed out of everyday use some time ago.
Who coined these unusual monikers? Who decided that one butterfly looked like a wall and that another recalled the many-eyed guardian Argus? It is possible to trace the history of butterfly names in a succession of beautifully illustrated books published during the 18th and early 19th centuries. It emerges that the point of origin is the world's earliest entomological society, which was founded in London about 300 years ago.
It was called the Society of Aurelians or, simply, the Aurelians. Aurelian-'the golden one was the 18th-century word for what we would now call a lepidopterist, one who is keenly interested in the Lepidoptera, the family of butterflies and moths.
We know about some of the society's members and none of them was what we would call a scientist. Instead, they were artists, designers, men of letters and traders in silk and other fabrics. What seems to have united them was a keen sense of beauty. They were all men-formal clubs were men only-but some Society ladies were equally entranced by butterflies and moths, including Margaret Cavendish Bentinck, Duchess of Portland, one of the original Bluestockings. A pretty moth, the Portland, is still named after her.
Denne historien er fra May 08, 2024-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra May 08, 2024-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.