Get the most recent info and news about DefenCall on HackerNoon, where 10k+ technologists publish stories for 4M+ monthly readers.

Alert the Right People with the Right Info – Right Away. DefenCall increases the safety of students, employees and other communities. At the tap of a button, the StaySafe mobile panic button solution speeds a direct alert to first responders and provides emergency preparation information. StaySafe is designed for colleges and universities, school districts and other communities in need.

DefenCall

defencall

Followed categories will be added to My News. Fragments of cement sheeting were found in two DefenCell barriers on a bridge on Lake Bonney’s northern shore, 10km north-west of Barmera late last ...

River Murray flood: secrecy row after asbestos found in Defence water barriers

Meet the Winners of Startups in North and Central America

Plan of War when the Destruction of the Enemy is the Object

I did proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of remaining there

I found that an order had already gone forth for the army to proceed immediately towards Constantino

Showing How the Wild Beast Got Himself Back from the Mountains

THE POLE.

Defence of a Theatre of War (continued) When no Decision is Sought for

THE SISTERS OF ALBANO

On War by Carl Von Clausewitz, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Extent of the Means of Defence Book VI: Chapter VI. Extent of the Means of Defence We have shown in the second and third chapters of this book how the defence has a natural advantage in the employment of those things, which,—irrespective of the absolute strength and qualities of the combatant force,—influence the tactical as well as the strategic result, namely, the advantage of ground, sudden attack, attack from several directions (converging form of attack), the assistance of the theatre of war, support of the people, and the utilising great moral forces. We think it useful now to cast again a glance over the extent of the means which are at command of the defensive in particular, and which are to be regarded as the columns of the different orders of architecture in his edifice. 1.—Landwehr (Militia). This force has been used in modern times to combat the enemy on foreign soil; and it is not to be denied that its organisation in many states, for instance in Prussia, is of such a kind, that it may almost be regarded as part of the standing army, therefore it does not belong to the defensive exclusively. At the same time, we must not overlook the fact, that the very great use made of it in 1813-14-15 was the result of defensive war; that it is organised in very few places to the same degree as in Prussia, and that always when its organisation falls below the level of complete efficiency, it is better suited for the defensive than for the offensive. But besides that, there always lies in the idea of a militia the notion of a very extensive more or less voluntary co-operation of the whole mass of the people in support of the war, with all their physical powers, as well as with their feelings, and a ready sacrifice of all they possess. The more its organisation deviates from this, so much the more the force thus created will become a standing army under another name, and the more it will have the advantages of such a force; but it will also lose in proportion the advantages which belong properly to the militia, those of being a force, the limits of which are undefined, and capable of being easily increased by appealing to the feelings and patriotism of the people. In these things lies the essence of a militia; in its organisation, latitude must be allowed for this co-operation of the whole people; if we seek to obtain something extraordinary from a militia, we are only following a shadow. But now the close relationship between this essence of a militia system, and the conception of the defensive, is not to be denied, neither can it be denied that such a militia will always belong more to the defensive form than to the offensive, and that it will manifest chiefly in the defensive, those effects through which it surpasses the attack. 2.—Fortresses. The assistance afforded by fortresses to the offensive does not extend beyond what is given by those close upon the frontiers, and is only feeble in influence; the assistance which the defensive can derive from this reaches further into the heart of the country, and therefore more of them can be brought into use, and their utility itself differs in the degree of its intensity. A fortress which is made the object of a regular siege, and holds out, is naturally of more considerable weight in the scales of war, than one which by the strength of its works merely forbids the idea of its capture, and therefore neither occupies nor consumes any of the enemy’s forces. 3.—The People. Although the influence of a single inhabitant of the theatre of war on the course of the war in most cases is not more perceptible than the co-operation of a drop of water in a whole river, still even in cases where there is no such thing as a general rising of the people, the total influence of the inhabitants of a country in war is anything but imperceptible. Every thing goes on easier in our own country, provided it is not opposed by the general feeling of the population. All contributions great and small, are only yielded to the enemy under the compulsion of direct force; that operation must be undertaken by the troops, and cost the employment of many men as well as great exertions. The defensive receives all he wants, if not always voluntarily, as in cases of enthusiastic devotion, still through the long-used channels of submission to the state on the part of the citizens, which has become second nature, and which besides that, is enforced by the terrors of the law with which the army has nothing to do. But the spontaneous co-operation of the people proceeding from true attachment is in all cases most important, as it never fails in all those points where service can be rendered without any sacrifice. We shall only notice one point, which is of the highest importance in war, that is intelligence, not so much special, great and important information through persons employed, as that respecting the innumerable little matters in connection with which the daily service of an army is carried on in uncertainty, and with regard to which a good understanding with the inhabitants gives the defensive a general advantage. If we ascend from this quite general and never failing beneficial influence, up to special cases in which the populace begins to take part in the war, and then further up to the highest degree, where as in Spain, the war, as regards its leading events is chiefly a war carried on by the people themselves, we may see that we have here virtually a new power rather than a manifestation of increased cooperation on the part of the people, and therefore that— 4.—The National Armament, or general call to arms, may be considered as a particular means of defence. 5.—Allies. Finally, we may further reckon allies as the last support of the defensive. Naturally we do not mean ordinary allies, which the assailant may likewise have; we speak of those essentially interested in maintaining the integrity of the country. If for instance we look at the various states composing Europe at the present time, we find (without speaking of a systematically regulated balance of power and interests, as that does not exist, and therefore is often with justice disputed, still, unquestionably) that the great and small states and interests of nations are interwoven with each other in a most diversified and changeable manner, each of these points of intersection forms a binding knot, for in it the direction of the one gives equilibrium to the direction of the other; by all these knots therefore, evidently a more or less compact connection of the whole will be formed, and this general connection must be partially overturned by every change. In this manner the whole relations of all states to each other serve rather to preserve the stability of the whole than to produce changes, that is to say, this tendency to stability exists in general. This we conceive to be the true notion of a balance of power, and in this sense it will always of itself come into existence, wherever there are extensive connections between civilised states. How far this tendency of the general interests to the maintenance of the existing state of things is efficient is another question; at all events we can conceive some changes in the relations of single states to each other, which promote this efficiency of the whole, and others which obstruct it. In the first case they are efforts to perfect the political balance, and as these have the same tendency as the universal interests, they will also be supported by the majority of these interests. But in the other case, they are of an abnormal nature, undue activity on the part of some single states, real maladies; still that these should make their appearance in a whole with so little cohesion as an assemblage of great and little states is not to be wondered at, for we see the same in that marvellously organised whole, the natural world. If in answer we are reminded of instances in history where single states have effected important changes, solely for their own benefit, without any effort on the part of the whole to prevent the same, or cases where a single state has been able to raise itself so much above others as to become almost the arbiter of the whole,—then our answer is that these examples by no means prove that a tendency of the interests of the whole in favour of stability does not exist, they only show that its action was not powerful enough at the moment. The effort towards an object is a different thing from the motion towards it. At the same time it is anything but a nullity, of which we have the best exemplification in the dynamics of the heavens. We say, the tendency of equilibrium is to the maintenance of the existing state, whereby we certainly assume that rest, that is equilibrium, existed in this state; for where that has been already disturbed, tension has already commenced, and there the equilibrium may certainly also tend to a change. But if we look to the nature of the thing, this change can only affect some few separate states, never the majority, and therefore it is certain that the preservation of the latter is supported and secured through the collective interests of the whole—certain also that each single state which has not against it a tension of the whole will have more interest in favour of its defence than opposition to it. Whoever laughs at these reflections as utopian dreams, does so at the expense of philosophical truth. Although we may learn from it the relations which the essential elements of things bear to each other, it would be rash to attempt to deduce laws from the same by which each individual case should be governed without regard to any accidental disturbing influences. But when a person, in the words of a great writer, “never rises above anecdote,” builds all history on it, begins always with the most individual points, with the climaxes of events, and only goes down just so deep as he finds a motive for doing, and therefore never reaches to the lowest foundation of the predominant general relations, his opinion will never have any value beyond the one case, and to him, that which philosophy proves to be applicable to cases in general, will only appear a dream. Without that general striving for rest and the maintenance of the existing condition of things, a number of civilised states could not long live quietly side by side; they must necessarily become fused into one. Therefore, as Europe has existed in its present state for more than a thousand years, we can only regard the fact as a result of that tendency of the collective interests; and if the protection afforded by the whole has not in every instance proved strong enough to preserve the independence of each individual state, such exceptions are to be regarded as irregularities in the life of the whole, which have not destroyed that life, but have themselves been mastered by it. It would be superfluous to go over the mass of events in which changes which would have disturbed the balance too much have been prevented or reversed by the opposition more or less openly declared of other states. They will be seen by the most cursory glance at history. We only wish to say a few words about a case which is always on the lips of those who ridicule the idea of a political balance, and because it appears specially applicable here as a case in which an unoffending state, acting on the defensive, succumbed without receiving any foreign aid. We allude to Poland. That a state of eight millions of inhabitants should disappear, should be divided amongst three others without a sword being drawn by any of the rest of the European states, appears, at first sight, a fact which either proves conclusively the general inefficiency of the political balance, or at least shows that it is inefficient to a very great extent in some instances. That a state of such extent should disappear, a prey to others, and those already the most powerful (Russia and Austria), appears such a very extreme case that it will be said, if an event of this description could not rouse the collective interests of all free states, then the efficient action which this collective interest should display for the benefit of individual states is imaginary. But we still maintain that a single case, however striking, does not negative the general truth, and we assert next that the downfall of Poland is also not so unaccountable as may at first sight appear. Was Poland really to be regarded as a European state, as a homogeneous member of the community of nations in Europe? No! It was a Tartar state, which instead of being located, like the Tartars of the Crimea, on the Black Sea, on the confines of the territory inhabited by the European community, had its habitation in the midst of that community on the Vistula. We neither desire by this to speak disrespectfully of the Poles, nor to justify the partition of their country, but only to look at things as they really are. For a hundred years this country had ceased to play any independent part in European politics, and had been only an apple of discord for the others. It was impossible that for a continuance it could maintain itself amongst the others with its state and constitution unaltered: an essential alteration in its Tartar nature would have been the work of not less than half, perhaps a whole century, supposing the chief men of that nation had been in favour of it. But these men were far too thorough Tartars to wish any such change. Their turbulent political condition, and their unbounded levity went hand in hand, and so they tumbled into the abyss. Long before the partition of Poland the Russians had become quite at home there, the idea of its being an independent state, with boundaries of its own, had ceased, and nothing is more certain than that Poland, if it had not been partitioned, must have become a Russian province. If this had not been so, and if Poland had been a state capable of making a defence, the three powers would not so readily have proceeded to its partition, and those powers most interested in maintaining its integrity, like France, Sweden and Turkey, would have been able to co-operate in a very different manner towards its preservation. But if the maintenance of a state is entirely dependent on external support, then certainly too much is asked. The partition of Poland had been talked of frequently for a hundred years, and for that time the country had been not like a private house, but like a public road, on which foreign armies were constantly jostling one another. Was it the business of other states to put a stop to this; were they constantly to keep the sword drawn to preserve the political inviolability of the Polish frontier? That would have been to demand a moral impossibility. Poland was at this time politically little better than an uninhabited steppe; and as it is impossible that defenceless steppes, lying in the midst of other countries should be guarded for ever from invasion, therefore it was impossible to preserve the integrity of this state, as it was called. For all these reasons there is as little to cause wonder in the noiseless downfall of Poland as in the silent conquest of the Crimean Tartars; the Turks had a greater interest in upholding the latter than any European state had in preserving the independence of Poland, but they saw that it would be a vain effort to try to protect a defenceless steppe.— We return to our subject, and think we have proved that the defensive in general may count more on foreign aid than the offensive; he may reckon the more certainly on it in proportion as his existence is of importance to others, that is to say, the sounder and more vigorous his political and military condition. Of course the subjects which have been here enumerated as means properly belonging to the defensive will not be at the command of each particular defensive. Sometimes one, sometimes another, may be wanting; but they all belong to the idea of the defensive as a whole. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Carl von Clausewitz (2006). On War. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1946/pg1946-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

Extent of the Means of Defence

A Floating City and The Blockade Runners by Jules Verne, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . Chapter XXXIII here CHAPTER XXXIII. The storm was gathering, and a black arch of clouds had formed over our heads; the atmosphere was misty; nature was evidently about to justify Dr. Pitferge’s presentiments. The steam-ship had slackened her speed, and the wheels only made three or four revolutions a minute; volumes of white steam escaped from the half-open valves, the anchor-chains were cleared, and the British flag floated from the main-mast; these arrangements Captain Anderson had made preparatory to mooring. The pilot, standing on the top of the starboard paddle, guided the steam-ship through the narrow passages; but the tide was already turning, so that the “Great Eastern” could not yet cross the bar of the Hudson, and we must wait till next day. At a quarter to five by the pilot’s order the anchors were let go; the chains rattled through the hawse-holes with a noise like thunder. I even thought for a moment that the storm had burst forth. When the anchors were firmly embedded in the sand, the “Great Eastern” swung round by the ebb tide, remained motionless, and not a wave disturbed the surface of the water. At this moment the steward’s trumpet sounded for the last time; it called the passengers to their farewell dinner. The “Society of Freighters” would be prodigal with the champagne, and no one wished to be absent. An hour later the saloons were crowded with guests, and the deck deserted. However, seven persons left their places unoccupied; the two adversaries, who were going to stake their lives in a duel, the four seconds, and the Doctor, who was to be present at the engagement. The time and the place for the meeting had been well chosen; there was not a creature on deck; the passengers were in the dining-rooms, the sailors in their berths, the officers absorbed with their own particular bottles, and not a steersman on board, for the ship was motionless at anchor. At ten minutes past five the Doctor and I were joined by Fabian and Captain Corsican. I had not seen Fabian since the scene in the smoking-room. He seemed to me sad, but very calm. The thought of the duel troubled him little, apparently; his mind was elsewhere, and his eyes wandered restlessly in search of Ellen. He held out his hand to me without saying a word. “Has not Harry Drake arrived?” asked the Captain of me. “Not yet,” I replied. “Let us go to the stern; that is the place of rendezvous.” Fabian, Captain Corsican, and I, walked along the upper decks; the sky was growing dark; we heard the distant roar of thunder rumbling along the horizon. It was like a monotonous bass, enlivened by the hips and hurrahs issuing from the saloons; flashes of lightning darted through the black clouds, and the atmosphere was powerfully charged with electricity. At twenty minutes past five Harry Drake and his seconds made their appearance. The gentlemen bowed to us, which honour we strictly returned. Drake did not utter a word, but his face showed signs of ill-concealed excitement. He cast a look of malignant hatred on Fabian; but the latter, leaning against the hatchway, did not even see him; so absorbed was he in a profound meditation, he seemed not yet to have thought of the part he was to play in this drama. In the meanwhile Captain Corsican, addressing himself to the Yankee, one of Drake’s seconds, asked him for the swords, which the latter presented to him. They were battle swords, the basket-hilts of which entirely protected the hand which held them. Corsican took them, bent, and measured them, and then allowed the Yankee to choose. Whilst these preparations were being made, Harry Drake had taken off his hat and jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, and turned up his sleeves; then he seized his sword, and I saw that he was left-handed, which gave him, accustomed to right-handed antagonists, an unquestionable advantage. Fabian had not yet left the place where he was standing. One would have thought that these preparations had nothing to do with him. Captain Corsican went up to him, touched him, and showed him the sword. Fabian looked at the glittering steel, and it seemed as if his memory came back to him at that moment. He grasped his sword with a firm hand. “Right!” he murmured; “I remember!” Then he placed himself opposite Harry Drake, who immediately assumed the defensive. “Proceed, gentlemen,” said the Captain. They immediately crossed swords. From the first clashing of steel, several rapid passes on both sides, certain extrications, parries, and thrusts proved to me the equality in strength of the opponents. I augured well for Fabian. He was cool, self-possessed, and almost indifferent to the struggle; certainly less affected by it than were his own seconds. Harry Drake, on the contrary, scowled at him with flashing eyes and clenched teeth, his head bent forward, and his whole countenance indicative of a hatred which deprived him of all composure. He had come there to kill, and kill he would. After the first engagement, which lasted some minutes, swords were lowered. With the exception of a slight scratch on Fabian’s arm, neither of the combatants had been wounded. They rested, and Drake wiped off the perspiration with which his face was bathed. The storm now burst forth in all its fury. The thunder was continuous, and broke out in loud deafening reports; the atmosphere was charged with electricity to such an extent that the swords were gilded with luminous crests, like lightning conductors in the midst of thunder clouds. After a few moments’ rest, Corsican again gave the signal to proceed, and Fabian and Harry Drake again fell to work. This time the fight was much more animated; Fabian defending himself with astounding calmness, Drake madly attacking him. Several times I expected a stroke from Fabian, which was not even attempted. Suddenly, after some quick passes, Drake made a rapid stroke. I thought that Fabian must have been struck in the chest, but, warding off the blow, he struck Harry Drake’s sword smartly. The latter raised and covered himself by a swift semi-circle; whilst the lightning rent the clouds overhead. Suddenly, and without anything to explain this strange surrender of himself, Fabian dropped his sword. Had he been mortally wounded without our noticing it? The blood rushed wildly to my heart. Fabian’s eyes had grown singularly animated. “Defend yourself,” roared Drake, drawing himself up like a tiger ready to spring on to his prey. I thought that it was all over with Fabian, disarmed as he was. Corsican threw himself between him and his enemy, to prevent the latter from striking a defenceless man; but now Harry Drake in his turn stood motionless. I turned, and saw Ellen, pale as death, her hands stretched out, coming towards the duellists. Fabian, fascinated by this apparition, remained perfectly still. “You! you!” cried Harry Drake to Ellen; “you here!” His uplifted blade gleamed as though on fire; one might have said it was the sword of the archangel Michael in the hands of a demon. Suddenly a brilliant flash of lightning lit up the whole stern. I was almost knocked down, and felt suffocated, for the air was filled with sulphur; but by a powerful effort I regained my senses. I had fallen on one knee, but I got up and looked around. Ellen was leaning on Fabian. Harry Drake seemed petrified, and remained in the same position, but his face had grown black. Had the unhappy man been struck when attracting the lightning with his blade? Ellen left Fabian, and went up to Drake with her face full of holy compassion. She placed her hand on his shoulder; even this light touch was enough to disturb the equilibrium, and Drake fell to the ground a corpse. Ellen bent over the body, whilst we drew back terrified. The wretched Harry Drake was dead. “Struck by lightning,” said Dean Pitferge, catching hold of my arm. “Struck by lightning! Ah! will you not now believe in the intervention of thunder?” Had Harry Drake indeed been struck by lightning as Dean Pitferge affirmed, or rather, as the doctor on board said, had a blood-vessel broken in his chest? I can only say there was nothing now but a corpse before our eyes. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jules Verne (2022). A Floating City and The Blockade Runners. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October 2022 https://www.gutenberg.org/files/67829/67829-h/67829-h.htm This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

Nature was evidently about to justify Dr. Pitferge’s presentiments

On War by Carl Von Clausewitz, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . The Combat in General (continuation) Book IV: Chapter IV. The Combat in General (continuation) In the last chapter we showed the destruction of the enemy as the true object of the combat, and we have sought to prove by a special consideration of the point, that this is true in the majority of cases, and in respect to the most important battles, because the destruction of the enemy’s Army is always the preponderating object in War. The other objects which may be mixed up with this destruction of the enemy’s force, and may have more or less influence, we shall describe generally in the next chapter, and become better acquainted with by degrees afterwards; here we divest the combat of them entirely, and look upon the destruction of the enemy as the complete and sufficient object of any combat. What are we now to understand by destruction of the enemy’s Army? A diminution of it relatively greater than that on our own side. If we have a great superiority in numbers over the enemy, then naturally the same absolute amount of loss on both sides is for us a smaller one than for him, and consequently may be regarded in itself as an advantage. As we are here considering the combat as divested of all (other) objects, we must also exclude from our consideration the case in which the combat is used only indirectly for a greater destruction of the enemy’s force; consequently also, only that direct gain which has been made in the mutual process of destruction, is to be regarded as the object, for this is an absolute gain, which runs through the whole campaign, and at the end of it will always appear as pure profit. But every other kind of victory over our opponent will either have its motive in other objects, which we have completely excluded here, or it will only yield a temporary relative advantage. An example will make this plain. If by a skilful disposition we have reduced our opponent to such a dilemma, that he cannot continue the combat without danger, and after some resistance he retires, then we may say, that we have conquered him at that point; but if in this victory we have expended just as many forces as the enemy, then in closing the account of the campaign, there is no gain remaining from this victory, if such a result can be called a victory. Therefore the overcoming the enemy, that is, placing him in such a position that he must give up the fight, counts for nothing in itself, and for that reason cannot come under the definition of object. There remains, therefore, as we have said, nothing over except the direct gain which we have made in the process of destruction; but to this belong not only the losses which have taken place in the course of the combat, but also those which, after the withdrawal of the conquered part, take place as direct consequences of the same. Now it is known by experience, that the losses in physical forces in the course of a battle seldom present a great difference between victor and vanquished respectively, often none at all, sometimes even one bearing an inverse relation to the result, and that the most decisive losses on the side of the vanquished only commence with the retreat, that is, those which the conqueror does not share with him. The weak remains of battalions already in disorder are cut down by cavalry, exhausted men strew the ground, disabled guns and broken caissons are abandoned, others in the bad state of the roads cannot be removed quickly enough, and are captured by the enemy’s troops, during the night numbers lose their way, and fall defenceless into the enemy’s hands, and thus the victory mostly gains bodily substance after it is already decided. Here would be a paradox, if it did not solve itself in the following manner. The loss in physical force is not the only one which the two sides suffer in the course of the combat; the moral forces also are shaken, broken, and go to ruin. It is not only the loss in men, horses and guns, but in order, courage, confidence, cohesion and plan, which come into consideration when it is a question whether the fight can be still continued or not. It is principally the moral forces which decide here, and in all cases in which the conqueror has lost as heavily as the conquered, it is these alone. The comparative relation of the physical losses is difficult to estimate in a battle, but not so the relation of the moral ones. Two things principally make it known. The one is the loss of the ground on which the fight has taken place, the other the superiority of the enemy’s. The more our reserves have diminished as compared with those of the enemy, the more force we have used to maintain the equilibrium; in this at once, an evident proof of the moral superiority of the enemy is given which seldom fails to stir up in the soul of the Commander a certain bitterness of feeling, and a sort of contempt for his own troops. But the principal thing is, that men who have been engaged for a long continuance of time are more or less like burnt-out cinders; their ammunition is consumed; they have melted away to a certain extent; physical and moral energies are exhausted, perhaps their courage is broken as well. Such a force, irrespective of the diminution in its number, if viewed as an organic whole, is very different from what it was before the combat; and thus it is that the loss of moral force may be measured by the reserves that have been used as if it were on a foot-rule. Lost ground and want of fresh reserves, are, therefore, usually the principal causes which determine a retreat; but at the same time we by no means exclude or desire to throw in the shade other reasons, which may lie in the interdependence of parts of the Army, in the general plan, &c. Every combat is therefore the bloody and destructive measuring of the strength of forces, physical and moral; whoever at the close has the greatest amount of both left is the conqueror. In the combat the loss of moral force is the chief cause of the decision; after that is given, this loss continues to increase until it reaches its culminating-point at the close of the whole act. This then is the opportunity the victor should seize to reap his harvest by the utmost possible restrictions of his enemy’s forces, the real object of engaging in the combat. On the beaten side, the loss of all order and control often makes the prolongation of resistance by individual units, by the further punishment they are certain to suffer, more injurious than useful to the whole. The spirit of the mass is broken; the original excitement about losing or winning, through which danger was forgotten, is spent, and to the majority danger now appears no longer an appeal to their courage, but rather the endurance of a cruel punishment. Thus the instrument in the first moment of the enemy’s victory is weakened and blunted, and therefore no longer fit to repay danger by danger. This period, however, passes; the moral forces of the conquered will recover by degrees, order will be restored, courage will revive, and in the majority of cases there remains only a small part of the superiority obtained, often none at all. In some cases, even, although rarely, the spirit of revenge and intensified hostility may bring about an opposite result. On the other hand, whatever is gained in killed, wounded, prisoners, and guns captured can never disappear from the account. The losses in a battle consist more in killed and wounded; those after the battle, more in artillery taken and prisoners. The first the conqueror shares with the conquered, more or less, but the second not; and for that reason they usually only take place on one side of the conflict, at least, they are considerably in excess on one side. Artillery and prisoners are therefore at all times regarded as the true trophies of victory, as well as its measure, because through these things its extent is declared beyond a doubt. Even the degree of moral superiority may be better judged of by them than by any other relation, especially if the number of killed and wounded is compared therewith; and here arises a new power increasing the moral effects. We have said that the moral forces, beaten to the ground in the battle and in the immediately succeeding movements, recover themselves gradually, and often bear no traces of injury; this is the case with small divisions of the whole, less frequently with large divisions; it may, however, also be the case with the main Army, but seldom or never in the State or Government to which the Army belongs. These estimate the situation more impartially, and from a more elevated point of view, and recognise in the number of trophies taken by the enemy, and their relation to the number of killed and wounded, only too easily and well, the measure of their own weakness and inefficiency. In point of fact, the lost balance of moral power must not be treated lightly because it has no absolute value, and because it does not of necessity appear in all cases in the amount of the results at the final close; it may become of such excessive weight as to bring down everything with an irresistible force. On that account it may often become a great aim of the operations of which we shall speak elsewhere. Here we have still to examine some of its fundamental relations. The moral effect of a victory increases, not merely in proportion to the extent of the forces engaged, but in a progressive ratio—that is to say, not only in extent, but also in its intensity. In a beaten detachment order is easily restored. As a single frozen limb is easily revived by the rest of the body, so the courage of a defeated detachment is easily raised again by the courage of the rest of the Army as soon as it rejoins it. If, therefore, the effects of a small victory are not completely done away with, still they are partly lost to the enemy. This is not the case if the Army itself sustains a great defeat; then one with the other fall together. A great fire attains quite a different heat from several small ones. Another relation which determines the moral value of a victory is the numerical relation of the forces which have been in conflict with each other. To beat many with few is not only a double success, but shows also a greater, especially a more general superiority, which the conquered must always be fearful of encountering again. At the same time this influence is in reality hardly observable in such a case. In the moment of real action, the notions of the actual strength of the enemy are generally so uncertain, the estimate of our own commonly so incorrect, that the party superior in numbers either does not admit the disproportion, or is very far from admitting the full truth, owing to which, he evades almost entirely the moral disadvantages which would spring from it. It is only hereafter in history that the truth, long suppressed through ignorance, vanity, or a wise discretion, makes its appearance, and then it certainly casts a lustre on the Army and its Leader, but it can then do nothing more by its moral influence for events long past. If prisoners and captured guns are those things by which the victory principally gains substance, its true crystallisations, then the plan of the battle should have those things specially in view; the destruction of the enemy by death and wounds appears here merely as a means to an end. How far this may influence the dispositions in the battle is not an affair of Strategy, but the decision to fight the battle is in intimate connection with it, as is shown by the direction given to our forces, and their general grouping, whether we threaten the enemy’s flank or rear, or he threatens ours. On this point, the number of prisoners and captured guns depends very much, and it is a point which, in many cases, tactics alone cannot satisfy, particularly if the strategic relations are too much in opposition to it. The risk of having to fight on two sides, and the still more dangerous position of having no line of retreat left open, paralyse the movements and the power of resistance; further, in case of defeat, they increase the loss, often raising it to its extreme point, that is, to destruction. Therefore, the rear being endangered makes defeat more probable, and, at the same time, more decisive. From this arises, in the whole conduct of the War, especially in great and small combats, a perfect instinct to secure our own line of retreat and to seize that of the enemy; this follows from the conception of victory, which, as we have seen, is something beyond mere slaughter. In this effort we see, therefore, the first immediate purpose in the combat, and one which is quite universal. No combat is imaginable in which this effort, either in its double or single form, does not go hand in hand with the plain and simple stroke of force. Even the smallest troop will not throw itself upon its enemy without thinking of its line of retreat, and, in most cases, it will have an eye upon that of the enemy also. We should have to digress to show how often this instinct is prevented from going the direct road, how often it must yield to the difficulties arising from more important considerations: we shall, therefore, rest contented with affirming it to be a general natural law of the combat. It is, therefore, active; presses everywhere with its natural weight, and so becomes the pivot on which almost all tactical and strategic manœuvres turn. If we now take a look at the conception of victory as a whole, we find in it three elements:— 1. The greater loss of the enemy in physical power. 2. In moral power. 3. His open avowal of this by the relinquishment of his intentions. The returns made up on each side of losses in killed and wounded, are never exact, seldom truthful, and in most cases, full of intentional misrepresentations. Even the statement of the number of trophies is seldom to be quite depended on; consequently, when it is not considerable it may also cast a doubt even on the reality of the victory. Of the loss in moral forces there is no reliable measure, except in the trophies: therefore, in many cases, the giving up the contest is the only real evidence of the victory. It is, therefore, to be regarded as a confession of inferiority—as the lowering of the flag, by which, in this particular instance, right and superiority are conceded to the enemy, and this degree of humiliation and disgrace, which, however, must be distinguished from all the other moral consequences of the loss of equilibrium, is an essential part of the victory. It is this part alone which acts upon the public opinion outside the Army, upon the people and the Government in both belligerent States, and upon all others in any way concerned. But renouncement of the general object is not quite identical with quitting the field of battle, even when the battle has been very obstinate and long kept up; no one says of advanced posts, when they retire after an obstinate combat, that they have given up their object; even in combats aimed at the destruction of the enemy’s Army, the retreat from the battlefield is not always to be regarded as a relinquishment of this aim, as for instance, in retreats planned beforehand, in which the ground is disputed foot by foot; all this belongs to that part of our subject where we shall speak of the separate object of the combat; here we only wish to draw attention to the fact that in most cases the giving up of the object is very difficult to distinguish from the retirement from the battlefield, and that the impression produced by the latter, both in and out of the Army, is not to be treated lightly. For Generals and Armies whose reputation is not made, this is in itself one of the difficulties in many operations, justified by circumstances when a succession of combats, each ending in retreat, may appear as a succession of defeats, without being so in reality, and when that appearance may exercise a very depressing influence. It is impossible for the retreating General by making known his real intentions to prevent the moral effect spreading to the public and his troops, for to do that with effect he must disclose his plans completely, which of course would run counter to his principal interests to too great a degree. In order to draw attention to the special importance of this conception of victory we shall only refer to the battle of Soor,(*) the trophies from which were not important (a few thousand prisoners and twenty guns), and where Frederick proclaimed his victory by remaining for five days after on the field of battle, although his retreat into Silesia had been previously determined on, and was a measure natural to his whole situation. According to his own account, he thought he would hasten a peace by the moral effect of his victory. Now although a couple of other successes were likewise required, namely, the battle at Katholisch Hennersdorf, in Lusatia, and the battle of Kesseldorf, before this peace took place, still we cannot say that the moral effect of the battle of Soor was nil. (*) Soor, or Sohr, Sept. 30, 1745; Hennersdorf, Nov. 23, 1745; Kealteldorf, Dec. 15, 1745, all in the Second Silesian War. If it is chiefly the moral force which is shaken by defeat, and if the number of trophies reaped by the enemy mounts up to an unusual height, then the lost combat becomes a rout, but this is not the necessary consequence of every victory. A rout only sets in when the moral force of the defeated is very severely shaken then there often ensues a complete incapability of further resistance, and the whole action consists of giving way, that is of flight. Jena and Belle Alliance were routs, but not so Borodino. Although without pedantry we can here give no single line of separation, because the difference between the things is one of degrees, yet still the retention of the conception is essential as a central point to give clearness to our theoretical ideas and it is a want in our terminology that for a victory over the enemy tantamount to a rout, and a conquest of the enemy only tantamount to a simple victory, there is only one and the same word to use. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Carl von Clausewitz (2006). On War. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/1946/pg1946-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

The Combat in General (continuation)

Ends and Means in War

Nisida—1825

The Life of the Weevil by Jean-Henri Fabre and Alexander Teixeira de Mattos, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE PEA-WEEVIL: THE LARVA Chapter XII. THE PEA-WEEVIL: THE LARVA Another condition, that of space, is present as a factor. The Pea-weevil is the largest of our Bruchi. When she attains the adult age she requires a bigger lodging than is demanded by the other seed-destroyers. A pea provides her with a very adequate cell; nevertheless, cohabitation in twos would be impossible: there would be no room, even if the occupants accepted the discomfort. And so the inexorable need returns for reducing the numbers and, in the seed invaded, doing away with all the competitors save one. On the other hand, the broad bean, which is almost as great a favourite of the Bruchus as the pea, is able to house a whole community. The grub that was but now a solitary becomes a cenobite. There is room for five or six more, without encroaching on the neighbours’ domain. Moreover, each grub finds infant-food within its reach, that is to say, the layer which, being at some distance from the surface, hardens slowly and retains the dainty juices for a greater length of time. This inner layer may be regarded as the crumb of an otherwise crusty loaf.[ ] 200 In the pea, which is a small sphere, it occupies the central part, a limited area which the grub has to reach or perish; in the bean, a generous muffin, it includes the large joint of the two flat seed-lobes. No matter where the big seed is tackled, each larva need but bore straight ahead and it quickly reaches the coveted food. Then what happens? I add up the eggs adhering to a bean-pod, I count the seeds inside, and on comparing the two totals, I find that there is plenty of room for the whole family, at the rate of five or six to each bean. Here we have no surplus larvæ dying of starvation almost as soon as they leave the egg: all have their share of the ample portion, all live and prosper. The abundance of the provisions counterbalances the mother’s extravagance. If the Bruchus always adopted the broad bean as the establishment of her family, I could very well explain her exuberant emission of germs on a single pod: a rich supply of food, easily acquired, invites a large colony. The pea, on the other hand, puzzles me. What vagary makes the mother abandon her offspring to starvation on this insufficient legumen? Why so many boarders gathered around a seed which forms the ration of one alone? It is not thus that matters are arranged in life’s general balance-sheet. A certain foresight rules the ovaries and makes them adjust the number of [ ]eaters to the abundance or scarcity of the thing eaten. The Sacred Beetle, the Sphex-wasp, the Burying-beetle and the other manufacturers of preserved provisions for the family set close limits to their fertility, because the soft loaves of their baking, the baskets containing their game and the contents of their sepulchral retting-vat are all obtained at the cost of laborious and often unproductive efforts. 201 The Bluebottle, on the contrary, heaps her eggs in bundles. Trusting in the inexhaustible wealth of a corpse, she lavishes her maggots without counting the number. At other times, the provision is obtained by crafty brigandage, exposing the new-born offspring to a thousand fatal accidents. Then the mother makes up for the chances of destruction by an excessive outpouring of eggs. This is the case with the Oil-beetles, who, stealing the property of others under very parlous conditions, are for that reason endowed with prodigious fertility. The Bruchus knows neither the fatigues of the hard worker, obliged to restrict her family, nor the woes of the parasite, obliged to go to the other extreme. Without costly researches, entirely at her ease, merely by strolling in the sun over her favourite plant, she can ensure an adequate provision for each of her children; she can do this, and yet the mad creature takes it into her head to over-populate the pea-pod, a niggardly baby-farm [ ]in which the great majority will die of starvation. This folly passes my understanding: it clashes so utterly with the usual perspicacity of the maternal instinct. 202 I am therefore inclined to believe that the pea was not the Bruchus’ original share in the distribution of the earth’s gifts. It must rather have been the bean, one seed of which is capable of entertaining half a dozen visitors and more. With a seed of this size, the startling disproportion between the number of the insect’s eggs and the foodstuffs available disappears. Besides, there is not a doubt that, of our various culinary acquisitions, the broad bean is the earliest in date. Its exceptional dimensions and its pleasant flavour have certainly attracted man’s attention since the most remote times. It is a ready-made mouthful, of great value to the hungry tribe, which would have hastened to secure its increase by sowing it in the patch of garden beside the house, a hut of wattled branches plastered with mud. This was the beginning of agriculture. Travelling by long stages, with their waggons drawn by shaggy Oxen and rolling on solid wheels cut out of the trunks of trees, the emigrants from Central Asia brought to our uncultivated tracts first the bean, then the pea and finally the cereal, that eminent stand-by against hunger. They taught us the care of herds and the use of bronze, of which the first metal implements were made. [ ]Thus did the dawn of civilization rise over Europe. 203 With the bean did those ancient pioneers bring us, involuntarily, the insect which disputes its possession with us to-day? There is room for doubt; the Bruchus seems to be a native. I find her at least levying tribute on divers Leguminosæ of the country, spontaneous plants which have never tempted man’s appetite. She abounds in particular on the great broad-leaved everlasting pea (Lathyrus latifolius), with its magnificent clusters of flowers and its long and handsome pods. Its seeds are not large, are much smaller than those of our peas; but, gnawed to the very skin, as they always are by their occupants, they are each sufficient to the welfare of its grub. Note also their considerable number: I have counted more than twenty to the pod, a wealth unknown to the garden pea, even in its most prolific state. Thus the superb perennial is generally able, without much loss, to feed the family entrusted to its pod. Where the everlasting pea is lacking, the Bruchus none the less continues her habitual flux of germs on another legumen, of similar flavour but incapable of nourishing all the grubs, as for instance on the broad-podded vetch (Vicia peregrina) or the common vetch (V. sativa). The number of eggs remains high even on these insufficient pods, because the original plant offered a copious provender, [ ]whether by the multiplicity or by the large size of the seeds. If the Bruchus is really a foreigner, we may accept the bean as her first victim; if the insect is a native, let us accept the everlasting pea. 204 Some time in the remote past the pea reached us, gathered at first in the same prehistoric garden-patch which already supplied the bean. Man found it a better food than the horse-bean, which is very much neglected to-day after doing such good service. The Weevil was of the same opinion and, without quite forgetting her broad bean and her everlasting pea, generally pitched her camp on the garden pea, which became more widely cultivated from century to century. To-day we have to go shares: the Bruchus takes what she wants and lets us have her leavings. The insect’s prosperity, born of the abundance and quality of our products, from another point of view spells decadence. For the Weevil as for ourselves, progress in the matter of food and drink does not always mean improvement. The race fares better by remaining frugal. On her horse-bean, on her everlasting pea, the Bruchus founded colonies in which the infant mortality was low. There was room for all. On the pea, a delectable sweetmeat, the greater part of the guests die of starvation. The rations are few and the claimants legion. We will linger over this problem no longer. [ ]Let us inquire into the grub which has become the sole owner of the pea through the death of its brothers. It has had no part in that decease; chance has favoured it, that is all. In the centre of the pea, a luxurious solitude, it performs a grub’s duty, the one and only duty of eating. It gnaws the walls around and enlarges its cell, which it always fills completely with its fair round belly. It is a plump and shapely creature, glistening with health. If I tease it, it turns lazily in its cell and wags its head. This is its way of complaining of my rudeness. Let us leave it in peace. 205 The anchorite thrives so well and so fast that, by the dog-days, it is already making ready for its coming liberation. The adult has not the necessary tools to open for herself her way out of the pea, which is now quite hard. The larva knows of this future helplessness and provides against it with consummate art. With its strong jaws it bores an exit-shaft, absolutely circular, with very clean-cut sides. Our best ivory-carvers could produce nothing neater. To prepare the door of escape in advance is not enough; we must also think of the tranquillity essential to the delicate work of the nymphosis. An intruder might enter through the open door and work mischief upon the defenceless nymph. This opening must therefore be kept shut. And how? Here is the device. The grub boring the exit-hole eats the floury [ ]matter without leaving a single crumb. On reaching the skin of the seed, suddenly it stops short. This semitranslucent membrane is the screen protecting the chamber in which the metamorphosis takes place, the door that defends the cabin against ill-intentioned intruders. It is also the only obstacle which the adult will encounter at the time of moving. To lessen the difficulty of forcing it out, the grub takes the precaution of carving a groove of least resistance inside the skin, all around the circumference. The perfect insect will only have to heave with its shoulders, to strike a blow or two with its head, in order to raise the lid and knock it off, like the lid of a box. The exit-hole shows through the transparent skin of the pea in the shape of a large circular spot, darkened by the obscurity within. What happens below cannot be seen, hidden as it is behind a sort of ground-glass window. 206 A pretty invention, this little port-hole, this barricade against the invader, this trap-door lifted with a push of the hermit’s shoulder when the time has come. Shall we give the Bruchus the credit of it? Could the ingenious insect imagine the enterprise, ponder a plan and work upon a scheme of its own devising? This would be a fine triumph for the Weevil’s brain. Before deciding, let us hear what experiment has to tell us. I skin some inhabited peas; I save them from drying too quickly by placing them in glass tubes. [ ]The grubs do as well here as in the intact peas. The preparations for the deliverance are made at the proper time. 207 If the miner acts on its own inspiration, if it ceases to prolong its shaft as soon as it perceives, by sounding it now and again, that the ceiling is thin enough, what ought to happen under the present conditions? Feeling that it is as near the surface as it wishes to be, the grub will stop boring; it will respect the last layer of the bare pea and will thus obtain the indispensable defensive screen. Nothing of the kind takes place. The well is excavated entirely; its mouth is open to the outside, as wide, as carefully finished as though the skin of the pea were still protecting it. Reasons of safety have in no way modified the usual work. The foe can enter this open lodging; the grub gives the matter not a thought. Nor has it this in mind when it refrains from boring right through the pea still clad in its skin. It stops suddenly, because it does not like the non-farinaceous skin. We remove the skins before making our peas into soup: they have no culinary value; they are not good. The larva of the Bruchus appears to be like ourselves: it hates the tough outside of the pea. Warned by the unpleasant taste, it stops at the skin; and this aversion causes a little miracle. The insect has no logical sense of its own. It passively obeys a [ ]higher logic; it obeys, but is as unconscious of its art as crystals are when assembling their battalions of atoms in exquisite order. 208 Sooner or later, in August, dark circles form on the peas, always one to each seed, with no exception. These mark the exit-hatches. Most of them open in September. The lid, which looks as though cut out with a punch, comes off very neatly and falls, leaving the opening of the cell free. The Bruchus issues, freshly clad, in her final form. The weather is delightful. Flowers abound, awakened by the showers; the emigrants from the peas visit them in autumnal revelry. Then, when the cold sets in, they take up their winter-quarters in some retreat or other. Others, quite as numerous, are less eager to quit the native seed. They stay there, motionless, all through the frosty season, sheltered behind the trap which they are careful not to touch. The door of the cell will not open on its hinges, that is to say, along its line of least resistance, until the hot weather returns. Then the laggards leave their homes and rejoin the more forward; and all are ready for work when the peas come into flower. The great attraction of the insect world for the observer is that he can obtain a more or less general survey of the instincts, in their inexhaustible variety; for nowhere do we see the wonderful order of life’s details more clearly revealed. Entomology, [ ]I know, does not appeal to everybody from this point of view: people have a poor opinion of the artless person absorbed in the behaviour of insects. To the terrible utilitarian, a measure of peas saved from the Weevil is of more importance than any number of observations which bring no immediate profit. 209 And who has told you, O man of little faith, that what is useless to-day may not be useful to-morrow? If we learn the habits of animals, we shall be better able to protect our property. Do not despise disinterested ideas, lest you live to rue the day. It is by accumulating ideas, whether immediately applicable or not, that mankind has done and will continue to do better to-day than yesterday, better in the future than in the present. If we live by peas and horse-beans, which the Weevil disputes with us, we also live by knowledge, that mighty kneading-trough in which the dough of progress is mixed and fermented. Science is well worth a bean or two. Among other things, it tells us: ‘The corn-chandler need not trouble to wage war upon the Weevil. By the time that the peas are stored, the harm is done; it is irreparable, but not transmissible. The untouched seeds have nothing to fear from the proximity of the seeds attacked, however long they may remain together. The Bruchus will issue from the latter when her time comes; she will fly out of the granary, if escape be possible; if not, she will die without [ ]in any way infesting the seeds that are still sound. No eggs, no new generation will ever be seen on the dried peas in our storehouse; nor will any damage be caused by the feeding of the adult.’ 210 Our Bruchus is not a sedentary inhabitant of the granaries: she needs the open air, the sunshine, the freedom of the fields. Very frugal on her own behalf, she absolutely disdains the hardness of the legumen; all that her slender snout requires is a few honeyed mouthfuls sipped from the flowers. The larva, on the other hand, demands the soft bread of the green pea still growing inside the pod. For these reasons, the storehouse knows no further multiplication on the part of the ravager introduced at the beginning. The origin of the mischief lies out of doors. It is here more than elsewhere that we ought to keep a watch on the Weevil’s misdeeds, were it not that we are nearly always unarmed when it comes to fighting against insects. Indestructible because of their numbers, their small size, their sly cunning, the little creatures laugh at man’s anger. The gardener fumes and curses; the Weevil remains unconcerned: imperturbably she continues to levy her tithe. Fortunately, we have assistants, more patient and more clear-sighted than ourselves. In the first week of August, when the adult Bruchus is beginning to move away, I make the acquaintance of a little Chalcis, the protector of our peas. In [ ]my rearing-jars a number of her comes out of the Weevil’s home before my eyes. The female has a red head and thorax and a black abdomen, with a long boring-tool. The male, a little smaller, is clad in black. Both sexes have dull-red legs and thread-like antennæ. 211 In order to leave the pea, the exterminator of the Bruchus opens herself a window in the centre of the disk which the Weevil’s grub has bored in the skin with a view to its future deliverance. The devoured has prepared the way out for the devourer. This detail enables us to guess the rest. When the preliminaries of the metamorphosis are finished, when the exit-hole is bored, furnished with its lid, a surface cuticle, the Chalcis comes bustling along. She inspects the peas, still on the plant, in their pods; she tries them with her antennæ; she discovers, hidden under the general outer wrapper of the pod, the weak points in the ceiling formed by the skin. Then, raising her sounding-rod, she thrusts it through the pod and pierces the thin lid. However deeply secreted in the centre of the pea, the Weevil, whether larva or nymph, is reached by the long implement. It receives an egg in its tender flesh; and the trick is done. Without any chance of defence, for it is by now either a torpid grub or else a nymph, the corpulent infant will be drained to the skin. What a pity that we are not able at will to [ ]promote the multiplication of this zealous exterminator! Alas, our agricultural auxiliaries have us in a disappointing vicious circle: if we wish to obtain the assistance of large numbers of the Chalcids that bore holes in peas, we must first have large numbers of Pea-weevils! 212 About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jean-Henri Fabre and Alexander Teixeira de Mattos (2021). The Life of the Weevil. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/66844/pg66844-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

THE PEA-WEEVIL: THE LARVA

THE VOLUCELLA

THE GOLD BEETLES: THEIR FOOD

The German Air-fleet

The Glow-Worm and Other Beetles by Jean-Henri Fabre, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE CRIOCERES CHAPTER XVI. THE CRIOCERES I am a stubborn disciple of St. Thomas the Apostle and, before I agree to anything, I want to see and touch it, not once, but twice, thrice, an indefinite number of times, until my incredulity bows beneath the weight of evidence. Well, the Rhynchites1 have told us that the build does not determine the instincts, that the tools do not decide the trade. And now, yes, the Crioceres come and add their testimony. I question three of them, all common, too common, in my paddock. At the proper season, I have them before my eyes, without searching for them, whenever I want to ask them for information. 1 A genus of Weevils, the essays upon whom will appear in a later volume to be entitled The Life of Weevil.—Translator's Note. The first is the Crioceris of the Lily, or Lily-beetle. Since Latin words offend our modesty let us just once mention her scientific name, Crioceris merdigera, LIN., without translating it, or, above all, repeating it. Decency forbids. I have never been able to understand why natural history need inflict upon a lovely flower or an engaging animal an odious name. As a matter of fact, our Crioceris, so ill-treated by the nomenclators, is a sumptuous creature. She is nicely shaped, neither too large nor too small, and a beautiful coral red, with jet-black head and legs. Everybody knows her who in the spring has ever glanced at the lily, when its stem is beginning to show in the centre of the rosette of leaves. A Beetle, of less than the average size and coloured sealing-wax red, is perched up on the plant. Your hand goes out to seize her. Forthwith, paralysed with fright, she drops to the ground. Let us wait a few days and return to the lily, which is gradually growing taller and beginning to show its buds, gathered together in a bundle. The red insect is still there. Further, the leaves, which are seriously bitten into, are reduced to tatters and soiled with little heaps of greenish ordure. It looks as if some witchcraft had mashed up the leaves and then splashed the mess all over the place. Well, this filth moves, travels slowly along. Let us overcome our repugnance and poke the heaps with a straw. We uncover, indeed we unclothe an ugly, pot-bellied, pale-orange larva. It is the grub of the Crioceris. The origin of the garment of which we have just stripped it would be unmentionable, save in the world of the insect, that manufacturer devoid of shame. This doublet is, in fact, obtained from the creature's excretions. Instead of evacuating downwards, on the superannuated principle, the Crioceris' larva evacuates upwards and receives upon its back the waste products of the intestine, materials which move from back to front as each fresh pat is dabbed upon the others. Réaumur has complacently described how the quilt moves forward from the tail to the head by wriggling along inclined planes, making so many dips in the undulating back. There is no need to return to this stercoral mechanism after the master has done with it. We now know the reasons that procured the Lily-beetle an ignominious title, confined to the official records: the grub makes itself an overcoat of its excrements. Once the garment is completed so as to cover the whole of the creature's dorsal surface, the clothing-factory does not cease work on that score. At the back a fresh hem is added from moment to moment; but the overlapping superfluity in front drops off of its own weight at the same time. The coat of dung is under continual repair, being renovated and lengthened at one end as it wears and grows shorter at the other. Sometimes also the stuff is too thick and the heap capsizes. The denuded grub recks nothing of the lost overcoat; its obliging intestine repairs the disaster without delay. Whether by reason of the clipping that results from the excessive length of a piece which is always on the loom, or of accidents that cause a part or the whole of the load to fall off, the grub of the Crioceris leaves accumulations of dirt in its track, till the lily, the symbol of purity, becomes a very cess-pool. When the leaves have been browsed, the stem next loses its cuticle, thanks to the nibbling of the grub, and is reduced to a ragged distaff. The flowers even, which have opened by now, are not spared: their beautiful ivory chalices are changed into latrines. The perpetrator of the misdeed embarks on his career of defilement early. I wanted to see him start, to watch him lay the first course of his excremental masonry. Does he serve an apprenticeship? Does he work badly at first, then a little better and then well? I now know all about it: there is no noviciate, there are no clumsy attempts; the workmanship is perfect from the outset, the product ejected spreads over the hinder part. Let me tell you what I saw. The eggs are laid in May, on the under surface of the leaves, in short trails averaging from three to six. They are cylindrical, rounded at both ends, of a bright orange-red, glossy and varnished with a glutinous wash which makes them stick to the leaves throughout their length. The hatching takes ten days. The shell of the egg, now a little wrinkled, but still of a bright orange colour, retains its position, so that the group of eggs, apart from its slightly withered appearance, remains just as it was. The young larva measures a millimetre and a half2 in length. The head and legs are black, the rest of the body a dull amber-red. On the first segment of the thorax is a brown sash, interrupted in the middle; lastly, there is a small black speck on each side, behind the third segment. This is the initial costume. Presently orange-red will take the place of the pale amber. The tiny creature, which is exceedingly fat, sticks to the leaf with its short legs and also with its hind-quarters, which act as a lever and push the round belly forwards. The motion reminds you of a cripple sitting in a bowl. 2 .959 inch.—Translator's Note. The grubs emerging from any one group of eggs at once begin to browse, each beside the empty skin of its egg. Here, singly, they nibble and dig themselves a little pit in the thickness of the leaf, while sparing the cuticle of the opposite surface. This leaves a translucent floor, a support which enables them to consume the walls of the excavation without risking a fall. Seeking for better pasture, they move lazily on. I see them scattered at random; a few of them are grouped in the same trench; but I never see them browsing economically abreast as Réaumur relates. There is no order, no understanding between messmates, contemporaries though they be and all sprung from the same row of eggs. Nor is any heed paid to economy: the lily is so generous! Meanwhile, the paunch swells and the intestine labours. Here we are! I see the first bit of the overcoat evacuated. As is natural in extreme infancy, it is liquid and there is not much of it. The scanty flow is used all the same and is laid methodically, right at the far end of the back. Let the little grub be. In less than a day, piece by piece, it will have made itself a suit. The artist is a master from the first attempt. If its baby-flannel is so good to start with, what will the future ulster be, when the stuff, brought to perfection, is of much better quality? Let us proceed; we know what we want to know concerning the talents of this manufacturer of excremental broadcloth. What is the purpose of this nasty great-coat? Does the grub employ it to keep itself cool, to protect itself against the attacks of the sun? It is possible: a tender skin need not be afraid of blistering under such a soothing poultice. Is it the grub's object to disgust its enemies? This again is possible: who would venture to set tooth to such a heap of filth? Or can it be simply a caprice of fashion, an outlandish fancy? I will not say no. We have had the crinoline, that senseless bulwark of steel hoops; we still have the extravagant stove-pipe hat, which tries to mould our heads in its stiff sheath. Let us be indulgent to the evacuator nor disparage his eccentric wardrobe. We have eccentricities of our own. To feel our way a little in this delicate question, we will question the near kinsmen of the Lily-beetle. In my acre or two of pebbles I have planted a bed of asparagus. The crop, from the culinary point of view, will never repay me for my trouble: I am rewarded in another fashion. On the scanty shoots which I allow to display themselves freely in plumes of delicate green, two Crioceres abound in the spring: the field species (C. campestris, LIN.) and the twelve-spotted species (C. duodecimpunctata, LIN.). A splendid windfall, far better than any bundle of asparagus. The first has a tricolor costume which is not without merit. Blue wing-cases, braided with white on the outer edge and each adorned with three white dots; a red corselet, with a blue disk in the centre. Its eggs are olive-green and cylindrical and, instead of lying flat, grouped in short lines, after the manner of the lily-dweller's, occur singly and stand on end on the leaves of the asparagus-plant, on the twigs, on the flower-buds, more or less everywhere, without any fixed order. Though living in the open air on the leaves of its plant and thus exposed to all the various perils that may threaten the Lily-grub, the larva of the Field Crioceris knows nothing whatever of the art of sheltering itself beneath a layer of ordure. It goes through life naked and always perfectly clean. It is of a bright greenish yellow, fairly fat behind and thinner in front. Its principal organ of locomotion is the end of the intestine, which protrudes, curves like a flexible finger, clasps the twig and supports the creature while pushing it forward. The true legs, which are short and placed too far in front with regard to the length of the body, would find it very difficult by themselves to drag the heavy mass that comes after. Their assistant, the anal finger, is remarkably strong. With no support, the larva turns over, head downwards, and remains suspended when shifting from one sprig to another. This Jack-in-the-bowl is a rope-dancer, a consummate acrobat, performing its evolutions amid the slender sprigs without fear of a fall. Its attitude in repose is curious. The heavy stern rests on the two hind-legs and especially on the crooked finger, the end of the intestine. The fore-part is lifted in a graceful curve, the little black head is raised and the creature looks rather like the crouching Sphinx of antiquity. This pose is common at times of slumber and blissful digestion in the sun. An easy prey is this naked, plump, defenceless grub, snoozing in the heat of a blazing day. Various Gnats, of humble size, but very likely terribly treacherous, haunt the foliage of the asparagus. The larva of the Crioceris, motionless in its sphinx-like attitude, does not appear to be on its guard against them, even when they come buzzing above its rump. Can they be as harmless as their peaceful frolics seem to proclaim? It is extremely doubtful: the Fly rabble are not there merely to imbibe the scanty exudations of the plant. Experts in mischief, they have no doubt hastened hither with another object. And, in truth, on the greater number of the Crioceris-larvæ we find, adhering firmly to the skin, certain white specks, very small and of a china-white. Can these be the sowing of a bandit, the spawn of a Midge? I collect the grubs marked with these white specks and rear them in captivity. A month later, about the middle of June, they shrivel, wrinkle and turn brown. All that is left of them is a dry skin which tears from end to end, half uncovering a Fly-pupa. A few days later, the parasite emerges. It is a small, greyish Fly, fiercely bristling with sparse hairs, half the size of the House-fly, whom it resembles slightly. It belongs to the Tachina group, who, in their larval form, so often inhabit the bodies of caterpillars. The white spots sprinkled over the larva of the Crioceris were the eggs of the hateful Fly. The vermin born of those eggs have perforated the victim's paunch. By subtle wounds, which cause little pain and are almost immediately healed, they have penetrated the body, reaching the humours in which the entrails are bathed. At first the larva invaded is not aware of its danger; it continues to perform its rope-dancer's gymnastics, to fill its belly and to take its siestas in the sun, as though nothing serious had occurred. Reared in a glass tube and often examined under the lens, my parasite-ridden larvæ betray no uneasiness. The fact is that the Tachina's children display an infernal judgment in their first actions. Until the moment when they are ready for the transformation, their portion of game has to hold out, must be kept fresh and alive. They therefore gorge themselves with the reserves intended for future use, the fats, the savings which the Crioceris hoards in view of the remodelling whence the perfect insect will emerge; they consume what is not essential to the life of the moment and are very careful not to touch the organs which are indispensable at the present time. If these received a bite, the host would die and so would they. Towards the end of their growth, prudence and discretion being no longer essential, they make a complete clearance of the victim, leaving only the skin, which will serve them for a shelter. One satisfaction is vouchsafed me in these horrible orgies: I see that the Tachina in her turn is subjected to severe reductions. How many were there on the larva's back? Perhaps eight, ten or more. One Midge, never more than one, comes out of the victim's skin, for the morsel is too small to provide food for many. What has become of the others? Has there been an internecine battle inside the poor wretch's body? Have they eaten one another up, leaving only the strongest to survive, or the one most favoured by the chances of the fight? Or has one of them, earlier developed than the rest, found himself master of the stronghold and have the others preferred to die outside rather than enter a grub already occupied, where famine would be rife if the messmates numbered even two? I am all for mutual extermination. Kinsman's flesh or stranger's flesh must be all one to the fangs of the vermin swarming in the Crioceris' belly. Fierce though the competition is among these bandits, the Beetle's race does not threaten to die out. I review the innumerable troop on my asparagus-bed. A good half of them have Tachina-eggs plainly visible as tiny white specks on their green skins. The blemished larvæ tell me of a paunch already or on the point of being invaded. On the other hand, it is doubtful whether those which are unscathed will all remain in that condition. The malefactor is incessantly prowling around the green plumes, watching for a favourable opportunity. Many larvæ free from white spots to-day will show them to-morrow or some other day, so long as the Fly's season lasts. I estimate that the vast majority of the troop will end by being infested. My rearing-experiments tell me much on this point. If I do not make a careful selection when I am stocking my wire-gauze-covers, if I go to work at random in picking the branches colonized with larvæ, I obtain very few adult Crioceres; nearly all of them are resolved into a cloud of Midges. If it were possible for us to wage war effectually upon an insect, I should advise asparagus-growers to have recourse to the Tachina, though I should cherish no illusions touching the results of the expedient. The exclusive tastes of the insect auxiliary draw us into a vicious circle: the remedy allays the evil, but the evil is inseparable from the remedy. To rid ourselves of the ravages of the asparagus-beds, we should need a great many Tachinæ; and to obtain a great many Tachinæ we should first of all need a great many ravagers. Nature's equilibrium balances things as a whole. Whenever Crioceres abound, the Midges that reduce them arrive in numbers; when Crioceres become rare, the Midges decrease, but are always ready to return in masses and repress a surplus of the others during a return of prosperity. Under its thick mantle of ordure the grub of the Lily-beetle escapes the troubles so fatal to its cousin of the asparagus. Strip it of its overcoat: you will never find the terrible white specks upon its skin. The method of preservation is most effective. Would it not be possible to find a defensive system of equal value without resorting to detestable filth? Yes, of course: the insect need only house itself under a covering where there would be nothing to fear from the Fly's eggs. This is what the Twelve-spotted Crioceris does, occupying the same quarters as the Field Crioceris, from whom she differs in size, being rather larger, and still more in her costume, which is rusty red all over, with twelve black spots distributed symmetrically on the wing-cases. Her eggs, which are a deep olive-green and cylindrical, pointed at one pole and squared off at the other, closely resemble those of the Field Crioceris and, like these, usually stand up on the supporting surface, to which they are fastened by the square end. It would be easy to confuse the two if we had not the position which they occupy to guide us. The Field Crioceris fastens her eggs to the leaves and the thin sprays; the other plants them exclusively on the still green fruit of the asparagus, globules the size of a pea. The grubs have to open a tiny passage for themselves and to make their own way into the fruit, of which they eat the pulp. Each globule harbours one larva, no more, or the ration would be insufficient. Often, however, I see two, three or four eggs on the same fruit. The first grub hatched is the one favoured by luck. He becomes the owner of the pill, an intolerant owner capable of wringing the neck of any who should come and sit down at table beside him. Always and everywhere this pitiless competition! The grub of the Twelve-spotted Crioceris is a dull white, with an interrupted black scarf on the first segment of the thorax. This sedentary creature has none of the talents of the acrobat grazing on the swaying foliage of the asparagus; it cannot take a grip with its posterior, turned into a prehensile finger. What use would it have for such a prerogative, loving repose as it does and destined to put on fat in its cell, without roaming in quest of food? In the same group each species has its own gifts, according to the kind of life that awaits it. It is not long before the occupied fruit falls to the ground. Day by day, it loses its green colour as the pulp is consumed. It becomes, at last, a pretty, diaphanous opal sphere, while the berries which have not been injured ripen on the plant and acquire a rich scarlet hue. When there is nothing left to eat inside the skin of its pill, the grub makes a hole in it and goes underground. The Tachinæ have spared it. Its opal box, the hard rind of the berry, has ensured its safety just as well as a filthy overcoat would have done and perhaps even better. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Jean-Henri Fabre (2009). The Glow-Worm and Other Beetles. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved October https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/27868/pg27868-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

Stories, News & Mentions about DEFENCALL

Defencall’s Stories on HackerNoon

Defencall's News & Mentions