H2 THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



artist's own pictures in an exhibition, hung by that blun- 

 dering committee just exactly in the worst possible light. 

 Each kind knows full well how to show off its own peculiar 

 beauties, and you may almost tell the habits of a new 

 species from the arrangement of its colours. One struts 

 and attitudinizes ; another adopts the neglige ' ; the wings 

 of one droop with a lady-like languor ; another stands like 

 a drill sergeant. The dusty twilight butterflies never open 

 their wings except to fly, and if you catch one you will 

 understand the reason. On the under side, which is seen 

 when the wings are closed, there is no bright colouring, 

 indeed, for gaudy hues do not suit the sombre shades of 

 evening, but a weird blending of rich browns, or an ex- 

 quisitely chaste and delicate tracery of wavy grey lines, 

 with a bordering row of blue centred eyes ; but the upper 

 surface, which would appear if the wings were open, is 

 smoky brown. There are, moreover, many phases of cha- 

 racter in the butterfly tribe, and here too the apparel oft 

 proclaims the man. The innocent little whites and yellows, 

 fluttering from flower to flower, hardly seem to think it is 

 worth anybody's while to look at them. For another style, 

 and a very different nature, take that large Bombay species, 

 on whose wings of glossy black there are just four patches 



