on being opened after having been closed for
some time, was found covered with a beautiful
web of white silk, seventy-two feet square in
certain directions, and in all two hundred and
fifty-two feet square. Specimens of it were
given away the size of large silk pocket-
handkerchiefs. This insect has been called the silk
Vulcan Hyphantidium sericarium, and most
certainly surpasses our Nereine errans, or wandering
sea-nymph in silk weaving, whilst resembling
her by working in co-operative factories.
The silk Vulcan, is, I may remark by the way,
an odd-enough name to give to a larve; as a
coal-pit is a queer haunt for a sea-nymph; and
not less strange is it that this pedantic taste
for mythological names should have caused a
tunnel-making, and scabbard-spinning spider, of
which no evil is known to be named Atypus,
after Ate, the goddess of mischief.

Sociability in spiders is, however, a fact truly
notable. Sociability is deemed a sign of a
certain elevation in the scale of being. Generally
among spiders, even the male and the female
associate but seldom, and at long intervals.
The male of the British tunnel spider, we have
seen, lives apart from his spouse in a rabbit-
warren, and no doubt it is because he is afraid
she should feel hungry, " loving him so much,"
as the nursery-maids say to the infants, " that
she could eat him." The big spiders which
weave the large webs found in our cellars and
outhouses (Tegenaria and Cinoflo civilis) live
alone.

Nereine errans being found in coal pits, reminds
me that Epeira hiemilis frequently infests
the lamps of lamp-posts. The Arachnida are
entomologists; and like other moth-hunters,
know that their prey is attracted by light. Have
spiders, I may ask, remembering the good and
great Robert Peel's definition of a statesman, a
statesmanlike faculty " of adapting themselves
to circumstances as they arise?"

FAIR URIENCE.
1.

A knight that wears no lady's sleeve
Upon his helm, from dawn to eve,
And all night long beneath the throng
Of stern-eyed stars, without reprieve
My moan I make, as on I ride
Along waste lands and waters wide,
The haunts of bitterns; smoky strips
Of sea-coast where there come no ships;
Or over brambly hump-back'd downs,
And under walls of hilly towns,
And out again across the plain,
Oft borne beneath a hissing rain
Within the murmurs of the wind,
That doth at nightfal leave his lair
To follow and vex me; till I find
Fair Urience with the yellow hair.

2.

Pale argent on a field pure or,
A fountain springeth evermore
To reach one star that, just too far
For its endeavour, trembled o'er
The topmost spray its strength will yield,
For my device upon my shield
Long since I wrought; and under it
A long scroll of flame is writ
The legend, see! . . . " I SHALL ATTAIN."
In letters large: albeit " In vain!"
My heart replies to mock my eyes;
For where that fountain seems to rise
Its highest, it is back consign'd
To earth, and falls in void despair,
Like my sad seven-years' hope to find
Fair Urience with the yellow hair.

3.

Seven years ago (how long it seems
Since then!) as free as summer streams
My fancy play'd with sun and shade,
And all my days were dim with dreams.
One day—I wot not whence nor how
It flash'd upon me—even now
I marvel at the change it wrought!
My whole life leapt into one thought,
Which thought was made my lifelong act;
As, dash'd in dazzling cataract,
From its long steeps, at last outleaps
Some lazy ooze, which henceforth keeps
One steadfast way: so all my mind
Was in that moment made aware
That henceforth I must die, or find
Fair Urience with the yellow hair.

4.

Since then, how many lands and climes
Have I ransacked—how many times
Been bruised with blows—how many foes
Have dealt to death—how many crimes
Avenged—how many maidens freed!
And yet I seem to be, indeed,
No nearer to the endless guest.
Neither by night nor day I rest:
My heart burns in me like a fire:
My soul is parch'd with long desire:
Ghostlike I grow: and, when I go,
I hear men mock and mutter low
And feel men's fingers point behind—
"The moon-struck knight that talks to air I
Lord help the fool who hopes to find
Fair Urience with the yellow hair!"

5.

At times, in truth, I start, and shake
Myself from thought, as one man wake
From some long trance to hard mischance,
Who avows not yet what choice to make
'Twixt false and true, since all things seem
Mere fragments of his broken dream,
When I recal what men aver
That all my lifelong guest of her
Is vain and void; since thrice (say they)
Three hundred years are rolled away,
And knights forgot, whose bones now rot,
And their good deeds remember'd not,
Fail'd one by one, long ere I pined
For this strange guest; whence they declare
No living knight may hope to find
Fair Urience with the yellow hair.

6.

Ah me! . . . For Launcelot maketh cheer
With great-eyed, glorious Guinevere;
In glad green wood, with Queen Isoud
Tristram of Lyones hunts the deer;
In cool of bloomy trellises
Sir Gareth and Sir Gaheris,