cut off from all communion with insects; we
cannot look into their eyes, nor catch the
expression of their faces. Their very senses
are merely conjectural to us; we know not
exactly whether they have ears to hear, a
palate to taste, or a voice to speak. For, a
noise mechanically produced is not a voice.
The rattling of a stork's bill is not a vocal
sound, any more than the alarum of a rattlesnake's
tail; neither is the chirping of the
male crickets, which is produced by the rubbing
together of their wing-cases, as has been
proved by rubbing them together artificially.
The death's-head sphynx causes consternation
among the superstitious by the peculiar
squeaking sound which it has the power of
making; but it is not a cry emitted from the
chest through the throat and mouth. If,
therefore, in an existence of metempsychosis,
it were possible for the transmigrated soul
to remember its own successive biographies,
it would be well worth while passing a few
hundred years as an insect of varying species
and order, before returning to the human
form to write a history of the past adventures.
That would be the true way to learn the
secret intrigues of the world of insects. To
complete the natural historical education
gained by such an erratic existence—to make
the grand tour, in short—one ought to pass a
term of apprenticeship in the shape of a plant.
A newly-arrived traveller from the
kingdom, come home to the realms of flesh
and blood, would explain what pleasure a
leaf or flower can have in catching flies—why
the sensitive-plant shrieks from the most
friendly caress—how the night scented stock
knows that the sun is below the horizon,
while the atmosphere still remains light and
warm—whether pain or pleasure be the cause
which keeps the moving-plant in a perpetual
fidget—and whether camellia-blooms like to
be cut, and to go to balls in pretty girls'
hairs. One would willingly risk all the personal
tortures to be apprehended from entomologists,
market-gardeners, and lady's-maids,
to be able to solve these mysteries.

But before venturing on terms of equality
into the society of beetles and flies, of moths
and maggots, the adventurous tourist would
do well to prepare himself by the study of
some short elementary guide-book. And, by
good luck, lately, the insects themselves, by
the hands of their elected and official secretary,*
Mr. J. W. Douglas, have invited us to
honour them with a portion of our attention,
by sundry plausible arguments. They urge
that, while business must be attended—to
which it is as religiously as if it comprised
the whole duty of man—the intervals of
business must be attended to, as an antidote to
the contraction of the range of thought
which is the result of over-devotion to
mercantile affairs or party politics. They plead
that there is no employment for leisure hours
more innocent in itself, or more productive of
benefit that the study of themselves, the
insects; that their number (then thousand
species in Great Britain only), their beauty,
accessibility, and at the same time their
mysteriousness, especially adapt them to
become the subject of popular recreation.
That, without any desire to undervalue
literature or art, it may still be believed that
man and his doings, his follies and his crimes,
engage too much of our attention. That, the
acquaintance of insects once made, ennui and
the want of something to do will vanish,
every step will be on enchanted ground, and
on all sides the prospect will become more
and more enticing. That the inducement to
go out of doors—the walk with the purpose in
view, so different to that most dreary of
employments, walking for the sake of exercise—
is itself no mean advantage. Then the
collector wll want to know something about
the nature of the specimens he has acquired,
and will begin to study their habits, forms,
and relationships. This calls into exercise
the practice of patience, of minuteness and
accuracy of observation, and, eventually, of
cautiousness in induction and generalisation;
all of which, besides their value as elements
of mental discipline, are qualities serviceable
in an eminent degree in the business of life.
Well reasoned, insects, by the mouth of your
plenipotentiary!

* To the Entomological Society of London.

What is an insect? Their interpreter
answers:—The popular notion includes under
that term spiders, crabs, and lobsters, which
have some resemblance to insects; but they
may be separated at once by the fact that
they have more than six legs. The flea,
however, is so anomalous in its structure,
that its proper place in the scale of insects is
disputed, some authors contending that it
belongs to one order, and some to another.
A true insect has six legs, four wings, an
external skeleton, and undergoes certain
metamorphoses. In the class Diptera, the perfect
insect has two fully-developed wings; but
has also two merely rudimentary ones, which
are distinguished by the names of halteres, or
poisers. The breeze-fly, and all two-winged
flies, are examples. In Coleoptera, the perfect
insect has two fully-developed wings, and
two wing-cases which cover the wings. The
sexton-beetle and all other beetles are
examples. So that the complement of four
wings is still in existence, although one pair
may be leathery and of little use in flight, as
with crickets and grasshoppers, or even very
minute and scarcely apparent. All insects
proceed from eggs laid by the female parent,
except in some cases where the eggs are
hatched within the body of the mother; and
in a few others, as the aphides, where the
ordinary method is supplied for a certain
number of generations by a process which
has had various interpretations, but which is
quite anomalous. For the various phases of
metamorphosis amongst insects—which is the