universal sympathy, is subject to the same
impressions. The arsenal of extraordinary
arms with which the insect is mostly furnished,
appears a standing menace to man.
Living in the midst of struggle and contention,
it was absolutely necessary for the insect
to come into the world armed cap-à-pié.
Those of the tropics are often terrible to look
at. Nevertheless, a considerable portion of
these arms which frighten us—pincers,
notched teeth, nippers, saws, spits, hooks,
augers, wire-drawers, and crushing-mills—
their formidable portable armoury which
makes them look like old champions going
to the wars, are, upon careful inspection,
nothing but the peaceful tools which help
them to earn their livelihood. Only, in this
case, the artisan carries all he wants about
with him. He is the operative and the
machinery combined. What would be the
aspect of human operatives, if they walked
about always bristling with all the steel and
brass which they are obliged to make use of
in their daily labours? We should think
them monstrously strange creatures; they
would frighten us. Under certain circumstances,
it is true, the insect is a warrior,
from the necessity of defence or of appetite;
but in general he is especially and above all
an artificer. There is scarcely a species
which cannot be classed according to its art,
and be ranged under the banner of some
trade corporation.

With insects, the mother mostly dies as
soon as she has given birth to her progeny;
her grand affair, therefore, is to construct
some well-contrived shelter where the little
foundling may be fed and securely cradled.
A work of such difficulty requires instruments
which appear to us inexplicable. Many
a tool which you might compare to the
poignard of the middle ages or to the
perfidious arms of Italian assassins, is, on the
contrary, an instrument of maternal love.
Besides, Nature is so far from sharing our
prejudices, our disgusts, our childish fears,
that she appears to take particular care of
the rodent insecs, or the species which gnaw
and nibble, who are the horticulturist's worst
enemies, but who render useful assistance in
maintaining the equilibrium of species and
in diminishing the incumbrance of vegetable
matter in certain climates. She is anxiously
conservative of caterpillars, which we destroy.
The processional caterpillars start on their
pilgrimage clad in fur composed of bristling
chevaux-de-frise, which overawes their enemies,
until, transformed into moths, they flit
about free and happy under the safeguard of
the shades of night. Creatures thus priviIeged
have evidently their work laid out for
them to do, an important mission which
renders them indispensable, and which makes
them an essential element in the harmony of
the world. Suns are necessary, and so are
gnats. Order is great in the Milky Way,
but not less so in the hive. There is not a
genus of insects which does not answer when
summoned. Were a single species of ant to
turn defaulter, it would make a serious gap
in the general economy of tropical countries.
Look at a deserted house or a neglected
garden. In one year it will become rotten,
old, and decrepit, through the invasion and
the attacks of insects. The reasons of Providence
for such certain devastation are quite
intelliigible, if we reflect. In the absence of
man, the insect takes his place, in order that,
by passing through the grand crucible,
everything may be renewed or purified.

Insects are repugnant to us, they annoy
us; sometimes they frighten us: but they
do so exactly in proportion to our ignorance.
Almost all of them, especially in temperate
climes, are nevertheless completely inoffensive.
We always regard the unknown with
a suspicious eye.  All the information we
take the trouble to acquire respecting them,
is simply to ascertain that we are able
to kill them. Who has any pity for insects?
Gros, the painter, saw one of his pupils,
a handsome, careless young fellow, enter
his studio with a superb butterfly,
recently caught and still flapping its wings,
pinned to his hat by way of ornament. The
artist was indignant, and angrily exclaimed:
"Is that the feeling with which you regard
beautiful things? You meet with a charming
creature enjoying itself in the sunshine,
and you can find no other use to make of it
than to crucify it and kill it barbarously!
Leave the house, and never return; never
show yourself in my presence again." It is
more surprising to find an anatomist, a man
who has passed his life with a scalpel in his
hand, Lyonnet to wit, expressing similar
sentiments, and that with respect to insects
which interest us the least. Lyonnet has
opened a new path to science by his laborious
work on the caterpillar of the goat moth, in
which he has demonstrated that, in regard
to its muscular system, the insect is identical
with the superior animals. He congratulates
himself on having completed his task without
having killed more than three individuals of
the species he was investigating.

Michelet and his wife first began to study
insects seriously during a tour in Switzerland,
the country of Haller, Huber, and Bonnet.
Not content with collections, which show
only the outside of a creature, they determined
to inspect the internal organs by means
of the scalpel and the microscope. For this,
it was necessary to commit several murders,
remorse at which tarnished their enjoyment
of the magnificent scenery by which they
were surrounded. The eternal hymn
uttered by the monster mountains scarcely
drowned the tragic drama of small sufferers.
A fly hid the Alps from their view; the
agony of a beetle, which was ten days in
dying, veiled the glories of Mont Blanc; the
anatomy of an ant made them forget the
Jungfrau. Never mind that; who can say