precisely what is great and what is little?
All is great, all is important, all is equal in
the bosom of Nature and in the impartiality
of Universal Love. And where is this fact
more perceptible than in the infinite
complexity of the tiny organic world which they
were then considering? To gaze up at the
mountain top, or to look down upon the
creeping insect, was all one in point of wonder
and admiration.

Moreover, their system was never to pierce
insects with a pin or other sharp instrument
—a horrible torture, which never comes to
an end. A month afterwards, or longer, you
will see the wretched victims still writhing on
their stake. Ether inflicts a death which is
generally rapid, and appears to be painless.
Accordingly, they etherised their prisoner
largely. In a moment, he turned and fell; they
thought it was all over with him. After an
hour or two. he had come to life, had raised
himself on his trembling legs, and was trying
to make a walk of it. To tell the truth, his
gait was exactly like that of a drunken man;
a child would have laughed to see him reel.
His executioners felt no inclination to laugh,
because they were obliged to poison him
again. A stronger dose was administered;
in vain. Whatever they gave him, he always
recovered. So they shut him up in a box,
where he lingered long and withstood
incredible doses. It was a fortnight before
they could make him give up the ghost.

In general it may be stated, that the
insect is the child of night. The greater
part of them avoid the light, but how can
they avoid the air? Even in hot countries,
the contact of the atmosphere with a
sensitive and naked body, whose skin has not
had time to harden, is excessively painful.
In our severe climate, every puff of wind
must cause the sensation of little piercing
arrows, or a million fine needles sticking into
the creature. Certain hairy species are
somewhat better protected: certain others
are housed in fruits. Some (bees and ants)
find protection in society; but the immense
majority of insects are hatched solitary and
naked. Several of my readers, well-clad
personages sitting before a blazing fire, will
be certain to make the remark, that cold is a
capital thing to sharpen the appetite, to
make you hardy, and all the rest of it. But
those who have ever known poverty, will
perfectly comprehend the drift of the foregoing
observations. The recollections of
their childhood will tell them that cold is, in
point of fact, a torture; habit does not render
you insensible to the suffering it inflicts; a
continuance of its action does not render its
effects more agreeable. What delight is felt
by the children of the poor when a thaw
comes to relieve the pinchings and the shiverings
they have undergone! Certainly, there
is no denying that cold is a powerful tonic,
which brightens the faculties wonderfully,
and excites their utmost inventive powers.
Cold, equally with hunger, perhaps more so
than hunger, is the grand incentive of the
arts ; hunger enfeebles, cold strengthens.

Cold is the potent inspiration which urges
infinite multitudes of chilly creatures to seek,
above all things, the means of shelter. There
is no want of food ; nature has everywhere
spread an ample banquet before them. The
whole of the vegetable kingdom, and a great
part of the animal, are ready for them to
partake of. But the cold sears them ; cold
and humidity combined, give them influenza
and paralyse their organisation. They have
no rest in them till they have contrived some
sort of covering. At the lowest scale of life,
the humblest caterpillar is an artist, and
(when he does not excavate a mine to dwell
in) by means of weaving, rolling, spinning,
and cutting out, soon fits himself with a robe
which, like a second skin over his too sensitive
skin, covers his suffering nudity. Some
are skilled in mosaic-work, others in inlaying
or veneering. After having fabricated a
dress, they will conceal themselves from
observation by the artful application of
surrounding materials such as shells, bits of
stick, and grains of sand. Their labour is
great ; but amongst the different species
there is an admirably just compensation.
Those who work hard when young, have
little to do when adult, and vice versâ. The
bee which, while a grub, is liberally fed,
nursed, and cradled by its elders, has to lead
a most laborious life. On the other hand,
another insect who, as a caterpillar, has
toiled and spun, has nothing to do, by-and-by,
but to talk amorous nonsence to lilies
and roses. He is Dandy Butterfly, Esquire.

Most insects are destined to do their
drudgery during their childhood, in their
state of larva or caterpillar— a double and
violent drudgery. On the one hand is the
constant, urgent, pressing search after the
food which is craved for by a ceaseless,
internal sensation of want— the want of
self-repair, of self-renovation, of nourishing the
organs already acquired, and of preparing
new ones. The life of these poor motherless
insects is made up of a couple of hard
conditions—labour and morbid growth; for
their moultings or changes of skin are
equivalent to an illness. Often they are the
cause of death. If the effort or the pain of
the crisis could inspire the insect with a
glimmer of thought, he would say to himself
at every moult, "I am out of the rness now.
I have done with it; I shall be quiet at last;
this is my closing change!" To which
Nature makes answer, "Not yet! And,
not yet! You are still an unborn babe.
You have not yet brought forth your own
proper self. What are you? Nothing but
a larva, a mask which will shortly fall,
and disclose your reality."

What! A mask that has a will and can
work, that can contrive and can suffer! Which
sometimes appears to be further advanced