It should be added, however, that if the rain continue for several days, the pimpernel will lose its sensibility, and cease to act as a natural weather-glass.

And here we may observe, that singular as is the habit of the flowers anticipating rain by folding their petals within their calices, the way which the Siberian sow-thistle has with it is still more curious. This plant, during that clear weather which most flowers affect, keeps entirely shut; but as soon as a thick mist overspreads the earth, or a cloud obscures the bright face of heaven, it begins to open its light blue corolla.

Everybody knows, or should know, that when the robin looks sad and drooping, and ceases to greet you with his wonted blithesome strain, "foul weather" is at hand. Many animals, by their peculiar habits, afford equally certain indications of approaching atmospheric changes.

This does not seem strange to us; we account for it by the instinct which every animal possesses, in a larger or smaller degree. But the same anticipatory faculty is possessed by several plants; they feel the increasing moisture of the air long before it can be detected by ourselves. Thus, when a storm is at hand, some species of anemones fold up their blossoms; the fragrant flowers of the wild pink convolvulus wind themselves together; the awns of the wild oat, and the sweet-scented meadow-grass, stand in an erect position, and the clover leaves are drawn closely up.

Naturalists, says Pratt, are unable to discover why some plants should be affected by moisture and others not; but the regular changes of these natural barometers seem a providential arrangement to supply certain wants of the flowers in which they occur. We may draw this inference from the different positions of several flowers according to their circumstances. Thus the poppy, when in bud, hangs down on its stem, and preserves its petals from rain and wind; but as soon as it is fully developed, and has acquired strength, and the sun's rays are necessary to perfect its colours, it expands to the full light of day. The violet, again, while its seed is forming, shades the capsule by its purple corolla; but as soon as the seeds are ripe, and they are required to spring to some distance from their capsules, the flower immediately rises up with the cup for its support, and flings abroad its offering on the earth's maternal bosom. Adaptations of this kind are frequent and striking in the vegetable kingdom, and surely one is justified in regarding them as the work of an all-powerful and all-wise Creative Mind. Look, for instance, at the orchis: it grows on the ground in Europe, and is consequently provided with roots formed of large lobes; but when it festoons the pillar of the virgin forests of the New World, its roots are formed of a number of fibres, so that they may penetrate the bark of the tree.

But to return to our pimpernel. It was at one time called Centunculus, from cento, a covering, because it spread in such abundance over the cultivated fields. Its botanical name was afterwards changed to Anagallis arvensis. Anagallis signifies "to laugh," and there existed an old belief that a decoction of the pimpernel acted as a remedy against melancholy, and a provocative of mirth.

The seeds of this plant are very numerous. They are enclosed in small capsules, and eaten by the birds.

There is only one other British species of pimpernel, the Anagallis linetta, or bog pimpernel, which it would be unpardonable if the botanist omitted to notice, so delicately beautiful are its pale-rose blossoms and tiny clusters of leaves. As its name indicates, it is found only in marshy localities.

The blue pimpernel (Anagallis cerulea), though not a native of England, is found occasionally. It is described as growing in beautiful little tufts about the hills of Madeira, and enlivening them by its cheerful colour, which may bear comparison with the azure of the sky.

And here we will take leave of the wheat-field, with its mass of emerald waves, now beginning to wear a golden glory on their crests, as they ripple in the genial sunshine.

Animals.

The Mole, the Staphylinus, and the Mole-Cricket.

Do you hear that noise? It seems to issue from beneath yonder heap of pebbles at the foot of the garden-wall. Surely the stones are moving; they seem to be walking alone, and of their own impulse, for I cannot see anything to set them in motion.

Let us draw near and examine the mystery. "Ah, what a hideous black creature!" It is retreating in a terrible state of alarm, as if it felt itself pursued by some formidable enemy.

This "hideous creature" is known to French gardeners by the name of courtilière; to naturalists, as a species of Staphylinus. (Fig. 61.) Its great and persistent adversary is the mole: a mammal at war with an insect!

Watch well, I pray you, the mole's movements, which you can do the more easily that here, contrary to his ordinary custom, he is wandering in the open day; the light blinds him,—accustomed as he is to pass his life in the subterranean galleries which he excavates by his own labour. But if he does not see us, he hears us; the sound of our footsteps was sufficient to make him prick up his ears (if we may so speak of a mole), and he remains motionless. Do not stir, or he will betake himself to flight, and we shall lose an excellent opportunity of being present at a very curious spectacle.

He is now reassured. He recommences his manœuvres, pushing before him every little pebble which he meets with. For this purpose he employs his elongated snout, exactly as a pig grubs among the uncleanness of his sty. But his next movements are not of a porcine character. With feet broad as battledores, the mole, while manœuvring with his nose, quietly pushes aside every clod which threatens to obstruct his progress. These sidelong, abrupt, and jerking movements remind you of those of a dog, seeking with his paws to enlarge the opening of the burrow wherein a rabbit has taken refuge. The mole has thus the habit of a hunting-dog; and, to complete the resemblance, he stops at intervals in his scratching, and shakes the dust off his head. One is quite surprised to see a little mammal executing the movements we are wont to regard as peculiar to an animal much larger than he is.

The beetle quits in affright the heap of stones where it had hoped to find an asylum; it now crosses our path, holding itself erect, with a menacing air, and its tail armed with a forked barb. The mole follows in close pursuit: who would have believed he could run so quickly? Let us bar his passage, and study him at our leisure.

The first thing we remark is his glossy hair, which is softer to the touch than the finest velvet. Where are his eyes? Blow aside the hair which covers his face. There they are, and they resemble miniature pearls of a shining black.

How could Aristotle say that the mole had no eyes? To believe it you must read the assertion for yourself. And here are the very words of the authority who, for so many centuries, was accepted as infallible:—

"All viviparous animals have eyes, except the mole" (πλὴν ἀσπάλακος).

Then, as if a sudden doubt had seized him, and he were frightened at his own statement, the illustrious Stagyrite hastens to add: "We might, perhaps, strictly admit that he has." But another change comes over the spirit of the philosopher's dream; his hesitation vanishes, and he immediately repeats and justifies his former assertion in these terms:—

"But, carefully considered, the mole does not see, because he has no apparent eyes externally" (ὅλως μὲν γὰρ οὔθ' ὁρᾷ, οὔτ' ἔχει εἰς τὸ φανερὸν δήλους ὀφθαλμούς).[68]

These last words denote—I beg pardon of the manes of a great philosopher—an absolute want of observation. Evidently, Aristotle had not taken the trouble to look before he made his statement. And do not think that this curious indifference was peculiar to the great master of the Peripatetic School; it characterises more or less all the philosophers of antiquity, as well as too many who have followed in their footsteps.

Pliny has simply translated Aristotle when he says:—"Among quadrupeds the moles are wanting in the sense of sight" (quadrupedum talpis visus non est).[69]

But it is a curious thing that both Aristotle and Pliny maintain, that if you lift up the skin where the eyes ought to be, you will perceive the organs of vision. How could they remove the skin without distinguishing in it the eyes, like black and brilliant beads? Did they practise anatomy, like their own imaginary mole, without eyes? The whole matter would be inexplicable if we did not take into account that force of inertia which binds man in chains of iron, in the moral world as well as in the physical.

To see, to observe; to retrace one's steps, that one may see and observe more distinctly; is a labour repugnant to the human mind. To create systems, in order that he may proclaim himself a great doctrinal teacher, is the work which flatters man, or the creative power of his imagination. Centuries of effort are needed before he can disentangle himself from his self-woven thrall in presence of the phenomena of nature.

A striking peculiarity in the mole's structure is his hands, or feet, with their five fingers, or toes, turned outward, and their curious resemblance to the human hand. Few animals exhibit a similar conformation. Everything in the structure of the fore-limbs indicates the animal's burrowing instinct,—the length of the bone, which corresponds to the human radius, or fore-arm,—the breadth of the hands,—and the bend of the arms, which are so fashioned that the elbows project outwardly.

Does the mole's burrowing instinct lead it in quest of insects or of vegetable roots?

According to the old traditional belief, the mole feeds upon roots. From time immemorial, it has been looked upon as an animal so destructive, that, in every country, its destruction has been encouraged by large rewards. Well, this belief, transmitted from generation to generation, owes, like so many other traditions, its authority to its antiquity, and is devoid of foundation.

The mole is an essentially carnivorous animal, and no more lives upon roots than the dog or the cat. He is pre-eminently the hunter of the white-worm and beetle; and therefore, instead of vowing its extermination, we ought to take every possible means to preserve and multiply his race. These absurd traditions and credulous notions, wholly without any experimental confirmation, frequently lead us to take steps in diametrical opposition to our own interests.

Moles are particularly partial to meadows which are somewhat damp, as, for instance, those where the leafless colchicum displays, in autumn, its pale-rose flowers. In summer, the fields are covered with mole-hills. It will be said, perhaps, that these conical heaps of earth are injurious to vegetation. But that will be an error, contradicted by observation. Meadows besprinkled with mole-hills grow excellent hay, if care be taken to level them; for the earth thus distributed serves as manure. If they are visited by the moles, it is because these animals find there a plentiful supply of the rhizophagous (root-eating) insects, on which they feed.

The forest is also a favourite haunt of the moles. Apparently they find, under the layers of leaves and roots, so rich in larvæ of every kind, the wherewithal to satisfy amply their insectivorous tastes. It is the mole which generally produces that rustling of the dry leaves the wanderer is so apt to attribute to a snake or an adder. Stand still for a moment, and patiently watch. Do you see that undulatory movement? Thrust your stick rapidly into the uplifted heap. There is our persevering hunter; he struggles hard to escape from his terrible enemy, but, with a little alacrity, you will not find it difficult to capture him.

Moles are among the most prolific of mammals; and, in fact, were it not so, their race would have been long ago exterminated. We may, perhaps, venture to say, that by multiplying so prodigiously, they wish to do us a service in spite of ourselves. How tender is the solicitude of nature for the ungrateful human species!

To see the marvellous qualities ascribed to the mole by the ancients, one would suppose that they had made him the object of their special study. Yet, as we have shown, they could never have watched his habits with any degree of patience. They saw everything through the delusive prism of their imagination. As a proof, we will tell you what they said of the mole.

"Since this animal has been doomed to a perpetual blindness, and lives interred beneath the surface of the earth, like the dead, he possesses, by way of compensation, some extraordinary qualities. His subterranean existence renders him, of all animals, the most capable of religion (nullum religionis capacius animal). To acquire the gift of second-sight, you must eat the heart of a mole, while still beating, and freshly plucked from the animal's body. To cure toothache, suspend to your neck the tooth of a live mole. Lymphatic people will gain in strength if sprinkled with a mole's blood. The ashes of a mole are a sovereign remedy for scrofula; some recommend for this disease the animal's liver, others the right foot, and others the head. The earth of mole-hills, fashioned into pastilles, and preserved in a tin box, is an excellent cure for all kinds of tumours, and especially for abscesses on the neck."[70]

Such, according to Pliny's report, are the virtues of the mole, as taught by the Magi. The Middle Ages adopted this teaching, and even to-day, in obscure rural districts, you will meet with superstitious notions which remind you of the ideas of the ancient wise men and necromancers of antiquity.

We have thus summarised the natural history of our hunter, let us now say a few words respecting the game he pursues.

The insect before us is the Staphylinus olens. Its study has been much neglected, probably on account of its repulsive appearance. But, conquering our repugnance, let us take the creature between our forefinger and thumb. See how vigorously it defends itself! Its forked appendage is not formidable, it is too soft; but take care of its mandibles! With these hard, horny, pointed pincers, it pricks the skin and draws blood. Now, bring your nose close to the frightful black insect at the very moment when it appears the most irritated. Come! A little courage will conquer your new feeling of disgust.

What do you smell?

A pleasant odour of rennet apples! It reminds me of that diffused by another insect, much less ugly than your Staphylinus, the Cicondela campestris.

It is this peculiarity which explains the specific name of "odorous" (olens) given to your captive. As for its generic name, Staphylinus, I have no means of interpreting its etymology; for the insect's shape has no resemblance to that of a bunch or cluster,—in Greek, ςταφυλή. But this last word also signifies the uvula, and, perhaps, by the effort of a little imagination, the naturalist may trace a similitude between that organ of the throat and the body of the Staphylinus.

The Staphylini are characterised by a very narrow neck, which separates, as by a kind of web, the head from the thorax. In diffusing the peculiar odour of which we have just spoken, they simultaneously eject a musky volatile liquid contained in two retractile whitish bladders, situated near the anus. They run quickly, elevating their abdomen like the earwig. The antennæ, inserted in the rear of the strong mandibles, are each composed of eleven articulations, of which the first is the longest; these joints, rounded in form, are arranged like the beads of a necklace.

The Staphylini belong to that numerous section of insects whose tarsi are composed of five articulations, and which have thence received the name of Pentaceii.

In this section they form, with some other genera, the family of Brachelytræ, so called because their elytra, or wing-sheaths, are much shorter than the abdomen.

Our Staphylinus olens is finely punctuated, somewhat hairy, and of a dull black colour. Though very common in our gardens, and wherever any putrefying substances are to be found, its habits are not very well known. For if it were generally understood that it is an essentially carnivorous animal, that it carries on a determined warfare against the caterpillar, larvæ, and especially the white-worm, far from seeking to destroy it, men would surely attempt to increase its numbers. It is a proof that the Staphylini are useful insects, that they are rare in seasons when the white-worms abound, as was the case, for example, in the years 1867 and 1868. The larva of the Staphylinus is as carnivorous as the perfect insect, which it likewise resembles in form.

To sum up: in every phase of their existence, the Staphylini render immense services to the agriculturist. It is very desirable that this fact should be generally recognised, and their rehabilitation generally proclaimed.

The Mole-Cricket.

The habits of the mole-cricket are nearly the same as those of the mole. When winter approaches, it takes refuge underneath the surface of the earth, and remains benumbed and lethargic in its nest so long as the cold lasts. On the welcome return of spring, it makes its way back to the light by a vertical gallery, on which a great number of lateral galleries abut, the said lateral galleries being the roads it travels in pursuit of its prey. This subterranean work it executes with its strong fore-feet, which are broad, and unguiculated, or indented, much like those of a mole. Hence its popular name of the mole-cricket (Fig. 62, a).

These insects (of the Orthoptera order) belong to the small family of the crickets—a family closely akin to that of the grasshoppers. This close kinship has been recognised by the poets, and we find them brought together in a very charming sonnet, which cannot be too frequently perused by any reader, and which may therefore be introduced as a relief to our duller prose:—

So sings Leigh Hunt—a poet, by the way, whose heart was ever open at "the feel of June," and whose genial writings, whether prose or verse, whether delightful essays or melodious songs, should be read in the "happy summer-time," when the idler, reclining on the sunny grass, with the beauty of an English landscape around him, wants the companionship of a gentle spirit and a refined and healthy intellect.

The mole-cricket is, like the grasshopper, a child of summer. It differs, moreover, from the "cricket on the hearth" in lacking those organs of stridulation (excuse the word, kind reader!) which mark "the glad silent moments" with their tricksome (and sometimes inconvenient) tune. Their posterior thighs have an apparent bulging about them, but the legs are very short; so short, that our little friend could not compete with its cousin, the grasshopper, in vaulting exercises, even were it not otherwise prevented by its large abdomen. Nor is it much assisted by its wings, for though they are broad, they are not organised for rapid flight, and the mole-cricket makes but little use of them. Nature, however, has compensated it for all these disadvantages by the gift of those strong, powerful, flexible fore-feet of which I have already spoken.

The species generally met with in gardens, corn-fields, and orchards is the Gryllotalpa vulgaris of Latreille, identical with the Gryllus gryllotalpa of Linnæus. It has a brown head, garnished with rusty-coloured mandibles; the thorax is of a brownish-gray, velvety, tinged with red in the fore parts; the elytra, or wing-sheaths, which are much shorter than the abdomen, are gray, and marked by black and conspicuously prominent nerves; the wings, folded back like a fan, are about one-fourth longer than the abdomen.

The mole-cricket,—mark me!—is no more of a root-eater than the mole; it is carnivorous, like the Staphylinus. As an experiment in confirmation of this statement, we shut up one of these curious Orthopteras in a large chest filled with mould. Concealed in the galleries which it speedily constructed for its use, it fed upon larvæ, and never touched the cereals which we had sown in the earth. Here was a proof that we had to plead the cause of another of man's victims.

The mole-cricket ejects, when pursued or tormented, a blackish liquid, whose etherealised odour reminds one of the peculiar smell of certain rotten apples. The female, larger than the male, lays her eggs, which are, comparatively speaking, of a tolerable size (Fig. 62, b), at some depth underground. The young, when hatched, resemble their parents, except that they are white, and possess merely the rudiments of wings.

If the mole-cricket, in its subterranean progress, encounters any roots, it cuts them with its mandibles, not to feed upon them, but to get rid of an obstacle; hence the mischief of which the farmer accuses it, though this slight amount of injury is altogether outweighed by its services in destroying a swarm of insects.

Perhaps, therefore, we must not blame the farmer for the hostility with which he pursues it, especially if we are to accept as a true picture of its doings the sketch recently drawn by a popular writer:—

"It is easy to understand that an insect which undermines land in this way must cause great damage to cultivation (!). Whether the crops serve it for food or not, they are not the less destroyed by its underground burrowings. Lands infested by the mole-cricket are recognisable by the colour of the vegetation, which is yellow and withered; and the rubbish which these miners heap up at the side of the openings leading to their galleries, resembling mole-hills in miniature, betrays their presence to the farmer."

If, I say, this be a true picture, we cannot wonder at the means employed by the farmer to clear his fields of such dangerous tenants. The plan generally adopted is to dig, at intervals, a number of little trenches, which are filled up with cow-dung, well trodden down. The supposed root-eaters assemble in these warm nests; and every fourth or fifth day, a labourer, armed with a pitchfork, scoops up the manure at a single stroke, and scatters it over the ground, while another crushes the unfortunate Gryllotalpæ as fast as they make their appearance.

The Earwig.

Next to the domestic fly, the earwig is, perhaps, one of our commonest, and, let us add, one of our most troublesome, insects. Whence comes its popular appellation? From a mere fable. To amuse the silly—alas! how great their number!—marvelling, without doubt, at the spectacle of an insect's tail armed with strong pincers, some jester wished to transform it into a terrible animal; and therefore he pretended that it introduced itself into the human ear, and from thence penetrated to the brain, with the view of driving out its proprietor,—i.e., the mind or spirit which animates it. Only, the originator of this absurd bugbear forgot one little fact: there is no opening by which the ear can communicate with the brain! As for the pincers, they are not so formidable as they appear. This character, however, has been considered a sufficient foundation by the naturalists, even by Linnæus himself, for the insect's scientific name, Forficula auricularia, which is almost literally translated by the French oreille-pince,—our English earwig or ear-piercer. (Fig. 64.)

What dress is to man, their wings are to insects; by these we distinguish them, at the first glance, from one another. The elytra,—those horny sheaths which protect the membranous wings,—embrace, in the Coleoptera, the entire upper surface of the long annulated abdomen, and resemble vari-coloured chlamydes. But now, look for the elytra of our Forficula. You will hardly believe that they are represented by this kind of abbreviated light-brown jacket, which does not extend below the middle of the back. Do you observe yonder whitish spots? They indicate the tips of the wings, which are longer than their covers. Lift up one of the elytra with your penknife, and you will find that the wing which it partly screens is worth your attention. The fore part (we should call it the upper, if the animal walked erect like a man) is straight, and without a fold. Raise it with a pin to see the posterior or lower part. Observe, it curves underneath so as to bind the intermediate portion like a fan. But this flabelliform wing,—of tolerable dimensions when unfolded,—seems intended by the Creative Thought only to mark its unity of plan: the earwig does not fly,—it secures its food by crawling.

The elytra and the wings, inconspicuous as they are, produced so great an impression on the early naturalists, that they made them the principal characteristics of an entire order of insects. De Geer, a celebrated Swedish naturalist, named them the Dermaptera (from δέρμα, skin, and πτερόν, wing), in allusion to the transparent skin-like appearance of the elytra. This name, though adopted by Kirby, has not been preserved. A French entomologist suggested the designation which is now in use,—Orthoptera (from ὀρθός, straight, and πτερόν),—referring to the manner in which the wings are folded underneath the elytra.

Here we must pause to recapitulate for the benefit of our younger readers, and to avoid confusion, the various orders into which the insect world is divided.

1. Aptera (from α, without, and πτερόν, a wing),—wingless. Examples—Flea, louse, chigo.

2. Diptera (δίς, two, and πτερόν),—two-winged. Sub-divided into Nemocera, having six-jointed antennæ; Brachycera, having three-jointed antennæ. Examples—Gnat, tipula; May-fly, gad-fly.

3. Hemiptera (ἕμι, half, and πτερόν),—half-winged. Sub-divided into Heteroptera, with wings of different textures; Homoptera, with wings of one substance. Examples—Land-bug, water-bug; cicada, lantern-fly.

4. Lepidoptera (λεπίς, a scale, and πτερόν),—scaly-winged. Examples—Tiger-moth, butterfly, silkworm.

5. Orthoptera (ὀρθός, straight, and πτερόν),—straight-winged. Examples—Earwig, cockroach, locust.

6. Stymenoptera (ὑμήν, a membrane, and πτερόν),—membranous-winged. Examples—Bee, wasp, ant.

7. Neuroptera (νευρόν, nerve, and πτερόν),—nerve-marked wings. Examples—Dragon-fly, caddis-fly, ant-lin.

8. Strepsiptera (στρεψις, a twisting, and πτερόν),—curled or twisted wings. Examples—Xenos, elenchus.

9. Coleoptera (κολεός, a sheath, and πτερόν;),—sheathed wings. Examples—Beetle, cockchafer.

The order of Orthoptera, with which we are now concerned, is not very well known. The reason is, perhaps, that the insects belonging to it—earwigs, cockroaches, grasshoppers, crickets—are not less disagreeable than useless, so far as man is concerned. Being nearly all of them omnivorous, like man himself, they frequently aid him, very much against his inclination, in the consumption of natural products of every kind.

It has been remarked that the species of great animals are far fewer in number than those of the little. This remark applies with peculiar force to the Orthoptera, which do not include nearly so many small species as the Coleoptera.

The earwig is the type of the tiny group of the Forficulidæ, of which two species only are known to the common world—the Forficula auricularia and the Forficula minor.

The first species everybody is acquainted with. We have already spoken of its elytra and its wings; but we now say a word upon the two extremities of its body. The two antennæ, which crown the head, are extremely mobile, owing, of course, to the numerous articulations of which they are made up. These are fourteen in number (if we include the base, which is itself composed of two movable parts). In reality, however, there are but twelve; for we ought to eliminate the base,—because, in form and size, it differs greatly from articulations properly so called,—and, at the same time, to regard as one the articulation or joint inserted in it. In fine, I am of opinion, contrary to the general conclusion, that the antennæ of the earwig consist but of twelve articulations, bristling with hairs, and easily counted almost by the unassisted eye. With the help of a microscope, the observer can easily distinguish the large nervure traversing them from top to bottom, and communicating to the antennæ their characteristic sensibility and mobility.

The brownish-coloured abdomen, composed of imbricated rings, forms, in itself alone, upwards of half the body. The animal can move itself in every direction; can bend and twist like a young eel. To the last of its rings, which is larger than the others, are attached the two curved branches of the forceps (forficula). These are weapons of defence rather than of attack. At the same time, they are useful as a sexual distinction. The forceps of the male are strongly arched, and furnished with indentations perfectly visible to the naked eye (see Fig. 64, a); those of the female are scarcely bent at all, and their indentations can only be seen with the microscope. In numerous individuals, the last ring of the abdomen is provided with four tubercles, one in each side and two in the middle; but this is not a uniform characteristic.

The earwig is a trimeral insect; that is, its tarsi are each composed of three joints. Its mandibles are comparatively weak. The moment you touch it, the insect raises, with great quickness, the extremity of its supple body, and endeavours to defend itself with its pincers. The female lays her eggs chiefly in the chinks and crannies of time-worn timber, and the larvæ issuing from them do not differ, in any material respect, from the perfect insect. (See Fig. 64, b.)

The small species, known as Forficula minor, is not very common. It is about half the size of its better-known congener, and is also distinguished from it by its joints, ten in number,—by its legs, of a very pale yellow,—and by its pincers, which are not only very short, but almost straight, and scarcely marked, even in the male, with any indentations. More, the wings are of the colour of the elytra, and without any white spots. This species is chiefly met with in the spring-time, and then in damp sandy localities, near ponds and rivers.

Another, and still rarer species, to which we may permit ourselves an allusion, has yellow pincers, rather black at the extremity, and garnished inside, towards the middle, with a horny tubercular projection. In the Pyrenees a species has been found which has no wings at all, and has therefore been named Forficula aptera.

Our readers will now inquire, What is the use of this curiously constructed animal? Is it not an abomination to the gardener? Well, we admit that it eats up the leaves of his plants, and the petals of his flowers, especially of the dahlia; but, on the other hand, it destroys those far more injurious insects, thrips, aphis, and the like.

But it has a peculiar interest for the scientific student from the point of view of what we may call its muscular dynamometry,—its power of traction, which is far superior to that of our strongest quadrupeds.

Do you doubt the truth of this assertion? Try, then, the following experiment.

Fasten to the insect's pincer, or forceps, with a thread, a halfpenny, which will weigh about two grains, while the weight of its body, on an average, will not exceed five centigrammes. Give the insect free course over a sheet of paper, and you will see it drag along the coin like a light chariot. Our animal is, therefore, capable of drawing a burden fifty times heavier than its own body. A man of eleven stone would, in the same ratio, be able to drag 7700 lbs. Neither man nor horse can enter, in this respect, into competition with the earwig. If all the members of the animal kingdom were classified according to their power of traction, it is probable that the post of honour at the top of the list would be occupied by our despised Forficula auricularia.

The idea of a muscular dynamometry of insects is not so new as one might be tempted to think it. From time immemorial men have been struck, without being able to account for it, by the enormous disproportion existing between the weight of a flea and the force or energy displayed by its extraordinary bounds. Hence the popularity of a recent exhibition in London of Performing Fleas. Pliny, eighteen centuries ago, asserted that the muscular strength of the ants exceeded that of all other animals, if we compared the burden they were able to carry with the diminutiveness of their bodies. "Si quis comparet onera corporibus earum, fateatur nullis portione vires esse majores."[71]

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, this interesting question was taken up by Borelli, Lahire, Buffon, and Gueneau de Montbeliard. Recently it has been revived, with much ability, by Felix Plateau, whose experiments have proved that the insects, in comparison with their weight, possess an uncommon muscular force, far beyond that of vertebrate animals; that in the same group of insects this force varies in different species; and that in the small species it is often of astounding energy.

The muscles are enclosed in solid sheaths (so to speak), which constitute the jointed limbs of insects, and the thickness of the sides of these sheaths seems to decrease in ratio with the size. No relation, therefore, exists between the stature of individuals and the volume and strength of their muscles. A giant may be weaker than a dwarf. Here is another mystery for science to reveal!

But we must take leave of our earwig. Its English name is derived by some authorities from ear, and the old English wiega, a worm or grub,—identical with the German oberwurm, and based, of course, on the fiction which we have already exploded.

Newman, however, suggests a somewhat different name, and, consequently, a different etymology:[72]—"The shape of the hind wings," he says, "when fully opened, is nearly that of the human ear; and from this circumstance it seems highly probable that the original name of this insect was earwing." But we cannot agree with Mr Newman.

It remains to be added, that the female earwig sits upon her eggs, and hatches them like a hen; and like a hen, too, she gathers her young around her with evident affection.

T To discern the luminous point which should guide us in the shadows of the infinite, is the gift of genius. The first to discern this point in astronomy, the illustrious Kepler thereby succeeded in formulating those laws, or rather rules, by which the movements of the stars are regulated. How did he succeed? How did he arrive at a goal so much to be desired? By intelligence in full possession of itself. It was by abstracting his thoughts from all systematic conceptions,—the shackles of science; it was by defying the traditional authority which had so long enslaved men's minds; it was by interrogating nature, which leaves all liberty to her interrogator, that Kepler was able to deserve and win the glorious title of "legislator of the heavens,"—a title which we must not, however, understand too literally; it bears witness only to the power of intellect.

Let us attempt, at a modest distance, to proceed like Kepler; let us make astronomy without troubling ourselves concerning astronomers. This is the sole means of seizing the luminous point which should guide our steps.

The movement, in virtue of which every star performs the circuit of heaven in four-and-twenty hours, is incessantly reproduced in a uniform and a constant manner. The acquisition of this first fact, simple as it seems, was a somewhat laborious task, and undoubtedly dates back to a distant antiquity. But now comes another fact, where observation demands the closest mental attention, and which is of a more recent discovery.

To comprehend it clearly, let us first call to mind that the moment when the sun crosses the Equator,—whether to return into the northern hemisphere (at the spring equinox), or into the southern (at the autumn equinox),—is instantaneous. More than one way exists of determining this moment exactly; but here we need not enter upon the subject.

Is the interval of time occupied by the sun in travelling from the spring to the autumn equinox equal to the interval which our luminary requires to pass from the autumn equinox to the vernal?

A singular question, you reply. Who, indeed, would venture to maintain that the number of days, hours, minutes, seconds, was not exactly the same in the one case as in the other?

Well, the period is not the same; and, therefore, merely to propound this question was a masterpiece of genius. For no ordinary intellectual audacity was needed to doubt the reality of the supposed perfect circle which the sun apparently describes—according to the recognised authorities—in its uniform progress around the globe; that globe believed by all the early astronomers to be imperturbably and everlastingly situated in the centre of their thrice-sacred geometrical figure. This dogma being accepted as infallible, there was every evidence that the two intervals of time, which divided the astronomical year into two moieties, would be of equal duration. It did not occur to the mind of any one of the faithful that the sojourn of the sun, in his circular and uniform movement, might be longer or shorter in the northern than in the southern hemisphere.

What, then, was the name of the audacious innovator who ventured upon putting forth so revolutionary a suggestion?

It was Hipparchus. At least it was he who, confidently relying upon his observations, was the first to affirm that the sun remains longer in the northern than in the southern hemispheres; or, more accurately speaking, that its passage from the spring to the autumn equinox occupies 187 days, while from the autumn to the spring equinox the duration of its course is only 178 days 6 hours (nearly). The year of 365-1/4 days—that is, the Egyptian year, which was universally adopted by the ancient astronomers—was thus discovered to be really divided into two unequal portions, although, theoretically, the sun ought to occupy exactly the same space of time in passing from the spring to the autumn, as from the autumn to the spring equinox.

The fact pointed out and attested by Hipparchus had an influence which he never anticipated on the progress of science. In opposition to all the systems previously designed by man, it followed, in the first place, that the movement of the sun, in relation to a mean movement, must sometimes be accelerated, sometimes be retarded; that the solar arc described in a given time would be greater in winter than in summer.

Astronomers who, trammelled by particular theories, were unable and unwilling to accept of any new light, immediately hastened to raise, as is invariably the case with those who defend a bad cause, a subsidiary and damaging question. They asked whether those inequalities of the sun's movement were real, or only apparent; whether they were more than a mere optical phenomenon, arising from the sun's position vis-à-vis to an observer placed on the earth's surface. And they unhesitatingly pronounced in favour of the appearance, and against the reality.

But man, says an old adage, is always punished after the manner of his sin. Dogmatic and obstinate authority involved our anti-revolutionary astronomers in fresh complications. Such is the case, too, very frequently, in the domain of theology!

Does the sun—the sun as each of us beholds him—ever change his size? Does he ever shrink in his majestic proportions? Is the magnitude of his broad golden disc ever lessened?

Assuredly this new question, which was not less audacious than its predecessor, did not come—there is sacrilege in the thought—from the conservative areopagus of all ancient doctrines; the learned areopagus, or supreme tribunal, which had erected into a dogma the circular orbit and uniform movement of the sun around the earth, the centre of the universe! It could only have been suggested by some unworthy heterodoxical disturber of men's minds,—his name, alas! has not been handed down to us,—who had dared to look upon the heavens, and learn from their bright and beautiful face, without a master, the A B C of science. This "pestilent heretic" had, probably, remarked one of the commonest phenomena connected with the celestial bodies, which astronomers hitherto had not deigned to notice.

Undoubtedly, dear reader, you will have been more than once impressed by the appearance of the solar orb, when obscured in one of those mists so frequent towards the end of autumn:—