To treat fevers, we must divide the Fuller Beetle into two parts and fasten one half to the right arm and the other half to the left. Now what did the ancient naturalist mean by this term Fuller Beetle? We do not know exactly. The description albis guttis, white spots, would fit the white-flecked Pinechafer pretty well, but it is not enough to make us certain. Pliny himself seems to have been none too sure of his wonderful cure. In his time, men’s eyes had not yet learnt how to look at the insect. The creatures were too small; they were fit amusement for children, who would tie them to the end of a long thread and make them run round in a circle, but they were unworthy the attention of a self-respecting man. Pliny apparently got the word from the country-folk, always poor observers and inclined to bestow extravagant names. The scholar accepted the rustic locution, the work perhaps of a childish imagination, and applied it as a makeshift, without further enquiries. The word has come down to us a fragment of antiquity; our modern naturalists have adopted it; and this is how one of our handsomest insects became the Fuller. The majesty of the centuries has consecrated the strange appellation. In spite of all my respect for ancient languages, the term Fuller does not appeal to me because in the circumstances it is nonsensical. Common sense should take precedence of the aberrations of nomenclature. Why not say Pine Cockchafer, in memory of the beloved tree, the paradise of the insect during the two or three weeks of its aërial life? It would be very simple; nothing could be more natural: a very good reason for putting it last of all. We have to wander a long time in the night of absurdity before reaching the radiant light of truth. All our sciences bear witness to this, even the science of number. Try to add a column of figures written in Roman numerals: you will abandon the task, stupefied by the confusion of the symbols, and you will realize how great a revolution was made in arithmetic by the invention of the figure nought. Like the egg of Columbus, it was indeed a very small thing, but it had to be thought of. Until the future casts the unfortunate Fuller into oblivion, we will say Pine Cockchafer, so far as we are concerned. Using this name, no one can make a mistake: our insect frequents the pine-tree only. It has a handsome and portly appearance, vying with that of Oryctes nasicornis. [52] Its costume, though not boasting the metallic splendour dear to the Carabus, [53] the Buprestis, [54] and the Cetonia, is at least unusually elegant. A black or brown ground is thickly strewn with capricious spots of white velvet. It is at the same time modest and magnificent.