Girardi took the insect with due precaution: examined it carefully; paused for reflection; and suddenly an expression of triumph developed itself in his countenance. An irresistible argument seemed to have fallen from heaven in his hands. Commencing in his usual professional tone, he gradually assumed a more sublime expression, as the secret object of his lesson penetrated through his language. [Illustration] “Mere fly-catcher as I am,” he began with an arch smile, “I must restrict myself to my humble attributions, and not presume to affect the pedantry of the scholar.” “The most enlightened mind,” said Charney, “the mind which has profited most largely by the acquirement of knowledge, is that which soonest discovers the limitation of its own powers, after vainly attempting to penetrate into the hidden mysteries of things. Genius itself breaks its wings against such obstacles, without having extracted from the wall of flints, by which it is obstructed, one spark of the light of truth.” “We ignoramuses,” observed Girardi, “arrive sooner at our object by taking the most direct road. If we do but open our eyes, GOD deigns to reveal himself in the august sublimity of his works.” “On that point we are agreed,” interrupted Charney. “Proceed we then in our course. An herb of the field sufficed to prove to you the existence of a Providence; a butterfly, the law of universal harmony; the insect before us, of which the organization is of a still higher order, may lead us still farther towards conviction.” Charney, at the instance of his friend, proceeded to examine the little stranger with curious attention. [Illustration] “Behold this insignificant creature,” resumed Girardi. “All that human genius could effect would not add one tittle to an organization perfectly adapted to its wants and necessities. It has wings to transport it from one place to another; elytra to incase and secure them from the contact of any hard substance. Its breast is defended by a cuirass, its eyes by a curious network that defies the prick of a thorn or the sting of an enemy. It possesses antennæ to interrogate the obstacles that present themselves, feet to attain its prey, iron mandibles to assist in devouring it, in digging the earth for a refuge or a depository for its food or eggs. If a dangerous adversary should approach, it has in reserve an acrid and corrosive fluid, by discharging which it defies its enemies. Instinct teaches it to find its food, to provide its lodging, and exercise its powers of offence and defence. Nor is this a solitary instance. Other insects are endowed with similar delicacy of organization; the imagination recoils with wonder from the multiplicity and variety of provisions invented by nature for the security of the apparently feeble insect tribe. We have still to consider this fragile creature as demonstrating the line of demarcation between mankind and the brute creation.