“ ‘Come with me,’ said he at last, ‘society waits our appearance.’ “I formed a close intimacy with a May bug, who one day said, ‘I shall take you to the theatre, and other places of amusement, where we may spend a pleasant evening.’ “My new friend asked if I was a lover of music. ‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘in the garden of my nativity we had some very fine tom-tits.’ “ ‘We have something much better than that to offer you. I shall introduce you to the Academy, where we shall listen to the sublime in art.’ “My companion, before entering, readjusted his feelers and collar. {112} He then procured tickets from a wood-louse stationed at the entrance of a large acanthus flower. The concert-hall was filled by one of the most brilliant assemblages of the season. Certain well-known members of the insect aristocracy thronged the private boxes, gazing around with that air of superfine insolence which freezes the muscles of the face into an expression of languid-icy indifference. Slender-waisted wasps and dragon-flies formed charming groups; while a crowd of restless fleas filled the upper gallery. Flies in solemn black—as if mourning for the frivolity of the hour—were seated in the pit, patiently waiting to regale their ears with the music. “ ‘This gathering,’ I said, ‘conveys a pleasing impression to my mind. It is astonishing to see youth and beauty so thoroughly engrossed with the prospect of listening to good music.’ “ ‘Do not deceive yourself, my friend,’ replied the May bug. ‘It is not the art of the musician that is the chief attraction. These are, most of them, slaves of fashion, who know little and care less about music. Chut! here is the first harvest-fly about to open the concert with her celebrated song.’ “The singer, decked in resplendent wings, sang something thoroughly dramatic. Her notes, sometimes loud, sometimes low, deep, high, long, short, were hurled into the hall in a manner so utterly perplexing that I whispered to my friend, ‘Do you think she is all right?’ “ ‘Right?’ he replied. ‘My uninitiated friend, you are listening to a prima donna, the finest soprano on the stage. The rendering of the cantata is sublime. Mark the modulations of the voice, the syncopation of the passages, the—so to speak—rhythmical delivery, the volume of sound filling every corner of the room, the’—— “ ‘But after all,’ said I, interrupting him, ‘as a mere display of the variety of sounds contained in the voice, the performance is perhaps very fine, yet I would rather listen to the heart-song of a linnet than all the throat-melodies of the world.’ “ ‘Believe me, you must be mistaken,’ said the Bug. ‘She is a universal favourite; and, moreover, anything so popular must be in itself good.’ “The fly was followed by a band of a hundred cathedral crickets who intoned a chorus. They seemed to be so nervously affected each one about his notes that the fall of the curtain afforded me great relief. {113}