Of a handsome and commanding figure, slender and pinched in at the waist, the Carabus is the glory of our collections, but only for the sake of his appearance. He is a frenzied murderer; and that is all. We will ask nothing more of him. The wisdom of antiquity represented Hercules, the god of strength, with the head of an idiot. And indeed merit is not great when limited to brute force. And this is the case with the Carabus. To see him so richly adorned, who would not wish to find him a fine subject for investigation, one worthy of history, a subject such as humbler natures provide with lavish generosity? From this ferocious ransacker of entrails we expect nothing of the kind. His art is that of slaying. We may without trouble observe him at his bandit's work. I rear him in a large breeding-cage on a layer of fresh sand. A few potsherds scattered about the surface enable him to take shelter beneath the rocks; a tuft of grass planted in the centre makes a grove and enlivens the establishment. Three species compose the population: the common _Jardiniere_, or Golden Beetle, the usual inmate of our gardens; _Procrustes coriaceus_, the sombre and powerful explorer of the grassy thickets at the foot of walls; and the rare Purple Carabus, who trims the ebony of his wing-cases with metallic violet. I feed them on Snails, after partly removing the shell. Hidden at first promiscuously under the potsherds, the Carabi make a rush for the wretched Snail, who, in his despair, alternately puts out and withdraws his horns. Three of them at a time, then four, then five begin by devouring the edge of his mantle, specked with chalky atoms. This is the favourite morsel. With their mandibles, those stout pincers, they lay hold of it through the froth; they tug at it, tear off a shred and retire to a distance to swallow it at their ease. Meanwhile the legs, streaming with slime, pick up grains of sand and become covered with heavy gaiters, which are extremely cumbersome but to which the Beetle pays no attention. Heavy with mire, he staggers back to his prey and cuts off another morsel. He will think of polishing his boots presently. Others do not stir, but gorge themselves on the spot, with the whole fore-part of their body immersed in the froth. The feast lasts for hours on end. The guests do not leave the joint until the distended belly lifts the roof of the wing-cases and uncovers the nudities of the stern. Fonder of shady nooks, the Procrustes form a separate company. They drag the Snail into their lair, under the shelter of a potsherd, and there, peacefully and in common, dismember the mollusc. They love the Slug, as easier to cut up than the Snail, who is defended by his shell; they regard the Testacella,[1] who bears a chalky shell, shaped like a Phrygian cap, right at the hinder end of her foot, as a delicious tit-bit. The game has firmer flesh and is less nauseously slimy.