An insect, well known to every one, is often but a stupid creature, while another, of which nothing is known, is of real value. When endowed with talents worthy of attention, it passes unrecognized; when richly clad and of handsome appearance, it is familiar to us. We judge it by its coat and its size, as we judge our neighbour by the fineness of his clothing and the importance of the position which he fills. The rest does not count. Of course, if it is to be honoured by the historian, it is best that the insect should enjoy popular renown. This saves the reader trouble, as he at once knows precisely what we are speaking of; furthermore, it shortens the story, which is not hampered by long and tedious descriptions. Moreover, if size facilitates observation, if elegance of shape and brilliance of costume captivate the eye, we should be wrong not to take this magnificence into our reckoning. But far more important are the habits, the ingenious devices, which give a real charm to entomological study. Now it so happens that among the insects it is the largest, the most magnificent, that are generally the most inefficient: a freak of nature that recurs elsewhere. What can we expect of a Carabus, all shimmering with metallic gleams? Nothing but feasting amid the foam secreted by a murdered snail. What can we expect of the Cetonia, who looks as though she had escaped from a jeweller’s show-case? Nothing but drowsy slumbers in the heart of a rose. These magnificoes cannot do anything; they have no craft, no trade. If, on the contrary, we wish to see original inventions, artistic masterpieces and ingenious contrivances, we must apply to the humble creatures that are oftener than not unknown to any one. And we must not allow ourselves to be disgusted by the spots frequented. Ordure has beautiful and curious things in store for us, the like of which we should never find on the rose. The Minotaur [65] has edified us by his domestic habits. Long live the modest! Long live the little! One of these little ones, smaller than a peppercorn, will set us a great problem, full of interest but probably insoluble. The official nomenclators call it Cionus thapsus, Fab. If you ask me what Cionus means, I shall reply frankly that I have not the least idea. Neither the writer of these lines nor the reader is any the worse off for that. In entomology a name is all the better for meaning nothing but the insect named. If an amalgam of Greek or Latin has a meaning that alludes to the insect’s manner of living, the reality is often inconsistent with the word, because the nomenclator, working in a necropolis, has preceded the observer, who is concerned with the living species. Moreover, rough guesses and even glaring mistakes too often disfigure the records of the insect world.