The insect in its Chrysalis seems utterly to forget itself, not only does it not suffer, but it even seems to enjoy that semblance of death, that unconscious life, which the infant enjoys in its warm cradle. But the crustacæ, in their moulting time, see themselves and feel themselves as they are, suddenly hurled from energetic and terrible life and power to the most complete impotency. They are alarmed, helpless, lost, and can but creep under some sheltering stone, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing but the terror of the coming foe and the unpitied death. Never having encountered terrible foe, or even serious obstacle, and relieved from all necessity of industry by their potent armor, they no sooner lose that than they find themselves utterly without resource. Each might protect the other, but they are all defenceless at the same time. Yet it is said that, in certain species, the male does strive to protect the female, and that if we take one we take both. That terrible necessity of moulting, and the eager research of man, more and more lord of the shores, and the extinction of the old species that afforded them such abounding alimentation, have necessarily kept down the increase of the crustaceæ. Even the Poulpe which, being good for nothing, is neither hunted after nor eaten, has considerably decreased in number. How much more so, then, the crustaceæ whose flesh is so excellent and so coveted by all creatures. They actually seem to be aware of this. The weaker among them resort to the grossest little rogueries to protect themselves; they are ingenious, intriguing. This latter epithet is the true one; they really resemble intriguers who, without visible means, contrive to support themselves upon the means of others. A kind of bastards, neither quite fish, nor quite flesh, they make increment alike of the living, the dying and the dead; occasionally even of land animals. The Oxystome makes himself a kind of miser, and thieves by night; the Birgus at nightfall quits the sea on a marauding expedition, and, for want of better, even ascends the cocoa tree and eats the fruit. The Dromios disguise themselves, and Bernard the Hermit, unable to harden his exterior, seizes a Mollusc, devours the body, and clothes himself in the shell. Thus fitted out, he prowls at evening in search of food, and we detect the furtive pilgrim by the noise which he cannot avoid making as he halts and staggers along, under the load of his ill acquired and ill fitting armor.