equally ignorant of nature, and equally ready to run into absurdities, derogatory to God, considering the works of his hands as of evil omen, and attaching to them powers which belong to him alone!

133

LETTER X.

LET us now take a walk to the sea-shore, and on our way to it consider, first, a few of the common objects which may present themselves. There is one plant which we cannot fail to recognise, namely, the dandelion, which is found every where; and I may remark that when a plant is very common, it probably has extensive and important uses in the economy of nature. Dandelion has long been employed on the Continent as a remedy in obstructed liver, in pulmonary affections, and in cutaneous and various other diseases. In England it is pretty extensively used in incipient scirrhus of the liver, chronic derangement of the stomach, and several other complaints. In France its young leaves are eaten as a salad, and at Gottingen the poorer classes are said to roast the roots and use them as coffee. But I believe that the great object which the dandelion serves in the economy of nature, is to afford a copious supply of nutriment to innumerable insects. It is almost the only early flower spread every where

within the body of the parent; this, indeed, is stated to occur very often with the common flesh or blow-fly.

I am inclined to believe that maggots have the property of keeping the part in which they are situated moist, when, but for their presence, it would be dried up by the sun and air. making dried anatomical preparations, I have several times remarked, that any part where a maggot was placed was wet and soft, though the rest was dry; some experiments, however, would be necessary, fairly to decide this point.

There is a curious passage in Linnæus's "Tour in Lapland," which would lead one to suppose, that some birds supply a fund of nutriment to their young, by placing dead bodies near the nest for the purpose of breeding maggots. He mentions having found the nest of what he supposed to be the eagle-owl, on the side of a high mountain; it contained three young birds, one of which was much larger than the others: he says, "I believe the "two smaller birds were the offspring of the "eagle-owl; close to the nest lay a few small "bones, of what animal I am ignorant. These "birds were all quite full fed. Near them was

66

66

a large dead rat, of which the under-side was already putrefied, and full of maggots.

I

66

"verily believe that these young birds cannot digest flesh, but are obliged to wait till "it decays, and affords them maggots and " vermin." *

The common or house spider is an animal whose history is much more remarkable than that of the fly; but I must refer you for an excellent account of it, and spiders in general, to that admirable production, "Insect Architecture," which forms the third volume of the 66 Library of Entertaining Knowledge.” I shall only remark, that very few people know the fact, that each thread which a spider spins is composed of above four thousand other threads; that four millions of the threadlets of a young spider would not be thicker than a hair of a man's beard; that one species lives in water, in a house of air like a diving-bell; that some exotic species build houses in the ground, and close the entrance with a door, having an elastic hinge which spontaneously keeps it shut: but these, and many other interesting particulars, you will find in the work alluded to.

I know not whether you are aware that the noises made by insects are not formed by the mouth, but are produced by the motion of the

wings, or by the friction of certain parts on each other. The latter mode is that by which the chirrup of the cricket and grashopper is caused, the noise being produced by the animal rubbing the wing-case of one side under and against that of the other. The cricket, though often a troublesome inmate in houses, adds, on some occasions, considerably to the combin ation of pleasing circumstances which attend the" close of a summer day. The sounds especially which characterise the evening twilights of our own islands are, in general, of a very pleasing description. Excuse me for reminding you of the following beautiful lines in Goldsmith's "Deserted Village:'

"Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

There as I passed with careless steps and slow,'
The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice, that bay'd the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made."

Add to these the hum of the evening insects, sporting in myriads through the air: