THE MAY-FLY. 49 



human observers. Occasionally indeed, as we are now doing, 

 we are led to amuse what we call an idle hour by bestowing a 

 a little more than our wonted notice on the more fleeting and 

 fragile works of nature ; and then, as we admire the elegance of 

 form, the exquisite finish, the curious adaptation of parts, so 

 strikingly if not pre-eminently observable in the flower or the 

 insect of a day, there comes, mingled with our admiration, a 

 feeling somewhat akin to wondering regret that so much pains 

 should have been bestowed on the formation of an object 

 intended to exist but for so short a space. "It's almost a pity! 

 It's scarcely worth the while!" are phrases which, rising to 

 our lips, are checked only by the monstrous unfitness of applying 

 them to the works of an infinite Being, with whom to will is to 

 create, and to whom a day is as a thousand years, a thousand 

 years as a day. 



To return to our insect of a day, or, to speak with more 

 precision, of from four to five hours, the supposed limit of 

 existence with those amongst the tribe of Ephemera per- 

 mitted to reach a good old age. These, however, form pro- 

 bably but a minor portion of their countless swarms, liable as 

 they are to continual accidents by flood and field : if, indeed, 

 we may regard as accidents those common catastrophes by 

 which, for the benefit of other animals, they are designed to 

 perish. Their dangers and disasters are thus pathetically 

 enumerated by a naturalist of note.* " Who/' says he, " hath 



* Swammerdam. 



