OF AN INSECT HUNTER. S3 



mutilated ; but it was my first-born, and I read and re-read it 

 with infinite complacency, although it was so altered I could 

 scarcely myself understand it : this was my first attempt with 

 the public. 



CHAPTER IV. 



[The Insect-Hunter visiteth Wales. Black Mountain. Llanthony.] 



Seven years had rolled over the head of the Insect-Hunter 

 since his first wanderings in Darenth Wood — seven whole 

 years — a large portion of human life ! And what had I 

 been doing ? Creating myself enemies. I had written myself 

 into fame. I was feared by many, yet feared none ; I was 

 hated by many, yet hated none ; I was persecuted by many, 

 yet persecuted none. Reader, if thou art not an author, 

 resolve never to be one. Of all parts that we can play in this 

 world, that of an honest author is the most dangerous. It 

 were better for an honest man never to write. I look upon 

 it as a thing impossible for a man to write honestly and not 

 give offence. After the offence is taken comes the retort — the 

 revenge : a passage misquoted, a fact mistated, and a thou- 

 sand other petty annoyances. Sometimes the same attack, 

 clothed in various language, defiles half a dozen different 

 periodicals. Honesty has no remedy for this : it cannot wield 

 the same weapons. 



Such were my ponderings as I traversed the lofty ridges of 

 the Black Mountain for the fourth time in the summer of 1835. 

 Far as the eye could reach there was no trace of the handy- 

 work of man, — nothing but one wild, boundless waste of 

 heather, interspersed with the bright young green of the 

 whortleberry, the blossoms of which were the resort of 

 myriads of bees. That fine humble bee, Bombus regelationis, 

 was in tolerable abundance ; and from the rapidity of its flight, 

 and the inequalities of the ground, gave us much trouble and 

 amusement in its capture. I should have explained that I was 

 not now alone. I had two companions, — one the dreader of 



no. I. VOL. IV. F 



