144 ABOUT THE MICROSCOPE. 
are not of my own kind, they are at all events associated with 
me. 
Ay, fatally associated. 
And yet I cannot fly from them: swarms haunt the very air which 
I breathe,—what do I say? float in the fluids of my body. Itis my 
interest to know them. But my sovereign interest is to escape from 
my deplorable and wretched ignorance, and not to quit this world until 
I have peered into the infinite. 
Full of such ideas, I addressed myself to one of the philosophers of 
the present day who have made the greatest and most successful use 
of the microscope,—the celebrated Dr. Robin. Under his direction, I 
purchased from the skilful optician Nachet an excellent instrument, 
and planted myself before my window on a very beautiful day. 
I have said'it,—the microscope is much more than a mere magni- 
fying glass. It is an aid, a servant who has hands to supplement your 
own—eyes, and movable eyes, which by their changes enable you to 
see an object at a suitable magnitude, and either in detail or as a whole. 
One perfectly understands the all-absorbing attraction which it exer- 
ereat the fatigue it causes, one cannot separate one’s- 
cises ; however 
self from it. Its début, as we have seen, was signalized by its slaying 
its creator, Swammerdam. How many workmen has it not since de- 
prived, if not of life, at least of sight? The first of the two Hubers 
became blind at a comparatively early age. The illustrious author of 
the great. work on the cockchafer, M. Strauss, is nearly so. Our pallid 
but enthusiastic Robin is already on the same descent, but pursues his 
studies without pause. The seduction is too potent. Who can renounce 
the truth, after once beholding it? Who can willingly return into the 
world of errors wherein men exist? Better not to see at all, than 
always to see things falsely. 
Behold me, then, face to face with my little man of copper. I lost 
not an instant in interrogating the oracle. And its first and somewhat 
rough reply respecting the two objects I presented was :— 
One was the human hand, white and delicate,—the left hand, the 
idler, and that of a person who did no work. 
The other, a spider’s foot. 
