210 THE ENTOMOLOGIST. 



storms of centuries, in the dim light seem to assume 

 unearthly forms. 



There is, I suppose, an element of superstition latent in 

 every man's nature ; and T own to a shudder when, in the 

 gathering gloom of a wild autumnal evening, I perceived the 

 group of figures on the summit of the tree which forms the 

 subject of the following sketch, and recalled Dante's descrip- 

 tion of a forest in the Seventh Circle of Hell, where the trees 

 were occupied by spirits : — 



" Ere Nessus yet had reached the other bank, 

 We enter'd on a forest, where no track 

 Of steps had worn a way. Not verdant there 

 The foliage, but of dusky hue ; not light 

 The boughs and tapering, but with knares deform 'd 

 And matted thick : fruits there were none, but thorns 

 Instead, with venom fill'd ^ * h; 



'K '»'■ 'K H* 'I* •!* ^ 



******* 



On all sides 

 I heard sad plainings breathe, and none could see * 

 From whom they might have issued. In amaze 

 Fast bound I stood. He, as it seem'd, believed 

 That I had thought so many voices came 

 From some amid those thickets close conceal'd, 

 And thus his speech resumed : If thou lop off 

 A single twig from one of those ill plants. 

 The thought thou hast conceived shall vanish quite. 

 Thereat a little stretching forth my hand. 

 From a great wilding gather'd I a branch. 

 And straight the trunk exclaim'd, * Why pluck'st thou me?' 

 Then, as the dark blood trickled down its side. 

 These words it added : * Wherefore tear'st me thus ? 

 Is there no touch of mercy in thy breast ? 

 Then once were we, that now are rooted here. 

 Thy hand might well have spared us, had we been 

 The souls of serpents.' As a brand yet green, 

 That burning at one end from the other sends 



