A PHANTASMAGORIA OF LIGHT AND COLOUR. 
If the insect does not and will not speak to us, are we 
to suppose that it does not express the burning inten¬ 
sity of the life within it ? 
No living creature reveals itself more clearly; 
though only from itself to its kind, from insect to 
insect. They are bound up in themselves; are a 
sealed world, which has no outward expression, and 
no language except for its own members. 
For all ordinary purposes, an electric telegraph 
exists in their antennas. But the great, the eloquent 
language is manifested among them towards the close 
of their existence,—for one brief moment, it is true,— 
a moment announcing the approach of death, yet the grand festival 
of love. 
They speak through the rare attractions with which they are 
invested,—through the wing, the flight, the airy existence,---through 
