“My companion, before entering, readjusted his feelers and collar. He then procured tickets from a wood-louse stationed at the entrance of a large acanthus flower. The concert-hall was filled by one of the most brilliant assemblages of the season. Certain well-known members of the insect aristocracy thronged the private boxes, gazing around with that air of superfine insolence which freezes the muscles of the face into an expression of languid-icy indifference. Slender-waisted wasps and dragon-flies formed charming groups; while a crowd of restless fleas filled the upper gallery. Flies in solemn black—as if mourning for the frivolity of the hour—were seated in the pit, patiently waiting to regale their ears with the music.
“ ‘This gathering,’ I said, ‘conveys a pleasing impression to my mind. It is astonishing to see youth and beauty so thoroughly engrossed with the prospect of listening to good music.’
“ ‘Do not deceive yourself, my friend,’ replied the May bug. ‘It is not the art of the musician that is the chief attraction. These are, most of them, slaves of fashion, who know little and care less about music. Chut! here is the first harvest-fly about to open the concert with her celebrated song.’
“The singer, decked in resplendent wings, sang something thoroughly dramatic. Her notes, sometimes loud, sometimes low, deep, high, long, short, were hurled into the hall in a manner so utterly perplexing that I whispered to my friend, ‘Do you think she is all right?’
“ ‘Right?’ he replied. ‘My uninitiated friend, you are listening to a prima donna, the finest soprano on the stage. The rendering of the cantata is sublime. Mark the modulations of the voice, the syncopation of the passages, the—so to speak—rhythmical delivery, the volume of sound filling every corner of the room, the’——
“ ‘But after all,’ said I, interrupting him, ‘as a mere display of the variety of sounds contained in the voice, the performance is perhaps very fine, yet I would rather listen to the heart-song of a linnet than all the throat-melodies of the world.’
“ ‘Believe me, you must be mistaken,’ said the Bug. ‘She is a universal favourite; and, moreover, anything so popular must be in itself good.’
“The fly was followed by a band of a hundred cathedral crickets who intoned a chorus. They seemed to be so nervously affected each one about his notes that the fall of the curtain afforded me great relief.
“The interval was filled by the evolutions of a grasshopper ballet corps, who exercised their feet and legs quite as much as the others had their lungs. It seems—so my companion says—they express in their gestures and steps many of the most subtle feelings of the heart. As for myself, I failed to perceive anything beyond the rather indecent gambols of a band of immodestly-dressed female grasshoppers. The display, although utterly devoid of the refinement which each male member of the assembly claimed as his special attribute, seemed to afford unmixed delight. To tell the truth, I myself was beginning to take some interest in the spectacle, when the whole band disappeared, and the din of instruments began louder than ever. Oh my poor head! how it ached! I was compelled to seek the fresh air.
“ ‘Is this what you promised me?’ I said to the May-bug. ‘I asked for songs, and in place of them you have taken me to listen to a troop of liberated fiends, who play all manner of tricks with divine harmony! Take me, I pray you, where one may listen to music unaccompanied by swords, torches, and operatic tinsel.’