moth, having neither teeth nor even any mouth capable of opening, but only a weak hollow tongue to suck honey through, was utterly incapable of biting or inflicting any wound whatever. But, as is usual in such cases, my entomological theory went for nothing in face of the gentleman's knock-down battery of facts—ocular facts; he had seen the moth, and he had seen the wound: surely, there was proof enough for me, or any one else. So, I suppose, he steadfastly believes to this day, that the moth was a truculent, bloodthirsty monster; whilst I still presume to believe, that if any wound was caused at the moment in question, it was by the nails of the lady attacked, or her friends, in clutching frantically at the terrific intruder; who, poor fellow, might have been pardoned for mistaking the fair neck for one of his favourite flowers (a lily, perhaps), while the utmost harm he contemplated was to pilfer a sip of nectar from the lips he doubtless took for rosebuds.
Utilitarians may, perhaps, inquire the uses of butterflies—what they do, make, or can be sold for; and I must confess that my little favourites neither make anything to wear, like the silkworm, nor anything to eat, like the honey-bee, nor are their bodies saleable by the ton, like the cochineal insects, and that, commercially speaking, they are just worth nothing at all, excepting the few paltry pence or shillings that the dealer gets for their little dried bodies occasionally; so they are of no more use than poetry, painting, and music—than flowers, rainbows, and all such
unbusinesslike things. In fact, I have nothing to say in the butterfly's favour, except that it is a joy to the deep-minded and to the simple-hearted, to the sage, and, still better, to the child—that it gives an earnest of a better world, not vaguely and generally, as does every "thing of beauty," but with clearest aim and purpose, through one of the most strikingly perfect and beautiful analogies that we can find throughout that vast Creation, where—
"All animals are living hieroglyphs."[[5]]
The butterfly, then, in its own progressive stages of caterpillar, chrysalis, and perfect insect, is an emblem of the human soul's progress through earthly life and death, to heavenly life.
Even the ancient Greeks, with their imperfect lights, recognised this truth, when they gave the same name, Psyche (Ψυχή), to the soul, or spirit of life, and to the butterfly, and sculptured over the effigy of one dead the figure of a butterfly, floating away, as it were, in his breath; while poets of all nations have since followed up the simile.
And this analogy is not only a mere general resemblance, but holds good through its minute details to a marvellous extent; to trace which fully would require volumes, while in this place the slightest sketch only can be given.
First, there is the grovelling caterpillar-state,
emblematical of our present imperfection, but yet the state of preparation and increase towards perfection, and that, too, which largely influences the future existence.
Many troubles and changes are the lot of the caterpillar. Repeated skin-shiftings and ceaseless industry in his vocation are necessary, that within his set time he may attain full growth and vigour.