Then comes a mighty change: the caterpillar is to exchange his worm-like form and nature for an existence unspeakably higher and better. But, as we have seen, to arrive at this glory there is only one condition, which is, that the creature must pass through another, and, as it might seem, a gloomy state—one anything but cheerful to contemplate; for it must cease to eat, to move, and—to the eye—to live. Yet, is it really dead now, or do we, who have watched the creature thus far, despair and call it lost? Do we not rather rejoice that it rests from its labours, and that the period of its glorification is at hand?
In the silent chrysalis state then our Psyche sleeps away awhile, unaffected by the vicissitudes around it; and, at last, when its appointed day arrives, bursts from its cerements, and rises in the air a winged and joyous being, to meet the sun which warmed it into new life. Now it is a butterfly,—bright emblem of pleasure unalloyed.
This happy consummation, however, is only for the chrysalis which has not within it the devouring worm, the fruit of the ichneumon's egg, harboured during the
caterpillar state—and emblem, in the human soul, of some deadly sin yielded to during life, and which afterwards becomes the gnawing "worm that dieth not." For in this case, instead of the bright butterfly, there issues forth from the chrysalis-shell only a swarm of black, ill-favoured flies, like a troop of evil spirits coming from their feast on a fallen soul.
If a caterpillar were gifted with a foreknowledge of his butterfly future, so far transcending his inglorious present, we could imagine that he would be only impatient to get through his caterpillar duties, and rejoice to enter the chrysalis state as soon as he was fitted for it. How short-sighted then would a caterpillar appear who should endeavour, while in that shape, to emulate the splendour of the butterfly by some wretched temporary substitute, adding a few more, or brighter stripes than nature had given it; or, again, if one whose great change was drawing near, should attempt to conceal its visible approach by painting over the fading hues of health, and plastering up the wrinkles of its outward covering, so soon to be thrown off altogether; instead of striving for inward strength and beauty, which would never decline, but be infinitely expanded in the butterfly—and regarding the earthly beauty's wane as the dawn of the celestial.
With these and similar reflections before us (which might be multiplied ad infinitum), we shall no longer look upon the caterpillar as a mere unsightly and troublesome reptile, the chrysalis as an unintelligible curiosity, and the butterfly as a pretty painted thing and nothing more; but regard them as together forming one of those beautiful and striking illustrations with which the book of Nature has been so profusely enriched by its Great Author; not to be taken as substitutes for His revealed Word, but as harmonious adjuncts, bringing its great truths more home to our understandings, just as the engravings in a book are not designed as substitutes for the text, but to elucidate and strengthen the ideas in the reader's mind.
While the poet draws from the butterfly many a pleasant similitude, and the moralist many a solemn teaching, the artist (who should be poet and moralist too) dwells upon these beings with fondest delight, finding in them images of joy and life when seen at large in the landscape, and rich stores of colour-lessons when studied at home in the cabinet.