spectator ever imagine, that the wings of the but terfly are furnished with feathers! And yet this is the opinion of some celebrated naturalists. That beautiful dust, say they, with which the wings of the butterfly are covered, and to which they owe both their opacity and variegated colouring, is an innumerable cluster of extremely small feathers, which cannot be discovered but by the microscope. The structure and arrangement of these feathers are described to be as perfect in symmetry, as they are beautiful in colouring; the parts which form their centre, and which immediately touch the wing, to be the strongest; those, on the contrary, which form the exterior circumference, to be more delicate, and of an extraordinary fineness. All these feathers, moreover, are said to have a quill at their root; and it is added, that if we seize the wing too roughly, we destroy the most delicate part of the plumage; but that if we wipe off all that was supposed to be powder, nothing remains but a fine and transparent membrane, where we may easily discern the little cavities or sockets, in which the quill of each feather was fixed. This membrane, from the manner in which it is embroidered, is represented to be almost as easily distinguished from the rest of the wing, as fine lace from the cloth upon which it is stretched. It is likewise said to be more porous and more delicate; to have the appearance of having been wrought by a needle; and to be terminated on the outline by a fringe, the threads of which are infinitely fine, and succeed each other with the most perfect regularity. Other naturalists, on the contrary, maintain that this seeming powder is a profusion of variouslycoloured scales; but formed, however, in such a manner, as easily to deceive the eye by the appearance of feathers. The upper and under parts of

the wing are equally furnished with these, and there is no species of this insect, in every wing of which there are not several figures of these feathers or scales in several parts.

In down of ev'ry variegated die

Shines flutt'ring soft, the gaudy butterfly:
That powder, which thy spoiling hand disdains,
The form of quills and painted plumes contains ;
Not courts can more magnificence express
In all their blaze of gems and pomp of dress.

BROWNE

How much inferior must be the most magnificent robes, wrought by mortal hands, compared to the beautiful dress, with which Nature has invested the butterfly. Our richest laces are but coarse cloth, and our finest threads but cord, compared to the delicate texture that covers the wings of this insect. Such is the extreme difference to be observed between the works of Nature and those of Art, when we contemplate them through a microscope, that, while the first are finished to our utmost ideas of perfection, the latter, and even the most admirable of their kind, seem to be clumsily performed. But as this wonderful difference has been noticed in a former Paper, I need not enlarge on the subject here.

What is most astonishing in these wonderful insects is, that yesterday perhaps, they were produced from an abject and contemptible worm. But now they bear aloft their painted glories,

Of all the varied dies,

Their beauty-beaming parent can disclose.

THOMSON.

The powder or down on the wings of the lepidoptera, or scaly-winged insects, is now allowed to be composed of very minute scales, and not of feathers, which differ in size and form in the different specics.

* See No. XXXI.

With what vigour do they sport.in the solar ray, exult in existence, inhale the odoriferous breeze, and rove in fickle flight from flower to flower,

Their wings (all glorious to behold)
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide they display: the spangled dew

Reflects their eyes and various hue '. GAY.

How wonderful this transformation from that reptile state, when struggling in the dust, they were in perpetual danger of being crushed by every careless foot! And by what omnipotent hand were they enabled thus to rise from the ground? Who endued them with power to traverse the aerial plains? Who adorned them with the vivid beauties of their wings?-God, the beneficent Creator of the butterfly and of God, who, in this wonderful insect, has presented us with an image of that transformation which

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man:

Some of the most splendid butterflies, in this country, are seen in the month of August. The papilio machaon, commonly known as the swallow-tailed butterfly, is of a beautiful yellow, with black spots or patches along the upper edge of the superior wings: all the wings are bordered with a deep edging of black, decorated by a double row of crescent-shaped spots, of which the upper row is blue, and the lower yellow. The under wings are tailed, and are marked at the inner angle or tip with a round red spot, bordered with blue and black. Three others are particularly worthy of notice: (1) The peacock butterfly (Papilio Io), of an orange brown colour, with black bars intersected by spaces of yellow; (2) the admirable butterfly (Papilio Atalanta), of the most intense velvet black colour, with a carmine-coloured bar across the upper wings, which are spotted towards the tips with white; and (3) the papilio paphia, an highly elegant insect of a fine orange chesnut colour above, with numerous black spots and bars. It is usually found in the neighbourhood of woods. To these may be added, the black-eyed marble butterfly (Papilio Semele), and the small golden black-spotted butterfly (Papilio Phlæas).

awaits our own perishable bodies! Yes, the day will at last arrive, when quitting this earthly tabernacle, the good man shall no longer creep below. The day will come, when, this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality. The good man then, made perfect and glorified, will soar beyond the stars, and enjoy unutterable bliss in scenes of everlasting day.

The following stanzas, attributed to one of the first scholars of the present day, are so strictly in unison with the sentiments of the Contemplative Philosopher, and possess so much poetical merit, that they will form no inappropriate conclusion to the present Paper.

BIRTH OF THE BUTTERFLY.

The shades of night were scarcely fled,
The air was mild, the winds were still,
And slow the slanting sun-beams spread
O'er wood and lawn, o'er heath and hill,

From fleecy clouds of pearly hue
Had dropt a short but balmy show'r,
That hung like gems of morning dew,
On ev'ry tree, on ev'ry flow'r.

And from the blackbird's mellow throat
Was poured so long and loud a swell,
As echoed with responsive note,

From mountain side and shadowy dell

When, bursting forth to life and light,
The offspring of enraptured May,
The Butterfly, on pinions bright,
Launched in full splendour on the day.

Unconscious of a mother's care,

No infant wretchedness it knew;

But, as she felt the vernal air,
At once to full perfection grew.

Her stender form, etherial, light,

Her velvet-textured wings unfold, With all the rainbow's colours bright, And dropt with spots of burnished gold. Trembling awhile, with joy she stood, And felt the Sun's enliv'ning ray, Drank from the skies the vital flood, And wondered at her plumage gay; And balanced oft her broidered wings, Thro' fields of air prepared to sail; Then on her vent'rous journey springs, And floats along the rising gale.

Go, child of pleasure, range the fields— Taste all the joys that Spring can give→ Partake what bounteous Summer yields, And live, while yet 'tis thine to live.

Go, sip the rose's fragrant dew

The lily's honied cup explore

From flow'r to flow'r the search renew,
And rifle all the woodbine's store.

And let me trace thy vagrant flight,

Thy moments, too, of short repose; And mark thee, when, with fresh delight, Thy golden pinions ope and close.

But hark! while thus I musing stand,
Pours on the gale an airy note,
And, breathing from a viewless band,
Soft silvery tones around me float.

They cease-but still a voice I hear,
A whispered voice of hope and joy
Thy hour of rest approaches near,
Prepare thee, mortal! thou must die!
Yet, start not, on thy closing eyes
Another day shall still unfold;

A sun of milder radiance rise,
A happier age of joys untold.

Shall the poor worm that shocks thy sight,
The humblest form in Nature's train,

Thus rise in new-born lustre bright,
And yet the emblem teach in vain?