Of course the wings here represent the powers of the mind—­knowledge, reason, will.  Men ought to use these in order to reach still nobler and higher states of life.  But there are men who refuse to use their best faculties for this end.  Such men are like butterflies who do not want to take the trouble to fly, but prefer the former condition of the caterpillar which does nothing but eat and sleep.  As applied to certain forms of conservatism the satire is strong.

Something may now be said as to poems about spiders.  But let me remind you that a spider is not an insect.  Scientifically it has no relation to the great family of true insects; it belongs to the very distinct family of the arthropoda or “joint-footed” animals.  But as it is still popularly called an insect in most European countries, we may be excused for including it in the subject of the present lecture.  I suppose you know that one of the scientific names for this whole class of creatures is Arachnida,—­a name derived from the Greek name Arachne.  The story of Arachne is interesting, and everybody studying natural history ought to know it.  Arachne was a young girl, according to the Greek story, who was very skilful at weaving.  She wove cloths of many different colours and beautiful patterns, and everybody admired her work.  This made her vain—­so vain that at last she said that even the goddess of weaving could not weave better than she.  Immediately after she had said that, the terrible goddess herself—­Pallas Athena—­entered the room.  Pallas Athena was not only the goddess of wisdom, you know, but especially the goddess of young girls, presiding over the chastity, the filial piety, and the domestic occupations of virgins; and she was very angry at the conceit of this girl.  So she said to her, “You have boasted that you can weave as well as I can; now let me see you weave!” So Arachne was obliged to sit down at her loom and weave in the presence of the goddess; and the goddess also wove, far surpassing the weaving of Arachne.  When the weaving was done, the goddess asked the girl, “Now see! which is the better, my work or yours?” And Arachne was obliged to confess that she had been defeated and put to shame.  But the goddess was not thoroughly satisfied; to punish Arachne, she touched her lightly with the distaff, saying, “Spin forever!” and thereupon Arachne was changed into a spider, which forever spins and weaves perishable films of perishable shiny thread.  Poetically we still may call a spider Arachne.

I have here a little poem of a touching character entitled “Arachne,” by Rose Terry Cooke,—­one of the symbolic poems which are becoming so numerous in these days of newer and deeper philosophy.  I think that you will like it:  a spinster, that is, a maiden passed the age of girlhood, is the speaker.

  I watch her in the corner there,
  As, restless, bold, and unafraid,
  She slips and floats along the air
  Till all her subtile house is made.