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.

Her home, her bed, her daily