To enter on
eternity under the safe-conduct of a diminutive animal which saves us
from speedy oblivion under the mallows and rockets is no contemptible
advantage. Most men disappear without leaving an echo to repeat their
name; they lie buried in forgetfulness, the worst of graves.

Others, among the naturalists, benefit by the designation given to this
or that object in life's treasure-house: it is the skiff wherein they
keep afloat for a brief while. A patch of lichen on the bark of an old
tree, a blade of grass, a puny beastie: any one of these hands down a
man's name to posterity as effectively as a new comet. For all its
abuses, this manner of honouring the departed is eminently respectable.
If we would carve an epitaph of some duration, what could we find better
than a Beetle's wing-case, a Snail's shell or a Spider's web? Granite is
worth none of them. Entrusted to the hard stone, an inscription becomes
obliterated; entrusted to a Butterfly's wing, it is indestructible.
'Durand,' therefore, by all means.

But why drag in 'Clotho'? Is it the whim of a nomenclator, at a loss for
words to denote the ever-swelling tide of beasts that require
cataloguing? Not entirely. A mythological name came to his mind, one
which sounded well and which, moreover, was not out of place in
designating a spinstress. The Clotho of antiquity is the youngest of the
three Fates; she holds the distaff whence our destinies are spun, a
distaff wound with plenty of rough flocks, just a few shreds of silk and,
very rarely, a thin strand of gold.

Prettily shaped and clad, as far as a Spider can be, the Clotho of the
naturalists is, above all, a highly talented spinstress; and this is the
reason why she is called after the distaff-bearing deity of the infernal
regions. It is a pity that the analogy extends no further. The
mythological Clotho, niggardly with her silk and lavish with her coarse
flocks, spins us a harsh existence; the eight-legged Clotho uses naught
but exquisite silk. She works for herself; the other works for us, who
are hardly worth the trouble.

Would we make her acquaintance? On the rocky slopes in the oliveland,
scorched and blistered by the sun, turn over the flat stones, those of a
fair size; search, above all, the piles which the shepherds set up for a
seat whence to watch the sheep browsing amongst the lavender below. Do
not be too easily disheartened: the Clotho is rare; not every spot suits
her. If