mething as much like
a look of triumph as his dry face permitted,--not uncivil at all, but a
rather extraordinary question to ask at this date of entomological
history. I settled that question some years ago, by a series of
dissections, six-and-thirty in number, reported in an essay I can show
you and would give you a copy of, but that I am a little restricted in my
revenue, and our Society has to be economical, so I have but this one.
You see, sir,--and he went on with elytra and antennae and tarsi and
metatarsi and tracheae and stomata and wing-muscles and leg-muscles and
ganglions,--all plain enough, I do not doubt, to those accustomed to
handling dor-bugs and squash-bugs and such undesirable objects of
affection to all but naturalists.

He paused when he got through, not for an answer, for there evidently was
none, but to see how the Master would take it. The Scarabee had had it
all his own way.

The Master was loyal to his own generous nature. He felt as a peaceful
citizen might feel who had squared off at a stranger for some supposed
wrong, and suddenly discovered that he was undertaking to chastise Mr.
Dick Curtis, "the pet of the Fancy," or Mr. Joshua Hudson; "the John Bull
fighter."

He felt the absurdity of his discomfiture, for he turned to me
good-naturedly, and said,

"Poor Johnny Raw! What madness could impel
So rum a flat to face so prime a swell?"

To tell the truth, I rather think the Master enjoyed his own defeat. The
Scarabee had a right to his victory; a man does not give his life to the
study of a single limited subject for nothing, and the moment we come
across a first-class expert we begin to take a pride in his superiority.
It cannot offend us, who have no right at all to be his match on his own
ground. Besides, there is a very curious sense of satisfaction in
getting a fair chance to sneer at ourselves and scoff at our own
pretensions. The first person of our dual consciousness has been
smirking and rubbing his hands and felicitating himself on his
innumerable superiorities, until we have grown a little tired of him.
Then, when the other fellow, the critic, the cynic, the Shimei, who has
been quiet, letting self-love and self-glorification have their perfect
work, opens fire upon the first half of our personality and overwhelms it
with that wonderful vocabulary of abuse of which he is the unrivalled
master, there is no denying that he enjoys it immensely; and as he is
ourse