ament; to the philosopher, the murdered fly
was only a metaphysical illustration. For, without being a fatalist, or
a disciple of Baruch de Spinoza, I must confess that I cannot conceive
a greater resemblance to our human and earthly state than the penal
predicament of the devoted flies. Suddenly do we find ourselves plunged
into that Vast Web,--the World; and even as the insect, when he first
undergoeth a similar accident of necessity, standeth amazed and
still, and only by little and little awakeneth to a full sense of his
situation; so also at the first abashed and confounded, we remain on the
mesh we are urged upon, ignorant, as yet, of the toils around us,
and the sly, dark, immitigable foe that lieth in yonder nook, already
feasting her imagination upon our destruction. Presently we revive, we
stir, we flutter; and Fate, that foe--the old arch-spider, that hath
no moderation in her maw--now fixeth one of her many eyes upon us, and
giveth us a partial glimpse of her laidly and grim aspect. We pause in
mute terror; we gaze upon the ugly spectre, so imperfectly beheld; the
net ceases to tremble, and the wily enemy draws gently back into her
nook. Now we begin to breathe again; we sound the strange footing on
which we tread; we move tenderly along it, and again the grisly monster
advances on us; again we pause; the foe retires not, but remains still,
and surveyeth us; we see every step is accompanied with danger; we look
round and above in despair; suddenly we feel within us a new impulse and
a new power! we feel a vague sympathy with _that_ unknown region which
spreads beyond this great net,--_that limitless beyond_ hath a mystic
affinity with a part of our own frame; we unconsciously extend our
wings (for the soul to us is as the wings to the fly!); we attempt to
rise,--to soar above this perilous snare, from which we are unable to
crawl. The old spider watcheth us in self-hugging quiet, and, looking
up to our native air, we think,--now shall we escape thee. Out on it!
We rise not a hair's breadth: we have the _wings_, it is true, but the
_feet_ are fettered. We strive desperately again: the whole web vibrates
with the effort; it will break beneath our strength. Not a jot of it!
we cease; we are more entangled than ever! wings, feet, frame, the foul
slime is over all! where shall we turn? every line of the web leads to
the one den,--we know not,--we care not,--we grow blind, confused, lost.
The eyes of our hideous foe