It is by no means an absurdity to append to the silk-worm an account of the spider—a creature worthy of our special admiration. The phalangium is of small size, with body spotted and running to a point; their bite is venomous, and they leap as they move from place to place. Another kind is black, with fore legs remarkable for their length. They have all of them three joints in the legs. The smaller kind of wolf-spider does not make a web, but the larger ones make holes in the earth, and spread their nets at the narrow entrance. A third kind is remarkable for the skill which it displays in its operations. These spin a large web, the creature having in itself a certain faculty of secreting a peculiar sort of woolly substance. How steadily does it work with its claws, how beautifully rounded and how equal are the threads as it forms its web, while it employs the weight of its body as an equipoise! It begins at the middle to weave its web, and then extends it by adding the threads in rings around, like a warp upon the woof: forming the meshes at equal intervals, but continually enlarging them as the web increases in breadth, it finally unites them all by an indissoluble knot. With what wondrous art does it conceal the snares that lie in wait for its prey in its checkered nettings! How loose is the body of the web as it yields to the blasts, and how readily does it catch all objects which come in its way! You would fancy that it had left, quite exhausted, the thrums of the upper portion of its net unfinished where they are spread across; for with the greatest difficulty can they be perceived, and yet the moment that an object touches them, like the lines of the hunter’s net, they throw it into the body of the web. With what architectural skill, too, is its hole arched over, and how well defended by a nap of extra thickness against the cold! How carefully it retires into a corner, and appears intent upon something else, all the while keeping so carefully shut up from view, that it is impossible to perceive whether there is anything within or not! And then, how extraordinary the strength of the web! When is the wind ever known to break it, or what accumulation of dust is able to weigh it down?

The spider often spreads its web right across between two trees, the thread extending from the very top of the tree to the ground, while the insect springs up again in an instant from the earth, and travels aloft by the self-same thread, thus mounting at the same moment and spinning its threads. When its prey falls into its net, how on the alert it is, and with what readiness it runs to seize it! Even though it should be adhering to the very edge of its web, the insect always runs instantly to the middle, where it can most effectually shake the web, and so successfully entangle its prey. When the web is torn, the spider immediately sets about repairing it, and that so neatly, that nothing like patching can ever be seen. The spider lies in wait even for the young of the lizard, and after enveloping the head of the animal, bites its lips; a sight by no means unworthy of the amphitheatre itself, when it is one’s good fortune to witness it. Presages also are drawn from the spider; for when a river is about to swell, it will suspend its web higher than usual. As these insects spin not in calm weather, but when it is cloudy, a great number of cobwebs is a sure sign of showery weather. It is generally supposed that the female spider spins while the male lies in wait for prey, thus making an equal division of their duties.