plasm. No eye can see it; no science can define it. There is a different Something for Newton's dog, and a different Something for Newton; so that though both use the same matter, they build up in these widely different ways. Protoplasm being the clay, this Something is the potter. And as there is only one clay, and yet all these curious forms are developed out of it, it follows that the difference lies in the potters. There must, in short, be as many potters as there are forms. There is the potter who segments the worm, and the potter who builds up the form of the dog, and the potter who moulds the man. To understand unmistakably that it is really the potter who does the work, let us follow for a moment a description of the process by a trained eye-witness. The observer is Mr. Huxley; through the tube of his microscope he is watching the development, out of a speck of protoplasm, of one of the commonest animals: 66 "Strange possibilities" he says in one of his Lay Sermons, lie dormant in that semi-fluid globule. Let a moderate supply of warmth reach its watery cradle, and the plastic matter undergoes changes so rapid, and yet so steady and purposelike in their succession, that one can only compare them to those operated by a skilled modeller upon a formless lump of clay. As with an invisible trowel the mass is divided and subdivided into smaller and smaller portions, until it is reduced to an aggregation of granules not too large to build withal the finest fragments of the nascent organism. And, then, it is as if a delicate finger traced out the line to be occupied by the spinal column and moulded the contour of the body; pinching up the head at one end, the tail at the other, and fashioning flank and limb into due proportions in so artistic a way that, after watching the process hour by hour, one is almost involuntarily possessed by the notion that some more subtle aid to vision than an achromatic would show the hidden artist, with his plan before him, striving with skilful manipulation to perfect his work." Besides the fact, so luminously brought out here, that the artist is distinct from the semi-fluid globule of protoplasm in which he works, there is this other essential point to notice, that in all his "skillful manipulations" the artist is not working at random, but according to law. He has "his plan before him." In the zoological laboratory of Nature it is not as in a workshop where a skilled artisan can turn his hand to anything; where the same potter one day moulds a dog, the next a bird, and the next a man. In Nature one potter is set apart to make each. It is a more complete system of division of labor. One artist makes all the dogs, another makes all the birds, a third makes all the men. Moreover, each artist confines himself exclusively to working out his own plan. He appears to have his own plan somehow stamped upon himself, and his work is rigidly to reproduce himself. The Scientific Law by which this takes place is the law of "Conformity to Type." It is contained, to a large extent, in the ordinary "Law of Inheritance;" or it may be considered as simply another way of stating what Darwin calls "the Law of the Unity of Types." Darwin defines it thus: "By Unity of Type is meant that fundamental agreement in structure which we see in organic beings of the same class, and which is quite independent of their habits of life." According to this law every living thing which comes into this world is compelled to stamp upon its offspring the image of itself: The dog, according to its type, produces a dog; the bird, a bird. The artist who operates upon matter in this subtle way, and carries out this law, is Life. There are a great many different kinds of Life. If one might give the broader meaning to the words of the Apostle-" All life is not the same life. There is one kind of life of men, another life of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds "— there is the life of the Artist, or the potter who segments the worm, the potter who forms the dog, the potter who moulds the man. What goes on, then, in the animal kingdom is this: The Bird-life seizes upon the bird-germ, and builds it up into a bird, the image of itself. The Reptile-life seizes upon another germinal speck, assimilates surrounding matter, and fashions it into a reptile. The Reptile-life thus simply makes an incarnation of itself; the visible bird is simply an incarnation of the invisible Bird-life. Now we are nearing the point where the spiritual analogy appears. It is a very wonderful analogy - so wonderful that one almost hesitates to put it into words. Yet Nature is reverent; and it is her voice to which we listen. These lower phenomena of life, she says, are but an allegory. There is another kind of Life of which Science as yet has taken little cognizance. It obeys the same laws. It builds up an organism into its own form. It is the Christ-life. As the Bird-life builds up a bird, the image of itself, so the Christ-life builds up a Christ, the image of Himself. The quickening Life seizes upon the soul, assimilates surrounding elements, and begins to fashion it. According to the great Law of Conformity to Type this fashioning takes a specific form. And all through Life this wonderful, mystical, glorious, yet perfectly definite process, goes on. The Christian Life is not a vague effort after righteousness an ill-defined pointless struggle for an illdefined pointless end. Religion is no dishevelled mass of aspiration, prayer, and faith. There is no more mystery in Religion, as to its processes, than in Biology. There is much mystery in Biology. We know all but nothing of Life yet-nothing of Development. There is the same mystery in the Spiritual Life. But the great lines are the same as decided, as luminous; and the laws of Natural and Spiritual are the same — as unerring, as simple. From the standpoint of Revelation no truth is more obscure than Conformity to Type. If Science can furnish companion phenomena from an everyday process of the natural life, it may at least throw this most mystical doctrine of Christianity into thinkable form. Is there any fallacy in speaking of the Embryology of the New Life? Is the analogy invalid? Are there not vital processes in the Spiritual as well as in the Natural world? The Bird being an incarnation of the Bird-life, may not the Christian be a spiritual incarnation of the Christ-life? And is there not a real justification in the processes of the New Birth for such a parallel?-Natural Law. Chap. X. D 66 RUMMOND, WILLIAM, a Scottish poet; born at Hawthornden, near Edinburgh, December 13, 1585; died there, December 4, 1649. He is commonly designated as Drummond of Hawthornden," from his ancestral estate near Edinburgh, where most of his life -- except a residence of eight years on the Continent - was passed. He was a friend of Ben Jonson, and wrote Notes of Ben Jonson's Conversations. with William Drummond of Hawthornden, January, 1619. This work, though never intended for publication, has been sharply criticised. He wrote several historical works, but his fame rests mainly upon his poems. He was the earliest Scottish poet who wrote well in the English language. Drummond was essentially a follower of Spenser, and took great delight in the description of natural scenery. His sonnets rank immediately after those of Shakespeare, Milton, and Wordsworth, and earned him the title of the "Scotch Petrarch." His poems are distinguished by pensive beauty, sweetness of versification, and richly worded descriptions. The Cypresse Grove is one of the finest prose poems of English literature. It exhibits a vivid imagination, deep thought, and a thorough command of musical English. It is an essay on the folly of the fear of death, and shows how much the author was impressed with the comparative insignificance of this world. A good edition of his poems, with a Memoir by Peter Cunningham, appeared in 1833. His Life has also been written by David Masson (1873). Drummond's longest poem, Forth Feasting, is a panegyric on King James I., upon the occasion of his visiting his native Scotland in 1617. THE FEASTING OF THE RIVER FORTH. What blustering noise now interrupts my sleep? And, full of wonder, overlook the land? Whence come these glittering throngs, the meteors bright, This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise? What loadstar draweth us all eyes? Am I awake, or have some dreams conspired To mock my sense with what I most desired! View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks? My much beloved prince is come again. . Let mother-earth now decked with flowers be seen, Which Jove rained when his blue-eyed maid was born. And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair, Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn, VOL. VIII.-21 |