with a personal and individual will, influenced by motives and subject to caprices similar to those of humanity, and operating sometimes for the benefit, and sometimes for the destruction of man.

It has not been until comparatively modern times, and even now, I fear, but over a small part of the human family, that scientific knowledge has triumphed over popular credulity; and that the realm of nature is presented to us in every part, as subject to immutable law, from which the idea of choice or will, of object or design, residing in matter itself or in the powers of nature, is absolutely excluded.

When, however, we pass from the phenomena of nature, to those connected with man, a new scene opens to our view. We stand face to face with free will; with a new creative power at work in the midst of the vast and complex machinery of nature. If you take two seeds from the same plant, apparently, so far as you can judge, similar in all respects, and plant them in the same soil, and in the same climate, there shall grow from them two trees widely differing from each other, in size, and strength, and character. Yet we do not suppose for a moment that any act of choice or will on the part of the tree has modified its form or its growth; but rather that the unknown incidents of nourishment and of atmosphere, of sunlight and of moisture, have dictated the development of every leaf and every fibre. But if you take two human beings, apparently similar in the cradle, subject them to the same education and the same influences, and observe them at successive periods of life, you are compelled to admit, that the result in each had not been arrived at solely by the operation of natural and mechanical laws, but by those laws modified, controlled, interfered with, by the operation of an independent force residing in the man himself,—by his power to choose or to refuse—by his free will.

At what exact point this free will first enters into the scale of nature, is perhaps the most insoluble of all the mysteries by which we are surrounded. Does it appear first with locomotion? Is the cow absolutely free to turn to the right hand or to the left, to crop the wholesome, and reject the poisonous herbage as she pleases? Or are all animals like plants, only more delicate and complicated parts in the one vast mechanism of nature? Or if we admit a certain degree of free will to the higher animals, shall we apply the same law to the oyster and the polypus? Or what shall we say of that large portion of animated nature, which lies in the border land between the animal and vegetable kingdoms? In truth it would appear as if not only the will, but most, if not all, the mental powers of man had their latent germs in the lower animals; and that these germs are more perfectly developed as we rise in the scale of creation. Thus we can trace in animals the emotions of courage and fear, memory and hope, love and hatred, gratitude and revenge, joy and sorrow, and a distinct though imperfect power of reason, connecting cause with effect and governing the actions accordingly. Of the creative power of imagination I am not aware that any trace has been discovered except in man.

To whatever extent, then, if to any, we may consider animals as governed by a personal will under the influence of moral emotions, superimposed upon mechanical law, it is certain that the evidence of such an independent will in man is infinitely greater than in any lower order of beings; and that, so far as we know, he stands alone amidst creation as possessing a creative power of imagination. And there is no reason, because impenetrable mist obscures the boundary line between matter subjected to mechanical law alone, and matter subjected, not only to such law, but to the operation of external and independent will, that we should therefore ignore the broad and unmistakable difference between the two classes of facts which present themselves at the opposite ends of the scale; between, on the one hand, such facts as are presented to us by chemical experiments, the result of which we can confidently

predict, and on the other, by the phenomena of human action and caprice, which elude all possibility of scientific mensuration.

I know, indeed,—and I notice it, not because it will enter into consideration this evening, but because it would be disingenuous if I were to pretend to be ignorant of the fact;—I know it has been argued, that man himself, not only in his lower and material organisation, but even in the more subtle and impalpable action of his reason, his imagination, and his will, is equally the unconscious subject of the same immutable law which he recognises in external nature; that he is no more than a passive and predestinated instrument, no more than one inert link, in the mechanical chain of cause and effect, which unites the past to the future in the sequence of the operations of nature. I will pass by the wide field for discussion which this strange philosophy opens to our view; because it is sufficient for our purpose this evening to assume, that, even were the doctrine of predestination established, were it proven that free will in man is a chimera, and the creative powers of his imagination no more than a delusion, still the laws of human action, what we are content to call his power of choice, his free will, are so entirely different from and independent of the natural laws of growth and change, that, as compared with the latter, we may logically consider man as possessed of an inherent power of action, independent of mechanical law. And we recognise this power, not only as modifying his own growth and development, but still more clearly in the action of man upon the world which he inhabits, in the creations of his hand and his brain. I have said the tree grows in obedience to mechanical law. Given its origin, and the circumstances surrounding it, and it must of necessity have attained its own particular form and stature and character; that individual one and none other. But the house does not grow in obedience to any such law. It was not in compliance with any such law that there are so many windows in the roof above me, instead of six or seven or any other number. That particular number, and so all the special proportions of this building, were the result of choice and design on the part the architect, who was free to select or reject as he pleased. And so it is that when we pass from the operations of nature to the works of man, we pass from the world of nature into the world of Art; for Art is a term which embraces every modification in the forms of nature which has been achieved by the intelligence, the imagination, the memory, the creative power, the imitative ability, the skilful ingenuity of man.

What is it, then, which we mean by Art? It is not the mere mechanical combination of matter into new forms, designed for new uses, with which Art deals. Art takes no cognizance of the principles of structure, or the nature of materials, or the composition of the elements which it uses as a language in which to convey its ideas. Art deals only with images produced, in respect to their beauty or their ugliness; that is to say, in respect to the effect which such images have upon the mind of man; upon that quality of his mind which receives pleasure from the perception of beauty, and pain from the presence of the opposite. And this feeling of pain or pleasure is evoked, not only by the manifestation of beauty or the contrary in material form, but from ideas which have a less material embodiment. It is the images which arise in or are impressed on the mind, in respect to their beauty or the reverse, which, and which alone, are within the realm of Art.

Although Art takes no cognizance of the laws of nature, even when expressing itself in materials subject to those laws, yet it is limited and controlled by them. For example: if you build a house, you must build it in compliance with the law of gravity operating on your materials, or it will cease to be a house; it will tumble down. If you paint a picture you must use pigments and colours which will not undergo chemical change, or your

colours will fade under your brush; the idea in your mind will have no expression. If you would produce a strain of music on a violin, you must rub your bow with resin and not with grease, or your music will remain amongst the eternal silences. If you make a pudding, you must use ingredients which will combine in the manner you expect, or your pudding will curdle, and, as a work of art, will be nothing more than a praiseworthy intention. But still it is not with the material conditions of the work that Art deals. These are within the province of the mechanist and workman, not of the Artist. Nor does Art enquire what are the uses for which a thing is made, nor of its fitness or the contrary, for such uses; further than our perception of such fitness or unfitness may enhance or destroy our sense of beauty. Art deals solely with works in respect to their beauty; that is, in respect to their capacity to kindle in the mind that emotion which the contemplation of beauty affords.

When we say that Art is limited by the laws of nature, we mean no more than this—that Art is limited by the possibility of expression in material forms. And all ideas must be expressed more or less in material forms; for even ideas unwritten and unspoken are incapable of being recognised by the mind, except through the medium of language. If we think at all, we think in a language of some sort. Art, therefore, must have an expression; and that expression is subject to the laws which govern the materials which it uses for the purpose. But within these limits, subject only to the conditions thus imposed, the artist roams free and uncontrolled in a paradise of his own fancy, people by the creations of his own teeming brain. And so, in and around the material world, and out of elements of which he is himself a part, man weaves a new world, which hangs like a vision around the coarser elements of matter, and by the spells of his creative fancy, he calls into existence the world of Art.

I may seem, by what I have said, to imply, that the idea of material beauty, is wholly independent of the physical laws which rule the operations of nature. But upon this point we should speak with the caution and modesty becoming a very limited perception of truth. For we do not know that there may not be some necessary connection between the laws of nature and the manifestation of beauty. How can we say that the glories of the evening sky are not a necessary result of the same causes by which the revolution of the earth brings the sun every evening on the horizon; which guide the light of the sun through space, and refract it through our atmosphere, and, absorbing some of the rays, transmit the rest in colour to our eyes; which suck up the moisture of the earth into the heavens, and suspend it in graceful drapery over our heads? Who shall say that the solemn beauty of the primeval forest is not an essential and necessary consequence of the laws by which the forest grew? Certain it is that the full development of the powers of life in an individual bears with it a higher degree of physical beauty than the same individual exhibits, when its vitality is impaired by age or sickness. The more perfectly fitted things are for the uses for which they are designed, the more beautiful do they frequently appear. For example, a yacht is more beautiful than a coal barge, even in the eyes of those who are entirely ignorant of the superiority of one over the other as a machine for sailing. I say not that this is a universal law; but I do say that its frequent appearance is sufficient to raise a doubt, whether the production of beauty may not, in some manner of which we can form no conception, be inherently and necessarily connected with the mechanism of nature.

I have said that Art, in the proper sense of the term, does not deal with the productions of man in any other respect than as regards their

beauty. Indeed, the term is often used in a more limited sense, as applying only to works which are produced solely for their beauty—such as pictures, status, and so on; which are therefore called, par excellence, works of Art. But it is clear that the term is capable of a much wider application; because, if we make anything for a special use, if it be only a toasting fork, we can conceive a vast variety of forms in which it may be moulded, all of which may equally subserve the same end, but which may differ widely from one another in ornament and in beauty. In so far as the thing is a machine for doing a particular work, it is beyond the cognizance of Art; but in so far as it is more or less beautiful, it is a work of Art.

Hence it is, that not only objects which are made solely for creating pleasure, such as pictures and statues, but things which are in the first instance designed for physical utility, are equally works of Art. Thus our churches, our houses, our chairs and tables, our fire-irons and our clothes, our carriages and our crockery, all bear witness, not only to the skill of the workman, but to the inventive fancy of the artist; and the graceful curvature of a chignon has no more claim to the dignity of Art than the delicate colouring of a tobacco-pipe; though the one object is designed to enhance the beauty of women, the other the comfort of men; nor does it alter the result that the former as signally fails, as the latter succeeds in its mission.

In short, there is nothing upon which man bestows labour, which does not come more or less within the realm of Art. Hence it is that the study of Art is co-ordinate with the study of mankind. It is not only in monuments and pictures and statues, but in every specimen of handicraft, that we read the history of the people by and for whom they were made. A people thus unconsciously writes its own history in the daily works of its hands. For by these records we learn not only what its workmen and artists could do, but what the people for whom they worked used to admire. The artist not only acts upon, but is reacted upon by the age and race in which he lives. When he aims at producing the beautiful, he is influenced by the consciousness of what his patrons, the public, will accept or recognise as beautiful. It is the same with the poet. In his creations, the poet unconsciously assimilates the standard of his readers. If he describes a hero, he describes a character such as his age and race recognises as heroic. Thus Homer has not only handed down to us poems which have for centuries commanded the interest and admiration of mankind, but he has preserved to us for ever the great historic fact, what was the true type of a hero in the mind of an ancient Greek. And thus, too, the legends of King Arthur's table teach us what was regarded for centuries in England as the highest standard and model of chivalry. So it is in Art. From the works of past ages, we learn what sort of thing it was which a people admired at the time those works were produced. And it is owing to this sympathy between the artist and his race and age, that we trace a distinctive character in the Art of the different nations of antiquity, which can never be mistaken for one another. Thus the Assyrian, the Egyptian, the Greek, the Roman, the Saxon, the Byzantine, the Moorish, and so on, all present peculiar characteristics of style and design and workmanship, which are easily recognised. And there is, moreover, a sort of relation, which it is far easier to appreciate than to describe in language, between the productions of the artist and those of the poet and the historian of the same age and people. Perhaps the most striking instance of this is that presented by the Assyrian sculptures discovered by Mr. Layard, and now in the British Museum. Often have I been powerfully moved when gazing on those strange monuments, made, as they are, of the most perishable material, and yet almost miraculously preserved for us for more than two thousand years, by being buried in the warm and dry sand of the desert—often have I thought that

those very monuments had been, no doubt, seen by the Prophet Ezekiel himself, when he penned his inspired visions on the banks of the River Chebar; and that the artistic forms by which he was surrounded impressed themselves upon the peculiar imagery in which he delivered his divine message to his captive race. The unity of feeling, of fancy, of imagination, between the language of Ezekiel and the marbles of Nineveh, is too obvious and remarkable not to strike any one who has carefully studied them together.

And thus we read in the material works of Art, as in the creations of the poet, the character of the imagery, the style of workmanship, the type of ornament, the sort of ideas, in fine, in which, the people for whom the work was made were accustomed to seek the gratification of that yearning for the beautiful, which is one of the ruling powers of the human soul. The most barbarous people has some sort of perception of the difference of forms, in respect of their beauty; and seeks, it may be in very grotesque ornament and distorted images to gratify its capacity for admiring. And so it leaves behind, in the works of its hands, a record from which we may infer somewhat of the character of its mind, and the state of its civilisation.

But not only do we find a perceptible difference in the character of the Art of different races, but there is also a history in the Art of each. There is a distinct law of growth and change, of culmination and decay. In no Art is this history so distinctly traceable as in the Greek and the Roman. The Roman, indeed, may be regarded as merely an off-shoot and product of the Greek; for in Rome, Art was exotic and imitated, not indigenous. And this, no doubt, arises from the fact, first, that no other race has left us anything like the same number of works of Art extending over so many centuries, in coins, and gems, statues and vases, made in imperishable materials; and secondly, because no nation ever approximated to the Greek in the perception and love of the beautiful; and therefore in the Art of no people is there the same difference between its worst and best works. Now we find one remarkable law pervading this history of Art; namely, that it grew with the growth of a race, and decayed with its national vigour. And this is by no means accounted for by the increased wealth which accompanies national prosperity; for neither a man nor a people can do more than it is in them to do, because they get more money for it. There is, besides, abundant evidence, that the standard of Art and the perception of beauty do not rise and fade with mere wealth. Long before the time when the wealth of the Roman began to decay, he had lost the only inspiration he ever received from his Greek master; and his Art was rapidly degenerating, when his wealth and luxury were at their greatest. But with the Greeks, the growth of their race, not only in the parent States but in all their numerous colonies which studded the coast of the Mediterranean, from the Pillars of Hercules to the valleys of Lycia, is written in indelible characters upon their Art, from the earliest ages to the culmination of their glory in the age of Pericles; and in the same language, the decay of national life after the time of Alexander the Great, is recorded with equal fidelity. And so well ascertained is this law of growth and change, that the archæologist is never at a loss to assign to any work of Art, the approximate period, in which it was produced. If you take the series of coins of any one city, such as Thurium or Tarentum, in Magna Græcia, on which one type occurs throughout, you get the most perfect illustration of the growth of Art. The common type on the coins of Thurium was a rushing bull; on those of Tarentum, on the obverse, a horse, and on the reverse, a boy riding on a dolphin. In the earlier part of the series of these works, you find the first attempts of the artist to express his idea. The character of the work is hard and crude, but thoroughly honest and conscientious. You can see that the artist is doing his best. He never slurs an outline, but always renders it distinctly. There is no flow

in the lines, they are rigid and unyielding. They are like the first lispings of the child to speak; the effort is great and the success imperfect, but you feel that it is but lisping; it is not the language the child will one day talk. As time goes on the work improves; the skeleton is filled in with flesh, the detail is elaborated. The artist gets a more complete mastery over his subject, but loses none of his truth; for it is evident that he is still taking his inspiration from Nature. Recollect, I am not speaking of the life of one artist; but of the operation of many cycles of years. Each artist deals with the same type, sacred to his city from its relation to its mythical traditions, but he does not copy from his predecessors. He works in the studio of Nature, and owns no other master. And so, at last, you have in some of these little silver coins, no larger than a shilling, some of the most glorious works of Art which the world has produced.

It was this character of faithfulness and honesty to his Art and his subject, which was the peculiarity of Greek, as it is of all truly great Art. Take, for example, those marbles which stand unrivalled in the artistic efforts of mankind—the groups from the Pediment of the Parthenon, now in the Elgin Gallery of the British Museum. These statues stood more than forty feet from the ground; they were somewhat larger than life size; and they stood, of course, against the wall of the pediment, so that one side only could be seen, and that from a distance. And yet you find that, not only in front but behind, the same wonderfully elaborate and detailed work has been devoted with the most lavish and ungrudging honesty. The hard and brittle material vanishes from sight as you gaze; now melting into softest flesh, which seems as if it would yield to the pressure of the hand; now ossifying into bone; here quivering in a muscle, there palpitating in a vein. If we be inclined to say— why waste so much labour on a work, so much of which was never to be seen? I reply, the man who had failed so to work for the unseen, would have been incapable of producing what was seen; for the true artist works, not for gain or for applause, for vanity or for fame, but in a pure, unselfish, and absorbing love of his Art, and in reverend adoration of the spirit of beauty which he worships. And in Ancient Greece this passion for Art was no doubt elevated and intensified by the feeling of religion. It was not in painting portraits of one another's faces, and chronicling imperfections, but in striving to realise forms fit to impersonate the gods, that Art attained its highest perfection.

If we turn now from the period of growth and culmination, to that of decadence, we find the picture reversed. The lines are no longer wrong through unsuccessful effort, but through careless neglect. The artist, instead of going to Nature for his inspiration, is evidently only copying from his predecessor, and his expression becomes wavering and indistinct. The outlines are slurred, and the faults of the past repeated and exaggerated. The character of the work becomes sensuous as the feeling becomes superficial. The sacred type has changed from a faith to a fashion; and so the artist's right hand loses its cunning, and can no longer grasp the idea, when the soul of the idea itself is passing away. There is one most remarkable instance of this history of decadence in the barbaric imitations of the coins of Macedon. The common type upon the coins of Philip and Alexander was the head of some deity personifying the King, or rather the head of the King in the character of the god, bound with a fillet of laurel leaves. Barbarous races seem to have copied this type from one to the other, until at last the original type became so indistinct that it was lost. There are ancient British coins, in which the head consists of nothing more than some rude lines and dots; and it is only by seeing a whole series of these coins at once, and tracing the deterioration down from one to the other, that you can believe that a head is intended at all. Amidst

this chaos of marks, the laurel wreath, being the easiest to copy, remained somewhat more distinct, when other parts of the head had disappeared; and there are some curious coins of Cunobolinus, one of the kings of Britain in Roman times—the Cymbeline of Shakespeare—in which some artist, evidently a genius in his way, finding these curious marks on the coin he had to imitate, and not liking to imitate what he did not understand, assumed that they were meant for an ear of wheat, and reproduced an exceedingly good representation of an ear of wheat, evidently taken from Nature. Thus, in the course of time, and by the decadence of Art, the head of Philip of Macedon is changed into an ear of wheat. A singular analogy to the cynical philosophy of Hamlet.

I will not delay you by applying these principles, as I might, to the Christian Art of the Middle Ages, but you will at once perceive what a close analogy there is between the archaic character of the early Greek Art which I have been describing, and that of the Italian masters before the time of Michael Angelo and Raphæl, which may be considered as the culmination of Christian Art. You are all now familiar with the character of this early style, from its revival in recent times under the name of the Pre-Raphælite school.

Taking, then, these two great principles:—First, that the Art of every race has a distinctive character of its own, which follows it wherever it goes; and, secondly, that the Art in each race undergoes a steady and perceptible change, either for the better or worse; it is apparent how powerful an auxiliary the study of Art becomes, to those who are seeking through other channels an insight into the history of the human race. The philologist traces the several streams of mankind up to their parent fountains, by analyzing their language, and discovering from what source its first elements, its bases, its roots, were derived. The comparative anatomist pursues the same enquiry by studying the minute peculiarities of his physical structure, the form of his skull, and the proportions of his limbs. But the student of Art follows up the investigation by an independent course. He takes the works of the hands of a people, and forces them to tell their faithful, because unconscious, story as to the sources from whence they derived their traditions of taste and of feeling, their modes of interpreting or representing the beautiful, the character of their ornament—in a word, from whence they derived the symbols and standard of their Art.

I cannot pass from this part of my subject without expressing my conviction, that the machinery thus provided by the study of Art might well be put in motion, and brought to bear upon the very interesting subject of the origin and cradle of the aboriginal inhabitants of these islands. We have a considerable number of works of Maori Art; the most interesting of which is the runanga whare of Tauranga, which is fortunately preserved in this Museum. And there are preserved amongst us a considerable number of canoe heads, spears, and other weapons and vessels, mats, and so on, which must have been produced at the cost of considerable skill and labour. Now, it is obvious to the most casual observer, that there is a similarity of ornament and design and workmanship running through all these objects. The two great questions which we might, by a sufficiently extended study, be able to decide are—where does this Art come from? It was not created in New Zealand for the first time. It was no doubt displayed on the canoes and the arms of the warriors who first landed on these shores; and I have no doubt that it might be traced up, through all its changes amongst the Pacific Islands, to its cradle on the Continent of Asia. I think it not unlikely that a study of the works of the country from which it springs, would enable us to judge, with fair approximation to the truth, of the date at which the Art now existing in New Zealand was severed from its parent stem in Asia. This is a work, which, so far as I know, has yet to be undertaken. And the first step towards it is to bring

together into one Museum such as this, a sufficient number of objects of all kinds, arrayed, so far as possible, according to the dates of their production. The latter is, of course, the greatest difficulty. But an object whose approximate date is known, is worth a dozen about which we know nothing. Every effort therefore ought to be made to collect those objects, such as spears and meres, which are known by the Maoris to have been in existence for several generations. I think it quite possible that enough might be done to establish something like the law of change in Maori Art; and then we should be able to answer the second question; —is this an Art in advance or decay? Is it in a period of growth or of decadence? Is this grotesque ornamentation the work of a people struggling out of primitive ignorance towards a higher perfection? or is it the fragment of a higher art from which the soul has departed, and of which the traditions have been imperfectly preserved, by a people which has relapsed into barbarism? I venture not to offer any theory upon the subject, but I cannot but think that the subject is one full of interest and instruction, and that it is within the scope of such an institution as this to collect the materials which shall enable some competent archæologist to do for Maori Art, what Sir George Grey has so ably done for Maori literature.

I have endeavoured to show the relations in which Art stands to physical law, and to explain its limits. I have also shown how it is incorporated into and forms an important part of the external history of man. I proceed now to enquire what are the relation which exist between Art and the subjects of the other intellectual and moral powers of man.

That upon which Art is based, without which it could not exist is the natural and inherent capacity in man to distinguish the beautiful from the ugly; —that quality in his soul which has an affinity for the one, and revolts from the other. And I lay this down as an undeniable truth, that such a capacity is an essential part of the organization of man, in spite of the fact constantly presented to us, that not only individual men, but whole ages and races of men, have derived pleasure from forms and ideas, which to other men and other times have been utterly painful and repugnant. Hence it is that, even amongst cultivated men, we hear the heresy constantly repeated, that Art is all a matter of taste, and that that is beautiful to each man which he feels to be so. And so upon no subject, except perhaps religion, is there so much unsettled opinion as in matters of Art. In the philosophy of Art, as in religion, men range between the extreme limits of a superstitious reverence for authority on the one hand, and, on the other, a sceptical rejection of everything outside an individual, and mostly an ignorant, private judgment.

But does it not seem a sounder philosophy to believe that this great, distinctive, and powerful capacity of the soul—this affinity for the beautiful— is cognate to other capacities and powers of our being? We have a capacity for distinguishing abstract truth from error; and we do not doubt that truth is truth, and error error, because the majority of men are only partially capable of perceiving the distinction. We have a capacity for distinguishing right from wrong in morals; and we do not conclude that there is no right or wrong, because whole races and generations of men have failed to recognise which was which. Why, then, should we argue that there is no standard or test of the beautiful beyond individual and undeveloped judgment? Man does not create the essence or principle of beauty, any more than he does that of abstract truth, or of moral goodness. He only recognises it and assimilates it. If he fails to do so; if he takes that for the beautiful which is not so; if he worships false gods; it is not that the nature of the object is altered, but that his powers are either undeveloped or depraved. Is it not rather the case that all the spiritual and intellectual organs in man are subject to the same law which obtains in the material organs of all animated nature, in that they are

more or less perfectly developed by circumstances, and grow by use and cultivation?

Most of these difficulties vanish if we realize the distinction between the real and the ideal. The ideal is that type to which the real ever tends, as the curve to its asymptote, and the infinite series to its sum, although the one never reaches the other in finite time and space. If you take every oak leaf upon an oak tree, you will perceive that they have all one type, although they all differ from one another. You can conceive the idea of an oak leaf having that perfect form towards which each individual tends, but of which each falls short, some in one particular, some in another; but which the imagination seems to grasp, as the possible perfect form of the oak leaf in its full development. I have already noticed the perfection of Greek Art; this it was which was the key to its excellence—that the artist sought, by the study of the imperfect individual, to reach the conception of the ideal, and so to symbolise the idea of a god under the material form of a perfect man.

If, then, we would emancipate ourselves from the difficulties which so often entwine us in æsthetical as well as ethical questions, we must shake off the trammels which imperfect development casts around every subject, every idea, every faculty; and endeavour to look, not from the lower standing ground of the real, but from the loftier region of the ideal. Thus we shall recognise that only to be perfectly and eternally true, which man, in the most perfect development of his intellectual faculties, would recognise as such. We should accept as morally right, not that which may seem to man, living under provisional and circumstantial law, to be so, but that which man, in the full perfection of his moral faculties, would acknowledge as a perfect moral law. And so we shall receive as a standard of true excellence in Art, and regard those only to be manifestations of perfect beauty, which man, in the ideal and perfect development of his æsthetic capacity, would feel to be in perfect affinity and harmony with his power of appreciating the beautiful.

But I would endeavour, if I do not weary you, to trace even further the relations which may possibly subsist between, subjectively, the intellectual, ethical, and æsthetical powers in man; objectively, between truth, goodness, and beauty, in the harmony of things. It seems to me, that prior to the conception of all created being and all action, and, a priori, prior to the idea of matter, we must conceive some necessary law or principle underlying and pervading the whole structure; underlying, as it were, the possibility of any scheme of creation whatever. Such a principle seems to me to be—the law of truth: and by truth I mean perfect consistency—the perfect harmony of part with part, and of every part with the whole. This is, if we consider it, the widest and most accurate definition of truth. Its absence involves the idea of something more than chaos—of an impossibility of existence at all. This idea of truth seems to be the essence of all possible schemes of all possible creations. The dogma that “God is truth,” which we reverently receive as in harmony with our instincts in religion, is not only the assertion of a fact, or the attribution of an incidental quality to the Deity: it is the enunciation of a necessary philosophical law. Without the law of truth, we are incapable of conceiving that an universe could have been created, or a God could have existed to make it. Now we first come in contact with this principle of truth—involving the idea of its co-relative untruth—in abstract reason. And we have a faculty or quality of our minds, our pure intellect, which recognises and accepts this law in matters which are independent of all action and of all matter. But the moment the idea of a being capable of action is introduced, it follows that the quality of his action must be determined by the same allpervading law. Moral goodness, therefore, is truth in action: it is the operation of truth performed upon action: or to use a mathematical formula,

goodness is truth multiplied into action. As yet our reasoning has not involved the existence of matter at all; but no sooner does the idea of matter arise, with all its sensive attributes of form, colour, sound, and so on, than we are compelled to enquire, how this new economy is affected by the omnipresent law in subordination to which it must have been created. The character or quality of form must be determined by the same rule. In other words, the operation of truth performed upon form, is beauty; or to use the same mathematical formula, beauty is truth multiplied into form. I use the word form of course as comprising every external quality of matter by which it becomes present to the mind. If this be so, then, the true, the good, and the beautiful, are no more than the three different manifestations of the same one law, which are recognised by the three spiritual faculties in man, his pure reason, his moral judgment, and his æsthetic power. Having once recognised the idea of truth in the abstract, goodness is truth in action; beauty is truth in form.

And it is curious to observe how this identity between the three seems to be witnessed by the unconscious testimony of language. In our daily communication of thought we are in the habit of interchanging the words by which we express intellectual truth, moral goodness, and physical beauty; as if we were secretly conscious of a unity of idea or principle pervading these three objects which operate upon our different spiritual powers. Thus for example we talk of a good man, and a good picture—meaning by one moral excellence, by the other beauty. Again we speak of a good bargain—meaning a bargain consistent with its object, to make money; and we should equally use the word good, if the character of the transaction had been the reverse of good morally. Again we speak of the truth of a painting; and the beauty of a mathemathical demonstration; and of the beauty of holiness; and we tell a boy at school that it is wrong to tell lies, and that his sum is wrong. Now I say that these unconscious witnesses of language are not unimportant, as testifying that there is a real connection—a common principle, underlying our ideas of truth, goodness, and beauty; so much so, that we seem unable to express our full perception of the one, without borrowing the language we have already assigned to the others. At all events, should this seem to you but a fanciful analogy, I plead that it is no unworthy object to endeavour to trace out one additional thread in the complex fabric of creation, or to elucidate some fresh view of the manner in which the worlds of thought, of feeling, and of matter, are bound together by one common principle, and so minister to the divine and eternal harmony of the whole.

If time allowed me, it would be my task to pass under review the various arts in which men have sought to gratify their perceptions of the beautiful, and to show how the principles I have been endeavouring to elucidate are applicable to all alike:—Arts which may be called those purely of the imagination, such as poetry and prose writings; which come within the region of Art, in so far as the modulation of the idea and the choice of expression appeal to our sense of pleasure, and are adopted with regard to their beauty: the art of oratory, in which the ideas are not only conveyed in written language, but the pleasure is enhanced by the melody of speech:—music, which like oratory, consists of two arts—the art of the composition, by which the master developes his idea and expresses his feeling by a disposition of possible musical sounds; and the art of singing or playing, by which these possible sounds receive utterance in vocal or instrumental music:—statuary, painting, and architecture, which deal with matter in its form and colour —and even the arts which appeal to our touch—our taste—such as eating, drinking, and smoking, which must claim their place in the realm of Art, in so far as there is a greater or less degree of pleasure to be derived from the combination, situation, and treatment of the materials which subserve to their uses. But

time would fail me in the attempt. I will therefore very briefly refer to that one art, which more than any other is within our reach in this country.

All Art in a country like this, in which the whole time, energy, and interest of the population is devoted to business and to the accumulation of wealth, must be in a neglected condition. Of pictures and statues we have comparatively speaking nothing. Poetry we can have as much of as each man wishes, in an age in which books are within the reach of all. Of musical composition the same may be said; but of musical performance I can only say, that if we are to accept the critiques which I see in the local papers, there is nothing more to be desired. Over the Art of dining in the colony I draw a veil. It seems to me a subject to be spoken of only as amongst the sacred memories of the past.

All these Arts we engage in as our tastes or our powers suggest. But one Art there is, which is forced on us of necessity. We may or may not hang our walls with pictures, or adorn our vestibules with statues; but we must have walls and vestibules of some sort. We may or may not indulge in music; but we must have rooms to practice it in; or if we confine our efforts to the serenade, we must have ladies' windows under which to breathe our amorous strains. Over three-fourths of the earth's surface, the existence of an animal of a constructive mind but a thin skin, clothed with neither fur nor feathers, involves the construction of some sort of shelter; and out of the necessity of his nature grows the Art of architecture. Again, there are two features in architecture which give it an importance peculiar to itself. First, that its works are durable, and secondly that they are public. They are not like the production of musical sound, or the enjoyment of a feast, things that are gone and remain only in the memory; nor like clothes, which are perishable and change with the fickleness of fashion. Almost the most perishable structure outlives its builder. And they are public, not private. Your pictures are shut up in your own rooms for the enjoyment of yourself and your friends. Your music is mostly practised in the privacy of your own houses. But it is not so with your house. Once build it, and as a work of Art it ceases to be yours. It belongs to all alike. The bricks and mortar, the wood and the iron are yours, but the form, the image, the Art, is the property of every beholder. The humblest peasant who gazes on the vanes and pinnacles of the neighbouring mansion, as he rests from his labour under the evening sky, can derive as much pleasure from the sight as its lordly proprietor. You can levy no protective duty upon the admiration of your neighbours. You can take out no patent for the monopoly of the enjoyment of beauty. No action for libel will protect you from the rude criticisms of offended taste. Therefore is architecture above all others the catholic art, and more than all others reflects and expresses whatever a nation may have in it of the power of creating the beautiful. And so, on the other hand, there is involved in architecture a responsibility which does not attach to the productions of other arts. You may hide your little ugliness in your own chambers, and sing out of tune in your own boudoirs, and indulge in tawdry ornament and worship a false fashion in the privacy of social life; but you do not thereby poison the public taste, or pervert the popular judgment. But you cannot erect forms upon which for long years the eye of the public must rest day by day and hour by hour, without more or less moulding the feeling of the community at large. Whether you wish it or not, every house is a lesson, every town and village a school in art. The extent to which the popular taste becomes moulded by the impression of what is daily before its eyes, is evidenced by the distinctive character which particular towns, villages, and districts acquire in the course of time. Not that all the buildings are the same, but that there is a certain unity of feeling which pervades them all, and which gives a special character to the whole which it retains for ages.

I have heard it said, —“of what use is it to devote money or labour to an architecture in perishable materials, in 3 × 4 scantling and inch boards?” I reply, first, that wood properly used is by no means so perishable a material as is generally supposed. The church of Beover, in Cheshire, which was restored some years ago, is one of the noblest specimens of the mediæval wooden architecture of England. It was built, I believe, about 1350, and is in perfect preservation. I have heard there still exists a small chapel of oaken logs in which the body of St. Edmund was laid one night on its journey to Bury St. Edmunds, where it was buried. That was in the ninth century, a thousand years ago. Many of our finest roofs are many hundred years old: witness that of Westminster Abbey, built by Richard II. The spire of old St. Paul's, which was burnt in the fire of London, having lasted nearly four hundred and fifty years, was 500 feet high, and was entirely of wood.

But even were it so, I reply that your house itself may perish, but the idea does not perish; the effect on the public judgment is imperishable. If your house be false and hideous, it has diffused its ugliness into the hearts of all beholders for the period of its short but noxious existence. It has to a certain extent incapacitated the public mind from appreciating nobler forms. If you build ugly houses in wood, your children will build uglier houses—were that possible—in stone. All architecture was originally wood. The marble temples and porticos of Athens never lost the forms which were derived from their original wooden construction. England had a wooden architecture specially adapted to her climate, of remarkable beauty. In the perishable structures of earlier times are laid the foundations of that true and cultivated sense of the beautiful, out of which alone a noble Art can arise of more costly and permanent materials.

Now I cannot at present even glance at the sources of beauty in architecture, but I may indicate one principle which follows from what we have dwelt on this evening. One principle there is, from which there is no exception; that falsehood, sham, pretence, vanity, are incompatible with all that is great, noble, and beautiful in Art. I will take two instances of what I mean, derived from the architecture of this colony. First, the attempt to imitate stone in wood. This pervades the whole character of our Art. Even our construction is borrowed from stone. I see buttresses to our churches, which, were they of solid stone, would have been a source of strength; but which, being no more than hollow boxes of inch board, covering a prop or strut, are of compartively little use. Secondly, all the mouldings and ornaments are borrowed from stone, and look well enough as long as they are new; but when the varnish is gone, and the paint cracked, and the wood distorted and shrunk, which very soon happens, they look tawdry and dilapidated. We adopt a style of ornament applicable to stone, but which cannot be durably rendered in wood. The result is that our towns look as if they had got up late after spending the pst night in dissipation. Again, we complete the whole by painting and sanding the boards, and working the edges so as to make the wall look like stone. And so our building stands staring us in the face with a perpetual falsehood, and one which we can all the time detect. Now whatever we may think of a lie, surely an unsuccessful lie is the most contemptible of human efforts.

One more instance I will take, and it shall be the last. The noblest form in architecture is beyond doubt the gable; running, where both faces are equal, into the pinnacle and spire. The gable naturally rises out of the necessity for throwing the rain off the house-top by a sloping roof; and we have seen in the earlier part of this discourse, that it is out of such necessities that the most beautiful forms frequently grow. But in street architecture it is often more convenient to place the ridge of the roof parallel to the street, in which

case the line of the eaves or the parapet of the gutter forms a horizontal line. Now a horizontal line cutting the sky is always a somewhat distressing from; except in the case of the sea horizon, where the infinite delicacy of the ruling, and the immensity of the object, enwrap the feeling and overawe every subordinate sense of pleasure. The horizontal line of the parapet is, however, bearable without offence where it is natural and consistent with the whole idea of the building. But I see frequently in all our towns, a gable turned to the street, and a large dead wall of scantling and boards built up to conceal it. A deliberate and wilful determination to hide the more beautiful form by the less beautiful; —false in construction, for it weakens the house materially by exposing a needless surface to the wind; false in economy, for it costs money without increasing accommodation; utterly false in Art, for it is a miserable sham in every aspect. What then is it for? It is to gratify a false and ignoble vanity. It is to make the house look bigger than it is. I stand opposite such a building, and it seems to say to me, “Now, look at me. You see I am a good substantial two-storied tenement, with an upper storey about ten feet high, and a comfortable upper room with a window in the middle of the wall; —a building of which my architect and owner may well be proud.” I reply, “Friend house, you are a complete humbug. That square front of yours is for the most part exposed to the blasts of heaven, behind as well as in front. You are in a great measure not a house, but a signboard, a hoarding stuck up in the air: That square window is not in the middle of the wall of a large and comfortable chamber, but of a wretched garret, and has been with difficulty squeezed in between the sloping rafters. You are not a two-storied house, but a cottage with one floor and a cockloft; and as a work of art, you are everything that is odious and contemptible.”

The one class of buildings which most awaken my feeling of the beautiful, and they are now very rare, are those small unpretending tenements which were built by the early colonists; some of them not ungraceful in their proportions; all of them possessing the beauty of simplicity and truth, devoid of vulgar pretension, tawdry vanity, and inappropriate ornament.

And I cannot but take this opportunity of earnestly impressing upon you the great responsibility which rests upon the Government of every country, to erect public buildings which shall elevate and educate, instead of depraving the public taste. If a Government represents, as it should do, whatever there is of worth and nobility in the nation; if it be, as it ought to be, an impersonation of the strength and wisdom, the knowledge and the feeling of the people; so ought it, in the public works which it undertakes, to reflect and embody the great qualities of which it is the representative and depository. But besides this, it should ever bear in mind that the external symbols of power are not the expression of a love of pompous or idle pageantry, but arise out of the consciousness, that human nature requires that power must ever present itself to the public in the habiliments which may remind men of the respect and homage which are its due. It is not power in palaces which we have to dread in these countries and in this age: it is power in the tavern and the hovel; and I cannot but tremble for the life of authority which a nation is content to deprive of the external symbols of respect.

Gentlemen, I conclude this long and uninteresting discourse, by entering my humble protest against the sacrifice of public honour and dignity to private wealth and luxury; by entering my protest against the vices of an age which subordinates its love of the beautiful to its worship of wealth; which prefers false glitter to true taste; which makes Art the advertisement of riches instead of their crown and glory; which wears false hair, false jewels, false gold; which makes one storied houses look like two storied houses; whose tastes and whose arts are essentially vain and selfish. I would deliver my own soul by proclaim-

outline, drawn by no master's hand: yet even such an outline may, I trust, suffice for my main purpose.

The branch of physics most closely connected with our subject is known as Comparative Physiolgy. In this department of physical inquiry the ultimate object is nothing less than to discover the plan of Organic Nature in both the great kingdoms, the Animal and the Vegetable. The special instrument of inquiry is collation or comparison of one organic form with another, with a view to ascertain the characteristic of each, and thence to infer their relation to one another, and to the whole organic world. This science, like every other part of physical investigation, assumes, of necessity, the existence of a general plan or scheme of things; a plan of scheme towards the discovery of which the Human Intellect is capable of advancing. What then has this science to say on the subject of our inquiry.

In the comparison of organic forms the first great division which presents itself is that already noticed, into Animal and Vegetable. So vast is the difference between the more highly organised members of either kingdom—take for instance a Lion and an Oak-tree—that the untrained mind at first refuses to conceive of a possible relation between such diverse forms. Yet when compared with inorganic matter, with clay or granite, it is seen at once that beast and tree resemble each other in presenting, though under such different aspects, the grand phenomenon of vitality; and we express this very simple fact when we say that they are both alive. Science has revealed in detail many points of resemblance between Animal and Vegetable organisms. In both, provision is made for nutrition, and for the reproduction of the species: both also possess an apparatus for the circulation of the nutrient fluid, and for respiration. And, broad as is the distinction manifest between the Animal and Vegetable, when each is highly organized, it is matter of great difficulty to discriminate between the lowest forms of the two kingdoms. Common observation recognises this in the designation, “Animal-plant,” popularly applied to the sea anemone, and other creatures of the same class. The great vital divisions may be likened to two stems of a tree which divide close to the ground: as the topmost branches of each are those which have the least connection, so does the highest vegetable seem farthest removed from the highest animal organisation. On the other hand, the two kingdoms seem to coalesce at their respective bases; just as do the stems of the tree at the point where they branch out. Now, amongst the grounds of distinction between Animals and Plants, there is this possibly essential difference; at all events it is the difference to which I shall specially direct your attention to-night—Plants are destitute of any nervous system. ^* The characteristic difference hence arising between Animal and Vegetable life is thus expressed by Dr. Carpenter, “The whole nisus (effort, striving) of Vegetative existence consists in the activity of the organs of nutrition and re-production; but, on the other hand, the nisus of animal life tends towards the evolution of the faculties of sensation, and of self-determined motion; and in its highest manifestation to that of the intelligence and will.” So that there is, you see, a kind of life common to both Animal and Vegetable, which the great French Anatomist, Bichat, has termed “Organic Life;” sometimes also called “Vegetative Life,” as being the only life possessed by plants; and there is another kind of life confined to animals, termed by Bichat, “Animal Life;” and which I shall sometimes refer to as “Nervous Life.” In the animal, the stomach, intestines, and glandular system, and, in some degree, the apparatus for circulation, are organs of the

Vegetative or Organic Life; the brain, nerves, eye, ear, and muscular system, of Animal, or Nervous Life.

The two Kingdoms being thus discriminated, the study of the resemblances and differences presented by Animals has led to the division of the Animal Kingdom into various groups; on the ground that all the members of each group, in certain points, resemble one another, and differ from the members of other groups. The primary divisions are named Sub-Kingdoms. Each Sub-Kingdom is divided into Classes, the Classes into Orders, the Orders into Families, the Families into Genera. The ultimate Sub-Division is of Genera into Species.

The Animal Kingdom is now usually divided into Five Sub-Kingdoms, each other a title, more or less descriptive of some obvious and leading peculiarity of structure. The Vertebrata form the highest Sub-Kingdom; so named from the possession of a backbone, or spine, composed of a variable number of small bones, called Vertebræ—as examples of each of its four classes, take the Horse, the Eagle, the Crocodile, the Salmon. The title of the Second Sub-Kingdom, Articulata, indicates that it comprises Animals, whose bodies are composed of a succession of segments, arranged in a line—hence called jointed, or articulated, animals—of which peculiar structure the Bee and the Lobster are well known forms. All the insect tribes belong to this Sub-Kingdom. The Third Sub-Kingdom comprises the Mollusca, so named from the softness of their bodies; some, but not all, of these Creatures are protected by a shell. The Slug and Oyster are both Molluscs. The Radiata compose the Fourth Sub-Kingdom; and take their designation from the radial or star-like symmetry of their bodies. This form, Carpenter remarks, must in itself be regarded as a Vegetative character, for it corresponds with that which is seen in the disposition of the appendages around the axis in the leaf-buds and flower-buds of Plants. The Star-fish and Sea-Anemone are characteristic forms of the Radiata. The Fifth Sub-Kingdom contains the Protozoa, so called as being the first and lowest form of Animal Life, corresponding in rank with Protophytes in the Vegetable Kingdom. Infusoria and Sponges are members of this group. ^*

Now, in determining the priority and mutual relations of these great groups, and of their sub-divisions, we must keep in view the principle of Animal Perfection already announced; namely, the degree of Nervous Life accorded to each, and displayed in the faculties of sensation and locomotion; and, finally, in the mental attributes of Intelligence and Will. An animal is high in the scale, as it recedes from, low as it approaches, a mere Vegetative Life. In other words, the more it is endowed with Nervous Life the higher is it to be placed on the scale of Animal Existence. Tried by this test, we find the Protozoa scarcely entitled to rank as Animals. No definite trace of a Nervous System has yet, I believe, been discovered in them; and their claim to be reckoned Animals rests chiefly upon the nature of their food, which consists of Organic substances; (whereas, Plants are enabled to assimilate mineral substances;) and upon their performance, after a strange fashion of their own, of the function of digestion.

It is not until we reach the higher Radiata that we find the first definite indications of a nervous system. Every segments, or division, of these creatures is connected with a ganglionic centre; a ganglion being a little swelling lump or knot of nervous substance; and this centre seems subservient

to its own division alone; at least to have very little dependence upon the other segments of the Animal. In short, to borrow an allusion from our local politics, these creatures may be said to have ultra-provincial constitutions.

Next we come to the Two Sub-Kingdoms, immediately beneath the Vertebrata; and these indeed present a sharp and interesting contrast. On the one hand the Mollusca represent the gradually increasing perfection of the apparatus for the discharge of the functions of Organic, or Vegetative Life—creatures, for the most part, sluggish and inert, yet greedy and voracious; “whose God is their belly”; as Carpenter quaintly remarks of them. On the other hand the Articulata are generally characterised by the rapidity of their movements, the great, and sometimes enormous, proportionate strength of their muscles, the extraordinary instincts displayed by some members of the group, and the large endowment of nervous with which these various gifts are connected, and on which they are, in a physical sense, dependent. Thus the Articulata represent the gradually increasing perfection of the Nervous or Animal Life.

In the Mollusca the Nervous System is by no means so striking a feature of the organisation. In many of the lower members of the class the mouth is the only indication of a head; the organs of sight, if they exist, are imperfectly evolved. But in the higher classes the case is different. Many of these possess the senses of sight and hearing, and the organs of these senses are collected upon a Head, about which the Nervous ganglions are concentrated. But even in the highest class of Molluses the Nervous System appears subservient to the sensorial and nutritive functions.

Turning to the Articulata, we find very distinct indications of an approach in Nervous structure to the Vertebrata. The characterstic feature is a double Nervous cord studded with ganglia at intervals, there being one ganlionic centre for each segment (or division) of the Animal. The more alike the different segements, the more equal are the ganglia. In the lower classes, all the segments of the trunk being nearly of a size, so are the ganglia; and the power of each ganglion is almost wholly confined to its own segment. In this they resemble the Radiata; the chief difference being that the segments of the latter are disposed in a radiate manner, whilst in all the Articulata they are longitudinally arranged. But in the higher Articulata, the great power of the Nervous System is concentrated about the head and thorax (chest). The ganglia of the head are always larger and more important. They are connected with the organs of Sight and other Special Senses, and evidently possess a power of directing and controlling the movements of the entire body, whilst the power of each ganglion of the trunk is, as already said, mostly confined to its own segment. It is obvious that the double Nervous Cord of the Articulata corresponds with, and as it were pre-figures, the Spinal Cord of Vertebrata; and that the cephalic ganglia (ganglia of the head) correspond with the contents, at least with a portion of the contents, of the Vertebrate skull.

In the class of Insects which is the highest of the Sub-Kingdom “Articulata,” the development of pure instinct reaches its highest point. Ants and Bees are equalled by no other creature in the geometrical precision of their structures, their perfect adaptation of means to ends, and the absolute regularity with which each member of their wonderful societies performs its alloted part in the economy of the nest or hive. And as pure instinct culminates in these creatures, it would seem that the higher Articulata should be treated as a lateral branch of that great tree of Organic Life, of which we have been as it were, tracing the upward growth. In their own line, there is nothing superior or equal to the Social Insects.

Another observation tends in the same direction, it is this: as regard all

the functions of Organic, as distinguished from Animal Life, the Mollusca are nearer Fishes, the lowest class of Vertebrata, than are the Articulata. In continuously tracing the upward course of Nature, we must, therefore, come down again, as it were, from the topmost Articulata in order to regain the main line of progressive development.

Pursuing this course, we revert to the highest of the Mollusca, the Cephalopoda; and here we find the hint of the structure which gives to Animals of the highest Sub-Kingdom the name of Vertebrata. The Nervous centres of the Insect are protected by firmly jointed rings, which may be regarded as an exterior skeleton. But the Cephalopod, known as the Cuttlefish, possesses in the bone, which is a well-known article of commerce, the rudiments of a true internal skeleton. If amongst the Articulata we find the first trace of the Spinal Cord, it is here that the bony case which is to hold it begins to make its appearance.

You are of course aware that the Spinal Column, or backbone in Man and all Vertebrated Animals, consists of a series of bones strongly connected together, called Vertebræ. Now the received doctrine of modern osteologists is, that the whole skeleton is derived from the development of the elements of Vertebræ. The Human skull is found to be but a continuation of the backbone, consisting of four developed Vertebræ. The ribs, and even the limbs, are equally developments of vertebral appendages. Now, what is the significance of this new rigid element in the structure of animals of the highest Sub-Kingdom? If we see a man providing himself with a strong box, we judge that he is getting ready a safe receptacle for treasure; and similarly this new precaution taken by Nature in the structure of the Spinal Column and skull surely indicates that the contents of these parts are of paramount importance in the animal economy—as we know to be the case.

The Vertebrata are divided into four great classes—I. Mammalia (Sucklers); II. Aves (Birds); III. Reptilia (Reptiles); IV. Pisces (Fishes). The gradual ascent in type is even more evident in this division of the Animal Kingdom than in the lower part of the scale. This diagram shows how the three superior classes of Mammals, Birds, and Reptiles, rise gradually upwards, each above the one immediately below it, by the improvement of some vital function; each advance implying increased organic complexity and fitting the creature for a higher mode of life.

The functions which I have here selected for comparison are, you see, all functions of the organic life; respiration, circulation, and re-production. But I do not mean to abandon that which I have selected as the best criterion of progress in the scale of being, viz, the advancing perfection of the nervous system. The four classes of vertebrates will retain the same relative positions, whether we take as our criterion the perfection of the apparatus of Organic, or that of Animal Life: for the type of Organic Life is raised and improved concurrently with the advance of the Animal Life which it subserves. I have referred to the provision made by Nature in the spinal column and skull for

guarding the physical seats of sensation, emotion, and thought. The inspection of vertebrate forms shows the necessity for this provision in the increasing complexity and delicacy of the Nervous Apparatus, and in its greater importance relatively to the entire Organism. Bearing in mind that the Nervous System of Insects is capable of two great divisions, viz.: (1) the ganglions of the trunk with their double connecting cord, (2) the ganglia of the Head; we find in the Vertebrata that there are gradually developed two additional nervous centres, both contained in the skull. These are called the cerebellum and cerebrum. So that in vertebrates we may take a general view of the system of nervous centres as comprising (1) the spinal cord with its extensions; (2) the sensory ganglia, or nervous organs of the special senses of sight, hearing, and smell and perhaps of general tactile sensibility; which, collectively, may be called the Sensorium; (3) the cerebellum; (4) the cerebrum. The first two, you will recollect, and those only, have their analogues in the Insects and higher Molluscs. From the fact that the greatest proportionate development of sensory ganglia occurs in those tribes of living creatures, I mean the social insects, in which instinct is most powerful, Physiologists infer, no doubt justly, that the physical seat to instinct is in that part of the frame. Now there is, in comparative Physiology, without calling in the aid of other sciences, the very strongest ground for a similar inference respecting the physical seat of intelligence as distinguished from instinct. For, as we pass from one type of vertebrated animal to another we find that the intelligence of the species appears to increase in a just ratio with the increase in the size of the cerebrum; and this organ also becomes, at every step upwards, more and more complex in structure. The inference of course is, that the cerebrum is the physical organ of intelligence. Of the cerebellum the functions seem to be to some extent unascertained. It is largest in man, and appears to be a necessary accompaniment of the expanding powers of the cerebrum. It is generally considered as enabling us unconsciously to combine and harmonise the efforts of a great variety of muscles in complex actions, in obedience to a general volition. We have all seen how a complicated piece of music may be performed automatically, if the piece be well known to the performer; although in learning the piece each movement might have required the exertion of the will. The direction of this sort of automatic action seems to be one, at least, of the functions of the cerebellum, acting in conjunction with the sensory ganglia.

Returning to the structure of the Cerebrum: it is divided into two sections, known as the Cerebral Hemispheres. The Hemispheres occupy quite a subordinate position in the lower classes of Vertebrates—that is in Fishes and Reptiles. Looking, from above, at the brain of a Cod-fish, the sensory ganglia, especially those pertaining to the Organs of Sight and Smell, are very prominent objects, and form the chief mass of the brain. Gradually, as we rise in the scale, the Cerebral Hemispheres assume increased importance, till in the Mammalia they form the mass of the brain, capping and completely covering in the sensory ganglia, and also, more or less, over-lapping the Cerebellum.

The Cerebellum partly shows itself, however, when we look at the brain from above downwards, in every creature except man himself, and those animals which, in general structure, make a close approach to the Human type—I mean, of course, the Monkeys, Baboons, and Apes. In all these animals the posterior lobe of the Cerebrum is well developed, and completely covers the Cerebellum when the brain is viewed from above. So closely, indeed, does the brain of some of the higher Apes approach to that of man, that Professor Huxley declares it to be impossible “to erect any Cerebral barrier” between them. “So far as Cerebral structure goes it is clear,” he says, ‘that man differ less from the Chimpanzee or the Orang than these do even from the

Monkeys; and that the difference between the brains of the Chimpanzee and Man is almost insignificant, when compared with that between the Chimpanzee brain and that of the Lemur.’ Now the Lemur is recognised as the near relation of the Monkeys. Both are included in the order Quadrumana. Yet it should not be too hastily inferred that these creatures, the Apes and Monkeys, are nearest man in point of intelligence. The intelligence of the Elephant and Dog so far exceeding that of the larger part of the Quadrumana, although their brains are of a type much more remote from the Human, may serve (as Lyell remarks) to convince us that we are yet far from understanding the real nature of the connection of intellectual superiority with Cerebral development.

Time will not allow me to enter into any detail of the experiments which have confirmed inferential reasoning respecting the functions of the various Nervous centres. Suffice it to observe that the paramount importance of the Cerebrum is ascertained by a common experience. Severe injuries to the Human brain which involve the Cerebral hemispheres, whether through external violence, or through disease, are instantly attended by deprivation of all power of manifesting any Mental Faculty. In such cases, when persons recover, it is commonly found that they have remained totally unconscious from the time when they received the injury until their recovery; the intervening period having been a blank in their Mental Life.

Nor can I do more than glance at the Darwinian theory. All existing forms of life, it teaches, may gradually have been evolved in the course of ages, from a very few primal types; perhaps from one only. Mr. Darwin's reasoning has, of course, a bearing on the question of our affinity to the Brute Creation. It goes to show—not indeed that we are descended from Gorillas, but—that Man and the existing Apes may have been slowly developed by change after change from some common form now extinct. Thus, though it is not asserted that our progenitors were Apes, yet it is plain on Mr. Darwin's theory, that these beasts are entitled to put in a detestable claim of cousin-ship to Man.

I do not see, however, that the question of our affinity to the Brute Creation is, in reality, affected by the theory of development. That affinity in truth depends upon the identity of our physical constitution with that of the lower Animals; and this can be established, and is, I think, established, independently of a genetic relation.

On the whole, the general conclusions of Physiological Science, upon evidence of which I have here summarised some portions only, are:—First, that the Cerebrum is the Organ, or Physical seat of Man's mental faculties; Secondly, that this structure is not peculiar to Man, but is possessed by many of the higher Animals; Lastly, that the most highly organised Brutes, the Anthropoid Apes, approach so closely to Man in cerebral structure that it is not possible, in the present state of Science, to establish any anatomical or physiological distinction between them.

I have been able to take no notice of the confirmation added by Geology, or rather by Palæontology, to these conclusions. No scientific man, I had almost said no rational being, now disputes the fact that life existed on this planet of ours for immeasurable ages before the appearance of Mankind upon the scene. Now the operations of Organic Nature through these immeasurable tracts of time, “imperfectly interpreted as they yet undoubtedly are, present,” writes Mr. Page, “a series of vital gradation and progress, * * * from humbler to more highly organised orders; as if the great design of Nature had been to ascend from the simpler conception of Materialism to the higher aims of mechanical construction; from Mechanism to the subtler elimination of mind; and from Mentalism to the “still higher attribute of Moralism, as developed alone in the heart and soul of Man.” Thus; while Physiology shows us this stage of being as now occupied by a hierarchy of creatures;

Geology adds, as a probable opinion, that these creatures have made their several entrances in the order of their dignity. Stranger yet, it seems that each individual member of the higher orders passes, in the embryonic stages of its growth, through a succession of phases corresponding very closely to the great ascending steps of universal Nature. “Because, in the little frame of Man's body there is a representation of the universal and (by allusion) a kind of participation of all the parts there, therefore was Man called Microcosmos, or the little world.” So writes Sir Walter Raleigh, and the idea which he describes has been treated as a dreaming fancy; but our latest Science tends to establish it as not far off a literal truth.

And now, at last, I turn to make enquiry, how should these facts affect our views of Man as a responsible being, and as a living soul. If it has hitherto been held that man possesses, by Divine ordination, a faculty of determining his own actions within certain limits—free will in short—do the revelations of Physiology consist with this belief? Again, if we have believed that the Mind of Man is an immaterial substance, not of necessity bound to the body which is its present Organ of expression, nor ceasing to exist upon the dissolution of that body, are we required by Physical Science to surrender, or to modify that faith?

It has been proved to demonstration, the Materialist will promptly answer, that Thought, Fancy, Feeling, are merely operations of that aggregation of material particles, which constitutes the Brain of Man. Could we, with adequate knowledge and instruments investigate the working of that organ, can it be doubted that we might trace in every detail those molecular changes which we call the action of the mind? The Past, Present, and Future of every one of us lie packed, they will aver, in that small receptacle, the Human Cranium. Even existing Science is justified in stating, that in the tissues of the Human Brain, all that a Man has been, is faithfully recorded, all that he is unmistakably expressed, all that he will be, infallibly pre-determined and announced. We await only fuller knowledge to decipher on these fleshly tables, inscriptions, of an inexorable fate.

In replying to such assertions, feeling is apt to get the stat of reason. It is the Heart first, which in wrath, arises and exclaims, “Let Science prove all this”—

“and then,
What matters Science unto Men?
At least to me: I would not stay.”

Now my confidence is fixed, that feeling here does not mislead us; that emotion so uniform, so powerful, so pure, as this which springs up to rebuke the cold pedantry of the Positive school has a deep, perennial source in the Reason of Mankind, and the Reality of Things. To express this reason, and give the argument a shape, is by no means easy. That, however, is what I shall try to do; but let no one take my failure for the failure of the grounds I go on.

First then, I say, there is a plain absurdity in the assumption that cerebral phenomena and mental, being concurrent, are therefore identical. If there be such a thing as mind;—and the materialist must not set out by assuming the contrary;—it may be that by the will of God, certain mental events, call them if you please, phenomena, are ordained to run in parallel series with certain physical, events; just as if, to give a very simple illustration, two files of soldiers should be moving simultaneously along opposite sides of a street; halting together; again advancing together; manoeuvre throughout answering to manoeuvre; the companies so appearing inseparably connected in their movements; and in point of fact inseparably connected; not, however, by a physical

necessity, but by the will of the commander, and the discipline of the men. I, for my part, am prepared to grant that every Thought, Emotion and Memory of Man may have its physical counterpart; but the Materialist confounds the physical expression with the thing expressed. The absurdity is as great as it would be to identify the motions of the Telegraphic apparatus with the transmitted message. As those motions are merely the selected vehicles of expression, so may it be, —so is it, as I believe—with the apparatus of the Human Mind. In short, the mistake of Materialism is the old confusion between symbol and thing signified, which has played such wild work in the World.

“It is impossible,” says a great philosophical writer of the present day, to “from a steady conception of thought except as originating behind even the innermost bodily structures, and intrinsically different from them. However much you refine and attenuate the living organism, yet after all, Thought is something quite unlike the whitest and thinnest tissue; and the most delicate of fibres, woven, if you please, in fairy loom, cannot be spun into Emotions. Nor is it at all easier to imagine Ideas and Feelings to be the results of organisation, and to constitute one of the physical relations of atoms; and, if anyone affirms that the juxta-position of a number of particles makes a Hope, and that an aggregation of curious textures forms Veneration, he afirms a proposition to which I can attach no idea. Agitate and affect these structures as you will, pass them through every imaginable change, let them vibrate and glow and take a thousand hues; still you can get nothing but motion and temperature and colour; fit marks and curious signals of Thought behind themselves, but no more to be confounded with it, than are written characters to be mistaken for the genius and knowledge which may record themselves in language. The corporeal frame then is but the mechanism for making Thoughts and Affections apparent, the signal-house with which God has covered us, the electric telegraph by which quickest information flies abroad of the Spiritual force within us. The instrument may be broken, the dial-plate effaced; and though the hidden artist can make no more signs, he may be as rich as ever in the things to be signified. Fever may fire the pulses of the body: but Wisdom and Sanctity cannot sicken, be inflamed, and die. Neither consumption can waste, nor fracture mutilate, nor gunpowder scatter away, Thought and Fidelity and Love, but only that organisation which the Spirit sequestered therein renders so fair and noble. To suppose such a thing would be to invert the order of rank, which God has visibly established among the forces of our World, and to give a downright ascendency to the brute energies of matter, above the Vitality of the Mind, which up to that point, discovers, subdues, and rules them. * * *”

The position that the action of the Brain, styled, “Cerebration” in the latest jargon of Materialism, is identical with Thought and Feeling, must then be surrendered as intrinsically absurd. But next, perhaps, the contention is, that Thought and Feeling are mere effects of a material cause. That the bursting of a small duct on the Brain, should, in a moment, destroy the life of Consciousness, and put a stop to every Mental process, is, no doubt, as has been said, a fact of which the significance cannot be increased by the adduction of a thousand like instances. In this, it may be argued, and in the cognate phenomena of Insanity, and of old Age, is the plain proof that Mind is a mere Organic function; suspended when the Organ is deranged, and, on its dissolution, ceasing altogether. Now, in common speech, we do, no doubt, talks of the physical occurrence, the apoplexy, the fever, or the blow, as the very cause of the Mind's failure. But, on a closer scrutiny, we find we are not justified in making such an inference. In truth, we have no right to speak at all of a material cause. Of natural phenomena we know only this, that one event, improperly referred to as effect, invariably attends upon, or

follows, some other event, improperly styled cause. This sounds abstruse; yet I believe, by homely illustration it may be made intelligible; and it is a most important point for the Mind to seize, and keep firm hold of.

Suppose some one watching, in a mill or factory, the slow revolution of a huge wheel, or endless band; and that he could, from his stand-point, command a view of but a small part of the entire revolution, the rest being screened from him. Let one point on the tire, or revolving circumference, be supposed to bear some distinguishing mark, say a number, and other points at certain distances other consecutive numbers. After watching for a time the movement before him, the spectator of course becomes aware of the order in rotation of these numbers; and at the return of No. 1, will confidently expect that No. 2. will come into his field of view, at some calculable interval, according to the speed of the machine. No. 2. he will know, and may predict, will be followed by Nos. 3, 4, and the rest in regular succession to the end of the series. Now, this is exactly like our observation of Nature. We become aware that physical phenomena follow one another in a certain, invariable order; so that the appearance of a known antecedent phenomenon prepares us to expect, and enables us to predict, the appearance in due course of the regular consequent. Or it may be that two phenomena occur together, in which case we know, that when one is perceived the other also is present. But, more than this Physics can never teach us. They can never warrant us in declaring that one phenomenon is the true, that is, the efficient, cause of some other of which it is the precursor, or companion. In the case of the revolving wheel, we never for one moment suppose that the emergence of the first marked point causes the emergence of that which we know is next to follow. True, in this example, the Mind is not tempted into such a fallacy; since it is known that the real source of the succession we behold is the motive power of the machinery. But the forces which actuate Nature's great machine are beyond our ken. What they do we know, not what in themselves they are. We are not behind the scenes of that great show, and hence are tempted by that law of our Mental structure which will demand a cause for everything, to attribute casuality to what, as far as we know, is a mere antecedent. Nor does it signify, that in Nature force seems to be transmitted in each of her operations. Each physical event is but a link in the infinite chain of like events; seeming to stand as a cause of those that follow, but, in truth, itself, but the effect of all that have preceded it—so carrying back the mind “with a never ending regress,” in vain search for something which may be rightly called a cause. It is as if we should see the balls upon the table, but not the player; and so should foolishly be moved to attribute to mere ivory impinging upon ivory a power which lies not in dead matter, but in some living Will giving the primal impulse.

That Physical Science, apart from mental experience, tells nothing whatever of the cause of Physical events, but merely ascertains their sequences, is a truth admitted by both the great opposing schools into which all modern Philosophers may be divided. Since Hume, all agree that Natural Science is conversant only with the invariable succession of antecedent and consequent, and must disclaim all knowledge of efficient causes, and all idea of necessary connection between cause and effect. Uniform experience leads us to expect that one phenomenon will be followed by a certain other, but gives us no right to affirm that it must be so followed. Physics in short, have no concern at all with efficient causes; which are indeed explained away, or quite ignored, by the Positive School of Metaphysics. Those Philosophers to whom the Materialist would make his appeal as the only trustworthy authorities, Hume, Brown, Comte, the two Mills, Bain, concur in this; which is the very cornerstone of their Philosophy. The last argument of the Materialist is then as

weak as the first. The phenomena of Disease, Insanity, old Age and the like, give no just ground for the conclusion that Thought and Feeling are mere products of the material organisation. Again I say, the Physical are not shown to be more than concomitants of the Mental occurrences; and i [ unclear: ] is still open to the Theist to refer their connection to the Will of the Almighty. ^*

I am fully aware that in spite of every argument there will remain on some minds a strong, though perhaps not distinct impression, that the advance of physical science, unfolding more and more as it is doing the boundless plan of creation is decidedly adverse to a belief in Human responsibility. The sources of this general notion are well worth exploration. But I must now limit myself to the narrow ground of the special tendency in this direction of the physical facts I am to-night endeavouring to interpret. Before concluding, I propose, therefore, to say something on the seemingly close affinity to the Brute Creation which the Naturalists have fastened upon us. At the first aspect of the facts on which this unpleasing conclusion is based; when, too, we hear an Owen declare that to determine the difference between Homo and Pithecus is the Anatomist's difficulty; or when a Huxley affirms, that no cerebral barrier intervenes between us and the Quadrumana; our blood begins to curdle, and for a time, we are on the way to think that the dignity of Man, his awful responsibilities, his Heavenly hopes, alike are dreams of Theologians, which the wiser modern world has now left far behind it. “Yea,” say we, in such a mood, “yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast; all go to one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.” And what is worse, we are half tempted to the logical conclusion, “that for a Beast there is nothing better than a Beast's enjoyment,” nothing better for a Man than that he, “should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labour.” But rousing ourselves to consider facts, we cannot but perceive the folly of ignoring the immense chasm which separates the reflecting mind, thus debating with itself these arduous themes from the highest of the brutes. Anatomy, it is said, can detect no difference between the brain of a Newton and that of the last discovered Ape. Is it indeed so? So much the worse then for Anatomy! At most it comes to this, that there exist no physical signs of an enormous disparity. But this is no reason for discrediting our own most certain conviction that the disparity does, in fact, exist. A far more likely solution is, that the imperfect methods of the Science are as yet unequal to detect the physical indicia. I, for one, am far from thinking that anatomy may not hereafter throw a strong reflected light upon mental science. I say a reflected light, for the original ray divine, the pregnant hint of what to look for, must ever come from Psychology itself. Meanwhile, what folly to surrender our beliefs, because they are not contradicted, but, simply, unrecognised, by the imperfect science of the day. The greater physicists are too wise to forget the limits of their own department. And as to the mere dogmatists of the dissecting room—men, who like Draper of New York, will tell you that those whose fingers have never puddled in the dead brain, can know nothing of the living mind—we must recollect that the “dyers's hand is subdued to what is works in.” It is certain that men may, by too gross a familiarity with the secrets of this fleshly frame, “encarnalise their spirits.” Look for no wide philosophic scope in such a quarter. Inured to the Physical order of ideas they are become incapable of dealing with the Psychological. Leave them to think, if they can, that their own Meditations,

Feelings, Aspirations, are simply oxidation in Cerebral tissues of so much phosphorus. “Ephraim is joined to Idols; let him alone.”

Physical Science (in fine) must not pretend to dictate to Mankind on subject which transcend her sphere. Knowledge of the external shows of the World, beautiful and valuable as it is, can never supersede our inner experience of the life which underlies those forms. Man's knowledge of his own mental acts, derived from reflection, cannot be set aside by observation, which, pretending not to leave the region of the sensible, remains of necessity will ever seriously lend its ear to a Philosophy which “denying that we can know ourselves, yet insists that we can decipher the Universe.”

One puzzling question remains: Wherein shall we place the mental difference between Man and those lower animals which most closely approach him in intelligence? “The range of the passions of Animals is,” says Agassiz, “as extensive as that of the Human mind, and I am at a loss to perceive a difference of kind between them, however much they may differ in degree, and in the manner in which they are expressed. The gradations of the moral faculties among the higher Animals and Man are, moreover, so imperceptible, that to deny to the first a certain sense of responsibility and consciousness, would certainly be an exaggeration of the difference between Animals and Man.” Again Huxley writes, “No impartial judge can doubt that the roots, as if were, of those great faculties which confer on Man his immeasurable superiority above all other animate things are traceable far down into the animate World. The Dog, the Cat, and the Parrot return love for our love, and hatred for our hatred. They are capable of shame, and of sorrow; and though they may have no logic nor conscious ratiocination, no one who has watched their ways can doubt that they possess that power of rational cerebration which evolves reasonable acts from the premises furnished by the senses, a process which takes fully as large a share as conscious reason in Human activity.”

It is no subject for any one to dogmatise upon; yet, until the Naturalists show better reasons than any yet adduced, men will continue to believe that Nature, in passing upward from the Brutes, to what is, as yet, her crowing work upon this planet, has taken one of her great strides, and made a difference in kind. And a sound Psychology, guiding the careful observation of external nature, will here, I think, wholly confirm the views of common sense. As Man is apparently distinguished chiefly by his capacity for moral and spiritual ideas, it is in the faculties concerned with these that we ought to seek the special Human characteristics. It is to three great faculties, that we may trace Man's capability in this direction—Self-consciousness, Conscience, and Free Will. The first confers the idea of personality; in the second originates the sense of duty; the third carries with it the feeling of responsibility. United, these faculties confer the power of conscious self-regulation by an ideal standard of perfection. Now, what ground have we for thinking that any of the Brute Creation possess these great endowments, and share the vast responsibilities which they involve? Agassiz, in the passage I have just cited, vaguely talks of “a certain sense of responsibility and consciousness;” and I know it has been thought that, in the Dog, there is the beginning of a Conscience; the first dawning of a Moral nature. And if by Conscience be meant the dread of punishment, the Dog, no doubt, possesses one; and not the Dog alone, but many other Animals. But, if the term be used in its true sense to indicate perception of the difference in moral worth of several competing principles of action, there is then no reason to believe that Conscience is a faculty possessed by any of the lower creatures. Such of their actions as present, at first sight, the aspect of true voluntary self-restraint, are all to be

referred, I think, to training, the habit of Obedience, or to the absorbing power of some strong affection which, for the time blindly predominates. In no case that I have heard of need it be supposed, that there has been that conscious and voluntary preference of the higher to the lower ground of action in which the Moral life of Man consists. The moral faculty declaring “What I ought to do?” cannot conceivably exist apart from that self-consciousness which, holding up a mental mirror wherein the Soul can see and know itself, enables me to say, —“This is I.”

I know what moral grandeur some of the recorded actions of Animals assume. But there is some illusion in our admiration of these affectionate and faithful Brutes. Outwardly, their acts have all the beauty of self-forgetful love. Yet how can there be self-oblivion, or self-surrender in creatures upon whom the idea of self has never dawned? Man is apt to measure all things by the standard of his own nature, and thus it is that we unconsciously attribute to the lower creatures an ideal elevation of which there is no valid reason to suppose them capable.

The supposition that the Brutes are destitute of self-consciousness, also best explains, I think, the difference between their intelligence and ours. The mind, which is a mere theatre on which impressions and recollections make their entrances and exists without the faculty of detaining or recalling them at will to compare and classify, must be incapable of general ideas, and of all abstract reasoning. To Man alone, it seems, is given command over his own intelligence. The Dog thinks, but only Man has the power of thought.

That God has withheld self-consciousness from the Brute creation, may perhaps be thought to cast some ray of light upon another mysterious subject. It may be that the gift of Immortality has, by the All-Righteous One been confined to that created being in whom alone, so far as our knowledge goes, He has raised the hope and expectation of it—who alone “thinks he is not made to die.” Yet on this dark subject it becomes all to speak with great reserve. Who shall pretend even in thought, to limit His designs? Surely we may preserve our faith in Man's great heritage, without pretending to make it clear that all God's other creatures are shut out. Their destiny is nowise our concern. It is a mystery which as yet transcends our knowledge; and, not improbably, our faculty of knowledge.

In what I have just assayed to express respecting the mental characteristic of humanity, I cannot hope to content any one who denies the existence in Man of a moral faculty and free causal power. I expect no one to concur who, in metaphysics, prefers Hume and Mill to Coleridge and Martineau; or who, in Ethics, holds with Paley against Bishop Butler. The differentiation of Mankind from Brutes, must needs fail in the hands of a Philosophy which has analysed away every Human characteristic. As little can I carry with me any of the modern scientific school, which, in terms, abjures materialism, and, with Hume and Comte, disclaims knowledge of efficient causes, yet is ever seeking to refer the whole Creation, the Human mind included, to a supposed primal material impulse. No one who, like Professor Huxley, can think of his own mind as “the expression of molecular changes,” in that matter of life which is common to himself and the stinging nettle, can be convinced by any argument which I have here adduced. Exiling from the world, as they seek to do, all present creative energy, such thinkers are bound to find, in every phenomenon of the Cosmos, neither more nor less than is contained in its immediate antecedent. With them, all existence are but phases of one blind force, whose undulations fill all space and time; and no essential difference can be admitted to exist amongst them. ^*

After all, look at it steadily, and you will see that this doctrine Man's actual physical affinity to brutal forms, instead of raising new doubts, goes far to explain certain admitted facts of human experience, and to lesson the pressure of some old difficulties. I extract the following striking passage, (cited by Lyell, in this connection,) from Hallam's Literature of Europe. —“It might be wandering from the subject of these volumes if we were to pause, even shortly, to inquire whether, while the creation of a world so full of evil must ever remain the most inscrutable of mysteries, we might not be led some way in tracing the connection of moral and physical evil in man with his place in that creation; and especially, whether the law of continuity, which it has not pleased his Maker to break with respect to his bodily structure, and which binds that, in the unity of one great type, to the lower forms of animal life by the common conditions of nourishment, reproduction, and self-defence, has not rendered necessary both the physical appetites and the propensities which terminate in self; whether, again, the superior endowments of his intellectual nature, his susceptibility of moral emotion, and those disinterested affections, which, if not exclusively, he far more intensely professes than any inferior being—above all, the gifts of conscience, and a capacity to know God, might not be expected, even beforehand, by their conflict with animal passions, to produce some partial inconsistencies, some anomalies at least, which he could not himself explain in so compound a being. Every link in the long chain of creation does not pass by easy transition into the next. There are necessary chasms, and as it were leaps from one creation to another, which, though not exceptions to the law of continuity, are accomodations of it to a new series of being. If Man was made in the image of God, he was also made in the image of an Ape. The framework of the body of him who has weighed the stars and made the lightning his slave, approaches to that of a speechless Brute, who wanders in the forests of Sumatra. Thus standing on the frontier land between animal and angelic natures, what wonder that he should partake of both!”

The same thought appears in the exhortation of the most modern-minded of Poets—

“Move upward, working out the Beast,
And let the Ape and Tiger die.”

Let man put down within himself the ferocious and the obscene. The very emotion of disgust raised by our nearest neighbours on the scale, those “blurred copies” of ourselves, is not, we may be sure, without a salutary purpose in the divine economy.

Physiology, in fine, does but bring home, in a more lively way, if that be possible, one of the very oldest of human convictions, one of the very first of religious lessons. Man has always perceived within himself the contest of the double nature; has always felt the downward drag of the heavy body, the stirring of the brute within him. Oriental thought does but exaggerate this truth in the doctrine of the inherent evil of matter; a doctrine well known to

says Cosmas, should not “even speak of the Antipodes.” But why travel to remote ages and barbarous times for examples of these ludicrous attempts to control the course of scientific thought? We ourselves are witnesses that the same spirit has survived to our own days, and is yet active in the midst of us. We have seen, and still see, the conclusions of the Naturalist contested, not on the ground that they are unwarranted by observation, but because to the objector they seem to contradict some supposed Revelation on the subject contained in Scripture. Now I desire to assert on the threshold of our inquiry that, in regard to the constitution of the physical world, Theology must be content to sit at the feet of her younger sister Science. Scientific inference is to be supported and opposed purely on scientific grounds. But more especially in the department of Natural Theology it is obvious we must take our facts from Natural Science; making of them what we can.

But, as physical science is progressive, the illustrations drawn from nature of the theistic arguments must needs adapt themselves to this advance, and theory after theory be shown to be consistent with what is fundamental in human faith. “I cannot therefore see that Dr. Hooker was justified in one charge which he made last year against this department of Theology. In his opening address, as President for the year, to the British Association, he makes it a reproach, that Natural Theology “shifts its ground to meet the requirements of every new fact, that science establishes.” Now in one sense, no doubt, it does, and ought, to “shift its ground.” Essentially it is occupied in showing that each new fact, and each successive theory, consists with, though it may not prove, the fundamental point of Natural Religion. Its assumption of scientific conclusion is of necessity, provisional only; for these conclusions, in their very nature, are never final. Science it is rightly said, knows nothing of Confessions, Creeds, and Articles. With her nothing is permanent, except the guiding principles of her research. At each step upward a wider prospect opens out upon her; and the theories of the past expand into more comprehensive views of truth. Theology is bound to follow with her comment this continuous advance. Plainly, there is confusion in Dr. Hooker's mind between Natural Theology and those ill-judged efforts, of which we have seen so many to reconcile the facts of Science with the letter of Scripture by perverting the interpretation of both the subjects of comparison.

The earliest speculations upon the physical forces of the Universe seem to have arisen out of religious feeling—thereby understanding simply, the human sense of dependence on an irresistible external power. The might of the elements, contrasted with the sense of feebleness within, attracts an awe-struck worship; giving rise to those naturalistic systems of Religion which we find to have prevailed in the ancient civilized communities of Asia. In these systems every operation of nature is attributed to a supernatural influence. The elementary powers, and the more striking phenomena of the physical world, are impersonated and deified. In the earliest known form of the religion of India, fire, the winds, the sun, the dawn, the bright and cloudless firmament, are venerated as gods. But as there arises some conception of natural law, the notion of Divine interference becomes more and more restricted to the less frequent and apparently irregular phenomena; more especially to such as are of an appalling or destructive character. Pestilence, drought, earthquakes, hurricanes, are regarded as Divine visitations, long after men have ceased to worship the sun and stars. Eclipses, comets, and meteors, also, from their apparently irregular occurrence, and startling effect upon the senses, are placed in the same class, and taken for portents of the Divine anger. But in the progress of the adventurous European races, the bold and lively sons of Japhet have more and more asserted man's mental rights and bodily powers against external nature. Growing familiar with the regularity of all her ways, and

taught to turn to use some of her most tremendous agencies, the western nations, little by little, have ceased to yield her a divine regard. At last, nothing in nature excites a sacred awe but those unusual effects in which the hand of God is still, for the time, thought to be specially at work.

Modern science has completed this great revolution of feeling and opinion. Certainly, at the present day, no educated person supposes the Divine influence to be more peculiarly manifested in an eclipse—of which he will find the time of occurrence, and area of visibility, predicted in his Almanac with perfect accuracy—than in the phases of the moon, or the regular recurrence of the seasons. If the periodical return of comets is as yet less exactly calculated, this is only, as we all understand, because the elements of the problem are more complex; and no one doubts that, sooner or later, our present comparative ignorance will be removed. The advance of Meteorology is gradually unfolding to us the laws obeyed by the seemingly capricious winds and clouds; enabling us to plot out beforehand the destructive path of the cyclone; making it impossible to regard seasons of excessive rain or drought as the chastisement of special sins. Plague, typhus, and cholera, may, indeed, be looked on as penalties affixed, by an immutable law, to filth and laziness; but in the mediæval sense, can no longer be taken as specially expressive of God's dissatisfaction with human deeds. And the laws of nature are found to be as universal in Space as invariable in Time. The order which reigns amongst the minute particles disclosed to us by the microscope, extends to the remotest regions accessible to the powers of those huge instruments which aid the research of the modern Astronomer. The same law that brings a feather to the ground, and wheels the planets in their orbits, governs, it seems, the vast revolutions of the multiple systems of stars; white, red, green, and blue suns, circling about their several common centres, at inconceivable distances, distances compared with which the whole diameter of the Earth's orbit is but as a point. Nor is the substance of the remotest bodies different, as it appears, from those forms of matter with which we are familiar. The latest experiments on the light emitted by what are called the fixed stars, are believed to give positive assurance that the chemical constituents of these bodies are in part, at least, identical with those of our own planet. Thus, while the Divine power seems everywhere replaced by Natural force, the scrutiny of Science leaves in the wide Universe no befitting seat of Deity. What has become of the conception of a local Heaven? What place have the astronomers left for it? Herschel has tried to gauge for us the visible Universe in vain; his plummet lowered into an ocean, every drop of which is a solar system, finds no bottom. The faint and hazy light, dimmed by immeasurable distance, of suns and systems, sown in countless multitudes on the dark background, still keeps dawning on the increasing powers of our space-penetrating instruments; and beyond these visible forms of matter, if indeed they have an end, there is nothing but a sense of vacuity more appalling still. Let any one, on a starry night, look steadfastly into the starless spaces of our antarctic heavens, and let him try to fancy God's unclouded presence as shining out beyond the verge of what is visible: he will feel that Heaven can no longer seem to us, as to the early world: we cannot say of it “Lo here! Lo here! that awful depth seems rather the abode of Eternal Night. In presence of considerations such as these, almost overwhelming as they may be found at times, even by the steadiest intellect and the most lively faith, is it surprising that, to very many, Matter and its Laws, seem all in all; or can we wonder, that the speculative mind, descending to the lowest level, sometimes finds at last a dull repose in the Dead Sea of Thought, the creed of the Materialistic atheist? This then, is the great cycle of opinion, we find the station of the bold and self-sufficient unbeliever of our days diametrically opposed to that of the submissive Asiatic—Nature,

in the old mode of thought, appearing all miraculous, wholly divine; but, in the modern view, just the reverse; quite unmiraculous and undivine.

But not materialists alone hold the opinion, that where physical law is present, God is absent. A considerable section of the “religious world,” unconsciously adopts that proposition. And this explains the jealousy so frequently displayed, of all extensions of scientific knowledge. The so-called “explanations” of Science seem, from this point of view, to empty Nature of everything divine. The awful voice no longer sounds in the reverberations of the thunder: His dread judgements are no more announced in pestilence and famine: the earth no longer trembles at His look: it is not at His touch that the volcano vomits forth its smoke and lava-torrents. With these believers, as with the scientific Atheist, miracle stands as the opposite of natural law; the one divine, the other godless. With either party, to shut out miracle is to banish Deity itself. Hence the passionate opposition, renewed at every fresh attempt, made by contemporary science, at deeper penetration into the mysteries of Nature—passion arising from the unconscious notion that Faith itself depends on the continuance of scientific ignorance.

The latest instance of this state of feeling is found in the attitude taken by many theologians towards Mr. Darwin's speculations on the Origin of Species in the Organic world. So long as Creation can be regarded as a unique act, hidden deep in the past from scientific scrutiny, it may retain the character of miracle. The new doctrine of development threatens this last stronghold. In the theological view the long train of organic nature, first herb and tree, then moving creature that the waters brought forth, winged fowl, creeping thing and beast of the earth, lastly man himself, emerge at the Divine fiat from nothingness; each differing from each, fixed in its type, perfect in its kind. On the other hand the school of Darwin is striving to refer this mystery to the operation of the known laws of Organic nature. Instead of detached creative acts manifesting the power and intelligence of the Supreme, they see quasi-mechanical evolution from some primitive germ—evolution proceeding as surely, whilst I speak, as at any former instant in the world's life.

Those who have seized the principle, which in a former lecture I have endeavoured to expound and recommend, may view the controversy without taking either side, and with quiet certainty that the result must be indifferent to Natural Religion. Once perceive that Physical science can investigate only the method of the Universe, and except in concert with higher modes of thought, is incompetent to reveal its cause, and it will be plain, that Theism, at least, must stand secure in every change of scientific theory. Science, alone, does not, it must be granted, and cannot, reveal God; but far less can she provide a substitute. The whole question of causation lies beyond her sphere. This I repeat is, on all hands, an admitted principle. Bear with me whilst I endeavour to bring before you some proof of this assertion. And first as to the doctrine of the school of Hume on this important topic. “When,” writes the great master in that beautifully lucid style of his, “we look about us towards external objects, and consider the operation of causes, we are never able, in a single instance, to discover any power or necessary connection; any quality, which binds the effect to the cause, and renders the one an infallible consequence of the other. We only find, that the one does actually, in fact, follow the other. The impulse of the one billiard-ball is attended with motion in the second. This is the whole that appears to the outward senses. The mind feels no sentiment or inward impression from this succession of objects: consequently there is not in any single particular instance of cause and effect anything which can suggest the idea of power or necessary connection. * *” “In reality,” he continues, “there is no part of matter that does ever, by its

sensible qualities, discover any power or energy, or give us ground to imagine that it could produce anything, or be followed by any other object which we could denominate its effect. * * * The scenes of the universe are continually shifting, and one object follows another in an uninterrupted succession; as the power, or force, which actuates the whole machine, is entirely concealed from us, and never discovers itself in any of the sensible qualities of body. We know that, in fact, heat is a constant attendant of flame; but what is the connection betwixt them we have no room so much as to conjecture or imagine. It is impossible, therefore, that the idea of power can be derived from the contemplation of bodies in single instances of their operation, because no bodies ever discover any power which can be the original of this idea.” With equal emphasis, John Stuart Mill declares, that scientific investigation is not concerned with the inquiry into the efficient cause of a phenomenon, “the cause which is not only followed by, but actually produces, the effect.” Some writers, thinking they are following Mill, are ready to assert that juxta-position of certain elements produces the galvanic current; or even, that like juxta-position produces mental action. Their master is more consistent in his Nescience. Strange as it may seem, with him, as with the great originator of this way of thinking, no one thing, within our knowledge, produces any other. Certain things invariably follow other things: Hume, Mill, Comte, pretend to know no more. The leaders entering the penetralia of Nature's temple, report they find a vacant seat, an empty shrine; (vacuam sedem, inania arcana); the weaker followers declare they see the idol of Material Necessity enthroned between the Cherubim. ^*

In now turn to the teaching of the opposite school. This need not long detain us; for nothing is more certain than that thinkers of this class give not the slightest countenance to the fallacy that the so-called powers of Nature can, in themselves be causative.

These metaphysicians, jealous as they are of the rights of common sense, and strong in their belief that every instructive assurance of our nature points at some reality, yet join with Hume and Mill to set aside that mistaken notion which I am combating. “Rude nations,” says Dr. Reid, “do really believe

sun, moon and stars, earth, sea and air, fountains and lakes, to have understanding and active power. * * * As philosophy advances, life and activity in natural objects retires, and leaves them dead and inactive. Instead of moving voluntarily, we find them to be moved necessarily; instead of acting, we find them to be acted upon; and Nature appears to us one great machine, where one wheel is turned by another, that by a third; and how far this necessary succession may reach the Philosopher does not know.”

But it will be asked, are not the various Forces which Modern Science has detected, truly efficient causes; which the Theist, if he please, may style second causes, but which the scientific mind may rest upon as ultimate? Are not Gravitation, Elasticity, Cohesion, Attraction, Electricity, Magnetism, Caloric, Chemical Affinity, and the rest, causes in this sense? To these questions Hume and the Positivist school, with Mill and all his followers, will still answer with an avowal of ignorance. For their philosophy knows nothing but phenomena. Force, clearly, is no phenomenon, but the hidden producer of phenomena. And in this answer the opposite sect in metaphysics will most certainly concur. As Martineau shortly puts it, “Inductive Science gives us no access to causes behind phenomena.” Force is not matter, but the supposed power which acts on matter. In itself it is invisible, inaudible, impalpable, inaccessible, in short, to sense of any kind, or to any instruments of sense. Its intensity, indeed, as appearing in its various effects of motion, weight, elasticity, colour, heat, deflection of the needle, and so on, is, in most cases measurable by appropriate methods. But the power itself lies outside the field of observation; like that veiled Egyptian goddess, whose hands, stretched forth from her closely enwrapping mantle, alone were visible. “You sometimes speak of gravity,” Sir Isaac Newton writes to Bentley, “as essential and inherent to matter. Pray do not ascribe that notion to me; for the cause of gravity is what I do not pretend to know.” Here we have the great discoverer avowing, that gravitation, according to his judgment, is not in itself a cause but the effect of some ulterior and undiscovered agency. If this be the case with gravity, it will scarcely be denied that the same is true of the entire catalogue of forces I have above rehearsed, together with actinic force, kinetic, and whatever other fresh coinage the always-active mind of scientific terminology may hereafter issue for temporary circulation. All are but names, I will not say to cover ignorance, although, in fact, they do conceal it, but to indicate the supposed common origin of phenomena which appear connected.

This will be made still plainer if we observe two contrary tendencies of physical research. On the one hand, there is a tendency to augment the number of supposed material forces arising from the continual discovery of natural operations before unobserved. When such discovery occurs; as in the case of the action of light on certain salts of silver, (now become to us so familiar a fact in the arts of Photography;) the new class of effects is ascribed, for a time, to a new species of natural power. Thus Photography has taught us to speak of the “actinic” power of light. But on the other hand investigation is ever revealing to us the hidden analogies of Nature, and thus enabling us to collect phenomena in larger groups, which we then refer to some one form of force, instead of, as before, to several different forces. Here there is a tendency to reduce the length of the Dynamic catalogue. This consideration should satisfy us that the (so-called) physical agencies are plastic suppositions; hypotheses to serve a temporary purpose in scientific classification; not existences of which we have any real knowledge. Moreover the tendency of Modern Science is wholly to abandon the former notion of a multitude of Forces, and to refer all natural operations to a single form of Force. Force according to modern theory, never disappears in one shape without reappearing in another, with exactly corresponding intensity. The blow of the smith's

hammer is arrested by the anvil, and its force seems spent; but, in truth, it only changes shape, reappearing in the form of heat communicated to the anvil and the hammer. In the steam engine we see the reverse operation—Heat, in this instance, disappears in producing mechanical force. In like manner Heat will produce thermo-electric currents, whilst Electricity, in its turn, generates Heat. Electricity and Magnetism also, it is now known, are mutually convertible. Temporary magnets are made by electric currents, and sparks are elicited from magnets. Many other instances of like convertibility might be given. It is likely, then, that our conception of natural forces will, sooner or later, be reduced to some single type; and this one force will be conceived of as ever varying in its aspects; now Heat, now Chemical force, and now Mechanical; yet never spent. Here, then, it will perhaps be said, we shall have at last the material cause of which we are in search. I answer, No; you will have found matter in action; nothing more. The question will remain unanswered, “what makes it act?”

The Theist may then leave Darwinians to fight it out with their opponents on the scientific field; secure that Natural Religion is nowise interested in the issue of the controversy. But is human faith, in any shape, truly in peril should it be established, as seems not unlikely, that Creation is no past event but a process ever going on? Grant to the advocate of progressive Development his “nucleated vesicle,” “primordial cell,” or whatever he likes to call it, out of which he is to bring the whole Organic world. Only do you and he remember, that the whole animal and vegetable kingdoms are in that cell, as truly as the oak is in the acorn. The cell accounts, he says, for the whole Organic world. Be it so: but the cell? what accounts for that?

And, as we further see, the ground of the religious opposition is a misconception. The antithesis of miracle and natural law, as one divine, the other undivine, is, here, a false one; for the Power of God is no more at work in miracle than in Nature.

Observe, I speak of the operation of Divine power, not of the manifestation of Divine purpose, which is not here in question. In almost every form of creed, the Divine character is supposed to be more fully expressed in miracle than in Nature. But of Divine power, surely, this amazing universe, filled and pulsating with self-renewing life in countless myriads of forms, is the greater physical expression: so that it is absurd to compare with it, in this respect, any recorded or imaginable deviation from established order. “Command that these stones be made bread,” was the word of the Tempter, as we read. The miracle, though then withheld, is worked, (on how huge a scale!) in each returning season, in our ripened crops. To fill a starving multitude from the scanty store of a poor fisher, what indeed, as a work of power is that to Him,

“Who men and angels daily feeds,
And stills the wailing sea-bird, on the hungry shore?”

Scattered miracles of healing are small things to the repairing power of nature, or to that “stupendous alchemy” ever at work transmitting inorganic matter into living tissues. Nay, as a physical wonder, what is resuscitation of a single life, whilst in the birth of Human infants (to speak only of this Planet) the new creation of living souls takes place by thousands every hour?

But to resume our former argument. Science can never touch the ground of Theism; for it knows nothing of efficient causes. The mind ranges in vain through nature for any original source of power. We find, as Reid puts it, wheel turned by wheel in endless succession, but never reach the origin of motion. For Matter (whatever it may be) we must needs conceive of as inert; that is its very definition; and of Force, in its essence, science must remain for ever ignorant.

It is beside my present purpose greatly to enlarge on the mental process by which the philosophic Theist supplies the blank thus left by science. Beyond the point we have now reached, the great contending sects of metaphysical thinkers have no common ground. I can no longer vouch the authority of the great Scottish sceptic and his followers, nor avoid collision with the Positivist sect. Yet I do not assent to the suggestion that the attempt to handle these great subjects, on intellectual grounds, yet, in a popular way, is an unwise one, merely because philosophers are not agreed about them. They are people's questions, for they concern the springs of human action in daily life, and must be settled by appeal to the broad experience of our common nature. There are some subjects on which men whose walk is in the beaten tracks of life—who have experienced the ordinary lot—acting, suffering, feeling, thinking, in the way of all mankind; may have a surer vision of the truth than is accorded to the calm and pure, yet frigid, formal, unimaginative intellect of the closeted Philosopher. Be it far from me to pass a moral judgment on these exceptional natures; or to conclude that their lives must be vicious and unholy, because I deem their principles unsound! Judging men by their actions, it will appear, plainly enough, that some have found a way to reconcile what seems a barren and repulsive creed of mere negations with a life of strenuous effort and noble aspiration. Such have become, and are an illustration to their country, and an honour to mankind. Let it be left to the great Taskmaster to judge His servants. To him they stand or fall.

One word to some to whom the argument may be distasteful on another ground. Faith, I concede, has her experiments as well as Science; and they are happy, who by wholly other ways than those which we are trying, may have “felt after” and found Him who is “not far from every one of us.” To some such, I anticipate, discussion like the present may seem superfluous, or worse. The Supreme certainty will appear to them too true and real for elaborate proof, if not too sacred for metaphysical discussion. Yet let me urge, that all men are not in this happy case. The intellect has its demands; demands which, at the present time, it is unwise, unsafe, and wrong, to overlook. The reassuring faculty, “sounding on its dim and perilous way,” can never, I am well convince, beget assurance on this great subject; but it may remove impediments which are stumbling blocks to many; it may confirm conclusions based on surer ground; above all, it may rouse men from that mental torpor which is a disease far commoner than positive unbelief.

Eschewing, so far as I am able, the refinements of metaphysical discussion, I shall, then, briefly state the grounds on which my own intellect arrives at its conclusion. I accept, as satisfactory, the doctrine that we derive the idea of “Force” from our own experience of the action of the “Will.” In volition, we have, I think, the sense of intellectual effort; of force put out, and resistance overcome; of strain kept up in spite of weariness. Having conceived a mental purpose we are conscious of putting forth a power whereby the thing conceived of may be effected. I speak here of purely mental experiences; and in this sphere, it seems to me, I say, that our wills appear to us to be efficient causes. ^* “Force,” then, in our experience, is as Dr. Carpenter has put it, —“the direct expression, or manifestation, of that mental

state which we call Will.” It is the name we give to our own self-conscious exercise of power. We know, and can conceive of, no other form of Force. Constrained by a law of our nature, (that law which, uncorrected by our higher reason, suggests to us the notion of physical causation); to refer every phenomenon to a cause, we can do no otherwise than suppose, in the background of Nature, a power producing her appearances. This power we must needs conceive of as cognate with the only form of power of which we have experience. Thus it comes to pass, that the unsophisticated intellect must see in Nature the expression of a Mind; and suppose beneath the veil of fleeting phenomena the enduring force of a living Will. Force is but the metaphysical idea of Will transferred to the field of physics. Force is will supposed in action upon matter. The conception is the indispensable sub-stratum of all physical speculation; yet the origin of the idea, as of those of Substance, Space, and Time, is hyper-physical. I do not say that there is logical ground for the belief that all phenomena must bear the same kind of efficient cause with one type of Force which our narrow human experience makes known to us; or even for the belief that all phenomena must have a cause. These beliefs lie deeper than logic. They are laws of that mental constitution on which Logic itself depends.

How mind can act on Matter must remain to us an impenetrable mystery. But, when called upon to choose between Mind and Matter for the origin and motive power of the universe, we can be at no loss; for Matter we must think of as inert; Mind, on the other hand, we are conscious of as active. When, however, we attempt to realize to ourselves the mode of the Divine action in the Universe of matter, we at once encounter a great difficulty of conception. Are we to suppose a distinct volition for every phenomenon; and to call in the Divine power to produce a spark, or form a rain-drop? We shrink from the idea as irreverent, if not impossible. On the other hand, suppose His volitions quarrel, and Himself, in Nature, regardless of particulars, and what becomes of that Providence without which not a sparrow falls, and by which the very hairs of our head are numbered? Nor can we escape the difficulty by the denial of God's immanency in Nature. It is idle to interpose between Him and His universe the machinery of secondary causes. We have seen the fallacy of imputing power to the temporary fictions of scientific generalization, as if gravitation, or electricity, were capable of being regarded as real agents. Driven from our refuge in the sophistry of so-called material causation, nothing is left but the world of spirit. In former ages there was no difficulty in the conception of intermedial agencies of a spiritual kind. In the Talmud a special angel is assigned to every star; and to every element. But the day for such fancies is gone by. In my judgement one difficulty is irremovable; for it arises from the natural limitation of our faculties. We view all things as existing in space or time. We know not that such is the mode of the Almighty's thought. Nay, rather, we believe that, to the great I AM, Past and Future are merged in an eternal Present: that to Him there is, physically, neither great nor small: neither far nor near: that, in the infinite sphere of His providence the centre is everywhere. But though our faith be that He reconciles the centre is everywhere. But though our faith be that He reconciles the claims of General and Particular in his boundless universe; and, whilst maintaining the grand and beautiful uniformities of Cosmical law, that His tender mercies are over all His works, we needs must own, that to comprehend, or even to imagine, how this can be, transcends our feeble faculties.

The way is now open for us to consider more precisely the modern aspect of Physical Science, in its organic branches. This has appeared to many leading scientific minds highly unfavourable to those arguments from particular

Design, on what the theologians of the last century were wont to lay the greatest stress. As we have just seen, there are two ways in which the human mind strives to represent to itself the divine activity in the universe of matter. According to the one mode of thought, the general plan of Creation is paramount; according to the other, the particular creatures. Corresponding with this division is the difference between the past and present aspects of Organic science. The naturalist of last century separately examined each particular species of the Animal Kingdom, with reference to its external form, and mode of life. Great stress was laid in classification upon such characters, as the nature of food; whether it were a carnivorous, herbivorous, or insectivorous creature: or the habitat whether terrestrial, ærial, or aquatic; or the mode of progression, whether on hoofs, by wings, by fins or otherwise; in short, upon which it seemed fitted to attain.

This method of classification is known as Teleological, or purposive, (from “telos” an end, a purpose) being based on the apparent purpose of an organism rather than on its structure, or course of development. But there are radical objections to this method of arrangement. “It is frequently found that two organs which are not unlike in external form, and which have corresponding functions in the system, originate from elements entirely different, and are therefore fundamentally dissimilar; while, and on the other hand, organs which at first sight present little or no resemblance to each other, and are applied to very different purposes in the economy, may be really modifications of the same fundamental component.” —Carp. § 4.

The wings of Insects, as compared with those of Birds, are a good instance of the identity of function combined with fundamental diversity of structure. In structure the wings of Insects really are analogous, or, as the phrase now is, homologous, with certain structures, which in other articulated animals constitute part of the breathing apparatus. Hence Oken calls the wings of Insects “ærial gills.” The attempt to bring into comparison the wings of insects with those of birds and bats can now, as Carpenter observes, only excite a smile on the part of the philosophical anatomist. Again, the gills of fishes correspond in function with the lungs of air-breathing vertebrates. But, in structure, lungs are the homologues, not of the gills, but of the airbladder in Fishes; an organ which has no respiratory function. Modern classification no longer proceeds, therefore, upon analogy, that is resemblance of function, but upon homology, that is identity, of structural type. With the modern naturalist, the question is, not, what life the animal was meant to lead, but, what is the formal plan on which it is constructed? Proceeding thus, he finds, “that in the several tribes of organised beings, we have, not a mere aggregation on individuals, each formed upon an independent model, and presenting a type of structure peculiar to itself, but that we may trace throughout each assemblage, a conformity to a general plan which may be expressed in an ‘archetype,’ or ideal model. ^* * * * “The typical structure of any group being given, the different habits of its component species, or minor groups, are provided for, not by the creation of new organs, or the destruction of others, but by the modification in form, structure, or place, of organs typically belonging to the group. ^† This method in natural science is known as the Morphological (from “morphē”), “form;” because it regards community of form or type. The obvious defects in the arrangement of the mammalia, by the illustrious Cuvier, seems attributable to his partial adherence to the teleological method. His great primary division into Unguiculata (clawed), Ungulata (hoofed), and Mutilata (wanting the posterior

limbs) has reference rather to the adaptation of the creature to its external life than to the general plan of its structure. The division leads to a confusion which has become manifest in the light of the more advanced science of the present day. The whale tribe (Cetacea) with their high mammalian organisation, appear unduly degraded to the very bottom of Cuvier's table. merely because the wants of a purely marine habitat have been met by a development of the caudal extremity of the vertebral column, which supersedes the necessity for a development of the posterior limbs. On the other hand the Ornithorynchus (order Monotremata), whose structure presents marked analogies to the oviparous vertebrates, is elevated, merely in virtue of its clawed extremites, to a place above the Elephant and Horse. Yet, as Owen remarks, “no one has proposed to associate the unguiculate Bird or Lizard with the unguiculate Ape; and it is but a little less violation of natural affinities to associate the Monotrenes with the Quadrumanes in the same primary (unguieulate) division of the mammalian class.” Again Cuvier's secondary division according to the structure of the teeth is open to the same objection, and leads through, in a less degree, to the same inversion of Natural order, and confusion of Natural affinity. The possession by the Kangaroo of three kinds of teeth, elevated the genus, in Cuvier's list, to a place intermediate between the Carnivora and Rodentia, removing it from its true association with that other strange Australian already mentioned, the Ornithorynchus; which as wanting canine teeth and incisors, was ranked with South American types, the Armadillo, Sloth, and Ant-eater. The superiority of the more modern method, as a ground of classification, is best made evident in the case of the rudimentary organs. These would seem to the Teleologist but as “freaks of nature;” whilst to the eye of Morphology they are characters of the utmost significance. Thus Dr. Carpenter writes:—“We find, as might have been expected, * that if the plan of structure in a particular tribe involves the non-development of some organ which is possessed by neighbouring groups, its conformity to archetypal regularity is generally manifested by the presence of that organ in a rudimentary, or undeveloped condition. Thus, we find some rudiment of the lung in most Fishes, even where it is not sufficiently developed to serve as an “air-bladder” in regulating the specific gravity of the body. In the abdominal muscles of Mammals, again, we find the abdominal sternum and ribs of Saurian Reptiles indicated by white fibrous bands; and in those Mammals which do not possess a clavicle, that bone is usually represented by a ligament, just as the stylo-hyoid ligaments in Man represents a portion of the hyoidean arch which is elsewhere [i. e., in others of the Mammalia] completely ossified. Such rudimentary structures, however, often display themselves only at an early period of development, and are subsequently lost sight of. Thus the rudiments of teeth, which are never developed, and which, at a later period cannot be detected, are found in the embryo of the Whale, both in the upper and under jaws; and Professor Goodsir has assertained that the rudiments of canine teeth, and of the incisors of the upper jaw, which are not subsequently developed, exist in the embryos of Ruminating Mammals. The most remarkable example of the kind, however, is the existence of branchial arches, resembling those of the Fish, in the early embryo of all air-breathing Mammalia.” In the Vegetable kingdom the same conformity to a common type is manifested by the presence of rudimentary organs. In the common Sage, for example, “we find only two stamens where the general plan of the flower would lead us to expect five; but upon looking attentively at the interior of the corolla, two little scales are often to be seen growing in the place where two of the deficient stamens should have been; these two scales are frequently developed as perfect stamens in flowers which are otherwise constructed precisely like the sage; and even the fifth makes its appearance in

some instances, exactly where it should be regularly found.”—(Carp. ib.) In these and many like cases, parts which we are perhaps justified in saying are perfectly useless to the individual creature, seem to exist purely in conformity with the great law of the unity of Organic type.

To the Natural Theologian following in the track of the older school of Naturalists, rudimentary organs were as great a stumbling block as to his leaders. The scarcely perceptible eyes of the mole may deserve the special praise accorded by Paley, in this instance, to Divine “skill;” but on his view of things, what can we make of that species in which the aborted organ is completely covered from the light? What, again, of the teeth of the foetal whale, or of the undeveloped air-bladder of some Fishes, or of the redundant provision of gills and lungs in some of the Batrachians, or of the caudal vertebræ in Man? A yet more serious difficulty beset the utilitarian Divine in this department of his work. “Adaptation” was a word as much in vogue with him as now is “Correlation” with the Darwinians. In Paley's pages one reads perpetually of the Divine “contrivances.” It is obvious to ask “Wherefore all this painful adaptation of means to ends?” Why should Omnipotence resort to contrivance to attain particular purposes? As Paley himself perceives “contrivance by its very definition and nature is the refuge of imperfection.” Besides, after all that can be said on the admirable structure of the Eye, and its adaptation to the light, the intervention of Almighty power still appears needful to enable us to see. How otherwise can the inverted image on the retina raise in the Mind a visual idea? How can any mechanism bridge over the chasm between the material image and the immaterial Mind? Then why should God devise complex machinery, which, after all, does not dispense with his direct volition? “What fitness,” it is well demanded, “is there in one mechanism more than in another, or in any than in none at all, to produce its appended perception?”

Now in these, and kindred questions, Morphological Science comes in to relieve, though, it may be, not wholly to remove our difficulties. Discarding the mechanical idea, it calls on us to regard the Universe, not as a piece-meal product in which God, by a series of contrivances, has managed to adapt particular creations, one by one, to pre-established general laws, but as a mighty whole, whereof the parts are mutually related, and cohere in one all-comprehensive system. From this point of view, the eye seems adapted to the light, neither more nor less than the light to the eye. The great optical laws extending over tracts of time and space where vision cannot be, yet have relation to that wondrous little structure no less than it to them. The old idea of adaptation merges in the wider one of correlation; and all the forces of the Universe are seen to be cöoperant. Symmetry and Beauty, in and for themselves, appear to be creative ends which the Divine Artist has not thought fit to disregard; and we are at liberty to think that many things are as they are, not because He could not otherwise have reached some special purpose, but because he never violates that Order of thought, and Harmony of design, by which His mind expresses itself in Matter. Nor can we fail to see that one beneficial result, at least, in relation to God's intelligent creatures has been attained by this inflexible regard to order; for had he condescended to no method in His Universe, Science itself would have been impossible. The physical world have been an undecipherable Enigma, differing from the wonderful reality as does an incoherent scrawl from an intelligible writing.

This wider view of Nature leaves unshaken in the older argument all that is really sound. The moral proof of beneficent design cannot be weakened by observing, that the fitness of every part for its peculiar function is attained without departure from the grander principle of Organic symmetry. The two ends are reached concurrently. I again cite from Dr. Carpenter the following passage:—

“We can scarcely select any example of diversity of external conformation and of function, superinduced upon an essential unity of organisation, so appropriate as that which is afforded by the comparison of those different modifications of the limbs or members, and especially of the anterior pair, by which the several species of Vertebrated animals are adapted to the most diversified modes of life. No Comparative Anatomist has the slightest hesitation in admitting that the pectoral fin of a Fish, the wing of a Bird, the paddle of a Dolphin, the fore-leg of a Deer, the wing of a Bat, and the arm of a Man, are the same organs; notwithstanding that their forms are so varied, the uses to which they are applied so unlike each other. For all these organs not only occupy the same position in the fabric, but are developed after the same manner; and when their osseous frame-work is examined, it is found to be composed of parts which are strictly comparable one with another, although varying in number and in relative proportion.

“Thus, commencing from the shoulder-joint, we can almost everywhere [i. e., in the anterior limbs of all the creatures just named] recognize without difficulty the Humerus, it being only in Fishes that this is so little developed as not to intervene between the scapula and the bones of the fore-arm; next we have the radius and ulna, whose presence is always distinguishable, although one of them may be in only a rudimentary condition; then, beneath the wrist-joint, we find the bones of the carpus, which are normally ten in number, forming two rows, but which may be reduced by non-development to any smaller number—three, two, or even one; next we find the metacarpal bones, which are normally five, but are sometimes reduced among the higher Vertebrata to four, three, two, or one; while in Fishes they may be multiplied to the number of twenty or more; and lastly we have the digital bones, of which there are normally five sets, each consisting of three or more phalanges, but which are subject to the same reduction or multiplication as the metacarpal. It is entirely from the differences of conformation which these osseous elements gradually come to present in the course of their development, that those special adaptations arise, which fit their combination in each case for the wants of the particular species that possesses it; enabling it to be used as an instrument for terrestrial, aquatic, or ærial progression; for swimming and diving, for walking and running, for climbing and flying, for burrowing and tearing; or for that combination of refined and varied manifestations which renders the hand of Man capable of serving as an instrument wherewith to execute the conceptions of his fertile intellect.”

As further illustrations, the proboscis of the Elephant, which constitutes so wonderful an instrument of prehension, is, properly, no special organ but an extended nose; and an approach to a like extension is presented by the Tapirs among existing Mammals, as well as by various extinct animals of the same order. “So, turning to the Vegetable Kingdom, we find that [apparently] special organs, such as tendrils, pitchers, fly-traps, etc., are evolved out of the more general type of the leaf, and are not introduced as additional to the ordinary fabric.”

To me, I confess, it seems unsound and dangerous to rest the proof of design upon the existence of supposed anomalies introduced into the general plan for a special purpose. Sooner or later the supposed anomaly is sure to be explained away. It is well to take warning on this head from the mistakes of the last generation. To illustrate my meaning—Paley, in reference to the compensation of certain supposed deficiencies in the organisation of the Bat, writes thus:—“These inabilities are made up to her by the contrivance in her wing, and in placing a claw on that part the Creator has deviated from the analogy observed in winged animals. A singular defect required a singular substitute.” But, in Nature, we have learnt, by this time, nothing is singular. The Bat's supposed

“claw,” “the contrivance in her wing,” turns out, we see, to be a thumb! The supposed deviation from Universal order proves to be perfect uniformity. The narrow notion of quasi-miraculous adaptation disappears in the perception of the harmonious plan which answers every end at once. Yet, shall we say the view is false which sees in the provision for the dusky little creature a purpose as dear to God, as plain a revelation, as in that boundless plan of Nature which fills and masters the Imagination of Philosophers? Are these humble, beneficent utilities indeed beneath His scope? Surely there is a wiser way than this of looking at it. Just as, in some masterpiece of Literature, sense and sound, aiding each other, are alike complete and satisfying, and use and beauty, in perfection, are attained together; so is it in the Universe of things, though on a transcendent scale which beggars all comparison. None can say which is there supreme, Utility or Beauty; for both seem ends, and both seem perfectly achieved. They are, indeed, but different aspects of the same perfection. In the work of human art, one mind prefers to dwell on the harmony and grandeur of the language, another on the pregnant meaning of this or that particular verse or sentence. Both estimates, in their way, are just, and both inadequate. And thus it is with those diverse views of Nature which we have been considering. Some men are wholly taken up with admiration of the majestic uniformity of Natural law; others, taking a view at once humbler and higher, simpler and more devout, rather delight to trace the apparent purpose in some particular portion of God's works; but none can reach the meaning of the whole. Yet seeing, as we do, how He, in Nature, seems to combine harmoniously His general and particular purposes, are we not encouraged to believe, that in the higher region of His spiritual action, (however dark to us the method,) the like consistency obtains; and that the wide design which enchains Ages and Nations, and conducts the Education of the World, yet leaves room for special dealing, adapted to its wants, with the humblest human soul that turns towards him?

To return once more to Physics; no one can fail to see, that in putting a new face on Science, the great resource has been the study of Development. Following this path, the modern Naturalist has solved a host of questions, having reference not merely to the nature of particular organs, but to the true relation between different groups of living beings. This fruitful method was first applied in Botany. In this department the gradual metamorphosis of all the organs from a common form is most distinctly traceable in the life of individual plants; and here, accordingly, was made the earliest application of the modern principle. Goethe showed that the various parts of plants are transformations of the axis and its appendages: the axis consisting, in its upward development, of the stem and branches; in its downward development of the root: the axial appendages, in their simple form, being leaves. All organs not parts of the axis itself, whether bracts, sepals, petals, stamens, or pistils, are now known to be modified leaves. The gradational passage from leaf to bract, from bract to sepal, from sepal to petal, from petal to stamen, is traceable in various plants. The same principle of research was soon extended to the Animal Kingdom. The metamorphosis of some creatures, Insects, for example, and Tadpoles, to the forms of maturity, takes place after birth. Amongst the higher animals each creature goes through its most striking transformations before it enters on a separate existence. Embryology, therefore, is the science which has thrown most light on Animal metamorphosis. It is the astonishing revelation of this department of enquiry that every organ of every animal is evolved from a common starting point—the simple cell—by a gradual passage from that primal integer of life to forms more special and complex. Pursuing the same line of thought and observation, in reference to the bony structure of

the Vertebrata, Oken and Owen have shown the development of the entire skeleton from the vertebral axis and its appendages; thus disclosing a series of phenomena parallel with those of the Vegetable world, and demonstrating the absolute unity in this respect of archetypal plan in the highest sub-division of the Animal Kingdom.

Last of all, Darwin and his followers propose to elucidate the development of Species by the same procedure which has revealed the mysteries of individual growth. It is plain that in this attempt they are in entire accordance with the spirit and tendency of modern Science. If the Darwinians are in the right—and I know not why we should desire to see their theory refuted —not only the birth of idividuals, but the evolution of species is now proceeding as surely as at any former period; and we must henceforth speak of Creation in the present tense. It is matter of regret, though not of wonder, that the able and judicious author of so great a speculation should himself appear at times to misinterpret the theological bearing of his own ideas; writing as if his theory tended to supersede the notion of intelligent design. That this is a great error I trust I have made clear, and have succeeded in convincing you that such speculations do but open out upon us grander notions of the universal method. He whom we worship “worketh hitherto;” immanent in His universe, and active, now, as when the fiat first went forth “Let there be Light:”—

“For was, and is, and will be, are but is;
And all creation is one act at once
The birth of light: but we that are not all,
As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that,
And live, perforce, from thought to thought and make
One act a phantom of succession:”—

The theist, therefore, needs not fear to see these impressions of symmetry, which arise on contemplation of the laws of the Inorganic world, rapidly extending themselves to include Organic nature. The singular limitation of Paley's view, and that of his age, to special utilities and quasi-mechanical adjustments, caused him to underrate some of the sublimest testimony which Nature bears to her Maker's power and wisdom. In the stomach of a grub he could find the traces of a purpose which he vainly sought for in the solar system. To him the harmony of the spheres spoke of no musician, for of Order and Beauty as ends in themselves he was unable to conceive. Loving to view the Universe, not as a whole, but as made up of parts, “the glory of the sum of things” had never flashed upon him. For he looked on Nature with the mechanician's eye, not with the artist's; and unless he fancied he could guess an ulterior purpose her symmetry and beauty were almost wholly lost upon him. But once seize the conception that order, ratio, symmetry, beauty, do in themselves bespeak designing mind as clearly as utility itself, and Inorganic Nature will be seen to bear its testimony to the Creative Intellect as plainly as the Animated World.

It would detain us too long were I to treat in detail this branch of the subject: I must content myself with a few words. The ideas of “Space,” “Time,” and “Number,” form the foundation of the pure sciences of Geometry, Algebra, and Arithmetic. The truths of these Sciences are abstract and necessary. They are abstract as having essentially no relation to the external world. No one ever consdered the line or circle, conceived of in the mathematics, as necessary, because, when understood, we perceive not only that they are true, but that they must be true. We can, by no effort, imagine that two and two make five; that two parallel straight lines when produced can meet; that the three angles of a triangle are, together, greater or less, than two right angels; neither can we conceive that these things ever were, or ever will be, here or elsewhere, otherwise than as we now conceive of them. These Sciences, then,

deal with abstract and necessary forms of Human thought. They disclose to us an infinity of ratios, or relations, subsisting between the various ideas of number and magnitude with which they deal; comprising the properties of geometrical figures, plane and solid, triangles, squares, circles, ellipses, prisms, cylinders, cones, spheres, etc. Now, on coming to the examination of external Nature, Man finds to his amazement that Nature “geometrizes” in all her departments. There is a definite apportionment of Space and Time, there are definite relations of Number and Magnitude, underlying, as it were, all Natural operations. The geometrical webs spun by man in his own brain, with ideal lines, turn out to be the ground-plans of Nature herself. The planets, to take a familiar instance, move round the sun in elliptical orbits, having the sun for a common focus. Their speed in different parts of their orbits is governed by a law capable of precise geometrical expression; for every planet moves in such a way that the line drawn from it to the sun sweeps over equal areas in equal times. An exact arithmetical relation subsists between the periods of revolution of the several planets and their respective distances from the Sun; the squares of the period being proportional to the cubes of the mean distances. Again Bode's law discloses a rather remarkable numerical harmony in the progression of the distances of the planets from the Sun.

The general regularity of this series (a series in duple progression), was early observed: but the rule seemed to be broken in the case of the wide interval between Mars and Jupiter, where a member of the system seemed wanting. Bode argued that a planet must exist to fill up this gap; and towards the close of the last century there began a search for it. This has resulted in the discovery of a whole family of comparatively minute bodies, which may have been fragments of a larger one. Collectively, at all events, these planetoids fulfil the expectation of Science, for they revolve in orbits at a mean distance from the sun almost exactly corresponding with that indicated by Bode's law, as the proper distance of the missing member of the system.^*

Chemistry gives limits of the mathematical groundwork of Nature as distinct, almost, as those conveyed by the queenly science of Astronomy. The supposed primitive elements of bodies, Oxygen, Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Carbon, and the rest, in whatever quantities they are mixed, combine with one another only in constant numerical proportions. When, as is commonly the case, one substance combines with another in several different proportions, the higher proportions are multiples of the lowest. This gives to the formulæ of Chemistry the very aspect of an algebraic series. Even the laws of musical concord depend upon the ratio subsisting between the numbers, in a given time, of the vibrations which produce the notes. In the simple chord of three notes, or harmonic triad, the Dominant performs four vibrations, whilst the Third performs five, and the Fifth six; and the superior, because more readily perceived, harmony of the combination is dependent upon the simplicity of this ratio. I believe there is little doubt that harmony of colour depends on a similar

little hesitation in falsifying facts to subserve a similar purpose. They talk of religion and infidelity! There is no profession of religion more offensive than that which, under the assumption of superior piety, attempts to vilify the honest convictions of others; the ‘stand aside because I am holier than thou art’ is, in general, void of reality, as it is wanting in Christian humility and charity. They talk of reconciliation between the utterances of science and religious beliefs, as if true religion and sound science ever have been or can be at variance. If religion means belief in certain dogmas and adherence to certain ritualistic forms, science and religion may often be in conflict; but, if, on the other hand, the exercise of religion consists in search after truth, regard to the relations in which we are placed to the universe, and devotion to the Great Author of all, then science and religion ‘are at one, and need no reconciliation.’

Agreeing entirely with these sentiments, I wish it to be borne in mind, that in the enquiries I propose to make in this lecture, I hold myself free from those theological dogmas which attempt to put arbitrary limits of time to man's presence upon earth, and to dictate the character in which he first appeared, and that I intend to deal with this part of the question under the light which the investigations of scientific men have recently thrown upon it.

Now we are told, by a late writer upon this part of our subject, that “the first appearance of man in Europe dates back to a period so remote, that neither history, nor even tradition can throw any light on his origin or mode of life,” and we accordingly find that Præhistoric Archæologists are driven to acquire a knowledge of the character and habits of these early races, by examination of the remains they have left behind them.

Adopting this test, careful enquiry has enabled Archæologists to divide (by way of ad interim classification) the præhistoric period of Europe into four epochs.

1st. The “Palæolithic,” in which man shared the possession of Europe, including England itself, with the Mammoth, the Cave Bear, the woolly-haired Rhinoceros and other now extinct animals.

2nd. The “Neolithic,” in which men used beautiful polished stone weapons and other instruments, but did not until nearly the close of this age, possess any knowledge of metals except gold.

3rd. The “Bronze Age,” in which bronze was used in the manufacture of arms and instruments of all kinds.

4th. The “Iron Age,” in which iron had superseded bronze for many uses, though the latter metal was still used for ornamental purposes.

During the first of these periods we shall find that even in England man was thecontemporary of the Elephant, the Rhinoceros, the Cave Bear, the Reindeer and the Hyæna. Mr. Lubbock in his recent work on “Præhistoric Times” tells us as follows:—

“In the year 1840, Mr. Godwin Austin communicated to the Geological Society a memoir on the Geology of the south-east of Devonshire, and in his description of Kent's Hole, near Torquay, he says that ‘human remains and works of art, such as arrow heads and knives of flint, occur in all parts of the cave, and throughout the entire thickness of the clay; and no distinction founded on condition, distribution, or relative position, can be observed, whereby the human can be separated from the other reliquiæ, which included bones of the Elephant, Rhinoceros, Ox, Deer, Horse, Bear, Hyæna, and a feline animal of large size.

“The value,” he truly adds, “of such a statement must rest on the care with which a collector may have explored; I must therefore state that my own researches were constantly conducted in parts of the cave which had never been disturbed, and in every instance the bones were procured from beneath

a thick covering of stalagmite; so far, then, the bones and works of man must have been introduced into the cave before the flooring of stalagmite had been formed.

“These statements, however, attracted little attention; and the very similar assertions made by Mr. Vivian, in a paper read before the Geological Society, were considered so improbable, that the memoir containing them was not published.

“In May, 1858, Dr. Falconer called the attention of the Geological Society to a newly-discovered cave at Brixham, near Torquay, and a committee was appointed to assist him in examining it. Grants of money were obtained for the same object from the Royal Society and Miss Burdett Coutts. In addition to Dr. Falconer, Mr. Pengelly, Mr. Prestwich, and Professor Ramsay were intrusted with the investigations. In September, 1858, a preliminary report was made to the Geological Society, but it is very much to be regretted that the results have not yet been published in extenso.

“The deposits in the cave were, in descending order:—

• 1.

  Stalagmite of irregular thickness,

• 2.

  Ochreous cave earth with limestone breccia,

• 3.

  Ochreous cave earth with comminuted shale,

• 4.

  Rounded gravel.

“The organic remains belonged to the following species:—

• 1.

  Rhinoceros tichorhinus. Teeth in considerable numbers and an astragalus.

• 2.

  Bos sp. Teeth, jaws, and other bones.

• 3.

  Equus sp. A few remains.

• 4.

  Cervus tarandus. The Reindeer, skull and bones.

• 5.

  Cervus sp. Horns.

• 6.

  Ursus spelœus. The Cave Bear; lower jaws, teeth, and the bones of a hind leg.

• 7.

  Hyoena spelœa. Lower jaws, teeth, fragments of skulls, and other bones.

“Several flint flakes were also found indiscriminately mixed with these bones, and according to all appearance, of the same antiquity. They occurred at various depths, from ten inches to eleven feet, and some of them were in the gravel, below the whole of the ochreous cave earth. One of them was found close to the bones of the left hind leg of a cave bear. The remains comprised not only the femur, tibia, and fibula, but even the knee-pan and astragalus were in their respective places. It is evident, therefore, that the limb must have been imbedded while in a fresh condition, or at least while the bones were held together by the ligaments. As, then, they must have been deposited soon after the death of the animal, it follows that, if man and the cave bear were not contemporaneous, the latter was the more recent of the two.”

It is impossible, within the limits I have assigned to myself, even to enter upon the mass of evidence of a similar kind which has been adduced by numberless writers and enquirers in support of the great antiquity of man in Europe, and the foregoing extracts must be taken as only examples of the cases which have been investigated; but it is certainly impossible for us to resist the conviction that a length of time, enormous beyond all ordinary ideas on the subject, must have elapsed, since England and the western parts of Europe were inhabited by the elephant and the rhinoceros, animals of which no account is preserved even in the oldest known traditions or monuments. But although the circumstances, that many of the bones of each of these animals exhibit marks of having been cut and broken by man in order to extract the marrow, and that many of the implements which have been found associated with his remains, were made from such bones, may satisfy us that, even at that remote period, man had attained to a

position of power over the lower animals, we are nevertheless justified in supposing that these early men were greatly limited in number, and were living in a state of much degradation and barbarism. We may conclude, therefore, that nothing was done by people in such a condition to modify, in any material degree, the physical character of the country they inhabited, or which was calculated to subvert or even materially to affect the balance then existing amongst the various forms of contemporary organic life.

In the next age (the Neolithic) a great advance was made, for we find, (at all events during the later periods of this age), that man must have increased largely in numbers, and have made considerable strides in civilization. The principal monuments of the polished stone age in Europe are “Tumuli” or ancient burial mounds, the “Lake dwellings” of Switzerland, and the “Shell mounds” of Denmark, each of which is characterized by peculiarities which can only be glanced at here.

There are also other remains of great interest which have been investigated by archæologists, such as the ancient “castles” and “camps” which crown so many of the hills in England; the great lines of embankment which cross many of the downs; the so-called Druidical circles, and the vestiges of apparently contemporary habitations, and the “Hut circles” and “Picts' houses” found in various places, but it is not my purpose to do more than refer to them.

With regard to the Tumuli, Mr. Lubbock tells us as follows:—“All over Europe wherever they have not been destroyed by the plough or the hammer, we find relics of præhistoric times, such as camps, fortifications, dykes, temples, tumuli, etc., many of which astonish us by their magnitude, while all of them excite our interest by the antiquity of which they remind us, and the mystery by which they are surrounded. Some few indeed, there are, such, for instance, as the Roman Wall in England, the Dannevirke, and Queen Thyra's tumulus, in Denmark, of which the date and origin are known to us, but by far the greater number, such as the Wansdyke, the ‘temple’ of Carnac in Brittany, the tumuli supposed to be those of Thor, Odin, and Freya at Upsala, and the great tumuli near Drogheda, are entirely præhistoric. Some of them doubtless, belong to the metallic period, some to that of stone, but it very rarely happens that we can attribute any of them, with reasonable probability, to one period rather than to another. This is particularly the case with ancient earth works and megalithic temples or circles. The barrows, or Lows, on the other hand, frequently contain objects from which some idea of relative antiquity may be obtained. These ancient burial mounds, of which several typical examples are represented, are extremely numerous. In our own island they may be seen on almost every down; in the Orkneys alone it is estimated that more than two thousand remain; and in Denmark they are even more abundant; they are found all over Europe, from the shores of the Atlantic to the Oural mountains; in Asia they are scattered over the great steppes, from the borders of Russia to the Pacific Ocean, and from the plains of Siberia to those of Hindostan; in America we are told that they are to be numbered by thousands and tens of thousands, nor are they wanting in Africa, where the Pyramids themselves exhibit the most magnificent development of the same idea; so that the whole world is studded with these burial places of the dead. The Cromlechs, Dolmens, Cistvæns, are now generally regarded as sepulchral, and the great number in which these ancient burial places occur is very suggestive of their antiquity, since the labour involved in the construction of a tumulus would not be undertaken except in honour of chiefs and great men. Many of them are small, but some are very large; Silbury Hill, the highest in Great Britain, has a height of one hundred and seventy feet; but though evidently artificial, there is great doubt whether it is sepulchral.

“Mr. Bateman, in the Preface to his second work, has collected together

the most ancient allusions to burial ceremonies, and we see that ‘Mound burial’ was prevalent in the earliest times of which we have any historical record. Achan and his whole family were stoned with stones and burned with fine, after which we are told that Isræl ‘raised over him a great heap of stones unto this day. So the Lord turned from the fierceness of his anger.’ Again, the king of Ai was buried under a heap of stones.

“According to Diodorus, Semiramis, the widow of Nirius, buried her husband within the precincts of the palace, and raised over him a large mound of earth. Some of the tumuli in Greece were old, even in the time of Homer, and were considered by him to be the burial places of the heroes. Pausanias mentions that stones were collected together, and heaped up over the tomb of Laius, the father of Œdipus. In the time of the Trojan war, Tydeus and Lycus are mentioned as having been buried under two earthen barrows. Hector's barrow was of stones and earth. Achilles erected a tumulus upwards of one hundred feet in diameter, over the remains of his friend Patroclus. The mound supposed by Xenophen to contain the remains of Alyattes, father of Croesus, king of Lydia, was of stone and earth, and more than a quarter of a league in circumference. In later times, Alexander the Great caused a tumulus to be heaped over his friend Hephoestion, at the cost of 1200 talents, no mean sum, even for a conqueror like Alexander, it being £232, 500 sterling. Virgil tells us that Decrennus, King of Latium, was buried under an earthen mound; and, according to the earliest historians, whose statements are confirmed by the researches of archæologists, mound burial was practised in ancient times by the Scytheans, Greeks, Etruscans, Germans, and many other nations. The size of the tumulus may be taken as a rude indication of the estimation in which the deceased was held; the Scotch Highlanders have still a complimentary proverb, ‘Curri mi clach er do cuirn,’ i. e., ‘I will add a stone to your cairn.’

“What Schoolcraft says of the North American Indians is applicable to many savage tribes. ‘Nothing that the dead possessed was deemed too valuable to be interred with the body. The most costly dress, arms, ornaments and implements, are deposited in the grave; ‘which is always placed in the choicest scenic situations, on some crowning hill or gentle eminence in a secluded valley.’ And the North American Indians are said, even until within the last few years, to have cherished a friendly feeling for the French, because, in the time of their supremacy, they had at least this one great merit, that they never disturbed the resting-places of the dead.”

Now it is somewhat remarkable, (and parenthetically I may say the fact speaks strongly for the more extreme antiquity of the cave men,) that although in these ancient burial monuments the bones of animals are constantly found associated with those of men, yet most of the species to which such bones belonged had then undoubtedly been domesticated, and we no longer find the bones of the elephant or rhinoceros, of the bear, hyæna, or reindeer, with which the remains of the earlier men were constantly associated. These animals had evidently all disappeared, and in the meantime great advances had been made in various branches of art and civilization. No longer dependent upon spontaneous animal and vegetable growth for food and clothing, we find the people of this age protecting and propagating numerous forms of animal life, and we may assume that they warred upon such rival organisms as might have preyed upon these objects of their care, or might have obstructed the increase of their numbers. We may suppose too that these people carried on considerable agricultural pursuits, and that in doing so they encroached upon the forests which had covered the greater part of the surface of the countries they inhabited. We have, therefore, in our investigations of these early monuments, evidence of the first great modifications effected in the physical character and

organic life of our own mother country, and we are entitled fairly to assume that the consequences which ordinarily result from the felling of the woods, namely, changes in local climate, changes in the drainage of the soil, and changes in the external configuration of the ground, followed the action of these people, and rendered England a fitter abode for man, as a civilized being, than it had been during the earlier period I have referred to. We are, as I think I before observed, fairly justified in assuming, on the one hand, that during the age of the cave men, the population was extremely limited, and confined to localities easily accessible, while the country at large was ranged over by animals analogous to those which now occupy the jungles of India, and on the other, that during the later Neolithic period the population was large, extending over every part of the country, and that the earlier fauna and flora had given place to one more suited to the wants and uses of a semi-civlized people. How this change was brought about it is difficult to say, but that a very large period of time must have been concerned in producing it, is beyond all doubt.

The Neolithic age passes, by insensible gradations, into the age of Bronze.

Of the latter age Mr. Lubbock tells us as follows:—“There are four principal theories as to the Bronze age. According to some Archæologists, the discovery, or introduction of bronze was unattended by any great or sudden change in the condition of the people; but was the result, and is the evidence of a gradual and peaceable development. Some attribute the bronze arms and implements, found in Northern Europe, to the Roman armies, some to the Phoenician merchants; whilst others, again, consider that the men of the Stone age were replaced by a new and more civilized people of Indo-European race coming from the East; who, bringing with them a knowledge of bronze, overran Europe, and dispossessed—in some places entirely destroying—the original, or rather the earlier inhabitants.

“It is not, indeed, necessary to suppose that the introduction of bronze should have been effected everywhere in the same manner; so far, for instance, as Switzerland and Ireland are concerned, Dr. Keller and Sir W. R. Wilde may be quite right in considering that the so-called ‘primitive’ population did not belong to a different race from that subsequently characterized by the use of bronze.

“Still, though it is evident that the knowledge of bronze must necessarily have been preceded by the separate use of copper and of tin; yet no single implement of the latter metal has been hitherto found in Europe, while those of copper are extremely rare. Hungary and Ireland, indeed, have been supposed to form partial exceptions to this rule. The geographical position of the former country is probably a sufficient explanation; and as far as Ireland is concerned, it may perhaps be worth while to examine how far that country really forms an exception. In the great Museum at Dublin, there are 725 celts and celt-like chisels, 282 swords and daggers, and 276 lances, javelins, and arrow heads; yet out of these 1283 weapons, only 30 celts and one sword blade are said to be of pure copper. I say ‘are said to be,’ because they have not been analyzed, but are supposed to be copper only from the ‘physical properties and ostensible colour of the metal;’ indeed, one of these very celts, which was analyzed by Mr. Mallet, was found to contain a small percentage of tin. It is possible that for some of the purposes to which celts were applied, copper may have been nearly as useful as bronze, and at any rate it might sometimes have happened that from a deficiency of tin, some implements would be made of copper only.

“Taking these facts into consideration, Ireland certainly does not appear to present any strong evidence of an age of copper, while no one has ever pretended to find either there, or anywhere else in Europe, a trace of any separate use of tin.

“Sir W. R. Wilde himself admits it to be remarkable, that so few antique copper implements have been found, although a knowledge of that metal must have been the preliminary stage in the manufacture of bronze. “He thinks, however, that “the circumstance may be accounted for either by supposing that but a short time elapsed between the knowledge of smelting and casting copper ore, and the introduction of tin and subsequent manufacture and use of bronze; or from the probability of nearly all such articles having been recast and converted into bronze subsequent to the introduction of tin, which renders them harder, sharper, and more valuable.

“There is, however, another circumstance which strongly militates against this theory of a gradual and independent development of metallurgical knowledge in different countries, and that is the fact which has been broadly stated by Mr. Wright, and which I may, perhaps, repeat here, that whenever we find the bronze swords or celts, whether in Ireland in the far west, in Scotland, in distant Scandinavia, in Germany, or, still further east, in the Sclavonic countries, they are the same—not similar in character, but identical. The great resemblance of stone implements found in different parts of the world may be satisfactorily accounted for by the similarity of the material, and the simplicity of the forms. But this argument cannot be applied to the bronze arms and implements. Not only are several varieties of celts found throughout Europe, but some of the swords, knives, daggers, etc., are so similar, that they seem as if they must have been cast by the same maker. It would have been easy to multiply examples of this similarity, and it is not going too far to say that these resemblances cannot be the result of accident. On the other hand, it must be admitted that each country has certain minor peculiarities. Neither the forms nor the ornaments are exactly similar. In Denmark and Mecklenburg, spiral ornaments are most common; farther south, these are replaced by ring ornaments and lines. The Danish swords generally have solid, and richly decorated handles, while those found in Great Britain terminate in a plate which was riveted to pieces of wood or bone. Again, the British lance heads frequently have loops at the side of the shaft-hole, which is never the case with Danish specimens. The discovery of moulds in Ireland, Scotland, and England, Switzerland, Denmark, and elsewhere, shows that the art of casting in bronze was known and practised in many countries. Under these circumstances, it appears most probable that the knowledge of metal is one of those great discoveries which Europe owes to the East, and that the use of Copper was not introduced into our Continent, until it had been observed, that by the addition of a small quantity of tin it was rendered harder and more valuable.”

At whatever period the people of the Western countries of Europe may have acquired their first knowledge of bronze, it is clear that it must have been long anterior to any of which we have historical knowledge, nor does it much concern our enquiry except as regards the very great antiquity of the march of civilization. In the opinion of Professor Wilson (as we are told by Mr. Lubbock), “the ornamentation characteristic of the Bronze age, is decidedly Semitic rather than Indo-European. He lays considerable stress on two curious vase-carriages, one found in Sweden and the other in Mecklenburg, which certainly appear to have been very like the ‘vases’ made for Solomon's temple, and described in the first Book of Kings. Finally he believes that the use of war chariots, the practice of reaping close to the ear, and a certain mode of fishing, are all evidences of Phoenician intercourse.”

We find, then, that the close of the Bronze age brings us to the dawn of historic times, and we are able, by examination of a variety of remains, to trace the progress of change in the physical character and organic life of the older countries of Europe, a subject full of interest, and one which is found to march,

hand in hand, with increasing civilization. But whilst I have thought it necessary thus to call your attention to this subject, I have done so chiefly for the purpose of suggesting a comparison between the rapid changes which are effected in new countries, as the result of their sudden occupation by civilized man, on the one hand, and the wonderfully slow process by which the physical character and organic life of our own country (for example), has been changed from the condition in which it appears to have existed at the time of the cave men, to that in which we now find it.

Let us now turn to the special subject upon which I propose to address you.

It is manifest that a subject so broad can, consistently with what is due to your patience, be only partially dealt with, and therefore, whilst I propose to offer some general reflections on the questions involved in it, I intend to confine myself, by way of example, chiefly to a consideration of the effect which has been produced upon these Islands.

In looking into the history of the discovery of these Islands, we are led to believe that the impressions made upon early voyagers were somewhat erroneous, for whilst it is true that the general aspect of a country, as regards its fertility, may as a rule, afford an idea of its capacity for sustaining a population, yet that capacity may be very different from what the immediate conformation and appearance of the country would lead the traveller to expect; height above sea level, exposure to special winds, and a variety of other causes, giving rise to the anomaly. Captain Cook (as you are aware) sailed round both of these islands, determining their size and figure, as well as their character and appearance, and the general opinion he arrived at was, that the whole country was one long chain of mountains with fertile valleys near the shores, and that it was chiefly covered with dense and in many places impenetrable woods. But even then our great navigator appreciated the advantages which these islands might, at some future time, offer as a field for settlement, and we have no reason to suppose that the most sanguine opinions which have since been formed on that subject, are not open to realization.

Except, however, by the Maoris, these islands remained entirely unoccupied until the year 1818, when the first missionary settlements were formed at the Bay of Islands, and until a short period before that, the only animals which had been introduced were the dog and the pig, and the only vegetables the kumera, the taro, and the gourd. How the Maoris obtained the dog is doubtful, but they owed the pig to Captain Cook, whilst the kumera, the taro, and the gourd, had certainly been brought with them upon their original migration to this country. It is a singular fact (so far at least as I know), that these islands produce no indigenous edible fruit or vegetable capable of being improved into value by cultivation, and, therefore, although the Maoris used a considerable variety of indigenous vegetable substances as food, these were quite insufficient for their ordinary purposes, and they were therefore compelled to devote a large portion of their time and attention to the cultivation of the few introduced plants to which I have before referred. But the population was not sufficiently numerous, and their cultivations were not sufficiently extensive to effect any great changes in the aspect or organic life of the country. It is true that for a long, but remote period, during the latter part of which man was certainly an actor on the scene, these islands had been the habitat of large struthious birds, of which the osseous remains are to be found distributed all over the country. What were the actual circumstances under which they disappeared we cannot say, although analogy leads us to suppose that the birds themselves, as well as their eggs, were diligently sought for as food in a country otherwise destitute of large animal life, and that they were gradually driven away from those grounds which alone afforded them the means of sustenance.

Taken on the whole, then, notwithstanding the cultivations of the Maoris, we may treat these islands as having been a virgin country, but little modified by the hand of man until the arrival of the European settlers.

Let us then enquire into the changes which have already been effected, and into the probable further changes which will in time be effected as the result of our colonization. This subject is necessarily twofold in its bearing, firstly, as regards the effect of colonization upon the native race, and secondly as regards its effect upon the indigenous fauna and flora.

In considering this subject I am tempted to draw your attention to the difference in the character of ancient and modern colonization, for it must not be supposed that the art of colonization is of purely modern invention, although, as you will find, the mode in which it is now carried out differs greatly from that which was practised by older civilized nations.

It has been urged by some political writers, that although the great nations of Europe have, within the last three centuries, sent colonies into almost every part of the habitable world, and have by this means subjected countries infinitely surpassing in extent those they have left, yet that we cannot compare the colonies of the ancients with those of the moderns, without being at once impressed with the conviction that the former renewed the human race, tempering it afresh, and beginning existence with all the advantages of youth, whilst the latter are born old, with all the jealousies, all the troubles, and many of the vices of the States from which they spring. That the colonies of the ancients, in every point of civilization, constantly rose above those who had given birth to them, whilst ours as constantly tend to fall below their founders; that the European colonies already large, are destined to become larger, but that in vain will be sought for in them, the virtues, the patriotism and the vigour which belonged to the first age of the world. They urge that the Greeks, and before them the Egyptians, founded a colony that it might be complete in itself, whilst we (speaking of existing European nations) design it to become part of another empire. They had constantly in view the welfare of the colonists; we, the advantage of the mother country. They wished the colony to depend upon itself with respect to its subsistence, defence, internal government, and all the principles of its development; we wish it to be dependent in every way, to subsist by commerce, and that this commerce should enrich the mother country; that it should be obedient to her orders, governed by her lieutenants, and that its citizens should receive even their education, in its highest branches, from their elder brothers. It is added, moreover, that whilst the colonies of the Egyptians, of the Phoenicians, of the Greeks, and even of the Romans, brought benefits to the people in whose countries they were established, ours bring calamities. That the first, by their contact, civilized the barbarians, whilst the modern Europeans have, wherever they have settled, barbarised the races they call barbarous, and in turn have become barbarised themselves. And it is urged, with much force and truth, that in their transactions with the aborigines, recent colonists have frequently sullied themselves by deceit and by abuse of force; that they go back in their agriculture and other arts, and that the general level of intelligence descends instead of rising.

Such writers further show that the first care of the ancient colonists was the choice of a site to build their city, for it was in cities they wished to live; and it was by means of cities that they spread the arts of the life of towns or civilization, and that the colonists, usually few in number as compared with the aborigines, and completely abandoned to themselves (for the mother country did not think of defending them), took care to build all their houses within the enclosure of the city, from which they went forth daily to cultivate the fields in their vicinity. Of course, the progress of such colonies in wealth

and numbers was slow as compared with modern ones, but their advance in the arts of civilization and of social life was never checked. In modern colonies, on the other hand, an immense extent of fertile land is sought for, and when obtained, is abandoned to the first occupier, who, relying upon the protection of the mother country, takes up a portion out of all proportion to his strength to cultivate, his capital to improve, or his wants to consume the produce. Masters at once of large tracts of country, which they hold, either by force or by purchase, they do not husband any of the benefits of nature. They clear the forests by fire, or by barking the trees, leaving them to decay where they stand; they abandon every system of manuring, of improvement, and of the rotation of crops. They apply themselves to benefit by the natural advantages of the soil, to which they sacrifice all others; they exhaust it by a succession of the same crops, and soon reduce the richest land to comparative sterility.

In the old colonies the different conditions of the citizens did not act as with us, or in our colonies, by a universal rivalry of one another, but, on the contrary, all felt a common interest, which had relation also to the aborigines. Intercourse with them could alone feed the colony at its commencement, and the means of gaining their friendship, of obtaining their confidence, and of establishing between them and the colonists common signs, or a conventional language, was the business of all and the urgent interest of all. At the same time it was from these aborigines that all danger arose, and watchfulness of them and defence against them, in the case of any sudden quarrel, were also interests felt by all. Now, on the contrary, wherever European colonization takes place, the colonists preserve all the incidents annexed to the different conditions of the citizens, both in relation to themselves and to the aborigines; all engage in rivalry as to rank and wealth, the latter frequently securing the former, with but little relation to those higher grounds upon which alone superiority of position ought to be admitted. Intercourse with the aborigines is maintained on a footing of friendship only until the colonists are strong enough to be independent of them, and then we see the former rapidly become degraded, those who had previously held high rank amongst them, first losing their status, whilst the race itself soon dies out. It is indeed a fact, which does not admit of doubt, which is even presented to us as a law of nature,—as a necessity, —that wherever a white race comes into contact with an indigenous dark race, on ground suitable to the former, the latter must disappear in a few generations. It will be said that the parallel I have drawn offers but a gloomy picture, but in its main features I think its truth is indisputable. However, I will now deal with my subject in those respects in which it may offer us more pleasing grounds of thought.

The general effects of human action in altering the surface of the earth and its natural productions have been thus eloquently described by Mr. George P. Marsh, an American author of great research and intelligence:—

“It is certain that man has done much to mould the form of the earth's surface, though we cannot always distinguish between the results of his action, and the effects of purely geological causes; that the destruction of the forests, the drainage of lakes and marshes, and the operations of rural husbandry and industrial art have tended to produce great changes in the hygrometric, thermometric, electric, and chemical condition of the atmosphere, though we are not yet able to measure the force of the different elements of disturbance, or to say how far they have been compensated by each other, or by still obscurer influences; and, finally, that the myriad forms of animal and vegetable life, which covered the earth when man first entered upon the theatre of a nature, whose harmonies he was destined to derange, have been, through his action, greatly changed in numerical proportion, sometimes much modified in form and product, and sometimes entirely extirpated.

“The physical revolutions thus wrought by man have not all been destructive to human interests. Soils to which no nutritious vegetable was indigenous, countries which once brought forth but the fewest products suited for the sustenance and comfort of man, while the severity of their climate created and stimulated the greatest number, and the most imperious urgency of physical wants—surfaces the most rugged and intractable, and least blessed with natural facilities of communication, have been made in modern times to yield and contribute to the sensuous enjoyments and conveniences of civilized life. The Scythia, the Thule, the Britain, the Germany, and the Gaul, which the Roman writers describe in such forbidding terms, have been brought almost to rival the native luxuriance and easily-won plenty of Southern Italy; and, while the fountains of oil and wine that refreshed old Greece and Syria and Northern Africa, have almost ceased to flow, and the soils of those fair lands are turned to thirsty and inhospitable deserts, hyperborean regions of Europe have conquered, or rather compensated, the rigours of climate, and attained to a material wealth and variety of product that, with all their natural advantages, the granaries of the ancient world can hardly have been said to have enjoyed.

“These changes for evil and for good have not been caused by great natural revolutions of the globe, nor are they by any means attributable wholly to the moral and physical action or inaction of the peoples, or, in all cases, even of the races that now inhabit these respective regions. They are products of a complication of conflicting or coincident forces, acting through a long series of generations; here improvidence, wastefulness and wanton violence; there, foresight and wisely guided persevering industry. So far as they are the purely calculated and desired results of those simple and familiar operations of agriculture and of social life, which are as universal as civilization—the removal of the forests which covered the soil required for the cultivation of edible fruits, the drying of here and there a few acres too moist for profitable husbandry, by draining off the surface waters, the substitution of domesticated and nutritious for wild and unprofitable vegetable growths, the construction of roads and canals and artificial harbours—they belong to the sphere of rural, commercial, and political economy more properly than to geography, and hence are but incidentally embraced within the range of our present enquiries, which concern physical, not financial balances. I propose to examine only the greater, more permanent, and more comprehensive mutations which man has produced, and is producing, in earth, sea, and sky, sometimes, indeed, with a conscious purpose, but for the most part, as unforeseen though natural consequences of acts performed for narrower and more immediate ends.

“The exact measurement of the geographical changes hitherto thus effected is, as I have hinted, impracticable, and we possess, in relation to them, the means only of qualitative, not quantitative analysis. The fact of such revolutions is established partly by historical evidence, partly by analogical deduction from effects produced in our own time by operations similar in character to those which must have taken place in more or less remote ages of human action. Both sources of information are alike defective in precision; the latter, for general reasons too obvious to require specification; the former, because the facts to which it bears testimony occurred before the habit or the means of rigorously scientific observation upon any branch of physical research, and especially upon climatic changes, existed.”

Bearing these general views in mind let us apply them to the case of New Zealand. Before the settlement of these Islands by the Europeans they were inhabited by a race of savages, barbarous beyond conception, and practising rites of so foul a kind, that the very existence of such rites was often doubted by modern writers. And yet these people possessed characteristics

which were calculated to redeem them even in the eyes of civilized man. Brave to a fault, having a clear perception of the distinctions of rank, and therefore proud in character, they also possessed a large amount of intellectual capacity, and even of latent moral character. Acute in their understanding and comprehension, they rapidly fell in with many of the arts and habits of the colonists, but, unaccustomed to the restraints of civilized life, and in the habit of indulging with little check their natural impulses, they have found it difficult to adopt as fully, as their own appreciation of them would otherwise lead them to do, the social habits of the Europeans. Unfortunately too we have shown too little regard to their feelings of pride and nationality, and by the ridicule with which we have treated their habits and manners, we have driven them to adopt, as individuals as well as collectively, a position of isolation, if not of hostile feeling towards us. Without having introduced amongst them any form of government more suited to promote and foster our intercourse with them, we have broken down the power and influence of the greater chiefs, and have induced a consequent disorganization of their own social condition, which is producing unfortunate results. I wish, however, not to be misunderstood in this matter. It has been admitted by foreign political economists that the English are the only nation which, of late years, have felt any true sympathy for the people amongst whom they have sent their colonists, who have acknowledged their rights, and who have seriously proposed to civilize them, to protect them, and to make them happy. But in their efforts to effect these objects from a distance, and with the imperfect knowledge they necessarily possessed of the original character of the native races, and of the changes which contact with civilization would produce upon them, they have constantly overlooked many important considerations. They have forgotten that those to whom the task of protection was entrusted, would naturally place themselves in antagonism to the advance of the colonists, whilst the latter would certainly view with distrust and dislike, those who stood in the way of their efforts to acquire wealth; and thus, between the two, the natives would come to grief. Our colony (as it appears to me) has exhibited to some extent, this unfortunate phase of English philanthropy, and yet elements of hope present themselves to our view. It is not, however, my purpose to pursue any further this enquiry, which belongs rather to the political economist and the legislator, than to the student of geography and natural history, and I will proceed at once to call your attention to the general physical appearance of these Islands, and the character of their fauna and flora before the introduction of European civilization, and to the changes which have since been effected and are now in progress. In doing this, however, I propose to disregard such alterations as had resulted from their occupation by the native race.

Stretching from the thirty-fourth to the forty-seventh degree of south latitude, in a general north and south direction, with an average breadth in the Middle Island not exceeding 120 miles, and in the North Island (except above Auckland) of about 150 miles, the whole extent may be treated as a great mountain chain divided by Cook's Strait. In the North Island there are, in the western and north-western sides of this chain, several large volcanic cones, some of the mountains of which rise to altitudes varying from 4000 to 9000 feet above sea level, and of which Tongariro, nearly in the centre of the greater mass of the island, is still active. In the Middle Island the great mountain chain extends from the north (in the form of spurs radiating from the Spencer mountains on the west side, and from the Kaikoura mountains on the east) to the extreme south, attaining its greatest elevation in Mount Cook, whilst in many places it reaches an altitude of 10,000 feet, and has a general elevation of from 6000 to 8000 feet. In the Middle Island, with the exception of the Canterbury plains and the undulating country to the north and south of

them, stretching on the one side to the Waiau river, and on the other to the south of Otago, there is little in the general appearance of the country to induce any high idea of its capacity for sustaining a large agricultural population; nor does the North Island present, at first sight, any better field, although on the eastern side it also possesses plains, in the Hawke's Bay and Wairarapa districts, and the country on the West Coast from Otaki to the Manukau probably contains some of the most fertile land in the world. The eastern sides of both islands, including the slopes of the mountain chains, contain large tracts of grassy country available for pastoral purposes, but, as a rule, the whole of the western sides are clothed with dense and, in many parts, impenetrable forest. It is found, however, that the slopes of the mountain chains contain excellent soil, and that when cleared of the forest growth, they are capable, under proper cultivation, of being converted into valuable pasture land. The whole country may be said to be well, and in many places, profusely watered, and the native growth is usually luxuriant to a degree.

It must be manifest that in islands having so large a range of latitude, there must be a corresponding range in climate, and accordingly we find that whilst in the extreme north the climate is sufficiently warm to ripen freely many of the fruits of the tropics, and that, even in the neighbourhood of Auckland, the citron, the orange, and the guava mature their fruit, so, as we pass to the South, we find it eminently suited to the production of all the varied fruits and vegetables which make the luxury of temperate climates. It would lead me too far (nor indeed is it necessary in addressing a New Zealand audience), were I to attempt any very detailed description of the physical aspect of the country or its climate, and the general outline I have given will be sufficient for my purpose. To the first colonists it undoubtedly presented the appearance of a country in an almost untouched condition, covered, in its forest lands, with the growth of untold centuries, and in its open lands with grasses, ferns, and swamp-loving plants to which their eyes were totally unused, and which differed in all important respects from the wild growth of Europe. I had intended to describe, in some detail, the organic natural productions of the country, but I began to find that this lecture would stretch to an inconvenient length, and I must leave your local knowledge on this point to fill up the void. This is perhaps the less important, for with the exception of grasses, made available in their uncultivated state for depasturing purposes, and of timber used for building and farm purposes, it may be said, that little has been done towards utilizing them, and still less towards ascertaining their properties and value. Within the last two years the fibre of the Phormium tenax has been prepared as an article of export, and, if properly managed, it will probably yield an excellent return, but I know of no other natural vegetable production of the country (unless we can give that name to Kauri gum) which has yet been turned to account for purposes of foreign export. You are all aware that the mineral resources of these islands are very large and very varied, but it is clear that the natives had no knowledge which would enable them to turn those resources to account, before the arrival of the Europeans, for we found them still using stone and wooden weapons, similar to those which, in Europe, characterize the middle epoch of the Neolithic age.

Such, in brief, was the condition of the country when civilized man under the impulses which ordinarily inspire modern colonists, was poured upon it—and now how changed has it all become? Instead of the miserable “pahs” and “kaingas” of an uncivilized and utterly barbarous race, we have, in most of the great ports of the country, flourishing towns, each inhabited by thousands of Europeans, and many of them possessing buildings which present all the character of wealth and durability. Instead of the solitary canoe of the native fisherman, or the fleet of a war party intent upon murder and rapine, our

waters teem with ships busily engaged in the peaceful work of commerce, whilst large and valuable works in our various ports give facilities for the carrying on and development of that commerce. Instead of our great tracts of native pasture lying idle, and yielding sustenance to no useful living thing, they are now roamed over by and maintain large herds of cattle and flocks of sheep. Instead of the desolate, but luxuriant vegetation of the swampy ground along many parts of our sea board, and the impenetrable forests of many of our valleys, we have rich fields, producing the grain and other crops of temperate Europe. Instead of the narrow bush track, along which the savage travelled on his mission of revenge, we have roads penetrating the country in all directions, facilitating the maintenance of that intercourse, which is essential to the progress of the community in wealth and civilization. Instead of the mineral resources of the country lying idle, we have thousands of men busily engaged in extracting them from the soil, and thus, whilst enriching themselves, contributing by their labours to the wealth of others. We have, indeed, on all sides of us abundant evidence that the energies of a European race are rapidly converting a country which in its natural state scarcely afforded means for the sustenance of man, into one capable not only of maintaining a contented population, but of affording the materials for an extended foreign commerce.

But it is not merely these more material and directly apparent effects that concern us. Many, if not all of you, have heard of the Darwinian theory as applied to the origin of species. This theory teaches us that a struggle for existence is constantly going on between all the varied organisms, both animal and vegetable, which occupy any particular Zoological or Botanical province, and that only such organisms can ultimately succeed in maintaining a place, as may happen, for the time being, to possess some point of vantage beyond the rest. Of course time is an important factor in this theory, and in order to appreciate its bearing upon the origin of species, the observer must be prepared to admit millions of years for the work. In a country like New Zealand, placed at such a distance from other countries as to preclude the risk of invasion, except through the agency of man, it must be manifest that this struggle would be carried on under peculiarities little likely to be observed in other places, and the results already caused by the introduction of new and rival organisms satisfies me that the indigenous flora and fauna even on their own ground, are unable to cope with the intruders. I cannot but think that the former had reached a point at which, like a house built of incoherent materials, a blow struck anywhere shakes and damages the whole fabric. The “Kiore” has been replaced, if not destroyed, by the European rat; the European honey bee now swarms in our forests, taking the food of the meliphagous birds, which are already diminishing palpably in numbers, whilst the facility afforded by the immense epiphytical growth upon the forest trees enables the rat also to aid in this destruction by devouring the eggs and young birds. The forests too contain large numbers of wild pigs, cattle, and goats. The former root up the ground, destroying the seedling trees, whilst the latter browse upon the young shoots and foliage, and even eat the bark of the smaller trees in a manner tending greatly to limit their growth. Following in their wake come many of the hardy vegetable organisms of Europe which spring up on all sides as rivals to the remaining indigenous plants, and thus the latter are exposed to a contest under circumstances in which defeat is almost certain. Such in effect, is the activity with which the introduced plants are doing their work, that I believe if every human being were at once removed from the Islands for even a limited number of years, looking at the matter from a geological point of view, the introduced would succeed in displacing the indigenous fauna and flora.

I must now bring my task to a close, and in doing so again apologize to

originated by Mr. Darwin, and now generally entertained by naturalists, in regard to the “Origin of Species,” for (as you will find in the sequel) I have assumed that many of the principles of action which his theory is intended to elucidate, are directly engaged in producing the changes which I propose to notice, both as having been already effected, and as being likely to ensue in the course of time.

You are all doubtless aware, that organic nature is broadly divisible into two great branches, namely, animal and vegetable life, the study of the former being termed Zoology, and of the latter Botany. It is true, that at the extreme confines of each of these two kingdoms, as we descend from the higher to the lower forms, even this broad distinction is apparently obliterated, and we find, in effect, that naturalists were long in doubt to which of the two kingdoms some of the lowest observed organisms, ought properly to be assigned. This, however, is a matter which little concerns our present enquiry, though it certainly helps to demonstrate the accuracy of that admirable analysis of the organic world, which has lately been exhibited to us by our great physiological writers, and from which we have learnt, not only that the infinite diversity both of animal and vegetable life which peoples the globe, may all be brought down to the primordial from of a single cell, but also that both may be reduced into, and are, in fact, composed of the same elementary constituents.

It had, however, been known long before reaching this more advanced analysis, that the enormous multiplicity both of animal and vegetable life, could, in each case, be reduced to a few types of construction, and indeed, the types thus established have constituted the bases of all those systems of classification by the elaboration of which we have been enabled to study the organic world in detail.

Looking to the probability that the vegetable kingdom yielded to man his earliest means both of sustenance and shelter, it has been assumed by every writer on Natural History, that it was the first to engage his attention, and become his study, and that the necessity of distinguishing between such forms as were useful and such as were injurious, led to the first rude classifications of vegetable life. “By placing together individuals apparently identical in form (says Dr. Lindley), and having regard to the uses they could be applied to, species were distinguished, and by applying a similar process to the species themselves, groups analagous to what we now call genera were obtained. The last step was to constitute classes, which were recognized under the well known names of ‘grass and herbs yielding seed, and fruit trees yielding fruit.’”

It will not be necessary for me to point out how, step by step, the more complete systems of classification now adopted by naturalists were arrived at, how the artificial system of Linnæus was replaced by the natural systems of succeeding enquirers, until we are gradually reaching a more exact knowledge of the plan of nature, it being sufficient for my purpose to call your attention broadly to those systems, and to the circumstance that, in every case, they virtually terminate with what is called “species.”

The animal kingdom has been primarily divided into two great Subkingdoms or Provinces, namely, the Vertebrata and the Invertebrata, each of which has been again subdivided into classes, orders, families, and species.

The vegetable kingdom has also been primarily divided into two Subkingdoms, namely, into asexual or flowerless, and sexual or flowering plants, each comprising a number of distinct classes, orders, genera, and species. With the latter term indeed, whether in the Animal of Vegetable Kingdoms, classification proper has been supposed to end, although all systematists have recognized the existence of varieties, even in a state of nature.

Now it might be supposed, looking more particularly to our recent

great advance in knowledge of the physiology and anatomy both of animals and plants, that, for purposes of classification, there would be little difficulty in defining the term “species” as applied to any particular class or group of organisms, but this is far from being the case, for we find, that the most acute and diligent enquirers, after careful study of the question, have acknowledged that this term can only be applied arbitrarily and for the sake of convenience merely, to some set of individuals closely resembling each other, and that in its necessary application by systematists it does not essentially differ from the term “variety” which, in comparison with mere individual differences, is usually given quite as arbitrarily to forms somewhat less distinct and more fluctuating.

This point has been made the subject of most elaborate investigation by Mr. Darwin, in his volume on the “Origin of Species,” in which he has brought together a great mass of facts to prove that all classes of organisms exhibit a greater or less degree of variability, and to show the consequent difficulty of giving any conclusive or satisfactory definition of the term “species,” —the general conclusions he arrived at being thus stated, —“Finally, then, varieties have the same general character as species, for they cannot be distinguished from species—except, firstly, by the discovery of intermediate linking forms, and the occurrence of such links cannot affect the actual characters of the forms which they connect; and except, secondly, by a certain amount of difference, for two forms, if differing very little, are generally ranked as varieties, notwithstanding that intermediate linking forms have not been discovered; but the amount of difference considered necessary to give to two forms the rank of species, is quite indefinite. In genera having more than the average number of species, in any country, the species of these genera have more than the average number of varieties. In large genera the species are apt to be closely, but unequally allied together, forming little clusters round certain species. Species very closely allied to other species, apparently have restricted ranges. In all these several respects the species of large genera present a strong analogy with varieties. And we can clearly understand these analogies, if species have once existed as varieties, and have thus originated: whereas, these analogies are utterly inexplicable if each species has been independently created.

“We have, also, seen, that it is the most flourishing or dominant species of the larger genera which, on an average vary most; and varieties, as we shall hereafter see, tend to become converted into new and distinct species. The larger genera thus tend to become larger; and, throughout nature, the forms of life which are now dominant, tend to become still more dominant by leaving many modified and dominant descendants. But, by steps hereafter to be explained, the larger genera also tend to break up into smaller genera. And thus, the forms of life, throughout the Universe, become divided into groups subordinate to groups.”

Flourens, in his paper on “La Quantité de vie sur le Globe,” also tells us, “that every species manifests two tendencies, namely, a tendency to vary and a tendency to transmit to succeeding generations the acquired modifications;” and he, properly, observes, “that if the acquired variations and modifications of each generation could not be transmitted to its descendants, such variations and modifications would remain mere individual traits, and would never become the characteristics of a race.” Flourens, however, does not appear to have seen the full effect of these views as to the variability of species, for he assumes that such variations only affect what he terms “superficial characteristics,” and that they are at all times easily detected, whilst he urges that “the unity, identity, and reality of a species is always determinable by the presence or absence of the more deep seated characteristic of continuous fecundity.”

In order to illustrate the difficulty referred to by Mr. Darwin, I will call your attention to some instances in nature.

Experiment has shown that the Zebra, the Hemionus, the Ass, and the Horse, can mutually produce young, but that their produce, notwithstanding certain exceptional instances of further fertility which have been sufficiently well authenticated, cannot perpetuate themselves, and yet no naturalist holding a position of eminence at the present day, would venture to deny that these four races of animals have all descended from common ancestors.

Here, then, we have an example of very limited divergence in outward form, accompanied by great limitation in fecundity, and naturalists may, notwithstanding their admitted descent from common ancestors fairly claim to treat each of these animals as having reached the position of a separate species.

With the dog, on the other hand, although the external differences between many forms, as, for example, the Bull dog, the Turnspit, and the Greyhound, are far greater and more striking than those which we observe between the Horse, the Ass, and the Hemionus, yet the former are always perfectly fertile in interbreeding, and the cross-breeds perpetuate themselves. Here then we have an example of considerable divergence in outward form, in the “superficial characteristics” of Flourens, without any apparent interference with fecundity, and, yet, in this case, although naturalists have also arrived at the conclusion that all existing varieties of the dog are descended from common ancestors, they also treat each of these animals as a separate species.

If, therefore, continuous fecundity were the essential characteristic in the determination of “species,” then the Horse, the Ass, and the Hemionus ought to be treated as separate species, whilst the Bull dog, and the Greyhound, and all the other innumerable and peculiar forms of Dog found in every corner of the globe, ought only to be ranked as varieties of one species.

Such an adherence to any arbitrary rule is, however, unnecessary for purposes of classification, though it bears strongly upon other points in the theory propounded by Mr. Darwin to which I propose hereafter to call your attention. But it is not only to animal life that the foregoing observations extend. Although more difficult to understand in their application, the same rules must be adopted in dealing with the classification of vegetable organisms. Take, for example, plants belonging to the natural order Compositæ which includes the Daisy, the Groundsel, and other allied forms. Here on the table you have four specimens, very similar in outward form, and at least as closely allied in essential points of structure as the Horse and his congeners.

Now, although we have not yet attempted to ascertain experimentally whether these four forms would produce cross-breeds, I think few naturalists would for one moment suppose that they would. If this be so, then we have here an example of still greater divergence in fecundity, whilst we have no difficulty in believing that these several forms, as well as all other plants belonging to the same order, had a common origin. Indeed it would be easy to bring together numberless examples from the book of nature, of incomplete fecundity with slight divergence in outward form of general structure; of complete fecundity with great divergence in outward form; and complete sterility with great similarity in most of those characteristics, which are used by naturalists for purposes of classification, while, at the same time, we should have little hesitation in admitting the descent of all the species of each class, from common ancestors. I will merely add further, that whilst all great naturalists admit that it is quite chimerical to suppose that we can construct any arrangement which shall be an absolutely correct expression of the plan of nature, yet they also allow that we can, by carrying into effect with care and

skill certain well recognized principles, construct what may fairly be termed a natural system.

In such a system groups of species are collected into genera, groups of genera into orders, and groups of orders into classes; each order comprising a number of genera distinct from those of the others, but which, nevertheless, are distinguished by certain general characters different from those of any other orders of plants, characters, too, which are preserved through every existing modification of form.

I have thus shown you that the organic world is primarily divided into two great kingdoms; that each of these is subdivided into classes, orders, genera, and so-called species; and that every species is held to possess two leading tendencies, the one to vary, and the other to accumulate such variations where profitable, by transmitting to its descendants the modifications resulting from variation. I now purpose, in the next place, to call your attention shortly to certain observed facts in relation to the geographical distribution of animals and plants.

The Abbé Domenech has observed that “if Eden were the birthplace of mankind, it certainly was not the birthplace of the whole animal and vegetable creation, for,” he says, “the works of God invariably bear the witness of Divine Wisdom, and to have created in Eden the Reindeer of Lapland, the Lama of Peru, the Kangaroo of Australia, and the Ostrich of the Sahara, would have been as useless as to people the coasts of Tyre and Sidon with the Whale of Greenland, the Tortoise of the Gulf of Mexico, and with fishes which only live in Intertropical and Hyperborean regions.”

“In considering the distribution of organic life over the globe,” says Mr. Darwin, “the first great fact which strikes us is, that neither the similarity nor the dissimilarity of the inhabitants of various regions can be accounted for by their climatal and other physical conditions. Of late, almost every author who has studied the subject, has come to this conclusion. The case of America alone would suffice to prove its truth; for, if we exclude the northern parts where the circumpolar land is almost continuous, all authors agree that one of the most fundamental divisions in geographical distribution is that between the New and Old Worlds; yet if we travel over the vast American Continent, from the central parts of the United States to its extreme southern point, we meet with most diversified conditions; the most humid districts, arid deserts, lofty mountains, grassy plains, forests, marshes, lakes, and great rivers, under almost every temperature. There is hardly a climate or condition in the Old World which cannot be paralleled in the New, at least as closely as the same species generally require; for it is a most rare case to find a group of organisms confined to any small spot, having conditions peculiar in only a slight degree; for instance, small areas in the Old World could be pointed out hotter than any in the New World, yet these are not inhabited by a peculiar fauna or flora. Notwithstandsng this parallelism in the conditions of the Old and New Worlds, how widely differnt are their living productions!

“In the Southern Hemisphere, if we compare large tracts of land in Australia, South Africa, and Western South America, between latitudes 25° and 35°, we shall find parts extremely similar in all their conditions; yet it would not be possible to point out three faunas and floras more utterly dissimilar. Or again, we may compare the productions of South America, south of latitude 35° with those north of 25°, which consequently inhabit a considerably different climate, and they will be found incomparably more closely related to each other, than they are to the productions of Australia or Africa under nearly the same climate. Analagous facts could be given with respect to the inhabitants of the sea.”

The author from whom I have just quoted, then points to certain facts

which bear, in a close and important manner, upon the differences between the productions of various regions, and shows how barriers of any kind which prevent free migration, favour, —under the operation of the laws which he proceeds to point out and elucidate—the production of organisms presenting marked differences from each other, without destruction of those general affinities, which the same species (using this term in the sense now applied to it by advanced systematists) present at different points and stations.

In like manner, Sir Charles Lyell, in the last edition of his “Principles of Geology” calls special attention to the geographical distribution of species, and to the causes which affect it, and I cannot do better than quote some passages from that work also. And here I may say, that I have the less hesitation in using extracts from the writings of such authors as Darwin and Lyell, because it would be impossible for me to convey in more clear and apposite language, the matters involved in these extracts.

Sir C. Lyell says, “Although in speculating on ‘philosophical possibilities,’ said Buffon, writing in 1755, the same temperature might have been expected, all other circumstances being equal, to produce the same beings in different parts of the globe, both in the animal and vegetable kingdoms, yet it is an undoubted fact, that when America was discovered, its indigenous quadrupeds were all dissimilar to those previously known in the Old World. The elephant, the rhinoceros, the hippopotamus, the cameleopard, the camel, the dromedary, the buffalo, the horse, the ass, the lion, the tiger, the apes, the baboons, and a number of other mammalia, were nowhere to be met with on the new continent; while in the old, the American species, of the same great class, were nowhere to be seen—the tapir, the lama, the pacari, the jaguar, the couguar, the agouti, the paca, the coati, and the sloth.

“These phenomena, although few in number, relatively to the whole animate creation, were so striking and so positive in their nature, that the great French naturalist caught sight at once of a general law in the geographical distribution of organic beings, namely, the limitation of groups of distinct species to regions separated from the rest of the globe by certain natural barriers. It was, therefore, in a truly philosophical spirit that, relying on the clearness of the evidence obtained respecting the larger quadrupeds, he ventured to call in question the identifications announced by some contemporary naturalists, of species of animals said to be common to the southern extremities of America and Africa.

“In order to appreciate the importance and novelty of the doctrine, that separate areas of land and water were the abodes of distinct species of animals and plants, we must look back to the times of Buffon and see in what crude conjectures even so great a naturalist as his illustrious contemporary Linnæus indulged, when speculating on the manner in which the earth may first have become peopled with its present inhabitants. The habitable world was imagined by the Swedish philosopher to have been for a certain time limited to one small tract, the only portion of the earth's surface that was as yet laid bare by the subsidence of the primeval ocean. In this fertile spot the originals of all the species of plants which exist on this globe were congregated together with the first ancestors of all animals and of the human race. ‘In quâ commodè habitaveurit animalia omnia, et vegetabilia loete germinaveruit.’ In order to accommodate the various habits of so many creatures, and to provide a diversity of climate suited to their several natures, the tract in which the creation took place was supposed to have been situated in some warm region of the earth, but to have contained a lofty mountain range, on the heights and in the declivities of which were found to be all temperatures and every climate, from that of the torrid to that of the frozen zone. There are still perhaps some gelogists who adhere to a notion once very popular, that there are signs of a

universal ocean at a remote period after the planet had become the abode of living creatures. But few will now deny that the proportion of sea and land approached very nearly to that now established long before the present species of plants and animals had come into being.

“The reader must bear in mind that the language of Buffon, in 1755, respecting ‘natural barriers’ which has since been so popular, would be wholly without meaning had not the geographical distribution of organic beings led naturalists to adopt very generally the doctrine of specific centres, or, in other words, to believe that each species, whether of plant or animal, originated in a single birthplace. Reject this view, and the fact that not a single native quadruped is common to Australia, the Cape of Good Hope, and South America, can in no ways be explained by adverting to the wide extent of intervening ocean, or to the sterile deserts, or the great heat or cold of the climates, through which each species must have passed, before it could migrate from one of those distant regions to another. It might fairly be asked of one who talked of impassable barriers, why the same kangaroos, rhinoceroses, or lamas, should not have been created simultaneously in Australia, Africa, and South America? The horse, the ox, and the dog, although foreign to these countries until introduced by man, are now able to support themselves there in a wild state; and we can scarcely doubt that many of the quadrupeds at present peculiar to Australia, Africa, and South America, might have continued in like manner to inhabit all the three continents, had they been indigenous in each, or could they once have got a footing there as new colonists.”

I might multiply quotations from these and other authors occupying the foremost rank in the scientific world, in order to show that both sea and land may, in the present condition of organic nature in every part of the globe be properly divided into what have been termed distinct Zoological and Botanical Provinces, each occupied by special groups of animals and plants which, however, have been found to exhibit, in each case, a certain amount of coincidence in range of species; and, indeed, it is urged, that no hypothesis respecting the origin of species can possibly be satisfactory, which does not show, in the first place, how species and genera, and ofter larger groups, now range in space in such a manner as to lead to the implication that they have spread from a limited area termed a “centre of creation,” until their progress has been stopped either by some physical barrier of other condition hostile to further extension; and which does not account, in the next place, for the restriction of peculiar generic forms to certain parts of the globe.

There is nothing more striking to the naturalist, moreover, than the fact, now well determined, that the rules established by observation in regard to the distribution of living organisms are those which have also been found to obtain in regard to fossil forms, and it has thence been fairly argued, and as I believe sufficiently well proved, that the intimate connection observed between the existing and the fossil forms within each particular province points to the certainly that the former are of derivative origin, and are not primordial or independent creations. I am compelled, having regard to the length of a lecture, arbitrarily to limit my observations upon this part of the subject, but I think that even without going into the reasons urged by Mr. Darwin and others, as to the improbability of our being able to identify the actual fossil ancestor of any living species, or to trace its descent through past geological epochs, I have sufficiently shown to you the probability that the forms of life now occupying any particular Zoological or Botanical Province may be looked upon as the descendants of those which have occupied it during past geological periods, and that the differences between the existing and fossil forms are due to the operation of the laws so clearly expounded by Mr. Darwin. Of course in assuming such a probability, time becomes an important factor, and those

who have been accustomed to trust to Usher's chronology, and to look upon our globe, at least, as having been created within a few thousand years, will be utterly unable to accept, because they cannot comprehend, such a hypothesis. But whilst each particular province presents, as I have explained to you, its own peculiar generic forms, we constantly find a large degree of affinity existing between the organic life occupying more extended areas comprising frequently several of such provinces. Upon this point (in special connection with the affinities of the flora of New Zealand) I quote as follows from Dr. Hooker's “Introductory Essay” to his “Flora of New Zealand,” as published in 1853:—

“Of all the branches of Botany, there is none whose elucidation demands so much preparatory study, or so extensive an acquaintance with plants and their affinities, as that of their geographical distribution. Nothing is easier than to explain away all obscure phenomena of dispersion by several speculations on the origin of species, so plausible that the superficial naturalist may accept any of them; and to test their soundness demands a comprehensive knowledge of facts, which, moreover, run great risk of distortion in the hands of those who do not know the value of the evidence they afford. I have endeavoured to enumerate the principal facts that appear to militate against the probability of the same species having originated in more places (or centres) than one; but in so doing I have only partially met the strongest argument of all in favour of a plurality of centres, viz., the difficulty of otherwise accounting for the presence of two widely sundered localities of rare local species, whose seeds cannot have been transported from one to the other by natural causes now in operation. To take an instance, how does it happen that Edwardsia grandiflora inhabits both New Zealand and South America? or Oxalis Magellanica both these localities and Tasmania? The idea of transportation by aerial or oceanic currents cannot be entertained, as the seeds of neither could stand exposure to the salt water, and they are too heavy to be borne in the air.

“Were these the only plants common to these widely sundered localities, the possibility of some exceptional mode of transport might be admitted by those disinclined to receive the doctrine of double centres; but the elucidation of the New Zealand Flora has brought up many similar instances equally difficult to account for, and has developed innumerable collateral phenomena of equal importance, though not of so evident appreciation. These, which all bear upon the same point, may be arranged as follows:—

“1. Seventy-seven plants are common to the three great south temperate masses of land, Tasmania, New Zealand and South America.

“2. Comparatively few of these are universally distributed species, the greater part being peculiar to the south temperate zone.

“There are upwards of 100 genera, sub-genera, or other well marked groups of plants entirely or nearly confined to New Zealand, Australia and extra-tropical South America. These are represented by one or more species in two or more of these countries, and they thus effect a botanical relationship or affinity between them all, which every botanist appreciates.

“4. These three peculiarities are shared by all the islands in the south temperate zone (including even Tristan d'Achuna, though placed so close to Africa), between which islands the transportation of seeds is even more unlikely than between the larger masses of land.

“The plants of the Antarctic islands which are equally natives of New Zealand, Tasmania, and Australia, are almost invariably found only on the lofty mountains of these countries.”

The author then points out certain conclusions, to which he was at that time forced by a consideration of the facts involved in the distribution of the plants composing the New Zealand Flora, and proceeds as follows:—

“It was with these conclusions before me, that I was led to speculate on

the possibility of the plants of the Southern Ocean being the remains of a flora that had once spread over a larger and more continuous tract of land than now exists in that ocean; and that the peculiar Antarctic genera and species may be vestiges of a flora characterized by the predominance of plants which are now scattered throughout the southern islands. An allusion to these speculations was made in the ‘Flora Antarctica,’ where some circumstances connected with the distribution of the Antarctic islands were dwelt upon, and their resemblance to the summits of a submerged mountain chain was pointed out; but beyond the facts that the general features of the flora favoured such a view, that the difficulties in the way of transport appeared to admit of no other solution, and that there are no limits assignable to the age of the species that would make their creation posterior to such a series of geological changes as should remove the intervening land, there was nothing in the shape of evidence by which my speculation could be supported. I am indebted to the invaluable labours of Lyell and Darwin, for facts that could alone have given countenance to such an hypothesis; the one showing that the necessary time and elevations and depressions of land need not be denied; and the other, that such risings and sinkings are in active progress over large portions of the continents and islands of the Southern Hemisphere. It is to the works of Lyell that I must refer for all the necessary data as to influence of climate being dependent on geological change. In the ‘Principles of Geology’ these laws are proved to be of universal application, and amply illustrated by their being applied to the elucidation of difficult problems in geographical distribution. It follows from what is there shown, that a change in the relative positions of sea and land has occurred to such an extent since the creation of still existing species, that we have no right to assume that the plants and animals of two given areas, however isolated by ocean, may not have migrated over pre-existing land between them. This was illustrated by an examination of the natural history of Sicily (where land-shells, still existing in Italy, and which could not have crossed the Straits of Messina, are found imbedded on the flanks of Etna, high above the sea-level), regarding which Sir Charles Lyell states that most of the plants and animals of that island are older than the mountains, plains, and rivers they now inhabit.”

You will, then, observe that although New Zealand presents all the characteristics of, and is properly treated as a distinct province for the purposes of a description and classification of its animal and vegetable life (for the remarks I have quoted in regard to its Flora apply also to its Fauna,) yet it must also be considered as forming a part only of a greatly larger area, within which the Fauna and Flora exhibit such a degree of affinity, as can only be accounted for by the former existence of means of inter-communication, of which all visible traces are now lost. In this connection, for example, it is highly interesting to know that except one or two plants not found in New Zealand, the whole Flora of the Chatham Islands, four hundred miles to the eastward of Banks' Peninsula, is absolutely identical with that of these islands, although some of the forms (as for example, Lomaria discolor, a common fern in our forests) have been somewhat modified in outward appearance, a fact itself of great and striking significance in connection with the views of Mr. Darwin. The same remarks also apply to the Flora of Raoul or Sunday Island, a small island some six or seven hundred miles to the north-east of the northern part of New Zealand, with this increased difficulty in accounting for the general identity between the two Floras (except on the supposition of a former extension of the land of New Zealand, as to include the several islands referred to) that the prevalent winds and the ocean currents between this country and Raoul Island, would drive us to the conclusion, that the former had been colonized from the latter, a supposition opposed to all our present knowledge in regard to the origin and distribution of life.

I will now proceed to offer a few remarks upon the distribution, in its leading characteristics, of the flora and fauna of these islands, which, however, I must do with great briefness, in order not to weary you. But first, let me repeat a remark made in my former lecture, as to the peculiar physical character of the surface of these islands, namely, that they present all the appearance of rugged mountain chains, which originally formed part of an immensely larger area, the greater part of the lower and more level tracts of which have since been submerged. Looked at broadly, in connection with the Flora, and exclusive of alpine and sub-alpine tracts, we may treat the surface of the Islands generally as divisible into bush or forest land, fern land, grass land, and swamp land. I apply the words “swamp land,” in the local sense of the term, to tracts usually found near the coasts, and covered with a rich growth of Phormium tenax, and other plants requiring a considerable depth of vegetable soil and much moisture, and by no means in the sense in which the same words would be used in England. Our swampy lands are easily drained, and become very fertile under cultivation, and then yield, in this mild climate, immense and continuous crops of grass. Such tracts generally indicate the site of former forest growth, for, in every instance that I am aware of, at a moderate depth below the surface, large quantities of timber are found. The area occupied by land of this class is not extensive, but it possesses considerable importance in an economical point of view, not merely on account of the fertility of the land itself, but also as yielding a large supply of one of the most valuable fibre plants in the world.

The grass lands occur chiefly, if not exclusively, on the eastern sides of both islands, and now afford pasture to millions of sheep and to great numbers of cattle and horses, thus, in their mere natural condition, adding largely to the wealth of the colony.

Whether these pasture lands were ever covered with forest I very much doubt, although many great naturalists are of opinion, that every part of the surface of the habitable earth, in all climates and regions, was covered with forest growth before it first became the home of man. Nor is enquiry into this question material to the subject under consideration, for it is clear that little, if anything, had been done before these Islands became the abode of civilized man to alter or modify the character or distribution of its vegetation. I have never travelled over the pastoral tracts of the North Island, and am therefore unable to point out what general differences exist (if any do exist) between the grasses there, and those which cover the pastoral lands of the Middle Island. The latter until used as sheep and cattle runs, consisted chiefly of tussock grasses, growing with more or less luxuriance according to the nature of the soil, but presenting only slight differences in character, in their altitudinal range.

When these Islands were first colonized by us, very large tracts were covered with Fern, chiefly “Pteris aquilina.” I have little doubt that the greater part of such lands had originally been occupied by forest, destroyed by fire after the occupation of the country by the present native inhabitants. The soil occupied by this growth is usually friable and easily worked, and wherever the fern grew luxuriantly, has turned out valuable for agricultural purposes. The “Bush” or Forest may be roughly divided into three classes, namely, 1st, That which occupies the lower parts of our larger valleys and other low lying tracts near the sea coast, —2nd, That which occupies the upper or higher parts of our valleys, and hills of moderate elevation, within a few miles from the coast line, —and 3rd, That which occupies the greater mass of the mountain districts on the western sides of both islands, up to sub-alpine elevations.

The first class comprises a varied growth, the timber trees belonging, for the most part to certain peculiar genera of Coniferæ, whilst the undergrowth

is usually very luxuriant and dense, more particularly in the deep alluvial deposits at the lower parts of the valleys, where we also find the Laurelia Novæ Zelandiæ and other trees affecting rich moist soils. The small remnant of forest still seen at the entrance of the Hutt valley affords us an example of this class of bush land, and although it is fast being destroyed, it even now gives us an excellent idea of its original variety and density of growth. We still find there living specimens of most of the forest trees, covered with remarkable epiphytes, whilst amongst the undergrowth, the Tree Fern, the Nikau Palm, the Cordyline, and the Freycinetia, and a variety of shrubs delighting in shade and moisture, are closely interlaced with the Supple-jack, the Clematis, and other creeping plants. The second class also comprises a varied growth, but here we find, in addition to forms of Coniferæ occurring in the lower grounds, many species of Metrosideros, Elæocarpus and other timber trees, whilst the undergrowth is also extremely dense and impenetrable, more particularly in the innumerable gullies which have been furrowed in every direction out of the hill sides. Those, however, who can be tempted to explore these dense gullies, are amply repaid for their toil by the extreme beauty and variety of the ferns and mosses with which the ground is carpeted, and the trunks of the trees are covered, whilst the appearance of many of the more gigantic forest trees, is rendered singularly beautiful, by the enormous mass of epiphytes with which they are covered. The third class consists almost exclusively of species of Fagus, with a very sparse undergrowth of Aralia, Coprosma, Rubus, etc. These enormous beech forests will, no doubt, become valuable as the country becomes more thickly peopled, for the timber is well adapted for shipbuilding, and for a large variety of other useful purposes, and the bark yields a considerable quantity of tannin. The great difference in appearance which these Beech forests present, as compared with the other classes of bush to which I have referred, is very striking. As a rule they are open and easily traversed, but the eye becomes fatigued, and the mind oppressed by their monotony, and by the general absence of life which characterises them.

To the North of the Isthmus between Auckland and the head of the Manukau occur extensive forests of kauri, the only true coniferous tree found in these Islands. It does not now occur as a common tree south of the above line, though I am informed that single specimens have been observed as far south as Kawhia; but the bituminous shales associated with some of the coals of Otago, present numerous impressions of forms of Dammara closely allied to the living tree, leading us to the conclusion that the latter is the modified descendant and representative of forms which flourished abundantly during those far distant periods. A fossil gum, chemically undistinguishable from the kauri gum of the north, is also found in the brown coals throughout these Islands, and even in the Chatham Islands, from which we may also infer that these coals are in part derived from altered wood of trees belonging to the same germs, which formed part of the earlier vegetation of that larger area, of which New Zealand is assumed to be only a remnant.

With the Fauna of these Islands I must deal even more sketchily than I have done with the Flora, for, with the exception of its birds, very little has been attempted towards illustrating this branch of their Natural History. The only mammal (exclusive of two or three species of Bat) which was known to be indigenous to these Islands, was the Kiore, or so-called Native rat. It has been the fashion to assume that before the arrival of Europeans in this Colony, this creature was common, and to attribute its destruction to the European rat, and, indeed, the natives have been credited with a proverb in relation to this point. It is not in effect impossible, that the ultimate destruction of those which still existed when trade was first opened between Europeans and the Natives, long after the colonization of New South Wales, may have been

hastened by the introduction of the European rat; but I am satisfied that before that time they had become very scarce, and indeed I have been told by gentlemen who have lived in the northern part of this Island for upwards of forty years, that they never saw a specimen.

The Birds of New Zealand have been collected and investigated by Mr. Walter Buller, who has long promised a more extensive work on the subject, than the pamphlet published in the first volume of our Transactions.

The number of species of land birds is not large in itself, though, as Mr. Buller remarks, the ornithology of these islands does not compare unfavourably in this respect with that of temporate conntries in the Northern hemisphere, but although in regard to number of species it may not be important, our birds present many peculiarities interesting to zoologists.

We have, for example, the wingless Apteryx (or Kiwi), the present representative of gigantic races of birds which formerly roamed over our plains and open lands; the Kakapo, or Ground Parrot, inhabiting excavations in the ground, and strictly nocturnal in its habits. Both of these species are confined to our forest-clad ranges, and the latter has not, so far as I am aware, been found in the North Island. We have also, though now very rare, the beautiful Notornis Mantelli, a large Rail, the plumage of which is extremely rich and varied in colour. This bird is known to exist in both islands, but whether the species is in each case strictly identical, I am unable to say. Species of the Wood hen (Ocydromus) are found in both islands, and this bird is still abundant, if not actually increasing in the Middle Island.

Amongst the other land birds more familiar to us are the Kaka or Nestor meridionalis, the Pigeon, the Tui or Parson bird; and several species of small perching birds found in every wood. Many of the New Zealand perching birds are honey-feeders, and, the great majority are insect-feeders. The Kaka feeds largely upon the honey of the phormium tenax, and upon the flowers of the rata. Of ducks there are several species, for example, the Paradise duck (more properly speaking a goose), the Grey duck, the Blue or Mountain duck, and some varieties of Teal. The Paradise duck is a remarkably handsome bird, the female differing completely from the male in plumage.

Of wading birds we have many, amongst others, a magnificent white Crane (Ardea flavirostris), a handsome blue Crane (Ardea matuku), a Bittern (Botaurus poicilopterus), the Pukeko (Porphyrio melanotus), and several smaller birds. The Crane and Bittern are scarce, but the Pukeko is to be found in large numbers in every swamp, and more particularly in those which abut upon cultivations. This bird is indeed more inclined by appetite to cereal grains and plants than to aquatic herbs, and frequents the land more than it does the water. It is handsome and graceful, and active in its movements. It is easily tamed, and mingles readily with ordinary domestic poultry. As these birds are also found in the eastern and southern provinces of Europe, we may accept their presence in this Colony as some indication of the adaptability of our climate to animals, birds, and plants indigenous to mild latitudes.

Of the poultry tribe, except the Pigeon referred to before, I only know the Quail, a delicious eating bird, which, unfortunately, is rapidly disappearing, but which formerly existed on the plains and in all the river valleys in considerable numbers. It has indeed been said that as many as forty brace and upwards sometimes fell to a pair of guns in a single day's shooting.

Of rapacious birds we have several species. A small Hawk, distinguished like its European congener for its daring; a large Kite, and two or three species of Owls. These birds kill vast numbers of rats and mice, and thus more than compensate for the loss of a few chickens and ducklings. I was once told by a German settler that his young chickens, etc., were never

molested by these birds, (although they existed in great numbers in his neighbourhood), when under the charge of a turkey mother.

From noxious reptiles this country is happily free, and we shall scarcely require to import boa constrictors from St. Lucia (as recommended by Sir Charles Darling, to the Acclimatization Society of Victoria), for the purpose of devouring them.

With the indigenous sea fish, and the marine crustacea and testacea we are but little acquainted. The Hapuka, Baracouta, Ling, Snapper, Kawai, and Moki, a species of Flounder, and a few varieties of Rock fish, are the sea fish chiefly obtained and used, and of most of these, as indeed of a large number of the New Zealand sea fish, it may be said, that they are poor in flavour and coarse in flesh, affording a most striking contrast in this respect to the many delicious species found in English waters. There are two species of salt-water Crayfish, both coarse; some excellent Oysters, and a few of the commoner shell fish, such as Mussels, Cockles, Limpets, etc.; but until lately nothing has been done to extend the knowledge obtained by the very earliest colonists in respect to our marine fauna.

Of fresh water fish, we have Eels of several kinds, all extremely good eating; Lampreys, said by the natives to be delicious, and the fry of a fish as yet unascertained, which ascends the rivers in the months of October and November, and is used as whitebait.

In the Province of Nelson, during the month of April, shoals of a small fish from a quarter to half a pound in weight, and of delicious flavour, ascend the rivers, and are then eagerly sought for by epicures, but I am not aware that any attempt has been made to ascertain the ordinary habits of this fish.

Of the invertebrata, we have great numbers, but no great variety, in species of the spider. Moths, and consequently their larvæ, are extremely numerous, and the latter, as well as the larvæ of certain species of beetles, frequently do great damage to the grain and other crops.

There are several varieties of indigenous flesh, and other flies, which are found to be great pests, and they, as well as the imported house and cattle flies, are increasing to an extent which threatens to prove a serious source of damage and discomfort. My own opportunities of observation have been too limited to enable me to point out the checks now in operation to the further and more destructive increase of these insects, but I am convinced that it is of great importance that we should speedily add to the number of those checks, unless we are willing to submit to severe injury and loss. It has been said by a great author, in reference to the injuries which insects can do us, “that the Almighty ordains various instruments for the punishment of offending nations; sometimes he breaks them to pieces with the iron rod of war; at others the elements are let loose against them; earthquakes and floods of fire at his word bring sudden destruction upon them; seasons unfriendly to vegetation threaten them with famine; the blight and mildew realize these threats; and often, the more to manifest and glorify his power, he employs means, at first sight, apparently the most insignificant and inadequate, to effect their ruin; the numerous tribes of insects are his armies, marshalled by him, and by his irresistible commands impelled to the work of destruction; where he directs them, they lay waste the earth, and famine and the pestilence often follow in their train.

“The generality of mankind overlook or disregard these powerful, because minute, dispensers of punishment; seldom considering in how many ways their welfare is affected by them, but the fact is certain, that should it please God to give them a general commission against us, and should he excite them to attack, at the same time, our bodies, our clothing, our houses, our cattle, and the produce of our fields and gardens, we should soon be reduced, in every possible respect,

to a state of extreme wretchedness, the prey of the most filthy and disgusting diseases, divested of a covering, unsheltered, except by caves and dungeons, from the inclemency of the seasons, exposed to all the extremities of want and famine;” and in the end, as Sir Joseph Banks, speaking on this subject, has well observed, “driven with all the larger animals from the face of the earth.” You may smile, perhaps, and think this a highly coloured picture, but you will recollect, I am not stating the mischiefs that insects commonly do, but what they would do, according to all probability, if certain counter checks, restraining them within due limits had not been put in action; and which they actually do, as you will see, in particular cases, when those counter-checks are diminished or removed.

It might, indeed, be supposed, that the injuries which can be inflicted upon man by insects have often been exaggerated, but our own experience during the last few years completely justifies these ideas. You may, for example, remember the nearly total annihilation of the cabbage, cauliflower, turnip, and other vegetables belonging to the large cruciferæ in the year 1862, caused by an aphis which had not previously appeared in this country. Our apple trees are the prey of another insect of the same kind—the aphis lanifera—commonly called the American blight, which has put a stop to the cultivation of orchards on a large scale. The rapidity with which these creatures increase is something marvellous, though less so when we find that the ordinary laws of generation are suspended in regard to them, the production of young without fecundation, being common to the whole family. Bounet long ago demonstrated, by a series of most carefully conducted experiments, that at least five generations of the aphis sambuci may succeed each other, the females never pairing. The oak aphis carried this to the ninth generation, and, strange to state, he found that whilst, after pairing, the aphides produced ova, in other cases they produced their young alive. Reaumur computes that each aphis may produce about ninety young, and that in consequence, in five generations the descendants from a single insect would amount to the astonishing number of 5,904,900,000. “Were it not,” says Mr. Swainson, “that these immense multitudes are called into being to furnish food for other races, they would be sufficient to destroy vegetation and annihilate the empire of Flora.”

Having thus (I am afraid, however, in a very off-hand manner) pointed out to you the leading characteristics and distribution of the Flora and Fauna of these islands, I will now call your attention to what has aptly been termed the “Struggle for Existence” which living organisms of all kinds, are exposed to in a state of nature, and point out in what manner variation lends its aid in protecting both animals and plants from extinction under that struggle. In doing this I shall not hesitate to borrow largely from Mr. Darwin's work. After adverting to the acknowledged variability of organic beings in a state of nature (to which I have called your attention in an earlier part of this lecture) he asks, “How all those exquisite adaptations of one part of the organization to another part, and to the conditions of life, and of one distinct organic being to another, have been perfected? How it is that varieties, (which by the way, he has called ‘incipient species’), became ultimately converted into good and distinct species, which, in most cases, obviously differ from each other far more than do the varieties of the same species? How those groups of species which constitute what are called distinct genera, and which differ from each other more than do the species of the same genus, have arisen?” And he proceeds to answer these questions by saying, that the results referred to all follow from the “Struggle for Life,” in which all the members of the organic world are engaged. “Owing to this struggle,” he observes, “any variation, however slight, and from whatever cause proceeding, if it be in any degree profitable to an individual of any species, in its infinitely complex relations to other organic

beings and to external nature, will tend to the preservation of that individual, and will generally be inherited by its offspring. The offspring, also, will thus have a better chance of surviving, for, of the many individuals of any species which are periodically born, but a small number can survive.

“This struggle for existence inevitably follows from the high rate at which all organic beings tend to increase. Every being which during its natural lifetime produces several eggs or seeds, must suffer destruction during some period of its life, and during some season or occasional year, otherwise, on the principle of geometrical increase, its numbers would quickly become so inordinately great, that no country could support the product. Hence, as more individuals are produced than can possibly survive, there must in every case be a struggle for existence, either one individual with another of the same species, or with individuals of distinct species, or with the physical conditions of life. It is the doctrine of Malthus applied with manifold force to the whole animal and vegetable kingdoms; for in this case there can be no artificial increase of food, and no prudential restraint from marriage. Although some species may be now increasing, more or less rapidly, in numbers, all cannot do so, for the world would not hold them.

“There is no exception to the rule that every organic being naturally increases at so high a rate, that if not destroyed, the earth would soon be covered by the progeny of a single pair. Even slow breeding man has doubled in twenty-five years, and at this rate in a few thousand years there would literally not be standing room for his progeny. Linnæus has calculated that if an annual plant produced only two seeds—and there is no plant so unproductive as this—and their seedlings next year produced two, and so on, then in twenty years there would be a million plants. The elephant is reckoned the slowest breeder of all known animals, and I have taken some pains to estimate its probable minimum rate of natural increase; it will be under the mark to assume that it breeds when thirty years old, and goes on breeding till ninety years old, bringing forth three pair of young in this interval; if this be so, at the end of the fifth century there would be alive fifteen millions of elephants, descended from the first pair.

“But we have better evidence on this subject than mere theoretical calculations, namely, the numerous recorded cases of the astonishingly rapid increase of various animals in a state of nature, when circumstances have been favourable to them during two or three following seasons. Still more striking is the evidence from our domestic animals of many kinds which have run wild in several parts of the world; if the statements of the rate of increase of slow breeding cattle and horses in South America, and latterly in Australia, had not been well authenticated, they would have been incredible. So it is with plants: cases could be given of introduced plants which have become common throughout whole islands in a period of less than ten years. Several of the plants, such as the cardoon and a tall thistle, now most numerous over the wide plains of La Plata, clothing square leagues of surface almost to the exclusion of all other plants, have been introduced from Europe; and there are plants which now range in India, as I hear from Dr. Falconer, from Cape Comorin to the Himalaya, which have been imported from America since its discovery. In such cases, and endless instances could be given, no one supposes that the fertility of these animals or plants has been suddenly and temporarily increased in any sensible degree. The obvious explanation is that the conditions of life have been very favourable, and there has consequently been less destruction of the old and young, and that nearly all the young have been enabled to breed. In such cases the geometrical ratio of increase, the result of which never fails to be surprising, simply explains the extraordinarily rapid increase and wide diffusion of naturalized productions in their new homes.

“In a state of nature almost every plant produces seed, and amongst animals there are very few which do not annually pair. Hence we may confidently assert, that all plants and animals are tending to increase in a geometrical ratio, that all would most rapidly stock every station in which they could any how exist, and that the geometrical tendency to increase must be checked by destruction at some period of life. Our familiarity with the larger domestic animals tends, I think, to mislead us; we see no great destruction falling on them, and we forget that thousands are annually slaughtered for food, and that in a state of nature an equal number would have somehow to be disposed of.

“The only difference between organisms which annually produce eggs or seeds by the thousand, and those which produce extremely few, is, that the slow breeders would require a few more years to people, under favourable conditions, a whole district, let it be ever so large. The condor lays a couple of eggs, and the ostrich a score, and yet in the same country the condor may be the more numerous of the two: the Fulmar petrel lays but one egg, yet it is believed to be the most numerous bird in the world. One fly deposits hundreds of eggs, and another, like the hippobosca, a single one; but this difference does not determine how many individuals of the two species can be supported in a district. A large number of eggs is of some importance to those species which depends on a rapidly fluctuating amount of food, for it allows them rapidly to increase in number. But the real importance of a large number of eggs or seeds is to make up for much destruction at some period of life; and this period in the great majority of cases is an early one. If an animal can in any way protect its own eggs or young, a small number may be produced, and yet the average stock be fully kept up; but if many eggs or young are destroyed, many must be produced, or the species will become extinct. It would suffice to keep up fully the numbers of a tree, which lived on an average for a thousand years, if a single seed were produced once in a thousand years, supposing that this seed were never destroyed, and could be ensured to germinate in a fitting place. So that in all cases, the average number of any animal or plant depends only indirectly on the number of its eggs or seeds.”

The author then proceeds to comment upon the causes which check the natural tendency of each species to increase in number, and points out not only the extreme obscurity of these causes, but also that even when at all ascertainable, they are found to be very complex and unexpected. Of this he gives several striking instances, as, for example:—

“In Staffordshire, on the estate of a relation, where I had ample means of investigation, there was a large and extremely barren heath, which had never been touched by the hand of man; but several hundred acres of exactly the same nature had been enclosed twenty-five years previously, and planted with Scotch fir. The change in the native vegetation of the planted part of the heath was most remarkable, more than is generally seen in passing from one quite different soil to another; not only the proportional numbers of the heath plants were wholly changed, but twelve species of plants (not counting grasses and carices) flourished in the plantations, which could not be found on the heath. The effects on the insects must have been still greater, for six insectiverous birds were very common in the plantations, which could not be found on the heath; and the heath was frequented by two or three distinct insectiverous birds. Here we see how potent has been the effect of the introduction of a single tree, nothing whatever else having been done, with the exception that the land had been enclosed, so that cattle could not enter. But how important an element enclosure is, I plainly saw near Farnham, in Surrey. Here there are extensive heaths, with a few clumps of old Scotch firs on the distant hill-tops: within the last ten years large spaces have been enclosed,

and self-sown firs are now springing up in multitudes, so close together that all cannot live. When I ascertained that these young trees had not been sown or planted, I was so much surprised at their numbers that I went to several points of view, whence I could examine hundreds of acres of the unenclosed heath, and literally I could not see a single Scotch fir, except the old planted clumps. But on looking closely between the stems of the heath, I found a multitude of seedlings and little trees, which had been perpetually browsed down by cattle. In one square yard, at a point some hundred yards distant from one of the old clumps, I counted thirty-two little trees; and one of them, with twenty-six rings of growth, had during many years tried to raise its head, and had failed. No wonder that, as soon as the land was enclosed, it became thickly clothed with vigorously growing young firs. Yet the heath was so extremely barren and so extensive, that no one would ever have imagined that cattle would have so closely and effectually searched it for food.

“Here we see that cattle absolutely determined the existence of the Scotch fir in this particular locality and under the conditions indicated; but in several parts of the world insects determine the existence of cattle. Perhaps Paraguay offers the most curious instance of this; for here neither horses, nor cattle, nor dogs, have ever run wild, though they swarm northward and southward in a feral state; and Azara and Rengger have shown that this is caused by the great number in Paraguay of a certain fly, which lays its eggs in the navels of these animals when first born. The increase of these flies, numerous as they are, must be habitually checked by some means, probably by birds. Hence, if certain insectivorous birds (whose numbers are probably regulated by hawks or beasts of prey) were to increase in Paraguay, the flies would decrease—then cattle and horses would become feral, and this would certainly greatly alter (as indeed I have observed in parts of South America) the vegetation; this again would largely affect the insects; and this, as we have just seen in Staffordshire, the insectivorous birds, and so onwards in ever increasing circles of complexity. We began this series by insectivorous birds, and we have ended with them. Not that in nature the relations can ever be as simple as this. Battle within battle must ever be recurring with varying success; and yet in the long run the forces are so nicely balanced, that the face of nature remains uniform for long periods of time, though assuredly the merest trifle would often give the victory to one organic being over another, nevertheless so profound is our ignorance, and so high our presumption, that we marvel when we hear of the extinction of an organic being; and as we do not see the cause, we invoke cataclysms to desolate the world, or invent laws on the duration of the forms of life!“ The same author further adds:—

“I am tempted to give one more instance showing how plants and animals, most remote in the scale of nature, are bound together by a web of complex relations. I shall hereafter have occasion to show that the exotic Lobelia fulgens, in this part of England, is never visited by insects, and consequently, from its peculiar structure, never can set a seed. Many of our orchidaceous plants absolutely require the visit of moths to remove their pollen-masses, and thus to fertilize them. I have, also, reason to believe that humble-bees are indispensable to the fertilization of the heartsease (Viola tricolor), for other bees do not visit this flower. From experiments which I have lately tried, I have found that the visits of bees are necessary for the fertilization of some kinds of clover; but humble-bees alone visit the red clover (Trifolium pratense), as other bees cannot reach the nectar. Hence I have very little doubt, that if the whole genus of humble-bees became extinct or very rare in England, the heartsease and red clover would become very rare, or wholly disappear. The number of humble-bees in any district depends in a great degree on the number of field mice, which destroy their combs and nests; and Mr. H. Newman, who has

About the middle of the seventh century before the Christian era, according to Herodotus, a line of canal for fresh water was commenced at Rhoda on the Nile, near the modern Cairo, and continued by the margin of the extreme eastern desert to Bubastis—thence by the Wadi Tombat, or Valley of the Seven Wells, skirting the Bitter Lakes—it reached Suez, which was then known as Clysma. It was commenced by Necho, son of Psammetichua, and completed by Darius, the son of Hystaspes. A period of one hundred years was occupied in the work, and 120,000 Egyptians perished in the labour, which was so hard, that an oracle admonished the taskmasters to desist, and for a time it ceased. The remains of this work are still to be seen; but I am not aware—though I have made diligent search amongst the authorities—that an attempt was ever made in ancient times to connect the two seas by means of a canal. The wants of the day, 2400 years ago, were met by the river Nile, 180 miles from the sea to Rhoda, and 105 miles of fresh water canal to the Red Sea.

A good deal may have been due to French influence in the East that the maritime canal at Suez has become a great public question, but I still think that the project by an English engineer, Mr. Lionel Gisborne, of cutting through the Isthmus of Darien, in 1852, brought the subject of removing such obstacles to navigation more prominently before the world; and many think that it will always be a matter of regret that Mr. Gisborne's plan was not taken up by the merchants of Europe and America. Though Mr. Gisborne was not permitted to live to carry out his plan, his labours were not thrown away, and the facts which I have gathered from his report are curious. He found that the tide on the Pacific side of the Isthmus of Darien rose twenty-three feet, whilst on the Atlantic side it was scarcely appreciable—that at mid-tide the two oceans would be nearly level, and that therefore the ebb and flow of the Pacific would cause a current both ways, not exceeding a rate of three miles an hour, acting as a scour to prevent deposit, and an assistance in the transit of vessels. This would also secure the passage being effected in one tide, and prevent the passing of vessels going different ways, as the direction of the trade would be alone influenced by the ebb and flow of the Pacific tide. Mr. Gisborne also found that the material to be excavated would be chiefly rock, so that the current or the wash of passing steamers would not tear away the banks, thus reducing the cost of maintenance to a nominal sum. The canal was to be 30 feet deep at low water, 140 feet wide at bottom, widening to 160 feet at low-water surface. The rivers Savana and Lara were to be made use of for eighteen miles on the Darien side, leaving the actual breadth of the Isthmus between the tidal effect of the two oceans at thirty miles. The summit level of this lowest ridge of the Andes was found not to exceed 150 feet, formed by a narrow range of hills, having a gradually rising plain on each side. The report does not state if any prevailing winds were likely to render the two entrances periodically unsafe, so I presume that the canal would have been always easy of access and egress.

Messrs. Fox and Henderson, the contractors for the great Exhibition Building in 1851, employed Mr. Gisborne, and the position they held enabled them to make that gentleman's report well-known throughout the world, particularly as they were to get up the company for the performance of the work.

There can be but little doubt, as the above information became public, that Monsieur de Lesseps, in inaugurating his plan of making a canal through the Isthmus of Suez, and before he finally enlisted the late Ismail Pasha, then Viceroy of Egypt, heartily in the project, in 1854, made himself certain as to the relative height of the water at the same time in the Red Sea and the Mediterranean, where he intended to connect their waters by an open cutting without locks. Unfortunately an opinion of weight had gone forth that pre-

vailed for nearly fifty years, being the result of an investigation ordered by Napoleon when in Egypt in 1798. His chief civil engineer was ordered to report upon the practicability of a canal between the two seas; and the only result was an apparent difference of thirty-two feet between the level of the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. But, in 1846, a tripartite commission was set at work to study the relative levels and tidal amplitudes of the two seas and the Nile. In this commission Mr. Robert Stephenson represented England; France sent M. Talabot; and the Chevalier Negrelli acted for Austria. The result showed that the difference in the levels of the two seas was so slight as to be of no practical account.

Thus a great difficulty was removed in making an accurate calculation for a work of such vast magnitude, as it was now made clear that if the 100 miles of intervening land were intersected by an open channel of moderate width and depth, the waters of the two seas would meet without the aid of locks or any other artificial arrangement.

At the first sight of the map of Europe, the Mediterranean would appear to be higher than the Red Sea, because the former, confined as it is at its mouth, being scarcely nine miles in width between Ceuta and Gibraltar, is only the last of a chain of lakes of which the Sea of Azof, fed by the River Don, is the first. The current is strong into the Black Sea at the Straits of Yenikale, near Kertch, and still more rapid where the Black Sea flows through the Bosphorus, a distance of eighteen miles into the Sea of Marmora. There is also a strong current through the narrow passage of the Dardanelles from the Sea of Marmora into the Mediterranean. Besides this absolute fall, the waters of the Danube, the Nile, the Po, and the Rhone are received into the Mediterranean; and as the swell of the Atlantic at Gibraltar is always inwards, from the prevailing westerly winds, a head of water might be supposed to exist, that a canal through the Isthmus of Suez would, as it were, tap and let into the Red Sea. If this were the case, a current would be created useful for the passage of ships going to the eastward, but likely to damage the banks of the canal, excavated for half its length in the sand of the desert.

Again, the Red Sea, being an arm of the Indian Ocean, 1200 miles long, confined at its entrance by the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb, or the Gate of Tears (so called by the Arabs from the frequency of shipwrecks in taking shelter from the storms of the Indian Ocean), and the Island of Perim, would have its tides disturbed from its narrowness, from the rapid growth of coral reefs, and from the prevalence of the north-west wind, nine months out of the twelve, that would keep back the water. But all this, as we shall see, however ingenious in speculation, is not the case; for the fact has been settled, to a demonstration, that the waters of the two seas are almost level; and that the mass of water removed by evaporation under the almost constant hot sun in those parallels of latitude accounts for a fact which would otherwise appear inexplicable.

The suggestion of the modern maritime Suez Canal is due to Ferdinand de Lesseps, a man of the most indomitable perseverance and energy, with a most suggestive mind, who has had to contend, and almost alone, with difficulties that would have overwhelmed men not made after the fashion of Christopher Columbus. England's jealousy of France was the first obstacle; and when that was disposed of, engineering jealousies began, and these effectually retarded M. de Lesseps' object—the forming of a company with whose funds the work might be commenced. Yet after almost as many years waiting as Columbus passed in soliciting the slender means from his Sovereign to add a new world to the Spanish Crown, M. de Lesseps has triumphed over all; and whether the canal ever pays or not, his name will always be connected with one of the greatest public works ever attempted, contrived, begun, and watched to its completion by the mind of one man.

The capital of the company is in round numbers, sixteen millions sterling. The canal, with its ports at each end, was to be the property of the company for ninety-nine years, after which it would belong to the Egyptian Government, who, in the meantime, was to receive 15 per cent. of the traffic earnings. The tolls charged for passage were always to be equal for ships of all nations; and, I think, at about the rate of £30 sterling for a vessel of 500 tons from sea to sea.

The Maritime Canal extends from the newly-constructed artificial harbour of Port Said on the Pelusian Coast of the Mediterranean, about midway between Alexandria and Joppa, the port of Jerusalem, to the port of Suez at the head of the Red Sea. The length of the canal is not quite 100 miles. Its depth throughout is 26 feet; its general width is 246 feet at the base, and 328 feet at the top of the banks, except where in some places on the line it has to be cut through high ground, there the width is reduced to 190 feet at the lower part. There will be no locks in the Maritime Canal, and vessels will be able to steam through, or be towed through, in about sixteen hours from sea to sea.

The ancient Pelusium was selected for the Mediterranean entrance to the canal, because at that spot, 2870 yards from the shore, there was a depth of 30 feet of water. This is now called Port Said. There a harbour has been formed by running out into the sea two breakwaters or moles, which are formed of huge blocks of concrete. Each block measures twelve cubic yards, weighs twenty-two tons, and is composed of two-thirds sand and one-third hydraulic lime. The lime is imported from France, the sand is dredged up in the harbour, and each block costs £13 sterling. They are not laid in as masonry, but thrown down loosely, and are intended to answer the double purpose of protecting vessels from heavy seas, and of arresting the alluvium brought down by the River Nile in its passage towards the Bay of Pelusus, so as to prevent its choking up the channel. The western breakwater extends from the shore 2400 yards in a straight line, N. N. E.; and then with a slight angle towards the east extends 330 yards further. The eastern breakwater leaves the shore at a point 1530 yards to the eastward of the commencement of the western one, and extends nearly north for a distance of 2070 yards, at which point it is 760 yards from the western breakwater, and this distance constitutes the width of the entrance. The portion of the harbour affording shelter to vessels is nearly 500 acres in extent; and although the depth of water is not sufficient for the largest men-of-war, it is quite sufficient for ordinary merchantmen, if the present depth be maintained. The prevailing winds being from the north-west, large quantities of mud are constantly brought along the shore from the Nile; and this has been one of the main objections to the probable success of M. Lesseps' scheme.

Whilst at this point, with the map of the world before us, might I be allowed to point out why the Nile, after leaving upon all the soil of Egypt that is affected by the annual inundation, a sufficient coating of mud to render the country proverbially the most fertile in the world, can yet discharge a torrent of mud by its two mouths likely to endanger the success of a harbour 50 miles to the eastward of where the Nile meets the sea. Now that we know from Baker, Speke, Grant and others, that the Bahr al Abiad, or White Nile, has such a slight inclination from the Lake Victoria Nyanza, that if there were any deposit in the overflow of the lake, it could not proceed far; it is no longer a matter of speculation from whence the Nile proper receives the alluvium with which its waters are charged during the inundation every July, August, and September. It comes from the Bahr al Azreck, or Blue Nile, which is swollen to a resistless torrent as it rushes from the mountains of Abyssinia during the rainy season, bringing with it the rich humus formed from

the yearly decaying leaves of a rank tropical vegetation. The Blue Nile enters the Nile proper at Khartoum; and though the White Nile contributes a much larger quantity of water than the Blue tributary, it only dilutes the mud and gives the whole body of the river force to reach the sea. The quantity must be enormous; for being discharged by two mouths, a larger volume of muddy water reaches the sea than if the discharge were effected by seven small ones as in ancient times. Since visiting Egypt, and reading all I could upon the subject, I am quite confirmed in the opinion that the river finding the seven small mouths insufficient formed the two present ones as the only means of ridding itself of the wall of water coming from the South. And, again, when Egypt was governed by enlightened and beneficent monarchs, millions of acres which are now desert swarmed with people making the most of every drop of the inundation, and thus retaining perhaps all the alluvium to fertilize the land, that is now annually discharged into the sea, and threatens to block up the harbour of Port Said.

On leaving Port Said, the canal enters Lake Menzaleh, through which the channel is excavated for 29 miles to Kantara, a station on the desert route of the caravans from Cairo to Syria. The course of the canal then lies through low sand-hills to Lake Ballah, which it traverses for a distance of 8 miles, and then enters a deep cutting extending from El Ferdane to Lake Timsah. Near El Guisr, 4 miles south of El Ferdane, the deepest cutting throughout the whole line occurs, and it had to be excavated varying from 60 feet to 70 feet in depth.

The characteristics of the first half of the maritime canal are, that about 34 miles of the course lie through lakes, and the remainder through elevated plateaux and low sand hills.

The town of Ismailia has been founded on the northern side of Lake Timsah.

The second half of the canal divides into two portions: in the first the canal skirts the eastern shore of Lake Timsah, and enters the cuttings at Toussoum and Serapeum; in the second, on emerging from the Serapeum cutting, the canal pursues a central course through the Bitter Lakes for 24 miles, going through the last cutting at Chalouf, and enters the Red Sea a mile to the south-east of Suez, the last twelve miles to the Red Sea being through a continuous level plain slightly above the level of the sea.

The fresh water of the Nile is brought by a canal to Ismailia from Cairo and thence to Suez, which used to be wretchedly supplied with water, giving the administration of the canal the power of growing anything under such a sun.

The question of tolls can only be decided when the canal is fairly opened, for it is questionable if any vessels without at least auxiliary steam power could take advantage of the Suez Canal, on account of the baffling winds in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, as by this line all the advantages of the trade winds, the monsoons, and great circle sailing must be lost.

The three objections urged by the late Robert Stephenson, after walking twice over the whole ground, and thoroughly examining the project, are still in the opinion of most practical men as patent as ever. These were—

1. The difficulty of keeping the entrance open at Port Said, for two reasons, the first of which was the shallowness of the sea for a long distance from the shore; the second was the constant flow of the sea, driven by the almost continual N. W. wind from west to east, carrying with it the mud of the Nile, from its two mouths at Damietta and Rosetta. This objection M. de Lesseps proposed to obviate in his first plan by making the piers or breakwaters six miles long. Mr. Stephenson still objected that the flow of the water heavily charged with mud would soon render the sea so shallow on the

Southern Pacific Railroad by the thirty-second parallel of latitude fell through as a matter of course.

In 1862, the isolated position of the Pacific States was keenly felt by statesmen at Washington, and the question was first mooted that California and her neighbours might waver in their loyalty to the Union. An iron-road should bind them to New York, and the question of a through Pacific Railroad again came prominently before Congress.

In the meantime the production of gold in California had been enormous; corn was raised far in excess of the local demand; Southern California was striving to export wine, hides, and tallow; trade had sprung up with Oregon, the Sandwich Islands, and most important of all with China; quicksilver was almost flowing from the mines of Almaden; and the strong desire felt by the Californians for a Pacific railroad was brought to a climax by the discovery that a practicable route across the snow-clad Sierra did exist through Donner Pass, midway between San Francisco and Virginia City. Nevada gave a helping hand to California by the discovery of the Comstock silver mine, and the wealth that poured in from it, raised that territory into the Council of the States.

Even amidst the horrors of civil war, when Washington itself was threatened, and £500,000 were leaving the Treasury daily for the support of the northern armies, still the Pacific Railroad Bill was triumphantly carried, and grants of land and subsidies were agreed upon, increasing in amount as the line advanced westward; but no definite conclusion was arrived at as to the Eastern starting point of the route. The great precedent was however established—that government aid to the extent of about half the total amount necessary would be provided out of the national treasury to assist a Pacific Railway enterprise. Finally, the following programme was adopted, and the work actually commenced: the main line was to extend from Omaha on the Missouri river, to Sacramento in California, 1721 miles. St. Louis was to be provided for by a subsidised branch line to connect with the main line on or about the hundredth meridian of longitude, east of the Rocky Mountains.

Three companies were to prosecute these works, and to stand on an equal footing as regards land grants, loans, etc. Firstly, the Union Pacific Railway Company constructing the line westward from Omaha. Secondly, the Central Pacific Railway of California proceeding eastward from Sacramento. These companies were to make their lines as quickly as possible from either end, and to meet at an intermediate point not fixed. Thus it was the interest of each company to lay as much track as possible, for the amount of Government subsidy, as well as the share of influence in the management, depended on the proportion of the line laid. Immense parliamentary excitement took place, and the contest was between St. Louis and Chicago. Money was spent like water, in the Legislature, but not under its ordinary name, being called by an American journal of the period, “the element of influence.” Thirdly, the Union Pacific Railway Company, Eastern Division, obtained the Government subsidy for a distance of 400 miles west of Kansas city. Thus it is evident that Chicago had gained the day.

If the civil war had not intervened, it is more than probable that, although the year 1869 might not have seen a locomotive plying between New York and the Pacific, we should never have seen the iron road laid across the Black Hills. Chicago would have built the branch line, and the main line would have been laid further South, below the barrier of winter snows; it would have passed round the Rocky Mountains, not over them; across productive valleys, instead of through worthless deserts, and along the rich central trough of California, in the place of climbing an Alpine pass more than 7000 feet above the Pacific.

The chief clauses of the Government grant are these, and worthy of notice in the future of New Zealand:—Congress confers upon the three companies mentioned the right of way through all their territories; an absolute grant of 12,800 acres per mile of the public lands through which the lines run, i. e., alternate sections of one by twenty miles on each side of the line; the right to use the coal, iron, timber, etc., thereon; and authorises a special issue of United States bonds bearing 6 per cent. interest, proportionate in amount to the length and difficulty of the lines, to be delivered to the companies as the works progress, and as short sections of the road (usually twenty miles in length) are passed by the Government inspector. The cost of the railroad west of Chicago, a £35,000,000 sterling, besides the 14,080,000 acres of land lying contiguous to the line in its whole length, worth six millions more.

The description of the whole line would perhaps be tedious; but there is one portion of it, 721 miles long, that is worthy of attention. This is the inland or great basin region of North America, extending from the dividing ridge of the Wahsatch mountains to the summit of the Sierra Nevada. It is a vast desert considerably larger than France, covered with short volcanic mountain ranges; it possesses a fertile soil, but suffers from an insufficient rainfall; none of its scanty streams enter the sea, but each discharges its waters into a little lake, and remains shut up within its own independent basin. Rich silver mines are being discovered year by year all over the basin region, and the yield from them already equals in value that of the goldfields of California.

The difficulties of the construction of such a railroad can only be imagined by those who have never seen a similar country. The Central Pacific Railway, starting from Sacramento, fifty-six feet above the level of the sea, reaches the summit of a mountain ridge exceeding 7000 feet in height, in 105 miles. Here the engineering difficulties of the line centre.

Most of the heavy grading averages 95 feet per mile; but for only three and a half miles is 116 feet (or what in England we should call 45 ½ to 1), the maximum grade allowed by Congress, resorted to.

There are thirteen short tunnels, the longest being 1700 feet in length. It is a very hard strain upon two powerful engines to drag ten passenger cars with luggage up so steep an ascent, and the carriage of heavy freight is necessarily costly. During the whole of the summer of 1868, 3000 teams and 10,000 Chinamen were employed to grade and lay the track across the basin region. During the previous winter long lines of sledges were used for transporting iron rails and ties across the summit to the valleys of the Truckee and the Humboldt. When the snow had sufficiently thawed to allow of the tunnels being completed, and average of 500 tons of ties, spikes, bolts, and chairs, were carried over the Sierra in fifty cars, drawn by ten locomotives every day, and were sent from 300 to 400 miles to the scene of operations. Here two miles, and sometimes more, were laid in a day, each two miles requiring 500 tons of materials for their construction. The rails used weighed from fifty-six to sixty-four pounds per yard.

For thirty miles across the mountain the snows of winter appeared insurmountable; but by the 1st of January in this year the Californians had roofed in twenty miles with strong wooden sheds wherever the snow was likely to impede the traffic.

During 1868, 866 miles were added to the railway by the united companies, being an average of two and two-thirds of a mile a day, Sunday excepted. In the history of railway construction this rapidity has no precedent; and when it is remembered that for 1600 miles, wood for ties could only be obtained at three points accessible to the road, and that the country is mostly an uninhabited desert, the result appears still more marvellous.

I looked upon the Hutt valley, however, as almost a decisive test, for it is the great valley of Tararua, and should no gold be found in it, I felt little expectation of finding it elsewhere in these districts. We proceeded to sink a hole in a gully behind Mr. Brown's house, in the Upper Hutt, where some small scales of gold were previously reported to have been found. This hole was sunk through clay and debris, bottoming on hard sandstone, at a depth of eleven feet, without finding the “colour” of gold. In this hole, as in every other which we sunk, we obtained a small quantity of iron sand.

Our next endeavour was to bottom the gravel flats of the Upper Hutt in several places, but from the influx of water we found this to be impracticable; the river evidently percolates through the gravel right across the valley and the quantity of water was quite beyond the power of ordinary pumps. As, however, the bed rock of slate, etc., crops out in many places above this, both in the bed and on the banks of the Hutt, we were enabled to try the gravel where it rests upon the old rocks, but still without success.

We devoted a day to the hills above the Mungaroa swamp without success. We next examined the valley of the Pakuratahi and the gullies in the neighbourhood of Featherston, with similar results.

Passing the Tauherenikau, we proceeded to the Waiohine, which we prospected and washed at every available place for a distance of six or seven miles from the entrance of the gorge. As in the Hutt, it is impossible to bottom the gravel bed of any of these streams below the water level, but there is plenty of bed rock above the water level, with thick beds of drift resting on it. No appearance of gold was found. The rocks were similar to those found on the Rimutaka hill, including large quantities of soft pyritous slates with carbonate of lime veins, and veins of a black mineral, graphite. Boulders of amygdaloidal trap were found here, and also in the stream behind Featherston.

In the upper part of the Wairarapa valley, at the gorge of the Ruamahunga, the formation is gravel large size, resting upon the blue clay, and in the river bed below may be seen the point of junction, where these tertiaries abut on the old and highly inclined rocks. The rise from Masterton is tolerably rapid, and on the Opaki plain, and the adjoining hills, are very palpable marks of the earthquake of 1855 and perhaps of other shocks; at one point there being a lift in the plain of perhaps thirty feet, and a tertiary hill having been split in two, and the western part having slipped down towards the river bed.

In the upper part of the valley of the Ruamahunga river, there is an appearance of a valley of some extent within the hills, but the bush is so dense that I will not venture to guess at the extent of terrace land which may be there. It lies, however, at a height of over 1000 feet above the sea. After rather stiff wading up the river for about six miles, we found the water become so deep from the compression of the bed of the river between perpendicular cliffs, about 150 feet high, that we were obliged to abandon the river bed and take to the forest above. We had by this time, after repeated trials, given up all hopes of finding gold, and were on the look out for a point from whence to ascend the central range; when, after we had proceeded for a mile or two through the bush, the weather suddenly changed, and it soon rained so hard as to force us to a precipitate retreat. My experience of the Ruamahunga was this, that one day's rain raised the river, on the following day it fourth day it began to rain again.

Jaspar and green serpentinous rock are characteristic of the Ruamahunga valley. There is not much appearance of quartz. To a person desirous of reaching the top of the central range, the valley of the Ruamahunga offers the advantage of starting form an elevation of over 900 feet above the sea before

leaving the open plains, and the distance to the open country above the forest is comparatively small.

From the Ruamahunga I proceeded northward through the Forty-mile Bush. Our road descended to the Ruamahunga by the Maori track, crossed the river, ascended a terrace, and then passed over a hill called Kotukutuku, of no great altitude. This hill, however, I believe may be avoided altogether, by taking the line of road lower down on the Ruamahunga. In three hours we reached the Maungawhinau stream, said by our guide, Hemi Paraone to Ua, to be a tributary of the Ruamahunga, but my impression is that he is wrong, and that it runs towards the Manawatu basin. The road frequently crosses this stream, a disadvantage which might probably be easily obviated. After crossing the before described hill, the road was nearly level excepting an occasional ascent of a terrace bank. We encamped on the banks of the Makakahi, on an undoubted northern fall. It is a rapid stream, much encumbered with drift wood.

The weather was very rainy, and it took us two half days travelling through bush and upon terraces and alluvium to reach the Tutækara pa, situated on an open flat on the banks of the Maungatuinoko river. Here we found a population of about one dozen very miserable Maoris, under a chief called Mikara.

The Puketoi range may be estimated as five miles distant to the eastward, and the nearest ranges of Tararua appearing to be about five miles to the west-ward would give a breadth to the valley of about ten miles.

From Tutaekara we proceeded across the plain to the banks of the Maungawha, where that river makes some great bends through cliffs of blue clay and gravel.

The next stream which we crossed is called the Ka-uki, near the junction of the tertiary sandstones and limestones with the vertical rocks of the main range.

The terraces of the Forty-mile Bush are in geological character similar to those of the Wairarapa. The rocks observed are tertiary sandstones, and some limestone, blue clay, and gravels. The rocks of the main range continue of the same character as further south.

Soon after leaving the Kauki we ascended abruptly the main range which here thins out to a comparatively narrow ridge; we crossed it without passing into any valley. The distance from level land to level land on each side does not exceed four or five miles. From the ridge most extensive views can be obtained. The Puketoi range lies opposite—a scarped tertiary formation; over its northern shoulder open country is visible to the eastward. To the southward may be seen the hills beyond Masterton; on the western side the view extends over an immense area of level country. The view from this range gives a strong impression of the ultimate resources of the district. The rocks of the main range here show no change from those further south: the height of the range here is perhaps 2000 feet above the sea.

We descended upon Raukawa; thence we proceeded down the right bank of the River Manawatu, travelling upon a rich alluvium, but observing occasionally the scarp of gravel terraces.

The mouth of the Oroua at Puketotara seems to mark the line of demarcation between the rich land of the interior plains, and the poorer sand tracts towards the coast, and as the aneroid marked exactly the same height at Puketotara as at Te Awahou, I would suggest that the principal township of the Manawatu, ought perhaps to be at, or near Puketotara, and the river navigation improved up to that point, in which case the main trunk line of road from Wellington to the North, would pass through and open fertile lands instead of traversing sand hills.

intervened between the two, but the gravel is by no means largely developed in this district.

This sandstone consists of a series of soft fine-grained sandstones, fossili-ferous, and alternated with fossil beds approaching limestone, and is sometimes of great thickness in this district, seldom less than 500 feet, and in some places I think it must measure 1000 feet.

Some of its fossils are Turritella, Venus, Dentalium, Pecten, Struthiolaria. I have no doubt that it is of the same age and character as the upper sandstone of the Whanganui river.

This formation, where found undisturbed, seems to lie nearly horizontal; but numerous hill sides have slipped into the valleys, there giving the strata the appearance to the casual observer, of dipping in various directions and at high angles.

From the vertical nature of the sections in which this series is found exposed, it has been impossible for me to make any but a partial investigation of its different beds, and the same difficulty is felt in the examination of the cliffs of the Whanganui and other western rivers, —they are so vertical as to be inaccessible.

The blue clay throughout this district does not show much of its thickness above the river levels.

Crossing the Manuka range, the road drops down to the Valley of the Taueru, and thence on to the Taueru station.

Here I visited a very beautiful waterfall, formed by the waters of the Mangarei, a tributary of the Taueru. The stream falls over a ledge of the tertiary sandstone to a depth of about fifty feet, into a large circular pool. Hard fossiliferous beds of this sandstone form the rocks at the fall, the softer overlying beds, which are found in an adjacent cliff, having been denuded.

I may here state that there is a remarkable parallelism between the effects produced in this district and in that of the country inland on the Whanganui and Rangitikei rivers, inclusive. In both districts are the tertiary sandstones largely developed, and in both have these nearly horizontal strata been broken up by denudation, into very rugged surfaces.

Many of the beds of the tertiary sandstone are extremely soft, and therefore liable to be rapidly worn away; some of them, indeed, on being struck by a hammer, instead of breaking into fragments, crumble and run down into pure sand.

Proceeding up the valley of that river, the Forty-mile Bush lay about three or four miles on my left, covering a very broken country.

Ascending the ridge on the eastern side of that river, one looks down on the valley of the Whareama, with its level flats and swamps, while to the northward may be seen the country drained by the Matai kuna, the Oahanga, perhaps also the Akiteo, and here I could see plainly enough that all within view was of tertiary age, the blue ridges of Tararua in the far distance excepted.

Crossing to the Puketoi range, which has an extreme altitude of only 2500 feet, I found the blue clay, and on the ridges above, tertiary sandstone beds, with the usual fossil shells.

Retracing my route to the East Coast, I crossed the Whareama river, passed over a hill and descended upon the Tinui station, situated upon the flats of that stream, a tributary of the Whareama.

Immediately above the station is one of those remarkable hills called “Taipo.” These hills have an extremely fantastic, picturesque, and rugged outling, and at first give the impression of volcanic peaks, but on examination prove to be tertiary sandstones, tilted at an angle of about 70°, and here dipping to the westward; the harder parts of the strata sticking out in peaks, while the softer parts have been worn away.

On the top of the Tinui Taipo I obtained Turritella, Venus, Dentalium, etc. Here also I found that the Matai kona Taipo bore N. 50° E., Buxton's Taipo S. 20° to 30° W., and what I supposed to be Moore's Taipo S. 15° W. It will thus be seen that the several peaks run nearly, but not quite, in a straight line.

Proceeding on the 22nd towards the coast, the road passes for a short distance up the valley of the Tinui, where I found the blue clay. Crossing that stream I ascended a ridge, where a fresh geological series is found, consisting of white limestone and calcareous grits, and in their midst, a fine grained green sandstone.

Descending from the calcareous ridge to the valley of the Whakatake the road follows that stream to the sea, and thence south to Castle Point. We now find a series of thin and soft beds of sandstones and mudstones, cropping out on the beach and in the valleys, sometimes nearly horizontal, and sometimes inclined at high angles. What relation these rocks have to the limestones and calcareous grits, I am at a loss to determine, for I could not here find a section which would throw light upon the subject. My impression is that they overlie the calcareous rocks.

In these sandstones and mudstones I found small seams of coal and numerous impressions of vegetation, but none clear enough to be enabled to judge of their age, but as the coal seams appear to be lignite, or brown coal, we may put them down as of tertiary age.

The reef at Castle Point is a peninsula, forming the shelter to the anchorage. Both it and the rock called the Castle are composed of calcareous sandstone, resting unconformably on the sandstones and mudstones just mentioned. In it I found the usual tertiary fossils. The reef, which is a ridge perhaps fifty feet high, is penetrated by a cave, through which the tide passes, and in which the roar of the wind and waves is very striking. Between the reef and the Castle Rock, the sea has another passage through the rocks into a basin. The Castle Rock is of similar formation to the reef.

In the mudstones and sandstones on the shore I found plant impressions, and in consequence proceeded up the bed of the stream behind Castle Point in the hopes of falling in with some seams of coal. I went on as far as I could penetrate, perhaps three miles, finding plenty of plant impressions, but no actual coal seams.

Mr. Guthrie informs me, that some years ago one of his shepherds, who has since returned to Australia, brought in a handkerchief full of coal (stating that there was plenty more where he found it), which burnt well and seemed of good quality, and which must have been found within three miles of the Castle; but unfortunately he had neglected to ask him where he got it.

My impression is that the mudstones and sandstones of the coast are of tertiary age, and therefore if any workable coal seams are found in them, that the mineral will be of inferior quality.

On the beach here is some iron sand, whence derived it is difficult to say.

Near and Nakaua river I found soft sandstones containing plant impressions and some coal seams about two inches thick. They were not continuous, but thinned out in a yard or two. The rocks are the same as those at Castle Point, and dip slightly to the westward.

Ascending from the beach, in about a mile, I again came upon the calcareous grits and sandstones, both of which prevail in crossing the Trooper, the ridge separating the Whareama from the sea.

From this range the Puketoi is visible, its tertiary character being evident even from this distance.

Descending from the Trooper, I crossed the alluvium of the Whareama valley, and ascended the hill next to Buxton's Taipo, composed of calcareous

of a payment of thirty shillings to the kings, for passing beyond our present limits, I declined the alternative, and, in consequence, we returned down stream.

I found the strata entirely tertiary. The surface of the country gave me the idea that it had originally formed a succession of terraces, rising by steps from the coast to the interior, but that the denudation of the soft strata, by the action of running water in the present lines of drainage, had so cut up the former level land, as to make it a very broken country.

There is a general horizontality of the upper strata, at least—the valleys are valleys of denudation; there are no valleys of undulation.

The distance of Utapa from the Whanganui township is estimated at about eighty miles by the river. From the hill above I obtained a bearing of Ruapehu, with a pocket compass, viz., N. 70° to 75° E., (the northern and southern peaks respectively.) This bearing would appear to make the distance in a straight line, thirty-four miles only.

The gravel in the bed of the Whanganui gives a good idea of the rocks which are to be found at its sources. I found the gravel to be principally composed of igneous rocks, viz., traps, tuffs, basalt, etc., but with a proportion, say one-tenth, of hard sandstone and indurated slate rocks, similar to the usual rocks of the main range. As we proceed from Wellington to the N. W., we find in the Manawatu gravel, no igneous rock—in the Rangitikei, a small proportion—in the Wangæhu and Whanganui, the chief part is derived from these rocks.

The slate pebbles in the bed of the Whanganui no doubt indicate slate rock at its sources.

In the ascent of the river we had passed numerous villages and found a large population. Parekino, Atene (Athens), Koroniti (Corinth), Ranana (London), Karatia (Galatia), Pipiriki, Ohinemutu, are some of the names of these villages. They are surrounded by cultivations of fruit trees of maize, potatoes, wheat, tobacco, etc. The vine grows luxuriantly, peaches are in overwhelming abundance, although at the time not quite ripe. At Ohinemutu I found a lemon tree in full bearing, with excellent ripe fruit. Each village had generally an immense church, but, almost invariably, the church was in a ruinous state.

Pipiriki is the capital of the district. It contains a considerable population and a large extent of cultivation. It also possesses some charms of scenery, and is rather more open than other parts of the river. The Whanganui runs in a deep cutting far below the level of the surrounding country. Its immediate banks are generally perpendicular cliffs. On the summit of these cliffs is often a sufficient quantity of level, or of undulating land, on which lie the cultivations of the village. In many places the access to the top of the cliff is by ladders, the villages are entirely hidden from view, which on ascending the ladders are found large and populous. The country beyond rises to a height of perhaps 700 or 800 feet above the river, and is always densely timbered.

At the time of my visit the great lizard superstition was in full force on the Whanganui. A prophet had arisen who had stated that the cause of the disasters of the Maoris was the increase of lizards, that the lizard was the root of evil; that this animal had increased, was increasing, and ought to be exterminated.

In consequence large parties of Maoris were travelling through the country lizard hunting, and at Karatia we found the people cutting down a beautiful grove of karaka trees, to enable them to catch the lizards, that the prophet had informed them were in the trees.

In Hochstetter's section across the North Island, he has put in the Whanganui mountain called Taupiri, as volcanic. We passed near its base,

The rapids are more numerous, and long deep reaches far less seldom met with. The native population in the higher parts of this river is small in number.

On the sixth day's voyage we left the Rangitikei, and ascended the Moawhanga for half a day's journey, passing through the narrow cañon already described. Our canoe voyage then terminated. We ascended the cliff, and walked to a pa called Pawerawera. Here we found no one at home, but made ourselves comfortable for the night, and on the following day proceeded to Papatahi, where we only found two men and some women and children. The inhabitants of the district had gone to Taupo to celebrate the obsequies of Te Herekiekie. From this point Ruahine appeared about fifteen miles distant to the eastward, with the tertiaries lying on its flank at about the same height at which we stood. I had wished to explore into one of its gorges, but found that my supplies would be insufficient. I was informed, however, that two days' poling in the Rangitikei, above the junction of the Moawhanga, will bring the traveller to the pa Te Awarua, and that probably from that pa as a base the Ruahine might be most easily explored; although a traverse from the Napier country would probably prove the easier operation.

Towards the east, in the direction of Napier, I observed tertiary hills capped with a scarped stratum, evidently limestone. From Papatahi, Ruahine was in sight, bearing N. 55° W., by compass.

We procured a guide and a baggage horse, and started for Taupo. Our route lay through an open and well grassed country; but on both sides there was a large extent of forest in sight. We crossed the Moawhanga by a bridge over a vertical chasm, and slept at Pukehiwi. Leaving the valley of the Moawhanga, we traversed that of the Hautapu, the country improving in pastoral qualities. At Turangerere, on the Hautapu, here is a fine waterfall, and a pa of importance, celebrated for an enormous Waatu or store, built by the late chief Te Herekiekie, and called from its size Niu Tirani. We were still travelling over tertiaries, and at the Moawhanga bridge, at Turangarere, found “Venus,” and other marine shells.

Encamped for the night at a pretty place called Poutamurengi, we bade farewell next day to the valley of the Hautapu, and crossing the Waitangi, passed from marine tertiary rocks to the volcanic products of Ruapehu. The ascent, although no very perceptible, was now rapid. We entered the valley of the Wangæhu, and gradually ascended it to its source. During this day I had observed the range of Kaimanawa, as we passed its southern end, rising out of the tertiaries. At a glance I saw it was a range of old slate rocks. On the rest of our way to Taupo it was on our right, a few miles distant. It is a powerful range, rising to an elevation of over 5000 feet. It is not a continuation of Ruahine, but lies to the westward of the line of that range, and is the highest part in structure of the North Island. Ruapehu was now on our left. On its eastern flank lies a small glacier, or a nevé. Our guide, Tuakau, pointed out to us the marks of the avalanche which fell from this, and ultimately destroyed the bridge of the Wangæhu. The avalanche, after descending the mountain, was carried by its impetus for some miles across the plain, into the bed of the Wangæhu. The left bank of that river, being the highest, stopped the further progress of the avalanche, which consequently formed a dam. The river ran dry below, and formed a lake above, until the accumulated waters carried the debacle before them to the sea, sweeping away the Wangæhu bridge, some forty or fifty miles below.

We could perceive distinctly the marks of the progress of the avalanche across the plain. The ground had been bared, and large patches of bushes swept away.

As all the rivers from the Whanganui to the Rangitikei, both inclusive,

flow in chasms, which may be blocked up at any time by an avalanche, by a fall of the cliffs, caused by an earthquake (as happened in the Rangitikei in the year 1855), or by other causes; an accumulation of water may be collected in the bed of any of these rivers, which, when it bursts, would be dangerous to any bridge not constructed with a clear waterway.^*

Abreast of Ruapehu we passed the stone on one side of which the Wangæhu rises, flowing with bitter sulphureous water to the south. On the other side the Waikato flows clear and bright towards Lake Taupo, but before proceeding far it receives affluents whose waters resemble those of the Wangæhu. The watershed of these rivers is the highest point on the road. As we descended, vegetation improved in luxuriance, although all along the bases of Ruapehu and Tongariro, the plants are alpine in character. Kahikatea and black birch, full grown, but only a few feet in height, are common. The mountain torrents are frequent and very beautiful, but their height and rapidity during winter, and the depth of snow which is said to lie upon these plains, may prove a great obstacle to a permanent road through this high country, which shall be open throughout the year. We encamped on the banks of one of these torrents called Waihohonu, I think the prettiest of them all.

On the following day we reached Roto Aira, a lake of considerable size, lying under the northern slope of Tongariro, between it and Pihanga, an old volcanic cone. At Roto Aira we found a considerable village. The inhabitants were very civil, and after cooking food, supplied us with horses to ride to Tokanu, a village situated on the delta of the Waikato, here called the Tongariro, at the south end of Lake Taupo, which we reached in the evening. The river flowing from Roto Aira falls into the same delta.

The group of volcanic mountains which we had just passed, is of magnificent proportions, and if easily accessible, would attract many visitors. Ruapehu is undoubtedly the most ancient cone, and is also the most elevated land in the North Island, attaining a height of upwards of 9000 feet. Doubtless its volcanic forces have long been extinct. It appeared to me to be composed of the harder volcanic products.

Tongariro lies to the north of Ruapehu, and is a mountain of great size, but very inferior in elevation to Ruapehu. No visible signs of volcanic action now appear from the interior of its crater, but the grand active cone of eruption, called Ngauruhoe, 6200 feet high, is a lateral cone of this mountain, rising on its southern slope.^†

My impression of Tongariro is, that when at its full elevation it must have been a volcanic cone of very great magnitude, considerably exceeding Ruapehu in height, but that the cone has fallen in, and the mountain is in consequence truncated.

Ngauruhoe is a regular cone of very graceful form, and reaches a height of over 6000 feet. According to the natives, its last grand eruption occurred about twenty-five years ago, when it threw out large quantities of stones; its top, they say, then fell in, and spoilt its beauty.

It always seems to send out volumes of smoke, and is said frequently to emit showers of fine ashes, which disagreeably affect the eyes. Rumbling sounds and discharges, as of cannon, are said to proceed from it.

It is a remarkable fact, however, that very few natives live in sight of the mountain, and sufficiently near to give a good account of its phenomena. From the village at Roto Aira, the cone of Ngauruhoe is invisible, and the

natives at the south end of Lake Taupo are shut out from a view of this mountain by intervening hills; while those living further north are too remote for correct observation. Consequently many phenomena may occur which are not observed. On the north-west flank of Tongariro, outside the crater, there is a large puia or hot spring, said to be a specific for certain diseases.

At Tokanu there is a very large area penetrated by hot springs, both in the delta, and on the surrounding hills; more particularly at Terapa, where the late chief Te Heu Heu was smothered by the hill side slipping down and overwhelming his pa in a torrent of mud. When I had seen the line of hot springs extending up the side of the hill whence the mass had fallen, I saw no difficulty in accounting for the catastrophe.

The hot springs, of course, decompose and soften the rocks, and afterwards, by the soaking of rain, slips are brought down.

At Tokanu I found gravel of slates and of quartz, probably derived from Kaimanawa. The hot springs here are very interesting.

The obsequies of Te Herekiekie were proceeding, and many hundreds of Maoris were present. The tangi and other ceremonies were going on all day. The weather was rainy, and what with a damp muggy atmosphere, and the steam of the hot springs, the climate was most relaxing.

I was anxious to visit Kaimanawa, but the Maoris showed so much passive resistance in the way of delays, that I was obliged at last to give up the idea. They were in an excited state, and although perfectly civil, they watched every movement we made.

From Tokanu we procured guides to the Upper Whanganui. Proceeding by canoe to Pukawa, we passed the lovely falls of Waihi. At Pukawa I met the late Iwikau te Heu Heu, and called on the Rev. Mr. Grace, the missionary of the district. In his house I “assisted” at a dinner in the collegiate style, called “commons,” where all the scholars and every member of the household are seated at the same board. Pumice was largely employed in the construction of Mr. Grace's house, and he strongly recommended it as a building material.

From Pukawa we proceeded over an open pumice country, with very fine grass, on which we observed a flock of sheep belonging to the Maoris, as also a few cattle. After passing for some distance to the westward, we opened out splendid views of the volcanic group. The open plains are called the Rua Mata. At the entrance of the Whanganui bush we were obliged to find shelter from a furious thunderstorm, and to remain for the night. Here I was enabled to get good outline sketches of the volcanic group.

Entering the Whanganui bush on the following morning, we had a hard day's journey before we struck the Whanganui river, at a place called Terena. During the day we crossed a stream called the Waipare, and I found its bed composed of old slates with thin quartz veins. It was a matter of crossing two or three yards in which these slates were visible, but it was a great point to find that a base of slates was here to be found, and to form some idea of the thickness of tertiaries above them. As far as I could judge of a country covered by dense bush, I supposed the overlying rocks to be upper tertiary sandstones.

Terena is a pretty spot. We here struck the Whanganui on its right bank, and forded to the opposite shore. Proceeding down stream, we next forded the Whakapapa. In fording the Whanganui and its tributaries, which we had to do frequently, we had to hold on to poles held by all the party. The rivers were rapid and cold, and the stones being slippery, crossing was not unattended with danger.

Camping on the sand bank of the river to avoid the mosquitos, we started on the following morning, and reached the village of Tapuia Kumera, the residence, at that time, of Topini Te Mamako, the principal chief of the Upper

Whangauni. Topini, I found, was an old friend of mine, in the year 1840, in Wellington, so he treated me kindly, notwithstanding his having been a rebel in the Hutt in 1847, and afterwards having fought against us at Whanganui. He was busy getting in his wheat crop, and until that was done we could not get a canoe, so we were obliged to remain patiently. Topini informed me that slate rocks were found two days' journey up the Whakapapa, and he said that they contained a metal—possibly cubes of iron pyrites. This information is probably correct, supported by my discovery of slates in the bed of the Waipare.

At Tapuia Kumera there is a considerable extent of flat land, and since striking the Whanganui we had passed many cultivations. Groves of peach trees were common, and wheat, maize, tobacco, potatoes, etc., were cultivated.

Hereabouts series of strata are largely developed, which, although I discovered no coal seam, I have no hesitation in putting down as coal shales. They dip to the S. W. at an angle of about 20°, and contain plant remains. The terraces, and immediate banks of the river, are chiefly formed of pumice and volcanic ashes, sometimes forming tufa.

I may here call attention to the enormous quantity of pumice which must have been thrown out by the central volcanoes. Terraces of immense extent in the interior, are formed chiefly of pumice, and the rivers flowing from them, such as the Waikato, the Wairoa, the Whanganui, are constantly floating pumice to the sea, on the west, the south-west, and the eastern sides of the island. At the township of Whanganui tons of pumice are constantly floating past, and should the article be of any commercial value a vessel could load at her anchorage in mid-stream, by merely putting out some sort of net to catch the pumice as it floated past.

Two or three miles below Tapuia Kumera, the Ongarue, a tributary of large size, falls into the right bank of the Whanganui, at a place called Taumarunui. Ongarue receives above this junction, the waters of Te ringa motu, and from this point an open country is said to extend, with only one intervening bush, to Ngaruawahia.

At length Topini's harvest was garnered and secured, and we commenced the descent of the river. From Tapuia Kumera to Marai Kowhai, the next village of importance, and the chief residence of Topini, we occupied nine and a half hours transit, giving a distance of probably more than sixty miles.

In this distance we passed the Paparoa rapids, the worst on the river. Above these rapids the coal shales pass beneath tertiary limestones and blue clay, which latter continue far down the river.

Marai Kowhai is situated in the angle on the south side of the Ohura river, where that river joins the Whanganui, falling into the right bank. At this village commenced the warfare with the Ngatitu tribe who were conquered some years ago by Topini.

The Ohura river passes into the Whanganui after descending two waterfalls, in the neighbourhood of which coal seams crop out.

I am informed that this river traverses a fine open country in the direction of the Waipa and the district of Ngatimaniopoto.

On the following day we passed the mouth of the Tangarakau, on our descent, in two hours and three quarters from Marai Kowhai, a distance of about twenty miles. The sources of the Tangarakau must adjoin those of the Waitara.

We find, therefore, three lines of communication opening from the right bank of the Whanganui—

• 1.

  To the Waikato, by the line of Ongarue.

• 2.

  To the Waipa, by the line of the Ohura.

• 3.

  To the Waitara, by the line of Tangarakau.

ancient period, up to the highly-finished Mera Pounamu which is still used as a weapon in warfare, and as a symbol of independence. Only the other day we heard how Te Kooti, in his progress through the country, thought it of importance to wrest the Meres from all chiefs through whose territory he passed, which shows the traditional value attached to them. However, the Maoris appear never to have passed beyond the so-called stone period, although they were sufficiently advanced in intelligence to appropriate at once to their own use the most improved forms of the implements of the iron age, when placed in their hands by the white man.

It is therefore since the settlement of this colony that the metallic ores, already found, have been discovered, of which we have the following:—

Gold—nearly pure, or alloyed with silver or copper.

Silver—in its native state, as well as sulphide, has been detected, but only in small quantities.

Mercury—both native, and as sulphuret or cinnabar.

Copper—in its native state, and as sulphide, silicate, oxide, carbonate.

Lead—as sulphide.

Iron—as magnetite, hematite, bi-sulphide, carbonate, and titaniferous iron.

Together with these ores, chromium, zinc, antimony, arsenic, and others in smaller quantities.

These constitute the class of mining products that are excavated from mineral lodes, occupying veins and crevices, or fissures in rocks, but we have also coal and iron ores occurring, interbedded with stratified rocks, and from our superficial deposits of sand and gravel, a rich harvest of gold dust has been obtained. If we include the last group among the mining products, we should not omit building-stones, slates, limestone, cement stone, brick clays and other materials of construction; but although these all form part of the mineral wealth of a country, the term mining is usually restricted to those mining operations that require a command of capital and skilled labour. It is no doubt true that in these colonies “diggers” of alluvial gold are termed miners, and certainly the gigantic works which they sometimes undertake, may fairly entitle them to be considered so; but still I think much inconvenience will arise if a distinction is not made between “diggings” and “mines,” the former providing employment for independent individual labour, under temporary tenure, the latter only for an organized system of labour, and the speculative application of capital, the condition requisite for which, is security of tenure.

In New Zealand, as in all other parts of the world, accident has frequently led to the first discovery of valuable minerals, and this is not to be wondered at when we consider how many acute observers are found among the first settlers in a new country, where every unfamiliar object excites wonder and curiosity.

A systematic survey, however, with the assistance of the experience embodied in the sciences of geology and mineralogy, greatly increases the chance of finding minerals, by indicating those areas which will reward a more thorough investigation, and limiting the search to profitable fields.

After the actual discovery of a mineral lode, scientific knowledge is also equally useful in order to encourage and direct the operations when the indications are favourable to success, and to repress too sanguine speculation when they are the reverse. This latter duty is a thankless task, but still not the less important and useful in assisting the true progress of a country. It is especially important in all new countries that those mines should be first worked which show the greatest chance of success, as failure is sure to create distrust on the part of capitalists, and what is still worse, to discourage further explorations.

There is one other point on which I must say a few words of caution, respecting the relation of geological science to mining. Geologists are too frequently called on to predict where mineral wealth may or may not exist, but notwithstanding the great advances which have been made in geology, we must admit that the science is still a mere digest of observed phenomena, highly qualified to enable the student to observe and record with accuracy, but not having yet attained to generalizations that warrant prediction on this subject. A positive assertion that minerals exist in “such a district,” or “in such a direction,” is very easily made and can never be positively disproved. It is therefore quite safe, and likely to catch any credit that may arise from future discoveries, but I am glad to say that it is rarely that true science ventures on such predictions. It is very different in the case of a positive assertion that a mineral does not exist in any particular locality, or, that it cannot exist under certain conditions, which is a statement that should only be ventured from actual observation, as it can, if incorrect, be at once confuted. Geological science will not, therefore, enable us to dispense with diligent and extended search.

Before proceeding with the description of the localities where mines have been opened, it is desirable that I should state briefly the leading features of the geology of New Zealand.

The whole group of islands may be looked on as a narrow mountain ridge, rising from a deep ocean bed and extending in a N. N. E. and S. S. W. direction. The form of the coast is determined by the outstanding bluffs of harder primary formations, or by massive volcanic rocks that belong to the latest Tertiary periods. These hard rocks, and especially those last mentioned, have been the means of preserving patches of upper Secondary and Tertiary formations, which occupy a larger proportional area in the North than in the South island, where the mountains are loftier and occupy a greater breadth of country.

We find, on a closer examination of the structure of the mountain system thus described that it is by no means uniform throughout, but that the rocks composing its southern portion are of much higher antiquity, and show evidence of having been subjected to chemical changes at a greater