the air, the condenser, &c. In the case of an
active mountaineer, as much as one-fifth of the
heat due to the oxidation of his food may be
converted into work: hence, as a working
machine, the animal body does much more
than the steam-engine. We see, however, that
the engine and the animal derive, or may derive,
these powers from the self-same source. We
can work an engine by the direct combustion
of the substances we employ as food; and if
our stomachs were so constituted as to digest
coal, we should, as Helmholtz has remarked, be
able to derive our energy from it. The grand
point permanent throughout all these considerations
is, that nothing new is created.

We can make no movement which is not
accounted for by the contemporaneous extinction
of some other movement. And, howsoever
complicated the motions of animals may be, whatsoever
may be the change which the molecules of
our food undergo within our bodies, the whole
energy of animal life consists in the falling of
the atoms of carbon and hydrogen and
nitrogen, from the high level they occupy in
the food, to the low level they occupy when
they quit the body. But what has enabled the
carbon and the hydrogen to fall? What first
raised them to the level which rendered the fall
possible? We have already learned that it is
the sun. It is at his cost, that animal heat is
produced and animal motion accomplished. Not
only, then, is the sun chilled, that we may have
our fires, but he is likewise chilled that we may
have our powers of locomotion.

We can raise water by mechanical means
to a high level; that water, in descending by
its own gravity, may be made to assume a
variety of forms, and to perform various kinds
of mechanical work. It may be made to fall in
cascades, rise in fountains, twirl in the most
complicated eddies, or flow along a uniform
bed. It may, moreover, be employed to turn
wheels, wield hammers, grind corn, or drive
piles. Now, there is no power created by the
water during its descent. All the energy which
it exhibits is merely the parcelling out and
distributing of the original energy which raised it
up on high.

Thus, also, as regards the complex motions of
a clock or a watch; they are entirely derived
from the energy of the hand which winds it up.
Thus, also, the singing of the little Swiss bird
in the International Exhibition of 1862; the
quivering of its artificial organs, the vibrations
of the air which struck the ear as melody, the
flutter of its little wings, and all other motions
of the pretty automaton; were simply derived
from the force by which it was wound up.

The matter of our bodies is that of inorganic
nature. There is no substance in the animal
tissues which is not primarily derived from the
rocks, the water, and the air. Are the forces
of organic matter, then, different in kind from
those of inorganic? All the philosophy of the
present day tends to negative the question; and
to show that it is the directing and compounding
in the organic world, of forces equally
belonging to the inorganic, that constitutes the
mystery and miracle of vitality.

Still, though the progress and development
of science may seem unlimited, there is a region,
apparently beyond her reach. Given the nature
of a disturbance, in water, air, or ether, we can
infer, from the properties of the medium, how
its particles will be affected. In all this, we deal
with physical laws, and the mind runs along the
line which connects the phenomena from
beginning to end. But, when we endeavour to pass
by a similar process from the region of physics to
that of thought, we meet a problem transcending
any conceivable expansion of the powers we
now possess. Thus, though the territory of
science is wide, it has its limits, from which
we look with vacant gaze into the region
beyond; and having thus exhausted physics, and
reached its very rim, the real mystery yet looms
beyond us.

A SERPENT IN ARCADIA.

YOUR honourable disclosures, Sir, awarded to
my unveiling of a Snake in a Arena—(it was you
as assisted me to that title of my dubious
Cousin)—incite me to offer you a second appeal
under circumstances which ensued to myself
and another, after our expatriation from a lordly
mansion, where if halcyon Peace was not always
found (as the song says) Perquisites largely
acrued.*
* See AN AREA SNEAK, page 282, in the last
volume.

Shortly after that mutual demolition, made
public in a precedent story—Me and Miss
Mary, like our first parents when cast afloat on
Egypt's desert, united our hopes and hearts.
Prudent the scheme might not be conceded—
but prudence is wintry comfort to loving ones
that bleed in company—not to mention united
parties being two in the same bark, unless
opposing tempests diverges them.

Though united—me to Miss Mary—it was
agreed that the nuptial tie should be adjourned
in promulgation. The most nourished plan may
eventuate to grief, if secresy does not preside.
Her Majesty, I have heard my former Lord say,
if once a thousand times, would yield the
brightest jewel in her possession, rather than
express what she is machinating against other
royal sovereigns which discretion precludes
naming. And if those who long may reign over
us, can only thus make good their projections—
what are their lowly subjects to defend them .
with, in case Curiosity leads the van?

There is classes, Sir, you will admit, which
when they come down on us, finds the most
robust nerves not too much for the task of parrying.
And that Mings, he is such. Blighted,
by the thunder which had emanated from most
of the aristocractic families in our connextion,
and baffled in attempts to elicit new openings,
he was compelled to abandon his photographicaty
as a medium of subsistence, and to attack