fields, roads, earth, and stones; a brook, or,
perhaps, a river; beasts, birds, insects, fish.
He may have wind and rain, shade and
sunshine. If his mind is alert, he will note all
these, comparing their different relations to
each other. He will assign to each a special
corner in his memory, for the double purpose,
first, of recognising objects, and, secondly, of
accounting for facts.

At starting, if he only look at a weed growing
on a heap of stones, he will perceive
that everything which meets his eyes may be
separated into two grand divisions by the
difference the most obvious possible. The stone
is an Inorganic Substance, the weed an Organised
Being. All its parts are made and put together
to fulfil a purpose; its root is an organ to draw
moisture from the earth, and frequently to store
nourishment for next year's growth; its leaves
are organs to receive the influences of air and
sunshine. Dead plants still remain organised
substances; but we cannot say that stones are
dead, because they have never lived. They
exist, they are, and that is all. The stone is
motionless. The plant has no locomotion; but
it has a motion of its parts, stretching forth its
leaves to face the light and expanding its petals
to catch the sunshine. It has also the motion
of growth and development, rearing or twining
its stem, and thrusting its rootlets in accordance
with the laws which govern its species.

A few steps further, he meets with water in
motion, an inorganic fluid; he feels air in
motion, an inorganic gas — each the home of
organised creatures. The inorganic earth
likewise sustains, besides plants, a variety of
organised animals. He will, therefore, hand over
inorganic substances generally to the study of
the mineralogist and the chemist, while organised
beings will occur to him as belonging to natural
history. At a later period of his education, he
will learn the solidarity of all the sciences —
that, to know one well, you must know something
of all.

But organised beings immediately present
themselves as capable of easy subdivision into
two grand armies. He needs no definition of
consciousness and unconsciousness, of
voluntary and involuntary motion, to divide the
animal from the vegetable kingdom, to
distinguish between animal and vegetable life,
leaving wiser heads than his own to fix the
exact boundaries, if they can. So, without,
perhaps, knowing the full force and meaning of
the words, he instinctively apprehends that one
kingdom will afford work for the botanist
exclusively, while the other falls to the share of
the zoologist.

It is natural that animated creatures should
first attract his young attention. A lamb kneeling
to suck its mother's milk, will suggest the
idea of a class, Mammalia; a thrush startled
from its mud-lined nest, will carry his thoughts
to birds in general, and their common origin
from eggs hatched under their parents. At first
sight, he might be tempted to suppose that all
quadrupeds are likewise mammalia, and all flying

creatures birds; but further observation will
correct that false induction, and enable him to
classify his facts with greater accuracy.

The worm which crawls across his path, the
insects fluttering in the air, the fish he beholds
hauled out of the sea, afford him additional
opportunities of comparison. Fish, so different
in other respects from mammalia, birds, and
reptiles, yet resemble them in the one grand
point of possessing a backbone, which worms,
snails, insects, and many other humble creatures
have not. He finds, therefore, that he must
draw a frontier limit between backboned
animals, and animals without backbones, driving
one set into the province Vertebrata, while the
others are denizens of Invertebrata. Similarly,
if he turn his attention to the vegetable kingdom,
he will have to separate flowering from
flowerless plants; and, amongst those latter, to
distinguish ferns from fungi, and mosses from
lichens. The more accurate acquaintance he
can make with each or either, the better.

And— exactly like furniture, goods, and
hardware — knowledge so set in order is more easily
packed in the student's brain-box, and more
accessible when wanted. There will always,
certainly, be many things of whose real nature
he is doubtful or ignorant. But then, he can
always put them into their provisional place, to
be changed should further information warrant
it. It is always something to be able to say to
a puzzling fact, " Lie on that shelf, until I see
reason to shift you to another."

Now, during the last few years, we have had
many helps to set our intellectual houses in
order, by the publication of separate treatises on
special branches of natural history. We have
only to mention the names of Yarrel, Forbes,
Berkeley, Moore, Harvey, Hassall, Sowerby,
Gould, and numerous others, to remind the
reader of the pleasant fact. English literature
is peculiarly rich in these most useful treasuries
of classified information. There are publishers
who devote their energies to this speciality, as
Van Voorst, Lovell Reeve, and Hardwicke.
They supply us with works suited to all pockets,
and almost to all comprehensions. Thus, if we
want to know about our reptiles, there is a good
book about British Reptiles; if we are curious
about our ferns, there are capital books on
British Ferns. One of the latest additions to
our popular branch "knowledge," setting in
order and beautifully illustrating a difficult group
of minute but wide-spread objects, is Mr,
Cooke's very clear and elaborate Introduction
to the Study of Microscopic Fungi.*

* Rust, Smut, Mildew, and Mould. By M. C.
Cooke, with nearly Three Hundred Figures. By J.
E. Sowerby.

For, another striking characteristic of recent
science is its faculty of converting ugliness into
beauty. Homely, insignificant, and even
repulsive objects, are found, when examined,
investigated, and dissected, to consist of exquisite
component parts. From the teeth of the slug
and the lancets of the leech, to the gizzard of