all the men. Moreover, each artist confines himself exclusively to working out his own plan. He appears to have his own plan somehow stamped upon himself, and his work is rigidly to reproduce himself.

The Scientific Law by which this takes place is the law of "Conformity to Type." It is contained, to a large extent, in the ordinary "Law of Inheritance;" or it may be considered as simply another way of stating what Darwin calls "the Law of the Unity of Types." Darwin defines it thus: "By Unity of Type is meant that fundamental agreement in structure which we see in organic beings of the same class, and which is quite independent of their habits of life." According to this law every living thing which comes into this world is compelled to stamp upon its offspring the image of itself: The dog, according to its type, produces a dog; the bird, a bird. The artist who operates upon matter in this subtle way, and carries out this law, is Life. There are a great many different kinds of Life. If one might give the broader meaning to the words of the Apostle-"All life is not the same life. There is one kind of life of men, another life of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds"- there is the life of the Artist, or the potter who segments the worm, the potter who forms the dog, the potter who moulds the man.

What goes on, then, in the animal kingdom is this: The Bird-life seizes upon the bird-germ, and builds it up into a bird, the image of itself. The Reptile-life seizes upon another germinal speck, assimilates surrounding matter, and fashions it into a reptile. The Reptile-life thus simply makes an incarnation of itself; the visible bird is simply an incarnation of the invisible Bird-life.

Now we are nearing the point where the spiritual analogy appears. It is a very wonderful analogy so wonderful that one almost hesitates to put it into words. Yet Nature is rev

erent; and it is her voice to which we listen. These lower phenomena of life, she says, are but an allegory. There is another kind of Life of which Science as yet has taken little cognizance. It obeys the same laws. It builds up an organism into its own form. It is the Christ-life. As the Bird-life builds up a bird, the image of itself, so the Christ-life builds up a Christ, the image of Himself. The quickening Life seizes upon the soul, assimilates surrounding elements, and begins to fashion it. According to the great Law of Conformity to Type this fashion

ing takes a specific form. And all through Life this wonderful, mystical, glorious, yet perfectly definite process, goes on.

The Christian Life is not a vague effort after righteousness —an ill-defined pointless struggle for an ill-defined pointless end. Religion is no dishevelled mass of aspiration, prayer, and faith. There is no more mystery in Religion, as to its processes, than in Biology. There is much mystery in Biology. We know all but nothing of Life yet-nothing of Development. There is the same mystery in the Spiritual Life. But the great lines are the same as decided, as luminous; and the laws of Natural and Spiritual are the same as unerring, as simple. From the standpoint of Revelation no truth is more obscure than Conformity to Type. If Science can furnish companion phenomena from an every-day process of the natural life, it may at least throw this most mystical doctrine of Christianity into thinkable form. Is there any fallacy in speaking of the Embryology of the New Life? Is the analogy invalid? Are there not vital processes in the Spiritual as well as in the Natural world? The Bird being an incarnation of the Bird-life, may not the Christian be a spiritual incarnation of the Christ-life? And is there not a real justification in the processes of the New Birth for such a parallel?

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

DRUMMOND, WILLIAM, a Scottish poet; born at Hawthornden, near Edinburgh, December 13, 1585; died there, December 4, 1649. He is commonly designated as "Drummond of Hawthornden," from his ancestral estate near Edinburgh, where most of his life was passed. He was a friend of Ben Jonson, and wrote "Notes of Ben Jonson's Conversations with William Drummond of Hawthornden, January, 1619." He wrote several historical works, but his fame rests mainly upon his poems. He was the earliest Scottish poet who wrote well in the English language. An edition of his poems, with a Memoir by Peter Cunningham, appeared in 1833. His life has also been written by David Masson (1873).

THE FEASTING OF THE RIVER FORTH.

WHAT blustering noise now interrupts my sleep?
What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deeps,
And seem to call me from my watery court?
What melody, what sounds of joy and sport,
Are conveyed hither from each night-born spring?
With what loud murmurs do the mountains ring,
Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand,

And, full of wonder, overlook the land?

Whence come these glittering throngs, the meteors bright,

This golden people glancing in my sight?

Whence doth this praise, applause, and love arise?

What loadstar eastward draweth thus all eyes?

Am I awake, or have some dreams conspired

To mock my sense with what I most desired!

View I that living face, see I those looks,

Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks?
Do I behold that worth, that man divine,
This age's glory, by these banks of mine?
Then find I true what I long wished in vain ;
My much beloved prince is come again. . . .

Let mother-earth now decked with flowers be seen,
And sweet-breathed zephyrs curl the meadows green:

Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower,
Such as on India's shores they used to pour;
Or with that golden storm the fields adorn
Which Jove rained when his blue-eyed maid was born.
May never hours the web of day outweave;
May never Night rise from her sable cave!
Swell proud, my billows; faint not to declare
Your joys as ample as their causes are:
For murmurs hoarse, sound like Arion's harp,
Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp;

And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair,
Strew all your springs and grots with lilies fair.
To virgins, flowers; to sun-burnt earth, the rain;
To mariners, fair winds amidst the main;

Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn,
Are not so pleasing as thy blest return,

That day, dear Prince.

THE UNIVERSE,

Or this fair volume which we World do name,

If we the leaves and sheets could turn with oare

Of Him who it corrects and did it frame

We clear might read the art and wisdom rare. Find out His power, which wildest powers doth tame, His providence extending everywhere;

His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, In every page and period of the same.

But silly we, like foolish children, rest

Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best;
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold,
Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.

MAN'S STRANGE ENDS.

A GOOD that never satisfies the mind,

A beauty fading like the April flowers,
A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined,
A pleasure passing ere in thought made ours,
An honor that more fickle is than wind,

A glory at opinion's frown that lowers,
A treasury which bankrupt time devours,
A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind,

A vain delight our equals to command,
A style of greatness, in effect a dream,

A swelling thought of holding sea and land,
A servile lot decked with a pompous name

Are the strange ends we toil for here below,
Till wisest death makes us our errors know.

THE HUNT.

THIS world a hunting is:

The prey, poor man; the Nimrod fierce is Death;
His speedy greyhounds are

Lust, Sickness, Envy, Care,

Strife that ne'er falls amiss,

With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe.

Now, if by chance we fly

Of these the eager chase,

Old Age, with stealing pace,

Casts on his nets, and there we, panting, lie.

IN PRAISE OF A PRIVATE LIFE.

THRICE happy he who, by some shady grove,
Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own:
Though solitary, who is not alone,

But doth converse with that eternal love.

Oh how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan,

Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,

Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve!

Oh how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath
And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath!
How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold!

This world is full of horrors, troubles, slights:
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.

VOL. VII. 35

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