ll the arms. We stand here upon a higher level of
the wonderful: we are conscious of a music subtler than that of the
piano, passing unheard through these tiny boughs, and issuing in what
Mr. Martineau would opulently call the 'clustered magnificence' of the
leaves. Does it lessen my amazement to know that every cluster, and
every leaf--their form and texture--lie, like the music in the rod, in
the molecular structure of these apparently insignificant stems? Not
so. Mr. Martineau weeps for' the beauty of the flower fading into a
necessity.' I care not whether it comes to me through necessity or
through freedom, my delight in it is all the same. I see what he sees
with a wonder superadded. To me, as to him, not even Solomon in all
his glory was arrayed like one of these.

I have spoken above as if the assumption of a soul would save Mr.
Martineau from the inconsistency of crediting pure matter with the
astonishing building power displayed in crystals and trees. This,
however, would not be the necessary result; for it would remain to be
proved that the soul assumed is not itself matter. When a boy I
learnt from Dr. Watts that the souls of conscious brutes are mere
matter. And the man who would claim for matter the human soul itself,
would find himself in very orthodox company. 'All that is erected,'
says Fauste, a famous French bishop of the fifth century, 'is matter.
The soul occupies a place; it is enclosed in a body; it quits the body
at death, and returns to it at the resurrection, as in the case of
Lazarus; the distinction between Hell and Heaven, between eternal
pleasures and eternal pains, proves that, even after death, souls
occupy a place and are corporeal. God only is incorporeal.'
Tertullian, moreover, was quite a physicist in the definiteness of his
conceptions regarding the soul. 'The materiality of the soul,' he
says, 'is evident from the evangelists. A human soul is there
expressly pictured as suffering in hell; it is placed in the middle of
a flame, its tongue feels a cruel agony, and it implores a drop of
water at the hands of a happier soul. Wanting materiality,' adds
Tertullian, 'all this would be without meaning.' [Footnote: The
foregoing extracts, which M. Alglave recently brought to light for the
benefit of the Bishop of Orleans, are taken from the sixth Lecture of
the 'Cours d'Histoire Moderns' of that most orthodox of statesmen, M.
Guizot. 'I could multiply,' continues M. Guizot, 'the