assured proof, that there has been an intelligent, though invisible cause operating, who is the great designer and the mighty agent in their production.

Nor can this conclusion be avoided, though it is sometimes attempted, by attributing all these results to the necessary laws of nature, that is, to the certain and uniform connexion of cause and effect. The question lies within a very narrow compass; can all that we see in nature be the result of chance, or are we compelled to admit design? Were the various forms of living beings produced intentionally or accidentally? There is no alternative; one or the other must be admitted. To say that it was by necessity, is no answer to the question, since it may apply alike to either. A man may throw down a handful of printing types; the position of the letters is by chance; it may happen that a and b, or any two or three consecutive letters of the alphabet may be found together; we should term this purely aecidental. Now there is a cause why every letter, in falling, took the exact position which it occupies; here, then, "the necessary laws of nature" are combined with chance and accident. But the same man carefully picks up the letters from the heap, and so arranges them that he works off with them a fable or an ode. In every thing that is now done, there is just as necessary a connexion between cause and effect as before, but here the necessity is combined with intention and design. In the one case the position of the letters was left to the mere properties of matter, in the other they were arranged under the direction of mind. When, therefore, we speak of chance or accident, we mean not an occurrence without a cause, but that which excludes foresight and intention; and when the atheist introduces his necessity, it cannot touch the argument from design. We have only, then, to produce cases of manifest intention and design, and our argument is invincible; there must have been

an intelligent mind to form the intention, and to accomplish the designed end.

Nor need we go far in quest of instances of this kind; the world is full of them, they exist in every-department of nature. We shall not, however, examine the curious structure and admirable physiology of plants; we shall not investigate the wonders of insect mechanism, nor those exhibited by the inhabitants of the seas, the air, or the forests; the striking adaptations of various kinds, and the marvellous instincts which they exhibit; which the properties of matter can no more account for than they can for the chronological tables of the Arundelian marbles, or the hieroglyphics of the Egyptian tombs and the mummies which they contain. But leaving the wide range of the vegetable world, and the animal kingdom in general, I shall confine myself to MAN, and shall take a view of him in HIS

PHYSICAL STRUCTURE-HIS RELATION TO THE WORLD WHICH HE INHABITS, AND AS AFFECTED, BY THE RELATION OF THAT WORLD, TO THE SYSTEM OF WHICH IT FORMS A PART.

Let us first take a view of the structure of man's frame, and see if we can find any clear indications of intelligence and design in its formation.

A necessary preliminary, in any building or piece of machinery, is the construction of its frame-work, by which the parts may be all firmly sustained and held together. In the human body this is the skeleton. In this, its perfection is, that there should be everything sufficient, and nothing redundant. If there were anything deficient, weakness and incompetency for the end designed would ensue; if there were more than was necessary, it would needlessly encumber the working of it. In the human skeleton, there is bone wherever bone is needed, but not one bone, however small, nor an inch of bone, is useless.

The material must not only be in sufficient quantity, and of such a quality as to secure solidity and strength, but also, as in every construction that is to be moveable, provision must be made for its being sufficiently light. A failure in either case would be a serious defect. Now the substance of support to our body, the human bone, exactly answers these conditions. It is composed chiefly of the phosphate of lime, which gives to it nearly the consistency of stone, with the lightness of wood. But there is another apparent contrivance founded on geometrical principles. It has been demonstrated that the same quantity of material formed into a tube, is much stronger than when it is perfectly solid. In the long bones this formation obtains; thus, without an increase of weight, there is a considerable addition of strength. But in producing that degree of consistency which we call hardness, the bone might have become brittle, and very liable to be broken, or, in avoiding this, it might have been too flexible, and thus incapable of supporting a weight; but it is neither the one nor the other. It has strength to support, without being liable to chip or crack like porcelain.

But besides support, protection is requisite, and this is amply afforded by the bony structure. Whatever is delicately fine, and thus easily susceptible of injury, or whatever is highly valuable, and especially whatever unites both these qualities, we take much care to guard. A watch has a metal covering to preserve the nice workmanship from injuries, by being crushed by external violence, or damaged by the dust; a piano forte has a case; our deeds are deposited in iron chests; the Tower, with all its defences, secures the regalia; in all this we see prudent precaution and evident design. Now, in all the means taken to prevent apprehended danger, which in these or any other cases give us the assurance of intelligent precaution, there is nothing, can be nothing more palpably evident, than the design to

preserve, which is manifest in the protection afforded to every weak and vital part in the human frame. The skin may be torn, a muscle may be pierced or a part of it cut away, and yet the machine may go on working; the wound may heal, and no serious injury be sustained. But if an organ so precious as the brain or heart, or any vital part be injured, the mischief affects the whole system, and may be irreparable. See how the brain, seated, as it were, on the throne of the human domains is guarded. The bones of the cranium rise up around it like solid walls, and uniting into an arch, spread a dome above it. Within is a plate, hard and brittle, which no point can easily pierce; to prevent this from being chipped or cracked, there is an exterior plate, of less hardness, but of less susceptibility to injury from a blow; and over the whole is spread a soft, thick mat of hair, which tends materially to break the shock arising from collision with any hard body, and thus to save the brain from concussion, while at the same time it gives beauty to the appearance. Near the brain, and in direct communication with it, are the eyes, important inlets of information from the external world. These organs are of exquisite workmanship; an exposed situation would be highly dangerous; they are placed, therefore, in bony caverns, which throw their strong arches over them to protect them. The spinal marrow is a continuation of the brain, which supplies the body with nerves, how shall its safety be secured through the whole length of the trunk? For this purpose it has a hollow way made through the solid bones of the back, and reposes in safety in the midst of the spine. The heart and lungs are ever busy, day and night their labour is performed, an obstruction from injury is certain death. Behind, the spine is the central guard, while from it the ribs extend in a circular form, till they join a front defence, which is the breast bone. Thus room is afforded for the play of these

organs, and ample protection is secured. The whole of this frame-work stands on two firm pillars, which rest on pedestals, and sustain the structure. Does this evident protection, in all these instances, look like chance work, or the operation of the unconscious properties of matter? What could intelligence have done more?

But this was to be a moveable structure; if the framework had been all of one piece, it might have been as firm and as solid, but it would also have been as motionless, as a statue. Vegetables are fixed to one place, their nutriment is ever at hand, all their wants are supplied without any effort, they have neither the need nor the power to alter their situation.* But man is a loco-motive machine; he has the power of self-motion, as well as the necessity of transferring himself from place to place. He must seek his food and prepare it, he must provide himself with clothing and put it on; he has a thousand offices to perform, and ten thousand motions are requisite. If man's frame had been made immoveable, or but of one piece, he must have perished. In order, then, to admit of all these motions, the skeleton is divided into a great number of parts, of such size and shape, and in such positions, as to allow of motions of innumerable variety. The number of distinct bones is two hundred and fifty-four, all connected and combined into one piece of frame-work. Now, to manage all this, so that the connexion shall be at once firm, the motions easy, where motion is needed, and capable of being continued for a long time together, requires no small contrivance and dexterity. If we could conceive of a person without any knowledge of

* There are some few exceptions, particularly in aquatic plants, which float on the surface of the water. For an account of these and many remarkable phenomena in the vegetable world, see an interesting work entitled 'The Physiology of Plants,' which, though anonymous, is generally known to be the production of Mr. Murray, whose lectures in various branches of science have profited no small number of our countrymen, in different parts of the kingdom, and who is the author of several publications in which science pays a willing homage to divine truth.

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