Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/81

70 but it seemed very probable that error had crept in somewhere.

In the last number of the Annales des Sciences Naturelles (x. 140), there is a note which clears up the whole mystery. Cienkowski has himself discovered the source of his own error. The membrane which seemed to form itself round the starch-grain has had quite another origin. He has observed the little monads swimming about, and has noticed one of them adhere to a starch-grain, spread its elastic body round it, and finally envelope it, as the Amœba wraps itself round its food. This explains how the starch-grain comes to be inside a cell; and as this process was never suspected, and the starch-grain was seen with a cell-wall, the idea of natural formation was inevitable, the more so, as the wall seemed to grow larger and larger.

Thus has even this, the most striking case in favour of Spontaneous Generation ever adduced, been finally cleared up; and the reader will probably agree in the conclusion to which the whole of the facts advanced in this paper lead, namely, that the Law of Generation is universal; the exceptions which have been hitherto urged have, one by one, been found to be no exceptions; and the presumption is that even M. Pouchet’s cases will be likewise explained. It is quite possible that the generation of animalcules may take place spontaneously; but although possible, it is not probable, and certainly is not proven.

2em



the water, on the water,

While the summer days were fair,

Whispering words in softest accents

Thro’ a veil of drooping hair;

While the little ear was peeping,

Half-ashamed and rosy red,

Blushing at the earnest meaning

Of the tender words I said—

On the water, on the water,

Fairly shone the sunbeams then,

Dancing on the tiny ripples,

Lighting up the far-off glen;

None could hear us save the Iris,

Swaying in her golden pride,

And the lilies ever moving

With the motion of the tide.

On the water, on the water,

While the twilight shades drew nigh,

Catching at the drooping branches,

As we floated idly by;

Oh! her small hand’s gentle pressure,

And her glance all words above,

And her soft cheek’s bright carnation,

When I told her all my love!

On the water, on the water,

Now I float, but all alone,

And I miss the silken ringlets,

And the little hand is gone;

Dies the sunset’s crimson beauty,

Comes the twilight as of yore,

All remind me of the dear one,

Lost to me for evermore.