ompound hidden in protoplasm. Has this
"ultimate molecule of life" any more scientific or philosophical
validity than the old conception of a vital force? It looks very much
like another name for the same thing--an attempt to give the mind
something to take hold of in dealing with the mystery of living things.
This imaginary "life-stuff" of the British scientist is entirely beyond
the reach of chemical analysis; no man has ever seen it or proved its
existence. In fact it is simply an invention of Ray Lankester to fill a
break in the sequence of observed phenomena. Something seems to possess
the power of starting or kindling that organizing activity in a living
body, and it seems to me it matters little whether we call it
"plasmogen," or a "life principle," or "biotic energy," or what not; it
surely leavens the loaf. Matter takes on new activities under its
influence. Ray Lankester thinks that plasmogen came into being in early
geologic ages, and that the conditions which led to its formation have
probably never recurred. Whether he thinks its formation was merely a
chance hit or not, he does not say.

We see matter all about us, acted upon by the mechanico-chemical forces,
that never takes on any of the distinctive phenomena of living bodies.
Yet Verworn is convinced that if we could bring the elements of a living
body together as Nature does, in the same order and proportion, and
combine them in the selfsame way, or bring about the vital conditions, a
living being would result. Undoubtedly. It amounts to saying that if we
had Nature's power we could do what she does. _If_ we could marry the
elements as she does, and bless the banns as she seems to, we could
build a man out of a clay-bank. But clearly physics and chemistry alone,
as we know and practice them, are not equal to the task.

III

One of the fundamental characteristics of life is power of adaptation;
it will adapt itself to almost any condition; it is willing and
accommodating. It is like a stream that can be turned into various
channels; the gall insects turn it into channels to suit their ends when
they sting the leaf of a tree or the stalk of a plant, and deposit an
egg in the wound. "Build me a home and a nursery for my young," says the
insect. "With all my heart," says the leaf, and forthwith forgets its
function as a leaf, and proceeds to build up a structure, often of great
delicacy and complexity, to house and cradle its enemy. The current of
lif