268 AN HOUK AMONG THE TORBAY SPONGES. 



in my couple of hours' explorations at low tide among 

 yonder rocks, and some of these I may speak of here- 

 after. I hope some of my readers may be interested 

 in these attempts to describe atoms that are among 

 the meanest things which God has made. I say " at- 

 tempts to describe" rather than "descriptions;" for as 

 I gaze at the wondrous array of starry spicula actually 

 spread out on my microscopic stage, on the table at 

 which I am writing this paper, at this moment, I feel 

 how inadequate are words to grasp the inconceivable 

 perfection and glory of the Divine handiwork. It 

 matters not what the structure be: it may be the 

 bony casket that shields the brain of man ; it may 

 be the cells that make up the petals of a painted 

 flower ; it may be the needles of a sponge picked 

 from the mud of a tide-forsaken rock ; the inimitable, 

 unapproachable, incomprehensible impress of Deity is 

 there. Augustine says, " The soul bending over the 

 things Thou hast made, and passing on to Thee who 

 hast made them, there finds its refreshment and true 

 strength." 



Thus would I desire to contemplate the works of 

 God, as bringing to my sense ever-fresh proofs of His 

 all-pervading care, of His wondrous skill and wisdom, 

 of His glorious majesty and power. Above all, they 

 are the productions of the august Word: it is not 

 that they were made by One who is infinitely great, 

 but far removed from me, so that I can only rever- 

 ently admire Him at an immeasurable distance. No ; 

 they are the productions of the mind and hand of the 



