Only the lowly and sedentary types, of which the Oyster may be taken as an example, lack this fire; and here because it is unnecessary. For the reproductive germs of this animal are discharged into the water, to take their chance of attaining their object. They are liberated unconsciously, discharged like the undigested residue of the food, without effort, and without cognizance of the act. This must be so, for the Oyster merely lives—vegetates. Sightless, and without power of movement, after its larval wanderings are over, it lives merely to eat. And even in this, choice is denied it. The currents of water mechanically brought to afford the necessary oxygen for the maintenance of life, bring with them the food which is to restore the slowly wasting tissues. To such a creature there can be no “outer-world,” no consciousness of the existence of individuality other than its own. The desire for sexual intercourse is met with only where the co-operation of two individuals is necessary to ensure the production of offspring. Such individuals being free to roam, must have some incentive to seek one another at the time when their germ-cells have attained maturity. And this incentive is furnished by the glands in which these elements are produced: supplemented by the secretions of certain ancillary glands. These stimulating juices, known as the “Hormones,” will be presently described. But if we owe our existence to the gratification of what may be called our lower instincts, it is no less certain that all that is best in us we owe to our offspring. We meet with the beginnings of altruism, which the begetting of offspring entails, far down in the animal kingdom, and it attains to its full perfection in the human race. Here only, in its best and truest sense, Love begins: though affection may be found, and in a high degree, in many of the lower animals. Living things are as clay in the hands of the potter. But it is as if they made themselves, for the designer and the guiding hand are alike invisible. No vessel is exactly like its neighbour, either in the quality of its substance or in the details of its construction. And this because the clay of which it is made possesses that mysterious property we call life. A property which endows each new feature as it appears, with an individuality of its own, whose survival, or suppression, depends entirely on its relationship to surrounding parts; on its harmony with its environment, in short. Colour, size, shape, temperament, behaviour, may each be regarded as so many entities depending for survival on whether or not they can exist in harmony with their environment—the several parts which make up what we call the individual.