No doubt the more remote two species are from each other, the weaker the arguments become in favour of their common descent. In species of two distinct families the analogy, from the variation of domestic organisms and from the manner of their intermarrying, fails; and the arguments from their geographical distribution quite or almost quite fails. But if we once admit the general principles of this work, as far as a clear unity of type can be made out in groups of species, adapted to play diversified parts in the economy of nature, whether shown in the structure of the embryonic or mature being, and especially if shown by a community of abortive parts, we are legitimately led to admit their community of descent. Naturalists dispute how widely this unity of type extends: most, however, admit that the vertebrata are built on one type; the articulata on another; the mollusca on a third; and the radiata on probably more than one. Plants also appear to fall under three or four great types. On this theory, therefore, all the organisms _yet discovered_ are descendants of probably less than ten parent-forms. _Conclusion._ My reasons have now been assigned for believing that specific forms are not immutable creations{518}. The terms used by naturalists of affinity, unity of type, adaptive characters, the metamorphosis and abortion of organs, cease to be metaphorical expressions and become intelligible facts. We no longer look at an organic being as a savage does at a ship{519} or other great work of art, as at a thing wholly beyond his comprehension, but as a production that has a history which we may search into. How interesting do all instincts become when we speculate on their origin as hereditary habits, or as slight congenital modifications of former instincts perpetuated by the individuals so characterised having been preserved. When we look at every complex instinct and mechanism as the summing up of a long history of contrivances, each most useful to its possessor, nearly in the same way as when we look at a great mechanical invention as the summing up of the labour, the experience, the reason, and even the blunders of numerous workmen. How interesting does the geographical distribution of all organic beings, past and present, become as throwing light on the ancient geography of the world. Geology loses glory{520} from the imperfection of its archives, but it gains in the immensity of its subject. There is much grandeur in looking at every existing organic being either as the lineal successor of some form now buried under thousands of feet of solid rock, or as being the co-descendant of that buried form of some more ancient and utterly lost inhabitant of this world. It accords with what we know of the laws impressed by the Creator{521} on matter that the production and extinction of forms should, like the birth and death of individuals, be the result of secondary means. It is derogatory that the Creator of countless