The manner of life of a one-celled creature is this: it grows, and when it has grown to a size presumably inconvenient it divides into two creatures, both of which, obviously, are the same age. The creature itself becomes two instead of remaining one. The two creatures who were one repeat the process and become four. The four become eight and so on to the end of the earth. None die naturally, and when or if the end of the earth and of themselves is reached they will all be killed and every one of them will be of the same age; but none will be aged. They will be cut off, these naturally immortal creatures, in unimpaired maturity and the perfection of their structure and functions. But, you observe, if life on earth had not passed beyond the one-celled condition it would never, to our minds (if our minds could have been arrived at in some other sphere), have been worth living. All the potency and promise of life which have slowly been revealed through the improvement of its creaturely medium would have remained hidden behind the screen of those immortal jellies. Life began to create a new engine of advance when cell and cell were built up together, and the many-celled creatures started on their mortal and masterful career. For, note, the aggregation of cells in an organized body precludes their individual immortality. They become differentiated and associated for special purposes and they lose the opportunity of preserving life by continuous division. They are mutually imprisoning, they grow old, in time they die—they must die. Life, in beginning this advance, embraced inevitable death. Death, if you like, is the price—if indeed it should be counted a price and not a boon—that we pay for freedom to live as what we are and to become what we shall be. The immortal amoeba is after all a slave. It is this creature that manifestly pays a price, one at which no man of us would buy immunity from death.