“Well, I mean root uppermost.”

“Right; I prefer that, don’t you, Willis?”

“Yes, Master Jack.”

“At first the radicle or root would begin by growing upwards, and the plantule or germ would descend.”

“That is quite in accordance with my revolutionary idiosyncracies.”

“You accused me just now of using ambitious words.”

“Well, I understand a revolution to mean, placing those above who should be below.”

“Nature then,” continued Ernest, “very soon begins to assert her rights; the bud gradually twists itself round and ascends, whilst the root obeys a similar impulse and descends—­is not this a proof of discernment?”

“I see nothing more in it than a proof of the wonderful mechanism God has allotted to the plant, and is analogous to the movements of a watch, the hands of which point out the hours, minutes, and seconds of time, and are yet not endowed with intelligence.”

“Very good, Jack,” said Becker.

“Suppose,” continued Ernest, “that the ground in the neighborhood of your plant was of two very opposite qualities, that on the right, for example, damp, rich, and spongy; that on the left, dry, poor, and rocky; you would find that the roots, after growing for a time up or down, as the case might be, will very soon change their route, and take their course towards the rich and humid soil.”

“And quite right too,” said Willis; “they prefer to go where they will be best fed.”

“If, then, these roots stretched out to points where they would withdraw the nourishment from other plants in the neighborhood—­how could you prevent it?”

“By digging a ditch between them and the plants they threaten to impoverish.”

“And do you suppose that would be sufficient?”

“Yes, unless the plant you refer to was an engineer.”

“Therein lies the difficulty.  Plants are engineers; they would send their roots along the bottom of the ditch, or they would creep under it—­at all events, the roots would find their way to the coveted soil in spite of you; if you dug a mine, they would countermine it, and obtain supplies from the opposite territory, and revenge themselves there for the scurvy treatment to which they had been subjected.  What could you do then?”

“In that case, I should admit myself defeated.”

“If,” continued Ernest, “we present a sponge saturated with water to the naked roots of a plant, they will slowly, but steadily, direct themselves towards it; and, turn the sponge whichever way you will, they will take the same direction.”

“It has been concluded,” remarked Becker, “from these incontestable facts, that plants are not devoid of sensibility; and, in fact, when we behold them lying down at sunset as if dead, and come to life again next morning, we are forced to recognise a degree of irritability in the vegetable organs which very closely resemble those of the animal economy.”