I HAVE ascertained the truth of a. peculiar habit in the fine and stately Moreton Bay fig (or vine, which it really is), about which I was incredulous until I saw it. A seed of this fig, being deposited in the branches of another tree—let us say in one of the enormous stag-horn ferns—is thus provided with a certain amount of decayed material, in which it germinates. It first throws down its roots until they reach the ground, and then begins to grow round the fern tree, clinging to it like a vine, until it completely envelops the fern tree, its sap wood uniting where it meets and the bark entirely covering the joint, so that nothing of the old fern tree can be seen. The old tree dies; so that, after a lapse of years, all traces of the fern tree disappear, and a Moreton Bay fig only is visible! In many cases I have found openings where the wood of the fern tree is plainly visible; and the process I have related may be seen in its varied stages in some of our Australian scrubs.
Is it not an illustration of the practical working of the two natures? Man, like the stately fern tree, flourishes in the power of his own energy, until at some point decay and death force themselves upon his soul. But God plants a seed of another kind within him, and gives him a new life, which is destined to overcome the old, though the old will never entirely disappear until we see Him who has conquered death. The new life, like the fig, feeling after and feeding upon, the provided nourishment, grows strong, and gradually spreads itself over the rough surface of the old, until, though the old is known to be there, the new alone is to be seen. It is often slow work, but, if going on, how sweet to have some little bit of self covered with Christ!
It is also interesting that the fern tree has a rough bark, while that of the new tree has a smooth one. The rough is covered by the smooth. "Put on, therefore (as the elect of God, holy and beloved), bowels of mercies, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, long-suffering.”