Let us walk by wave-worn shores, or climb hills and mountains, or thread the mazes of romantic streams, or wander through woods, or by the margins of lakes, the mind imbued with knowledge and a love of nature finds constant cause for admiration. No bud that blows, no fly that hums its little song, no bird that cleaves the air, nor fin which cuts the lucid wave, but tells to it the wondrous works of the Almighty. It is not, however, you will remember, the act of retiring into solitude, of living in deserts, nor of moping through "glades and glooms,” that will form a naturalist, or a true lover of nature. He, however much he study nature in nature's self, is the last man living who would become a hermit. Various circumstances may induce persons to retire for a time from society, to brood over feelings which they would hide from the world; to mourn for the dead, or to recover the shock brought by an unexpected reverse of fortune. This is human nature; but it is not human nature to abandon society and turn eremite, under the idea of thereby pleasing the Deity. This is the result of self-deception, of degrading notions of God, of arrogance and self-conceit, and often of knavery combined with these; or else of insanity, brought on by their excessive indulgence. Man is in his nature a

social being; God has made him so; and when he deserts the interests and society of his species, under the notion of serving his Maker, he is thwarting one great end of his creation. In truth, however, the hermits of whom we read had often any thing but solitude and devotion in view, when they retired to live in caves and dirt: many did so to gain a name, to obtain a consequence in the annals of their superstition, and to extort money from the fanatics who were imposed on by their tricks; and what is perhaps still more to be deplored, some were in absolute earnest, and did really think in their consciences that they were serving God, and yet could not fairly be said to be out of their proper senses.

A naturalist, I grant you, loves the country; it is the temple in which he best feels his pursuits; but still, what were the country without the town? It is when men congregate in cities that the arts and sciences flourish, that knowledge increases, that commerce extends, and discoveries are multiplied. Do not give ear to those who cry up the country at the expense of the town; some prefer the one to the other; some love the country, some the city; but both are good, and let neither be disparaged. The city has been the true source of civilization; it is the point of attraction, the focus in which the

rays of science diffused throughout the world are concentrated, and whence they again emanate and convey the blessings of knowledge to the most distant recesses of the country.

But the tide is now beginning to rise. What is the cause of that phenomenon? what produces the alternate ebb and flow of this vast mass of water which take place so regularly twice every four-and-twenty hours? Is it an operation of the sea itself, or is it owing to an influence extending from distant worlds? You know that it is the latter, that it is caused by the attraction of the sun and moon. And what is this attraction? No one can tell; we only know it by its phenomena; we know that it exists; that by its influence the worlds throughout the universe are guided in their revolutions; that if this influence were withdrawn the creation would run rapidly into ruin. The planets and suns would start from their orbits; the beautiful regularity of their motions would cease, and they would fly at random and in disorder through the wilds of space. Yet we know nothing of gravitation itself; we know it only by its laws; we know that it extends to the most distant stars, and that, perhaps, there is not a single celestial orb which is not connected by it to the others; but what its essential nature is we can have no

conception. And how many other things are there which we know only by the phenomena they present? What is the electric fluid? I cannot tell I am aware that it causes the thunder and lightning; that it will strike a tower, and split it from the top to the bottom; that it kills men and animals; and that I can collect it by means of a machine, and exhibit it in a variety of beautiful experiments; but, after all this, I know not what the electric fluid is. And what is magnetism? Why does a loadstone attract iron? Here also I am ignorant. Why does a magnetised needle point to the north? I know not; but I know, that by its having such a property, that wide ocean before us can be traversed with as much certainty, and vastly more advantage, than if its place were occupied by solid earth. Some writers have objected that the globe on which we live has an undue preponderance of sea; but this is another example of human presumption. If it had come by chance it might have been too great or too small; but if our world was made by the Almighty (and what else could have made it?) it must be as he intended, and therefore it must se right. But what is the fact? Could we have communicated with distant countries by land as we do by sea? Could we have brought the pro

duce of the Tropics to the Thames? Could we have compassed the earth from east to west, and from north to south? Could we have calculated on the time in which we should reach the Antipodes? Look at Africa and New Holland, and see how difficult it is to penetrate into the interior of those countries. On a little reflection, indeed, you will perceive, that were it not for the vastness of the ocean we would be in great comparative ignorance of the earth, and that its great extent of surface is another proof of the wisdom with which all is planned.

Besides gravitation, electricity, and magnetism, there are many other things which we know to exist, but of whose essential nature we are altogether ignorant. Take mind, for example: is it material or immaterial? There has been much discussion used, and much argumentative acuteness displayed about the settlement of this question, but it will never, I presume, be settled in this world. And what then? What is it to you or me, or to any one else, whether it is material or not? Look at the surface of that glassy wave, the light of which dazzles our eyes as if it came from a silvered mirror; where does that light originate? O, you will say, it is only the sunbeams. To be sure: you admit, then, that the light from the wave does not originate in the