delicate nerve by which vision is produced. Again, we would just say, the magnitude of the world, its division into lands and waters; its storms and tides; its substance and complexion; its rocks and sands; its mountains and vallies, all share in yielding, distributing, and meting out being and endowments to man; and we have no doubt this wasting frame owes its nourishment and dependence, both sudden and gradual, to elements external, and that the most active are perhaps those which are the least seen and understood by the ordinary observer. We do not mean these bodies are wholly made out of the external matter, but we acknowledge a correspondence and accordance which the Christian philosopher is ever discovering. The great Creator rested from his labours, and declared all was good; and often, very often does the philosopher bow down in veneration and praise, in certain epochs of his researches, confounded with the demonstrations which burst before him, and he feels there is nothing of chance, but a constant ruling Intelligence over all and all things. The cataract displays no greater wonders to his mind than the stream which warbles by the village bower; the haughty voice of Æolus excites no greater wonder in him than the breeze which trembles on the cordage of the little skiff: for well he knows they equally perform a share in the great manifestation of holy government. Design extends over all, and universal nature celebrates the goodness of God. The consideration of the fitness of things—their harmony and beauty—is the highest occupation of man. For the preservation and enjoyment of life, many excellent provisions are made; and so complicate are they, that man without these, or any of them, could only sigh and die. He regards the power of his muscles as an obvious palpability, yet science will inform him that every breath he draws, to curse or praise, is realized by a mechanism as complicate and
