themselves? Could one imagine the existence of an animal, which has neither brain, nor heart, nor veins, nor arteries; which, from the mouth to the opposite extremity of its body, is but a hollow bag; which appears to be all stomach, all intestine, and whose very arms and legs are stomachs and intestines? Could one form an idea of an animal that could be ingrafted like a plumbtree, turned inside out like a glove, and produce its young as a stalk shoots its branches? It is not fifty years since any man who would have hazarded such ideas must have passed for a mad man. And yet it is now incontestible that there are such animals, who, not only by their outward form, but also by the manner of being perpetuated, resemble plants. By this discovery, made in the first half of the present century, natural history has gained a great deal. It may even be said that it has enlarged our ideas of the power of God. Since the discovery of animal plants, we have a new proof that God has distinguished his works by very small degrees: and that it is al most impossible to determine exactly where the animal kingdom ends, and where the vegetable begins. It is generally believed that the difference between plants and animals consists in the former having neither sensibility nor motion, and the latter having both. That is then the distinguishing character between plants and animals; but how faint the shade, how slight and almost imperceptible the line which separates the two kingdoms, when we think of the discovery of the zoophites! The several species of creatures rise, grow to perfection, and approach one another so nearly, that the limits which separate them can no longer be distinguished. Throughout all nature, we see something of infinite, as the peculiar characteristic of its great Author. Eternal Being! who can conceive the immense extent of thy dominion? Who can even know What wonfuture ages, But what is the whole of any single part of it? derful things will be discovered in that are now concealed from us! already visible to us, sufficiently convinces us of thy infinite greatness. MAY XVI. The pleasure of Cultivating Fields und Gardens. THE culture of fields and gardens is one of the most agreeable employments, and perhaps the only one that is compensated by a thousand pleasures for the trouble it gives. Most works confine men to a room or shop; but he who devotes himself to country pursuits is in the open air, and breathes freely upon the magnificent theatre of nature. The blue sky is his canopy, and the earth, enamelled with flowers, is his carpet. The air he breathes is not corrupted by the poisonous vapours of cities. A thousand agreeable objects present themselves to his sight; and, if he has any taste for the beauties of nature, he can never want pure and real pleasures. In the morning, soon as day-break again opens the brilliant scene of the creation, he hastens to enjoy it in his field or garden. The dawn proclaims the near approach of the sun. The grass springs up again revived; and its points shine with dew-drops, brilliant as diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. Delightful perfumes, exhaled from herbs and flowers, embalm and refresh him on every side. The air resounds with the songs of birds, expressive of their joys, their loves, and their happiness. Their concerts are hymns of praise to the Creator, whose blessings they feel, in the agreeable light and heat of the sun, the relish of their food, the sweet instincts of nature, their alacrity and joy. Would it be possible, at the sight and sense of so many pleasing and affecting objects, that the heart should not be touched with delight, with love, and gratitude towards God? Can the mind have a more pleasing employment than that of contemplating and praising the sublime perfections of God, the greatness of his designs, and the beauty of his works? What contributes still more to render agriculture and gardening particularly agreeable, is the infinite variety of objects it affords, of works and employment, which attach us to it, by constantly affording new ones, and preventing the distaste inseparable from sameness. There is great variety of shrubs, fruits, herbs, and trees, which we plant, and which present themselves to us under a thousand different forms. Nature presents the husbandman with numberless agreeable changes. Sometimes he sees the plants springing out of the earth; others rising high, and unfolding themselves; others, again, in full bloom. Wherever he turns his eyes, he discovers new objects. The heavens above, and the earth beneath, afford him an inexhaustible fund of pleasure and delight. Bless, bless the Lord. Praise his works, and trace him in every field, and through every operation of active nature. It is He who ordain's the return of spring, and tells the harvest when to fill with corn the granaries of the righteous and unrighteous man. O! when the soft breath of the zephyrs (emblems of his goodness) comes in spring to cool the air, let us think of Him: When in au. tumn the boughs of the trees bend under the weight of his gifts, let us remember Him: He crowns the year with his blessings. He is the source of all good. He sends the rain to water the barren field; and it is through Him alone that the earth' becomes fruitful. Praise the Lord. Behold, the forest, the river, and the vale! they all discover traces of his goodness. We find him in the mea dows, and in the enamel which adorns them. Every where we trace the Lord. MAY XVII. The Tulip. OF all flowers the tulip has certainly the finest form. There is no silk-mercer, who, in the va riety and beauty of colours, or the mixture of light and shade in his silks, can approach to the perfection of this flower. The height of the tulip, its form, its colours, its drawing, make it the queen of flowers. And if we consider that every year there blow millions of tulips, which all differ from each other, the proportion and beauties of which are infinitely varied, we must have lost all feeling, not to be struck with admiration. Certainly, to be convinced of the existence of a wise and good God, we need only contemplate a tulip in full bloom. Is it possible that such a masterpiece of nature could be produced by a blind chance? It is true that at present the tulips are produced and perpetuated by roots. But from whence came the first production of this machine, and that first arrangement, of which all the following revolutions are only the consequences? Must we not necessarily admit an intelligent Cause, whom we call the Creator of the world? It requires as much wisdom and power to create one tulip, from whence ten others proceed, as to create ten of them at once. For the new-comers must have existed already in their fore-runners; and it is evident that their form and number must have been determined. Therefore, when we look at a bed of tulips, let us not limit ourselves to the admiratiou of their beauty, but let us admire, above all things, the infinite wisdom of God, who has traced the drawing of these flowers, and exe. cuted them in such perfection. Whatever charms the tulip has, it loses a little of its value, in being merely formed for the eye, and having no sweet smell. When we compare the carnation to it, which, joined to the beauty of its form, has the most exquisite perfume, we soon forget the gaudy dress of the tulip. Such is the fate of persons who are endowed with beauty, and set off their charms with every ornament, but have neither good sense nor a good heart. It is much more desirable to have fewer outward beauties, with an amiable mind. The former captivates but for a very short time, while the beauty of the mind remains, when all the charms of form are fled; and the esteem which our virtues inspire is constant and durable. A virtuous soul is pleasing both to God and man. It is formed by the rules of wis dom, and its ornament is innocence. The per fume of good works is spread around wherever it exists, and it will one day be transplanted into the garden of Paradise. One observation which the history of plants affords us, is, that the more beautiful a flower is, the sooner it fades. In a short time, nothing of that blooming tulip will remain but a withered dead stalk. Its life and beauty last but for a few weeks; age destroys its charms its leaves fall off; its colours fade; and the tulip, before so like a beautiful virgin, is no longer any thing but a frightful skeleton. What an useful lesson is this for us! See how little we can de. pend on exterior charms! How uncertain is frail beauty! How near are we to death! For what is our life but the life of a flower? We sometimes resemble it in beauty, but we resemble it likewise in the shortness of our days: for "Man, that is born of a woman, is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down." Let us so live, that when that time comes, good people may regret us, and weep over our graves. |