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The Book of Nature

MY dear papa, said young Theophilus to his father, I cannot help pitying those poor little boys, whose parents are not in a condition to purchase them such a nice gilded library, as that with which you have supplied me from my good friend's at the corner of St. Paul's Church-yard. Surely such unhappy boys must be very ignorant all their lives; for what can they learn without books?

I agree with you, replied his father, that you are happy in having so large a collection of books, and I am no less happy in seeing you make so good a use of them. – There is, however, my dear child, another book, called The Book of Nature, , which is constantly open to the inspection of every one, and intelligible even to those of the tenderest years. To study that book, nothing more is required, than to be attentive to the surrounding objects which Nature presents to our view, to contemplate them carefully, and to explore and admire their beauties; but without attempting to search into their hidden causes, which youths must not think of, till age and experience shall enable them to dive into physical causes.

I say, my dear Theophilus, that even children are capable of studying this science; for you have eyes to see, and curiosity sufficient to induce you to ask questions, and it is natural for human nature to wish to acquire knowledge.

This study, if it may be so called, so far from being laborious or tiresome, affords nothing but pleasure and delight. It is a pleasing recreation, and a delightful amusement.

It is inconceivable how many things children would learn, were we but careful to improve all the opportunities with which they themselves supply us. A garden, the fields, a palace, are each a book open to their view, in which they must be accustomed to read, and to reflect thereon. Nothing is more common among us than the use of bread and linen; and yet how few children are taught to know the preparation of either! through how many shapes and hands wheat and hemp must pass before they are made into bread and linen!

A few examples will serve to show, how far we ought to study nature in every thing that presents itself to our view, and therein trace out the handy-works of the great Creator.

The first preacher that proclaimed the glory of the supreme God was the sky, where the sun, moon, and stars shine with such amazing splendour; and that book, written in characters of light, is sufficient to render all inexcusable who do not read and contemplate it. The Divine Wisdom is not less admirable in its more humble productions of what the earth brings forth, and these we can survey with more ease, since the eye is not dazzled by them.

Let us begin with plants. What appears to us mean and despicable, often affords wherewith to astonish the sublimest minds. Not a single leaf is neglected by Nature; order and symmetry are obvious in every part of it, and yet with so great a variety of pinking ornaments and beauties, that none of them are exactly like the others.

What is not discoverable by the help of microscopes in the smallest seeds! and with what unaccountable virtues and efficacies has it not pleased God to endow them! Nothing can more demand our admiration, than the choice which our great Creator has made of the general colour that beautifies all plants. Had he dyed the fields in white or scarlet, we should not have been able to bear either the brightness or the harshness of them. If he had darkened them with more dusky colours, we should have taken little delight in so sad and melancholy a prospect.

A pleasant verdure keeps a medium between these two extremes, and it has such an affinity with the frame of the eye, that it is diverted, not strained by it, and sustained and nourished, rather than wasted. What we considered at first but as one colour, is found to afford an astonishing diversity of shades: it is green every where, but it is in no two instances the same. Not one plant is coloured like another, and that surprising variety, which no art can imitate, is again diversified in each plant, which is, in its origin, its progress, and maturity, of a different sort of green.

Should my fancy waft me into some enamelled meadow, or into some garden in high cultivation, what an enamel, what variety of colours, what richness, are there conspicuous! What harmony, what sweetness in their mixture, and the shadowings that temper them! What a picture, and by what a master! But let us turn aside from this general view, to the contemplation of some particular flower, and pick up at random the first that offers to our hand, without troubling ourselves with the choice.

It is just blown, and has still all its freshness and brightness. Can the art of man produce any thing similar to this? No silk can be so soft, so thin, and of so fine a texture. Even Solomon's purple, when contrasted with the flowers of the fields, is coarse beyond comparison.

From the beauties of the meadows and gardens, which we have just been surveying, let us take a view of the fruitful orchard, filled with all sorts of fruits, which succeed each other, according to the varying seasons.

View one of those trees bowing its branches down to the ground, and bent under the weight of its excellent fruit, whose colour and smell declare the taste. The quantity, as well as the quality, is astonishing. Methinks that tree says to me, by the glory it displays to my eyes, "Learn of me what is the goodness and magnificence of that God, who has made me for you. It is neither for him, nor for myself that I am so rich: he has need of nothing, and I cannot use what he has given me. Bless him, and unload me. Give him thanks; and since he has made me the instrument of your delight, be you that of my gratitude."

The same invitations catch me on all sides, and, as I walk on, I discover new subjects of praise and adoration. Here the fruit is concealed within the shell; there the fruit is without, and the kernel within: the delicate pulp without shines in the most brilliant colours. This fruit sprung out of a blossom, as almost all do; but this other, so delicious, was not preceded by the blossom, and it shoots out of the very bark of the fig-tree. The one begins the summer, the other finishes it. If this be not soon gathered, it will fall down and wither; if you do not wait for that, it will not be properly ripened. This keeps long, that decays swiftly; the one refreshes, the other nourishes.

Among the fruit-trees, some bear fruit in two seasons of the year, and others unite together spring, summer, and autumn, bearing at the same time the blossom and green and ripe fruit; to convince us of the sovereign liberality of the Creator, who, in diversifying the laws of nature, shows that he is the master of it, and can at all times, and with all things, do equally what he pleases.

It is observable, that weak trees, or those of an indifferent pith, are those that bear the most exquisite fruits; and the higher they grow, the less rich is their productions. Other trees, which bear nothing but leaves, or bitter and very small fruit, are nevertheless useful for the important purposes of building and navigation.

If we had not seen trees of the height and bigness of those that are in forests, we could not believe that some drops of rain falling from heaven were capable to nourish them; for they stand in need of moisture not only in great plenty, but also such as is full of spirits and salts of all kinds, to give the root, the trunk, and branches, the strength and vigour we admire in them. It is even remarkable, that the more neglected these trees are, the handsomer they grow; and that if men applied themselves to cultivate them, as they do the small trees of their gardens, they would do them more harm than service. You, therefore, O Author of all things! thus establish this indisputable proof, that it is you alone who have made them; and you teach man to know, that his cares and industry are useless to you. If indeed you require his attention to some shrubs, it is but to employ him, and warn him of his own weakness, in trusting weak things only to his care.

Let us now turn to the scaly inhabitants of the water, and what a number and variety of fishes are there formed!

At the first sight of these creatures they appear only to have a head and tail, having neither feet nor arms. Even their head has no free motion; and were I to attend their figure only, I should think them deprived of every thing necessary for the preservation of their lives. But, few as their exterior organs are, they are more nimble, swift, artful, and cunning, than if they had many hands and feet; and the use they make of their tail and fins shoot them forward like arrows, and seem to make them fly.

How comes it to pass, that in the midst of waters, so much impregnated with salt that I cannot bear a drop of them in my mouth, fishes live and sport, and enjoy health and strength? How, in the midst of salt do they preserve a flesh that has not the least taste of it?

It is wonderful when we reflect, how the best of the scaly tribe, and those most fit for the use of man, swarm upon our shores, and offer themselves, as it were, to our service; while many others, of less value to him, keep at a greater distance, and sport in the deep waters of the ocean.

Some there are that keep in their hiding places unknown to men, whilst they are propagating and growing to a certain size, such as salmon, mackerel, cod, and many others. They come in shoals, at an appointed time, to invite the fishermen, and throw themselves, as it were, of their own accord, into their nets and snares.

We see several sorts of these scaly animals, and those of the best kind get into the mouths of rivers, and come up to their fountain head, to communicate the benefits of the sea to those who are distant from it. The hand that directs them, with so much care and bounty for man, is at all times, and every where to be seen; but the ingratitude of man, and the capricious wanderings of his heart, often make him forgetful of the greatest bounties.

From the scaly inhabitants of the water, let us turn our attention to the feathered animals of the air. In several dumb creatures we see an imitation of reason which is truly astonishing; but it no where appears in a stronger degree, than in the industry and sagacity of birds in making their nests.

In the first place, what master has taught them that they had need of any? Who has taken care to forewarn them to get them ready in time, and not to be prevented by necessity? Who has told them how they must be contrived? What mathematician has given them such regular plans for that purpose? What architect has directed them to chuse a firm place, and to build upon a solid foundation? What tender mother has advised them to line the bottom of them with materials so soft and nice as down and cotton? and when these are wanting, who suggested to them that ingenious charity, which urges them to pluck from their breast with their bill, as much down as is requisite to prepare a convenient cradle for their young ones?

In the second place, what wisdom has traced out to each kind a particular way of making their nest, where the same precautions are kept, but in a thousand different ways? Who has commanded the swallow, the most industrious of all birds, to come near man, and chuse his house to build her habitation, immediately in his view, without fearing to have him for a witness, but on the contrary, seeming to invite him to survey her works? She does not imitate other birds, who build their nests with hay and small twigs: she uses cement and mortar, and makes her whole work so solid, as not to be destroyed without some labour. Her bill is her only instrument; and she has no other means of carrying her water, than by wetting her breast while she expands her wings. It is with this dew she sprinkles the mortar, and with this only she dilutes and moistens her masonry, which she afterwards arranges and sets in order with her bill.

In the third place, who has made these little feathered animals sensible, that they are to hatch their eggs by sitting over them? that both the father and mother must not be absent at the same time from the nest; and that if one went in quest of food, the other was to wait till its partner returned? Who has taught them that knowledge of calculating time, so as to make them able to know precisely the number of days of this rigorous attendance? Who has told them how to relieve the egg of the burthen of the young one, perfectly formed therein, by first breaking the shell at the critical moment, which they never fail to perform?

Lastly, what lecturer has read lessons to birds, to teach them to take care of their young, till they have proper strength and agility to shift for themselves? Who has taught them that wonderful sagacity and patience, to keep in their mouths either food or water, without permitting them to pass into their stomachs, and there preserve them for their young ones, to whom it supplies the place of milk? Who has made them capable of distinguishing between so many things, of which some are adapted to one kind, but are pernicious to another; and between those which are proper for the old ones, but would be hurtful to their young? We have daily opportunities of seeing the anxities of mothers for their children, and the tenderness of nurses for the little ones committed to their charge; but it will admit of a doubt, whether we see any thing so perfect in the nursing of the human race as we see among the feathered inhabitants of the air.

It cannot be for birds alone that the Omnipotent Creator has united in their natures so many miracles, of which they are not sensible. It is obvious, that his design was to direct our attention to Him, and to make us sensible of his providence and infinite wisdom; to fill us with confidence in his goodness. Think of these things, my Theophilus, and do not fail to read the Book of Nature, from which you will learn to perceive your own insignificancy, and the omnipotency of him who made you.

The Unexpected Reformation

LITTLE Marcus was the only child of a wealthy tradesman, who had acquired an ample fortune by the sweat of his brow, and the reputable character he had invariably supported in the course of his business. He had always been an enemy to those little arts which some people put in practice to deceive those they have dealings with, being fully persuaded in his own mind, that no fortune could be so pleasing and grateful as that acquired by integrity and honour.

Being much hurried in his business, both he and his amiable spouse agreed, that it would be more prudent to send young Marcus into the country for his education, where he would not be likely to receive those pernicious examples he would every day see before him in the metropolis.

After a very nice enquiry, they were satisfied with the account they received of an academy at the distance of about a hundred miles from London, for the good management of which they were referred to several young gentlemen, who had there received their education, and were universally admired for their learning and prudence.

The master of the academy considered all his pupils as his children; he was equally attentive to instruct them in the different branches of science, and to admonish them against those errors which young people are naturally prone to run into. He endeavoured to excite their industry by proper encouragement, and, by example, to implant in their minds the seeds of honour and probity. He had also taken the most prudent precautions in the choice of those who were to assist him in so arduous an undertaking.

From so promising a situation, every parent would naturally expect the most happy consequences; but their son Marcus, whether from too tender a treatment at home, or not having been properly attended to, had an unhappy turn of mind, and an utter aversion to every kind of study. His thoughts were perpetually wandering after childish pastimes, so that his masters could make him comprehend nothing of the rudiments of science. The same marks of indolence appeared in the care of his person; for every part of his dress was generally in disorder; and though he was well made and handsome, yet his slovenly appearance made him disgustful to every one.

Let me advise my young readers to be particularly attentive, next to their studies, to the neatness of their persons; for no character is more prejudicial to a youth than that of a sloven. But do not let them mistake me, and suppose that I mean, by neatness in their dress, foppish and ridiculous apparel.

It may easily be supposed, that these defects in his conduct rendered him contemptible in the eyes of those children who were at first much behind him, but soon overtook him, to his inevitable disgrace. His master was so much ashamed of him, as well on account of his ignorance as slovenliness, that whenever any visitors came to the school, poor Marcus was sent out of the way, lest such a figure as he was might bring disgrace on the academy.

It might reasonably be expected, that so many humiliating circumstances would have made some impression on his mind; but he continued the same course of inconsistence, indolence, and dissipation; nor did there appear the least dawn of hope, that he would ever return into the paths of industry and prudence.

His master was very uneasy on his account, and knew not how to act: to keep him at his school, he considered as a robbery on his parents, and to send him home as a dunce and a blockhead would be a cutting consideration to his father and mother. He would sometimes say to his unworthy pupil, "Marcus, what will your father and mother think of me, when I shall send you home to them, so little improved in learning and knowledge?" It was, however, in vain to talk to him; for he seldom made any answer, but generally burst into tears.

Two years had glided away in this miserable manner, without his having made the least progress in learning, and without showing the least inclination for study. One evening, however, just as he was going to bed, he received a letter sealed with black wax, which he opened with some degree of indifference, and then read as follows:

"MY DEAR MARCUS,

"This morning has deprived me of the most affectionate husband, and you of the most tender parent. Alas, he is gone, to return no more! If there be any thing that can enable me to support this dreadful calamity, it is only in what I receive from the recollection, that I have left in my son the dear image of his father. It is from you only therefore I can look for comfort; and I am willing to flatter myself, that I shall receive as much pleasure from your conduct as I do from my tender affection for you. Should I find myself disappointed in my hopes, should you be only like your father in person, and not resemble him in his industry, integrity, and virtue, sorrow and despair will put a period to my miserable life. By the person who brings you this letter, I have sent you a miniature picture of your father. Wear it constantly at your bosom, and frequently look at it, that it may bring to your remembrance, and induce you to imitate, all the purest virtues and uncommon endowments of the dear original. I shall leave you in your present situation one year longer, by which time I hope you will be complete in your education. In the mean time, do not let this slip from your memory, that my happiness or misery depends on your conduct, industry, and attention to your studies. That God may bless you, and give you patience cheerfully to tread the rocky paths of science, is my sincere wish."

The errors of Marcus were the consequence of bad habits and customs he had imbibed in his infancy, and not from any natural depravity of the heart. He had no sooner read this letter than he found every sentiment of virtue awakening in his bosom. He burst into a flood of tears, and frequently interrupted by sighs, exclaimed, "O my dear father! my dear father! have I then lost you for ever?" He earnestly gazed on the miniature picture of his parent, pressed it to his bosom, while he, in faultering accents, uttered these words: – "Thou dear author of my existence, how unworthy am I to be called your son! How shamefully have I abused your tenderness, in idling that time away for which you have paid so dearly! But let me hope that reformation will not come too late."

He passed that night in sorrow and contrition, he bedewed his pillow with tears, and sleep was a stranger to his troubled mind. If he happened but to slumber, he suddenly started, imagining he saw the image of his deceased father standing before him in the dreadful garb of death, and thus reproaching him: "Ungenerous youth! is this the manner in which you ought to return my past cares and attention to your interest? – Thou idle sloven, thou ungenerous son! awaken from your state of indolence, and properly improve the little time you have left for the pursuit of science, which you have hitherto so shamefully neglected; and do not, by an unpardonable inattention to yourself, shorten the few remaining days of your dear mother's life!"

I hope my youthful readers are well convinced that there are no such things as ghosts or apparitions, and that they are nothing more than the effects of a troubled imagination. Such was the ease with Marcus, who fancied he saw his father on the one hand, reproaching him for what was past, and his dear mother on the other, exhorting him to better conduct in future. "What a wretch I am," said he to himself, "to act in this manner! When my time for leaving this academy shall arrive, and I must appear before my mother to give proofs of my literary knowledge, what must be the pangs of her maternal heart, when she shall find that the child, on whom she had placed all the prospects of her future felicity, is an ungrateful, ignorant, and unworthy wretch? She will call on the friendly hand of Death to take her from such an insupportable scene!"

Poor Marcus thus lay rolling on the thorny bed of trouble and anxiety, till, at last, totally overcome by grief and despair, he fell asleep. As soon as he awoke in the morning, on his bended knees he implored the assistance of the Almighty in the reformation he intended to make in his conduct. He instantly hastened to his master's chamber, and there threw himself on his knees before him: "Behold, sir," said he, "prostrate before you, an ungrateful wretch, who has hitherto treated, with the most shameful indifference, all the wise lessons you would have bestowed on him. Yet, unworthy as I may be of your future instructions, let me implore you, for the sake of my dear mother, whose life I fear I shall shorten by my unworthy conduct, to extend your bounty to me once more, and I will endeavour to convince you, by my future conduct, how much ashamed I am of what is past."

His master raised him up, took him in his arms, and tenderly embracing him, they shed tears together. "My dear Marcus," said his master to him, "to be sensible of your errors is half way to reformation. You have, it is true, squandered away, in the pursuit of trifles, two years that ought to have been employed in the acquisition of useful science. You have still one year left, and, as you appear to stand self-convicted of the imprudence of your past conduct, I would not wish to drive you to despair; but to encourage you by saying, that, by proper application, great things may be done, even in the remaining year. Begin this moment, lose no more time, and may God give you resolution to proceed suitably to my wishes, and your own interest."

Marcus seized the hand of his master, tenderly kissed it, and then retired, being totally unable to utter a single word. He instantly ran to his chamber, there eased his heart in a flood of tears, and then set about the necessary business. He applied himself so closely to his books, and made therein so rapid a progress, as astonished his master and teachers. His companions, who had hitherto treated him with the utmost contempt, began to love and revere him. Marcus, thus encouraged by the different treatment he now received, pursued his studies with the utmost attention and alacrity. He was no longer despised for his wickedness and perversity, but admired and caressed for the affability and goodness of his temper. Formerly no severities or entreaties could make him attend to his studies; but they were now forced to use some degree of violence to make him partake of necessary recreations.

In this manner his last twelvemonth passed on, and he viewed with regret the approach of that time when he was to leave school, and engage in pursuits of a different nature. He was hereafter to study men, and endeavour to acquire a knowledge of the latent motions of the human heart, perhaps the most difficult study in the commerce of this world.

The time allowed him being expired, his mother ordered him up to London. By the end of the year, the change he had made in his conduct so operated in his favour, that his departure was regretted by all his school companions; and, when he took his leave, sorrow visibly appeared in the countenance of every one. It was a pleasing reflection to his master, that a youth he had given up as lost, should on a sudden reform, and, in the circle of one year, make as great a progress in the sciences as the generality of youths do in three.

The journey afforded Marcus the most pleasing reflections; for he had now nothing to apprehend from the interrogatories of his mother, with respect to his education; and though he sincerely lamented the two years he had lost, yet he could not but feel the effects of the happy employment of the third.

His schoolmaster had before acquainted his mother of the happy reformation in her son, and the great improvement he had made since the death of his father. These considerations, added to the natural feelings of a mother, made their meeting a scene of the most tender delights and heartfelt transports.

Marcus lost only a week in paying visits to his relations and friends, and then applied himself to his father's business with unremitted assiduity and the most flattering success. In a few years he took an amiable partner for life, with whom he lived happy and contented. He was blessed with dutiful children, to whom he would frequently give this lesson: "My dear children, do not forget, that time once lost is not to be recalled; and that those hours you trifle away in your early years, you will severely lament the loss of when you shall have reached the age of maturity. An old age of ignorance is despicable indeed; for he who has neglected properly to cultivate his mind in his youth, will embitter the evening of his life with self-accusations and reproaches. Happy the youth who, having toiled hard during spring in the garden of science, sits down in the autumn at leisure to regale on the fruits of his labour!"