The Blossoms of Morality. R. Johnson Stafford

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