Section I

IT was yet deep Night, as I imagin'd, when I wak'd with the noise of People up in the House. I call'd to know the matter; and was told that Theocles had a little before parted with his Friends; after which he went out to take his Morning-Walk, but wou'd return, they thought, pretty soon: For so he had left word; and that no-body in the mean time shou'd disturb my Rest.

This was Disturbance sufficient, when I heard it. I presently got up; and finding it light enough to see the Hill, which was at a little distance from the House, I soon got thither; and at the foot of it, overtook Theocles; to whom I complain'd of his Unkindness. For I was not certainly, I told him, so effeminate and weak a Friend, as to deserve that he shou'd treat me like a Woman: Nor had I shown such an Aversion to his Manners or Conversation, as to be thought fitter for the dull Luxury of a soft Bed and Ease, than for Business, Recreation, or Study with an early Friend. He had no other way therefore of making me amends, than by allowing me henceforward to be a Party with him in his serious Thoughts, as he saw I was resolv'd to be in his Hours and Exercises of this sort.

You have forgot then, said Theocles, the Assignation you had yesterday with the Silvan Nymphs at this Place and Hour? No, truly, said I: For, as you see, I am come punctually to the Place appointed. But I never expected you shou'd have come hither without me. Nay then, said Theocles, there's hope you may in time become a Lover with me: for you already begin to shew Jealousy. How little did I think these Nymphs cou'd raise that Passion in you? Truly, said I, for the Nymphs you mention, I know little of 'em as yet. My Jealousy and Love regard You only. I was afraid you had a mind to escape me. But now that I am again in possession of you, I want no Nymph to make me happy here; unless it were perhaps to join Forces against you, in the manner your belov'd Poet makes the Nymph AEgle join with his two Youths, in forcing the God Silenus to sing to 'em.

I dare trust your Gallantry, reply'd Theocles, that if you had such fair Company as you speak of, you wou'd otherwise bestow your time than in an Adventure of Philosophy.—But do you expect I shou'd imitate the Poet's God you mention'd, and sing The Rise of Things from Atoms; the Birth of Order from Confusion; and the Origin of Union, Harmony, and Concord, from the sole Powers of Chaos, and blind Chance? The Song indeed was fitted to the God. For what cou'd better sute his jolly Character, than such a drunken Creation; which he lov'd often to celebrate, by acting it to the life? But even this Song was too harmonious for the Night's Debauch. Well has our Poet made it of the Morning, when the God was fresh: For hardly shou'd we be brought ever to believe that such harmonious Numbers cou'd arise from a mere Chaos of the Mind. But we must hear our Poet speaking in the Mouth of some soberer Demi-God or Hero. He then presents us with a different Principle of Things, and in a more proper Order of Precedency, gives Thought the upper hand. He makes Mind originally to have govern'd Body; not Body Mind: For this had been a Chaos everlasting, and must have kept all things in a Chaos-State to this day, and for ever, had it ever been. But,

The active Mind, infus'd thro' all the Space,
Unites and mingles with the mighty Mass:
Hence Men and Beasts.—

Here, Philocles, we shall find our sovereign Genius; if we can charm the Genius of the Place (more chaste and sober than your Silenus ) to inspire us with a truer Song of Nature, teach us some celestial Hymn, and make us feel Divinity present in these solemn Places of Retreat.

Haste then, I conjure you, said I, good Theocles, and stop not one moment for any Ceremony or Rite. For well I see, methinks, that without any such Preparation, some Divinity has approach'd us, and already moves in you. We are come to the sacred Groves of the Hamadryads, which formerly were said to render Oracles. We are on the most beautiful part of the Hill; and the Sun, now ready to rise, draws off the Curtain of Night, and shews us the open Scene of Nature in the Plains below. Begin: For now I know you are full of those Divine Thoughts which meet you ever in this Solitude. Give 'em but Voice and Accents: You may be still as much alone as you are us'd, and take no more notice of me than if I were absent.

JUST as I had said this, he turn'd away his Eyes from me, musing a-while by himself: and soon afterwards, stretching out his Hand, as pointing to the Objects round him, he began.

Meditation. Ye Fields and Woods, my Refuge from the toilsome World of Business, receive me in your quiet Sanctuarys, and favour my Retreat and thoughtful Solitude.—Ye verdant Plains, how gladly I salute ye!—Hail all ye blissful Mansions! Known Seats! Delightful Prospects! Majestick Beautys of this Earth, and all ye Rural Powers and Graces!—Bless'd be ye chaste Abodes of happiest Mortals, who here in peaceful Innocence enjoy a Life un-envy'd, tho Divine; whilst with its bless'd Tranquillity it affords a happy Leisure and Retreat for Man; who, made for Contemplation, and to search his own and other Natures, may here best meditate the Cause of Things; and plac'd amidst the various Scenes of Nature, may nearer view her Works.

O glorious Nature! supremely Fair, and sovereignly Good! All-loving and All-lovely, All-divine! Whose Looks are so becoming, and of such infinite Grace; whose Study brings such Wisdom, and whose Contemplation such Delight; whose every single Work affords an ampler Scene, and is a nobler Spectacle than all which ever Art presented!—O mighty Nature! Wise Substitute of Providence! impower'd Creatress! Or Thou impowering Deity, supreme Creator! Thee I invoke, and Thee alone adore. To thee this Solitude, this Place, these Rural Meditations are sacred; whilst thus inspir'd with Harmony of Thought, tho unconfin'd by Words, and in loose Numbers, I sing of Nature's Order in created Beings, and celebrate the Beautys which resolve in Thee, the Source and Principle of all Beauty and Perfection.

Thy Being is boundless, unsearchable, impenetrable. In thy Immensity all Thought is lost; Fancy gives o'er its Flight: and weary'd Imagination spends it-self in vain; finding no Coast nor Limit of this Ocean, nor in the widest Tract thro' which it soars, one Point yet nearer the Circumference than the first Center whence it parted.—Thus having oft essay'd, thus sally'd forth into the wide Expanse, when I return again within my-self, struck with the Sense of this so narrow Being, and of the Fulness of that Immense-one; I dare no more behold the amazing Depths, nor sound the Abyss of Deity. —

Yet since by Thee (O Sovereign Mind! ) I have been form'd such as I am, intelligent and rational; since the peculiar Dignity of my Nature is to know and contemplate Thee; permit that with due freedom I exert those Facultys with which thou hast adorn'd me. Bear with my ventrous and bold Approach. And since nor vain Curiosity, nor fond Conceit, nor Love of ought save Thee alone, inspires me with such Thoughts as these, be thou my Assistant, and guide me in this Pursuit; whilst I venture thus to tread the Labyrinth of wide Nature, and endeavour to trace thee in thy Works.—

HERE he stop'd short, and starting, as out of a Dream; Now, Philocles, said he, inform me, How have I appear'd to you in my Fit? Seem'd it a sensible kind of Madness, like those Transports which are permitted to our Poets? or was it downright Raving?

I only wish, said I, that you had been a little stronger in your Transport, to have proceeded as you began, without ever minding me. For I was beginning to see Wonders in that Nature you taught me, and was coming to know the Hand of your divine Artificer. But if you stop here, I shall lose the Enjoyment of the pleasing Vision. And already I begin to find a thousand Difficultys in fansying such a Universal Genius as you describe.

Unity. Why, said he, is there any difficulty in fansying the Universe to be One Intire Thing? Can one otherwise think of it, by what is visible, than that All hangs together, as of a Piece? Grant it: And what follows? Only this; that if it may indeed be said of the World, 'That it is simply One,' there shou'd be something belonging to it which makes it One. As how? No otherwise than as you may observe in every thing. For to instance in what we see before us; I know you look upon the Trees of this vast Wood to be different from one another: And this tall Oak, the noblest of the Company, as it is by it-self a different thing from all its Fellows of the Wood, so with its own Wood of numerous spreading Branches (which seem so many different Trees ) 'tis still, I suppose, one and the self-same Tree. Now shou'd you, as a mere Caviller, and not as a fair Sceptick, tell me that if a Figure of Wax, or any other Matter, were cast in the exact Shape and Colours of this Tree, and temper'd, if possible, to the same kind of Substance, it might therefore possibly be a real Tree of the same Kind or Species; I wou'd have done with you, and reason no longer. But if you question'd me fairly, and desir'd I shou'd satisfy you what I thought it was which made this Oneness or Sameness in the Tree or any other Plant; or by what it differ'd from the waxen Figure, or from any such Figure accidentally made, either in the Clouds, or on the Sand by the Sea-shore; I shou'd tell you, that neither the Wax, nor Sand, nor Cloud thus piec'd together by our Hand or Fancy, had any real relation within themselves, or had any Nature by which they corresponded any more in that near Situation of Parts, than if scatter'd ever so far asunder. But this I shou'd affirm, 'That wherever there was such a Sympathizing of Parts, as we saw here, in our real Tree; Wherever there was such a plain Concurrence in one common End, and to the Support, Nourishment, and Propagation of so fair a Form; we cou'd not be mistaken in saying there was a peculiar Nature belonging to this Form, and common to it with others of the same kind.' By virtue of this, our Tree is a real Tree; lives, flourishes, and is still One and the same; even when by Vegetation and change of Substance, not one Particle in it remains the same.

At this rate indeed, said I, you have found a way to make very adorable Places of these Silvan Habitations. For besides the living Genius of each Place, the Woods too, which, by your account, are animated, have their Hamadryads, no doubt, and the Springs and Rivulets their Nymphs in store belonging to 'em: And these too, by what I can apprehend, of immaterial and immortal Substances.

We injure 'em then, reply'd Theocles, to say they belong to these Trees; and not rather these Trees to them. But as for their Immortality, let them look to it themselves. I only know, that both theirs and all other Natures must for their Duration depend alone on that Nature on which the World depends: And that every Genius else must be subordinate to that One good Genius, whom I wou'd willingly persuade you to think belonging to this World, according to our present way of speaking.

Leaving, therefore, these Trees, continu'd he, to personate themselves the best they can, Personality. let us examine this thing of Personality between you and me; and consider how you, Philocles, are You, and I'm My-self. For that there is a Sympathy of Parts in these Figures of ours, Self. other than in those of Marble form'd by a Phidias or Praxiteles; Sense, I believe, will teach us. And yet that our own Marble, or Stuff, (whate'er it be, of which we are compos'd) wears out in seven, or, at the longest, in twice seven Years, the meanest Anatomist can tell us. Now where, I beseech you, will that same One be found at last, supposing it to lie in the Stuff it-self, or any part of it? For when that is wholly spent, and not one Particle of it left, we are Our-selves still as much as before.

What you Philosophers are, reply'd I, may be hard perhaps to determine: But for the rest of Mankind, I dare affirm, that few are so long themselves as half seven Years. 'Tis good fortune if a Man be one and the same only for a day or two: A Year makes more Revolutions than can be number'd.

True, said he: But tho this may happen to a Man, and chiefly to one whose contrary Vices set him at odds so often with himself; yet when he comes to suffer, or be punish'd for those Vices, he finds himself, if I mistake not, still one and the same. And you (Philocles! ) who, tho you disown Philosophy, are yet so true a Proselyte to Pyrrhonism; shou'd you at last, feeling the Power of the Genius I preach, be wrought upon to own the divine Hypothesis, Identity. and from this new Turn of Thought admit a total Change in all your Principles and Opinions; yet wou'd you be still the self-same Philocles: tho better yet, if you will take my Judgment, than the present-one, as much as I love and value him. You see therefore, there is a strange Simplicity in this You and Me, that in reality they shou'd be still one and the same, when neither one Atom of Body, one Passion, nor one Thought remains the same. And for that poor Endeavour of making out this Sameness or Identity of Being, from some self-same Matter, or Particle of Matter, Matter. suppos'd to remain with us when all besides is chang'd; this is by so much the more contemptible, as that Matter it-self is not really capable of such Simplicity. For I dare answer, you will allow this You and Me to be each of us simply and individually One, better than you can allow the same to any thing of mere Matter; unless, quitting your Inclination for Scepticism, you fall so in love with the Notion of an Atom, as to find it full as intelligible and certain to you, as that You are Your-self.

But whatever, continu'd Theocles, be suppos'd of uncompounded Matter, (a Thing, at best, pretty difficult to conceive) yet being compounded, Form. and put together in a certain number of such Parts as unite and conspire in these Frames of ours, and others like them; if it can present us with so many innumerable Instances of particular Forms, who share this simple Principle, by which they are really One, live, act, and have a Nature or Genius peculiar to themselves, A Genius. and provident for their own Welfare; how shall we at the same time overlook this in the Whole, and deny the Great and General-One of the World? How can we be so unnatural as to disown divine Nature, The Supreme One. our common Parent, and refuse to recognize the universal and sovereign Genius?

Sovereigns, said I, require no Notice to be taken of 'em, when they pass incognito, nor any Homage where they appear not in due Form. We may even have reason to presume they shou'd be displeas'd with us for being too officious, in endeavouring to discover them, when they keep themselves either wholly invisible, or in very dark disguise. As for the Notice we take of these invisible Powers in the common way of our Religion, we have our visible Sovereigns to answer for us. Our lawful Superiors teach us what we are to own, and to perform, in Worship. And we are dutiful in complying with them, and following their Example. But in a philosophical way, I find no warrant for our being such earnest Recognizers of a controverted Title. However it be, you must allow one at least to understand the Controversy, and know the Nature of these Powers describ'd. May one not inquire, What Substances they are of? Substance Material, Immaterial. whether material or immaterial?

May one not, on the other hand, reply'd Theocles, inquire as well, What Substance, or which of these two Substances you count your real and proper Self. Or wou'd you rather be no Substance, but chuse to call your-self a Mode or Accident?

Truly, said I, as accidental as my Life may be, or as that random Humour is, which governs it; I know nothing, after all, so real or substantial as My-self. Therefore if there be that Thing you call a Substance, I take for granted I am one. But for any thing further relating to this Question, you know my Sceptick Principles: I determine neither way.

Allow me then, reply'd he (good Philocles! ) the same Privilege of Scepticism in this respect; since it concerns not the Affair before us, Which way we determine, or Whether we come to any Determination at all in this point. For be the Difficulty ever so great; it stands the same, you may perceive, against your own Being, as against that which I am pretending to convince you of. You may raise what Objections you please on either hand; and your Dilemma may be of notable force against the manner of such a supreme Being's Existence. But after you have done all, you will bring the same Dilemma home to you, and be at a loss still about Your-self. Metaphysicks. When you have argu'd ever so long upon these Metaphysical Points of Mode and Substance, and have philosophically concluded from the Difficultys of each Hypothesis, That there cannot be in Nature such a Universal-One as This; you must conclude, A Mind. from the same Reasons, That there cannot be any such particular One as Your-self. But that there is actually such a one as this latter, your own Mind, 'tis hop'd, may satisfy you. And of this Mind 'tis enough to say, That it is something which acts upon a Body, and has something passive under it, and subject to it: That it has not only Body or mere Matter for its Subject, but in some respect even it-self too, and what proceeds from it: That it superintends and manages its own Imaginations, Appearances, Fancys; correcting, working, and modelling these, as it finds good; and adorning and accomplishing, the best it can, this composite Order of Body and Understanding. Such a Mind and governing Part, I know there is somewhere in the World. Let Pyrrho, by the help of such another, contradict me, if he pleases. We have our several Understandings and Thoughts, Particular Minds. however we came by 'em. Each understands and thinks the best he can for his own purpose: He for Himself; I for another Self. And who, I beseech you, for the Whole? —No-one? Nothing at all?—The World, perhaps, Mind of the Whole. you suppose to be mere Body: A Mass of modify'd Matter. The Bodys of Men are part therefore of this Body. The Imaginations, Sensations, Apprehensions of Men are included in this Body, and inherent in it, produc'd out of it, and resum'd again into it; tho the Body, it seems, never dreams of it! The World it-self is never the wiser for all the Wit and Wisdom it breeds! It has no Apprehension at all of what is doing; no Thought kept to it-self, for its own proper use, or purpose; not a single Imagination or Reflection, by which to discover or be conscious of the manifold Imaginations and Inventions which it sets a-foot, and deals abroad with such an open hand! The goodly Bulk so prolifick, kind, and yielding for every-one else, has nothing left at last for its own share; having unhappily lavish'd all away!—By what Chance I wou'd fain understand. How? or by what necessity?—Who gives the Law?—Who orders and distributes thus? Nature, say you. Nature. And what is Nature? Is it Sense? Is it a Person? Has she Reason or Understanding? No. Who then understands for her, or is interested or concern'd in her behalf? No-one; not a Soul: But Every one for himself.

Come on then. Let us hear further, Is not this Nature still a Self? Or, tell me, I beseech you, How are You one? By what Token? Or by virtue of What? By a Principle which joins certain Parts, and which thinks and acts consonantly for the Use and Purpose of those Parts. Say, therefore, What is your whole System a Part of? Or is it, indeed, no Part, but a Whole, by it-self, absolute, independent, and unrelated to any thing besides? If it be indeed a Part, and really related; to what else, I beseech you, than to the Whole of Nature? Is there then such a uniting Principle in Nature? If so, Nature subject to a Mind. how are you then a Self, and Nature not so? How have you something to understand and act for you, and Nature, who gave this Understanding, nothing at all to understand for her, advise her, or help her out (poor Being!) on any occasion, whatever Necessity she may be in? Has the World such ill fortune in the main? Are there so many particular understanding active Principles every where? And is there Nothing, at last, which thinks, acts, or understands for All? Nothing which administers or looks after All?

Contrary Belief. No (says one of a modern Hypothesis) for the World was from Eternity, as you see it; and is no more than barely what you see: Matter modify'd; a Lump in motion, with here and there a Thought, or scatter'd Portion of dissoluble Intelligence.—No (says one of an antienter Hypothesis) for the World was once without any Intelligence or Thought at all; Mere Matter, Chaos, Two sorts. and a Play of Atoms; till Thought, by chance, came into play, and made up a Harmony which was never design'd, or thought of.—Admirable Conceit!—Believe it who can. Faith of Atheism. For my own share (thank Providence) I have a Mind in my possession, which serves, such as it is, to keep my Body and its Affections, my Passions, Appetites, Imaginations, Fancys, and the rest, in tolerable Harmony and Order. But the Order of the Universe, I am persuaded still, is much the better of the two. Let Epicurus, if he please, think his the better; and believing no Genius or Wisdom above his own, inform us by what Chance 'twas dealt him, and how Atoms came to be so wise.

In fine, continu'd Theocles (raising his Voice and Action) being thus, even by Scepticism it-self, convinc'd the more still of my own Being, and of this Self of mine, Faith of Theism. That 'tis a real Self, drawn out, and copy'd from another principal and original Self (the Great-one of the World) I endeavour to be really one with it, and conformable to it, as far as I am able. I consider, That as there is one general Mass, one Body of the Whole; so to this Body there is an Order, to this Order a Mind: That to this general Mind each particular-one must have relation; as being of like Substance, (as much as we can understand of Substance) alike active upon Body, original to Motion and Order; alike simple, uncompounded, individual; of like Energy, Effect, and Operation; and more like still, if it co-operates with it to general Good, and strives to will according to the best of Wills. So that it cannot surely but seem natural, That the particular Mind shou'd seek its Happiness in conformity with the general-one, and endeavour to resemble it in its highest Simplicity and Excellence.

THEREFORE, Now, said I, good Theocles, be once again the Enthusiast; and let me hear a-new that divine Song with which I was lately charm'd. I am already got over my Qualm, and begin better than ever to fansy such a Nature as you speak of; insomuch that I find myself mightily in its Interest, and concern'd that all shou'd go happily and well with it. Tho at the rate it often runs, I can scarce help being in some pain on its account.

Energy of Nature. Fear not, my Friend, reply'd he. For know that every particular Nature certainly and constantly produces what is good to it-self; unless something foreign disturbs or hinders it, either by over-powering and corrupting it within, or by Violence from without. Thus Nature in the Patient struggles to the last, and strives to throw off the Distemper. Thus even in these Plants we see round us, every particular Nature thrives, and attains its Perfection, if nothing from without obstructs it, nor any thing foreign has already impair'd or wounded it: And even in this case, it does its utmost still to redeem it-self. What are all Weaknesses, Distempers. Distortions, Sicknesses, imperfect Births, and the seeming Contradictions and Perversitys of Nature, other than of this sort? And how ignorant must one be of all natural Causes and Operations, to think that any of these Disorders happen by a Miscarriage of the particular Nature, and not by the Force of some foreign Nature which over-powers it? If therefore every particular Nature be thus constantly and unerringly true to it-self, and certain to produce only what is good for it-self, and conducing to its own right State; shall not the general-one, The Nature of the Whole, do full as much? Shall That alone miscarry or fail? Or is there any thing foreign, which shou'd at any time do violence upon it, or force it out of its natural way? If not, General Good. then all it produces is to its own advantage and good; the Good of All in general: And what is for the good of all in general, is Just and Good. 'Tis so, said I, I confess.

Then you ought to rest satisfy'd, reply'd he; and not only so, but be pleas'd and rejoice at what happens, knowing whence it comes, and to what Perfection it contributes. Resignation.

BLESS me! said I, Theocles, into what a Superstition are you like to lead me! I thought it heretofore the Mark of a superstitious Mind, to search for Providence in the common Accidents of Life, and ascribe to the Divine Power those common Disasters and Calamitys which Nature has entail'd on Mankind. But now, I find, I must place all in general to one Account; and viewing things thro' a kind of Magical Glass, I am to see the worst of Ills transform'd to Good, and admire equally whatever comes from one and the same perfect Hand.—But no matter; I can surmount all. Go on, Theocles, and let me advise you in my own behalf, that since you have rekindled me, you do not by delaying give me time to cool again.

I wou'd have you know, reply'd he, I scorn to take the advantage of a warm Fit, and be beholden to Temper or Imagination for gaining me your Assent. Therefore ere I go yet a step farther, I am resolv'd to enter again into cool Reason with you; and ask, If you admit for Proof what I advanc'd yesterday upon that head, Of a Universal UNION, Principle of Order. Coherence, or Sympathizing of Things?

By Force of Probability, said I, you overcame me. Being convinc'd of a Consent and Correspondence in all we saw of Things, I consider'd it as unreasonable not to allow the same thro'out!

Unreasonable indeed! reply'd he. For in the infinite Residue, were there no Principle of Union; it wou'd seem next to impossible, that things within our Sphere shou'd be consistent, and keep their Order. Why universal. For what was infinite, wou'd be predominant. It seems so.

Tell me then, said he, after this Union own'd, how you can refuse to allow the name of Demonstration to the remaining Arguments, which establish the Government of a perfect Mind.

Phaenomena of Ill. Your Solutions, said I, of the ill Appearances are not perfect enough to pass for Demonstration. And whatever seems vitious or imperfect in the Creation, puts a stop to further Conclusions, till the thing be solv'd.

Did you not then, said he, agree with me, when I aver'd that the Appearances must of necessity stand as they are, and things seem altogether as imperfect, even on the Concession of a perfect Supreme Mind existent? I did so.

And is not the same Reason good still? viz. 'That in an infinity of Things, mutually relative, a Mind which sees not infinitely, can see nothing fully; Whence. and must therefore frequently see that as imperfect, which in it-self is really perfect.' The Reason is still good.

Are the Appearances, then, any Objection to our Hypothesis? None, whilst they remain Appearances only.

Can you then prove them to be any more? For if you cannot, you prove nothing. And that it lies on you to prove, you plainly see: since the Appearances do not only agree with the Hypothesis, but are a necessary Consequence from it. To bid me prove, therefore, in this case, is, in a manner, the same as to bid me be infinite. For nothing beside what is infinite can see infinite Connexions.

The Presumption, I must confess, said I, by this reckoning, is wholly on your side. Yet still this is only Presumption.

Demonstration. Take Demonstration then, said he, if you can endure I shou'd reason thus abstractedly and drily. The Appearances of Ill, you say, are not necessarily that Ill they represent to you. I own it.

Therefore what they represent may possibly be Good. It may.

And therefore there may possibly be no real Ill in things: but all may be perfectly concurrent to one Interest; the Interest of that Universal One. It may be so.

Why, then, if it may be so, (be not surpriz'd) 'It follows that it must be so'; on the account of that great Unit, and simple Self-principle, which you have granted in the Whole. For whatever is possible in the Whole, the Nature or Mind of the Whole will put in execution for the Whole's Good: And if it be possible to exclude Ill, it will exclude it. Therefore since notwithstanding the Appearances, 'tis possible that Ill may actually be excluded; count upon it, 'That actually it is excluded.' For nothing merely passive can oppose this universally active Principle. If any thing active oppose it, 'tis another Principle. Allow it.Manichaeism.

'Tis impossible. For were there in Nature Two or more Principles, either they must agree, or not. If they agree not, all must be Confusion, till one be predominant. If they agree, there must be some natural Reason for their Agreement; and this natural Reason cannot be from Chance, but from some particular Design, Contrivance, or Thought: which brings us up again to One Principle, and makes the other two to be subordinate. And thus when we have compar'd each of the Three Opinions, viz. That there is no designing active Principle; Conclusion. That there is more than one; or, That finally there is but One ; we shall perceive, that the only consistent Opinion is the last. And since one or other of these Opinions must of necessity be true; what can we determine, other than that the last is, and must be so, demonstrably? if it be Demonstration That in Three Opinions, One of which must necessarily be true, Two being plainly absurd, the Third must be the Truth.

Enough, said I, Theocles. My Doubts are vanish'd. Malice and Chance (vain Phantoms!) have yielded to that all-prevalent Wisdom which you have establish'd. You are Conqueror in the cool way of Reason, and may with Honour now grow warm again, in your poetick Vein. Return therefore, I intreat you, once more, to that Perfection of Being; and address your-self to it as before, on our Approaches to these Silvan Scenes, where first it seem'd to inspire you. I shall now no longer be in danger of imagining either Magick or Superstition in the case; since you invoke no other Power than that single One, which seems so natural.

THUS I continue then, said Theocles, addressing my-self, as you wou'd have me, to that Guardian-Deity and Inspirer, whom we are to imagine present here; Meditation. but not here only. For, O mighty Genius! Sole-animating and inspiring Power! Author and Subject of these Thoughts! Thy Influence is universal: and in all Things, thou art inmost. From Thee depend their secret Springs of Action. Thou mov'st them with an irresistible unweary'd Force, by sacred and inviolable Laws, fram'd for the Good of each particular Being; as best may sute with the Perfection, Life, and Vigour of the Whole. The vital Principle is widely shar'd, and infinitely vary'd: dispers'd thro'out; nowhere extinct. All lives; and by Succession still revives. The temporary Beings quit their borrow'd Forms, and yield their elementary Substance to New-Comers. Call'd, in their several turns, to Life, they view the Light, and viewing pass; that others too may be Spectators of the goodly Scene, and greater numbers still enjoy the Privilege of Nature. Munificent and Great, she imparts her-self to most; and makes the Subjects of her Bounty infinite. Nought stays her hastning Hand. No Time nor Substance is lost or un-improv'd. New Forms arise: and when the old dissolve, the Matter whence they were compos'd is not left useless, but wrought with equal Management and Art, even in Corruption, Nature's seeming Waste, and vile Abhorrence. The abject State appears merely as the Way or Passage to some better. But cou'd we nearly view it, and with Indifference, remote from the Antipathy of Sense; we then perhaps shou'd highest raise our Admiration: convinc'd that even the Way it-self was equal to the End. Nor can we judg less favourably of that consummate Art exhibited thro' all the Works of Nature; since our weak Eyes, help'd by mechanick Art, discover in these Works a hidden Scene of Wonders; Worlds within Worlds, of infinite Minuteness, tho as to Art still equal to the greatest, and pregnant with more Wonders than the most discerning Sense, join'd with the greatest Art, or the acutest Reason, can penetrate or unfold.

But 'tis in vain for us to search the bulky Mass of Matter: seeking to know its Nature; how great the Whole it-self, or even how small its Parts.

If knowing only some of the Rules of Motion, we seek to trace it further, 'tis in vain we follow it into the Bodys it has reach'd. Our tardy Apprehensions fail us, and can reach nothing beyond the Body it-self, thro' which it is diffus'd. Wonderful Being, (if we may call it so) which Bodys never receive, except from others which lose it; nor ever lose, unless by imparting it to others. Even without Change of Place it has its Force: And Bodys big with Motion labour to move, yet stir not; whilst they express an Energy beyond our Comprehension.

In vain too we pursue that Phantom Time, too small, and yet too mighty for our Grasp; when shrinking to a narrow point, it scapes our Hold, or mocks our scanty Thought by swelling to Eternity, an Object unproportion'd to our Capacity, as is thy Being, O thou Antient Cause! older than Time, yet young with fresh Eternity.

In vain we try to fathom the Abyss of Space, the Seat of thy extensive Being; of which no Place is empty, no Void which is not full.

In vain we labour to understand that Principle of Sense and Thought, which seeming in us to depend so much on Motion, yet differs so much from it, and from Matter it-self, as not to suffer us to conceive how Thought can more result from this, than this arise from Thought. But Thought we own pre-eminent, and confess the reallest of Beings; the only Existence of which we are made sure, by being conscious. All else may be only Dream and Shadow. All which even Sense suggests may be deceitful. The Sense it-self remains still; Reason subsists; and Thought maintains its Eldership of Being. Thus are we in a manner conscious of that original and eternally existent Thought, whence we derive our own. And thus the Assurance we have of the Existence of Beings above our Sense, and of Thee, (the great Exemplar of thy Works) comes from Thee, the All-True, and Perfect, who hast thus communicated thy-self more immediately to us, so as in some manner to inhabit within our Souls; Thou who art Original Soul, diffusive, vital in all, inspiriting the Whole.

All Nature's Wonders serve to excite and perfect this Idea of their Author. 'Tis here he suffers us to see, and even converse with him, in a manner sutable to our Frailty. How glorious is it to contemplate him, in this noblest of his Works apparent to us, The System of the bigger World!—

HERE I must own, 'twas no small Comfort to me, to find that, as our Meditation turn'd, we were likely to get clear of an entangling abstruse Philosophy. I was in hopes Theocles, as he proceeded, might stick closer to Nature, since he was now come upon the Borders of our World. And here I wou'd willingly have welcom'd him, had I thought it safe at present to venture the least Interruption.

Besides the neighbouring Planets, (continu'd he, in his rapturous Strain) what Multitudes of fix'd Stars did we see sparkle, not an hour ago, in the clear Night, which yet had hardly yielded to the Day? How many others are discover'd by the help of Art? Yet how many remain still, beyond the reach of our Discovery! Crouded as they seem, their Distance from each other is as unmeasurable by Art, as is the Distance between them and us. Whence we are naturally taught the Immensity of that Being, who thro' these immense Spaces has dispos'd such an Infinite of Bodys, belonging each (as we may well presume) to Systems as compleat as our own World: Since even the smallest Spark of this bright Galaxy may vie with this our Sun; which shining now full out, gives us new Life, exalts our Spirits, and makes us feel Divinity more present.

Prodigious Orb! Bright Source of vital Heat, and Spring of Day!—Soft Flame, yet how intense, how active! How diffusive, and how vast a Substance; yet how collected thus within it-self, and in a glowing Mass confin'd to the Center of this planetary World!—Mighty Being! Brightest Image, and Representative of the Almighty! Supreme of the corporeal World! Unperishing in Grace, and of undecaying Youth! Fair, beautiful, and hardly mortal Creature! By what secret ways dost thou receive the Supplies which maintain Thee still in such unweary'd Vigour, and un-exhausted Glory; notwithstanding those eternally emitted Streams, and that continual Expence of vital Treasures, which inlighten and invigorate the surrounding Winds?—

Around him all the Planets, with this our Earth, single, or with Attendants, continually move; seeking to receive the Blessing of his Light, and lively Warmth! Towards him they seem to tend with prone descent, as to their Center; but happily controul'd still by another Impulse, they keep their heavenly Order; and in just Numbers, and exactest Measure, go the eternal Rounds.

But, O thou who art the Author and Modifier of these various Motions! O sovereign and sole Mover, by whose high Art the rolling Spheres are govern'd, and these stupendous Bodys of our World hold their unrelenting Courses! O wise OEconomist, and powerful Chief, whom all the Elements and Powers of Nature serve! How hast thou animated these moving Worlds? What Spirit or Soul infus'd? What Biass fix'd? Or how encompass'd them in liquid AEther, driving them as with the Breath of living Winds, thy active and unweary'd Ministers in this intricate and mighty Work?

Thus powerfully are the Systems held intire, and kept from fatal interfering. Thus is our ponderous Globe directed in its annual Course; daily revolving on its own Center: whilst the obsequious Moon with double Labour, monthly surrounding this our bigger Orb, attends the Motion of her Sister-Planet, and pays in common her circular Homage to the Sun.

Yet is this Mansion-Globe, this Man-Container, of a much narrower compass even than other its Fellow-Wanderers of our System. How narrow then must it appear, compar'd with the capacious System of its own Sun? And how narrow, or as nothing, in respect of those innumerable Systems of other apparent Suns? Yet how immense a Body it seems, compar'd with ours of human Form, a borrow'd Remnant of its variable and oft-converted Surface? tho animated with a sublime Celestial Spirit, by which we have Relation and Tendency to Thee our Heavenly Sire, Center of Souls; to whom these Spirits of ours by Nature tend, as earthly Bodys to their proper Center.—O did they tend as unerringly and constantly!—But Thou alone composest the Disorders of the corporeal World, and from the restless and fighting Elements raisest that peaceful Concord, and conspiring Beauty of the ever-flourishing Creation. Even so canst thou convert these jarring Motions of intelligent Beings, and in due time and manner cause them to find their Rest; making them contribute to the Good and Perfection of the Universe, thy all-good and perfect Work.—

HERE again he broke off, looking on me as if he expected I shou'd speak; which when he found plainly I wou'd not, but continu'd still in a posture of musing Thought: Why Philocles! (said he, with an Air of Wonder) What can this mean, that you shou'd suffer me thus to run on, without the least Interruption? Have you at once given over your scrupulous Philosophy, to let me range thus at pleasure thro' these aerial Spaces and imaginary Regions, where my capricious Fancy or easy Faith has led me? I wou'd have you to consider better, and know, my Philocles, that I had never trusted my-self with you in this Vein of Enthusiasm, had I not rely'd on you to govern it a little better.

I find then, said I, (rouzing my-self from my musing Posture) you expect I shou'd serve you in the same capacity as that Musician, whom an antient Orator made use of at his Elbow, to strike such moving Notes as rais'd him when he was perceiv'd to sink; and calm'd him again, when his impetuous Spirit was transported in too high a Strain.

You imagine right, reply'd Theocles; and therefore I am resolv'd not to go on, till you have promis'd to pull me by the Sleeve when I grow extravagant. Be it so, said I; you have my Promise. But how if instead of rising in my Transports, I shou'd grow flat and tiresom: What Lyre or Instrument wou'd you imploy to raise me?

The Danger, I told him, cou'd hardly be suppos'd to lie on this hand. His Vein was a plentiful one; and his Enthusiasm in no likelihood of failing him. His Subject too, as well as his Numbers, wou'd bear him out. And with the Advantage of the rural Scene around us, his number'd Prose, I thought, supply'd the room of the best Pastoral Song. For in the manner I was now wrought up, 'twas as agreeable to me to hear him, in this kind of Passion, invoke his Stars and Elements, as to hear one of those amorous Shepherds complaining to his Flock, and making the Woods and Rocks resound the Name of Her whom he ador'd.—Begin therefore (continu'd I, still pressing him) Begin a-new, and lead me boldly thro' your Elements. Wherever there is danger, be it on either hand, I promise to give you warning, when I perceive it.

LET us begin then, said he, with this our Element of Earth, which yonder we see cultivated with such Care by the early Swains now working in the Plain below.—Unhappy restless Men, who first disdain'd these peaceful Labours, gentle rural Tasks, perform'd with such Delight! What Pride or what Ambition bred this Scorn? Hence all those fatal Evils of your Race! Enormous Luxury, despising homely Fare, ranges thro' Seas and Lands, rifles the Globe; and Men ingenious to their Misery, work out for themselves the means of heavier Labour, anxious Cares, and Sorrow: Not satisfy'd to turn and manure for their Use the wholesom and beneficial Mould of this their Earth, they dig yet deeper, and seeking out imaginary Wealth, they search its very Entrails.

Here, led by Curiosity, we find Minerals of different Natures, which by their Simplicity discover no less of the Divine Art, than the most compounded of Nature's Works. Some are found capable of surprizing Changes; others as durable, and hard to be destroy'd or chang'd by Fire, or utmost Art. So various are the Subjects of our Contemplation, that even the Study of these inglorious Parts of Nature, in the nether World, is able it-self alone to yield large Matter and Employment for the busiest Spirits of Men, who in the Labour of these Experiments can willingly consume their Lives.—But the noisom poisonous Steams which the Earth breathes from these dark Caverns, where she conceals her Treasures, suffer not prying Mortals to live long in this Search.

How comfortable is it to those who come out hence alive, to breathe a purer Air! to see the rejoicing Light of Day! and tread the fertile Ground! How gladly they contemplate the Surface of the Earth, their Habitation, heated and enliven'd by the Sun, and temper'd by the fresh Air of fanning Breezes! These exercise the resty Plants, and scour the unactive Globe. And when the Sun draws hence thick clouded Steams and Vapours, 'tis only to digest and exalt the unwholesom Particles, and commit 'em to the sprightly Air; which soon imparting its quick and vital Spirit, renders 'em again with improvement to the Earth, in gentle Breathings, or in rich Dews and fruitful Showers. The same Air, moving about the mighty Mass, enters its Pores, impregnating the Whole: And both the Sun and Air conspiring, so animate this Mother-Earth, that tho ever breeding, her Vigour is as great, her Beauty as fresh, and her Looks as charming, as if she newly came out of the forming Hands of her Creator.

How beautiful is the Water among the inferior Earthly Works! Heavy, liquid, and transparent: without the springing Vigour and expansive Force of Air; but not without Activity. Stubborn and un-yielding, when compress'd; but placidly avoiding Force, and bending every way with ready Fluency! Insinuating, it dissolves the lumpish Earth, frees the intangled Bodys, procures their Intercourse, and summons to the Field the keen terrestrial Particles; whole happy Strifes soon ending in strict Union, produce the various Forms which we behold. How vast are the Abysses of the Sea, where this soft Element is stor'd; and whence the Sun and Winds extracting, raise it into Clouds! These soon converted into Rain, water the thirsty Ground, and supply a-fresh the Springs and Rivers; the Comfort of the neighbouring Plains, and sweet Refreshment of all Animals.

But whither shall we trace the Sources of the Light? or in what Ocean comprehend the luminous Matter so wide diffus'd thro' the immense Spaces which it fills? What Seats shall we assign to that fierce Element of Fire, too active to be confin'd within the Compass of the Sun, and not excluded even the Bowels of the heavy Earth? The Air it-self submits to it, and serves as its inferior Instrument. Even this our Sun, with all those numerous Suns, the glittering Host of Heaven, seem to receive from hence the vast Supplies which keep them ever in their splendid State. The invisible etherial Substance, penetrating both liquid and solid Bodys, is diffus'd thro'out the Universe. It cherishes the cold dull massy Globe, and warms it to its Center. It forms the Minerals; gives Life and Growth to Vegetables; kindles a soft, invisible, and vital Flame in the Breasts of living Creatures; frames, animates, and nurses all the various Forms; sparing, as well as imploying for their Use, those sulphurous and combustible Matters of which they are compos'd. Benign and gentle amidst all, it still maintains this happy Peace and Concord, according to its stated and peculiar Laws. But these once broken, the acquitted Being takes its Course unrul'd. It runs impetuous thro' the fatal Breach, and breaking into visible and fierce Flames, passes triumphant o'er the yielding Forms, converting all into it-self, and dissolving now those Systems which it-self before had form'd. 'Tis thus—

HERE Theocles stopt on a sudden, when (as he imagin'd) I was putting my Hand out, to lay hold on his Sleeve.

O Philocles, said he, 'tis well remember'd. I was growing too warm, I find; as well I might indeed, in this hot Element. And here perhaps I might have talk'd yet more mysteriously, had you been one who cou'd think otherwise than in the common way of the soft Flames of Love. You might, perhaps, have heard Wonders in this kind: How all things had their Being hence, and how their noblest End was to be here wrapt up, consum'd and lost.—But in these high Flights, I might possibly have gone near to burn my Wings.

Indeed, said I, you might well expect the Fate of Icarus, for your high-soaring. But this, indeed, was not what I fear'd. For you were got above Danger; and, with that devouring Element on your side, had master'd not only the Sun himself, but every thing which stood in your way. I was afraid it might, in the issue, run to what they tell us of a universal Conflagration; in which I knew not how it might go, possibly, with our Genius.

I am glad, said he, Philocles! to find this grown such a Concern with you. But you may rest secure here, if the Case you meant were that periodical Conflagration talk'd of by some Philosophers. For there the Genius wou'd of necessity be all in all: And in those Intervals of Creation, when no Form, nor Species existed any-where out of the Divine Mind, all then was Deity: All was that One, collected thus within it-self, and subsisting (as they imagin'd) rather in a more simple and perfect manner, than when multiply'd in more ways; and becoming productive, it unfolded it-self in the various Map of Nature, and this fair visible World.

But for my part, said I, (interrupting him) who can much better see Divinity unfolded, than in that involv'd and solitary State before Creation; I cou'd wish you wou'd go a little further with me in the Map of Nature; especially if descending from your lofty Flights, you wou'd be content to pitch upon this humble Spot of Earth; where I cou'd better accompany you, where'er you led me.

But you, reply'd he, who wou'd confine me to this heavy Earth, must yet allow me the same Wings of Fancy. How else shall I fly with you, thro' different Climates, from Pole to Pole, and from the Frigid to the Torrid Zone?

O, said I, for this purpose I will allow you the Pegasus of the Poets, or that wing'd Griffin which an Italian Poet of the Moderns gave to one of his Heroes: Yet on this Condition, that you take no such extravagant Flight, as his was, to the Moon; but keep closely to this Orb of Earth.

SINCE you will have it so, reply'd Theocles, let us try first on the darkest and most imperfect Parts of our Map, and see how you can endure the Prospect. How oblique and faintly looks the Sun on yonder Climates, far remov'd from him! How tedious are the Winters there! How deep the Horrors of the Night, and how uncomfortable even the Light of Day! The freezing Winds employ their fiercest Breath, yet are not spent with blowing. The Sea, which elsewhere is scarce confin'd within its Limits, lies here immur'd in Walls of Chrystal. The Snow covers the Hills, and almost fills the lowest Valleys. How wide and deep it lies, incumbent o'er the Plains, hiding the sluggish Rivers, the Shrubs, and Trees, the Dens of Beasts, and Mansions of distress'd and feeble Men!—See! where they lie confin'd, hardly secure against the raging Cold, or the Attacks of the wild Beasts, now Masters of the wasted Field, and forc'd by Hunger out of the naked Woods.—Yet not dishearten'd (such is the Force of human Breasts) but thus provided for, by Art and Prudence, the kind compensating Gifts of Heaven, Men and their Herds may wait for a Release. For at length the Sun approaching, melts the Snow, sets longing Men at liberty, and affords them Means and Time to make provision against the next Return of Cold. It breaks the icy Fetters of the Main; where vast Sea-Monsters pierce thro' floating Islands, with Arms which can withstand the Chrystal Rock: whilst others, who of themselves seem great as Islands, are by their Bulk alone arm'd against all but Man; whose Superiority over Creatures of such stupendous Size and Force, shou'd make him mindful of his Privilege of Reason, and force him humbly to adore the great Composer of these wondrous Frames, and Author of his own superior Wisdom.

But leaving these dull Climates, so little favour'd by the Sun, for those happier Regions, on which he looks more kindly, making perpetual Summer; How great an Alteration do we find? His purer Light confounds weak-sighted Mortals, pierc'd by his scorching Beams. Scarce can they tread the glowing Ground. The Air they breathe cannot enough abate the Fire which burns within their panting Breasts. Their Bodys melt. O'ercome and fainting, they seek the Shade, and wait the cool Refreshments of the Night. Yet oft the bounteous Creator bestows other Refreshments. He casts a veil of Clouds before 'em, and raises gentle Gales; favour'd by which, the Men and Beasts pursue their Labours; and Plants refresh'd by Dews and Showers, can gladly bear the warmest Sun-beams.

And here the varying Scene opens to new Wonders. We see a Country rich with Gems, but richer with the fragrant Spices it affords. How gravely move the largest of Land-Creatures on the Banks of this fair River! How ponderous are their Arms, and vast their Strength, with Courage, and a Sense superior to the other Beasts! Yet are they tam'd, we see, by Mankind, and brought even to fight their Battels, rather as Allies and Confederates, than as Slaves.—But let us turn our Eyes towards these smaller, and more curious Objects; the numerous and devouring Insects on the Trees in these wide Plains. How shining, strong, and lasting are the subtile Threds spun from their artful Mouths! Who, beside the All-wise, has taught 'em to compose the beautiful soft Shells; in which recluse and bury'd, yet still alive, they undergo such a surprizing Change; when not destroy'd by Men, who clothe and adorn themselves with the Labours and Lives of these weak Creatures, and are proud of wearing such inglorious Spoils? How sumptuously apparel'd, gay, and splendid, are all the various Insects which feed on the other Plants of this warm Region! How beautiful the Plants themselves in all their various Growths, from the triumphant Palm down to the humble Moss!

Now may we see that happy Country where precious Gums and Balsams flow from Trees; and Nature yields her most delicious Fruits. How tame and tractable, how patient of Labour and of Thirst, are those large Creatures; who lifting up their lofty Heads, go led and loaden thro' these dry and barren Places! Their Shape and Temper show them fram'd by Nature to submit to Man, and fitted for his Service: who from hence ought to be more sensible of his Wants, and of the Divine Bounty, thus supplying them.

But see! not far from us, that fertilest of Lands, water'd and fed by a friendly generous Stream, which, ere it enters the Sea, divides it-self into many Branches, to dispense more equally the rich and nitrous Manure, it bestows so kindly and in due time, on the adjacent Plains.—Fair Image of that fruitful and exuberant Nature, who with a Flood of Bounty blesses all things, and, Parent-like, out of her many Breasts sends the nutritious Draught in various Streams to her rejoicing Offspring!—Innumerable are the dubious Forms and unknown Species which drink the slimy Current: whether they are such as leaving the scorch'd Desarts, satiate here their ardent Thirst, and promiscuously engendring, beget a monstrous Race; or whether, as it is said, by the Sun's genial Heat, active on the fermenting Ooze, new Forms are generated, and issue from the River's fertile Bed.—See there the noted Tyrant of the Flood, and Terror of its Borders! when suddenly displaying his horrid Form, the amphibious Ravager invades the Land, quitting his watry Den, and from the deep emerging, with hideous rush, sweeps o'er the trembling Plain. The Natives from afar behold with wonder the enormous Bulk, sprung from so small an Egg. With Horror they relate the Monster's Nature, cruel and deceitful: how he with dire Hypocrisy, and false Tears, beguiles the Simple-hearted; and inspiring Tenderness and kind Compassion, kills with pious Fraud.—Sad Emblem of that spiritual Plague, dire Superstition! Native of this Soil; where first^[1] Religion grew unsociable, and among different Worshipers bred mutual Hatred, and Abhorrence of each others Temples. The Infection spreads: and Nations now profane one to another, war fiercer, and in Religion's Cause forget Humanity: whilst savage Zeal, with meek and pious Semblance, works dreadful Massacre; and for Heaven's sake (horrid Pretence!) makes desolate the Earth.—

Here let us leave these Monsters (glad if we cou'd here confine 'em!) and detesting the dire prolifick Soil, fly to the vast Desarts of these Parts. All ghastly and hideous as they appear, they want not their peculiar Beautys. The Wildness pleases. We seem to live alone with Nature. We view her in her inmost Recesses, and contemplate her with more Delight in these original Wilds, than in the artificial Labyrinths and feign'd Wildernesses of the Palace. The Objects of the Place, the scaly Serpents, the savage Beasts, and poisonous Insects, how terrible soever, or how contrary to human Nature, are beauteous in themselves, and fit to raise our Thoughts in Admiration of that Divine Wisdom, so far superior to our short Views. Unable to declare the Use or Service of all things in this Universe, we are yet assur'd of the Perfection of all, and of the Justice of that OEconomy, to which all things are subservient, and in respect of which, Things seemingly deform'd are amiable; Disorder becomes regular; Corruption wholesom; and Poisons (such as these we have seen) prove healing and beneficial.

But behold! thro' a vast Tract of Sky before us, the mighty Atlas rears his lofty Head, cover'd with Snow above the Clouds. Beneath the Mountain's foot, the rocky Country rises into Hills, a proper Basis of the ponderous Mass above: where huge embody'd Rocks lie pil'd on one another, and seem to prop the high Arch of Heaven.—See! with what trembling Steps poor Mankind tread the narrow Brink of the deep Precipices! From whence with giddy Horror they look down, mistrusting even the Ground which bears 'em; whilst they hear the hollow Sound of Torrents underneath, and see the Ruin of the impending Rock; with falling Trees which hang with their Roots upwards, and seem to draw more Ruin after 'em. Here thoughtless Men, seiz'd with the Newness of such Objects, become thoughtful, and willingly contemplate the incessant Changes of this Earth's Surface. They see, as in one instant, the Revolutions of past Ages, the fleeting Forms of Things, and the Decay even of this our Globe; whose Youth and first Formation they consider, whilst the apparent Spoil and irreparable Breaches of the wasted Mountain shew them the World it-self only as a noble Ruin, and make them think of its approaching Period.—But here mid-way the Mountain, a spacious Border of thick Wood harbours our weary'd Travellers: who now are come among the ever-green and lofty Pines, the Firs, and noble Cedars, whose towring Heads seem endless in the Sky; the rest of Trees appearing only as Shrubs beside them. And here a different Horror seizes our shelter'd Travellers, when they see the Day diminish'd by the deep Shapes of the vast Wood; which closing thick above, spreads Darkness and eternal Night below. The faint and gloomy Light looks horrid as the Shade it-self: and the profound Stillness of these Places imposes Silence upon Men, struck with the hoarse Echoings of every Sound within the spacious Caverns of the Wood. Here Space astonishes. Silence it-self seems pregnant; whilst an unknown Force works on the Mind, and dubious Objects move the wakeful Sense. Mysterious Voices are either heard or fansy'd: and various Forms of Deity seem to present themselves, and appear more manifest in these sacred Silvan Scenes; such as of old gave rise to Temples, and favour'd the Religion of the antient World. Even we our-selves, who in plain Characters may read Divinity from so many bright Parts of Earth, chuse rather these obscurer Places, to spell out that mysterious Being, which to our weak Eyes appears at best under a Veil of Cloud.—

HERE he paus'd a-while, and began to cast about his Eyes, which before seem'd fix'd. He look'd more calmly, with an open Countenance and free Air; by which, and other Tokens, I cou'd easily find we were come to an end of our Descriptions; and that whether I wou'd or no, Theocles was now resolv'd to take his leave of the Sublime: the Morning being spent, and the Forenoon by this time well advanc'd.

VOL. III. pag. 59, 60, &c.