WHen I apply myself to explain uniformity and variety, and to show how we are affected by these circumstances, it appears doubtful what method ought to be followed. I foresee several difficulties in keeping close to my text; and yet by indulging a range, such as may be necessary for a clear view, I shall certainly incur the censure of wandering.—Be it so. One ought not to abandon the right track for fear of censure. The collateral matters, beside, that will be introduced, are curious, and not of slight importance in the science of human nature.

The necessary succession of perceptions, is a subject formerly handled, so far as it depends on the relations of objects and their mutual connections[91]. But that subject is not exhausted; and I take the liberty to introduce it a second time, in order to explain in what manner we are affected by uniformity and variety. The world we inhabit is replete with things not less remarkable for their variety than their number. These, unfolded by the wonderful mechanism of external sense, furnish the mind with many perceptions, which, joined with ideas of memory, of imagination, and of reflection, form a complete train that has not a gap or interval. This tide of objects, in a continual flux, is in a good measure independent of will. The mind, as has been observed[92], is so constituted, “That it can by no effort break off the succession of its ideas, nor keep its attention long fixt upon the same object.” We can arrest a perception in its course; we can shorten its natural duration, to make room for another; we can vary the succession by change of place or amusement; and we can in some measure prevent variety, by frequently recalling the same object after short intervals: but still there must be a succession, and a change from one thing to another. By artificial means, the succession may be retarded or accelerated, may be rendered more various or more uniform, but in one shape or other is unavoidable.

The rate of succession, even when left to its ordinary course, is not always the same. There are natural causes that accelerate or retard it considerably. The first I shall mention depends on a peculiar constitution of mind. One man is distinguished from another, by no circumstance more remarkably than the movement of his train of perceptions. A cold languid temper is accompanied with a slow course of perceptions, which occasions dulness of apprehension and sluggishness in action. To a warm temper, on the contrary, belongs a quick course of perceptions, which occasions quickness of apprehension and activity in business. The Asiatic nations, the Chinese especially, are observed to be more cool and deliberate than the Europeans: may not the reason be, that heat enervates by exhausting the spirits? A certain degree of cold, such as is felt in the middle regions of Europe, by bracing the fibres, rouses the mind, and produces a brisk circulation of thought, accompanied with vigour in action. In youth there is observable a quicker succession of perceptions, than in old age. Hence in youth a remarkable avidity for variety of amusements, which in riper years give place to more uniform and more sedate occupation. This qualifies men of middle age for business, where activity is required, but with a greater proportion of uniformity than variety. In old age, a slow and languid succession makes variety unnecessary; and for that reason, the aged, in all their motions, are generally governed by an habitual uniformity. Whatever be the cause, we may venture to pronounce, that heat in the imagination and temper, is always connected with a brisk flow of perceptions.

The natural rate of succession, depends also in some degree upon the particular perceptions that compose the train. An agreeable object, taking a strong hold of the mind, occasions a slower succession than when the objects are indifferent. Grandeur and novelty fix the attention for a considerable time, excluding all other ideas; and the mind thus occupied feels no vacuity. Some emotions, by hurrying the mind from object to object, accelerate the succession. Where the train is composed of connected objects, the succession is quick. For it is so ordered by nature, that the mind goes easily and sweetly along connected objects[93]. On the other hand, the succession must be slow where the train is composed of unconnected objects. An unconnected object, finding no ready access to the mind, requires time to make an impression. And that it is not admitted without a struggle, appears from the unsettled state of the mind for some moments after it is presented, wavering betwixt it and the former train. During this short period, one or other of the former objects will intrude, perhaps oftener than once, till the attention be fixt entirely upon the new object. The same observations are applicable to ideas suggested by language. The mind can bear a quick succession of related ideas. But an unrelated idea, for which the mind is not prepared, takes time to make a distinct impression; and therefore a train composed of such ideas, ought to proceed with a slow pace. Hence an epic poem, a play, or any story connected in all its parts, may be perused in a shorter time, than a book of maxims or apothegms, of which a quick succession creates both confusion and fatigue.

Such latitude hath nature indulged in the rate of succession. What latitude it indulges with respect to uniformity we proceed to examine. The uniformity or variety of a train, so far as composed of external objects, depends on the particular objects that surround the percipient at the time. The present occupation must also have an influence; one is sometimes engaged in a multiplicity of affairs, sometimes altogether vacant. A natural train of ideas of memory is more circumscribed, each object being linked, by some connection, to what precedes and to what follows it. These connections, which are many and of different kinds, afford scope for a sufficient degree of variety; and at the same time prevent any excess that is unpleasant. Temper and constitution also have an influence here, as well as upon the rate of succession. A man of a calm and sedate temper, admits not willingly any idea but what is regularly introduced by a proper connection. One of a roving disposition embraces with avidity every new idea, however slender its relation be to those that go before it. Neither must we overlook the nature of the perceptions that compose the train; for their influence is not less with respect to uniformity and variety, than with respect to the rate of succession. The mind ingrossed by any passion, love or hatred, hope or fear, broods over its object, and can bear no interruption. In such a state, the train of perceptions must not only be slow, but extremely uniform. Anger newly inflamed eagerly grasps its object, and leaves not a cranny in the mind for another thought than of revenge. In the character of Hotspur, this state of mind is represented to the life; a picture remarkable for high colouring as well as for strictness of imitation:

Having viewed a train of perceptions as directed by nature, and the variations it is susceptible of from different necessary causes, we proceed to examine how far it is subjected to will; for that will hath some influence, more or less, is observed above. And first, the rate of succession may be retarded by insisting upon one object, and propelled by dismissing another before its time. But such voluntary mutations in the natural course of succession, have limits that cannot be extended by the most painful efforts. The mind circumscribed in its capacity, cannot, at the same instant, admit many perceptions; and when replete, it has no place for new perceptions till others be removed. For this reason, a voluntary change of perceptions cannot be instantaneous; and the time it requires sets bounds to the velocity of succession. On the other hand, the power we have to arrest a flying perception, is equally limited. The longer we detain any perception, the more difficulty we find in the operation; till, the difficulty becoming unsurmountable, we are forced to quit our hold, and to permit the train to take its usual course.

The power we have over this train as to uniformity and variety, is in some cases very great, in others very little. A train so far as composed of external objects, depends entirely on the place we occupy, and admits not more or less variety but by change of place. A train composed of ideas of memmory, is still less under our power. Objects which are connected, afford the mind an easy passage from one to another. They suggest each other in idea by the same means; and we cannot at will call up any idea that is not connected with the train[94]. But a train of ideas suggested by reading, may be varied at will, provided we have books in store.

This power which nature hath given us over our train of perceptions, may be greatly strengthened by proper discipline, and by an early application to business. Its improved strength is remarkable in those who have a strong genius for the mathematics: nor less remarkable in persons devoted to religious exercises, who pass whole days in contemplation, and impose upon themselves long and severe penances. It is not to be conceived, what length a habit of activity in affairs will carry some men. Let a stranger, or let any person to whom the sight is not familiar, attend the Chancellor of Great Britain through the labours but of one day, during a session of parliament: how great will be his astonishment! what multiplicity of law-business, what deep thinking, and what elaborate application to matters of government! The train of perceptions must in this great man be accelerated far beyond the common course of nature. Yet no confusion nor hurry; but in every article the greatest order and accuracy. Such is the force of habit! How happy is man, to have the command of a principle of action, that can elevate him so far above the ordinary condition of humanity[95]!

We are now ripe for considering a train of perceptions with respect to pleasure and pain: and to this speculation we must give peculiar attention, because it serves to explain the effects that uniformity and variety have upon the mind. A man is always in a pleasant state of mind, when his perceptions flow in their natural course. He feels himself free, light, and easy, especially after any forcible acceleration or retardation. On the other hand, the resistance felt in retarding or accelerating the natural course, excites a pain, which, though scarcely felt in small removes, becomes considerable toward the extremes. An aversion to fix on any single object for a long time, or to take in a multiplicity of objects in a short time, is remarkable in children; and equally so in men unaccustomed to business. A man languishes when the succession is very slow; and, if he grow not impatient, is apt to fall asleep. During a rapid succession, he hath a feeling as if his head were turning round. He is fatigued, and his pain resembles that of weariness after bodily labour. External objects, when they occasion a very slow or a very quick succession, produce a pain of the same sort with what it felt in a voluntary retardation or acceleration: which shows that the pain proceeds not from the violence of the action, but from the retardation or acceleration itself, disturbing that free and easy course of succession which is naturally pleasant.

But the mind is not satisfied with a moderate course alone: its perceptions must also be sufficiently diversified. Number without variety constitutes not an agreeable train. In comparing a few objects, uniformity is agreeable: but the frequent reiteration of uniform objects becomes unpleasant. One tires of a scene that is not diversified; and soon feels a sort of unnatural restraint when confined within a narrow range, whether occasioned by a retarded succession or by too great uniformity. An excess in variety is, on the other hand, fatiguing. This is even perceptible in a train composed of related objects: much more where the objects are unrelated; for an object, unconnected with the former train, gains not admittance without effort; and this effort, though scarce perceptible in a single instance, becomes by frequent reiteration exceeding painful. Whatever be the cause, the fact is certain, that a man never finds himself more at ease, than when his perceptions succeed each other with a certain degree, not only of velocity, but also of variety. Hence it proceeds, that a train consisting entirely of ideas of memory, is never painful by too great variety; because such ideas are not introduced otherwise than according to their natural connections[96]. The pleasure of a train of ideas, is the most remarkable in a reverie; especially where the imagination interposes, and is active in coining new ideas, which is done with wonderful facility. One must be sensible, that the serenity and ease of the mind in this state, makes a great part of the enjoyment. The case is different where external objects enter into the train; for these, making their appearance without any order, and without any connection save that of contiguity, form a train of perceptions that may be extremely uniform or extremely diversified; which, for opposite reasons, are both of them painful.

Any acceleration or retardation of the natural run of perceptions, is painful even where it is voluntary. And it is equally painful to alter that degree of variety which nature requires. Contemplation, when the mind is long attached to one thing, soon becomes painful by restraining the free range of perception. Curiosity and the prospect of advantage from useful discoveries, may engage a man to prosecute his studies, notwithstanding the pain they give him; and a habit of close attention, formed by frequent exercise, may soften the pain. But it is deeply felt by the bulk of mankind, and produceth in them an aversion to all abstract sciences. In any profession or calling, a train of operation that is simple and reiterated without intermission, makes the operator languish, and lose his vigor. He complains neither of too great labour nor of too little action; but regrets the want of variety, and his being obliged to do the same thing over and over. Where the operation is sufficiently varied, the mind retains its vigor, and is pleased with its condition. Actions again create an uneasiness when excessive in number or variety, though in every other respect agreeable. This uneasiness is extremely remarkable, where strict attention must be given, at the same time, to a number of different things. Thus a throng of business in law, in physic, or in traffick, distresseth and distracts the mind, unless where a habit of application is acquired by long and constant exercise. The excessive variety is the distressing circumstance; and the mind suffers grievously by being kept constantly upon the stretch.

With relation to involuntary causes disturbing that degree of variety which nature requires, a slight pain affecting one part of the body without variation, becomes, by its constancy and long duration, almost insupportable. The patient, sensible that the pain is not increased in degree, complains of its constancy more than of its severity, that it ingrosses his whole thoughts, and gives admission to no other object. Pain, of all feelings, seizes the attention with the greatest force; and the mind, after fruitless efforts to turn its view to objects more agreeable, must abandon itself to its tormentor. A shifting pain gives less uneasiness, because change of place contributes to variety. An intermitting pain, suffering other objects to intervene, is not increased by reiteration. Again, any single colour or sound often returning, becomes disagreeable; as may be observed in viewing a train of similar apartments painted with the same colour, and in hearing the prolonged tollings of a bell. Colour and sound varied within certain limits, though without any order, are agreeable; witness a field variegated with many colours of plants and flowers, and the various notes of birds in a thicket. Increase the number or variety, and the feeling becomes unpleasant. Thus a great variety of colours, crowded upon a small canvas or in quick succession, create an uneasy feeling, which is prevented by putting the colours at a greater distance either of place or time. A number of voices in a crowded assembly, a number of animals collected in a market, produce an unpleasant emotion; though a few of them together, or all of them in a moderate succession, would be agreeable. And because of the same excess in variety, a number of pains felt in different parts of the body, at the same instant or in a rapid succession, make an exquisite torture.

The foregoing doctrine concerning the train of perceptions, and the pleasure or pain resulting from that train in different circumstances, will be confirmed by attending to the final cause of these effects. And as I am sensible that the mind, inflamed with speculations of this kind so highly interesting, is beyond measure disposed to conviction, I shall be watchful to admit no argument nor remark but what appears solidly founded. With this caution I proceed to the inquiry. It is occasionally observed above, that persons of a phlegmatic temperament, having a sluggish train of perceptions, are indisposed to action; and that activity constantly accompanies a brisk motion of perceptions. To ascertain this fact, a man need not go abroad for experiments. Reflecting upon things passing in his own mind, he will find, that a brisk circulation of thought constantly prompts him to action; and that he is averse to action when his perceptions languish in their course. But man by nature is formed for action, and he must be active in order to be happy. Nature therefore hath kindly provided against indolence, by annexing pleasure to a moderate course of perceptions, and by making every remarkable retardation painful. A slow course of perceptions is attended with another bad effect. Man in a few capital cases is governed by propensity or instinct; but in matters that admit deliberation and choice, reason is assigned him for a guide. Now, as reasoning requires often a great compass of ideas, their succession ought to be so quick, as readily to furnish every motive that may be necessary for mature deliberation. In a languid succession, motives will often occur after action is commenced, when it is too late to retreat.

Nature hath guarded man, her favourite, against a succession too rapid, not less carefully than against one too slow. Both are equally painful, though the pain is not the same in both. Many are the good effects of this contrivance. In the first place, as the bodily faculties are by certain painful sensations confined within proper limits, beyond which it would be dangerous to strain the tender organs, Nature, in like manner, is equally provident with respect to the nobler faculties of the mind. Thus the pain of an accelerated course of perceptions, is Nature’s admonition to relax our pace, and to admit a more gentle exertion of thought. Another valuable purpose may be gathered, from considering in what manner objects are imprinted upon the mind. To make such an impression as to give the memory fast hold of the object, time is required, even where attention is the greatest; and a moderate degree of attention, which is the common case, must be continued still longer to produce the same effect. A rapid succession then must prevent objects from making impressions so deep as to be of real service in life; and Nature accordingly for the sake of memory, has by a painful feeling guarded against a rapid succession. But a still more valuable purpose is answered by this contrivance. As, on the one hand, a sluggish course of perceptions indisposeth to action; so, on the other, a course too rapid impels to rash and precipitant action. Prudent conduct is the child of deliberation and clear conception, for which there is no place in a rapid course of thought. Nature therefore, taking measures for prudent conduct, has guarded us effectually from precipitancy of thought, by making it painful.

Nature not only provides against a succession too slow or too quick, but makes the middle course extremely pleasant. Nor is this middle course confined within narrow bounds. Every man can naturally without pain accelerate or retard in some degree the rate of his perceptions; and he can do this in a still greater degree by the force of habit. Thus a habit of contemplation annihilates the pain of a retarded course of perceptions; and a busy life, after long practice, makes acceleration pleasant.

Concerning the final cause of our taste for variety, it will be considered, that human affairs, complex by variety as well as number, require the distributing our attention and activity, in measure and proportion. Nature therefore, to secure a just distribution corresponding to the variety of human affairs, has made too great uniformity or too great variety in the course of our perceptions equally unpleasant. And indeed, were we addicted to either extreme, our internal constitution would be ill suited to our external circumstances. At the same time, where a frequent reiteration of the same operation is required, as in several manufactures, or a quick circulation, as in law or physic, Nature, attentive to all our wants, hath also provided for these cases. She hath implanted in the breast of every person, an efficacious principle, which leads to habit. By an obstinate perseverance in the same occupation, the pain of excessive uniformity vanisheth; and by the like perseverance in a quick circulation of different occupations, the pain of excessive variety vanisheth. And thus we come to take delight in several occupations, that by nature, without habit, are not a little disgustful.

A middle rate also in our train of perceptions betwixt uniformity and variety, is not less pleasant, than betwixt quickness and slowness. The mind of man thus constituted, is wonderfully adapted to the course of human affairs, which are continually changing, but not without connection. It is equally adapted to the acquisition of knowledge, which results chiefly from discovering resemblances among differing objects, and differences among resembling objects. Such occupation, even abstracting from the knowledge we acquire, is in itself delightful, by preserving a middle rate betwixt too great uniformity and too great variety.

We are now arrived at the chief purpose of the present chapter; and that is to examine how far uniformity or variety ought to be studied in the fine arts. And the knowledge we have obtained, will even at first view suggest a general observation, That in every work of art, it must be agreeable to find that degree of variety which corresponds to the natural course of our perceptions; and that an excess in variety or in uniformity, must be disagreeable by varying that natural course. For this reason, works of art admit more or less variety according to the nature of the subject. In a picture that strongly attaches the spectator to a single object, the mind relisheth not a multiplicity of figures or of ornaments. A picture again representing a gay subject, admits great variety of figures and ornaments; because these are agreeable to the mind in a chearful tone. The same observation is applicable to poetry and to music.

It must at the same time be remarked, that one can bear a greater variety of natural objects than of objects in a picture; and a greater variety in a picture than in a description. A real object presented to the view, makes an impression more readily than when represented in colours, and much more readily than when represented in words. Hence it is, that the profuse variety of objects in some natural landscapes, neither breed confusion nor fatigue. And for the same reason, there is place for greater variety of ornament in a picture, than in a poem.

From these general observations I proceed to particulars. In works exposed continually to public view, variety ought to be studied. It is a rule accordingly in sculpture, to contrast the different limbs of a statue, in order to give it all the variety possible. Though the cone in a single view be more beautiful than the pyramid; yet a pyramidal steeple, because of its variety, is justly preferred. For the same reason, the oval in compositions is preferred before the circle; and painters, in copying buildings or any regular work, endeavour to give an air of variety by representing the subject in an angular view: we are pleased with the variety without losing sight of the regularity. In a landscape representing animals, those especially of the same kind, contrast ought to prevail. To draw one sleeping another awake, one sitting another in motion, one moving toward the spectator another from him, is the life of such a performance.

In every sort of writing intended for amusement, variety is necessary in proportion to the length of the work. Want of variety is sensibly felt in Davila’s history of the civil wars of France. The events are indeed important and various: but the reader languisheth by a tiresome uniformity of character; every person engaged being figured a consummate politician, governed by interest only. It is hard to say, whether Ovid disgusts more by too great variety or too great uniformity. His stories are all of the same kind, concluding invariably with the transformation of one being into another. So far he is tiresome with excess in uniformity. He also fatigues with excess in variety, by hurrying his reader incessantly from story to story. Ariosto is still more fatiguing than Ovid, by exceeding the just bounds of variety. Not satisfied, like Ovid, with a succession in his stories, he distracts the reader by jumbling together a multitude of unconnected events. Nor is the Orlando Furioso less tiresome by its uniformity than the Metamorphoses, though in a different manner. After a story is brought to a crisis, the reader, intent upon the catastrophe, is suddenly snatched away to a new story, which is little regarded so long as the mind is occupied with the former. This tantalizing method, from which the author never once swerves during the course of a long work, beside its uniformity, hath another bad effect: it prevents that sympathy which is raised by an interesting event when the reader meets with no interruption.

The emotions produced by our perceptions in a train, have been little considered, and less understood. The subject therefore required an elaborate discussion. It may surprise some readers, to find variety treated as only contributing to make a train of perceptions pleasant, when it is commonly held to be a necessary ingredient in beauty of whatever kind; according to the definition, “That beauty consists in uniformity amidst variety.” But after the subject is explained and illustrated as above, I presume it will be evident, that this definition, however applicable to one or other species, is far from being just with respect to beauty in general. Variety contributes no share to the beauty of a moral action, nor of a mathematical theorem; and numberless are the beautiful objects of sight that have little or no variety in them. A globe, the most uniform of all figures, is of all the most beautiful; and a square, though more beautiful than a trapezium, hath less variety in its constituent parts. The foregoing definition, which at best is but obscurely expressed, is only applicable to a number of objects in a group or in succession, among which indeed a due mixture of uniformity and variety is always agreeable, provided the particular objects, separately considered, be in any degree beautiful. Uniformity amidst variety among ugly objects, affords no pleasure. This circumstance is totally omitted in the definition; and indeed to have mentioned it, would at first glance show the definition to be imperfect. To define beauty as arising from beautiful objects blended together in a due proportion of uniformity and variety, would be too gross to pass current; as nothing can be more gross, than to employ in a definition the very term that is proposed to be explained.

Appendix to Chap. IX.

Concerning the works of nature.

IN natural objects, whether we regard their internal or external structure, beauty and design are equally conspicuous. We shall begin with the outside of nature, as what first presents itself.

The figure of an organic body, is generally regular. The trunk of a tree, its branches, and their ramifications, are nearly round, and form a series regularly decreasing from the trunk to the smallest fibre. Uniformity is no where more remarkable than in the leaves, which, in the same species, have all the same colour, size, and shape. The seeds and fruits are all regular figures, approaching for the most part to the globular form. Hence a plant, especially of the larger kind, with its trunk, branches, foliage, and fruit, is a delightful object.

In an animal, the trunk, which is much larger than the other parts, occupies a chief place. Its shape, like that of the stem of plants, is nearly round; a figure which of all is the most agreeable. Its two sides are precisely similar. Several of the under parts go off in pairs; and the two individuals of each pair are accurately uniform. The single parts are placed in the middle. The limbs, bearing a certain proportion to the trunk, serve to support it, and to give it a proper elevation. Upon one extremity are disposed the neck and head, in the direction of the trunk. The head being the chief part, possesses with great propriety the chief place. Hence, the beauty of the whole figure, is the result of many equal and proportional parts orderly disposed; and the smallest variation in number, equality, proportion, or order, never fails to produce a perception of ugliness and deformity.

Nature in no particular seems more profuse of ornament, than in the beautiful colouring of her works. The flowers of plants, the furs of beasts, and the feathers of birds, vie with each other in the beauty of their colours, which in lustre as well as in harmony are beyond the power of imitation. Of all natural appearances, the colouring of the human face is the most exquisite. It is the strongest instance of the ineffable art of nature, in adapting and proportioning its colours to the magnitude, figure, and position, of the parts. In a word, colour seems to live in nature only, and to languish under the finest touches of art.

When we examine the internal structure of a plant or animal, a wonderful subtility of mechanism is displayed. Man, in his mechanical operations, is confined to the surface of bodies. But the operations of nature are exerted through the whole substance, so as to reach even the elementary parts. Thus the body of an animal, and of a plant, are composed of certain great vessels; these of smaller; and these again of still smaller, without end so far we can discover. This power of diffusing mechanism through the most intimate parts, is peculiar to nature; and distinguishes her operations, most remarkably, from every work of art. Such texture, continued from the grosser parts to the most minute, preserves all along the strictest regularity. The fibres of plants are a bundle of cylindric canals, lying in the same direction, and parallel or nearly parallel to each other. In some instances, a most accurate arrangement of parts is discovered, as in onions, formed of concentric coats one within another to the very centre. An animal body is still more admirable, in the disposition of its internal parts, and in their order and symmetry. There is not a bone, a muscle, a blood-vessel, a nerve, that hath not one corresponding to it on the opposite side of the animal; and the same order is carried through the most minute parts. The lungs are composed of two parts, which are disposed upon the sides of the thorax; and the kidneys, in a lower situation, have a position not less orderly. As to the parts that are single, the heart is advantageously situated nigh the middle. The liver, stomach, and spleen, are disposed in the upper region of the abdomen, about the same height: the bladder is placed in the middle of the body; as well as the intestinal canal, which fills the whole cavity by its convolutions.

The mechanical power of nature, not confined to small bodies, reacheth equally those of the greatest size; witness the bodies that compose the solar system, which, however large, are weighed, measured, and subjected to certain laws, with the utmost accuracy. Their places around the sun, with their distances, are determined by a precise rule, corresponding to their quantities of matter. The superior dignity of the central body, in respect of its bulk and lucid appearance, is suited to the place it occupies. The globular figure of these bodies, is not only in itself beautiful, but is above all others fitted for regular motion. Each planet revolves about its own axis in a given time; and each moves round the sun, in an orbit nearly circular, and in a time proportioned to its distance. Their velocities, directed by an established law, are perpetually changing by regular accelerations and retardations. In fine, the great variety of regular appearances, joined with the beauty of the system itself, cannot fail to produce the highest delight in every person who can taste design, power, or beauty.

Nature hath a wonderful power of connecting systems with each other, and of propagating that connection through all her works. Thus the constituent parts of a plant, the roots, the stem, the branches, the leaves, the fruit, are really different systems, united by a mutual dependence on each other. Thus in an animal, the lymphatic and lacteal ducts, the blood-vessels and nerves, the muscles and glands, the bones and cartilages, the membranes and viscera, with the other organs, form distinct systems, which are united into one whole. There are, at the same time, other connections less intimate. Thus every plant is joined to the earth by its roots; it requires rain and dews to furnish it with juices; and it requires heat to preserve these juices in fluidity and motion. Thus every animal, by its gravity, is connected with the earth, with the element in which it breathes, and with the sun, by deriving from it cherishing and enlivening heat. The earth furnisheth aliment to plants, these to animals, and these again to other animals, in a long train of dependence. That the earth is part of a greater system, comprehending many bodies mutually attracting each other, and gravitating all toward one common centre, is now thoroughly explored. Such a regular and uniform series of connections, propagated through so great a number of beings and through such wide spaces, is wonderful: and our wonder must increase, when we observe this connection propagated from the minutest atoms to bodies of the most enormous size, and widely diffused, so as that we can neither perceive its beginning nor its end. That it doth not terminate within our own planetary system, is certain. The connection is diffused over spaces still more remote, where new bodies and systems rise to our view, without end. All space is filled with the works of God, which, being the operation of one hand, are formed by one plan, to answer one great end.

But the most wonderful connection of all, though not the most conspicuous, is that of our internal frame with the works of nature. Man is obviously fitted for contemplating these works, because in this contemplation he has great delight. The works of nature are remarkable in their uniformity not less than in their variety; and the mind of man is fitted to receive pleasure equally from both. Uniformity and variety are interwoven in the works of nature with surprising art. Variety, however great, is never without some degree of uniformity; nor the greatest uniformity, without some degree of variety. There is great variety in the same plant, by the different appearances of its stem, branches, leaves, blossoms, fruit, size, and colour; and yet when we trace this variety through different plants, especially of the same kind, there is discovered a surprising uniformity. Again, where nature seems to have intended the most exact uniformity, as among individuals of the same kind, there still appears a diversity, which serves readily to distinguish one individual from another. It is indeed admirable, that the human visage, in which uniformity is so prevalent, should yet be so marked as to leave no room for mistaking one person for another. The difference, though clearly perceived, is often so minute as to go beyond the reach of description. A correspondence so perfect betwixt the human mind and the works of nature, is extremely remarkable. The opposition betwixt variety and uniformity is so great, that one would not readily imagine they could both be relished by the same palate; at least not in the same object, nor at the same time. It is however true, that the pleasures they afford, being happily adjusted to each other, and readily mixing in intimate union, are frequently produced in perfection by the same individual object. Nay further, in the objects that touch us the most, uniformity and variety are constantly combined; witness natural objects, where this combination is always found in perfection. It is for that reason, that natural objects readily form themselves into groups, and are agreeable in whatever manner combined: a wood with its trees, shrubs, and herbs, is agreeable: the music of birds, the lowing of cattle, and the murmuring of a brook, are in conjunction delightful; though they strike the ear without modulation or harmony. In short, nothing can be more happily accommodated to the inward constitution of man, than that mixture of uniformity with variety which the eye discovers in natural objects. And accordingly, the mind is never more highly gratified than in contemplating a natural landscape.

End of the First Volume.