260 SUMMER, 



angry waves is lost in that of the ten thousand water 

 fowl that nestle on the rock ; and from that first effort 

 of the returning sun which just softens the surface of 

 the snow, or blackens the southern side of the furrows' 

 ridge, to the full beam and blaze which drinks a rain- 

 storm in a day, and sickens or fatigues, by the very 

 excess of its bounty, those creatures which it has 

 called into life. This wonderful progress, this produc- 

 tion of myriads which no man could count, and yet 

 the most minute or the most common of which has a 

 beauty of structure, and an adaptation of parts, that 

 no art of man can imitate, is begun and completed in 

 the short space of three or four months, without noise or 

 without effort, but what appear to be the song and 

 sport of the creatures themselves. We boast of our 

 manufactories and their productions: of our rocks 

 flowing in streams of iron and brass ; our aged moun- 

 tains ground into porcelain ; the sea-weed and the sand 

 of our shores becoming glass ; our dust and rubbish 

 being molten into stone, we boast of these and very 

 many operations. And, comparing them with the 

 labours of other men, we may boast of them ; they are 

 unrivalled under the circumstances, under any circum- 

 stances : but when we compare these processes and 

 productions with those of nature, they are really no- 

 thing in comparison ; and the machine or implement, 

 to the contriver of which we erect a statue, is a mere 

 bungle compared with the least and simplest of these. 

 In the very best machines of art there is always a weak 

 part, one that is loaded with the rest and wears out 

 long before them ; but there is nothing of the kind in 

 nature, for every organ that we find in her productions 



