58 ELOGE ON BUFFOS. 



can prevent himself sinking into a silent revery, when 

 the darkening sky and the hollow sound of the waves 

 announce the approach of a tempest ? And can it be 

 otherwise, than that so many wonders, the view of 

 which throws a contemplative heart into admiration ; 

 and which, when spread over nature, make such deep 

 impressions on the coarsest senses, should strike and 

 dazzle, when assembled in a work where the enthusiasm 

 inseparable from the subject is joined to the charm of 

 illusion ? 



Buffon brings before his readers the objects which 

 are known to them, as if they were present to their 

 view, and familiarises them even with those whose 

 entire nation is strange to them. Every thing he speaks 

 of is present. We transport ourselves along with him 

 to every place he describes. If he represents to us the 

 life and manners of the wild animals of our continent, 

 we follow him into the forests, we admire rude nature, 

 the silence which reigns in these solitudes, and so many 

 dumb objects which speak to the heart. We lament 

 the victim of a cruel sport, deceived by the ground, 

 which, in his rapid career, he scarcely touches ; and we 

 become interested in the faithful, but not very peace- 

 able love of a couple of Roes, which birth unites, and 

 death alone separates. If he paints another aspect of 

 nature in other climates, under the burning zones of 

 Africa and Asia, we fancy ourselves to be transported 

 to t**s heart of the deserts of Arabia, and distinguish, 

 among the hissings of reptiles, the voice of the Ono- 

 crotalus and the cries of the Jabiru ; or we tremble at 



