the Seasons” — a ^york written in the true feeling of 
a naturalist and a divine. In this, he says, “A pious 
acquaintance, remarkable for the quaint shrewdness 
of his observations, one day, when walking in a 
garden, having pulled a flower of exquisite loveli- 
ness, after expressing in his own characteristic way, 
his admiration of its various beauties, took up a 
clod of the soil in his other hand, and naively, but 
emphatically exclaimed, ‘What but Almighty Pow- 
er could extract that from this?’ If there was any 
thing ludicrous in the manner, there was nothing 
but truth and sublimity in the sentiment. Every 
thing in the operations of the Creator is worthy of 
devout admiration; but I scarcely know any thing 
in the inanimate world, which brings together and 
concentrates so many wonders of designing wisdom 
and benevolence, as the structure and qualities of 
a flower; — and assuredly not a little is added to the 
surprise and pious feeling with which this delight- 
ful production is contemplated, when we think of 
the crude materials from which it is elaborated. 
The beauty of form and colour; the sweetness of 
the fragrance; the delicate and skilful nature of 
the organization; the careful provisions, the fore- 
thought, the contrivance, the suiting of parts, as re- 
gards the propagation of the species; the adapta- 
tions to the subsistence and enjoyment of the insect 
tribes, — all produced by the artificial union of a 
few simple and apparently unfit substances, cannot 
fail to excite in the reflecting mind the most lively 
sentiments of astonishment, and to force upon it 
the conviction, that here, without doubt, is the fin- 
ger of God.” 
