the laborious study of their lives could enable them to discover. RICHARD. Well, I am glad we have thought of something at last, to prove that men are wiser than rabbits. FATHER. Herein appears the difference between what we call instinct and reason. Animals, in all their operations, follow the first impulse of nature, or that invariable law which God has implanted in them. In all they do undertake, therefore, their works are more perfect and regular than those of men. But man, having been endowed with the faculty of thinking or reasoning about what he does, although (being an imperfect and fallible creature) this liberty exposes him to mistake, and is perpetually leading him into error; yet by patience, perseverance, and industry, and by long experience, he at last achieves what angels may, perhaps, behold with admiration. A bird's nest, is, indeed, a perfect and beautiful structure; yet the nest of a swallow of the nineteenth century, is not at all more commodious, or elegant, than those that were built amid the rafters of Noah's ark. But if we compare (I will not say Adam's bower, for that was doubtless in the finest style of nature's own architecture) but if we compare the wigwam of the North American Indian, with the temples and palaces of ancient Greece and Rome, we then shall see to what man's mistakes, rectified and can improved upon, conduct him. Animals provide for their wants, and for those of their offspring, with the utmost adroitness; and just so much, and no more, did their antediluvian ancestry: while man, after having provided for his first necessities, emerging gradually from the savage state, begins to cultivate poetry and music, proceeds to the knowledge of arts and sciences, unknown and unthought of by his rude forefathers, till (in humble imitation of the works of God himself) he gives exquisite construction to the rudest materials which nature has left for his use; supplying those artificial wants and wishes, for which it was beneath her dignity to provide; and while his hand thus executes all that is ingenious and beautiful, his thought glances at all that is magnificent and sublime. XXVII. THE WORM AND THE SNAIL. A Fable. A LITTLE Worm too close that played His nether half, left short and free, However, when the shock was past, In what, in man, is called the brain. One fine spring evening, bright and wet, When slimy reptiles crawl and coil He recognised the coat of mail, And wary antlers of a snail, Which some young rogue (we beg his pardon) Had flung into his neighbor's garden. The snail all shattered and infirm, Deplored his fate, and told the worm. But that, on this account, 't is known Would I could rid me of my case, "Good!" says the worm, "the bargain's struck; I take it, and admire my luck: That shell, from which you'd fain be free, Is just the very thing for me. Oft have I wished, when danger calls, Off went the snail in houseless plight; Alas! it proved a frosty night, Which was Who having but a youthful bill, All ready to his appetite, Down went the snail, whose last lament, Mourned his deserted tenement. Meantime the worm had spent his strength, And 't would be vastly strange, he said, The unknown weight of household cares; He tried to reach that wished for goal, Which proved, when danger threatened sore, But failed him now this last resort: To force it in, or drag it through. Oh then, poor worm! what words can say |