he is now, infinite in power? He was perfectly competent to the execution of his design. Creation, then, must have been originally perfect, and in complete accordance with the wishes of its author. This, no one will venture to deny. Each part of it was in harmony with every other part, and obedient to the whole; and the whole was obedient to the God that made it. There was in it no defect any more than in himself; nor could any power but his own produce one. But to allege that he, of his own accord, and in opposition to his own moral nature, which consists in perfect goodness, holiness, truth, and unchangeableness of purpose, would capriciously and causelessly mar his own work, would be a charge against him, marked alike with presumption and absurdity. It would be to assert the production of an effect, not only without a cause, but in direct opposition to every existing cause. Between every effect and its cause there prevails, of necessity, a native affinity. In other words, every thing produces in its own likeness. Good directly produces good. When associated with and aided by competent wisdom and power, it is impossible for it to produce evil. From what source then can evil proceed? From evil alone; or from some sort of imperfection, which is itself virtually an evil. In the commencement of duration, before the work of creation began, when the Deity dwelt in immensity alone, no evil existed, either in act or intention. The Deity himself was all in all; and he was all perfection. How then could evil gain an existence? The answer is plain. It could not gain it at all, except through the paradox of an effect without a cause; or, what is still worse, an effect in opposition to all existing causes.

Shall I be told that the Deity permitted evil, but did not produce it? I reply, that, admitting the existence of evil, he, being the author of all things, created that which did produce it, and hence indirectly produced it himself, having the power to prevent it. In the strictest sense of the term, therefore, by permitting it, he was accessary to it. By acting in such a way, man not only incurs blame, but subjects himself to punishment. One individual sees another about to commit murder, or any other act of felony, and having the power to prevent him, declines to do so. He always shares the guilt, and, if strictly dealt with, the penalty also. Such, if I mistake not, is both the law and the practice. Let no mortal, then, charge on the Deity that, which would stamp himself as a felon.

If, then, positive evil does exist, the Creator of all things is as certainly the author of it, directly or indirectly, as he is of positive good. The case is not in the slightest degree altered by alleging, that he made men and angels free agents, and that they perpetrated evil of their own accord. When he gave them their freedom he gave them also their propensities; for they could no more create their propensities than they could create themselves. His perfect foreknowledge, therefore, apprized him of the result. He knew that, with the power and disposition he had imparted to them, they would do mischief. Yet he permitted them to proceed to the consummation of their purposes. This was worse than mere connivance at evil. To bestow both the power and disposition to crime, and then to connive at the commission of it, is to be its real author. It is to place the dagger in the assassin's hand, encourage him to use it, and invigorate his arm when he strikes the blow.

This picture of enormity, offensive as it is, is not so dark as that, which is affixed on the Deity, in the usual delineation of his character. He is charged with having created man, and bestowed on him propensities, which he knew would hurry him into vice. He then forbade him, under the most grievous penalty, to commit a crime, which it was confidently known to him he would commit, in obedience to an inclination which he had himself implanted in him, as a part of his constitution. Nor did this prohibitory command communicate to him any countervailing inclination. It was arbitrary, and in opposition to a principle of his nature. The act of disobedience being committed, the Deity, offended at the issue of his own arrangement, inflicted punishment. Such is the representation given of the Ruler of the universe, whose nature is perfect. Comment is needless. The following case is analogous, though much weaker. A father trains his son to vicious practices. He then sternly forbids him to commit a crime, for which he has cultivated in him a propensity, until it has become irresistible. The youth disobeys, and suffers death by his father's command!

Another view, somewhat different, which is at times presented, respecting this same point, is, that all things were created in perfection; but that they afterwards degenerated and ran into evil. This proposition refutes itself. Had they been made perfect, and placed under laws equally perfect, and in due accordance with them, they could not have degenerated. The very process of degeneracy bespeaks

imperfection. To pronounce any thing perfect, and yet liable to deteriorate, is to assert a contradiction.

Shall I be told that I am treating of mysteries, which the human intellect cannot comprehend, and of sacred things, which ought not to be familiarly approached and handled? I reply, that this is an attempt to evade the question, and to prevent Inquiry. Were I to add, that such an effort indicates, in those who make it, some doubt of the soundness of their doctrine, I would not say more than circumstances justify. Truth solicits scrutiny, at the same time that it defies it. Conscious error alone shrinks from investigation. I am not speaking of mysteries, but of the obvious relation of cause and effect; so obvious, indeed, that no one who will carefully examine the subject can fail to perceive it. Nor is any thing too sacred to be made a theme of inquiry. The touch of the reasoning faculties of man desecrates nothing. The admonition, "approach not, lest you tread on sacred ground," is too often given from unworthy motives, and for unholy purposes. It is not half a century since it was given in every part of Europe, against inquiring into the "divine right" of kings to enslave their subjects; and in many parts it is given so still. In the eye of the church, the inquiry is unholy; and in that of the state, criminal. With the latter, the man who practices it, does so at the hazard of losing his head; with the former, of forfeiting his salvation. But, wherever light and reason prevail, all such warnings are disregarded; and those who represent any thing as too sacred to be examined, are considered under the influence of superstition, personal interest, or hypocrisy. Serious apprehensions are entertained that those who wear the mitre and the gown continue to urge the admonition now, from the same motive with those who sway the sceptre-to perpetuate their own power. But, be the motive what it may, the practice is injurious, and ought to be abolished. It puts fetters on the human mind, narrows its range of action, plays the unrelenting tyrant over it, and enfeebles its powers. The consequence is the perpetuation of ignorance, credulity, and prejudice.

In the preceding chain of reasoning, it has not been my intention to clothe a paradox in the garb of seeming truth. I disclaim now and forever all connexion with premeditated sophistry, and every form of disingenuousness. My only object has been to exhibit what I conceive to be the essential and eternal relation between cause and effect; in other words, to sustain truth, the only end at which I ever aim. If I have erred, a frank and manly exposition of my errors will be gratifying to me; because it will instruct myself as well as others. If, on the contrary, I have been successful in my effort, it clearly follows, that all things are as they ought to be, and as they were originally intended to be; and that positive evil is but a name; in the words of the poet, that "all partial evil is universal good."

I shall now present a brief view of some of the evidence belonging to the second division of my subject; that, I mean, derived a posteriori; or, in simpler language, which is furnished by observation. In this part of my task, I encounter but one obstacle. The body of testimony which presents itself is so great, and all so excellent, that I find it extremely difficult to select. Nature is replete with it. It forms a constellation of truths so bright and forcible, as to produce conviction in all who examine them without prejudice, and with the attention they deserve.

Look around on creation, as far as mortal ken can reach, or the most minute investigation penetrate; from worlds to atoms, and through all living and dead matter; and nothing is discovered but one universal scheme of aptitude. The more rigorously that scheme is scrutinized, the more perfect it is found to be, and the more deep and permanent is the admiration it excites. There exists nothing inappropriate to the place it occupies; nothing can be indicated redundant or wanting; nor can any change be imagined in a single article that would not be for the worse.

Would you change the figure of suns and planets that are scattered through space? It is clearly demonstrable, that nothing but spheres would answer the purpose for which they are intended. Mould them into any other form, and unless a corresponding alteration be made in their economy, and the entire system to which they belong, ruin will ensue. Would you, by elevating plains and valleys, or by lowering hills and mountains, reduce the surface of the earth to a level? You would unfit it for the subsistence of the living beings, both vegetable and animal, that now inhabit it, and convert it into a desert, until new and suitable races should be formed. The effect of a radical change in the atmosphere or the ocean would be the same. Any material alteration in the relative extent of land

and sea would derange the present order of things, and call for a new one. So would alterations in the course of the seasons, the grateful vicissitudes of day and night, and the various meteors that shed their influence around us. All this could be satisfactorily proved, had I leisure to dwell on it. To the student of nature it seems self-evident.

In tracing this beautiful scheme of adaptation it is worthy of remark, that the more essential any agent is to the existence and welfare of living matter, the more extensive is its prevalence, and the more abundant its quantity. This is especially true of water, air, light, electricity, and the matter of heat. There is reason to believe, that if entirely deprived of either of these, living existence on earth would cease. Certainly this would be the case with all forms of living matter now in being. Water, air, light, electricity, and the matter of heat, are essential to them. They are therefore attainable in every part of the globe. This remark is applicable also to color. The shades, that are most salutary as well as most pleasing, are blue and green. Hence the meadows, fields, and forests, are green; and distant mountains, the ocean, and the heavens, are blue. But these are the objects that are most constantly looked on. Render them white, yellow, or red, or give to them any strong and glaring color, and they will injure the eyes of animals, unless they also are changed, and brought into harmony with them. The truth of this appears from the injury done to the organs of vision by looking too long at the sun, or at a volcano during an intense eruption, and by the light reflected from islands of ice, and from plains and mountains covered with snow. It further appears from the well-known fact, that the impression of blue and green rays of light is least painful and injurious to eyes that are inflamed or unusually sensitive. However pleasing other colors may be for a time, they cannot be so long and constantly looked on with safety as these two.

Were there time to do justice to the subject, it might be both pleasing and instructive to take a view of the peculiar adaptation of all vegetables to the places where they grow in a native state. This constitutes one of the most delightful of the harmonies of nature. The adaptation embraces several points, each of which may be considered a genus, subdivided into species and varieties. The leading points are soil, climate, humidity, and elevation above the level of the ocean. The diversities in these are exceedingly numerous, each giving existence, according to fitness, to different plants. From this arises the boundless variety of the vegetable kingdom, every peculiar tract of country producing according to its native character. Hence, could the whole surface of the earth be embraced at a single view, it would exhibit a magnificent panorama of vegetable mosaic. It would be tessalated by the diversified growth of the tropics, the temperate climates, and the polar regions; and by that of valleys, plains, hills, and mountains. Oceans, lakes, and rivers, would add to the variety, by the vegetables growing within their waters, and along their margins. Seasons also would have their influence. This picture, so beautiful to the eye of taste, would be still more so to the spirit of philosophy. In the latter point of view, its beauty would consist in the great scheme of aptitude indicated by it. Each description of plants would be seen flourishing and smiling in the situation allotted to it, and best suited to its character, by the wisdom and beneficence of the PARENT of all things. No interchange of place between any two species could be effected without injury to each -the deterioration, certainly, if not the extinction of both. In fine, the whole would present a portrait of optimism, as resistless in its philosophy, as it would be grand in its outline, and rich in its coloring.

Shall we turn our attention to the animal kingdom, and inquire for a moment into the character and condition of that interesting department of nature? Here again we find nothing but order and aptitude-every thing precisely as reason says it ought to be. Even the destruction of one animal by another, for the purpose of subsistence, is no exception to this. Were there time for the analysis, it could be easily shown, that, instead of being marked with cruelty, or indicating a defect in the harmony of nature, that is a dispensation of benevolence and wisdom. When we refer, therefore, to a future period of concord and felicity, in which all strife among the inferior animals shall cease, the lion reposing with the lamb, under the shadow of the same branch, on which the eagle and the dove shall be perched in amity-in referring to such an event, I say, we speak as poets, not as philosophers; and predict a state of things, which, in the literal meaning of the terms, will never occur. It belongs to the same strain of fiction with the "golden age" of the Greeks and Romans. Were it possible, moreover, that it should occur, unless it were accompanied by many other corresponding changes, it would be

productive of misery rather than happiness. It would subvert the aptitude which now exists, constituting the beauty and order of earthly creation, without which felicity would be but a name.

The animal kingdom is composed of many kinds of beings, to which the same remarks that have been made on vegetables are strictly applicable. Each kind inhabits by instinct the place that is most suitable to it, and pursues from the same cause the mode of life that best befits it. Let the least change be made in either respect, and mischief will ensue. To be more particular.

To people the three great localities, or, as they were once termed, elements, of water, earth, and air, there are three distinct families of animals; fish, quadrupeds, and birds; or, to speak more comprehensively, as well as more accurately, animals that swim, animals that walk or creep, and animals that fly. And an interchange of their abodes could not be made without extinguishing the whole. Between these three families there exist what may be called intermediate races, as links to complete the chain of being. But I cannot descend to the notice of minutiæ. Immerse animals that fly, walk, or creep, in the aqueous element, and they will be drowned in water; bring those that swim into the atmosphere, and they will be drowned in air. It is as real drowning in the one case as in the other. In both, the suspension of respiration, from immersion in an unsuitable element, is the cause of death. But this is not all. The proper food of these three classes of animals is found only in the situations they respectively inhabit. Examine, moreover, their form and general provisions, and they will be found specifically adapted to their places of residence and modes of life. The figure of a fish is precisely fitted for gliding through the water, and its fins, tail, and their movement, to propel and guide it. The rudder of a ship and its motions are but a clumsy imitation of the tail-fin of a fish and the motions it performs. Another provision of no small importance is the position of the scales of a fish and the mucus which covers them. The lubricity given by this to the body of the animal, while it aids in protecting it from irritation, facilitates not a little its passage through the water. The force of this remark will be perceived by contemplating for a moment the effect that would be produced by roughening the scales, and inverting their position, so as to make them point in a forward direction. By such an alteration the progress of the animal would be greatly impeded, if not entirely prevented.

Equally well fitted to stand, walk, run, or bound, is the figure of quadrupeds, with the limbs and feet that support them, and the muscles that give them motion. To these purposes their whole frame is admirably adapted, as a minute analysis of its mechanism demonstrates. Nor is their covering less peculiarly suited to their wants. Is the climate cold? it is thick, furry, and warm. Is it hot? it is hairy, sparse, and comparatively cool. Does the animal resort to the water for food or shelter? it is calculated to give the requisite protection from that element. In variable climates, moreover, the hair of animals changes, that the covering it affords may be suited to the different seasons of the year. It is thicker and longer in winter, and thinner and shorter in summer. It is also, in the former season, to render it a better preservative of the warmth of the body, mixed in many quadrupeds with a larger quantity of fur, than in the latter. In all its changes its fitness is preserved.

The aptitude of birds to inhabit the atmosphere would seem, if possible, still more complete. Their figure, pointed in front, is peculiarly adapted to pass with ease through the yielding element. Their bodies have but little comparative weight; their muscles, especially those that move the wings, are uncommonly powerful in proportion to their size, and their wing-feathers are models of lightness, elasticity, and strength. Their marrowless bones, and their capacity to inflate various parts of their bodies with air, by means of tubes communicating with the lungs, increase their fitness for their aerial mode of life, particularly for the art of flying. Nor must I pass unnoticed the aptitude of their feathers to protect them, not only from mechanical injuries, but also from cold, rain, and every form of atmospherical moisture. The down of those that inhabit the north is analagous to the fur of northern quadrupeds, and subserves a similar purpose. They also, like quadrupeds, change their covering, from lighter to heavier, and the reverse, to fit it to the temperature of the different seasons of the year.

The power to inflate their bodies with air, and thus increase their dimensions, bestows on certain sea-fowls a striking aptitude for their mode of life. It enables them to render themselves, at pleasure, much more buoyant in water, than they would be without it. This capacity they bring into action whenever their safety calls for its exercise. Some of them, that can scarcely fly, are rarely seen, except

at a great distance from land. When they are overtaken by a tempest, therefore, their preservation depends entirely on their buoyancy. And that is the emergency, in which their instinct prompts them to exercise their art. Hence they distend their bodies with air to near the double of their usual bulk, and, floating with the lightness of a wave-tossed feather, ride out the storm in safety. Of this practice, the little auk affords, in its economy, a well-known example.

Did the occasion permit me to descend to particulars, it would be delightful to contemplate the peculiar aptitude, in form, armor, instinct, and other attributes, of each species of the feathered race, for its own economy and mode of life. In this view of the subject, the eagle, falcon, and other birds of prey, with their beak, claws, boldness, and strength-to which must be added their quick and penetrating vision and rapid flight, would furnish striking specimens of fitness. So would fowls that frequent the water. Do they wade, and feed on living animals? Their legs are long and destitute of feathers, their necks long and flexible, with powerful muscles, and their beaks are also long, horny, and pointed like a spear. They are thus well calculated to reach and harpoon their prey. When they have arrived, moreover, at the proper place, their instinct directs them to stand motionless, until the animal they are in quest of has approached within a suitable distance. They then, with the swiftness of an arrow, aim at it a stroke which seldom errs.

Do they swim, and subsist on grass, roots, ooze, or small aquatic animals? Their legs are short, their feet broad and webbed to serve as paddles; their bodies flat and also broad that they may float the better; they have a propensity as well as a power to dive in search of food, and their bills are in every way fitted to seize and retain it. The feathers of these birds, moreover, are especially calculated to afford protection from water, by means of their mattedness and oily character. Add to this, that their eyes are fitted for vision under water, as well as in air.

This is an aptitude so peculiarly beautiful, as to merit a few remarks in illustration of it. When the rays of light enter the eye-ball, they must be refracted. so as to decussate each other, before they reach the retina. The power of the ball to refract is in proportion to its rotundity, and the superior density of its humors compared to the density of the medium from which the rays enter it. Is the medium rare? The humors need not be very dense, nor the ball very globular. Is the medium dense? The reverse is true. The humors of the eye must be also dense, or its form very round; or both conditions must exist. Without these relations vision is imperfect.

Water is a denser medium than air. When a duck, therefore, dives, it cannot see clearly with its eye in the same condition, which suits the purposes of its vision when it is afloat. It has no power, however, to alter the density of the humors of that organ. But it has a power to alter its figure, and render it more globular, by the action of muscles intended for that purpose. And it does so. Hence, as relates to vision, nature has bestowed on it a twofold aptitude; one for the exercise of that sense in the atmosphere, and another in water, because its economy requires it to pass a portion of its time in each element.

Fish reside in water alone. Their eyes possess, therefore, as every one must have observed, both the qualities which contribute to a strong refractive power. Their humors are very dense, and their figure very round. Nor is this all.

Their substance is much more combustible than that of the eyes of animals that live in air. But Sir Isaac Newton discovered that, other things being equal, the refractive power of a body is in proportion to its combustibility. Hence the perfect adaptation of these aquatic animals to exercise vision in their native element. Nor would I say less in admiration of the suitableness, mental and corporeal, of the various species of quadrupeds for their respective spheres. In every instance, instinct is peculiarly adapted to the form and constitution of the being, as well as to its mode of life and power of action. The strength, fangs, and ferocity of the lion, tiger, and panther, with their furtive approach, and arrow-like spring on their prey; the watchfulness, timidity, and swiftness of the stag and the antelope; the harmony between the size, structure, and instincts of the elephant; the form and general economy of the camel; and the peculiar adaptations of the monkey and beaver races, with thousands of traits of other animals equally striking, might be here recited. Indeed, to the rule referred to there is no exception. The same aptitudes are manifested every where.

To show how essential it is to the subsistence of an animal that there should be perfect harmony between its instincts, form, and mode of life, let us suppose that harmony broken. Give to the lion the instincts of the horse, and to the