fore him. If a man is occupied in examining the constitution of a watch, he will not be so apt to think of the watchmaker, as if he merely considered it as an instrument designed for pointing out the hour. This is no reproach to the modern method of philosophizing, but only shews in what manner it may have accidentally contributed to the unfortunate result which you have noticed.

There is another circumstance, too, which may have tended to disunite religion and philosophy. We are first taught the principles of religion on the authority of revelation, and as they commonly seem to be sufficiently well grounded upon that foundation, we are apt to be indifferent about any other. Philosophers, indeed, come but too often to entertain doubts of that ground of belief,-but so far from looking for any other, their views of religion are apt entirely to vanish from their minds when the authority of revelation has lost its hold. They can scarcely expect in any other principles so imposing an aspect of reality, and when that system, which divines have exhausted all their learning and reasoning to support, seems to be giving way, they can seldom be prevailed on to look anywhere else for the traces of Deity. At first sight, too, the philosophy of nature appears at times to afford arguments against revelation, and, in so doing, it seems, at the same time, to loosen the foundations of religion in general. Thus divines and philosophers occupy two partics in the world of letters, and although it is to be hoped there are many inquirers who do not belong exclusively to either side, but who borrow lights from both, it is not to be wondered at, that the two parties should have been formed, and that no small animosity should prevail between them.

The superstitions of antiquity, on the other hand, could have no such evil influence on the religious sentiments of philosophers: They never formed any very serious part of the principles of men of reflection, and while it was thought proper to treat them with public respect, nature was still the great book which the wise and the contemplative resorted to. I know, Cleanthes, it is your opinion that it is a misfortune for mankind

that any other has ever been held up to them. I am thankful that this opinion is no longer mine. But you seem in deep thought, Pamphilus, (continued Philo, turning to me,)pray may I be favoured with the subject of your meditations?

I have been considering (replied 1) to what extent your former arguments have carried us, and I cannot help thinking that you have made rather too large a leap from your premises to your conclusion. I will admit, if you will, that the traces of design are irresistibly suggested to us, when we contemplate the appearances of nature-I will even go as far as you seem to wish, (though I am not quite sure but that it is somewhat too far,) and say that, to our understanding, design is as apparent as the appearances themselves are to our senses. But, in order to reach the notion of Deity, we must not only discover design, but mind: you seem to identify the two. I admit that our common idea of design regards it solely as an attribute of mind,-but may it not exist as a quality of nature, and be only one of the principles of things, and stand on the same footing with attraction, magnetism, electricity, or any of the other powers which seem to govern the universe?

I thought, Pamphilus, (replied Philo,) that you had agreed with me in acknowledging, that those other powers, as you now call them, in imitation of the materialists, were only methods of operation, and that they could only justly be denominated powers, inasmuch as they supposed the previous exercise of volition. What do we call the phenomena of attrac tion, of magnetism, or of electricity, except certain relative arrangements in the particles of matter ?-and when we give the name of power to any of these operations, we only mean to say that there is a power by which they are carried on. In their regularity we read design ;-design, as you have owned, naturally suggests to us the notion of mind, and the only way in which mind acts is by volition: the only notion of cause and effect which we can form is volition and its consequences;-all the operations of nature, therefore, appear to us effects, and we give the name of power to the agency which produces them.

I grant you, (said I,) Philo, all this

is very natural, but I do not see the proof on which its reality is established. You have got design, but where is mind, volition, and all the other train of your deductions?

Well then, (said Philo,) if you will not give me mind and volition, I will deny those powers which you wish to palm upon me. I say still that these are mere arrangements, and that they indicate nothing but design separate from the perceptions with which they affect the senses. Design, therefore, will be the only principle by which nature is regulated.

Admit this, (said I,) and we have not yet found the Deity. Design upon this supposition will be merely a principle of nature, not an attribute of mind, and it is only an intelligent mind, not a principle of arrangement, which can be the object of any sentiments of religion.

However Cleanthes (replied Philo) may despise my sceptical tendencies, I cannot but think that they may at times lead to truth; for instance, Pamphilus, all your present difficulty seems to arise from a mysterious re verence which you have conceived for that thing which you are pleased to call mind, and which we sceptics sometimes treat with no very marked deference. Indeed, we have gone so far as to doubt of its existence. You who seem to understand it so well, must at least know what you mean when you speak of your own mind. But I suppose you will find, upon examination, that it is only its attributes of which you are conscious, or of which you know any thing; and the thinking substance itself will make but a very poor figure in your apprehension.

No matter for that, (replied I,) I am still satisfied of its existence.

You are conscious (replied Philo) of the existence of certain operations of thought and of action, which are connected together by fixed laws. This system or combination of operations you call yourself, or your mind. In its constitution, as well as in the great system of nature, you may trace the influence of design superior to your own, and what if this thing which you call the substance of mind, and which seems to you so admirable and divine, be nothing more than that arrangement and connection between your various faculties, which derives

all its unity and dignity from bearing the stamp of an higher intelligence? You may say then, if you will, that you have no idea of God, except as the designing principle of all existence: mind owes its arrangement to this principle, as well as matter, and must be an object, therefore, of inferior reverence.

Indeed, Philo, (said Cleanthes,) I cannot but be of Pamphilus's opinion, that it is not the mere power of intelligence which excites our religious sentiments, but our notion that there is some being in whom it resides, and whom we suppose as in some degree resembling ourselves in nature, though greatly beyond us in all perfection.

I am of the same opinion, (said Philo,) and Pamphilus admits, that when we once reach the notion of design, it is natural for us to suppose a mind, volition, and other attributes, but this he wants to have strictly demonstrated. Here I have recourse to the defensive weapons of scepticism, and tell him that the notion of mind, as of a single undivided being, is greatly derived from the consistency and harmony observed among its operations, and which, therefore, as well as the system of nature, supposes the existence of superior intelligence. If, therefore, he will not at once admit mind from the observation of design, I tell him, that design is superior to mind, or is the principle of its constitution, and if this should seem paradoxical, it is only saying, in other words, that the divine intelligence is in its being or essence of a loftier nature than mind, which, in strictness of speech, means only created mind. God may be only known to us as the principle of intelligence, but then it is very evident, that this principle must be more essentially intelligent than any other intelligence, and if our notion of substance or individuality of being, either in mind or matter, be derived, as I think probable, from that observed harmony and arrangement of parts, which indicates an unity of design; then, although we cannot class the divine nature under the common

*This notion of design, or intention, forms a part of many complex ideas, which have occasioned much perplexity to Philosophers, and is, in truth, the ingredient which has imperceptibly the greatest weight in their composition.

notion of substance, for that would be to suppose, that it had arranged and harmonized its own existence; and the exact notion of the Deity, accordingly, must be entirely above our comprehension: yet, what comes nearest it is mind, because mind exhibits intelligence, and we may be very sure that there is nothing of substance in the highest sense which does not belong to the Deity, if we mean by this word any thing separable from the constitution or arrangement of things created and systematized.

But, indeed, Cleanthes, we are again getting too deeply into metaphysical difficulties, and it is not very wise, perhaps, in Pamphilus to push me beyond the limits of an humbler philosophy. It would be well for us, in this great inquiry, to keep in view the admirable caution of Calvin, "Hanc esse rectissimam Dei quærendi viam, et aptissimum ordinem; non ut audaci curiositate penetrare tentemus ad excutiendam ejus essentiam quæ adoranda potius est quam scrupulosius disquirenda: sed ut illum in suis operibus contemplemur, quibus se propinquum nobis familiaremque reddit ac quodammodo communicat." If our understandings are satisfied, that design is as apparent in nature as any other appearance, we may admit at once that the great fountain of all intelligence is at least as honourably situated as any of the streams which are derived from it; and if this mighty faculty seems to fall into the class of what are called natural, that is to say, unintelligent powers; unless it be the attribute of a mind, and be associated with other attributes, then surely we may (to avoid even a contradiction) allow that there must be a Divine mind in which this intelligence resides, and which must be endowed also with all the attributes that are suitable to the loftiness of the conception. Admit the infinite intelligence of the Deity, and every other perfection of mind or spirit will follow in its train.

You will pardon me, however, Philo, said I, even although you have ensconced yourself behind the formidable shield of Calvin, (I did not, by the way, conceive that there were such noble sayings in his terrific theology,) if I should accuse you of some of that tendency to mysticism, which was carried to so great an extent

by Demea, in our former conversation." You say the appearances of nature prove the existence of design. I ask you, is this design an attribute of mind? You reply, that we naturally think so, because we know nothing of design except in mind; but then you say, it is something greater than mind, because mind is itself a system formed by design. If then the Deity is mind, all those objections which you formerly started against the anthropomorphism of Cleanthes, may be urged against the hypothesis; if he is more than mind, or of a nature as you say entirely above our comprehension, are we not running into the mysticism of Demea ?

I repeat again, (replied Philo,) that all we directly read in nature is the existence of design or intelligence. This is a quality which I perfectly understand, because I find it existing in myself. In myself it exists along with other qualities, the combination and assemblage of which I call my mind, and as this is the only mode in which I can conceive its existence, I naturally speak of it in every instance as being an attribute of mind. However, the intelligence which Į discover in nature must exist in a mode of being different from my common idea of mind; because the only species of mind with which I am acquainted, is itself constituted or systematized, which cannot be the case with the divine mind. The truth then seems simply to be this, and it leads neither to anthropomorphism nor to mysticism. I discover the divine intelligence. I can only speak of intelligence as existing in a mind; at the same time the Divine cannot be of the same nature with the human mind. If you ask me what is that supreme nature, I cannot inform you,-I know as much as I want, however, when I have discovered its all-pervading wisdom.

I will only detain you on this part of the inquiry (replied 1) with another little puzzle, in which, although I firmly believe there is no serious difficulty, it may yet be as well if we can unravel it. You told me a little while ago that I should have some difficulty in satisfying myself what I

• See Hume's Dialogues on Natural Religion.

pass that are loaded with misery. At length I emerged once more to light and life, and found myself lying on a table in the form of a cambric handkerchief, in a splendid apartment, which, as I afterwards found, belonged to the Hotel de B in Paris. The room, though brilliantly fitted up, was rendered gloomy and sepulchral, by the quantities of black draperies that were disposed around it.

Presently a lady entered the apartment, leaning on a very pretty, but pensive, young woman. The lady was apparently past the bloom of youth, and was clothed in the deepest widow's mourning. On entering, she stopt, and gazed around, and then said, in no very gracious tone of voice, to the dejected girl by her side, "Very well, Agatha, for once you have done me the favour to try to please me; on the whole, every thing is very tolerably arranged; but we must make a few alterations."

She then, while her attendant seemed wearied both in spirit and in body, caused her to make a thousand little frivolous changes in the folds and hangings of the black draperies.

When this was at last completed, she threw herself, in a fine attitude, into an arm-chair. "Now," said she, "I can indulge myself in grief." She then, taking me in her hand, seemed to endeavour to deceive herself into the belief that she was shedding a flood of tears. After a proper time, she discontinued the semblance of woe, and took up a book that had been placed on the table.

"How is this?" said she,-"What could you mean by laying this book on the table when I am expecting visits of condolence?"

"I thought, Madam," replied the trembling Agatha, " you would like the book that appeared to amuse you so much last night.”

"True, child, but it is a different thing reading in company, and reading alone: here, quick, hide it behind the cushion, and give me Massillon's Sermons, and the Mystics of Madame Guyon."

These arrangements were scarcely made when company arrived, and there followed a long scene of the hypocrisy of grief on one side, and the hypocrisy of sympathy on the other. I remarked one young man, who was

more particularly assiduous to the widow, and in whom there appeared an air of design and artifice that excited my suspicions. For this reason I watched him narrowly. He was tolerably handsome, and evidently thought himself exceedingly so. His dress was studiously a-la-mode, though, with all his endeavours, he could not set it off with the true air of gentility; and there was besides a kind of vaurien expression in his countenance that made me in my heart (for cambric handkerchiefs have hearts) take a dislike to him.

The conversation, as was highly proper, was chiefly on the merits of the deceased; and the affliction of the widow appeared excessive, though I, who had an opportunity of knowing how the matter stood, can safely aver she did not shed a tear. She expatiated on her lamented husband's merits, and especially on his great liberality.

"Do you know, my friends, that noble, generous man, has left every thing to me.”

"Generous, noble man!" was echoed by the circle of sympathetic friends, who seemed to be performing the part of a chorus.

"And every thing in my own power," added the widow.

"Excellent worthy man!" was reiterated round the room.

"I thought," said M. de Chambeau, the young man I have been describing, "that great part of M. de B- 's property went to the young G-s, his heirs-at-law?"

"Not a livre," said the widow; not a month before my lamented husband's death, he agreed to pay their father's debts, on condition that they relinquished their own claims on his estate."

I hope," said M. de Chambeau, "it was not a large sum he had to pay?"

"O no! something very inconsiderable, but the sons were willing to make any sacrifice to save their father from prison."

"How fortunate !" went round the circle.

"But," resumed the young man, with a look of anxious inquiry," can they not institute a process, and still substantiate their claims?"

"Impossible," replied the lady, "the papers were too securely drawn