LETTER XXIX.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
Charles begins to walk a little. I love him, and if I was not excited by affection, my sense of duty would prompt me to attend him now he is sick. Besides, I have much pleasure when we are alone together. We were yesterday busy with our glasses the whole afternoon. Dear mother, what amazing things there are which we cannot see with our naked eye. Should you think there are living creatures in a small grain of sand, and that those grains of sand contain small holes, in which they hide themselves. The mould that is in old cheese, appears like a wood of trees, with branches and leaves. In the hair of the head, we discovered a tube, through which a juice ran. Who would believe that small insects, scarcely visible, have blood vessels and bowels, constructed with as much care as those of the largest animals.
And the flowers, they are indeed beautiful. Come, said Charles, let us see the difference between the works of God and man. We employed our attention on the natural rose first; all was splendid and perfect: we then viewed an artificial rose; but what a difference! All was rough and disagreeable, and the beauty vanished. We looked at some highly polished steel; but it appeared like unwrought rusty iron. What then is the art of man, compared with the almighty power of the Creator? Nothing, indeed!—Oh that every body knew this! They would have more reverence for the Supreme Being. But what do we? We pluck a flower—we keep it some hours; and then throw it away without thinking that the greatest effort of human art could not produce such another. We slowly labour—but God spoke—and it was done.
WILLIAM.