night; or, again, the skilful mocking-bird, delighted with her own power, is heard by the late traveller, amusing herself with imitations of all the other birds of the forest, now wrapped in their quiet slumbers. Thus night and day have each their charms: sleeping or waking, Nature is still ever beautiful, and breathing forth soft hannonies. And, to the open mind, are not all these things manifest proofs of the goodness as well as power of that ever watchful Being, who made the world and sustains it, whose Eye never slumbers nor sleeps,—who in the night's silence hears the nestling's feeble cry from the depths of the forest, and causes its little want to be supplied,—as well as keeps in man's nostrils the breath of life, and enables the heart still to beat, and the lungs to rise and fall in regular movement, through the hours of darkness and of man's unconscious and helpless slumbers?
But let us turn now, for a moment, to look at those faithful servants of man, the domestic animals, and consider how wisely and wonderfully they are constituted for the uses they have to perform. That noble animal, the horse, for instance, so indispensable to man's convenience and comfort;—how admirably is his degree of understanding (if such it may be called) calculated to fit him for his work. Had he any more or any less intelligence, he would be incapable of filling the useful place he now does, in the service of man. Had he more, he would not be the obedient instrument of man's will and word; for in that case he would have thoughts of his own, and consequently an opinion and will of his own; and he would wish to know why he was driven hither and thither, through storms, and over muddy roads, and to battle. On the other hand,
