time, He had many places to visit, various audiences to address; that His person was generally besieged by crowds of followers; that He was sometimes driven away from the place where He was teaching by persecution, at other times thought fit to withdraw Himself from the commotions of the populace. Under these circumstances, nothing appears to have been so practicable, or likely to be so efficacious, as leaving, wherever He came, concise lessons of duty. These circumstances, at least, show the necessity He was under of comprising what He delivered within a small compass. In particular, His Sermon upon the Mount ought always to be considered with a view to these observations. The question is not whether a fuller, a more accurate, a more systematic, or a more argumentative discourse upon morals might not have been pronounced, but whether more could have been said in the same room better adapted to the exigencies of the hearers, or better calculated for the purposes of impression? Seen in this light, it has always appeared to me to be admirable.

Evidences of Christianity, pt. ii. chap. ii. 1794.

On the Covering of Birds.

The covering of birds cannot escape the most vulgar observation. Its lightness, its smoothness, its warmth, the disposition of the feathers all inclined backward, the down about their stem, the overlapping of their tips, their different configuration in different parts, not to mention the variety of their colours, constitute a vestment for the body, so beautiful, and so appropriate to the life which the animal is to lead, as that, I think, we should have had no conception of anything equally perfect, if we had never seen it, or can never imagine anything more so. Let us suppose (what is possible only in supposition) a person who had never seen a bird to be presented with a plucked pheasant, and bid to set his wits to work, how to contrive for it a covering which shall unite the qualities of warmth, levity, and least resistance to the air, and the highest degree of each; giving it also as much beauty and ornament as he could afford; he is the person to behold the work of the Deity, in this part of His creation, with the sentiments which are due to it. The commendation which the general aspect of the feathered world seldom fails of exciting, will be increased by further examination. It is one of those cases in which the philosopher has more to admire than the common observer. Every

feather is a mechanical wonder. If we look at the quill, we find properties not easily brought together-strength and lightness. I know few things more remarkable than the strength and lightness of the very pen with which I am writing. If we cast our eye to the upper part of the stem, we see a material, made for the purpose, used in no other class of animals, and in no other part of birds; tough, light, pliant, elastic. The pith also, which feeds the feathers, is amongst animal substances peculiar, neither bone, flesh, membrane, nor tendon. But the artificial part of a feather is the beards, or, as it is sometimes, I believe, called, the vane. By the beards are meant, what are fastened on each side of the stem, and what constitute the breadth of the feather; what we usually strip off from one side or both when we make a pen. The separate pieces, or lamina, of which the beard is composed, are called threads, sometimes filaments, or rays. Now, the first thing which an attentive observer will remark is, how much stronger the beard of the feather shows itself to be, when pressed in a direction perpendicular to its plane, than when rubbed, either up or down, in the line of the stem; and he will soon discover the structure which occasions this difference, viz, that the lamina whereof these beards are composed are flat, and placed with their flat sides towards each other; by which means, whilst they easily bend for the approaching of each other, as any one may perceive by drawing his finger ever so lightly upwards, they are much harder to bend out of their place, which is the direction in which they have to encounter the impulse and pressure of the air, and in which their strength is wanted and put to the trial.

This is one particularity in the structure of a feather; a second is still more extraordinary. Whoever examines a feather cannot help taking notice that the threads or lamina of which we have been speaking, in their natural state unite; that their union is something more than the mere apposition of loose surfaces; that they are not parted asunder without some degree of force; that nevertheless there is no glutinous cohesion among them; that, therefore, by some mechanical means or other, they catch or clasp among themselves, thereby giving to the beard or vane its closeness and compactness of texture. Nor is this all; when two laminæ, which have been separated by accident or force, are brought together again, they immediately reclasp; the connection, whatever it was, is perfectly recovered, and the beard of the

feather becomes as smooth and firm as if nothing had happened to it. Draw your finger down the feather, which is against the grain, and you break probably the junction of some of the contiguous threads: draw your finger up the feather, and you restore all things to their former state. This is no common contrivance ; and now for the mechanism by which it is effected. The threads or laminæ above mentioned are interlaced with one another; and the interlacing is performed by means of a vast number of fibres or teeth, which the laminæ shoot forth on each side, and which hook and grapple together. A friend of mine counted fifty of these fibres in one-twentieth of an inch. These fibres are crooked but curved after a different manner: for those which proceed from the thread on the side towards the extremity of the feather are longer, more flexible, and bent downward, whereas those which proceed from the side towards the beginning or quill end of the feather are shorter, firmer, and turn upwards. The process, then, which takes place is as follows:-when two laminæ are pressed together, so that these long fibres are forced far enough over the short ones, their crooked parts fall, into the cavity made by the crooked parts of the others, just as the latch that is fastened to a door enters into the cavity of the catch fixed to the door-post, and there hooking itself, fastens the door; for it is properly in this manner that one thread of a feather is fastened to the other.

This admirable structure of the feather, which it is easy to see with the microscope, succeeds perfectly for the use to which nature has designed it; which use was, not only that the laminæ might be united, but that when one thread or lamina has been separated from another by some external violence, it might be reclasped with sufficient facility and expedition. In the ostrich, this apparatus of crotchets and fibres, of hooks and teeth, is wanting; and we see the consequence of the want. The filaments hang loose and separate from one another, forming only a kind of down; which constitution of the feathers, however it may fit them for the flowing honours of a lady's head-dress, may be reckoned an imperfection in the bird, inasmuch as wings, composed of these feathers, although they may greatly assist it in running, do not serve for flight.

But at present our business with feathers is as they are the covering of the bird. And herein a singular circumstance occurs. In the smaller order of birds which winter with us, from a snipe

downwards let the external colour of the feathers be what it will, their Creator has universally given them a bed of black down next their bodies. Black, we know, is the warmest colour, and the purpose here is to keep in the heat arising from the heart and circulation of the blood. It is further likewise remarkable, that this is not found in larger birds, for which there is also a reason: small birds are much more exposed to the cold than large ones ; forasmuch as they present, in proportion to their bulk, a much larger surface to the air. If a turkey were divided into a number of wrens (supposing the shape of the turkey and wren to be similar), the surface of all the wrens would exceed the surface of the turkey, in the proportion of the length, breadth, or of any homologous line of a turkey to that of a wren, which would be, perhaps, a proportion of ten to one. It was necessary, therefore, that small birds should be more warmly clad than large ones; and this seems to be the expedient by which that agency is provided for. Natural Theology, chap. xii. 1800.

191. Michael Bruce, 1746-1767. (Handbook, page 640.)

Ode to the Cuckoo.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood,

Attendant on the spring!
Now heav'n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers, When heaven is filled with music sweet

Of birds among the bow'rs. The school-boy wand'ring in the wood,

To pull the flow'rs so gay, Starts thy curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fly'st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bow'r is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

Alas! sweet bird! not so my fate,
Dark scowling clouds I see
Fast gathering round, and fraught
with woe,

And wintry years to me."

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee:

We'd make with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring. 1770.
Works of Michael Bruce, ed. by A. B. Grosart, 1865.
This stanza is published for the first time in Mr. Grosart's edition.

Bruce is also the author of some well-known and favourite hymns: 'Where high the heavenly temple stands,' 'Behold! the mountain of the Lord.' This last is only partially his. O God of Bethel,' sometimes ascribed to Logan or to Bruce, is mainly Doddridge's.

192. Jeremy Bentham, 1748-1832. (Handbook, par. 419.)

A distinguished philosophical and political writer, whose earlier works are admirable specimens of pure English.

On Security.

This inestimable good is the distinctive mark of civilization; it is entirely the work of the laws. Without law there is no security; consequently no abundance, nor even certain subsistence. And the only equality which can exist in such a condition is the equality of misery.

In order rightly to estimate this great benefit of the laws, it is only necessary to consider the condition of savages. They struggle, without ceasing, against famine, which sometimes cuts off, in a few days, whole nations. Rivalry with respect to the means of subsistence produces among them the most cruel wars; and, like the most ferocious beasts, men pursue men, that they may feed on one another. The dread of this horrible calamity destroys amongst them the gentlest sentiments of nature: pity connects itself with insensibility in putting the old persons to death, because they can no longer follow their prey.

Law, alone, has accomplished what all the natural feelings were not able to do; Law, alone, has been able to create a fixed and durable position, which deserves the name of Property. The law, alone, could accustom men to submit to the yoke of foresight, at first painful to be borne, but, afterwards, agreeable and mild; it alone could encourage them in labour-superfluous at present, and which they are not to enjoy till the future. Economy has as many enemies as there are spendthrifts, or men who would enjoy without taking the trouble to produce. Labour is too painful for idleness; it is too slow for impatience: Cunning and Injustice underhandedly conspire to appropriate its fruits; Insolence and Audacity plot to seize them by open force. Hence Society, always tottering, always threatened, never at rest, lives in the midst of snares. It requires, in the legislator, vigilance