do not yet fully avail, they tell as tendency. The
whole circle of animal life,--tooth against tooth,--devouring war, war for
food, a yelp of pain and a grunt of triumph, until, at last, the whole
menagerie, the whole chemical mass, is mellowed and refined for higher
use--pleases at a sufficient perspective.

But to see how fate slides into freedom, and freedom into fate, observe
how far the roots of every creature run, or find, if you can, a point
where there is no thread of connection. Our life is consentaneous and
far-related. This knot of nature is so well tied, that nobody was ever
cunning enough to find the two ends. Nature is intricate, overlapped,
inter-weaved, and endless. Christopher Wren said of the beautiful King's
College chapel, "that, if anybody would tell him where to lay the first
stone, he would build such another." But where shall we find the first
atom in this house of man, which is all consent, inosculation, and balance
of parts?

The web of relation is shown in _habitat_, shown in hibernation. When
hibernation was observed, it was found, that, whilst some animals become
torpid in winter, others were torpid in summer: hibernation then was a
false name. The _long sleep_ is not an effect of cold, but is regulated by
the supply of food proper to the animal. It becomes torpid when the fruit
or prey it lives on is not in season, and regains its activity when its
food is ready.

Eyes are found in light; ears in auricular air; feet on land; fins in
water; wings in air; and each creature where it was meant to be, with a
mutual fitness. Every zone has its own _Fauna_. There is adjustment
between the animal and its food, its parasite, its enemy. Balances are
kept. It is not allowed to diminish in numbers, nor to exceed. The like
adjustments exist for man. His food is cooked when he arrives; his coal in
the pit; the house ventilated; the mud of the deluge dried; his companions
arrived at the same hour, and awaiting him with love, concert, laughter,
and tears. These are coarse adjustments, but the invisible are not less.
There are more belongings to every creature than his air and his food. His
instincts must be met, and he has predisposing power that bends and fits
what is near him to his use. He is not possible until the invisible things
are right for him, as well as the visible. Of what changes, then, in sky
and earth, and in finer skies and earths, does the appearance of some
Dante or Columbus apprise us!