fection; and what has but a stinted perfection, always remains
imperfect on the side where the boundary is sensible, and denotes
that it might be improved. If the creature wanted nothing, it would
be the Creator Himself; for it would have the fulness of perfection,
which is the Deity itself. Since it cannot be infinite, it must be
limited in perfection, that is, it must be imperfect on one side or
other. It may have more or less imperfection, but still it must be
imperfect. We must ever be able to point out the very place where
it is defective, and to say, upon a critical examination, "This is
what it might have had, what it has not."

SECT. LXXXIX. The Defects of the Universe compared with those of a
Picture.

Do we conclude that a piece of painting is made by chance when we
see in it either shades, or even some careless touches? The
painter, we say, might have better finished those carnations, those
draperies, those prospects. It is true, this picture is not perfect
according to the nicest rules of art. But how extravagant would it
be to say, "This picture is not absolutely perfect; therefore it is
only a collection of colours formed by chance, nor did the hand of
any painter meddle with it!" Now, what a man would blush to say of
an indifferent and almost artless picture he is not ashamed to
affirm of the universe, in which a crowd of incomprehensible
wonders, with excellent order and proportion, are conspicuous. Let
a man study the world as much as he pleases; let him descend into
the minutest details; dissect the vilest of animals; narrowly
consider the least grain of corn sown in the ground, and the manner
in which it germinates and multiplies; attentively observe with what
precautions a rose-bud blows and opens in the sun, and closes again
at night; and he will find in all these more design, conduct, and
industry than in all the works of art. Nay, what is called the art
of men is but a faint imitation of the great art called the laws of
Nature, and which the impious did not blush to call blind chance.
Is it therefore a wonder that poets animated the whole universe,
bestowed wings upon the winds, and arrows on the sun, and described
great rivers impetuously running to precipitate themselves into the
sea, and trees shooting up to heaven to repel the rays of the sun by
their thick shades? These images and figures have also been
received in the language of the vulgar, so natural it is for men to
be