with so much art,
circulate in the earth, just as the blood does in a man's body. But
besides this perpetual circulation of the water, there is besides
the flux and reflux of the sea. Let us not inquire into the causes
of so mysterious an effect. What is certain is that the tide
carries, or brings us back to certain places, at precise hours. Who
is it that makes it withdraw, and then come back with so much
regularity? A little more or less motion in that fluid mass would
disorder all nature; for a little more motion in a tide or flood
would drown whole kingdoms. Who is it that knew how to take such
exact measures in immense bodies? Who is it that knew so well how
to keep a just medium between too much and too little? What hand
has set to the sea the unmovable boundary it must respect through
the series of all ages by telling it: There, thy proud waves shall
come and break? But these waters so fluid become, on a sudden,
during the winter, as hard as rocks. The summits of high mountains
have, even at all times, ice and snow, which are the springs of
rivers, and soaking pasture-grounds render them more fertile. Here
waters are sweet to quench the thirst of man; there they are briny,
and yield a salt that seasons our meat, and makes it incorruptible.
In fine, if I lift up my eyes, I perceive in the clouds that fly
above us a sort of hanging seas that serve to temper the air, break
the fiery rays of the sun, and water the earth when it is too dry.
What hand was able to hang over our heads those great reservatories
of waters? What hand takes care never to let them fall but in
moderate showers?

SECT. XIV. Of the Air.

After having considered the waters, let us now contemplate another
mass yet of far greater extent. Do you see what is called air? It
is a body so pure, so subtle, and so transparent, that the rays of
the stars, seated at a distance almost infinite from us, pierce
quite through it, without difficulty, and in an instant, to light
our eyes. Had this fluid body been a little less subtle, it would
either have intercepted the day from us, or at most would have left
us but a duskish and confused light, just as when the air is filled
with thick fogs. We live plunged in abysses of air, as fishes do in
abysses of water. As the water, if it were subtilised, would become
a kind of air, which would occasion the death of fishes, so the air
would deprive us of breath if it should become more humid an