[T]here are depths of thousands of miles which are hidden from our inquiry. The only tidings we have from those unfathomable regions are by means of volcanoes, those burning mountains that seem to discharge their materials from the lowest abysses of the earth.
But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent and care; Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse reams alone, And find no spot of all the world my own.
We may affirm of Mr. Buffon, that which has been said of the chemists of old; though he may have failed in attaining his principal aim, of establishing a theory, yet he has brought together such a multitude of facts relative to the history of the earth, and the nature of its fossil productions, that curiosity finds ample compensation, even while it feels the want of conviction.
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