is incapable of this: an elephant, should he hear the ten commandments repeated ever so many times, would know nothing of their nature; nor could he be made to comprehend the reasons on which they are founded: but every individual of the human race can. Yes, every man has a soul, which must live when the body, which is the tenement it occupies, is broken down, and crumbled into dust; yea, it shall live,

"When every fire,

Of every star, shall languish and expire."

How just then is the sentiment of the great Teacher, It shall profit a man nothing, if he gain the whole world and lose his own

soul.

CONVERSATION II.

THE EYE.

FATHER, you said, that you would tell me something that was very wonderful about the eye; will you do so now?

Yes, Frank, I will.

Let us walk to the brow of the hill, and bid farewell to the fine prospect from it; in a day or two I intend to take you to the cottage in Hampshire. And as the sun is about to set, and the evening is very fine, we will sit down, and talk of the wonders which God has wrought.

I should like to know all about the eye, Father.

So you shall, Frank; but you must copy my drawings of the different parts of it; then, with the remarks I shall make, I think you will have a pretty good acquaintance with the subject.

How quickly the eye-lid moves, Father.

It does; it is a natural curtain, which is drawn in an instant to exclude danger. It also wipes the eye, keeps it clean, and distributes all over it the moisture necessary for its welfare.

But the eye itself moves, Father.

Yes, it does; upwards or downwards, to

C

the right or the left, according to our wishes. There are six muscles, or little instruments which regulate its motions.

If any of these should be hurt, Father, what should we do?

Our sight, of course, would be very imperfect. I have read the works of an au thor, who says, that he knew a gentleman, who enjoyed good general health, but the two little muscles which lift up the eye-lid had lost their power of action; so, when he looked at any object, he was obliged to push up his eye-lids with his hands. How much are we indebted every moment to the goodness of God, for preserving the health of the most inconsiderable parts of the human frame.

How thankful we ought to be when we are quite well! But did you not say, that the eye-grows smaller or larger in different situations?

The pupil, or the middle of the eye, does expand or contract, according to the degree of light which there is around us. The other evening, when we were enjoying the twilight in the parlour, and John brought in the candles, don't you recollect, that you said that the light pained you?

Yes, Father; but it was unpleasant only when the candles were first brought in.

True; and the reason was, the pupil of

the eye soon adjusted itself to the light which was around you; and then you be

came easy.

Was that it, Father? I did not think how it was.

I suppose not. Many persons who are grown up to manhood, little think, how wonderful the different parts of the human frame are.

When the little gnat got into cousin Charles' eye, you know, Father how much he suffered and yet the light is always coming into them, and it does not hurt us.

So it is; the light not only does not pain us, but it affords us great pleasure. The fly however, which pained Charles so much, though it was but a small one, was more than a million times bigger than a ray of light.

I cannot think how it is, that the objects we see are really drawn on the eye; it seems impossible; but did you not say so, Father?

I did. There is spread all over the bottom of the eye a delicate net-work; it consists of a beautiful expansion of the optic nerve. Impressions of things are conveyed by this nerve to the brain; and the rays of light pass through the pupil, and paint the figure of any object which we see upon it. You showed us this the other day, when

the butcher brought the eye of a bullock; you cut off the three coats from the back of it, and held it up to the window; and the figure of the casement was on the paper you held behind it.

It was.

But it was upside down, Father: and are objects drawn the wrong way upwards on our eyes?

So you see, it appears, Frank.

How is it, then, that we never see things upside down?

It is difficult altogether to account for it. There are very many things, Frank, which no one fully knows: the works of the great God are unsearchable. But look around

you, what do you see?

St. Paul's, and the Thames, and the fine bridges over it, and the shipping, and houses innumerable; I see the whole of London, and the country all around it, to a vast dis

tance.

You do; the view here comprehends an area of some hundreds of miles; it is a sublime prospect.

And how delightfully it glitters with the beautiful rays of the setting sun!

It does.

You said one day, Father, that we could not see any object, unless the rays of light flowed from it to our eyes.

Of course you cannot.