Do the rays of the sun then, come to my eyes from St. Paul's, and from the Thames, and from all the innumerable objects which I now behold?

Undoubtedly.

How wonderful! But the same rays of light which enter my eyes, do not enter the eyes of the gentleman a little beyond us, though he is looking at the same prospect, do they?

O no; thousands of millions of rays are every instant sent forth from St. Paul's to all the multitudes of persons who are gazing

on it.

And yet, Father, there is no confusion.

True, there is not; if a thousand persons were here, every eye would see St. Paul's distinctly.

But how is it, that rays from so many thousand thousand objects can find admission through the small pupil of the eye? I cannot altogether tell you.

You said Father, that you would tell me something wonderful, and this is truly so. There is, however, a more astonishing circumstance, Frank, which you have not yet noticed.

What is that, Father?

It is, that all this vast landscape, that all this immense assemblage of objects, should be all accurately drawn on the net-work at the bottom of the eye,

And is it so, Father? This is wonderful! The painter, who drew the miniature of your Mother, is a man of great genius and talent; but do you think, that he could draw a tenth part of this magnificent landscape, with all its brilliant coloring, on at space not larger than the nail of my thumb? Impossible!

See, what impossibilities the adorable Creator is bringing to pass every moment! Here is the finger of God! Unspeakably delicate must be the strokes of that pencil which is held by the divine hand!

They must, indeed!

And there is another circumstance, which is very remarkable; it is, the ease with which the eye adjusts itself to behold objects, whether they are near, or whether they are distant. It is in vain that we should use the telescope, to examine the fine parts of a leaf, or flower, or any thing that is near at hand; and equally vain would it be, to employ the microscope, to command the most distant part of this magnificent prospect.

It would.

But the eye adjusts itself in an instant, to any distance. It examines objects which are a few inches from us, like the microscope; and, when we wish it, it becomes a telescope, and brings to us an accurate likeness of the distant landscape.

"A ship" says Reid, requires a different trim for every variation of the direction and strength of the wind; and if we may be allowed to borrow that word, the eyes require a different trim for every degree of light, and for every variation of the distance of the object, while it is within certain limits. The eyes are trimmed for a particular object, by contracting certain muscles, and relaxing others; as the ship is trimmed for a particular wind, by drawing certain ropes and slackening others. The sailor learns the trim of his ship, as we learn the trim of our eyes, by experience. A ship, although the noblest machine that human art can boast, is far inferior to the eye in this respect, that it requires art and ingenuity to navigate her; and a sailor must know what ropes he must pull, and what he must slacken, to fit her to a particular wind: but with such superior wisdom is the fabric of the eye, and the principles of its motion contrived, that it requires no art or ingenuity to see by it. Even that part of vision which is got by experience, is attained by idiots. We need not know what muscles we are to contract, and what we are to relax, in order to fit the eye to a particular distance of the object."

The more, Father, you talk about the eye, the more surprising it appears. I never be fore thought of all this.

I suppose not, Frank; and this is the case with many people who are much older than you are. I have, however, but just entered on the subject. I have said nothing on the "parallel motion of the eyes; by which, when one eye is turned to the right or left, upwards or downwards, or straight forwards, the other always goes along with it in the same direction. We see plainly, when both eyes are open, that they are always turned the same way, as if both were acted on by the same motive, force; and if one eye is shut, and the hand laid upon it, while the other turns various ways, we feel the eye that is shut turn at the same time, and that whether we will or not. What makes this surprising is, that all anatomists say, that the muscles which move the two eyes, and the nerves which serve these muscles, are entirely unconnected. It would be thought very surprising, to see a man, who from his birth, never moved one arm, without moving the other in the same manner, so as to keep them always parallel: yet it would not be more difficult to find the cause of such motion of the arms, than it is to find the cause of the parallel motion of the eyes, which is perfectly similar."

But, Father, I wonder you don't know how this is; you know almost every thing. You are very much mistaken, Frank; we

may reasonably expect many of the works of the great God to be far beyond our com- prehension.

It is a very pleasant thing to have good eyes; and, as you often say, to use them as we ought.

Yes, Frank, to use them as we ought, is indeed a continual feast.

It is said in the Psalms, Father, that we "are fearfully and wonderfully made."

Indeed we are; every part of the human frame displays the handy work of the Crea

tor.

And his goodness too, Father.

Yes, he must be good, who gives me so much enjoyment every time I open my eyes, and gaze around me. How much the blind are to be pitied!

It is surprising, though, Father, how blind Betty in the cottage on the common finds every thing around her by feeling.

Yet how superior is sight! How could a blind man acquire an accurate knowledge of such a building as St. Paul's, by touch ?Or how could he form an accurate judgment of this magnificent landscape? A blind man, by feeling, could never find a path through the immeasurable ocean, or sail round the globe, or trace out its shape, or survey its kingdoms; much less could he examine the heavens, and measure the distances of the stars.