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The beams of this

eyes are closed to its brightness. fair morning have, perhaps, penetrated the gloom of their chambers, and shone upon the silent walls, but they know it not. The darkness of death has fallen upon them. Ah, then, how unspeakably important is the question, how their former Sabbaths have been improved; since there are no more of these " accepted times," these "days of salvation," for them!

But let our thoughts (already so excursive) wander from our own happy island, to distant climes; recollecting that within the passage of a few hours, the same sun that beams in so cheerfully at the windows of our sanctuaries, and on the walls of our pleasant schoolrooms, shines upon the plains of India-the wilds of Africa-the forests of America ;-upon the ices of the North, and the islands of the South. That the same rays are reflected from the gilded pagodas, where the millions of China flock to their idolatrous worship ;from the mosques of the false prophet;—from the gaudy temples of India; and light up the hideous features and grotesque shapes of ten thousand idol gods, "which are no gods," in every "dark corner" of our globe. While we are illumined by the rays of the Sun of Righteousness, and are instructed in "the truth as it is in Jesus," the red Indian roams the desert in search of his prey, or of his enemies: the dark Hindoo muses idly on the banks of the Ganges: far in the impenetrable regions of Africa,

"The Negro village swarms abroad to play."

The fierce Arab hunts for spoil; or follows the slow caravan of spicy merchandise across the burning sands of the desert while, in the west, the poor negro-slave toils beneath the lash of his hard task-master. Ah, then, what are the privileges of a Sabbath in England! Here and there indeed, in those benighted regions, the

solitary missionary goes forth in the midst of hardship and peril, to hold up the light of truth; and would not he unite in the exclamation, surrounded as he is by difficulties and discouragements, and say, What are the privileges of a Sabbath in England!

But now, let us return nearer home, to make a more practical reflection. This Sabbath sun that shines on the millions of the human race, beams also on us; 66 on me," let every reader say; and to me the question is, How I shall employ it?-I am not one of the open Sabbath-breakers of the land; but am I not one of the countless multitude, who while, in form, they "keep a holy day," yet, secretly, "say, what a weariness is it! When will it be over?" Or am I one of those to whom the Sabbath is a delight, who are "glad to go up to the house of the Lord.” Am I a faithful, regular, zealous teacher, preparing with others to join my beloved class? Or have I never offered my services to that good work? Am I, on the contrary, spending the intervals of worship in idleness and indulgence, and attention to my dress? If so, reader, no fonger, we beseech you, waste your time in pitying or despising the poor Indian and Negro: no longer censure the pleasure-taking, Sabbath-breaker: let your charity begin at home; and remember, that if your Sabbaths are misimproved, you are in a far more alarming situation than the untaught savage, "who knows not his Lord's will?" Recollect, also, that the period is hastening, when the Angel of Death shall swear concerning you, that "Time and its Sabbaths shall be no longer."

XIII.

THE PLEASURES OF TASTE.

A DIALOGUE.

Father. Come girls, are you ready for a walk?
Mary. Quite ready, papa.

Martha. Ready in two minutes, sir.

Father. Which way will you go this evening?
Martha. To the parade, if you please, papa.
Mary. To the beach, papa.

see the sun set.

We shall be in time to

Martha. I don't like the beach; no body walks on the beach.

Father. Then we shall have it all to ourselves.

Martha. To ourselves, indeed! Mary always proposes those stupid walks where there is nothing to be

seen.

Mary. O, Martha! Nothing to be seen.

Martha. Nothing in the world but the sea.

Father. That is what we are come on purpose to look at.

Martha. Yes, very true: but there is just as good a sea view on the parade, and every body walks on the parade.

Father. Come then, away to the parade, if you will; and to please you both, we will return by the beach, and then enjoy the scene to ourselves.

Mary. Yes, thank you, dear papa, so we will, (sings,)

"And listen to the tuneless cry

Of Fishing-gull, and Golden-eye."

Father. A delightful evening!

Martha. Yes, very pleasant; and what crowds of company!

Mary. I think I never saw the sea so calm.

Martha. Pray look at those ladies, Mary. Did you ever see such frightful pelisses!

Mary. How bright that white sail looks, in the distance, with the sun upon it.

Martha. But the fringe was pretty.

Father. And the sea-birds: see how they sparkle in the sun-shine.

Mary. Yes;

"The silver-wing'd sea-fowl on high,

Like meteors bespangle the sky;

Or dive in the gulph, or triumphantly ride

Like foam on the surges, the swans of the tide."

Martha. Genteel girls, are they not? those that just passed us;-I wonder who they are! I wish our spencers had been of that colour, it was just the kind I wished for, only mamma would have these.

Mary. O let us turn! The sun will be down presently we shall lose it if we walk to the end of the parade.

Father. A fine sun-set indeed!

Mary. What a beautiful reflection on the water! like a column of fire.

Martha. As if the sun did not set every night in the year! It looks so strange to be standing still, like nobody else, does it not?

Father. Nay, we will not regard that.

Mary. How large and red! There, now it just begins to touch the sea. How beautiful! how grand! Is it not, father?

Father. Truly it is: and if we were not so much accustomed to the spectacle, it would strike us far more. It is no wonder that the generality of mankind, who rarely divert their attention from the common interests, occupations, and vanities of life, to contemplate the wonders and beauties of nature, regard them with per

fect indifference. They think, as Martha says, that the sun sets every night in the year, and they wonder what there can be to admire in it. But a cultivated taste counteracts, in a great degree, this effect of habit, which otherwise renders the most sublime objects unaffecting to us. It enables us to see things as they are: to the eye of taste nature is ever fresh and new, and those objects which it has contemplated a thousand times still interest and delight it. Thus a source of unfailing and refined pleasure is opened to us; and its chief value consists in this, that it enables us to derive enjoyment from things that are to be seen every day and every night, and that constantly surround us.

Mary. There goes the sun!-the last, last speck: now it is quite gone.

Father. Gone to enlighten the other hemisphere: it is now dawning on the great Pacific, calling the inhabitants of the South Sea Islands to their daily labour, and leaving us to darkness and repose.

Mary. And while we are sleeping so quietly in our beds, at what an amazing pace this globe of ours must be spinning about, to bring us round to face the sun again to-morrow morning!

Father. Yes, there is One "who never slumbers nor sleeps; the darkness and the light are both alike to Him." He it is who holds the planets in their courses, and maintains the vast machinery in perfect order and harmony. He looks down with pure benevolence upon our sleeping and waking world, and "causes His sun to shine on the just and on the unjust," upon Pagan and Christian lands. "His tender mercies are over all His works."

Martha. Papa, shall we take another turn?

Father. With all my heart: but tell me, my dear girl, is there not something more interesting in the scene we

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