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ing all that goes on in the kitchen! Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and to wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do.”

" As to that,” said the dial, “is there not a window in 4 your house, on purpose for you to look through ?”—“For

all that," resumed the pendulum, “it is very dark here; and, although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out at it. Besides, I am really tired of my way of life : and if you wish, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. I happened this morning to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course of only the next twenty-four hours; perhaps some of you, above there, can give me the exact sum.”

The minute hand, being quick at figures presently replied, 5“ Eighty-six thousand four hundred times.” “Exactly so," replied the pendulum. “Well, I appeal to you all, if the very thought of this was not enough to fatigue one; and when I began to multiply the strokes of one day, by those of months and years-really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect; so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop.”

The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but resuming its gravity, thus replied: “ Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, 6 industrious person as yourself, should have been overcoine by this sudden action. It is true, you have done a great deal of work in your time ; so have we all, and are likely to do ; which, although it may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you now do me the favor to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate my argument ?”

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times in its usual pace. “Now," resumed the dial, “may I be allowed to

inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable 7 to you ?” “Not in the least,” replied the pendulum, “it is not of six strokes that I complain, nor of sixty, but of millions? “ Very good,” replied the dial; “but recollect that though you may think of a million strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will always be given you to swing in." " That consideration

staygers me, I confess,” said the pendulum. “Then I hope,” resumed the dial-plate, “we shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed if we

stand idling thus." 8. Upon this the weighis, who had never been accused of

light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed; when, as with one consent, the wheels began to turn, the hands began to move, the pendulum began to swing, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a red beam of the rising sun, that streamed through a hole in the kitchen, shining full upon the dial-plate, it brightened up, as if nothing had been the matter.

When the farmer came down to breakfast that morning, upon looking at the clock, he declared that his watch had gained half an hour in the night.

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MORAL. 9 A celebrated modern writer says, “ Take care of the minutes, and the hours will take care of themselves.”. This is an adinirable remark, and might be very seasonably recollected when we begin to be “ weary in well-doing," from the thought of having much to do. The present moment is all we have to do with, in any sense; the past is irrecoverable, the future is uncertain ; nor is it fair to burden one moment with the weight of the next. Sufficient unto the moment is the trouble thereof. If we had to walk a hun.

dred miles, we should still have to set but one step at a 10 time, and this process continued, would infallibly bring us

to our journey's end. Fatigue generally begins, and is always increased, by calculating in a minute the exertion of hours.

Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollec: that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its suf. ferings, or encounter all its crosses at once. One moment comes laden with its own little burdens, then flies, and is succeeded by another no heavier than the last :- if one

could be borne, so can another and another. 11. It seems easier to do right to-morrow than to day, merely

because we forget that when to-morrow comes, then will be now. Thus life passes with many, in resolutions for the future, which the present never fultils. It is not thus with those, who,“ by patient continuance in well-torg, seek for

glory, honor, and immortality.” Day by day, minute by minute, they execute the appointed task, to which the requisite measure of time and strength is proportioned; and thus, having worked while it was called day, they at length rest froin their labors, and their works “ follow them.” Let us then, “whatever our hands find to do, do it with all our might, recollecting that now is the proper and accepted time.''

Vulgarism in language is a distinguishing characteristic of bad company, and a bad education. A man of fashion avoids nothing with more care than this. Proverbial expressions, and trite sayinys, are the flowers of the rheto:ric of a vulgar man. Would he say thai men differ in

their tastes; he both supports and adorns that opinion by 'the good old saying, as he respectfully calls it, that, “ what is one man's meat is another man's poison." If any body attempts being smart, as he calls it, upon him; he gives them tit-for-tat, ay, that he does. He has always some favorite word for the time being; which, for the sake of using often, he commonly abuses. Such as, vastly angry, vastly kind, vastly harīdsome, and vastly ugly. He sometimes affects hard words, by way of ornament, which he always mangles. A man of fashion never has recourse to proverbs and vulgar aphorisms; uses neither favorite words, nor hard words; but takes great care to speak very correctly and grammatically, and to pronounce properly ; that is, according to the usage of the best companies.

Chesterfield.

LESSON LXVIII. Shocking effects of Intemperance.-HUMPHREY. | Who can enumerate the diseases which intemperance generates in the brain, liver, stomach, lungs, bones, muscles, nerves, fluids, and whatever else is susceptible of disease, or pain in the human system? How rudely does it shut up, one after another, all the doors of sensation, or in the caprice of its wrath throw them all wide open to every hateful intruder. How, with a refinement of cruelty

almost peculiar to itself, does it fly in the face of its victims, and hold their quivering eyeballs in its fangs, till they

abhor the light and swim in blood. But, to be a little more 2 particular--mark that carbuncled, slavering, doubtful rem

nant of a man, retching and picking tansy, every morning before sunrise-loathing his breakfast-getting his ear bored to the door of a dram-shop an hour after-disguised before ten-quarrelling by dinner-time, and snoring drunk before supper. See him next morning at his retching and his tansy again ; and, as the day advances, becoming noisy, cross, drivelling, and intoxicated. Think of his thus dragging out months and years of torture, till the earth refuses any longer to bear such a wretch upon its surface, 3 and then tell me if any Barbadian slave was ever so miserable.

But who is this that comes hobbling up, with bandaged legs, inflamed eyes, and a distorted countenance ? Every step is like the piercing of a sword, or the driving of a nail among nerves and tendons. He suffers more every day: and every night than he would under the lash of the most cruel driver. And what is the cause? The humors, he tells us, trouble him; and though he has applied to all the doc-.

tors far and near, he can get no relief. Ah, these wicked 4 and inveterate humors! Every body knows where they came from. But for the bottle he might have been a sound and healthy man. Now he is the most miserable of slaves, and there is no hope of his emancipation. He may live as long, possibly, as he would in a sugar-house at Jamaica ; but, to grind more miserably in the prison which he has built at his own expense, and in manacles which his own hands have forged.

Look next at that wretched hovel, open on all sides to the rude and drenching intrusion of the elements. The 5 panting skeleton, lying as you see, upon a little straw in the corner, a prey to consumption, was once the owner of yonder comfortable mansion, and of that farm so rich in verdure and in sheaves. He might have owned them still, and have kept his health too, but for the love of strong drink. It is intemperance which has consumed his substance, and rioted upon his flesh and his marrow, and shortened his breath, and fixed that deep sepulchral cough in his wasting vitals. Was ever a kidnapped African more

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6 wretched in his Atlantic dungeon ? But your sympathies

come too late. Perhaps you sold him the very poison which has brought him to this or it went out sparkling from your distillery to the retailer, and thence into the jug, half-concealed by the tattered garment of the victim, as he carried it home to his starving family. There is no help for him now. He must, day and night, groan and cough away the remnant of his mortal existence, without mitigation and without hope.

Does your sickened and harrowed soul turn away with 7 horror from such a scene? Go with me, then, to the alms"house, and tell me whether you recognise that bloated figure, sitting all day and all night in his chair, because the dropsy will not suffer him to lie down, and thus lingering from week to week under the slow torments of strangulation. How piercing are his shrieks, as if he were actually drowning, from which, indeed, he can obtain a short reprieve only, by diverting from the seat of life the accumu-lating waters. He was once your neighbor, thrifty, repu

table, and happy; but he yielded to the blandishments of 8 the great destroyer. He drank, first temperately, then freely, then to excess, and finally, to habitual inebriation. The consequences are before you. His daily and nightly sufferings no tongue can utter. His disease no skill can cure. The swelling flood in which he catches every precarious breath, no finite power can long assuage. The veriest wretch, chained and sweltering between decks in a Portuguese Guineaman, is not half so miserable.

But here we must leave him, to be cast a wreck by the angry waters upon the shore of eternity; and enter that 9 hut, towards which a solitary neighbor is advancing with hurried steps. Here a husband and a father (shall I call him such ?) is supposed to be dying. The disease is delirium tremens. And oh what a pitiable object! Every limb and muscle quivers as in the agonies of dissolution. Reason, having been so often and so rudely driven from her seat, by habitual intoxication, now refuses to return. Possibly he may once more be reprieved, to stayger on a little further, into his ignominious grave; but in the meantime, who that is bought and sold and thrown into the sea, for 10 the crime of being sable and sick, suffers half so much

as this very slave ?

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