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of strokes in an instant, you are required to execute but one; and that, however often you may hereafter have to swing, a moment will be always given you to swing in." "That consideration staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum. "Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, "that we shall all return to our duty immediately; for the maids will lie in bed, if we stand idling thus."

7. Upon this, the weights, who had never been accused of light conduct, used all their influence in urging him to proceed: when, as if 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.

8. 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.

MORAL.

9. A celebrated modern writer says, "Take care of the minutes, and the hours will take care of themselves." This is an admirable remark, and might be very seasonably recollected, when we begin to be "weary in well-doing," from the thought of having too 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 hundred miles, we still should have to set but one step at a 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.

10. Thus, in looking forward to future life, let us recollect that we have not to sustain all its toil, to endure all its sufferings, 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. Even looking forward to a single day, the spirit may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the duties, the labors, the trials to temper and patience that may be expected. Now this is unjustly laying the burden of many thousand moments upon one. Let any one resolve always to do right now, leaving then to do as it can, and if he were to live to the age of Methuselah, he would never to do wrong. But the common error is to resolve to act right after breakfast, or after dinner, or tomorrow morning, or next time; but now, just now, this once, we must go on the same

as ever.

11. It is easy, for instance, for the most ill-tempered person, to resolve, that the next time he is provoked, he will not let his temper overcome him; but the victory would be to subdue temper on the present provocation. If, without taking up the burden of the future, we would always make the single effort at the present moment, while there would be, at any one time, very little to do, yet, by this simple process, continued from day to day, every thing would at last be done.

12. It seems easier to do right tomorrow than today, merely because we forget, that when tomorrow comes, then will be now. Thus life passes with many, with resolutions for the future, which the present never fulfills. It is not thus with those, who, "by patient continuance in well-doing, 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 is called day, they, at length, "rest from 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. JANE TAYLOR.

LESSON CCXVI.

ADDRESS TO A SHRED OF LINEN.

1. WOULD they had swept cleaner!

2.

Here's a littering + shred

Of linen left behind, a vile reproach

To all good housewifery. Right glad am I,
That no neat lady, trained in ancient times
Of pudding-making and of sampler work,
And speckless sanctity of household care,
Hath happened here to spy thee. She, no doubt,
Keen looking through her spectacles, would say,
"This comes of reading books;" or some spruce beau,
+ Essenced and lily-handed, had he chanced

To see thy slight superfices, 't would be,
"This comes of writing poetry."

Well-well

Come forth, offender! hast thou aught to say?
Canst thou, by merry thought, or quaint conceit,
Repay this risk, that I have run for thee?

Begin at alpha, and resolve thyself,

Into thine elements. I see the stalk

And bright, blue flower of flax, which erst o'erspread

That fertile land, where mighty Moses stretched
His rod miraculous. I see thy bloom
+Tinging, tho' scantily, these New England vales.
But lo! the sturdy farmer lifts his brake,

To crush thy bones unpitying, and his wife,
With 'kerchiefed head, and eyes brimfull of dust,
The fibrous nerves with hatchel-tooth divides.

3. I hear a voice of music, and behold,
The ruddy damsel singing at her wheel,
While by her side the rustic lover sits.
Perhaps, his shrewd eye secretly doth count
The mass of skains, which, hanging on the wall,
Increaseth, day by day. Perchance his thought,—
For men have deeper minds than women-sure!
Is calculating what a thrifty wife

4.

5.

6.

The maid will make, and how his dairy shelves
Shall groan beneath the weight of golden cheese,
Made by her dextrous hand, while many a cag
And pot of butter to the market borne,

May, transmigrated, on his back appear,
In new thanksgiving coats.

Fain would I ask,

Mine own New England, for thy once loved wheel,
By sofa and piano quite displaced;

Why dost thou banish from thy parlor hearth
That old Hygean harp, whose magic ruled
+Dyspepsy, as the minstrel shepherd's skill
+ Exorcised Saul's ennui? There was no need,
In those good times, of trim callisthenics,
And there was less of gadding, and far more
Of home-born, heartfelt comfort, rooted strong
In industry, and bearing such rare fruit,
As wealth might never purchase.

But come back,

Thou shred of linen. I did let thee drop,
In my harangue, as wiser ones have lost

The thread of their discourse. What was thy lot,

When the rough battery of the loom had stretched
And knit thy sinews, and the chemist sun
Thy brown complexion bleached.

Methinks I scan

Some idiosyncrasy, that marks thee out
A defunct pillow-case. Did the trim guest,
To the best chamber tushered, e'er admire
The snowy whiteness of thy freshened youth,
Feeding thy vanity? or some sweet babe
Pour its pure dream of innocence on thee?
Say, hast thou listened to the sick one's moan,
When there was none to comfort? or shrunk back

7.

From the dire tossing of the proud man's brow?
Or gathered from young beauty's restless sigh,
A tale of untold love?

Still, close and mute!

Wilt tell no secrets, ha? Well, then, go down,
With all thy churl-kept hoard of curious +lore;
In majesty and mystery, go down

Into the paper-mill, and from its jaws,
Stainless and smooth, emerge. Happy shall be
The renovation, if, on thy fair page,
Wisdom and truth their hallowed lineaments
Trace for posterity. So shall thine end
Be better than thy birth, and worthier bard
Thine tapotheosis immortalize.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

LESSON CCXVII.

SCENE FROM THE POOR GENTLEMAN.

SIR ROBERT BRAMBLE and HUMPHREY DOBBINS.

Sir R. I'LL tell you what, Humphrey Dobbins, there is not a syllable of sense in all have been saying. you

will maintain there is.

Hum. Yes.

But I suppose you

Sir R. Yes! is that the way you talk to me, you old boor? What's my name?

Hum. Robert Bramble.

Sir R. An't I a baronet? Sir Robert Bramble of Blackberry Hall, in the county of Kent? 'Tis time you should know it, for you have been my clumsy, two-fisted valet these thirty years: can you deny that?

Hum. Hem!

Sir R. Hem? what do you mean by hem? Open that rusty door of your mouth, and make your ugly voice walk out of it. Why don't you answer my question?

Hum. Because, if I contradict you, I shall tell you a lie, and when I agree with you, you are sure to fall out.

Sir R. Humphrey Dobbins, I have been so long endeavoring to beat a few brains into your pate, that all your hair has tumbled off before my point is carried.

Hum. What then? Our parson says my head is an emblem of both our honors.

Sir R. Ay; because honors, like your head, are apt to be empty.

Hum. No; but if a servant has grown bald under his master's nose, it looks as if there was honesty on one side, and regard for it on the other.

Sir R. Why, to be sure, old Humphrey, you are as honest as a-pshaw! the parson means to *palaver us; but, to return to my position, I tell you, I don't like your flat contradiction.

Hum. Yes, you do.

Sir R. I tell you I do n't. I only love to hear men's arguments. I hate their +flummery.

Hum. What do you call flummery?

Sir R. Flattery, blockhead! a dish too often served up by paltry poor men to paltry rich ones.

Hum. I never serve it up to you.

Sir R. No, you give me a dish of a different description.
Hum. Hem! what is it?

Sir R.

Sour-crout, you old crab.

Hum. I have held you a stout tug at argument this many a year. Sir R. And yet I could never teach you a syllogism. Now mind, when a poor man assents to what a rich man says, I suspect he means to flatter him: now I am rich, and hate flattery.

-when a poor man subscribes to my opinion, I hate him. Hum. That's wrong.

Sir R. Very well; negatur; now prove it.

Hum. Put the case then, I am a poor man.

Ergo

Sir R. You an't, you scoundrel. You know you shall never want, while I have a shilling.

Hum. Well, then, I am a poor-I must be a poor man now, or I never shall get on.

Sir R. Well, get on, be a poor man.

Hum. I am a poor man, and argue with you, and convince you, you are wrong; then you call yourself a blockhead, and I am of your opinion: now, that's no flattery.

Sir R. Why no; but when a man's of the same opinion with me, he puts an end to the argument, and that puts an end to the conversation, and so I hate him for that. But where 's my nephew, Frederic?

Hum. Been out these two hours.

Sir R. An undutiful cub! only arrived from Russia last night, and though I told him to stay at home till I rose, he's scampering over the fields like a +Calmuc +Tartar.

Hum. He's a fine fellow.

Sir R. He has a touch of our family. Don't you think he is a little like me, Humphrey ?

Hum. No, not a bit; you are as ugly an old man as ever I clapped my eyes on.

Sir R. Now that's plaguy impudent, but there's no flattery in it, and it keeps up the independence of argument. His father.

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