"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that such a useful, industrious person as yourself should have been overcome by this sudden suggestion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time. So we have all, and are likely to do; and although this may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do: would you now do me the favour to give about half a dozen strokes to illustrate my argument ?”

The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace:-" Now," resumed the dial, “may I be allowed to inquire, if that exertion was at all fatiguing or disagreeable 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 although 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 staggers me, I confess," said the pendulum.

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"Then I hope," resumed the dial-plate, shall all immediately return to our duty; for the maids will lie in bed till noon if we stand idling thus."

Upon this, the weights, 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 wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; while a beam of the rising sun that streamed through a hole in the kitchen shutter, 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.

MORAL.

It is said by a celebrated modern writer, “Take care of the minutes, and the hours will take care of themselves." This is an admirable hint; and might

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be very seasonably recollected when we begin to be weary in well doing," from the thought of having a great deal to do. The present is all we have to manage 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 need 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.

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 to encounter all its crosses at once. One moment comes laden with its own little burden, then flies, and is succeeded by another

no heavier than the last; if one could be sustained, so can another, and another.

Even in looking forward to a single day the spirit may sometimes faint from an anticipation of the duties, the labours, the trials to temper and patience that may be expected. Now this is unjustly laying the burthen of many thousand moments upon one. Let any one resolve 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 err. But the common error is to resolve to act right to-morrow, or next time, but now, just this once, we must go on the

same as ever.

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 ever fulfils.

It is not thus with those who, "by patient continuance in well doing, seek for glory, honour, 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 from their labours, 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 the accepted time."

XXII.

COUSIN'S VISIT.

2

MRS. NEWTON had two daughters named Susan and Maria: they lived a retired life in the country; and as they seldom saw company, they were both exceedingly delighted one morning at breakfast, when their mother read them part of a letter she had just received from her niece, Miss Newton, in London, saying, that she intended to come and pass a month with them very shortly.

Susan and Maria were girls of thirteen and fourteen years of age but their cousin was grown up. They had never seen her, but they had often heard their mamma say, that she was a very amiable and sensible young woman, therefore they were very impatient for her coming, and, indeed, thought of little besides from this time to that of her arrival.

Susan Newton was a gentle, affectionate girl; her manners were refined, and her temper sweet and obliging. Maria was lively and talkative; she liked very much to be noticed by strangers; and she had a foolish idea that whatever she said or did before others, they were observing her and thinking of her; a mistake which always arises from persons thinking too much of themselves. Maria was also very apt to feel jealous of her sister, having a great desire that people should love her the best:-and the very first thought that sprung up in her little selfish heart, when she heard of her cousin's coming.

was, that she hoped she would love her better than her sister. Such thoughts look very frightful set down in black and white; and yet they do not appear at all more so than they really are when concealed from every eye in some dark crevice of the heart. Maria accordingly began, from that instant, contriving what she could do to ingratiate herself in her cousin's favour; and worse than that, how she could make herself appear more amiable and agreeable than Susan; whereas Susan, in the simplicity of her heart, thought only of the pleasures she should enjoy in her cousin's company.

On the day appointed, Mrs. Newton set off in the little pony-chaise which she kept, to meet her niece at the neighbouring town; for the stage coach did not come within five miles of their retired village. Susan and Maria remained at home; and before their mother could well have reached the town to which she was going, their impatience made them imagine it was time for her to return. Accordingly they placed themselves in the bow window that looked towards the road, in order that they might catch the first glimpse of the chaise. Susan, indeed, was wise enough to take her work, so that the time did not seem so extremely tedious to her as it did to Maria, who expressed her uneasiness from time to time, by exclaiming, "What a while they are!" -“I begin to be afraid that cousin is not come!" "How I wish they would come !"—and the like. Every gig, cart, waggon, or wheelbarrow that was heard at a distance, Maria felt sure was it. But Susan wisely suspended her opinion till they came