That consideration staggers 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 5 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 10 wag, and, to its credit, ticked as loud as ever; and 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, 15 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 be 20 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 25 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. 30 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 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 labors, the trials to temper and patience, that may be expected. Now, this is unjustly laying the burden of many 5 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 10 same as ever. 15 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 fulfils. 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 was 20 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 the accepted time. IV. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. LONGFELLOW. [HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW is a native of Portland, Maine, and was graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825. Soon after leaving college he went to Europe, and remained there till 1829. He then returned home and assumed the duties of professor of modern languages at Bowdoin College. He resigned his post in 1835, and visited Europe again, and upon his return in 1836, was appointed to a similar professorship in the University at Cambridge. Here he has resided ever since, but he resigned his professorship in 1854. Mr. Longfellow holds a very high rank among the authors of America, and is one of the most popular of living poets. He has written "Evangeline," The Golden Legend," "The Song of Hiawatha," and "The Courtship of Miles Standish," narrative poems of considerable length; "The Spanish Student," a play; and a great number of smaller pieces. He has a fruitful imagination, under the control of the most perfect taste, and a remarkable power of illustrating moods of mind and states of feeling by material forms. He has a great command of beautiful diction, and equal skill in the structure of his verse. His poetry is marked by tenderness of feeling, purity of sentiment, elevation of thought, and healthiness of tone. He understands and can express all the affections of the human heart. The happy delight in his poems; and they fall with soothing and sympathizing touch upon those who have suffered. His readers are more than admirers; they become friends. And over all that he has written there hangs a beautiful ideal light,-the atmosphere of poetry,— which illuminates his page as the sunshine does the natural landscape. Mr. Longfellow has also won enduring praise as a prose writer. His "Outre-mer," a collection of travelling sketches and miscellaneous essays, his "Hyperion," a romance, and his "Kavanagh," a domestic story, are marked by the same traits as his poems. He is a "warbler of poetic prose; " and would be entitled to the honors of a poet had he never written a line of verse. His "Hyperion," especially, is full of beautiful description, rich fancy, and sweet and pensive thought. He is also a man of extensive literary attainments, familiar with the languages of modern Europe, and a great master in the difficult art of translation.] 1 SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; 2 Halfway up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all that pass, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, 4 Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude 5 Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, 6 There groups of merry children played; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed. O precious hours! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, Never-forever!" 7 From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; 8 All are scattered now and fled, Never forever!" 9 Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, Sayeth this incessantly, — "Forever- never! Never forever!". V.—RIP VAŃ WINKLE. IRVING. [WASHINGTON IRVING, the most popular of American authors, and one of the most popular writers in the English language during his time, was born in New York, April 8, 1783, and died November 28, 1859. His numerous works are too well known to need enumeration; and his countrymen are so familiar with the graces of his style and the charm of his delightful genius, that any. extended criticism would be superfluous. His writings are remarkable for their combination of rich and original humor with great refinement of feeling and delicacy of sentiment. His humor is unstained by coarseness, and his sentiment is neither mawkish nor morbid. His style is carefully finished, and |