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But the language and conduct of St. Paul settles the question. He says that the Apostles saw that the gospel of the uncircumcision was committed to him, as the gospel of the circumcision was to Peter.* He speaks, not of Peter only, but of James, Cephas, (Peter) and John, as seeming to be pillars, putting James before Peter, perhaps as being the Bishop of the Church at Jerusalem. He even tells us that at Antioch he withstood this Prince of the Apostles to the face, because he was to be blamed. Is it not certain, that St. Paul did not acknowledge Peter to be his superior in office, and had no notion of its being his duty to obey him in all things?

We may be sure then, that St. Peter, though a rock and pillar of the Church, and ever to be honoured by us as such, and especially for his zealous boldness and warm attachment to his blessed master, was not Supreme over the Apostles, though highly distinguished among them; that he was not above them in order, but one of them; that he was not the sole rock on which the Church was to be built, but one only of its twelve foundations.

THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM.
(By Jane Taylor.)

An old clock that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen without giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.

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Upon this, the dial-plate (if we may credit the fable) changed countenance with alarm: the hands made an ineffectual effort to continue their course: the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. length the dial instituted a formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation; when hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from the pendulum, who thus spoke :

"I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage; and am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged that it was on the point of striking.

"Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.

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"Very good!" replied the pendulum, "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as every body knows, set yourself up above me- —it is vastly easy for you, I accuse other people of laziness! You, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching 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 wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do."

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

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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. Besides, I am really weary of my way of life; and if you please, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment. This morning I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of you, above there, can give me the exact sum."

The minute hand, being quick at figures, instantly replied, "eighty-six thousand, four hundred times.'

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"Exactly so," replied the pendulum: "well, I appeal to you all, if the 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 :

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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?"

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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."

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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 bed till noon if we stand idling thus."

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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 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 burden 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 never 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."

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Let us then, all our might," "accepted time.”

whatever our hands find to do, do it with recollecting, that now is the proper and the

LEONARD AND GERTRUDE.

PESTALOZZI was a Swiss, who spent his life in trying to make education what it should be. His little tale of "Leonard and Gertrude," is an admirable picture of humble life; of its vices and of its virtues. As I intend to give a few passages from this book, I shall in this number introduce Leonard and Gertrude to my readers.

In the village of Bonnal there lived a bricklayer named Leonard: his wife's name was Gertrude. Leonard had seven children and good work; but he had one great fault; he was too fond of the public house, where he was led on by his worthless companions to drink and play, and robbed from time to time of the wages of his labour. Whenever this happened, Leonard was sure to be vexed with himself in the morning: it went to his heart to see Gertrude and her children in want of bread; and then he would shake all over, and hang down his head to hide his tears.

*For never read seldom.-ED.

Gertrude was the best woman in the village; but she and her little ones were in danger of being turned out of house and home, and brought to distress and ruin, because Leonard could not give up his glass.

Gertrude saw how near they were to this, and the prospect before her wrung her heart. She did all she could to hide her misery from the children; but the Wednesday before last Easter, when her husband was later than ever, her distress quite overcame her, and her children saw that she was crying. They all crowded and clung about her, with sorrow in their faces; and even the baby in her arms looked at her with a hard, fixed eye, and seemed to know that she was wretched. Gertrude could not stand this; and she and her children burst out into a loud cry, just as Leonard opened the door.

God sees the tears of the afflicted, and brings their misery to an end.

The mercy of God brought Leonard home to see this sight, which wrung his very soul. His limbs trembled; he turned as pale as death; and could hardly utter in a hurried and broken voice, "Oh, heavens! what is the matter?"-Then Gertrude, who had buried her head upon the bed, saw him for the first time; the children too saw him; and the loudness of their cry was immediately stilled into a calm and silent sorrow.

Gertrude loved Leonard-and his presence was always a comfort to her, even in her deepest affliction; so that Leonard now recovered from his first alarm.

What is it Gertrude? he asked; why were you all crying as if your hearts would break?

Dear Leonard, replied Gertrude-sad thoughts lay at my heart, and when you are away, my grief is always heavier than at other times.

Gertrude, said Leonard, I know what you were crying about. Wretch that I am!

Then Gertrude sent the children out, and Leonard hid his face in her lap, and could not speak.

Gertrude too was silent for a while; and leant over her husband in speechless sorrow, as he went on sobbing louder and louder with his face still buried in her lap.

In the mean time Gertrude collected all her strength, and took courage, that she might try to work upon her husband's heart, and prevent him from bringing still more misery upon his children.

Gertrude was pious, and trusted in God-and before she

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