deed was always at hand to steer the passengers through a narrow outlet, by which they might escape, but very few could, by her entreaties or remonstrances, be induced to put the rudder into her hand, without stipulating that she should approach so near unto the rocks of Pleasure, that they might solace themselves with a short enjoyment of that delicious region, after which they always determined to pursue their course without any other deviation.

been shattered on the rocks of Plea sure. Many appeared to have great confidence in their skill, and some, indeed, were preserved by it from sinking, who had received only a single blow; but I remarked that few vessels lasted long which had been much repaired, nor was it found that the artists themselves continued afloat longer than those who had least of their assistance.

The only advantage which, in the voyage of life, the cautious had above the negligent, was, that they sunk later and more suddenly; for they passed forward till they had sometimes seen all those in whose company they had issued from the streights of infancy, perish in the way, and at last were overset by a cross breeze, without the toil of resistance, or the anguish of expectation. But such as had often fallen against the rocks of Pleasure, commonly subsided by sensible degrees, contended long with the encroaching waters, and harrassed themselves by labours that scarce Hope herself could flatter with success.

Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these promises, as to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulph of Intemperance, where indeed the circumvolution was weak, but yet interrupted the course of the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, towards the centre. She then repented her temerity, and with all her force endeavoured to retreat; but the draught of the gulph was generally too strong to be overcome; and the passenger, having danced in circles with a pleasing and giddy velocity, was at last overwhelmed and lost. Those few whom reason was able to extricate, generally suffered so many shocks upon the points which shot out from the rocks of Pleasure, that they were unable to continue their course with the same strength and facility as before, but floated along timorously and feebly, endangered by every breeze, and shatter-equally endangered?" I looked, and ed by every ruffle of the water, till seeing the gulph of Intemperance they sunk, by slow degrees, after before me, started and awaked. long struggles, and innumerable expedients, always repining at their own folly, and warning others against the first approach of the gulph of Intemperance.

There were artists who professed to repair the breaches and stop the leaks of the vessels which had

As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from some unknown power, "Gaze not idly upon others when thou thyself art sinking.— Whence is this thoughtless tranquillity, when thou and they are

Rambler.

The Journey of a Day, a Picture of
Human Life; the Story of Obidah.

Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning,

that hung upon the branches. At
last the green path began to de-
cline from its first tendency, and
to wind among hills and thickets,
cooled with fountains, and mur-
Here
nuring with water-falls.

and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the vallies, and saw the hills gradually rising be-Obidah paused for a time, and before him. As he passed along, his gan to consider whether it were ears were delighted with the morn- longer safe to forsake the known ing song of the bird of paradise, he and common track; but rememwas fanned by the last flutters of bering that the heat was now in the sinking breeze, and sprinkled its greatest violence, and that the with the dew by groves of spices; plain was dusty and uneven, he rehe sometimes contemplated the solved to pursue the new path, towering height of the oak, monarch which he supposed only to make a of the hills; and sometimes caught few meanders, in compliance with the gentle fragrance of the prim- the varieties of the ground, and rose, eldest daughter of the spring: to end at last in the common road. Having thus calmed his soliciall his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.tude, he renewed his pace, though Thus he went on till the sun he suspected that he was not gainapproached his meridian, and the ing ground. This uneasiness of increasing heat preyed upon his his mind inclined him to lay hold strength; he then looked round on every new object, and give way about him for some more commo- to every sensation that might soothe dious path. He saw, on his right or divert him. He listened to hand, a grove that seemed to wave every echo, he mounted every hill its shades as a sign of invitation; for a fresh prospect, he turned ahe entered it, and found the cool-side to every cascade, and pleased ness and verdure irresistibly plea- himself with tracing the course of sant. He did not, however, forget a gentle river that rolled among whither he was travelling, but the trees, and watered a large refound a narrow way bordered with gion with innumerable circumvoflowers, which appeared to have lutions. In these amusements the the same direction with the main hours passed away uncounted, road, and was pleased that, by this his deviations had perplexed his happy experiment, he had found memory, and he knew not towards means to unite pleasure with busi- what point to travel. He stood ness, and to gain the rewards of pensive and confused, afraid to go diligence without suffering its fa- forward lest he should go wrong, tigues. He, therefore, still con- yet conscious that the time of loitinued to walk for a time, without tering was now past. While he the least remission of his ardour, was thus tortured with uncertainexcept that he was sometimes ty, the sky was overspread with tempted to stop by the music of clouds, the day vanished from bethe birds, which the heat had as- fore him, and a sudden tempest sembled in the shade, and some- gathered round his head. He was times amused himself with pluck- now roused by his danger to a ing the flowers that covered the quick and painful remembrance of banks on either side, or the fruits his folly; he now saw how happie

VOL. I.

3 T

mit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

ness is lost when ease is consulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thun-me, said the hermit, by what chance der broke his meditation.

When the repast was over, 'Tell

thou hast been brought hither; I re-have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.' Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.

He now resolved to do what mained yet in his power, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself on the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on with his sabre in his hand, for the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration; all the horrors of darkness and solitude sur-gence, and travel on awhile in rounded him: the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills.

Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or destruction. At length not fear but labour began to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his fate, when he beheid through the brambles the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a her

Son, said the hermit, let the errors and follies, the dangers and escape of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with dili

the straight road of piety towards the mansions of rest. In a short time we remit our fervor, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy We then relax our vigour, and remeans of obtaining the same end. solve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to enquire whether another advance may not be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we, for awhile, keep in our

sire.

sight, and to which we propose to, very miserable condition if there is return. But temptation succeeds not another world." "True, son," temptation, and one compliance said the hermit, "but what is thy prepares us for another; we in condition if there is?"-Man is a time lose the happiness of inno- creature designed for two different cence, and solace our disquiet with states of being, or rather, for two sensual gratifications. By degrees different lives. His first life is we let fall the remembrance of our short and transient; his second, original intention, and quit the on- permanent and lasting. The quesly adequate object of rational de- tion we are all concerned in is this, We entangle ourselves in in which of those two lives is it our business, immerge ourselves in interest to make ourselves happy? luxury, and rove through the laby- or, in other words, whether we rinths of inconstancy till the dark- should endeavour to secure to ourness of old age begins to invade us, seives the pleasures and gratificaand disease and anxiety obstruct our tions of a life which is uncertain way. We then look back upon our and precarious, and at its utmost lives with horror, with sorrow, with length of a very inconsiderable durepentance; and wish, but too of- ration; or to secure to ourselves ten vainly wis, that we had not the pleasures of a life that is fixed forsaken the ways of virtue. Hap- and settled, and will never end? py are they, my son, who shall Every man, upon the first hearing learn from thy example not to des- of this question, knows very well pair, but shall remember, though which side of it he ought to close the day is past, and their strength with. But however right we are in theory, it is plain that in pracside is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reforma- tice we adhere to the wrong tion is never hopeless, nor sincere of the question. We make proendeavours ever unassisted, that visions for this life as though it were never to have an end, and for the wanderer may at length return after all his errors, and that the other life as though it were he who implores strength and never to have a beginning. courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose, commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence, and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.'

Should a spirit of superior rank, who is a stranger to human nature, accidentally alight upon the earth, and take a survey of its inhabitants; what would his notions of us be? Would not he think that we were a species of beings made for quite Rambler.different ends and purposes than

what we really are? Must not he imagine that we are placed in this world to get riches and honours? Would not he think that it was our

The Present Life to be considered
only as it may conduce to the hap-duty to toil after wealth, and sta-
piness of a future one.

A lewd young fellow seeing an aged hermit go by him barefoot, "Father," says he, " you are in a

tion, and title? Nay, would not he believe we were forbidden poverty by threats of eternal punishment, and enjoined to pursue our pleasures under pain of damna