LESSON ] The Journey of a Day. A 1. OBIDAH, the son of Abens in the morning, and pursued his Indostan. He was fresh and vi mated with hope; he was incited forward over the valleys, and before him. 2. As he passed along, his e morning song of the bird of par last flutters of the sinking breeze, groves of spices. He sometime height of the oak, monarch of the the gentle fragrance of the prim spring all his senses were gratifi from his heart. 3. Thus he went on, till the s and the increased heat preyed upor round about him for some more on his right hand, a grove that se sign of invitation; he entered it, verdure irresistibly pleasant. 4. He did not, however, forget but found a narrow way, bordered w to have the same direction with the that, by this happy experiment, he pleasure with business, and to gai without suffering its fatigues. 5. He, therefore, still continued the least remission of his ardour, ex tempted to stop by the musick of th assembled in the shade; and some plucking the flowers that covered t the fruits that hung upon the branch 6. At last the green path began dency, and to wind among hills a fountains, and murmuring with water for a time, and began to consider w to forsake the known and common that the heat was now in its greatest was dusty and uneven, he resolved which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road. 7. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might sooth or divert him. He listened to every echo; he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect; he turned aside to every cascade; and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. 8. In these amusements the hours passed away unaccounted; his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not toward what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds; the day vanished from before him; and a sudden tempest gathered round his head. 9. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happiness 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 thunder broke his meditation. 10. He now resolved to do what yet remained 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 recommended his life to the Lord of Nature. He rose with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on with resolution. 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 horrours of darkness and solitude surrounded him : the winds roared in the woods; and the torrents tumbled from the hills. 11. 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 to 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 beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. 12. He advanced toward the light, and finding that it pro ceeded from the cottage of a hermit, 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. 13. When the repast was over, "Tell me," said the hermit, "by what chance thou hast been brought hither? I 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. 14. "Son," said the hermit, "let the errours 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 gayety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the direct road of piety towards the mansions of rest. 15. "In a short time, we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigour, and resolve 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. 16. "Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot 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, for a while, we keep in our sight, and to which we purpose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 17. "By degrees, we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy, till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horrour, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. 18. " Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example, not to despair; but shall remember, that, though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one e; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sins ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at ter all his errours; and that he who implores rage from above, shall find danger and difficulty him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; come care of Omnipotence; and when the morning il, begin anew thy journey and thy life." DR. JOHNSON. LESSON LXXXVII. Steam-boats on the Mississippi. tage of steam-boats, great as it is every where, appreciated as on the Mississippi. The dishe Ohio and Mississippi used to be separated ans by an internal obstruction, far more formi sing than the Atlantick. If I may use a hard now brought into juxtaposition. at an invention this is for these regions, one and felt, as I have seen and felt, the difficulty ercing a boat against the current of these mighty a progress of ten miles in a day is a good one. uge and unwieldy boats, the barges in which a of the articles from New Orleans used to be the upper country, required twenty or thirty hem. n them, day after day, on the lower portions of where there was no other way of working them g out a cable half a mile in length, in advance d fastening it to a tree. The hands on board to the tree. While this is transacting, another Ivance of that, has ascended to a higher tree, er cable fast to it, to be ready to be drawn upon first is coiled. This is the most dangerous and f all, and six miles' advance in a day is good refreshing, and imparts a feeling of energy and holder, to see the large and beautiful steam-boats eddies, as though on the wing, and, when they e eddy, strike the current. The foam bursts in ver the deck. She quivers for a moment with ; and then as though she had collected her 12 energy, and vanquished her enemy, she resumes her stately march, and mounts against the current, five or six miles an hour. 5. I have travelled in this way, for days together, more than a hundred miles in a day, against the current of the Mississippi. The difficulty of ascending used to be the only circumstance of a voyage that was dreaded in the anticipation. This difficulty now disappears. A family in Pittsburgh wishes to make a social visit to a kindred family on Red river. The trip is but two thousand miles. They all go together; servants, baggage, or "plunder," as the phrase is, to any amount. In twelve days they reach the point proposed. 6. Even the return is but a short voyage. Surely the people of this country will have to resist strong temptations, if they do not become a social people. You are invited to a breakfast at seventy miles' distance. You go on board the passing steamboat, and awake in the morning in season for your appointment. The day will probably come, when the inhabitants of the warm and sickly regions of the lower points of the Mississippi will take their periodical migrations to the north, with the geese and swans of the gulf, and with them return in the winter. 7. A sea-voyage, after all that can be said in its favour, is a very different thing from all this. The barren and boundless expanse of waters soon tires upon every eye but a seaman's. I say nothing of fastening tables, and holding fast to beds, or inability to write or to cook. I leave out of sight sea-sickness, and the danger of descending to those sea-green caves, of which poetry has so much to say. Here you are always near the shore, always see the green earth, can always eat, write, and sleep, undisturbed. You can always obtain cream, fowls, vegetables, fruit, wild game; and, in my mind, there is no kind of comparison between the comforts and discomforts of a sea and river voyage. 8. A stranger to this mode of travelling would find it difficult to describe his impressions upon first descending the Missis sippi in one of the better steam-boats. He contemplates the prodigious establishment, with all its fitting of deck common, and ladies' cabin apartments. Over head, about him, and be low him, all is life and movement. He sees its splendid cabin, richly carpeted, its finishing of mahogany, its mirrors and fine furniture, its bar-room, and sliding-tables, to which eighty pas sengers can sit down with comfort. 9. The fare is sumptuous, and every thing in a style of splendour, order, quiet, and regularity, far exceeding that of taverns in general. You read, you converse, you walk, you sleep, as you choose; for custom has prescribed that every |