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sera early in the morning, 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 valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last Autters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fra. grance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring :
all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.
Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian, and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength;. he then looked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and was pleased that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the rewards of diligence without suffering its fatigues, He, therefore, still continued to walk for a time, without the least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade ; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches.' At last the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with water-falls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, 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 roaj.
Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that be 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. In these amusements the hours passed away uncounted, his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards 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. 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 bim on from trifle to trife. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.
He now resolved to do what remained 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 niotion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration; all the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him : the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills.
Work”d into sudden rage by wintry show'rs,
The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise. 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 beheld through the brambles the glimmer of a taper. He advanced towards the light, and finding that it proceeded 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.
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 inha. " bitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before."
Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.
“ Son," said the hermit, “let the errors and fol“ lies, 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 morn“ ing of youth, full of vigour and full of expectation ; ". we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and '« with diligence, and travel on a while in the straight “ road of piety towards the mansions of rest. 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 terri« fied 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
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 we, for a while, keep in
our sight, and to which we propose to return. But “ temptation succeeds temptation, and one compli
ance prepares us for another; we in time lose the
happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet “ with sensual gratifications. 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 incon-' "stancy, 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 horror, with
sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often
vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of “ virtue. Happy are they, my son, who shall learn “ from thy example not to despair, but shall remem“ ber, that though the day is past, and their strength " is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; " that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere en" deavours ever unassisted ; that the wanderer may at
length return after all his errors; and that he who “ implores strength and 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