times tempted to stop by the music of the birds, which the heat had assembled in the shade; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on either fide, 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 confider whether it were longer safe to forfake 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 refolved 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 road.

Having thus calmed his folicitude, 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 footh or divert him. He listened to every echo; he mounted every hill for a fresh profpect; he turned afide to every cascade; and pleased himfelf with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. In these amufe ments, the hours passed away unaccounted; his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and confused, afraid to go forward left he should go wrong, yet confeious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds; the day vanithed from before him; and a fudden tempest gathered round his head. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now faw how happiness is loft when cafe is confulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to feek shelter in the grove; and despised the petty curiofity 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.

He now refolved to do what yet remained in his power, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find fome issue where the wood might open into the plain. He proftrated himself on the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of Nature. He rofe with confidence and tranquillity, and pressed on with refolution. The beasts of the defert 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 folitude furrounded 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 fafety or to deftruction. 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 refignation 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 admifsion. The old man set before him fuch provifions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

When the repast was over, "Tell me," faid 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 faw a man before."Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.

"Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and follies, the dangers and escape of this day, fink deep into thy heart. Remember, my fon, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour and full of expectation; we fet forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the direct road of piety towards the manfions of rest. In a short time, we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and fome more eafy means of obtaining the fame end. We then relax our vigour, and refolve 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 eafe, and repose in the shades of fecurity. 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 fcruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling; and always hope to pass through them without lofing the road of virtue, which, for a while, we keep in our fight, and to which we purpose to return. But temptation fucceeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and folace our difquiet with fenfual gratifications. By de

grees, we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational defire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconftancy; 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 forrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly with, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my fon, 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 effort to be made: that reformation is never hopeless, nor fincere endeavours ever unafsisted; 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 fon, to thy repofe; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life."

DR. JOHNSON.

47)

CHAPTER III.

DIDACTIC PIECES.

SECTION I.

The Importance of a good Education.

I CONSIDER a human foul, without education, like marble in the quarry; which shows none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the polifier fetches out the colours, makes the furface shine, and discovers every ornamental cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the body of it. Education, after the fame manner, when it works upon a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and perfection, which, without such helps, are never able to make their appearance.

If my reader will give me leave to change the allufion fo foon upon him, I shall make use of the fame instance to illustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of fubstantial forms, when he tells us, that a statue lies hid in a block of marble; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the fuperfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in the stone, and the sculptor only finds it. What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a human foul. The philosopher, the faint, or the hero, the wife, the good, or the great man, very often lies hid and concealed in a plebeian, which. a proper education might have difinterred, and have