most frank, industrious, and virtuous people, its towns are all cleanliness, neatness, and good order." But, say the Voluntaries, why attribute these benefits as resulting from the Established Church? We will allow Mr Cobbett to reply:— "In the county of Suffolk there is a parish church in every three square miles, or less; and it is thus divided into parishes so numerous, as for the people every where to be almost immediately and constantly under the eye of a resident parochial minister."-COBBETT. near Chichester, the seat of the Stay, Traveller, awhile, and view A few years ago, this Lion was re- LION HEAD OF THE CENTU- the occasion of this movement: RION. THE Lion, carved in wood, which adorned the head of Lord Anson's ship, the Centurion, was placed, some years ago, on a pedestal in the stable-yard of a little inn at Waterbeach, adjoining Goodwood Park, Such was this travell'd Lion's boast, OBIDAH AND THE HERMIT. AN EASTERN STORY. The cheerful sage, when solemn dictates fail, OBDAR, the son of Abesina, left the caravansera early in the mornng, and pursued his journey through the plains of Hindostan. 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 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 flutters 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 fragrance of the primrose, tldest daughter of the Spring; all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished at once 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 commodous 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 coolhess and verdure irresistibly pleaat. He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with Bowers, 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 waterfalls. 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 road. Having thus calmed his solici tude, 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 soothe 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 circumlocutions. 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, and 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 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 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 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 surrounded him; the winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tossed and 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: 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 regaled himself 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 inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before." Obidah then related the occurrences of his eventful journey, without the least concealment or palliation. "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 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 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 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 trem-> bling, 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 compliance prepares us for another: we in time lose the hap piness 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 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 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 remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, yet there remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours 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 diffitalty give way before him. Go ow, my son, to thy repose; comit thyself to the care of Omnipotence; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy jourey and thy life.-Rambler. A PERSIAN STORY. SADIK BEG was of good family, handsome in person, and possessed of good sense and courage, but he was poor, having no property but his sword and his horse, with which he served as a gentleman retainer of a nobleman. The latter satisfied of the purity of Sâdik's descent, and entertaining a respect for his character, determined to make him the busband of his daughter, Hooseinee, who, though beautiful, as her name implied, was remarkable for her banghty manner and ungovernable temper. Giving a husband of the condition of Sidik Beg to a lady of Hooseinee's rank, was, according to usage in ach unequal matches, like giving her a slave; and as she heard a good report of his personal quali ties, she offered no objections to the marriage, which was celebrated soon after it was proposed, and apartments were assigned to the happy couple in the Nabob's palace. Some of Sadik Beg's friends rejoiced in his good fortune, as they saw, in the connexion he had formed, a sure prospect of his advancement. Others mourned the fate of so fine and promising a young man, now condemned to bear through life all the humours of a proud and capricious woman; but one of his friends, a little man, called Merdek, who was completely hen-pecked by his own wife, was particularly rejoiced, and quite chuckled at the thought of seeing another in the same condition with himself. About a month after the nuptials Merdek met his friend, and, with malicious pleasure, wished him joy of his marriage:-" Most sincerely do I congratulate you, Sâdik," said he, "on this happy event!" "Thank you, my good fellow; I am very happy indeed, and rendered more so by the joy I perceive it gives my friends." "Do you really mean to say you are happy?" said Merdek, with a smile. "I really am so," replied Sadik. "Nonsense," said his friend; "do we not all know to what a termagant you are united? and her temper and high rank combined, must, no doubt, make her a sweet companion." Here he burst into a loud laugh, and the little man actually strutted with a feeling of vast superiority over the bridegroom. Sâdik, who knew his situation and feelings, was amused instead of being angry. "My friend," said he, "I quite understand the grounds of your apprehension for my happiness. Before I was married, I had heard the same reports as you have done of my beloved bride's disposition; but I am happy to say I have found it otherwise; she is a most docile and obedient wife." |