Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning,
and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and
vigourous 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 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, 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 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 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 and 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 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 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
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 hand, for the beasts of
the desart were in motion, and on every hand were mingled howls of rage
and fear, and savage 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 wint’ry show’rs,
Down the steep hill the roaring torrent pours;
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 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 branches 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 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.
“Son,” said the hermit, “let the errors and follies, the dangers and
escapes, 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 awhile in the strait
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
trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road
of virtue, which we, for awhile, 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 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 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, there yet 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 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.”