CXXXV. THE VOYAGE OF LIFE: AN ALLEGORY. FROM DR. JOHNSON. 1. "LIFE," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of which we are perpetually changing our scenes; we first leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then the better and more pleasing part of old age." 2. The perusal of this passage having excited in me a train of reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gradual change of his disposition to all external objects, and the thoughtlessness with which he floats along the stream of time, I sank into a slumber amid my *meditations, and, on a sudden, found my ears filled with a tumult of labor, the shouts of alacrity, the shrieks of alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of waters. 3. My astonishment, for a time, *repressed my curiosity; but soon recovering myself, so far as to inquire whither we were going, and what was the cause of such clamor and confusion, I was told that we were launching out into the ocean of life, that we had already passed the straits of infancy, in which multitudes had perished, some by the weakness and +fragility of their vessels, and more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence of those who undertook to steer them; and that we were now on the main sea, abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means of security than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our power to choose among the great numbers that offered their direction and assistance. 4. I then looked around with anxious eagerness, and first, turning my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery islands, which every one that sailed along seemed to behold with pleasure, but no sooner touched, than the current, which, though not noisy or turbulent, was yet *irresistible, bore him away. Beyond these islands all was darkness, nor could any of the passengers describe the shore at which he first embarked. Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters violently agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the most perspicacious eye could see but a little way. It appeared to be full of rocks and whirlpools; for many sank unexpectedly, while they were courting the gale with full sails, and insulting those whom they had left behind. 5. So numerous, indeed, were the dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no caution could confer security. Yet there were many, who, by false intelligence, betrayed their followers into whirlpools, or, by violence, pushed those whom they found in their way against the rocks. The current was +invariable and insurmountable. But, though it was impossible to sail against it, or to return to the place that was once passed, yet it was not so violent as to allow no opportunities for dexterity or courage, since, though none could retreat. from danger, yet they might avoid it by an oblique direction. 6. It was, however, not very common to steer with much care or prudence; for, by some universal *infatuation, every man appeared to think himself safe, though he saw his consorts every moment sinking around him; and no sooner had the waves closed over them, than their fate and their misconduct were forgotten. The voyage was pursued with the same jocund confidence; every man congratulated himself upon the soundness of his vessel, and believed himself able to stem the whirlpool in which his friend was swallowed, or glide over the rocks on which he was dashed; nor was it often observed that the sight of a wreck made any man change his course; if he turned aside for a moment, he soon forgot the rudder, and left himself again to the disposal of chance. 7. This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or from weariness of their condition; for not one of those, who thus rushed upon destruction, failed, when he was sinking, to call loudly upon his associates for that help which could not now be given him; and many spent their last moments in cautioning others against the folly, by which they were intercepted in the midst of their course. Their benevolence was sometimes praised, but their admonitions were unregarded. 8. In the midst of the current of life was the gulf of Intemperance, a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which the pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops covered with herbage, on which Ease spread couches of repose, and with shades where Pleasure warbled the song of invitation. Within sight of these rocks, all who sail on the ocean of life must necessarily pass. Reason, indeed, was always at hand, to steer the passengers through a narrow outlet by which they might escape; but few could, by her *entreaties, or remonstrances, be induced to put the rudder into her hand, without stipulating that she should approach so near to the rocks of Pleasure, that they might solace themselves with a short enjoyment of that delicious region, after which they always determined to pursue their course without any other deviation. 9. Reason was too often prevailed upon so far, by these promises, as to venture her charge within the teddy of the gulf of Intemperance, where, indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but yet interrupted the course of the vessel, and drew it, by insensible rotations, toward the center. She then repented her temerity, and, with all her force, endeavored to retreat; but the draught of the gulf was generally too strong to be overcome; and the passenger, having danced in circles, with a pleasing and giddy *velocity, was at last overwhelmed and lost. 10. As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from some unknown power: "Gaze not idly upon others, when thou thyself art sinking. Whence is this thoughtless *tranquillity, when thou and they are equally endangered?" I looked, and seeing the gulf of Intemperance before me, started and awoke. CXXXVI.-COLLOQUIAL POWERS OF FRANKLIN. WILLIAM WIRT, the author of the following extract, was born in Maryland, in 1772. He was by profession a lawyer, and at the trial of Aaron Burr, for treason, assisted the Attorney-general of the United States. He was the author of the celebrated letters entitled The British Spy, and The Old Bachelor; and also of a Life of Patrick Henry. He died in 1834. 1. NEVER have I known such a fireside companion. Great as he was both as a statesman and philosopher, he never shone in a light more winning, than when he was seen in a domestic circle. It was once my good fortune to pass two or three weeks with him, at the house of a private gentleman, in the back part of Pennsylvania, and we were confined to the house during the whole of that time, by the tunintermitting constancy and depth of the snows. But confinement never could be felt where Franklin was an inmate. His cheerfulness and his colloquial powers spread around him a perpetual spring. 2. When I speak, however, of his colloquial powers, I do not mean to awaken any notion *analogous to that which Boswell has given us of Johnson. The conversation of the latter, continually reminds one of the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war." It was, indeed, a *perpetual contest for victory, or an arbitrary or despotic exaction of homage to his superior talents. It was strong, acute, prompt, splendid, and *vociferous; as loud, stormy, and sublime, as those winds which he represents as shaking the Hebrides, and rocking the old castle which frowned on the dark-rolling sea beneath. 3. But one gets tired of storms, however sublime they may be, and longs for the more orderly current of nature. Of Franklin, no one ever became tired. There was no ambition of eloquence, no effort to shine in any thing which came from him. There was nothing which made any demand upon either your *allegiance or your admiration. His manner was as unaffected as infancy. It was nature's self. He talked like an old patriarch; and his plainness and simplicity put you at once at your ease, and gave you the full and free possession and use of your faculties. His thoughts were of a character to shine by their own light, without any adventitious aid. They only required a medium of vision like his pure and simple style, to exhibit to the highest advantage their native radiance and beauty. 4. His cheerfulness was unremitting. It seemed to be as much the effect of a systematic and salutary exercise of the mind, as of its superior organization. His wit was of the first order. It did not show itself merely in occasional *coruscations; but without any effort or force on his part, it shed a constant stream of the purest light over the whole of his discourse. Whether in the company of commons or nobles, he was always the same plain man; always most per fectly at his ease, with his faculties in full play, and the full orbit of his genius forever clear and unclouded. 5. And then, the stores of his mind were inexhaustible. He had commenced life with an attention so vigilant, that nothing had escaped his observation; and a judgment so solid, that every incident was turned to advantage. His youth had not been wasted in idleness, nor overcast by intemperance. He had been, all his life, a close and deep reader, as well as thinker; and by the force of his own powers, had wrought up the raw materials which he had gathered from books, with such exquisite skill and +felicity, that he has added a hundred fold to their original value, and justly made them his own. CXXXVII.-A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN was born in 1706. While apprenticed to the printing business, he found opportunity for self-improvement, and began to write anonymously for the New England Courant, pieces which were much admired. His history as a statesman and philosopher is familiar to every American. He died in 1790. 1. SOME wit of old-such wits of old there were, Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions, care,— By one brave stroke, to mark all human kind, Called clear, blank paper, every infant mind; Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot. The thought was happy, *pertinent, and true; 2. I, (can you pardon my presumption ?) I, 3. Pray, note the fop, half powder, and half lace; |