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2. These paths are full of holes from two to three feet deep. in which the mules set their feet, and draw their bellies and the rider's legs along the ground. These holes serve as steps, without which the precipices would, in a great measure, be impassable; but should the creature happen to set his foot between two of these holes, or not place it right, the rider falls; and if on the side of the precipice, he inevitably perishes.

3. This danger is even greater in descending precipices where those holes are wanting; but the instinct of the mules, that are accustomed to pass them, is admirable. They are sensible of the caution requisite in the descent.

4. On coming to the top of an eminence they stop, and having placed their fore feet close together, as in a posture of stopping themselves, they also put their hind feet together, but a little forward, as if going to lie down.

5. In this attitude, having, as it were, taken a survey of the road, they slide down with the swiftness of a meteor. All the rider has to do, is to keep himself fast in the saddle, without checking his beast, for the least motion is sufficient to destroy the equilibrium of the mule; in which case they must both unavoidably be precipitated to destruction.

6. In many parts of the passes of the Andes, the mode of travelling is upon men's backs. The traveller sits in a chair, tied to the back of the carrier. The number of men who undertake the employment of beasts of burden, is considerable. The roads, over which they travel, lie through desolate forests, which cannot be traversed in less than ten or twelve days, and where there is not a hut to be seen, nor any subsistence to be procured.

7. Pendulous bridges are thrown over the frightful crevices of immeasurable depth, which are found in the flanks of the Andes. Over these frail and tremulous passages, the fearless natives carry the traveller in a chair attached to their backs, and, bending forward the body, they move with a swift and equal step; but, when they reach the centre, the oscillation of the bridge is so great, that, were they to stop, inevitable destruction must ensue: the native and his burden would be dashed to the bottom of a precipice, to whose profound depth the eye can scarcely reach.

8. These bridges are, from the nature of their construction, frequently out of repair; presenting to the shuddering European, who visits these countries, frightful chasms, over which the Indians step with undaunted confidence. In the winter, travellers are in danger of being frozen to death, in endeavouring to pass these mountains before the winter snows are melted, and many lose their lives in the attempt.-WORCESTEr's Sk.

LESSON XLIX.

On Discretion.

1. I HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of a wise man, and that of a fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some, and communicating others; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion, however, has no place in private conversation between intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; for, indeed, talking with a friend is nothing else than thinking aloud.

2. Tully has, therefore, very justly exposed a precept, delivered by some ancient writers, that a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend; and with his friend, in such a manner, that, if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour toward an enemy, is, indeed, very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour toward a friend, savours more of cunning than of discretion; and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Beside that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who confided in him.

3. Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action; and is like an under-agent of Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest; which sets them at work in their proper times and places; and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errours, and active to his own prejudice. 4. Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the

talents of those with whom he converses, and knows how to aps ply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures to society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind; endued with an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him.

5. Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life.

6. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discre tion points out the noblest ends to us; and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them: cunning has only private, selfish aims; and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed.

7. Discretion has large and extended views; and, like a well formed eye, commands a whole horizon: cunning is a kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but it is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it: cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those events which he might have done had he passed only for a plain man.

8. Discretion is the perfection of reason; and a guide to us in all the duties of life: cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare. Discretion is only found in men of strong sense and good understanding! cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves; and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimick of discretion; and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom,

9. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He considers that

those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment; and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For this reason he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his being.

10. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action; and considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate effects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it consistent with his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality; his schemes are large and glorious; and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods.—Addison.

LESSON L.

On the Government of our Thoughts.

1. A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accountable for what we think, than for what we do. As, first, when the introduction of any train of thoughts depends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging in such employments, as we know must give a peculiar determination to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever' accident they may have been originally suggested, are indulged with deliberation and complacency.

2. Though the mind has been passive in their reception, and, therefore, free from blame; yet, if it be active in their continuance, the guilt becomes its own. They may have intruded at first, like unbidden guests; but if, when entered, they are made welcome, and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had been invited from the beginning.

3. If we are thus accountable to God for thoughts, either voluntarily introduced, or deliberately indulged, we are no less so in the last place, for those which find admittance into our hearts from supine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allowing our imagination to rove with entire license, "like the eyes of the fool towards the end of the earth.'

4. Our minds are, in this case, thrown open to folly and vanity. They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases to take possession. The consequences must all be charged to

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bur account; and in vain we plead excuse from human infirmity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which we are to aim in governing our thoughts, is to take the most effectual measures for preventing the introduction of such as are sinful; and for hastening their expulsion if they shall have introduced themselves without consent of the will.

B. But when we descend into our breasts, and examine how far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell "how oft he hath offended?" In no article of religion or morals, are men more culpably remiss than in the unrestrained indulgence they give to fancy; and that too, for the most part, without remorse. Since the time that reason began to exert her powers, thought, during our waking hours, has been active in every breast, without a moment's suspension or pause.

6. The current of ideas has been always flowing. The wheels of the spiritual engine have circulated with perpetual motion: Let me ask, what has been the fruit of this incessant activity with the greater part of mankind? Of the innumerable hours that have been employed in thought, how few are marked with any permanent or useful effect? How many have either passed away in idle dreams, or have been abandoned to anxious, discontented musings, to unsocial and malignant passions, or to irregular and criminal desires?

7. Had I power to lay open that storehouse of iniquity which the hearts of too many conceal; could I draw out and read to them a list of all the imaginations they have devised, and all the passions they have indulged in secret; what a picture of men should I present to themselves! What crimes would they appear to have perpetrated in secrecy, which to their most intimate companions they durst not reveal!

8. Even when men imagine their thoughts to be innocently employed, they too commonly suffer them to run out into extravagant imaginations, and chimerical plans of what they would wish to attain, or choose to be, if they could frame the tourse of things according to their desire. Though such em ployments of fancy come not under the same description with those which are plainly criminal, yet wholly unblameable they seldom are. Besides the waste of time which they occasion, and the misapplication which they indicate of those intellectual powers that were given to us for much nobler purposes, such romantick speculations always lead us into the neighbourhood of forbidden regions.

9. They place us on dangerous ground. They are, for the most part, connected with some one bad passion; and they always nourish a giddy and frivolous turn of thought They

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