It has sometimes struck me as not a little curious, that, while we have such unbounded faith in the constancy of the moon’s motions, and rest with such confidence on the accuracy of our charts and books, as to sail our ships, in the darkest nights, over seas we have never before traversed; yet that, in the moral navigation of our lives, we should hesitate in following principles infinitely more important, and in which we ought to have a faith at least as undoubting. The old analogy, indeed, between the storms of the ocean, and those of our existence, holds good throughout this comparison; for the half-instructed navigator, who knows not how to rely on his chart and compass, or who has formed no solid faith in the correctness of the guides to whom he ought to trust his ship, has no more chance of making a good passage across the wide seas, than he whose petty faith is bounded by his own narrow views and powers, is likely to be successful in the great voyage of life. There is a term in use at sea called ‘backing and filling,’ which consists at one moment in bracing the yards so that the wind shall catch the sails in reverse, and, by bringing them against the masts, drive the ship stern-foremost; and then, after she has gone far enough in that direction, in bracing up the yards so that the sails may be filled, and the ship again gather headway. This manœuvre is practised in rivers when the wind is foul, but the tide favourable, and the width of the stream too small to admit of working the vessel regularly, by making tacks across. From thus alternately approaching to the bank and receding from it, an appearance of indecision, or rather of an unwillingness to come too near the ground, is produced, and thence the term is used to express, figuratively, that method of speaking where reluctance is shewn to come too near the abrupt points of the subject, which yet must be approached if any good is to be done. I confess, accordingly, that, just now, I have been ‘backing and filling’ with my topic, and have preferred this indirect method of suggesting to my young friends the fitting motives to action, rather than venturing to lecture them in formal terms. The paths to honour, indeed, every man must trace out for himself; but the discovery will certainly be all the easier if he knows the direction in which they lie. The following brief specimen of a midshipman’s journal will shew, as well as a whole volume could do, the sort of stuff of which such documents are made. The great fault, indeed, of almost all journals consists in their being left, like Chinese paintings, without shading or relief, and in being drawn with such a barbarous perspective, that every thing appears to lie in one plane, in the front of the picture. “_Bermuda, Sunday, April 22._