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leave me quite naked, or allow me something to shelter me from the sun. Humanity at last prevailed; they returned me the worst of the two shirts and a pair of trousers; and, as they went away, one of them threw back my hat, in the crown of which I kept my memorandums; and this was probably the reason they did not wish to keep it. After they were gone, I sat for some time looking around me with amazement and terror; whichever way I turned, nothing appeared but danger and difficulty. I saw myself in the midst of a vast wilderness in the depth of the rainy season, naked and alone, surrounded by savage animals, and men still more savage. I was five hundred miles from the nearest European settlement. All these circumstances crowded at once on my recollection; and I confess, that my spirits began to fail me. I considered my fate as certain, and that I had no alternative but to lie down and perish. The influence of religion, however, aided and supported me. I reflected, that no human prudence or foresight could possibly have averted my present sufferings. I was indeed a stranger in a strange land, yet I was still under the protecting eye of that Providence who has condescended to call himself the stranger's friend. At this moment, painful as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty of a small moss in fructification, irresistibly caught my eye. I mention this, to show from what trifling circumstances the mind will sometimes derive consolation; for though the whole plant was not larger than the tip of one of my fingers, I could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves, and capsule without admiration. Can that Being (thought I) who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern upon the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own image?-surely not! Reflections like these would not allow me to despair; I started up, and disregarding both hunger and fatigue, travelled forwards, assured that relief was at hand; and I was not disappointed. In a short time I came to a small village, at the entrance of which I overtook the two shepherds who had come with me from Kooma. They were much surprised to see me, for they said they never doubted that the Foulahs, when they had robbed, had murdered me.

Finally, however, he reached the coast, took passage in an American ship for the West Indies, and thence to England, and landed at Falmouth on the 22d of December, 1797, after an absence of two years and seven months. He was received with distinguished honor by the African Association, and by almost all the other scientific bodies and eminent literary characters of London. He made arrangements to publish his travels, and the next year went to Scotland, where in August he married Miss Anderson, the eldest daughter of his old teacher at Selkirk. He commenced practice as a physician at Peebles, but soon another expedition was planned for him, and on the 30th of January, 1806, he set sail from

England, with a party of forty-four, for a second exploration of the Niger. But so severe were the fevers of the country, that when Park reached Sego, the capital of Bambarra, on the 19th of September, but nine out of the forty-four were left, and most of these were sick. At length, by his unwearied perseverance, a large boat was constructed for the navigation of the Niger, and Mr. Park and the weak remnants of his party set sail. They had proceeded as far as Boosa, when the king of the country, angry at not having received any presents as a fee to pass through his domains,' assembled a large body of men on the top of a high bluff at a very narrow place of the river, and as Mr. Park and his companions were about to pass, assailed them furiously with lances, pikes, arrows, stones, and missiles of every description. A number were killed at once, and Mr. Park, seeing all resistance vain, jumped into the river to swim ashore, and was drowned.

Thus perished Mungo Park, in the thirty-fifth year of his age; a man whose natural enthusiasm, scientific acquirements, undaunted intrepidity, patience of suffering, and inflexible perseverance-in short, every quality requisite for a traveller in the path he adopted, have never been surpassed, and who, had he survived, would no doubt have reaped those laurels, which more fortunate successors in the same career have won. To these qualities in his public character, it is pleasing to be able to add those of amiable simplicity of manners, constancy of affection, and sterling integrity in private life.2


UNHAPPY WHITE! while life was in its spring,
And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler came-and all thy promise fair
Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When science' self destroy'd her favorite son!
Yes! she too much indulg'd thy fond pursuit,
She sow'd the seeds-but death has reap'd the fruit.
Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low:
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart

That wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nurs'd the pinion which impell'd the steel;
While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest,

English poet would have stood before him-what one would have exerted a more happy influence-what one would have been more the delight of the wise and the good?

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Henry Kirke White, the son of John White, a butcher of Nottingham, was born at that place on the 21st of March, 1785. From his very early years he showed a strong thirst for knowledge, and at the age of seven tried his hand at prose composition. About this time, he was put to a school in his native place, where he greatly distinguished himself among his juvenile companions. He learned the rudiments of mathematics and the French language, and displayed wonderful powers of acquisition. His father intended to bring him up to his own business; and one whole day in every week, and his leisure hours on other days, were employed in carrying the butcher's basket. But this proved so irksome to him that, at the request of his mother, he was apprenticed to a stocking-weaver, to prepare himself for the hosiery line. This proved scarcely more satisfactory than his former occupation; and, after a year, his mother, a woman of superior intelligence, who early perceived his genius and sympathized with his spirit, found means to place him in the office of Coldham & Enfield, attorneys of Nottingham. He devoted himself with steadiness to his profession during the day, and passed his evenings in learning the Latin, Greek, and Italian languages, together with chemistry, astronomy, drawing, and music. To these acquirements he soon added practical mechanics. A London Magazine, called the "Monthly Preceptor," having proposed prize themes for the youth of both sexes, Henry became a candidate, and while only in his fifteenth year obtained a silver medal for a translation from Horace, and the next year a pair of twelve-inch globes for an imaginary tour from London to Edinburgh.

In 1803, appeared a volume of his poems. The statement in the preface that they were written by a youth of seventeen, and published to enable him to get the means to aid him in his studies, should have disarmed the severity of criticism; yet the poems were contemptuously noticed in the " 'Monthly Review." This treatment Henry felt most keenly. But the book fell into the hands of Mr. Southey, who most kindly and generously wrote to the young poet to encourage him; and very soon friends sprang up who enabled him to pursue the great object of his ambition-admission to the University of Cambridge. Hitherto his religious opinions had inclined to Deism; but a friend having put into his hands "Scott's Force of Truth," an entire change was wrought thereby in his whole character. A most decided and earnest piety now became his prominent characteristic, and he resolved to devote his life to the cause of religion, and with great zeal entered upon the study of divinity, in connection with his other studies. His application indeed was so intense, that a severe illness was the result; on his recovery from which, he produced those beautiful lines written in Milford churchyard.

In the latter part of 1804, his long-delayed hopes of entering the university were about to be gratified. "I can now inform you," he writes to a friend, "that I have reason to believe my way through college is close before me. From what source I know not; but, through the hands of Mr. Simeon, I am provided with thirty pounds per annum, and I can command twenty or thirty more from my

friends, in all probability, until I take my degree. The friends to whom I allude are my mother and brother." Poetry was now abandoned for severer studies. He competed for one of the university scholarships, and at the end of the term was pronounced the first man of his year. Twice he distinguished himself in the following year, was again pronounced first at the great college examination, and also one of the three best theme-writers, between whom the examiners could not decide. But this distinction was purchased at the sacrifice of health, and ultimately of life. Of this, he himself was sensible. "Were I," he writes to a friend, "to paint a picture of Fame crowning a distinguished undergraduate, after the senate-house examination, I would represent her as concealing a death's head under a mask of beauty." He went to London to recruit his shattered nerves and spirits; but it was too late. He returned to his college, renewed his studies with unabated ardor, and sank under the effort. Nature was at length overcome; he grew delirious, and died on the 19th of October, 1806, in his twenty-first year. Thus fell, a victim to his own genius, one whose abilities and acquirements were not more conspicuous than his moral and social excellence. "It is not possible," says Southey, "to conceive a human being more amiable in all the relations of life."2 And again: "He possessed as pure a heart as ever it pleased the Almighty to warm with life." Of his fervent piety, his letters, his prayers, and his hymns will afford ample and interesting proof. It was in him a living and quickening principle of goodness, which sanctified all his hopes and all his affections; which made him keep watch over his own heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms, which it ever displayed, of human imperfection.

With regard to his poems, the same good judge observes,-"Chatterton is the only youthful poet whom he does not leave far behind him;" and, in alluding to some of his papers, handed to him for perusal after the death of this gifted youth, he observes," I have inspected all the existing manuscripts of Chatterton, and they excited less wonder than these."


Yes, 'twill be over soon.-This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem

From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before-

Yon landscape smile-yon golden harvest grow-
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar

When Henry's name is heard no more below.
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress--
They laugh in health, and future evils brave;

The "Remains of Henry Kirke White, with an Account of his Life," by Robert Southey, 2 vols.

2 "What an amazing reach of genius appears in the 'Remains of Henry Kirke White! How unfortunate that he should have been lost to the world almost as soon as known. I greatly lament the circumstances that forced him to studies so contrary to his natural talent."--SIR E. BRYDGES, Censura Literaria, ix. 393. Again, this same discriminating critic says "There are, I think, among these Remains,' a few of the most exquisite pieces in the whole body of English poetry. Conjoined with an easy and flowing fancy, they possess the charm of a peculiar moral delicacy, often conveyed in a happy and inimitable simplicity of language."

Them shall a wife and smiling children bless,
While I am mouldering in my silent grave.
God of the just-Thou gav'st the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.'


Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand!-let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead.
And if 'tis true, what holy men have said,

That strains angelic oft foretell the day
Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,
Oh let the aerial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear,
That I may bid my weeping friends good-bye
Ere I depart upon my journey drear:
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.


It is not that my lot is low,

That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland's pool to rest,
When the pale star looks on its breast.

Yet, when the silent evening sighs
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sere and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed:
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh.

The woods and winds, with sullen wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh to sigh with me.

I know but one way of fortifying my soul against all gloomy presages and terrors of mind, and that is, by securing to myself the friendship and protection of that Being who disposes of events, and governs futurity. He sees at one view the whole thread of my exist ence: when I lay me down to sleep, I recommend myself to His care; when I awake, I give myself up to His direction. Amidst all the evils that threaten me, I will look up to Him for help, and question not but that He will either avert them, or turn them to my advantage. Though I know neither the time nor the manner of the death I am to die, I am not at all solicitous about it, because I am sure that He knows them both, and that He will not fail to support and comfort me under them."-ADDISON; Spectator, No. 7.

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