remained on my waistcoat, the only recompense I could make her.' THE MOSS IN THE DESERT After the robbers had 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 1 Our own Ledyard, who possessed every qualification of a traveller of the highest order, thus speaks in praise of women: "I have observed among all nations that the women ornament themselves more than the men; that, wherever found, they are the same civil, kind, obliging, humane, tender beings; that they are ever inclined to be gay and cheerful, timorous and modest. They do not hesitate, like man, to perform a hospitable or generous action; not haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full of courtesy and fond of society; industrious, economical, ingenuous; more liable, in general, to err than man, but in general, also, more virtuous, and performing more good actions, than he. I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship to a woman, whether civilized or savage, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man it has often | been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, and the widespread regions of the wandering Tartar, if hungry, dry, cold, wet, or sick, woman has ever been friendly to me, and uniformly so; and, to add to this virtue, so worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have been performed in so free and so kind a manner, that, if I was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and, if hungry, ate the coarse morsel, with a double relish." 2 Read some beautiful verses on this touching incident by the Rev. Robert Murray Me Cheyne, in his Memoir and Remains, p. 390. 3 He had been waylaid and stripped of every thing he had on by a savage band of Mandingoes. 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. HENRY KIRKE WHITE, 1785-1806. UNHAPPY WHITE; while life was in its spring, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, That wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart: He nurs'd the pinion which impell'd the steel; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, So sang Lord Byron of that most gifted youth, Henry Kirke White, whose sincere and ardent piety was equalled only by his genius, his learning, and his uncommon ardor in the pursuit of knowledge. He was the son of John White, a butcher of Nottingham, and was born at that place in 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. At school he greatly distinguished himself among his companions, displaying wonderful powers of acquisition. But 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. This, however, proved so irksome to him that, at the request of his mother, he was apprenticed to a stockingweaver, to prepare himself for the hosiery line. This was scarcely more satisfactory to him 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 the author felt very 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 senatehouse 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 twentyfirst 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,1" to conceive a human being more amiable in all the relations of life." 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, 1 The Remains of Henry Kirke White, with | SIR E. BRYDGES, Censura Literaria, ix. 393. 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." 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." 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." SONNET IN HIS SICKNESS. Yes, 'twill be over soon,-This sickly dream Yon landscape smile,-yon golden harvest grow,— They laugh in health, and future evils brave; SONNET TO CONSUMPTION. Gently, most gently, on thy victim's head, Of death to those good men who fall thy prey, Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear, MY MOTHER. my last. And canst thou, mother, for a moment think 1 "I know but one way of fortifying my sonl 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 Be 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. Amids: 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 advan tage. 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. Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. Come, Disappointment, come! Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; But I recline And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine, Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell And though the tear By chance appear, Yet can she smile, and say, "My all was not laid here.” Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun, a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain, And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. Oh, what is Beauty's power? It flourishes and dies; Will the cold earth its silence break, Mute, mute is all Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. |