Its discovered faculties. A bee amongst the flowers, in spring, is one of the most cheerful objects that can be looked upon. life appears to be all enjoyment, so busy and so pleased; yet it is only a specimen of insect life, with which, by reason of the animal being half domesticated, we happen to be better acquainted than we are with that of others. The whole winged insect tribe, it is probable, are equally intent upon their proper employments, and, under every variety of constitution, gratified, and perhaps equally gratified, by the offices which the Author of their nature has assigned to them. But the atmosphere is not the only scene of enjoyment for the insect race. Plants are covered with aphides, greedily sucking their juices, and constantly, as it should seem, in the act of sucking. It cannot be doubted but that this is a state of gratification: what else should fix them so close to the operation, and so long? Other species are running about with an alacrity in their motions which carries with it every mark of pleasure. Large patches of ground are sometimes half covered with these brisk and sprightly natures. If we look to what the waters produce, shoals of the fry of fish frequent the margins of rivers, of lakes, and of the sea itself. These are so happy that they know not what to do with themselves. Their attitudes, their vivacity, their leaps out of the water, their frolics in it (which I have noticed a thousand times with equal attention and amusement), all conduce to show their excess of spirits, and are simply the effects of that excess. Walking by the sea-side, in a calm evening, upon a shady shore and with an ebbing tide, I have frequently remarked the appearance of a dark cloud, or, rather, very thick mist, hanging over the edge of the water, to the height, perhaps, of half a yard, and of the breadth of two or three yards, stretching along the coast as far as the eye could reach, and always retiring with the water. When this cloud came to be examined, it proved to be nothing else than so much space filled with young shrimps in the act of bounding into the air from the shallow margin of the water or from the wet sand. If any motion of a mute animal could express delight, it was this: if they had meant to make signs of their happiness, they could not have done it more intelligibly. Suppose, then, what I have no doubt of, each individual of this number to be in a state of positive enjoyment: what a sum, collectively, of gratification and pleasure have we here before our view! The young of all animals appear to me to receive pleasure simply from the exercise of their limbs and bodily faculties, without reference to any end to be attained or any use to be answered by the exertion. A child, without knowing any thing of the use of language, is in a high degree delighted with being able to speak. Its incessant repetition of a few articulate sounds, cr perhaps of the single word which it has learned to pronounce, proves this point clearly. Nor is it less pleased with its first successful endeavors to walk, or, rather, to run (which precedes walking), although entirely ignorant of the importance of the attainment to its future life, and even without applying it to any present purpose. A child is delighted with speaking, without having any thing to say, and with walking, without knowing where to go. And, prior to both these, I am disposed to believe that the waking hours of infancy are agreeably taken up with the exercise of vision, or, perhaps, more properly speaking, with learning to see. But it is not for youth alone that the great Parent of creation hath provided. Happiness is found with the purring cat no less than with the playful kitten; in the arm-chair of dozing age, as well as in either the sprightliness of the dance or the animation of the chase. To novelty, to acuteness of sensation, to hope, to ardor of pursuit, succeeds what is in no inconsiderable degree an equivalent for them all, "perception of ease." Herein is the exact difference between the young and the old. The young are not happy but when enjoying pleasure; the old are happy when free from pain. And this constitution suits with the degrees of animal power which they respectively possess. The vigor of youth was to be stimulated to action by impatience of rest; whilst, to the imbecility of age, quietness and repose become positive gratifications. In one important step the advantage is with the old. A state of ease is, generally speaking, more attainable than a state of pleasure. A constitution, therefore, which can enjoy ease is preferable to that which can taste only pleasure. This same perception of ease oftentimes renders old age a condition of great comfort, especially when riding at its anchor after a busy or tempestuous life. It is well described by Rousseau to be the interval of repose and enjoyment between the hurry and the end of life. How far the same cause extends to other animal natures cannot be judged of with certainty. The appearance of satisfaction with which most animals, as their activity subsides, seek and enjoy rest affords reason to believe that this source of gratification is appointed to advanced life under all or most of its various forms. In the species with which we are best acquainted, namely, our own, I am far, even as an observer of human life, from thinking that youth is its happiest season, much less the only happy one.-Natural Theology. PRAYER. We find our Lord resorting to prayer in his last extremity, and with an earnestness, I had almost said a vehemence, of devotion, proportioned to the occasion. As soon as he came to the place, he bade his disciples pray. When he was at the place, he said unto them, Pray ye, that ye enter not into temptation. This did not content him; this was not enough for the state and sufferings of his mind. He parted even from them. He withdrew about a stone's cast, and kneeled down. Hear how his struggle in prayer is described! Three times he came to his disciples, and returned again to prayer; thrice he kneeled down at a distance from them, repeating the same words. Being in an agony, he prayed more earnestly; drops of sweat fell from his body, as if it had been great drops of blood: yet, in all this, throughout the whole scene, the constant conclusion of his prayer was, "not my will, but thine be done." It was the greatest occasion that ever was; and the earnestness of our Lord's prayer, the devotion of his soul, corresponded with it. Scenes of deep distress await us all. It is in vain to expect to pass through the world without falling into them. But, whatever may be the fortune of our lives, one great extremity at least, the hour of approaching death, is certainly to be passed through. What ought then to occupy us? What can then support us? Prayer. Prayer with our blessed Lord was a refuge from the storm: almost every word he uttered during that tremendous scene was prayer,-prayer the most earnest, the most urgent; repeated, continued, proceeding from the recesses of the soul; private, solitary; prayer for deliverance; prayer for strength; above every thing, prayer for resignation.-Sermon viii. MUNGO PARK, 1771–1806. MUNGO PARK, the renowned African traveller, was born at Fowlshiels, in Selkirkshire, Scotland, 1771, and was the seventh of thirteen children. Being early placed in the grammar-school at Selkirk, he distinguished himself for his ready talents, as well as for great perseverance and application. He had an early desire to study medicine, and, after qualifying himself in his profession at Edinburgh, he went to London in search of employment, and was speedily appointed assistant surgeon on board the Worcester, East Indiaman, through the interest of that world-renowned patron of enterprising and scientific men, Sir Joseph Banks. Mr. Park showed himself every way worthy of this appointment; and shortly after his return from the East Indies he entered the service of the "Association for the Promotion of Discovery through the Interior of Africa," and sailed from Portsmouth on the 22d of May, 1795, in the brig Endeavour. His instructions were to proceed to the Niger by the nearest and most convenient route, and endeavor to trace its course from its rise to its termination, and visit as many of the principal cities on its banks as possible. His vessel arrived at the mouth of the Gambia on the 21st of June, and after sailing up the river as far as Jonkakonda, he quitted her, and made preparations to proceed into the interior of the country by land. It would be, of course, out of the question, in this short notice, to go into any of the details of the dangers he encountered and the sufferings he endured, full of perilous interest as they were suffice it to say that on the 21st of July, 1796, weak and almost exhausted, Mr. Park had the inexpressible gratification of coming in sight of Sego, the capital of Bambarra, situated on the long-wished-for river, which the natives term Joliba, or the "Great Water." He had not travelled far, however, in the exploration of the Niger before the rainy season set in, and he felt compelled to hasten his return, in which he suffered quite as much by sickness and encountered as many perils as in his advance. Once he was beset by banditti, who stripped him of almost every thing he had. Finally 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,1 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 KINDNESS OF A WOMAN TO HIM, AND A SONG OVER HIS DISTRESS. I waited more than two hours without having an opportunity of crossing the river; during which time the people who had crossed carried information to Mansong, the king, that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately sent over one of his chief men, who informed me 1 Mr. Park did in fact send presents, but the treacherous and dishonest bearer kept them himself instead of giving them to the king. Read an interesting sketch of his life in Chambers's "Biographical Dictionary of Emi nent Scotsmen," vol. iv, that the king could not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into this country, and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which he pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me further instructions how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village, where I found, to my great_mortification, that no person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without victuals in the shade of a tree; and the night threatened to be very uncomfortable, for the wind rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain; and the wild beasts are so very numerous in the neighborhood that I should have been under the necessity of climbing up the tree and resting among the branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman returning from the labors of the field stopped to observe me, and, perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I briefly explained to her; whereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. She accordingly went out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress (pointing to the mat, and telling me that I might sleep there without apprehension) called to the female part of the family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ themselves great part of the night. They lightened their labor by songs, one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally translated, were these:-"The winds roared and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk; no wife to grind his corn. Chorus.-Let us pity the white man; no mother has he," &c. &c. &c. Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the highest degree; I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my landlady with two of the four brass buttons which |