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DR. DAVID LIVINGSTONE.

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standing near a heap of baskets and cloaks. Whilst Awad advanced and asked for a present to celebrate the occasion, the Arabs withdrew the screen they had hastily constructed, and disclosed an enormous human head sculptured in full out of the alabaster of the country. They had uncovered the upper part of a figure, the remainder of which was still buried in the earth. I saw at once that the head must belong to a winged lion or bull, similar to those of Khorsabad and Persepolis. It was in admirable preservation. The expression was calm, yet majestic, and the outline of the features showed a freedom and knowledge of art scarcely to be looked for in the works of so remote a period. The cap had three horns, and, unlike that of the human-headed bulls hitherto found in Assyria, was rounded and without ornament at

I was not surprised that the Arabs had been amazed and terrified at this apparition. It required no stretch of imagination to conjure up the most strange fancies. This gigantic head, blanched with age, thus rising from the bowels of the earth, might well have belonged to one of those fearful beings which are pictured in the traditions of the country as appearing to mortals, slowly ascending from the regions below.”

OR. DAVID LIVINGSTONE, the great African traveller, was born at Blantyre, upon the banks of the Clyde, near Glasgow. His parents being poor, he was early sent to work in a cotton mill; and being eager for knowledge, he wrought hard till he had gained enough to take him to Glasgow, where during the winter season he studied at the University. He took his degree in medicine, and resolved to devote himself to missionary labour. In 1840, he was sent by the London Missionary Society to Port Natal, where he became acquainted with the language and customs of the natives, twice crossed the continent of Africa, and made interesting and important discoveries. After sixteen years' absence he returned to England and was warmly welcomed. In 1858, he went back to Africa, determined to discover the true source of that most mysterious of rivers, the Nile. Several times since then, rumours have come to this country that he had been killed by the natives; but, through the enterprise of an American journalist, a correspondent was despatched in search of him, and happily succeeded in discovering that he is still alive and well. His Researches in South Africa is a most valuable book, and is written with all the fascination and interest of an Arabian Tale.

MAKOLOLO CHILDREN AT PLAY. “The children have merry times, especially in the cool of the evening. One of their games consists of a little girl being carried on the shoulders of two others. She sits with outstretched arms, as they walk about with her, and all the rest clap their bands, and, stopping before each hut, sing pretty airs, some beating time on their little kilts of cowskin, others inaking a curious humming sound between the songs. Excepting this and the skipping rope, the play of the girls consists in imitation of the serious work of their mothers, building little huts, making small pots, and cooking, pounding corn in miniature mortars, or hoeing tiny gardens. The boys play with spurs of reeds pointed with wood, and small shields, or bows and arrows; or amuse them. selves in making little cattle-pens, or moulding cattle in clay; they show great ingenuity in the imitation of various shaped horns. Some too are said to use slings; but as soon as they can watch the goats, or calves, they are sent to the field. We saw many boys riding on the calves they had in charge ; but this is an innovation since the arrival of the English with their horses. Tsilane, one of the ladies, on observing Dr. Livingstone noting observations on the wet and dry bulb thermometers, thought that he too was engaged in play ; for, on receiving no reply to her question, which was rather difficult to answer, as the native tongue has no scientific terms, she said, with roguish glee, 'Poor thing, playing like a little child !""

AMERICAN LITERATURE.

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

WHILE the language free and bold

Which the bard of Avon sung,
In which our Milton told

How the vault of heaven rung,
When Satan, blasted, fell with his host;
While this, with reverence meet,

Ten thousand echoes greet,
From rock to rock repeat

Round our coast;

While the manners, while the arts,

That mould a nation's soul,
Still cling around our hearts,

Between let ocean roll,
Our joint communion breaking with the sun;
Yet, still, from either beach,

The voice of blood shall reach,
More audible than speech,
"WE ARE ONE!”

Washington Allston

AMERICAN LITERATURE.

POETS. — Bryant- Longfellow-Other Poets. HISTORIANS.

Prescott_Bancroft Motley-Other Historians. NOVELISTS. Cooper–Haliburton-Hawthorne. ESSAYISTS, &c.—Channing -Everett-Emerson-Other Essayists. WRITERS ON RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS.—Jonathan Edwards, and Others. MISCELLANEOUS WRITERS. — Franklin-Irving-Other Miscellaneous Writers. SCIENTIFIC WRITERS. --Audubon-Maury. WRITERS ON TRAVEL.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT (6. 1794) was the son of a physician. At the age of thirteen he commenced to write poetry, and when he was eighteen he published his most important poem, the Thanatopsis, or View of Death, a solemn and impressive work in blank verse. Bryant was educated at William's College; and, becoming a member of the American bar, he practised for several years with tolerable success. He afterwards abandoned the law, and became the founder of the New York Review, to which he contributed many of his poems. He is still engaged in literature; and the newspapers with which his name is associated are noted for their healthiness, and purity of tone. In addition to the Thanatopsis, Bryant has written many poems of great excellence, among which may be noted the Death of the Flowers, The Prairies, the · Battlefield, and the poem quoted below. He is remarkable for his power of painting American scenery, as well as for the clearness and beauty of his style.

THE INDIAN AT THE BURIAL PLACE OF HIS FATHERS.
It is the spot I came to seek-

My father's ancient burial place,
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.

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