The storm is o'er, the tempest past,
And mercy's voice has hush'd the blast;
The wind is heard in whispers low;
The white man far away must go;—
But ever in his heart will bear
Remembrance of the negro's care.
chorus.
Go, white man, go—but with thee bear
The negro's wish, the negro's prayer,
Remembrance of the negro's care.
At another time, Mr. Park thus continues his narrative: "A little before sunset, I descended on the northwest side of a ridge of hills, and as I was looking about for a convenient tree, under which to pass the night, (for I had no hopes of reaching any town) I descended into a delightful valley, and soon afterward arrived at a romantic village called Kooma. I was immediately surrounded by a circle of the harmless villagers. They asked me a thousand questions about my country, and in return for my information brought corn and milk for myself, and grass for my horse; kindled a fire in the hut where I was to sleep, and appeared very anxious to serve me."
Afterward, being robbed and stripped by a banditti in the wilderness, he informs us that the robbers stood considering whether they should leave him quite destitute; even in their minds, humanity partially prevailed over avarice; they returned the worst of two shirts, and a pair of trowsers; and as they went away, one of them threw back his hat. At the next village, Mr. Park entered a complaint to the Dooty, or chief man, who continued very calmly smoking while he listened to the narration; but when he had heard all the particulars, he took the pipe from his mouth, and tossing up the sleeve of his cloak, with an indignant air, he said, "You shall have every thing restored to you—I have sworn it." Then, turning to an attendant, he added, "Give the white man a draught of water; and with the first light of morning go over the hills, and inform the Dooty of Bammakoo, that a poor white man, the king of Bambarra's stranger, has been robbed by the king of Foolodoo's people." He then invited the traveller to remain with him, and share his provisions, until the messenger returned. Mr. Park accepted the kind offer most gratefully: and in a few days his horse and clothes were restored to him.
At the village of Nemacoo, where corn was so scarce that the people were actually in a state of starvation, a negro pitied his distress and brought him food.
At Kamalia, Mr. Park was earnestly dissuaded by an African named Karfa, from attempting to cross the Jalonka wilderness during the rainy season; to which he replied that there was no alternative—for he was so poor, that he must either beg his subsistence from place to place, or perish with hunger. Karfa eagerly inquired if he could eat the food of the country, adding that, if he would stay with him, he should have
plenty of victuals, and a hut to sleep in; and that after he had been safely conducted to the Gambia, he might make what return he thought proper. He was accordingly provided with a mat to sleep on, an earthern jar for holding water, a small calabash for a drinking cup, and two meals a day, with a supply of wood and water, from Karfa's own dwelling. Here he recovered from a fever, which had tormented him several weeks. His benevolent landlord came daily to inquire after his health, and see that he had every thing for his comfort. Mr. Park assures us that the simple and affectionate manner of those around him contributed not a little to his recovery. He adds, "Thus was I delivered, by the friendly care of this benevolent negro, from a situation truly deplorable. Distress and famine pressed hard upon me; I had before me the gloomy wilderness of Jallonkadoo, where the traveller sees no habitation for five successive days. I had observed, at a distance, the rapid course of the river Kokaro, and had almost marked out the place where I thought I was doomed to perish, when this friendly negro stretched out his hospitable hand for my relief." Mr. Park having travelled in company with a coffle of thirty-five slaves, thus describes his feelings as they came near the coast: "Although I was now approaching the end of my tedious and toilsome journey, and expected in another day to meet with countrymen and friends, I could not part with my unfortunate fellow-travellers,—doomed as I knew most of them to be, to a life of slavery in a foreign land,—without great emotion. During a peregrination of more than five hundred miles, exposed to the burning rays of a tropical sun, these poor slaves, amidst their own infinitely greater sufferings, would commiserate mine, and frequently, of their own accord, bring water to quench my thirst, and at night collect branches and leaves to prepare me a bed in the wilderness. We parted with mutual regret and blessings. My good wishes and prayers were all I could bestow upon them, and it afforded me some consolation to be told that they were sensible I had no more to give."
The same enlightened traveller remarks, "All the negro nations that fell under my observation, though divided into a number of petty, independent states, subsist chiefly by the same means, live nearly in the same temperature, and possess a wonderful similarity of disposition. The Mandingoes, in particular, are a very gentle race, cheerful, inquisitive, credulous,