THE
MONTHLY SCRAP BOOK.
A TRAVELLER'S TALE.
What if the lion in his rage I meet!- Oft in the dust I view his printed feet! And fearful, oft, when day's declining light, Yields his pale empire to the mournful night, By hunger rous'd, he scours the groaning plain,. Gaunt wolves. and sullen tigers in his train; Before them Death, with shrieks, directs their way, Fills the wild yell, and leads them to their prey."
COLLINS.
THE same wave that overwhelms one man, often bears another triumphantly to the shore of safety. My father's sudden death, which elevated my elder brother from the equality on which we were placed during the old man's lifetime to the summit of affluence, threw me into the lowest abyss of poverty and despair. He died without a will, and I was left pennyless and unprotected. Young and romantic, I wandered from the land my forefathers, and for many lingering years was buffeted about the world, alternately rioting in joy and luxury, and reduced to the very extremes of despondency and want. Thrice have I been shipwrecked; nine years I bemoaned my fate in the walls of a foreign prison; I have wandered over the hot deserts of Africa, and penetrated some of the thickest wilds of the New World. My latter years afford the most extravagant contrast to those of my dawning, manhood and maturity. Like a mild evening, after a day of turbulent storms, my present peaceful occupations are ren-
