any other examples which might be added, exhibit the force
of habit which governs the actions of all men, whether in a savage or
civilized state. There are, of course, exceptions. When Cook left
Omai,[CS] during his last voyage, at Huaheine, with every provision for
his comfort, he earnestly begged to return to England. It was nothing
that a grant of land was made to him at the interposition of his English
friends, that a house was built and a garden planted for his use. He
wept bitter tears; for he was naturally afraid that his new riches would
make him an object of hatred to his countrymen. He was much caressed in
England; and he took back many valuable possessions and some knowledge.
But he was originally one of the common people; and he soon saw,
although he was not sensible of it at first, that without rank he could
obtain no authority. He forgot this, when he was away from the people
with whom he was to end his days; but he seemed to feel that he should
be insecure when his protector, Cook, had left their shores. He divided
his presents with the chiefs; and the great navigator threatened them
with his vengeance if Omai was molested. The reluctance of this man to
return to his original conditions was principally derived from these
considerations, which were to him of a strictly personal nature. The
picture which a popular poet has drawn of the feelings of Omai is very
beautiful, and in great part true as applied to him as an individual;
but it is not true of the mass of savages.

The habits amidst which they were born may be modified by an intercourse
with civilized men, but they cannot be eradicated. The following is the
poetical passage to which we alluded. Omai had, altogether, a more
distinguished destiny than any other savage--he was cherished by Cook,
painted by Reynolds, and apostrophised by Cowper:--

"The dream is past, and thou hast found again
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast thou found
Their former charms? And, having seen our state,
Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp
Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports,
And heard our music, are thy simple friends,
Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights,
As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys
Lost nothing by comparison with ours?
Rude as thou art (for we return'd thee rude
And ignorant, except of outward show)
I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart
And spiritless, as