“Richard Lander and his associates entered the Brass River, and began ascending it in excellent spirits.  With them were two or three negro musicians, who, when the labours of the day were over, cheered their countrymen with their instruments, at the sound of which they danced and sang in company, while the few Englishmen be longing to the party, amused themselves with angling on the banks of the stream, in which, though not very expert, they were tolerably successful.  In this pleasing manner, stemming a strong current by day, and resting from their toil at night, Richard Lander and his little band, totally unapprehensive of danger, and unprepared to overcome or meet it, proceeded slowly up the Niger.  At some distance from its mouth, and on his way thither, they met King Jacket, a relative of King Boy, and one of the heartless and sullen chiefs, who rule over a large tract of marshy country on the banks of the Brass River.  This individual was hailed by our travellers, and a present of tobacco and rum was offered to him, he accepted it with a murmur of dissatisfaction, and his eyes sparkled with malignity, as he said in his own language, ‘White man will never reach Eboe this time.’  This sentence was immediately interpreted to Lander by a native of the country, a boy, who afterwards bled to death from a wound in the knee, but Lander made light of the matter, and attributed Jacket’s prophecy, for so it proved, to the petulance and malice of his disposition.  Soon, however, he discovered his error, but it was too late to correct it, or evade the danger which threatened him.  On ascending as far inland as sixty or seventy miles, the English approached an island, and their progress in the larger canoe was effectually obstructed by the shallowness of the stream.  Amongst the trees and underwood that grew on this island, and on both banks of the river in its vicinity, large ambuscades of the natives had previously been formed, and shortly after the principal canoe had grounded, its unfortunate crew, busily employed to heave it into deep water, were saluted with irregular but heavy and continued discharges of musketry.  So great was Lander’s confidence in the sincerity and good will of the natives, that he could not at first believe that the destructive fire, by which he was literally surrounded, was any thing more than a mode of salutation they had adopted in honour of his arrival.  But the Kroomen who had leaped into the boat, and who fell wounded by his side, soon convinced him of his mistake, and plainly discovered to him the fearful nature of the peril into which he had fallen so unexpectedly, and the difficulty he would experience in extricating himself from it.  Encouraging his comrades with his voice and gestures, Lander prepared to defend himself to the last, and a loud and simultaneous shout from his little party assured him that they shared his feelings, and would follow his example.  Meanwhile, several of the savages having come out of their concealment,