Gratefully yours,
David Livingstone.
To the above letter I have nothing to add—it speaks for itself; but I then thought it was the best evidence of my success. For my own part, I cared not one jot or tittle about his discoveries, except so far as it concerned the newspaper which commissioned me for the "search." It is true I felt curious as to the result of his travels; but, since he confessed that he had not completed what he had begun, I felt considerable delicacy to ask for more than he could afford to give. His discoveries were the fruits of of his own labours—to him they belonged—by their publication he hoped to obtain his reward, which he desired to settle on his children. Yet Livingstone had a higher and nobler ambition than the mere pecuniary sum he would receive: he followed the dictates of duty. Never was such a willing slave to that abstract virtue. His inclinations impelled him home, the fascinations of which it required the sternest resolves to resist. With every foot of new ground he travelled over he forged a chain of sympathy which should hereafter bind the Christian nations in bonds of love and charity to the Heathen of the African tropics. If he were able to complete this chain of love—by actual discovery and description of them to embody such peoples and nations as still live in darkness, so as to attract the good and charitable of his own land to bestir themselves for their redemption and salvation—this, Livingstone would consider an ample reward.
"A delirious and fatuous enterprise, a Quixotic scheme!" some will say. Not it, my friends; for as sure as the sun shines on both Christian and Infidel, civilised and Pagan, the day of enlightenment will come; and, though Livingstone, the Apostle of Africa, may not behold it himself, nor we younger men, not yet our children, the Hereafter will see it, and posterity will recognise the daring pioneer of its civilization.
The following items are extracted in their entirety from my Diary:
March 12th.—The Arabs have sent me as many as forty-five letters to carry to the coast. I am turned courier in my latter days; but the reason is that no regularly organized caravans are permitted to leave Unyanyembe now, because of the war with Mirambo. What if I had stayed all this time at Unyanyembe waiting for the war to end! It is my opinion that, the Arabs will not be able to conquer Mirambo under nine months yet.
To-night the natives have gathered themselves together to give me a farewell dance in front of my house. I find them to be the pagazis of Singiri, chief of Mtesa's caravan. My men joined in, and, captivated by the music despite myself, I also struck in, and performed the "light fantastic," to the intense admiration of my braves, who were delighted to see their master unbend a little from his usual stiffness.
It is a wild dance altogether. The music is lively, and evoked from the sonorous sound of four drums, which are arranged before the bodies of four men, who stand in the centre of the weird circle. Bombay, as ever comical, never so much at home as when in the dance of the Mrima, has my water-bucket on his head; Chowpereh—the sturdy, the nimble, sure-footed Chowpereh—has an axe in his hand, and wears a goatskin on his head; Baraka has my bearskin, and handles a spear; Mabruki, the "Bull-headed," has entered into the spirit of the thing, and steps up and down like a solemn elephant; Ulimengo has a gun, and is a fierce Drawcansir, and you would imagine he was about to do battle to a hundred thousand, so ferocious is he in appearance; Khamisi and Kamna are before the drummers, back to back, kicking up ambitiously at the stars; Asmani,—the embodiment of giant strength,—a towering Titan,—has also a gun, with which he is dealing blows in the air, as if he were Thor, slaying myriads with his hammer. The scruples and passions of us all are in abeyance; we are contending demons under the heavenly light of the stars, enacting only the part of a weird drama, quickened into action and movement by the appalling energy and thunder of the drums.
The warlike music is ended, and another is started. The choragus has fallen on his knees, and dips his head two or three times in an excavation in the ground, and a choir, also on their knees, repeat in dolorous tones the last words of a slow and solemn refrain. The words are literally translated:—
Choragus. Oh-oh-oh! the white man is going home!
Choir. Oh-oh-oh! going home!
Going home, oh-oh-oh!
Choragus. To the happy island on the sea,
Where the beads are plenty, oh-oh-oh!
Choir. Oh-oh-oh! where the beads are plenty,
Oh-oh-oh!
Choragus. While Singiri has kept us, oh, very long
From our homes very long, oh-oh-oh.!
Choir From our homes, oh-oh-oh!
Oh-oh-oh!
Choragus. And we have had no food for very long—
We are half-starved, oh, for so long!
Bana Singiri!
Choir. For so very long, oh-oh-oh!
Bana Singiri-Singiri!
Singiri! oh, Singiri
Choragus. Mirambo has gone to war
To fight against the Arabs;
The Arabs and Wangwana
Have gone to fight Mirambo!
Choir Oh-oh-oh! to fight Mirambo!
Oh, Mirambo! Mirambo
Oh, to fight Mirambo!
Choragus. But the white man will make us glad,
He is going home! For he is going home,
And he will make us glad! Sh-sh-sh!
Choir. The white man will make us glad! Sh-sh-sh
Sh——-sh-h-h——-sh-h-h-h-h-h!
Um-m—mu—-um-m-m——sh!