Probably no human being was ever in circumstances parallel to those in
which Livingstone now stood. Years had passed since he had heard from
home. The sound of his mother-tongue came to him only in the broken
sentences of Chuma or Susi or his other attendants, or in the echoes of
his own voice as he poured it out in prayer, or in some cry of
home-sickness that could not be kept in. In long pain and sickness there
had been neither wife nor child nor brother to cheer him with sympathy,
or lighten his dull hut with a smile. He had been baffled and tantalized
beyond description in his efforts to complete the little bit of
exploration which was yet necessary to finish his task. His soul was
vexed for the frightful exhibitions of wickedness around him, where "man
to man," instead of brothers, were worse than wolves and tigers to each
other. During all his past life he had been sowing his seed weeping, but
so far was he from bringing back his sheaves rejoicing, that the longer
he lived the more cause there seemed for his tears.
Pages:
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800
801
802
803
804
805
806
807
808
809
810
811
812
813