echo amidst the lifeless rocks. With a swoop they would
swiftly fly past the “ look-out,” until their still and outstretched
wings could be seen floating daintily downward
towards the lake buoyant on the soft langour of the evening
breeze.
Often from this favourite retreat I watched the signs of
opening and departing day, bathing with varied glories
scenes that were lovely beyond description. Now, however,
wearied as I was, and too conscious of failing strength, I
followed with vacant eyes the decline of the orb of day
slowly disappearing over the soundless waters of Nyassa.
“ The whole wide lake in deep repose
Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows.”
Returning to the beach at night-time, I threw my
miserable body upon a pile of logs, so as to get a last look
at the shining lake and the departing sun.
Poets for ages past have sung of thy glories, thou mighty
orb! for thou art the life as well as the light of man : but
still thou art only a glow-worm in the eternal universe—a
thing that wakes and dies!
Slight encouragement could be found in looking at the
deserted streets of Livingstonia, which only aroused thoughts
of desertion, and of the fruitless labours of the missionary
who has sown in barren fields, and even sacrificed his life
for his controlling belief. The throbbing noise I could hear
was the beating of the batuka, mingled with the shouts of
the beer-drinking feast-makers, the sound taking the place
of the inviting cadence of the bells of church and school.
To me the mission seemed to be a thing of the past.
How strange is the Spirit of Philanthropy! Its failings
belong to an oft told story. We continually hear of the
sons of the Holy Churches seeking in distant lands the
inspiring thoughts which stir their anxious hearts. Setting
lucre aside as a mean instrument, how are human lives to
be considered—I mean such lives as are laid fearlessly down
to give the Bible to the black man ?
• In thousands of streets and thousands of lanes and
alleys in the big cities of England, the desolate, the
degraded, the starving, are to be rescued by the million.
Do not let me hear people say, “ Oh, that is an old story! ”
I t is emphatically a sign of the times. We have half-tilled
soil at our own doors, and neglect to cultivate it. Religious
labourers of our day are becoming lazy: they do not keep
themselves abreast of the age, either in action, in thought,
or in sympathy. There is too much shouting about easy
charity, and too little heard of the doctrine of self-reliance.
The sadness of the scene at Livingstonia must have a
cause. Where was it to be found ? Could it be attributed
to the empty houses, the desertion or the absence of whites ?
N o ! again we must go to the threshold of the unknown, to
the great inpenetrable mystery, Death!
“ Life is vainly short,
A very dream of being; and when death
Has quenched this finer flame that moves the heart
Beyond is all oblivion, as waste night
That knows no following dawn, where we shall be
As we had never been: the present then is only ours.”
Livingstonia had its skeleton in every house. Men had
lived there in.love, and died in faith. Often, indeed, must
the piteous cry have ascended heavenwards: “ My God, my
God, why hast thou forsaken me ? ”
Awaking to the realities of my harshly solitary position,
I heard the hawk’s high call and the strange long notes
of the fish-eagle dying upon the wind as they left their
watery fields of food, and sought their roosts high in the