The words of the poet—
“ What’s won is done: Joy’s soul lies in the doing”_
or, as Longfellow has it—
“ The reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize”^-
recurred to me, as explaining why it was that
the people abandoned themselves to the dangerous
melancholy created by inactivity. I was charmed
by it myself; the senses were fast relapsing into
a drowsy state, that appeared to be akin to the
drowsiness of delirium. No novel or romance
interested me, though Mr. Phillips’s cottage
possessed a complete library of fiction and light
reading. Dickens seemed rubbish and the finest
poems flat. Frequently, even at meals, I found
myself subsiding into sleep, though I struggled
against it heroically; wine had no charm for me;
conversation fatigued me. Yet the love of society,
and what was due to my friendly hosts, acted
as a wholesome restraint and a healthy stimulant;
but what had the poor, untutored black strangers,
whose homes were on the east side of the
continent, to rouse them and to stimulate them
into life?
“ Do you wish to see Zanzibar, boys?” I asked.
“Ah, it is far. Nay, speak not, master. We
shall never see it,” they replied.
“But you will die if you go on in this way.
Wake up— shake yourselves—show yourselves
t0 be men.”
“ Can a man contend with God? Who fears
death? Let us die undisturbed, and be at rest
for ever,” they answered.
Brave, faithful, loyal souls! They were, poor
fellows, surrendering themselves to the benumbing
influences of a listlessness and fatal indifference
to life! Four of them died in consequence
of this strange malady at Loanda, three more
o n board H.M.S. Industry, and one woman
breathed her last the day after we arrived at
Zanzibar. But in their sad death, they had one
consolation, in the words which they kept
constantly repeating to themselves
“We have brought our master to the great
sea, and he has seen his white brothers, La ll
Allah, il Allah!—There is no God but God!”
they said— and died.
It is not without an overwhelming sense of
grief, a choking in the throat and swimming
eyes, that I write of those days, for my memory
is still busy with the worth and virtues of the
dead. In a thousand fields of incident, adventure,
and bitter trials they had proved their staunch
heroism and their fortitude; they had lived and
endured nobly. I remember the enthusiasm with
which they responded to my appeals; I remember
their bold bearing during the darkest days; I
remember the Spartan pluck, the indomitab e