330 DA VID LIVINGSTONE. [chap. xvi. 



knots in the last twenty-four hours, says in his Journal : 

 "This very unusual weather has a very depressing influence 

 on my mind. I often feel as if I am to die on this voyage, 

 and wish I had sent the accounts to the Government, as 

 also my chart of the Zambesi. I often wish that I may 

 be permitted to do something for the benighted of Africa. 

 I shall have nothing to do at home ; by the failure of the 

 Universities Mission my work seems vain. No fruit 

 likely to come from J. Moffat's mission either. Have I 

 not laboured in vain ? Am I to be cut off before I do 

 anything to effect permanent improvement in Africa ? I 

 have been unprofitable enough, but may do something 

 yet, in giving information. If spared, God grant that I 

 may be more faithful than I have been, and may He 

 open up the way for me !" 



Next day the weather was as still as ever ; the sea a 

 glassy calm, with a hot glaring sun, and sharks stalking 

 about. " All ill-natured," says honest Livingstone, " and 

 in this I am sorry to feel compelled to join." 



There is no sign of ill-nature, however, in the follow- 

 ing remarks on African travel, in his Journal for 23d 

 May:— 



" In travelling in Africa, with the specific object in view of amelio- 

 rating the benighted condition of the country, every act is ennobled. 

 In obtaining shelter for the night, and exchanging the customary 

 civilities, purchasing food for one's party and asking the news of the 

 country, and answering in their own polite way any inquiries made 

 respecting the object of the journey, we begin to spread information 

 respecting that people by whose agency their land will yet be made 

 free from the evils that now oppress it. The mere animal pleasure of 

 travelling is very great. The elastic muscles have been exercised. 

 Fresh and healthy blood circulates in the veins, the eye is clear, the 

 step firm, but the day's exertion has been enough to make rest 

 thoroughly enjoyable. There is always the influence of the remote 

 chances of danger on the mind, either from men or wild beasts, and 

 there is the fellow-feeling drawn out to one's humble, hardy companions, 

 with whom a community of interests and perils renders one friends 

 indeed. The effect of travel on my mind has been to make it more 

 self-reliant, confident of resources and presence of mind. On the body 



