Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2208 page)

And again, a little further on:

* * * “When all knelt down, many of those who had children, in following the example of the rest, bent over their little ones; the children, in terror of being crushed to death, set up a simultaneous yell, which so tickled the whole assembly there was often a subdued titter, to be turned into a hearty laugh as soon as they heard Amen. This was not so difficult to overcome in them as similar peccadilloes were in the case of the women farther south. Long after we had settled at Mabotsa, when preaching on the most solemn subjects, a woman might be observed to look round, and, seeing a neighbour seated on her dress, give her a hunch with the elbow to make her move off; the other would return it with interest, and perhaps the remark, Take the nasty thing away, will you? Then three or four would begin to hustle the first offenders, and the men to swear at them all, by way of enforcing silence.”

Would my patience have resisted such attacks on it as these? I am more than afraid that I should have lost it altogether before I had advanced many miles into the African continent, and should have continued my journey in the character of a mere traveller, bent on making discoveries, but ennobled no longer by the better ambition of making conversions.

And suppose I had gone on as a traveller? Suppose I had toiled through unknown tracts of country, through savage tribes with whose disposition towards strangers no man
’
s previous experience had made me acquainted
suppose I had dared perils of sickness, of hunger, and of death from wild animals, rather than abandon my resolution to open up anew trade to the world, and to make such geographical discoveries as no other man had made in my time
;
suppose I had run these risks and compassed these achievements, whereabouts would the miserable counterfeit which has hitherto falsely represented to my mind the sterling virtue of Perseverance, have at last exposed itself and shown what it was really worth? Where should I have discovered unmistakeably that I was not what I had hitherto believed myself to be
a genuinely persevering man? At this point of my journey, I think
if not long before it.

“Next morning, by climbing the highest trees, we could see a fine large sheet of water, but surrounded on all sides by the same impenetrable belt of reeds. This is the broad part of the river Chobe, and is called Zabesa. Two tree-covered islands seemed to be much nearer to the water than the shore on which we were, so we made an attempt to get to them first. It was not the reeds alone we had to pass through; a peculiar serrated grass, which at certain angles cut the hands like a razor, was mingled with the reeds; and the climbing convolvulus, with stalks which felt as strong as whipcord, bound the mass together. We felt like pigmies in it; and, often, the only way we could get on, was by both of us leaning against a part, and bending it down till we could stand upon it. The perspiration streamed off our bodies, and as the sun rose high, there being no ventilation among the reeds, the heat was stifling, and the water, which was up to the knees, felt agreeably refreshing. After some hours
’
toil we reached one of the islands. Here we met an old friend, the bramble bush. My strong moleskins were quite worn through at the knees, and the leather trousers of my companion were torn, and his legs bleeding. Tearing my handkerchief in two, I tied the pieces round my knees, and then encountered another difficulty. We were still forty or fifty yards from the clear water, but now we were opposed by great masses of papyrus, which are like palms in miniature, eight or ten feet high, and an inch and a half in diameter. These were laced together by twining convolvulus, so strongly that the weight of both of us could not make way into the clear water. At last, we fortunately found a passage prepared by a hippopotamus. Eager, as soon as we reached the island, to look along the vista to clear water, I stepped in, and found it took me at once up to the neck.”

I should never have got up to my neck in water. I should have stopped at the bramble-bushes and saved my moleskins.

Another, and a last example. I have always been accustomed to consider myself as possessed in a remarkable degree of the virtue of self-control. I said “No,” this very last Christmas Day, at a large dinner-party, when the servant offered me champagne. A week ago, my wife (to whom I am passionately attached) implored me to set her up with a supply of the new-fashioned red stockings. I did violence to my own feelings, and said “No,” again
remembering the expense. Yesterday fortnight, I roused my sinking heart, and nerved my sluggish legs, and went to a large ball; smiling and chattering, and making myself agreeable, through heat, crowding, confusion, and dulness, as if I really enjoyed the evening. At this very moment, I am writing these very lines, with the third volume of a breathlessly interesting novel tempting me in vain, on a table within my reach. Is this self-control? It is what we, who live at home at ease, are accustomed to consider as representing that virtue in its most practical and meritorious form. Are we all deceived, then, by a counterfeit? I cannot presume to answer that question for others; but I should be exceedingly glad to know what readers of well-regulated minds thought of their own self-control, when they read these passages in the eighteenth chapter of Doctor Livingstone
’
s Travels:

“We heard some of the Chiboque remark. They have only five guns;
 
and about mid-day Njambi collected all his people, and surrounded our encampment. Their object was evidently to plunder us of everything. My men seized their javelins, and stood on the defensive, while the young Chiboque had drawn their swords, and brandished them with great fury. Some even pointed their guns at me, and nodded to each other, as much as to say,
 
This is the way we shall do with him. I sat on my camp-stool, with my double-barrelled gun across my knees, and invited the chief to be seated also. When he and his counsellors had sat down on the ground in front of me, I asked what crime we had committed that he had come armed in that way. * * * In reference to a man being given, I declared that we were all ready to die rather than to give up one of our number to be a slave; that my men might as well give me as I give one of them, for we were all free men. * * * My men now entreated me to give something. * * * I gave him (the chief) one of my shirts. The young Chiboque were dissatisfied, and began shouting and brandishing their swords, for a greater fine.

“ As Pitsane felt that he had been the cause of this disagreeable affair, he asked me to add something else. I gave a bunch of beads, but the counsellors objected this time, so I added a large handkerchief. The more I yielded, the more unreasonable their demands became, and at every fresh demand, a shout was raised by the armed party, and a rush made around us with brandishing of arms. One young man made a charge at my head from behind, but I quickly brought round the muzzle of my gun to his mouth, and he retreated. I pointed him out to the chief, and he ordered him to retire a little. I felt anxious to avoid the effusion of blood; and though sure of being able with my Makololo, who had been drilled by Sebituane, to drive off twice the number of our assailants, though now a large body, and well armed with spears, swords, arrows, and guns, I strove to avoid actual collision. My men were quite unprepared for this exhibition, but behaved with admirable coolness. The chief and counsellors, by accepting my invitation to be seated, had placed themselves in a trap; for my men very quietly surrounded them, and made them feel that there was no chance of escaping their spears. I then said, that, as one thing after another had failed to satisfy them, it was evident that they wanted to fight, while we only wanted to pass peaceably through the country; that they must begin first and bear the guilt before God: we would not fight till they had struck the first blow. I then sat silent for some time. It was rather trying for me, because I knew that the Chiboque would aim at the white man first; but I was careful not to appear flurried, and having four barrels ready for instant action, looked quietly at the savage scene around.”

Backed by a body of men on whom I could depend, and persecuted by the insatiable rapacity of a horde of greedy savages, I could no more have kept that double-barrelled gun, across my knees, and sat looking quietly at
 
the scene around, than I could command the evolutions of a vessel, reduced to extremities within sight of a lee shore. I should instantly have let off my guns, have shed blood without the excuse of absolute necessity, have roused the whole country against me, and have perished to a dead certainty, in a longer or shorter time, the victim of my own rashness. Doctor Livingstone
’
s genuine self-control brought him and his men out of the scrape without the degradation of submission on the one hand, and without the horrors of slaughter on the other. He got to the end of his journey, and saw the faces of his own countrymen again on the western coast. I should have been buried hundreds of miles on the wrong side of my destination, and should never have been heard of more. When my friends talk next of their own self-control, or of mine, I think I know a little African anecdote which is likely to exercise a marvellous influence in leading the conversation to some other topic.

Such is the effect which this book of African Travels has had upon me. It has done me a world of good in modifying my own favourable opinion of myself. Although I might well rest satisfied with acknowledging the usefulness of such a result of my reading as this (not at all a common one, in my case, when I occupy myself with the works of travellers in general), I must still ask leave to say a few more last words before I bid farewell to Doctor Livingstone and his book.

I have no intention of attempting to tell the Traveller
’
s story at second-hand. If it be indeed a great critical triumph to crush a long narrative into a space which cannot possibly contain so much as the one hundredth part of it, in a moderately fair and unmutilated form, that great triumph has been already achieved in more instances than I can undertake to reckon up. I have no need, as I have certainly no desire, to treat a book which I am bound to respect, in this summary fashion. Neither is it my ambition to put on record, in this place, any favourite opinions of my own on the future prospects of the Missionary cause in Africa. Not being a professed critic, I do not feel bound to set myself up in the character of a person who is, by virtue of his office, always better informed than the author himself on the author
’
s own subject. My only object, in writing these final lines, is to express my admiration, in all seriousness and sincerity, of the manly truthfulness of Doctor Livingstone
’
s book. and of the admirable tone of unaffected modesty in which it is written from the first page to the last. The author
’
s unflinching honesty in describing his difficulties and acknowledging his disappointments in the attempt to plant Christianity among the African savages; his sensible independence of all those mischievous sectarian influences which fetter so lamentably the exertions of so many other good men; and his fearless recognition of the absolute necessity of associating every legitimate aid which this world
’
s wisdom can give with the work of preaching the Gospel to heathen listeners, are merits beyond all praise, because they are merits without a parallel in the previous history of Missionary literature. Surprisingly new and delightful to read, in this respect, the book is hardly less remarkable viewed simply as the narrative of a traveller
’
s adventures. With certain rare and honourable exceptions, the tone adopted in these days by literary travellers in general, is one of flippant mockery and wearisome self-conceit. The matter-of-fact tendencies of English readers induce them, apparently, to grant a species of privilege to men who profess to treat of something that has really happened, which they refuse to extend to men who pursue the higher, or, in plainer terms, the more imaginative branches of literature. A tone which is condemned as offensive in a writer of novels, is either quietly accepted, as a matter of course, or is positively approved as rather entertaining, in a writer of travels. After reading the ordinary run of books by the ordinary run of travellers, it is a positive refreshment to the mind to turn to Doctor Livingstone
’
s volume, and to follow the simple
;
I had almost written the artless
’
narrative of an unaffectedly modest man. On this account, especially, I have met with no book, for a long time past, which, to my mind, sets so excellent an example before other writers
;
no book which has stirred up within me so strong an interest in the author, and in the future that lies before him. None of Doctor Livingstone
’
s many readers more cordially wish him success in the noble work to which he has again devoted himself
;
none will rejoice more sincerely in hearing of his safe and prosperous progress, whenever tidings of him may reach England
than the writer of these few lines, who now heartily and gratefully bids him farewell.