” she suddenly exclaimed, with such a
look of uneasiness that we all burst out laughing - "hurry with
the eggs!
look of uneasiness that we all burst out laughing - "hurry with
the eggs!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v06 to v10 - Cal to Fro
I'd like to
## p. 4887 (#45) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4887
have had anybody tell me not to love my darling because it
might grieve me, when he lay there in his mother's lap, with
blue lips, gasping for his breath, and well-nigh dead, his face
blackish, and his hands like this piece of wax. You could see
that everything was going against him; and with his great big
eyes he was staring in my face, until I felt as if the child was
tugging at my very heart-strings. I kept smiling at him, though,
through the tears that blinded me, hard as I tried to hide them.
Oh! such tears are bitter salt indeed, Ma'm'selle! And there
was my poor husband on his knees, making paper figures to
amuse him, and singing a funny song he used to laugh at. Now
and then the corners of his mouth would pucker, and his cheeks
would wrinkle a little bit under the eyes. You could tell he was
still amused, but in such a dreamy way. Oh! our child seemed
no longer with us, but behind a veil, like. Wait a minute.
You must excuse me, for I can't help crying when I think of it. ”
And the poor creature drew out her handkerchief and fairly
sobbed aloud. In the midst of it however she smiled and said:
“Well, that's over now; 'twas nothing, and I'm too silly. And
Ma'm'selle, here I've gone and cried upon your mother's dress,
and that's a pretty business. ”
I took her hand in mine and pressed it.
"Aren't you afraid you'll stick yourself, Ma'm'selle ? I've got
my needle in that hand,” she said playfully. “But you did not
mean what you said just now, did you ? ”
What did I say? ”
“That it would be better not to love your children with all
your heart, on account of the great anxiety.
know
such thoughts are wicked ? When they come into your head
your mind wants purifying. But I'm sure I beg your pardon
for saying so. ”
"You are entirely right, Louise,” I returned.
“Ah! so I thought. And now let me see. Let's fix this
ruche; pull it to the left a little, please. ”
But about the sick boy. Tell me about his recovery. ”
« That was a miracle -I ought to say two miracles.
a miracle that God restored him to us, and a miracle to find
anybody with so much knowledge and feeling, -such talent, such
a tender heart, and so much, so much --! I'm speaking of
the doctor. A famous one he was, too, you must know; for it
was no less than Doctor Faron. Heaven knows how he is run
((
Don't you
(
(
It was
## p. 4888 (#46) ############################################
4888
GUSTAVE DROZ
after, and how rich and celebrated he is! Aren't you surprised
to hear that it was he who attended our little boy? Indeed, the
wonders begin with that. You may imagine my husband was at
his wits' end when he saw how it was with the child; and all of
a sudden I saw him jump up, get out his best coat and hat, and
put them on.
“Where are you going? ' I asked.
«To bring Doctor Faron. '
«Why, if he had said, "To bring the Prime Minister,' it
would have seemed as likely.
«Don't you believe Doctor Faron is going to trouble himself
about such as we. They will turn you out of doors. '
“But 'twas no use talking, my dear. He was already on the
stairs, and I heard him running away as if the house was on fire.
Fire, indeed; worse, far worse than any fire!
“And there I was, left alone with the child upon my knees.
He wouldn't stay in bed, and was quieter so, wrapped up in his
little blanket. “Here will he die, I thought. Soon will his
eyes close, and then it will be all over;' and I held my own
breath to listen to his feeble and oppressed pantings.
“About an hour had passed, when I heard a rapid step upon
the stairs (we are poor, and live in attic rooms). The door
opened, and my husband came in, wet with perspiration and out
of breath. If I live a century, I'll not forget his look when he
said:-
(Well? )
"I answered, No worse. But the doctor? )
«He's coming
“Oh, those blessed words! It actually seemed as if my child
were saved already. If you but knew how folks love their little
ones! I kissed the darling, I kissed his father, I laughed, I
cried, and I no longer felt the faintest doubt. It is by God's
mercy that such gleams of hope are sent to strengthen us in our
trials. It was very foolish, too; for something might easily have
prevented the doctor's coming, after all.
«(You found him at home, then? I asked my husband.
« Then he told me in an undertone what he had done, stop-
ping every now and then to wipe his face and gather breath.
"My husband had scarcely uttered these words,” continued
Louise, when I heard a step on the stairs. It was he! it was
## p. 4889 (#47) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4889
that blessed angel of a doctor, come to help us in our sore dis-
tress.
“And what do you think he said in his deep voice when he
got into the room ?
«God bless you, my friends, but I nearly broke my neck on
those stairs. Where's that child ? '
« Here he is, my dear, darling doctor. ' I knew no better
way to speak to him, with his dress cravat showing over his
greatcoat, and his decorations dangling like a little bunch of keys
at his buttonhole.
“He took off his wrappings, stooped over the child, turned
him over, more gently even than his mother could have done,
and laid his own head first against his back, then against his
breast. How I tried to read his eyes! but they know how to
hide their thoughts.
« We must perform an operation here,' says he; and it is
high time.
“Just at this moment the hospital doctor came in, and whis-
pered to him, 'I'm afraid you didn't want to be disturbed, sir. '
«Oh, never mind. I am sorry it wasn't sooner, though. Get
everything ready now. '
"But Ma'm'selle Adèle, why should I tell you all this? I'd
better mind my work. ”
"Oh, go on, Louise, go on! ”
“Well then, Ma'm'selle, if you believe me, those two doctors
- neither of 'em kin, or even friends till then – went to work
and made all the preparations, while my husband went off to
borrow lights. The biggest one tied a mattress on the table,
and the assistant spread out the bright little knives.
“You who have not been through it all, Ma'm'selle, can't
know what it is to have your own little one in your lap, to
know that those things are to be used upon him to pierce his
tender flesh, and if the hand that guides them be not sure, that
they may kill him.
When all was ready, Doctor Faron took off his cravat, then
lifted my child from my arms and laid him on the mattress, in
the midst of the lamps, and said to my poor man:
« « You will hold his head, and your wife his feet. Joseph
will pass me the instruments. You've brought a breathing-tube
with you, my son ? '
« Yes, sir.
## p. 4890 (#48) ############################################
4890
GUSTAVE DROZ
"My husband was as white as a sheet by this; and when I
saw him about to take his place with his hands shaking so much,
it scared me, so I said:
« Doctor, please let me hold his head! !
« But my poor woman, if you should tremble ? '
« Please let me do it, doctor! !
« Be it so, then;' and then added with a bright look at me,
and a cheering smile, we shall save him for you, my dear; you
are a brave little woman and you deserve it. '
“Yes, and save him he did! God bless him! saved him as
truly as if he had snatched him from the depths of the river. ”
“And you didn't tremble, Louise ? »
«You may depend on that. If I had, it would have been the
last of my child. ”
«How in the world did you keep yourself steady ? ”
«The Lord knows; but I was like a rock. When you must,
you must, I suppose. ”
“And you had to behold every detail of that operation ? »
“Yes, indeed; and often have I dreamed it over since. His
poor little neck laid open, and the veins, which the doctor pushed
aside with his fingers, and the little silver tube which he in-
serted, and all that; and then the face of the child, changing as
the air passed into his lungs. You've seen a lamp almost out,
when you pour in oil ? It was like that. They had laid him
there but half alive, with his eyes all but set; and they gave
him back to me, pale and with bloodless lips, it is true, but with
life in his looks, and breathing — breathing the free, fresh air.
«Kiss him, mother,' says the doctor, and put him to bed.
Cover the place with some light thing or other, and Joseph must
stay with you to-night; won't you, Joseph ? Ah, well, that's all
arranged.
“He put on his things and wrapped himself up to go. He
was shaking hands with my husband, when I seized one hand,
and kissed it like a fool, as I was; but I didn't stop to think.
He laughed heartily, and said to my husband, Are you not
jealous, friend? Your wife is making great advances to me.
But I must be off now. Good night, good people. '
And from that night he always talks so friendly and famil-
iarly to us, not a bit contemptuously either, but as if he liked
us, and was glad to be of service to us. ”
## p. 4891 (#49) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4891
A FAMILY NEW-YEAR'S
From Monsieur, Madame, and Baby)
T is barely seven o'clock. A pale ray of wan light filters
through the double curtains, and some one is already at the
door. In the next room I hear the stified laughs and silvery
voice of my little child, who trembles with impatience and begs
to come.
“But father dear,” he cries, “it's Baby. It's your own little
boy - to wish you Happy New Year. »
"Come in, darling; come quick and give me a kiss, I cry.
The door opens, and my boy, with shining eyes and his arms
in the air, rushes toward the bed. Long curls, escaping from
the nightcap which imprisons his blond head, fall over his fore-
head. His loose night-shirt, embarrassing his little feet, adds to
his impatience and makes him trip at every step. He has
crossed the room at last, and stretching his hands toward mine,
« Baby wishes you a happy New Year,” he says earnestly.
« Poor darling, with his bare feet! Come, dear! Come and
get warm under the covers; come and hide in the quilt. ”
I draw him to me; but at this movement my wife wakes up
suddenly.
"How you frightened me! I was dreaming
that there was a fire, and these voices in the midst of it! You
are indiscreet with your cries! ”
“Our cries! So you forget, dear mamma, that this is New-
Year's day. Baby is waiting for you to wake up, and so am I. ”
I wrap up my little man in the soft quilt, I bury him in the
eiderdown, and warm his frozen feet with my hands.
Mother dear, this is New Year,” he cries. He draws our
two heads together with his arms, and kisses us anywhere at
random, with his fresh lips. I feel his dimpled hand wandering
about my neck; his little fingers are entangled in my beard. My
mustache pricks the end of his nose. He bursts out laughing,
and throws his head back.
His mother, who has recovered from her fright, draws him
into her arms. She pulls the bell.
« The year begins well, my dears,” she says, “but we need a
little light. ”
« Tell me, mamma, do naughty children have presents at New-
Year's ? ” says the young dissembler, with an eye on the mountain
of boxes and packages visible in the corner, in spite of the gloom.
.
## p. 4892 (#50) ############################################
4892
GUSTAVE DROZ
the paper.
»
The curtains are drawn apart, the blinds are opened, there is
a flood of daylight, the fire crackles gayly on the hearth, and two
large packages, carefully wrapped up, are placed on the bed. One
is for my wife; the other for the boy.
What is it? What will it be? I have heaped up knots, and
tripled the wrappings; and I watch with delight their nervous
fingers, lost in the strings.
My wife gets impatient, smiles, is vexed, kisses me, and asks
for scissors. Baby on his side bites his lips, pulls with all his
might, and at last asks me to help him. He longs to see through
Desire and expectation are painted on his face. The
convulsive movement of his hand in the folds of the quilt rustles
the silk, and he makes a sound with his lips as though a savory
fruit were approaching them.
The last paper is off, finally the cover is lifted, there is an
outcry of joy.
«My tippet! ”
“My menagerie ! »
"Like my muff,- my dear husband !
"With a real shepherd, on wheels, dear papa, how I love you! ”
They hug me, four arms at once wind round and press me
close. I am stirred - a tear comes to my eyes; two come to
those of my wife; and Baby, who loses his head, utters a sob as
he kisses my hand.
How absurd! you will say. I don't know whether it is absurd
or not, but it is charming, I promise you. After all, does not
sorrow wring tears enough from us to make up for the solitary
one which joy may call forth ? Life is less happy when one
chances it alone; and when the heart is empty, the way seems
long. It is so good to feel one's self loved; to hear the regular
steps of one's fellow travelers beside one; and to think, “They
are there, our three hearts beat together;” and once a year,
when the great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down be-
side the way with hands clasped together and eyes fixed upon
the dusty unknown road stretching on to the horizon, and to
embrace and say:-“We will always love each other, my dear
ones; you depend upon me and I on you. Let us trust and keep
straight on. ”
And that is how I explain that we weep a little in looking at
a tippet and opening a menagerie.
Translated by Jane G. Cooke, for (A Library of The World's Best Literature. )
## p. 4893 (#51) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4893
THEIR LAST EXCURSION
From Making an Omelette): from Lippincott's Magazine, 1871, copyrighted
I
N this strange, rude interior, how refined and delicate Louise
looked, with all her dainty appointments of long undressed
kid gloves, jaunty boots, and looped-up petticoat! While I
talked to the wood-cutters she shielded her face from the fire
with her hands, and kept her eye on the butter beginning to
sing in the pan.
Suddenly she rose, and taking the pan-handle from the old
woman, said, “Let me help you make the omelette, will you ?
? »
The good woman let go with a smile, and Louise found herself
alone, in the attitude of a fisherman who has just had a nibble.
She stood in the full light of the fire, her eyes fixed on the
melted butter, her arms tense with effort; she was biting her
lips, probably in order to increase her strength.
“It's rather hard on madame's little hands," said the old
man. “I bet it's the first time you ever made an omelette in a
wood-cutter's hut - isn't it, my young lady? ”
Louise nodded yes, without turning her eyes from the ome-
lette.
“The eggs! the eggs!
” she suddenly exclaimed, with such a
look of uneasiness that we all burst out laughing - "hurry with
the eggs! The butter is all puffing up! Be quick - or I can't
answer for the consequences. ”
The old woman beat the eggs energetically.
«The herbs! ” cried the old man. « The lard and salt! » cried
the young ones. And they all set to work chopping, cutting,
piling up, while Louise, stamping with excitement, called out,
“Make haste! make haste! » Then there was a tremendous
bubbling in the pan, and the great work began. We were all
round the fire, gazing with an anxious interest inspired by our
all having had a finger in the pie.
The old woman, on her knees beside a large dish, slipped a
knife under the edge of the omelette, which was turning a fine
brown. "Now, madame, you've only got to turn it over,” she
said.
"Just one little quick blow,” suggested the old man.
«Mustn't be violent,” counseled the young one.
## p. 4894 (#52) ############################################
4894
GUSTAVE DROZ
« I am
(C
“All at once; up with it, dear! ” I said.
"If you all talk at once
“Make haste, madame! ”
“If
you
all talk at once I never shall manage it. It is too
awfully heavy. "
“One quick little blow. ”
« But I can't; it's going over. Oh gracious! ”
In the heat of action, her hood had fallen off. Her cheeks
were like a peach, her eyes shone, and though she lamented her
fate, she burst into peals of laughter. At last by a supreme
effort the pan moved, and the omelette rolled over, somewhat
heavily, I confess, into the large dish which the old woman was
holding. Never did an omelette look better!
sure the young lady's arms must be tired,” said the
old man, as he began cutting a round loaf into enormous slices.
“Oh no, not so very,” my wife answered with a merry laugh;
only I am crazy to taste my — our omelette. ”
We had seated ourselves round the table. When we had
eaten and drunk with the good souls, we rose and made ready
to go home. The sun had set, and the whole family came out
of the cabin to see us off and say good-night.
Don't you want my son to go with you ? ” the old woman
called after us.
It was growing dark and chilly under the trees, and we grad-
ually quickened our pace. « Those are happy people,” said
Louise. "We will come some morning and breakfast with them,
shan't we? We can put the baby in one of the donkey pan-
niers, and in the other a large pasty and a bottle of wine. - You
are not afraid of losing your way, George ? ”
“No, dear; no fear of that.
"A pasty and a bottle of wine – What that ? »
"Nothing; the stump of a tree.
« The stump of a tree the stump of a tree,” she muttered.
"Don't you hear something behind us? ”
“It is only the wind in the leaves, or the breaking of a dead
branch. ”
He is fortunate who at night, in the heart of a forest, feels as
calm as at his own fireside. You do not tremble, but you feel the
silence. Involuntarily you look for eyes peering out of the dark-
ness, and you try to define the confused forms appearing and
changing every minute. Something breaks and sounds beneath
(
## p. 4895 (#53) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4895
on: -
your tread, and if you stop you hear the distant melancholy
howl of your watch-dog, the scream of an owl, and other noises,
far and near, not so easily explained. A sense of strangeness
surrounds you and weighs you down. If you are alone, you
walk faster; if there are two of you, you draw close to your
companion. My wife clung to my arm.
“Let us turn wood-cutters. We could build a pretty little
hut, simple, but nice enough. I would have curtains to the win-
dows, and a carpet, and put my piano in one corner. ” She spoke
very low, and occasionally I felt my hand tremble on her arm.
“ You would soon get enough of that, dearest. ”
« It isn't fair to say so. ” And in another minute she went
-“You think I don't love you, you and our boy? Oh yes,
dear, I love you. Yes, yes, yes! The happiness that comes
every day can't be expressed: we live on it, so we don't think
of it. Like our daily bread — who thinks of that? But when
you are thinking of yourself, when you put your head down, and
really think, then you say, I am ungrateful, for I am happy,
and I give no thanks for it. Or when we are alone together,
and walking arm-in-arm, now, at this very moment,- not that I
mean only this moment, - I love you, I love you. ” She put her
head down on my arm and pressed it earnestly. "Oh,” she
said, if I were to lose you! ” She spoke very low, as if afraid.
What had frightened her? The darkness and the forest, or her
own words?
She went on:-“I ave often and ten dreamed that I was
saying good-by to you.
You both cried, and I pressed you
so close to my heart that there was only one of us.
It was a
nightmare, you know, but I don't mind it, for it showed me that
my life was in your lives, dear. What is that cracking noise ?
Didn't you see something just in front of us ? »
I answered her by taking her in my arms and folding her to
my heart. We walked on, but was impossible to go on talk-
ing. Every now and then she would stop and say, “Hush!
hark! No, it is nothing. ”
At last we saw ahead of us a little light, now visible, now
hidden by a tree. It was the lamp set for us in our parlor
window. We crossed the stile and were at home. It was high
time, for we were wet through.
I brought a huge log, and when the fire had blazed up
we sat down in the great chimney-place. The poor girl was
## p. 4896 (#54) ############################################
4896
GUSTAVE DROZ
shivering I took off her boots and held her feet to the fire,
screening them with my hands.
« Thanks, dear George, thanks! ” she said, leaning on my
shoulder and looking at me so tenderly that I felt almost ready
to cry.
“What were you saying to me in that horrid wood, my dar-
ling? ” I asked her, when she was better.
“You are thinking about that? I was frightened, that is all,
and when you are frightened you see ghosts. "
«We shall be wood-cutters, shan't we? ”
And kissing me, with a laugh, she replied: "It is bedtime,
Jean of the Woods. ”
I well remember that walk, for it was our last. Often and
often since, at sunset on a dark day, I have been over the same
ground; often and often I have stopped where she stood, and
stooped and pulled aside the fern, seeking to find, poor fool that
I am! the traces of her vanished footsteps. And I have often
halted in the clearing under the birches which rained down on
us, and there in the shadow I have fancied I caught the flutter
of her dress; I have thought I heard her startied note of fright.
And on my way home at night, at every step I have found a
recollection of her in the distant barking and the breaking
branches, as in the trembling of her hand on my arm and the
kiss which I gave her.
Once I went into the wood-hut. I saw it all as before,– the
family, the smoky interior, the little bench on which we sat, -
and I asked for something to drink, that I might see the glass
her lips had touched.
«The little lady who makes such good omelettes, she isn't
sick, for sure ? » asked the old woman.
Probably she saw the tears in my eyes, for she said no more,
and I came away.
And so it is that except in my heart, where she lives and is,
all that was my darling grows faint and dark and dim.
It is the law of life, but it is a cruel law. Even my poor
child is learning to forget, and when I say to him most unwill-
ingly, “Baby dear, do you remember how your mother did this
or that? ” he answers “Yes”; but I see, alas! that he too is
ceasing to remember.
Translation of Agnes Irvin.
## p. 4897 (#55) ############################################
4897
HENRY DRUMMOND
(1851-)
KNE of the most widely read of modern essayists, Henry Drum-
mond, was born at Stirling, Scotland, in 1851. Educated for
the ministry, he passed through the Universities of Edin-
burgh and Tübingen, and the Free Church Divinity Hall, and after
ordination was appointed to a mission chapel at Malta.
The beauty
and the historic interest of the famous island roused in him a desire
for travel, and in the intervals of his professional work he has made
semi-scientific pilgrimages to the Rocky Mountains and to South
Africa, as well as lecturing tours to Can-
ada, Australia, and the United States, where
his addresses on scientific, religious, and
sociological subjects have attracted large
audiences.
A man of indefatigable industry, he has
published many books, the most widely read
of these being Natural Law in the Spiritual
World,' a study of psychological conditions
from the point of view of the Evolutionist.
This work has passed through a large num-
ber of editions, and been translated into
French, German, Dutch, and Norwegian.
Scarcely less popular were The Greatest HENRY DRUMMOND
Thing in the World' (love), and “Pax Vobis-
cum. In 1894 he published a volume called “The Ascent of Man,'
in which he insists that certain altruistic factors modify the process
of Natural Selection. This doctrine elicited much critical commen-
tary from the stricter sects of the scientists, but the new view com-
mended itself at once to the general reader.
The citations here given are selected from Mr. Drummond's book
of travels, Tropical Africa,' a book whose simplicity and vividness
enable the reader to see the Dark Continent exactly as it is.
IX-307
## p. 4898 (#56) ############################################
4898
HENRY DRUMMOND
THE COUNTRY AND ITS PEOPLE
From Tropical Africa)
Nº
OTHING could more wildly misrepresent the reality than the
idea of one's school days that the heart of Africa is a
desert. Africa rises from its three environing oceans in
three great tiers, and the general physical geography of these
has been already sketched:—first, a coast line, low and deadly;
farther in, a plateau the height of the Scottish Grampians;
farther in still, a higher plateau, covering the country for thou-
sands of miles with mountain and valley. Now fill in this sketch,
and you have Africa before you. Cover the coast belt with rank
yellow grass; dot here and there a palm; scatter through it a
few demoralized villages; and stock it with the leopard, the
hyena, the crocodile, and the hippopotamus. Clothe the mount-
ainous plateaux next, both of them, with endless forests; not
grand umbrageous forest like the forests of South America, nor
matted jungle like the forests of India, but with thin, rather
weak forest, — with forest of low trees, whose half-grown trunks
and scanty leaves offer no shade from the tropical sun. Nor is
there anything in these trees to the casual eye to remind you
that you are in the tropics. Here and there one comes upon a
borassus or fan-palm, a candelabra-like euphorbia, a mimosa
aflame with color, or a sepulchral baobab. A close inspection
also will discover curious creepers and climbers; and among the
branches strange orchids hide their eccentric flowers. But the
outward type of tree is the same as we have at home - trees
resembling the ash, the beech, and the elm, only seldom so
large except by the streams, and never so beautiful. Day after
day you may wander through these forests, with nothing except
the climate to remind you where you are.
The beasts to be sure
are different, but unless you watch for them you will seldom see
any; the birds are different, but you rarely hear them; and as
for the rocks, they are our own familiar gneisses and granites,
with honest basalt dikes boring through them, and leopard-skin
lichens staining their weathered sides. Thousands and thousands
of miles, then, of vast thin forest, shadeless, trackless, voiceless,
- forest in mountain and forest in plain, - this is East Central
Africa.
The indiscriminate praise, formerly lavished on tropical vege-
tation, has received many shocks from recent travelers. In
## p. 4899 (#57) ############################################
HENRY DRUMMOND
4899
one
Kaffir-land, South Africa, I have seen or two forests fine
enough to justify the enthusiasm of arm-chair word-painters of
the tropics; but so far as the central plateau is concerned, the
careful judgment of Mr. Alfred Russell Wallace respecting the
equatorial belt in general (a judgment which has at once sobered
all modern descriptions of tropical lands and made imaginative
people more content to stay at home) applies almost to this whole
area. The fairy labyrinth of ferns and palms, the festoons of
climbing plants blocking the paths and scenting the forests with
their resplendent flowers, the gorgeous clouds of insects, the
gayly plumaged birds, the paroquets, the monkey swinging from
his trapeze in the shaded bowers — these are unknown to Africa.
Once a week you will see a palm; once in three months the
monkey will cross your path; the flowers on the whole are few;
the trees are poor; and to be honest, though the endless forest-
clad mountains have a sublimity of their own, and though there
are tropical bits along some of the mountain streams of exquisite
beauty, nowhere is there anything in grace and sweetness and
strength to compare with a Highland glen. For the most part
of the year these forests are jaded and sun-stricken, carpeted
with no moss or alchemylla or scented woodruff, the bare trunks
frescoed with few lichens, their motionless and unrefreshed leaves
drooping sullenly from their sapless boughs. Flowers there are,
small and great, in endless variety; but there is no display of
Aowers, no gorgeous show of blossom in the mass, as when the
blazing gorse and heather bloom at home. The dazzling glare
of the sun in the torrid zone has perhaps something to do with
this want of color effect in tropical nature; for there is always
about ten minutes just after sunset when the whole tone of the
landscape changes like magic, and a singular beauty steals over
the scene. This is the sweetest moment of the African day, and
night hides only too swiftly the homelike softness and repose so
strangely grateful to the over-stimulated eye.
Hidden away in these endless forests, like birds' nests in a
wood, in terror of one another and of their common foe the
slaver, are small native villages; and here in his virgin simplicity
dwells primeval man, without clothes, without civilization, without
learning, without religion - the genuine child of nature, thought-
less, careless, and contented. This man is apparently quite
happy; he has practically no wants. One stick, pointed, makes
him a spear; two sticks rubbed together make him a fire; fifty
## p. 4900 (#58) ############################################
4900
HENRY DRUMMOND
sticks tied together make him a house. The bark he peels from
them makes his clothes; the fruits which hang on them form his
food. It is perfectly astonishing, when one thinks of it, what
nature can do for the animal man, to see with what small capital
after all a human being can get through the world. I once saw
an African buried. According to the custom of his tribe, his
entire earthly possessions — and he was an average commoner
were buried with him. Into the grave, after the body, was
lowered the dead man's pipe, then a rough knife, then a mud
bowl, and last his bow and arrows — the bowstring cut through
the middle, a touching symbol that its work was done. This was
all. Four items, as an auctioneer would say, were the whole
belongings for half a century of this human being
No man
knows what a man is till he has seen what a man can be with-
out, and be withal a man. That is to say, no man knows how
great man is till he has seen how small he has been once.
The African is often blamed for being lazy, but it is a misuse
of words. He does not need to work; with so bountiful a Nature
round him it would be gratuitous to work. And his indolence,
therefore, as it is called, is just as much a part of himself as his
Alat nose, and as little blameworthy as slowness in a tortoise.
The fact is, Africa is a nation of the unemployed.
THE EAST-AFRICAN LAKE COUNTRY
From (Tropical Africa)
.
NOMEWHERE in the Shiré Highlands, in 1859, Livingstone saw a
large lake
Lake Shirwa — which is still almost unknown.
It lies away to the east, and is bounded by a range of
mountains whose lofty summits are visible from the hills round
Blantyre. Thinking it might be a useful initiation to African
travel if I devoted a short time to its exploration, I set off one
morning, accompanied by two members of the Blantyre staff
and a small retinue of natives. Steering across country in the
direction in which it lay, we found, two days before seeing
the actual water, that we were already on the ancient bed of
the lake. Though now clothed with forest, the whole district has
obviously been under water at a comparatively recent period,
and the shores of Lake Shirwa probably reached at one time to
within a few miles of Blantyre itself. On reaching the lake a
## p. 4901 (#59) ############################################
HENRY DRUMMOND
4901
very aged female chief came to see us, and told us how, long,
long ago, a white man came to her village and gave her a pres-
ent of cloth. Of the white man, who must have been Livingstone,
she spoke very kindly; and indeed, wherever David Livingstone's
footsteps are crossed in Africa, the fragrance of his memory seems
to remain.
The waters of Shirwa are brackish to the taste, and undrink-
able; but the saltness must have a peculiar charm for game, for
nowhere else in Africa did I see such splendid herds of the
larger animals as here. The zebra was especially abundant; and
so unaccustomed to be disturbed are these creatures, that with a
little care one could watch their movements safely within a very
few yards. It may seem unorthodox to say so, but I do not
know if among the larger animals there is anything handsomer
in creation than the zebra. At close quarters his striped coat is
all but as fine as the tiger's, while the form and movement of
his body are in every way nobler. The gait, certainly, is not to
be compared for gracefulness with that of the many species of
antelope and deer who nibble the grass beside him, and one can
never quite forget that scientifically he is an ass; but taking him
all in all, this feet and beautiful animal ought to have a higher
place in the regard of man than he has yet received.
We were much surprised, considering that this region is
almost uninhabited, to discover near the lake shore a native path
so beaten, and so recently beaten, by multitudes of human feet,
that it could only represent some trunk route through the conti-
nent. Following it for a few miles, we soon discovered its
function. It was one of the great slave routes through Africa.
Signs of the horrid traffic became visible on every side; and
from symmetrical arrangements of small piles of stones and
freshly cut twigs, planted semaphore-wise upon the path, our
native guides made out that a slave caravan was actually passing
at the time. We were in fact between two portions of it, the
stones and twigs being telegraphic signals between front and
rear. Our natives seemed much alarmed at this discovery, and
refused to proceed unless we promised not to interfere - a pro-
ceeding which, had we attempted it, would simply have meant
murder for ourselves and slavery for them. Next day from a
hill-top we saw the slave encampment far below, and the ghastly
procession marshaling for its march to the distant coast, which
many of the hundreds who composed it would never reach alive.
## p. 4902 (#60) ############################################
4902
HENRY DRUMMOND
Talking of native foot-paths leads me to turn aside for a
moment, to explain to the uninitiated the true mode of African
travel. In spite of all the books that have been lavished upon
us by our great explorers, few people seem to have any accurate
understanding of this most simple process. Some have the im-
pression that everything is done in bullock wagons; an idea bor-
rowed from the Cape, but hopelessly inapplicable to Central
Africa, where a wheel at present would be as great a novelty as a
polar bear. Others, at the opposite extreme, suppose that the ex-
plorer works along solely by compass, making a bee-line for his
destination, and steering his caravan through the trackless wilder-
ness like a ship at sea. Now, it may be a surprise to the unen-
lightened to learn that probably no explorer in forcing his passage
through Africa has ever, for more than a few days at a time,
been off some beaten track. Probably no country in the world,
civilized or uncivilized, is better supplied with paths than this
unmapped continent. Every village is connected with some other
village, every tribe with the next tribe, every State with its
neighbor, and therefore with all the rest. The explorer's busi-
ness is simply to select from this network of tracks, keep a gen-
eral direction, and hold on his way. Let him begin at Zanzibar,
plant his foot on a native foot-path, and set his face towards
Tanganyika. In eight months he will be there. He has simply
to persevere. From village to village he will be handed on, zig-
zagging it may be, sometimes, to avoid the impassable barriers of
nature or the rarer perils of hostile tribes; ut never taking to
the woods, never guided solely by the stars, never in fact leaving
a beaten track, till hundreds and hundreds of miles are between
him and the sea, and his interminable foot-path ends with a
canoe on the shores of Tanganyika. Crossing the lake, landing
near some native village, he picks up the thread once more.
Again he plods on and on, on foot, now by canoe, but
always keeping his line of villages, until one day suddenly he
sniffs the sea-breeze again, and his faithful foot-wide guide lands
him on the Atlantic seaboard.
Nor is there any art in finding out these successive villages
with their intercommunicating links.
## p. 4887 (#45) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4887
have had anybody tell me not to love my darling because it
might grieve me, when he lay there in his mother's lap, with
blue lips, gasping for his breath, and well-nigh dead, his face
blackish, and his hands like this piece of wax. You could see
that everything was going against him; and with his great big
eyes he was staring in my face, until I felt as if the child was
tugging at my very heart-strings. I kept smiling at him, though,
through the tears that blinded me, hard as I tried to hide them.
Oh! such tears are bitter salt indeed, Ma'm'selle! And there
was my poor husband on his knees, making paper figures to
amuse him, and singing a funny song he used to laugh at. Now
and then the corners of his mouth would pucker, and his cheeks
would wrinkle a little bit under the eyes. You could tell he was
still amused, but in such a dreamy way. Oh! our child seemed
no longer with us, but behind a veil, like. Wait a minute.
You must excuse me, for I can't help crying when I think of it. ”
And the poor creature drew out her handkerchief and fairly
sobbed aloud. In the midst of it however she smiled and said:
“Well, that's over now; 'twas nothing, and I'm too silly. And
Ma'm'selle, here I've gone and cried upon your mother's dress,
and that's a pretty business. ”
I took her hand in mine and pressed it.
"Aren't you afraid you'll stick yourself, Ma'm'selle ? I've got
my needle in that hand,” she said playfully. “But you did not
mean what you said just now, did you ? ”
What did I say? ”
“That it would be better not to love your children with all
your heart, on account of the great anxiety.
know
such thoughts are wicked ? When they come into your head
your mind wants purifying. But I'm sure I beg your pardon
for saying so. ”
"You are entirely right, Louise,” I returned.
“Ah! so I thought. And now let me see. Let's fix this
ruche; pull it to the left a little, please. ”
But about the sick boy. Tell me about his recovery. ”
« That was a miracle -I ought to say two miracles.
a miracle that God restored him to us, and a miracle to find
anybody with so much knowledge and feeling, -such talent, such
a tender heart, and so much, so much --! I'm speaking of
the doctor. A famous one he was, too, you must know; for it
was no less than Doctor Faron. Heaven knows how he is run
((
Don't you
(
(
It was
## p. 4888 (#46) ############################################
4888
GUSTAVE DROZ
after, and how rich and celebrated he is! Aren't you surprised
to hear that it was he who attended our little boy? Indeed, the
wonders begin with that. You may imagine my husband was at
his wits' end when he saw how it was with the child; and all of
a sudden I saw him jump up, get out his best coat and hat, and
put them on.
“Where are you going? ' I asked.
«To bring Doctor Faron. '
«Why, if he had said, "To bring the Prime Minister,' it
would have seemed as likely.
«Don't you believe Doctor Faron is going to trouble himself
about such as we. They will turn you out of doors. '
“But 'twas no use talking, my dear. He was already on the
stairs, and I heard him running away as if the house was on fire.
Fire, indeed; worse, far worse than any fire!
“And there I was, left alone with the child upon my knees.
He wouldn't stay in bed, and was quieter so, wrapped up in his
little blanket. “Here will he die, I thought. Soon will his
eyes close, and then it will be all over;' and I held my own
breath to listen to his feeble and oppressed pantings.
“About an hour had passed, when I heard a rapid step upon
the stairs (we are poor, and live in attic rooms). The door
opened, and my husband came in, wet with perspiration and out
of breath. If I live a century, I'll not forget his look when he
said:-
(Well? )
"I answered, No worse. But the doctor? )
«He's coming
“Oh, those blessed words! It actually seemed as if my child
were saved already. If you but knew how folks love their little
ones! I kissed the darling, I kissed his father, I laughed, I
cried, and I no longer felt the faintest doubt. It is by God's
mercy that such gleams of hope are sent to strengthen us in our
trials. It was very foolish, too; for something might easily have
prevented the doctor's coming, after all.
«(You found him at home, then? I asked my husband.
« Then he told me in an undertone what he had done, stop-
ping every now and then to wipe his face and gather breath.
"My husband had scarcely uttered these words,” continued
Louise, when I heard a step on the stairs. It was he! it was
## p. 4889 (#47) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4889
that blessed angel of a doctor, come to help us in our sore dis-
tress.
“And what do you think he said in his deep voice when he
got into the room ?
«God bless you, my friends, but I nearly broke my neck on
those stairs. Where's that child ? '
« Here he is, my dear, darling doctor. ' I knew no better
way to speak to him, with his dress cravat showing over his
greatcoat, and his decorations dangling like a little bunch of keys
at his buttonhole.
“He took off his wrappings, stooped over the child, turned
him over, more gently even than his mother could have done,
and laid his own head first against his back, then against his
breast. How I tried to read his eyes! but they know how to
hide their thoughts.
« We must perform an operation here,' says he; and it is
high time.
“Just at this moment the hospital doctor came in, and whis-
pered to him, 'I'm afraid you didn't want to be disturbed, sir. '
«Oh, never mind. I am sorry it wasn't sooner, though. Get
everything ready now. '
"But Ma'm'selle Adèle, why should I tell you all this? I'd
better mind my work. ”
"Oh, go on, Louise, go on! ”
“Well then, Ma'm'selle, if you believe me, those two doctors
- neither of 'em kin, or even friends till then – went to work
and made all the preparations, while my husband went off to
borrow lights. The biggest one tied a mattress on the table,
and the assistant spread out the bright little knives.
“You who have not been through it all, Ma'm'selle, can't
know what it is to have your own little one in your lap, to
know that those things are to be used upon him to pierce his
tender flesh, and if the hand that guides them be not sure, that
they may kill him.
When all was ready, Doctor Faron took off his cravat, then
lifted my child from my arms and laid him on the mattress, in
the midst of the lamps, and said to my poor man:
« « You will hold his head, and your wife his feet. Joseph
will pass me the instruments. You've brought a breathing-tube
with you, my son ? '
« Yes, sir.
## p. 4890 (#48) ############################################
4890
GUSTAVE DROZ
"My husband was as white as a sheet by this; and when I
saw him about to take his place with his hands shaking so much,
it scared me, so I said:
« Doctor, please let me hold his head! !
« But my poor woman, if you should tremble ? '
« Please let me do it, doctor! !
« Be it so, then;' and then added with a bright look at me,
and a cheering smile, we shall save him for you, my dear; you
are a brave little woman and you deserve it. '
“Yes, and save him he did! God bless him! saved him as
truly as if he had snatched him from the depths of the river. ”
“And you didn't tremble, Louise ? »
«You may depend on that. If I had, it would have been the
last of my child. ”
«How in the world did you keep yourself steady ? ”
«The Lord knows; but I was like a rock. When you must,
you must, I suppose. ”
“And you had to behold every detail of that operation ? »
“Yes, indeed; and often have I dreamed it over since. His
poor little neck laid open, and the veins, which the doctor pushed
aside with his fingers, and the little silver tube which he in-
serted, and all that; and then the face of the child, changing as
the air passed into his lungs. You've seen a lamp almost out,
when you pour in oil ? It was like that. They had laid him
there but half alive, with his eyes all but set; and they gave
him back to me, pale and with bloodless lips, it is true, but with
life in his looks, and breathing — breathing the free, fresh air.
«Kiss him, mother,' says the doctor, and put him to bed.
Cover the place with some light thing or other, and Joseph must
stay with you to-night; won't you, Joseph ? Ah, well, that's all
arranged.
“He put on his things and wrapped himself up to go. He
was shaking hands with my husband, when I seized one hand,
and kissed it like a fool, as I was; but I didn't stop to think.
He laughed heartily, and said to my husband, Are you not
jealous, friend? Your wife is making great advances to me.
But I must be off now. Good night, good people. '
And from that night he always talks so friendly and famil-
iarly to us, not a bit contemptuously either, but as if he liked
us, and was glad to be of service to us. ”
## p. 4891 (#49) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4891
A FAMILY NEW-YEAR'S
From Monsieur, Madame, and Baby)
T is barely seven o'clock. A pale ray of wan light filters
through the double curtains, and some one is already at the
door. In the next room I hear the stified laughs and silvery
voice of my little child, who trembles with impatience and begs
to come.
“But father dear,” he cries, “it's Baby. It's your own little
boy - to wish you Happy New Year. »
"Come in, darling; come quick and give me a kiss, I cry.
The door opens, and my boy, with shining eyes and his arms
in the air, rushes toward the bed. Long curls, escaping from
the nightcap which imprisons his blond head, fall over his fore-
head. His loose night-shirt, embarrassing his little feet, adds to
his impatience and makes him trip at every step. He has
crossed the room at last, and stretching his hands toward mine,
« Baby wishes you a happy New Year,” he says earnestly.
« Poor darling, with his bare feet! Come, dear! Come and
get warm under the covers; come and hide in the quilt. ”
I draw him to me; but at this movement my wife wakes up
suddenly.
"How you frightened me! I was dreaming
that there was a fire, and these voices in the midst of it! You
are indiscreet with your cries! ”
“Our cries! So you forget, dear mamma, that this is New-
Year's day. Baby is waiting for you to wake up, and so am I. ”
I wrap up my little man in the soft quilt, I bury him in the
eiderdown, and warm his frozen feet with my hands.
Mother dear, this is New Year,” he cries. He draws our
two heads together with his arms, and kisses us anywhere at
random, with his fresh lips. I feel his dimpled hand wandering
about my neck; his little fingers are entangled in my beard. My
mustache pricks the end of his nose. He bursts out laughing,
and throws his head back.
His mother, who has recovered from her fright, draws him
into her arms. She pulls the bell.
« The year begins well, my dears,” she says, “but we need a
little light. ”
« Tell me, mamma, do naughty children have presents at New-
Year's ? ” says the young dissembler, with an eye on the mountain
of boxes and packages visible in the corner, in spite of the gloom.
.
## p. 4892 (#50) ############################################
4892
GUSTAVE DROZ
the paper.
»
The curtains are drawn apart, the blinds are opened, there is
a flood of daylight, the fire crackles gayly on the hearth, and two
large packages, carefully wrapped up, are placed on the bed. One
is for my wife; the other for the boy.
What is it? What will it be? I have heaped up knots, and
tripled the wrappings; and I watch with delight their nervous
fingers, lost in the strings.
My wife gets impatient, smiles, is vexed, kisses me, and asks
for scissors. Baby on his side bites his lips, pulls with all his
might, and at last asks me to help him. He longs to see through
Desire and expectation are painted on his face. The
convulsive movement of his hand in the folds of the quilt rustles
the silk, and he makes a sound with his lips as though a savory
fruit were approaching them.
The last paper is off, finally the cover is lifted, there is an
outcry of joy.
«My tippet! ”
“My menagerie ! »
"Like my muff,- my dear husband !
"With a real shepherd, on wheels, dear papa, how I love you! ”
They hug me, four arms at once wind round and press me
close. I am stirred - a tear comes to my eyes; two come to
those of my wife; and Baby, who loses his head, utters a sob as
he kisses my hand.
How absurd! you will say. I don't know whether it is absurd
or not, but it is charming, I promise you. After all, does not
sorrow wring tears enough from us to make up for the solitary
one which joy may call forth ? Life is less happy when one
chances it alone; and when the heart is empty, the way seems
long. It is so good to feel one's self loved; to hear the regular
steps of one's fellow travelers beside one; and to think, “They
are there, our three hearts beat together;” and once a year,
when the great clock strikes the first of January, to sit down be-
side the way with hands clasped together and eyes fixed upon
the dusty unknown road stretching on to the horizon, and to
embrace and say:-“We will always love each other, my dear
ones; you depend upon me and I on you. Let us trust and keep
straight on. ”
And that is how I explain that we weep a little in looking at
a tippet and opening a menagerie.
Translated by Jane G. Cooke, for (A Library of The World's Best Literature. )
## p. 4893 (#51) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4893
THEIR LAST EXCURSION
From Making an Omelette): from Lippincott's Magazine, 1871, copyrighted
I
N this strange, rude interior, how refined and delicate Louise
looked, with all her dainty appointments of long undressed
kid gloves, jaunty boots, and looped-up petticoat! While I
talked to the wood-cutters she shielded her face from the fire
with her hands, and kept her eye on the butter beginning to
sing in the pan.
Suddenly she rose, and taking the pan-handle from the old
woman, said, “Let me help you make the omelette, will you ?
? »
The good woman let go with a smile, and Louise found herself
alone, in the attitude of a fisherman who has just had a nibble.
She stood in the full light of the fire, her eyes fixed on the
melted butter, her arms tense with effort; she was biting her
lips, probably in order to increase her strength.
“It's rather hard on madame's little hands," said the old
man. “I bet it's the first time you ever made an omelette in a
wood-cutter's hut - isn't it, my young lady? ”
Louise nodded yes, without turning her eyes from the ome-
lette.
“The eggs! the eggs!
” she suddenly exclaimed, with such a
look of uneasiness that we all burst out laughing - "hurry with
the eggs! The butter is all puffing up! Be quick - or I can't
answer for the consequences. ”
The old woman beat the eggs energetically.
«The herbs! ” cried the old man. « The lard and salt! » cried
the young ones. And they all set to work chopping, cutting,
piling up, while Louise, stamping with excitement, called out,
“Make haste! make haste! » Then there was a tremendous
bubbling in the pan, and the great work began. We were all
round the fire, gazing with an anxious interest inspired by our
all having had a finger in the pie.
The old woman, on her knees beside a large dish, slipped a
knife under the edge of the omelette, which was turning a fine
brown. "Now, madame, you've only got to turn it over,” she
said.
"Just one little quick blow,” suggested the old man.
«Mustn't be violent,” counseled the young one.
## p. 4894 (#52) ############################################
4894
GUSTAVE DROZ
« I am
(C
“All at once; up with it, dear! ” I said.
"If you all talk at once
“Make haste, madame! ”
“If
you
all talk at once I never shall manage it. It is too
awfully heavy. "
“One quick little blow. ”
« But I can't; it's going over. Oh gracious! ”
In the heat of action, her hood had fallen off. Her cheeks
were like a peach, her eyes shone, and though she lamented her
fate, she burst into peals of laughter. At last by a supreme
effort the pan moved, and the omelette rolled over, somewhat
heavily, I confess, into the large dish which the old woman was
holding. Never did an omelette look better!
sure the young lady's arms must be tired,” said the
old man, as he began cutting a round loaf into enormous slices.
“Oh no, not so very,” my wife answered with a merry laugh;
only I am crazy to taste my — our omelette. ”
We had seated ourselves round the table. When we had
eaten and drunk with the good souls, we rose and made ready
to go home. The sun had set, and the whole family came out
of the cabin to see us off and say good-night.
Don't you want my son to go with you ? ” the old woman
called after us.
It was growing dark and chilly under the trees, and we grad-
ually quickened our pace. « Those are happy people,” said
Louise. "We will come some morning and breakfast with them,
shan't we? We can put the baby in one of the donkey pan-
niers, and in the other a large pasty and a bottle of wine. - You
are not afraid of losing your way, George ? ”
“No, dear; no fear of that.
"A pasty and a bottle of wine – What that ? »
"Nothing; the stump of a tree.
« The stump of a tree the stump of a tree,” she muttered.
"Don't you hear something behind us? ”
“It is only the wind in the leaves, or the breaking of a dead
branch. ”
He is fortunate who at night, in the heart of a forest, feels as
calm as at his own fireside. You do not tremble, but you feel the
silence. Involuntarily you look for eyes peering out of the dark-
ness, and you try to define the confused forms appearing and
changing every minute. Something breaks and sounds beneath
(
## p. 4895 (#53) ############################################
GUSTAVE DROZ
4895
on: -
your tread, and if you stop you hear the distant melancholy
howl of your watch-dog, the scream of an owl, and other noises,
far and near, not so easily explained. A sense of strangeness
surrounds you and weighs you down. If you are alone, you
walk faster; if there are two of you, you draw close to your
companion. My wife clung to my arm.
“Let us turn wood-cutters. We could build a pretty little
hut, simple, but nice enough. I would have curtains to the win-
dows, and a carpet, and put my piano in one corner. ” She spoke
very low, and occasionally I felt my hand tremble on her arm.
“ You would soon get enough of that, dearest. ”
« It isn't fair to say so. ” And in another minute she went
-“You think I don't love you, you and our boy? Oh yes,
dear, I love you. Yes, yes, yes! The happiness that comes
every day can't be expressed: we live on it, so we don't think
of it. Like our daily bread — who thinks of that? But when
you are thinking of yourself, when you put your head down, and
really think, then you say, I am ungrateful, for I am happy,
and I give no thanks for it. Or when we are alone together,
and walking arm-in-arm, now, at this very moment,- not that I
mean only this moment, - I love you, I love you. ” She put her
head down on my arm and pressed it earnestly. "Oh,” she
said, if I were to lose you! ” She spoke very low, as if afraid.
What had frightened her? The darkness and the forest, or her
own words?
She went on:-“I ave often and ten dreamed that I was
saying good-by to you.
You both cried, and I pressed you
so close to my heart that there was only one of us.
It was a
nightmare, you know, but I don't mind it, for it showed me that
my life was in your lives, dear. What is that cracking noise ?
Didn't you see something just in front of us ? »
I answered her by taking her in my arms and folding her to
my heart. We walked on, but was impossible to go on talk-
ing. Every now and then she would stop and say, “Hush!
hark! No, it is nothing. ”
At last we saw ahead of us a little light, now visible, now
hidden by a tree. It was the lamp set for us in our parlor
window. We crossed the stile and were at home. It was high
time, for we were wet through.
I brought a huge log, and when the fire had blazed up
we sat down in the great chimney-place. The poor girl was
## p. 4896 (#54) ############################################
4896
GUSTAVE DROZ
shivering I took off her boots and held her feet to the fire,
screening them with my hands.
« Thanks, dear George, thanks! ” she said, leaning on my
shoulder and looking at me so tenderly that I felt almost ready
to cry.
“What were you saying to me in that horrid wood, my dar-
ling? ” I asked her, when she was better.
“You are thinking about that? I was frightened, that is all,
and when you are frightened you see ghosts. "
«We shall be wood-cutters, shan't we? ”
And kissing me, with a laugh, she replied: "It is bedtime,
Jean of the Woods. ”
I well remember that walk, for it was our last. Often and
often since, at sunset on a dark day, I have been over the same
ground; often and often I have stopped where she stood, and
stooped and pulled aside the fern, seeking to find, poor fool that
I am! the traces of her vanished footsteps. And I have often
halted in the clearing under the birches which rained down on
us, and there in the shadow I have fancied I caught the flutter
of her dress; I have thought I heard her startied note of fright.
And on my way home at night, at every step I have found a
recollection of her in the distant barking and the breaking
branches, as in the trembling of her hand on my arm and the
kiss which I gave her.
Once I went into the wood-hut. I saw it all as before,– the
family, the smoky interior, the little bench on which we sat, -
and I asked for something to drink, that I might see the glass
her lips had touched.
«The little lady who makes such good omelettes, she isn't
sick, for sure ? » asked the old woman.
Probably she saw the tears in my eyes, for she said no more,
and I came away.
And so it is that except in my heart, where she lives and is,
all that was my darling grows faint and dark and dim.
It is the law of life, but it is a cruel law. Even my poor
child is learning to forget, and when I say to him most unwill-
ingly, “Baby dear, do you remember how your mother did this
or that? ” he answers “Yes”; but I see, alas! that he too is
ceasing to remember.
Translation of Agnes Irvin.
## p. 4897 (#55) ############################################
4897
HENRY DRUMMOND
(1851-)
KNE of the most widely read of modern essayists, Henry Drum-
mond, was born at Stirling, Scotland, in 1851. Educated for
the ministry, he passed through the Universities of Edin-
burgh and Tübingen, and the Free Church Divinity Hall, and after
ordination was appointed to a mission chapel at Malta.
The beauty
and the historic interest of the famous island roused in him a desire
for travel, and in the intervals of his professional work he has made
semi-scientific pilgrimages to the Rocky Mountains and to South
Africa, as well as lecturing tours to Can-
ada, Australia, and the United States, where
his addresses on scientific, religious, and
sociological subjects have attracted large
audiences.
A man of indefatigable industry, he has
published many books, the most widely read
of these being Natural Law in the Spiritual
World,' a study of psychological conditions
from the point of view of the Evolutionist.
This work has passed through a large num-
ber of editions, and been translated into
French, German, Dutch, and Norwegian.
Scarcely less popular were The Greatest HENRY DRUMMOND
Thing in the World' (love), and “Pax Vobis-
cum. In 1894 he published a volume called “The Ascent of Man,'
in which he insists that certain altruistic factors modify the process
of Natural Selection. This doctrine elicited much critical commen-
tary from the stricter sects of the scientists, but the new view com-
mended itself at once to the general reader.
The citations here given are selected from Mr. Drummond's book
of travels, Tropical Africa,' a book whose simplicity and vividness
enable the reader to see the Dark Continent exactly as it is.
IX-307
## p. 4898 (#56) ############################################
4898
HENRY DRUMMOND
THE COUNTRY AND ITS PEOPLE
From Tropical Africa)
Nº
OTHING could more wildly misrepresent the reality than the
idea of one's school days that the heart of Africa is a
desert. Africa rises from its three environing oceans in
three great tiers, and the general physical geography of these
has been already sketched:—first, a coast line, low and deadly;
farther in, a plateau the height of the Scottish Grampians;
farther in still, a higher plateau, covering the country for thou-
sands of miles with mountain and valley. Now fill in this sketch,
and you have Africa before you. Cover the coast belt with rank
yellow grass; dot here and there a palm; scatter through it a
few demoralized villages; and stock it with the leopard, the
hyena, the crocodile, and the hippopotamus. Clothe the mount-
ainous plateaux next, both of them, with endless forests; not
grand umbrageous forest like the forests of South America, nor
matted jungle like the forests of India, but with thin, rather
weak forest, — with forest of low trees, whose half-grown trunks
and scanty leaves offer no shade from the tropical sun. Nor is
there anything in these trees to the casual eye to remind you
that you are in the tropics. Here and there one comes upon a
borassus or fan-palm, a candelabra-like euphorbia, a mimosa
aflame with color, or a sepulchral baobab. A close inspection
also will discover curious creepers and climbers; and among the
branches strange orchids hide their eccentric flowers. But the
outward type of tree is the same as we have at home - trees
resembling the ash, the beech, and the elm, only seldom so
large except by the streams, and never so beautiful. Day after
day you may wander through these forests, with nothing except
the climate to remind you where you are.
The beasts to be sure
are different, but unless you watch for them you will seldom see
any; the birds are different, but you rarely hear them; and as
for the rocks, they are our own familiar gneisses and granites,
with honest basalt dikes boring through them, and leopard-skin
lichens staining their weathered sides. Thousands and thousands
of miles, then, of vast thin forest, shadeless, trackless, voiceless,
- forest in mountain and forest in plain, - this is East Central
Africa.
The indiscriminate praise, formerly lavished on tropical vege-
tation, has received many shocks from recent travelers. In
## p. 4899 (#57) ############################################
HENRY DRUMMOND
4899
one
Kaffir-land, South Africa, I have seen or two forests fine
enough to justify the enthusiasm of arm-chair word-painters of
the tropics; but so far as the central plateau is concerned, the
careful judgment of Mr. Alfred Russell Wallace respecting the
equatorial belt in general (a judgment which has at once sobered
all modern descriptions of tropical lands and made imaginative
people more content to stay at home) applies almost to this whole
area. The fairy labyrinth of ferns and palms, the festoons of
climbing plants blocking the paths and scenting the forests with
their resplendent flowers, the gorgeous clouds of insects, the
gayly plumaged birds, the paroquets, the monkey swinging from
his trapeze in the shaded bowers — these are unknown to Africa.
Once a week you will see a palm; once in three months the
monkey will cross your path; the flowers on the whole are few;
the trees are poor; and to be honest, though the endless forest-
clad mountains have a sublimity of their own, and though there
are tropical bits along some of the mountain streams of exquisite
beauty, nowhere is there anything in grace and sweetness and
strength to compare with a Highland glen. For the most part
of the year these forests are jaded and sun-stricken, carpeted
with no moss or alchemylla or scented woodruff, the bare trunks
frescoed with few lichens, their motionless and unrefreshed leaves
drooping sullenly from their sapless boughs. Flowers there are,
small and great, in endless variety; but there is no display of
Aowers, no gorgeous show of blossom in the mass, as when the
blazing gorse and heather bloom at home. The dazzling glare
of the sun in the torrid zone has perhaps something to do with
this want of color effect in tropical nature; for there is always
about ten minutes just after sunset when the whole tone of the
landscape changes like magic, and a singular beauty steals over
the scene. This is the sweetest moment of the African day, and
night hides only too swiftly the homelike softness and repose so
strangely grateful to the over-stimulated eye.
Hidden away in these endless forests, like birds' nests in a
wood, in terror of one another and of their common foe the
slaver, are small native villages; and here in his virgin simplicity
dwells primeval man, without clothes, without civilization, without
learning, without religion - the genuine child of nature, thought-
less, careless, and contented. This man is apparently quite
happy; he has practically no wants. One stick, pointed, makes
him a spear; two sticks rubbed together make him a fire; fifty
## p. 4900 (#58) ############################################
4900
HENRY DRUMMOND
sticks tied together make him a house. The bark he peels from
them makes his clothes; the fruits which hang on them form his
food. It is perfectly astonishing, when one thinks of it, what
nature can do for the animal man, to see with what small capital
after all a human being can get through the world. I once saw
an African buried. According to the custom of his tribe, his
entire earthly possessions — and he was an average commoner
were buried with him. Into the grave, after the body, was
lowered the dead man's pipe, then a rough knife, then a mud
bowl, and last his bow and arrows — the bowstring cut through
the middle, a touching symbol that its work was done. This was
all. Four items, as an auctioneer would say, were the whole
belongings for half a century of this human being
No man
knows what a man is till he has seen what a man can be with-
out, and be withal a man. That is to say, no man knows how
great man is till he has seen how small he has been once.
The African is often blamed for being lazy, but it is a misuse
of words. He does not need to work; with so bountiful a Nature
round him it would be gratuitous to work. And his indolence,
therefore, as it is called, is just as much a part of himself as his
Alat nose, and as little blameworthy as slowness in a tortoise.
The fact is, Africa is a nation of the unemployed.
THE EAST-AFRICAN LAKE COUNTRY
From (Tropical Africa)
.
NOMEWHERE in the Shiré Highlands, in 1859, Livingstone saw a
large lake
Lake Shirwa — which is still almost unknown.
It lies away to the east, and is bounded by a range of
mountains whose lofty summits are visible from the hills round
Blantyre. Thinking it might be a useful initiation to African
travel if I devoted a short time to its exploration, I set off one
morning, accompanied by two members of the Blantyre staff
and a small retinue of natives. Steering across country in the
direction in which it lay, we found, two days before seeing
the actual water, that we were already on the ancient bed of
the lake. Though now clothed with forest, the whole district has
obviously been under water at a comparatively recent period,
and the shores of Lake Shirwa probably reached at one time to
within a few miles of Blantyre itself. On reaching the lake a
## p. 4901 (#59) ############################################
HENRY DRUMMOND
4901
very aged female chief came to see us, and told us how, long,
long ago, a white man came to her village and gave her a pres-
ent of cloth. Of the white man, who must have been Livingstone,
she spoke very kindly; and indeed, wherever David Livingstone's
footsteps are crossed in Africa, the fragrance of his memory seems
to remain.
The waters of Shirwa are brackish to the taste, and undrink-
able; but the saltness must have a peculiar charm for game, for
nowhere else in Africa did I see such splendid herds of the
larger animals as here. The zebra was especially abundant; and
so unaccustomed to be disturbed are these creatures, that with a
little care one could watch their movements safely within a very
few yards. It may seem unorthodox to say so, but I do not
know if among the larger animals there is anything handsomer
in creation than the zebra. At close quarters his striped coat is
all but as fine as the tiger's, while the form and movement of
his body are in every way nobler. The gait, certainly, is not to
be compared for gracefulness with that of the many species of
antelope and deer who nibble the grass beside him, and one can
never quite forget that scientifically he is an ass; but taking him
all in all, this feet and beautiful animal ought to have a higher
place in the regard of man than he has yet received.
We were much surprised, considering that this region is
almost uninhabited, to discover near the lake shore a native path
so beaten, and so recently beaten, by multitudes of human feet,
that it could only represent some trunk route through the conti-
nent. Following it for a few miles, we soon discovered its
function. It was one of the great slave routes through Africa.
Signs of the horrid traffic became visible on every side; and
from symmetrical arrangements of small piles of stones and
freshly cut twigs, planted semaphore-wise upon the path, our
native guides made out that a slave caravan was actually passing
at the time. We were in fact between two portions of it, the
stones and twigs being telegraphic signals between front and
rear. Our natives seemed much alarmed at this discovery, and
refused to proceed unless we promised not to interfere - a pro-
ceeding which, had we attempted it, would simply have meant
murder for ourselves and slavery for them. Next day from a
hill-top we saw the slave encampment far below, and the ghastly
procession marshaling for its march to the distant coast, which
many of the hundreds who composed it would never reach alive.
## p. 4902 (#60) ############################################
4902
HENRY DRUMMOND
Talking of native foot-paths leads me to turn aside for a
moment, to explain to the uninitiated the true mode of African
travel. In spite of all the books that have been lavished upon
us by our great explorers, few people seem to have any accurate
understanding of this most simple process. Some have the im-
pression that everything is done in bullock wagons; an idea bor-
rowed from the Cape, but hopelessly inapplicable to Central
Africa, where a wheel at present would be as great a novelty as a
polar bear. Others, at the opposite extreme, suppose that the ex-
plorer works along solely by compass, making a bee-line for his
destination, and steering his caravan through the trackless wilder-
ness like a ship at sea. Now, it may be a surprise to the unen-
lightened to learn that probably no explorer in forcing his passage
through Africa has ever, for more than a few days at a time,
been off some beaten track. Probably no country in the world,
civilized or uncivilized, is better supplied with paths than this
unmapped continent. Every village is connected with some other
village, every tribe with the next tribe, every State with its
neighbor, and therefore with all the rest. The explorer's busi-
ness is simply to select from this network of tracks, keep a gen-
eral direction, and hold on his way. Let him begin at Zanzibar,
plant his foot on a native foot-path, and set his face towards
Tanganyika. In eight months he will be there. He has simply
to persevere. From village to village he will be handed on, zig-
zagging it may be, sometimes, to avoid the impassable barriers of
nature or the rarer perils of hostile tribes; ut never taking to
the woods, never guided solely by the stars, never in fact leaving
a beaten track, till hundreds and hundreds of miles are between
him and the sea, and his interminable foot-path ends with a
canoe on the shores of Tanganyika. Crossing the lake, landing
near some native village, he picks up the thread once more.
Again he plods on and on, on foot, now by canoe, but
always keeping his line of villages, until one day suddenly he
sniffs the sea-breeze again, and his faithful foot-wide guide lands
him on the Atlantic seaboard.
Nor is there any art in finding out these successive villages
with their intercommunicating links.
