jellies, to escape the flight of poisoned arrows of which the slightest
graze meant horrible death, and in that high service died by the clubs
of the very savages whom he had often risked his life to save--the
memory of whose life did so smite the consciences of his murderers that
they laid "the young martyr in an open boat, to float away over the
bright blue waves, with his hands crossed, as if in prayer, and a palm
branch on his breast." And there, in the white light, he lies now,
immortal forever.

And why did the representatives of five great nations come together to
destroy the slave trade in Africa, and from every coast come the
columns of light to journey toward the heart of the dark continent and
rim all Africa around with little towns and villages that glow like
lighthouses for civilization? Because one day Westminster Abbey was
crowded with the great men of England, in the midst of whom stood two
black men who had brought Livingstone's body from the jungles of
Africa. There, in the great Abbey, faithful Susi told of the hero who,
worn thin as parchment through thirty attacks of the African fever,
refused Stanley's overtures, turned back toward Ulala, made his ninth
attempt to discover the head-waters of the Nile and search out the
secret lairs of the slave-dealers, only to die in the forest, with no
white man near, no hand of sister or son to cool his fevered brow or
close his glazing eyes. Faithful to the last to that which had been
the great work of his life, he wrote these words with dying hand: "All
I can add in my solitude is, may heaven's rich blessings come down on
every one who would help to heal this open sore of the world!" Why was
it that in the ten years after Livingstone's death, Africa made greater
advancement than in the previous ten centuries? All the world knows
that it was through the vicarious suffering of one of Scotland's
noblest heroes. And why is it that Curtis says that there are three