“Who can read the sermons of St. Bernard, the meditations of St. Augustine, etc., without saying, whatever other faults they had:  They thirsted, and now they are filled.  That hymn:  of St. Bernard, on the name of Christ, although in what might he termed dog-Latin, pleases me so; it rings in my ears as I wander across the wide, wide wilderness, and makes me wish I was more like them—­

     “Jesu, dulcis memoria, Jesu, spes poenitentibus,
      Dans cordi vera gaudia; Quam pius es petentibus! 
      Sed super mel et omnia, Quam bonus es quaerentibus! 
      Ejus dulcis praesentia.  Sed quid invenientibus!

Nil canitur suavius,      Jesu, dulcedo cordium,
Nil auditur jucundius,    Fons, rivus, lumen mentium,
Nil cogitatur dulcius,    Excedens omne gaudium,
Quam Jesus Dei filius.     Et omne desiderium.”

Livingstone was in the habit of fastening inside the boards of his journals, or writing on the fly-leaf, verses that interested him specially.  In one of these volumes this hymn is copied at full length.  In another we find a very yellow newspaper clipping of the “Song of the Shirt.”  In the same volume a clipping containing “The Bridge of Sighs,” beginning

     “One more unfortunate,
       Weary of breath,
     Rashly importunate,
       Gone to her death.”

In another we have Coleridge’s lines: 

     “He prayeth well who loveth well
     Both man and bird and beast. 
     He prayeth best who loveth best
     All things both great and small;
     For the dear God who loveth us,
     He made and loveth all.”

In another, hardly legible on the marble paper, we find: 

     “So runs my dream:  but what am I? 
       An infant crying in the night;
       An infant crying for the light: 
     And with no language but a cry.”

All Livingstone’s personal friends testify that, considering the state of banishment in which he lived, his acquaintance with English literature was quite remarkable.  When a controversy arose in America as to the genuineness of his letters to the New York Herald, the familiarity of the writer with the poems of Whittier was made an argument against him.  But Livingstone knew a great part of the poetry of Longfellow, Whittier, and others by heart.

There was one drawback to the new locality:  it was infested with lions.  All the world knows the story of the encounter at Mabotsa, which was so near ending Livingstone’s career, when the lion seized him by the shoulder, tore his flesh, and crushed his bone.  Nothing in all Livingstone’s history took more hold of the popular imagination, or was more frequently inquired about when he came home[21].  By a kind of miracle his life was saved, but the encounter left him lame for life of the arm which the lion crunched[22].  But the world generally does not know that Mebalwe, the native who was with