“The man who fears nothing marches always in front, and is
     never hit by the murderous ball.  The coward hides himself
     behind a bush, and is killed.

     “Go to the battle.  It is not lead that kills.  It is Fate
     which strikes us, and which makes us die.”

Mr. Reade says of the musicians he met up the Senegal,—­

“There are three classes of these public minstrels,—­1, those who play such vulgar instruments as the flute and drum; 2, those who play on the ballafond, which is the marimba of Angola and South America, and on the harp; 3, those who sing the legends and battle-songs of their country, or who improvise satires or panegyrics.  This last class are dreaded, though despised.  They are richly rewarded in their lifetime, but after death they are not even given a decent burial.  If they were buried in the ground, it would become barren; if in the river, the water would be poisoned, and the fish would die:  so they are buried in hollow trees.

The idyllic poetry of Africa is very beautiful in its gorgeous native dress.  It requires some knowledge of their mythology in order to thoroughly understand all their figures of speech.  The following song is descriptive of the white man, and is the production of a Bushman.

“In the blue palace of the deep sea Dwells a strange creature:  His skin as white as salt; His hair long and tangled as the sea-weed.  He is more great than the princes of the earth; He is clothed with the skins of fishes,—­ Fishes more beautiful than birds.  His house is built of brass rods; His garden is a forest of tobacco.  On his soil white beads are scattered Like sand-grains on the seashore.”

The following idyl, extemporized by one of Stanley’s black soldiers, on the occasion of reaching Lake Nyanza, possesses more energy of movement, perspicuity of style, and warm, glowing imagery, than any song of its character we have yet met with from the lips of unlettered Negroes.  It is certainly a noble song of triumph.  It swells as it rises in its mission of praise.  It breathes the same victorious air of the song of Miriam:  “Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and the rider hath he thrown into the sea.”  And in the last verse the child-nature of the singer riots like “The May Queen” of Tennyson.

THE SONG OF TRIUMPH.

    “Sing, O friends, sing; the journey is ended: 
    Sing aloud, O friends; sing to the great Nyanza. 
    Sing all, sing loud, O friends, sing to the great sea;
    Give your last look to the lands behind, and then turn to the sea.

    Long time ago you left your lands,
    Your wives and children, your brothers and your friends;
    Tell me, have you seen a sea like this
    Since you left the great salt sea?

    CHORUS.

    Then sing, O friends! sing; the journey is ended: 
    Sing aloud, O friend! sing to this great sea.