I have now related, by means of my Diary, “How I found Livingstone,” as recorded on the evening of that great day.  I have been averse to reduce it by process of excision and suppression, into a mere cold narrative, because, by so doing, I would be unable to record what feelings swayed each member of the Expedition as well as myself during the days preceding the discovery of the lost traveller, and more especially the day it was the good fortune of both Livingstone and myself to clasp each other’s hands in the strong friendship which was born in that hour we thus strangely met.  The aged traveller, though cruelly belied, contrary to all previous expectation, received me as a friend; and the cordial warmth with which he accepted my greeting; the courtesy with which he tendered to me a shelter in his own house; the simple candour of his conversation; graced by unusual modesty of manner, and meekness of spirit, wrought in me such a violent reaction in his favor, that when the parting “good-night” was uttered, I felt a momentary vague fear lest the fulness of joy which I experienced that evening would be diminished by some envious fate, before the morrow’s sun should rise above Ujiji.

Chapter XII.  Intercourse with Livingstone at Ujiji—­
Livingstone’s own story of his journeys,
his troubles, and disappointments.

“If there is love between us, inconceivably delicious, and profitable will our intercourse be; if not, your time is lost, and you will only annoy me.  I shall seem to you stupid, and the reputation I have false.  All my good is magnetic, and I educate not by lessons, but by going about my business.”—­Emerson’s ‘Representative Men’.

I woke up early next morning with a sudden start.  The room was strange!  It was a house, and not my tent!  Ah, yes!  I recollected I had discovered Livingstone, and I was in his house.  I listened, that the knowledge dawning on me might be confirmed by the sound of his voice.  I heard nothing but the sullen roar of the surf.

 I lay quietly in bed.  Bed!  Yes, it was a primitive four-poster,
 with the leaves of the palm-tree spread upon it instead of down,
 and horsehair and my bearskin spread over this serving me in place
 of linen.  I began to put myself under rigid mental cross-examination,
and to an analyzation of my position.

“What was I sent for?”

“To find Livingstone.”

“Have you found him?”

“Yes, of course; am I not in his house?  Whose compass is that hanging on a peg there?  Whose clothes, whose boots, are those?  Who reads those newspapers, those ‘Saturday Reviews’ and numbers of ‘Punch’ lying on the floor?”

“Well, what are you going to do now?”

“I shall tell him this morning who sent me, and what brought me here.  I will then ask him to write a letter to Mr. Bennett, and to give what news he can spare.  I did not come here to rob him of his news.  Sufficient for me is it that I have found him.  It is a complete success so far.  But it will be a greater one if he gives me letters for Mr. Bennett, and an acknowledgment that he has seen me.”