Part 17 (2/2)

Marching eighteen hundred miles into Africa, I had time to think. It was reflection I needed. Yet I was a dull pupil, and my blood was like molten lava. I must admit that while with Livingstone I saw no good in the lands I travelled through. The negro was precisely what he ought to be--a born pagan, a most unloving and unlovable savage.

Nevertheless, much of what Livingstone expounded was unanswerable. I attempted to parry what he said by lavish abuse of the natives and their country.

In 1873 I was back again in Africa, on the opposite side of Africa, and after the brief Ashantee campaign, returned with a few more experiences.

The beginning of my real African education was in 1875 while sailing along the sh.o.r.es of the greatest lake in Africa. It came like a revelation to me.

Now I have shown you what a dull, slow, student I was. You can well understand how lightly the abuse and chaff of my brother journalists sit on my mind. For there were even duller and slower folk than I. It is not one lecture, or one speech, or even a hundred, that will suffice to infuse a knowledge of the value of Africa into the English mind. It took ten years for people to believe thoroughly that I did find Livingstone!

Only a few days ago one of the most prominent men in England said: ”I do not know what you have been doing lately in Africa, Mr. Stanley, but if you are to lecture I will gladly go to hear you.” And so I say that although in this a.s.sembly we may know what is going on in Africa, we must not suppose that the British public, or the journalism which is its reflection, is any wiser to-day than in the time of Mungo Park.

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Rather neat scoring, I think. The world does not change much.

Stanley married and went into Parliament. One day I thought it might be interesting to see him try conclusions with an election crowd in London. He was contesting on the Surrey side of the river. I think it was in Lambeth. He got a new experience. The crowd heckled him, and tried to shout him down, just for the mere joy of living. But they could n't silence him. While they bellowed, he would stand calmly and look at them. After some minutes of this kind of thing, he managed to be heard.

”Is this my meeting or yours?” he asked. They were quite certain the meeting was their own. The interruptions were numerous. I was thinking what he would do with a mutinous lot in Darkest Africa, and presently he told them that the savages compared pretty favourably with ”their white brothers in London”! The crowd yelled, but they couldn't disconcert him. He finished his speech; cut it short, no doubt, but did n't appear to do so. Only the persons near him could hear what he said, there was so much noise. As he left the meeting, the gentle souls began to throw things. I saw them trying to overturn his carriage. His wife was in it!

Stones flew. But Stanley lived to fight again. Knowing him, I think I know how angry he really was.

”But,” said he when we met again, ”I longed for a few seconds of Africa! My education is n't completed yet. I am learning about British {221} electioneering crowds. When they shout: 'Fair play, fair play', they mean 'Fair play for our side.' Come now, that's a fact.”

It is unnecessary that I should incriminate myself.

I never could see what satisfaction Stanley got from being a member of Parliament. In his heart he would have been glad, once or twice, to lead them all, Government and Opposition and their followers, into an African jungle--and lose them.

I see I have not mentioned that he became Sir Henry. But I knew him as Mr.

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CHAPTER XV

GEORGE MEREDITH

A bright, warm, summer morning. I was working under pressure in my study in Cheyne Walk on an article which had to be finished that afternoon. Sat.u.r.days were my busiest days and this was Sat.u.r.day, and only morning. The maid rapped at the study door and said, ”Mr. John Burns to see you, Sir.”

In came Burns, preceded by his great voice and hearty laugh, making apology for interruption. ”Can you drop the work and come with me?”

said he.

”Impossible,” said I. ”Sorry, but--”

”Well, I 'm off to George Meredith's,” said he, laying a post card on my writing table. The post card was from Meredith, who appointed the meeting, and added:

”We 'll have a fine Radical day. Bring your friend.”

”You are the friend,” said Burns.

”I 'll come,” said I. ”Give me a quarter of an hour, and I 'll finish this article somehow.” And so I made sacrifice to one of my G.o.ds, the G.o.d that dwelt on the sunny slope of Box Hill. The article {223} was brought to a quicker turn than it had dreamed of, a hansom was called; we rushed to Clapham Junction and took train for Burford Bridge.

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