Early on April 20 the chief Chitambo came to pay a visit, but Livingstone was too weak to talk to him. The day passed, and at night the men sat round their fires and went to sleep when all was quiet. About eleven o'clock Susi was told to go to his master. Loud shouts were heard in the distance, and Livingstone asked Susi if it was their men who were making the noise. As the men were quiet in their huts, Susi replied, "I can hear from the cries that the people are scaring away a buffalo from their durra fields." A few minutes later he asked, "Is this the Luapula?" "No," answered Susi, "we are in Chitambo's village." Then again, "How many days is it to the Luapula?" "I think it is three days, master," answered Susi. Shortly after he murmured, "O dear, dear!" and dozed off again.

At midnight Majwara came again to Susi's hut and called him to the sick man. Livingstone wished to take some medicine, and Susi helped him, and then he said, "All right, you can go now."

About four o'clock on the morning of May 1 Majwara went to Susi again and said, "Come to Bwana, I am afraid; I don't know if he is alive." Susi waked Chuma and some of the other men, and they went to Livingstone's hut. Their master was kneeling beside the bed, leaning forward with his head buried in his hands. They had often seen him at prayer, and now drew back in reverential silence. But they felt ill at ease, for he did not move; and on going nearer they could not hear him breathe. One of them touched his cheek and found it was cold. The apostle of Africa was dead.

In deep sorrow his servants laid him on the bed and went out into the damp night air to consult together. The cocks of the village had just begun to crow, and a new day was dawning over Africa. Then they went in to open his boxes and pack up everything. All the men were present so that all might be jointly responsible that nothing was lost. They carefully placed his diaries and letters, his Bible and instruments, in tin boxes so that they might be safe from wet and from white ants, which are very destructive.

The men knew that they would have great difficulties to encounter. They knew that the natives had a horror of the dead, believing that spirits in the dark land of the departed thought of nothing but revenge and mischief. Therefore they perform ceremonies to propitiate departed spirits and dissuade them from plaguing the living with war, famine, or sickness.

Susi and Chuma, who had been with their master for seven years, felt their responsibility. They spoke with the men whom Stanley had sent from the coast and asked their opinion. They answered, "You are old men in travelling and hardships; you must act as our chiefs, and we will promise to obey whatever you order us to do." Susi and Chuma accordingly took the command, and carried out an exploit which is unique in all the history of exploration.

First of all a hut was erected at some little distance from the village, and in this they placed the body to prepare it for the long journey. The heart and viscera were removed, placed in a tin box, and reverently buried in the ground, one of Livingstone's Christian servants reading the Funeral Service. The body was then filled with salt and exposed for fourteen days to the sun in order to dry and thus be preserved from decay. The legs were bent back to make the package shorter, and the body was sewed up tightly in cotton. A cylinder of bark was cut from a tree and in this the body was enclosed. Round the whole a piece of canvas was bound, and the package was tied to a pole for convenience of carrying. On a tree near, Livingstone's name was cut and the date of his death, and Chitambo was asked to have the grass rooted up round the tree so that it should not at any time be destroyed by a bush fire.

When all was ready two men lifted the precious burden from the ground, the others took their loads on their backs, and a journey was commenced which was to last nine months, a funeral procession the like of which the world had never seen before. The route ran sometimes through friendly, sometimes through hostile tribes. Once they had to fight in order to force their way through. News of the great missionary's death had preceded them. Like a grass fire on the prairie it spread over Africa from coast to coast, creeping silently through the forests. In some districts the people ran away from fear of the sad procession, while in others they came up to see it. Bread-fruit trees stretched their boughs over the road like a canopy over a victor returning home, and palms, the emblems of peace and resurrection, stood as sentinels by the way, which was left clear by the wild animals of the forest. And mile after mile the party marched eastwards under the green arches.

In Tabora they met an English expedition sent out too late for the relief of Livingstone, and its members listened with emotion to the tale of the men. They wished to bury the corpse at Tabora, but Livingstone's servants would not hear of it. A few days later they met with serious opposition. A tribe refused to let them pass with a corpse. Then they made up a load resembling that containing the body, and gave out that they had decided to return to Tabora to bury their master there. Some of the men marched back with the false package, which they took to pieces at night and scattered among the bush. Then they returned to their comrades, who meanwhile had altered the real package so as to look like a bale of cloth. The natives were then satisfied and let them move on unmolested.

In February, 1874, they arrived at Bagamoyo, and the remains were carried in a cruiser to Zanzibar and afterwards conveyed to England. In London there was a question whether the body was really Livingstone's, but his broken and reunited arm, which was crushed by the lion at Mabotsa, set all doubts at rest. He was interred in Westminster Abbey in the middle of the nave. The temple of honour was filled to overflowing, and among those who bore the pall was Henry Stanley. The grave was covered with a black stone slab, in which was cut the following inscription:—

"BROUGHT BY FAITHFUL HANDS OVER LAND AND SEA, HERE RESTS DAVID LIVINGSTONE, MISSIONARY, TRAVELLER, PHILANTHROPIST. BORN MARCH 19, 1813, BLANTYRE, LANARKSHIRE. DIED May 4th, 1873, AT CHITAMBO'S VILLAGE, ILALA. FOR THIRTY YEARS HIS LIFE WAS SPENT IN AN UNWEARIED EFFORT TO EVANGELISE THE NATIVE RACES, TO EXPLORE THE UNDISCOVERED SECRETS, AND ABOLISH THE DESOLATING SLAVE-TRADE OF CENTRAL AFRICA...."

The memory of the "Wise Heart" or the "Helper of Men," as they called Livingstone, is still handed down from father to son among the natives of Africa, and they are glad that his heart remains in African soil under the tree in Chitambo's village. His dream of finding the sources of the Nile, and of throwing light on the destination of the Lualaba, was not fulfilled, but he discovered Ngami and Nyassa and other lakes, the Victoria Falls and the upper course of the Zambesi, and mapped an enormous extent of unknown country.

STANLEY'S GREAT JOURNEY

In the autumn of 1874 Stanley was back in Zanzibar to try his fortune once more in Darkest Africa. He organised a caravan of three hundred porters, provided himself with cloth, beads, brass-wire, arms, boats which could be taken to pieces, tents, and everything else necessary for a journey of several years.

He made first for the Victoria Nyanza, and circumnavigated the whole lake. He visited Uganda, came again to Ujiji, where Livingstone's hut had long been razed to the ground, and sailed all round Lake Tanganyika.

Two years after he started he was at Nyangwe on the Lualaba. Livingstone and Cameron had been there before, and we can imagine Stanley's feelings when he at last found himself at this, the most westerly point ever reached by a European from the coast of the Indian Ocean. Behind him lay the known country and the great lakes; before him lay a land as large as Europe, completely unknown and appearing as a blank on maps. Travellers had come to its outskirts from all sides, but none knew what the interior was like. It was not even known whither the Lualaba ran. Livingstone had vainly questioned the natives and Arabs about it, and vainly Stanley also tried to obtain information. At Nyangwe the Arab slave-traders held their most western market. Thither corn, fruit, and vegetables were brought for sale; there were sold animals, fish, grass mats, brass-wire, bows, arrows, and spears; and thither were brought ivory and slaves from the interior. But though routes from all directions met at Nyangwe, the Arabs were as ignorant of the country as any one.

The black continent, "Darkest Africa," lay before Stanley. He was a bold man, to whom difficulties were nothing. He had a will of iron. All opposition, all obstacles placed in his way, must go down before him. He had determined not to return eastwards, whence he had come, but to march straight westwards to the Atlantic coast, or die in the attempt. Accordingly, early on the morning of November 5, 1876, Stanley left Nyangwe in company with the rich and powerful Arab chief, Tippu Tib, and directed his way northwards towards the great forest. Tippu Tib's party consisted of 700 men, women, and children, while Stanley had 154 followers armed with rifles, revolvers, and axes. "Bismillah—in the name of God!" cried the Mohammedan leaders of the company, as they took the first step on the dangerous road.

The huge caravan, an interminable file of black men, entered the forest. There majestic trees stood like pillars in a colonnade; there palms struggled for room with wild vines and canes; there flourished ferns, spear-grass, and reeds, and there bushes in tropical profusion formed impenetrable brushwood; while through the whole was entangled a network of climbing plants, which ran up the trunks and hung down from the branches. Everything was damp and wet. Dew dropped from all the branches and leaves in a continuous trickle. The air was close and sultry, and heavy with the odour of plants and mould. It was deadly still, and seldom was the slightest breeze perceptible; storms might rage above the tree-tops, but no wind reached the ground, sheltered in the dimness of the undergrowth.

The men struggle along over the slippery ground. Balancing their loads on their heads with their hands, they stoop under boughs, push saplings aside with their elbows, thrust their feet firmly into the mud in order not to slip. Those who are clothed have their clothes torn, while the naked black men graze their skins. Very slowly the caravan forces its way through the forest, and a passage has frequently to be cut for those who carry the sections of the boats.

All who, after Stanley, have travelled through the great primeval forest in the heart of Africa have likewise described its suffocating hot-house air, the peaceful silence, only broken by the cries of monkeys and parrots, its deep, depressing gloom. If the journey is of long duration men get wearied, experiencing a feeling of confinement, and long for air, freedom, sun, and wind. It is like going through a tunnel, no country being visible on either side. The illumination is uniform, without shadows, without gleams, and the perpetual gloom, only interrupted by pitch-dark night, is exceedingly wearisome. Like polar explorers in the long winter night, the traveller longs for the sun and the return of light.

The party travelled northwards at some distance east of the Lualaba. Stanley climbed up a tree which grew somewhat apart on a hillock. Here he found himself above the tree-tops, and saw the sunlit surface of the primeval forest of closely growing trees below him. A continuous sea of boughs and foliage fell like a swell down to the bank of the Lualaba. Up here there was a breeze and the leaves fluttered in the wind; but down below reigned darkness and silence and the exuberant life of the tropics.

Even for such a man as Stanley this primeval forest was a hard nut to crack. Sickness, weariness, and insubordination prevailed in his troop. The great Tippu Tib considered it impossible to advance through such a country, and wished to turn back with all his black rabble, but after much hesitation he was at last persuaded to accompany Stanley for twenty days longer. So on they went once more, and after innumerable difficulties came again to the bank of the Lualaba.

The huge volumes of water glided along silently and majestically. Brown and thick with decaying vegetation, the Lualaba flowed between dense woods to the unknown region inhabited by negro tribes never heard of by Europeans, and where no white man had ever set his foot. Here Stanley decided to leave the terrible forest and to make use of the waterway of the Lualaba. There were the boats in sections, and a whole fleet of canoes could soon be made from the splendid trees growing at hand. The whole caravan was accordingly assembled, and Stanley explained his purpose. At first the men grumbled loudly, but Stanley declared that he would make the voyage even if no one went with him but Frank Pocock, the only survivor of the three white men who had started with him from Zanzibar. He turned to his boat's crew and called out, "You have followed me and sailed round the great lakes with me. Shall I and my white brother go alone? Speak and show me those who dare follow me!" On this a few stepped forward, and then a few more, and in the end thirty-eight men declared themselves willing to take part in the voyage.

At this juncture many canoes full of natives were observed at the opposite side of the river, so Stanley and Tippu Tib and some other Arabs entered the boat and rowed up to a small island in mid-stream.

Here the black warriors were in swarms, and thirty canoes lay at the water's edge. At a safe distance, Stanley's interpreter called out that the white man only wished to see their country, that nothing belonging to them should be touched, and that they themselves should not be disturbed. They answered that if the white man would row out to the island in the morning with ten servants, their own chief would meet him with ten men, and would enter into blood-brotherhood with him. After that the strangers might cross the river and visit their villages.

Suspecting treachery, however, Stanley sent twenty armed men by night to the island to hide themselves in the brushwood. Then in the morning Pocock and ten men rowed out to the meeting-place, near which Stanley waited in his boat. A swarm of canoes put out from the western bank, and when they came to the island the rowers raised their wild war-whoop, Ooh-hu! Ooh-hu-hu! and rushed ashore with bows bent and raised spears. Then Stanley's twenty men came out of their hiding-place, the fight was short, and the savages dashed headlong into their boats and rowed away for their lives.

The next morning, with thirty men on board his boat, Stanley began his journey down the river, while Tippu Tib and Pocock marched with all the rest of the troop along the bank. The natives had retired, but their cry of Ooh-hu-hu! was still heard in the distance. On an island between the main river and a tributary Stanley's party landed to wait for the caravan and help it over the affluent. In the meantime Stanley made a short excursion up the tributary, the water of which was inky-black owing to the dark tree roots which wound about its bottom. On his return he found the camp island surrounded by hostile canoes and heard random shots, but when his boat drew near, the savages were frightened and rowed away.

At length Tippu Tib straggled up with his party, and the journey could be continued. The boat was rowed near the bank, and the two divisions were kept in touch with each other by means of drums. All the villages they came to were deserted, but the natives were evidently keeping a close watch on these wonderful strangers, for one day when some of Stanley's men were out scouting on two captured canoes, they were attacked, and when they tried to escape they came among eddies and rapids, where their boats capsized and four rifles were lost. The men climbed up and sat astride the upturned canoes until they were rescued by their comrades.

Then the expedition went on again. The river was usually half a mile broad or more, and frequently divided by long rows of islands and holms. The large village of Ikondu consisted of cage-like reed huts built in two long rows. All the inhabitants had fled, but pitchers full of wine were suspended from the palms, melons and bananas emitted their fragrance, and there was plenty of manioc plantations, ground-nuts, and sugar-cane. Near the place was found a large old canoe, cracked, leaky, and dilapidated, but it was patched up, put in the river, and used as a hospital. Smallpox and dysentery raged in the caravan, and two or three corpses were thrown daily into the river.

Once, as the small flotilla was rowing quietly along not far from the bank, a man in the hospital canoe cried out. He had been hit in the chest by a poisoned barb, and this was followed by a whole shower of arrows. The boats were rowed out from the dangerous bank, and a camp was afterwards pitched on an old market-place. The usual fence was set up round the tents, and sentinels were posted in the bush. Then were heard shots, cries, and noise. The watchman ran in calling out, "Look out, they are coming," and immediately arrows and javelins rattled against the stockade, and the savages rushed on, singing their dreadful war-songs. But their arrows and javelins were little use against powder and ball, and they soon had to retire. They were reinforced, however, and returned again and again to the attack, and did not desist till the fight had lasted two hours and twilight had come on.

After other combats, Stanley and Tippu Tib came to a country on the western bank densely peopled with hostile natives, where they had to fight again. The savages were repulsed, and rowed out to a long island, where they moored their canoes by ropes fastened round posts. They would certainly renew the attack next day. But this time they were to be thoroughly checkmated. Rain pelted down on the river, the night was pitch dark, and there was a fresh breeze. Stanley rowed to the island, and his boat stole silently and cautiously under the high tree-covered bank. He cut the ropes of every canoe he got hold of, and in a short time thirty canoes were sent adrift down the river, many of them being caught by boatmen posted farther down stream. Before dawn the men were back at the camp with their looted boats.

The savages, who lay crouching in their grass hovels on the island, must certainly have felt foolish in the morning when they found that they had lost their canoes and were left helpless. Then an interpreter rowed out to them to put before them the conditions exacted by the white man. They had treacherously attacked his troop, killing four and wounding thirteen. Now they must furnish provisions, and then they would be paid for the captured canoes and peace would be established.

It was important that the expedition should have a few days' rest at this place, for Tippu Tib had had enough, and refused to advance a step farther down the river with its warlike natives. Accordingly, he was to turn back with his black retinue, while Stanley was to continue the journey with a selected party, many of whom had their wives and children with them. The troop consisted of a hundred and fifty souls. Provisions were collected for twenty days. The canoes were fastened together in pairs by poles, that they might not capsize, and the flotilla consisted of twenty-three boats.

It was one of the last days in December. A thick mist hung over the river and the nearest palms were scarcely visible, but a breeze sprang up and thinned the haze. Then the trumpets and drums sounded the signal for starting, and Stanley gave the order to get into the boats. The parting song of the sons of Unyamwezi was answered by Tippu Tib's returning troop, and the flotilla of canoes glided down the dark river towards unknown lands and destiny.

Stanley believed that this mighty river, which he named after Livingstone, was none other than the Congo, the mouth of which had been known for more than four hundred years; but he did not reject the possibility that it might also unite with the Nile or be connected with the Niger far away to the north-west. The journey which was now to solve this problem will be famous for all time for its boldness and daring, for the dangers overcome and adventures experienced, and is quite comparable with the boat journeys of the Spaniards who discovered the Amazons and Mississippi rivers in America.

Fourteen villages lie buried in the dense bush, and Stanley's flotilla makes for the bank to encamp for the first time after parting from Tippu Tib. Here the natives are friendly, but there is trouble a little farther on, where the woods echo with the noise of war-drums and the savages are drawn up with shield and spear. The drum signals are repeated from village to village, from the one bank to the other. Canoes are manned and put out from both banks and Stanley's flotilla is surrounded. The interpreters call out "Peace! Peace!" but the savages answer peremptorily, "Turn back or fight." Consultations and negotiations are held, while the river sweeps down the whole assemblage of friends and foes. More villages peep out from the trees where dwell enemies of the attacking savages, so the latter dip their oars in the water and row back without coming to blows.

But soon there was a different scene. Javelins were thrown from other canoes and the dreadful poisoned arrows were discharged, so the death-dealing European firearms had to be used in self-defence. On this occasion Stanley's men succeeded in capturing a number of shields, of which indeed they had need.

Again the war-drum is heard, just as the flotilla is passing a small island. Stanley orders his boats to keep in the middle of the river ready for action. Swarms of canoes shoot out from the bank like wild ducks, and the black warriors beat their spears against their shields. The interpreter gets up in the bow and shouts out "Peace! Take care or we strike!" Then the savages hesitate, and retire quietly under promontories and overhanging wooded banks. By the single word "Peace!" the interpreter could often check parties of warriors, but others answered the offer of peace with a scornful laugh, and their showers of arrows and assegais had to be met with a volley of rifle bullets.

The New Year (1877) had already come, when a friendly tribe warned the travellers of dangerous falls and rapids, the roar of which they would shortly hear. The flotilla glided along the right bank, and all listened for the expected thunder. Suddenly savages appeared on the bank and hurled their assegais; then the war-drums were heard again, and a large number of long canoes approached (Plate XXX.). The warriors had painted one half of their bodies white and the other red, with broad black stripes, and looked hideous. Their howls and horn blasts betokened a serious attack. By this time Stanley's boats were out in the middle of the stream in order of battle, with the shields placed along the gunwales to protect the non-combatants. A canoe 80 feet long rowed straight for Stanley's boat, but was received by a rattling volley. Then it was Stanley's turn to attack, for the great canoe could not turn in time. Warriors and oarsmen jumped overboard to save themselves by swimming to land, and as the other boats vanished the expedition could go on towards the falls.

Now was heard the roar of the water as it tumbled in wild commotion over the barriers in its bed. The natives thought that this was just the place to catch the strangers, and Stanley had to fight his way step by step, sometimes on land and sometimes on the river. In quiet water between the various falls the men could row, but in other places paths had to be cut through the brushwood on the bank and the canoes hauled over land. Often they had to fight from tree to tree. Once the savages tried to surround Stanley's whole party in a large net, and lost eight of their own men for their trouble. These captives were tattooed on the forehead and had their front teeth filed to a point. Like all the other people in the country, they were cannibals, and were eager for human flesh.

One day at the end of January Stanley's boats crossed the equator, and the great river turned more and more towards the west, so that it evidently could not belong to the Nile. Here the party passed the seventh and last fall, where the brown water hurled itself in mad fury over the barrier. Thus the series of cascades afterwards known as the Stanley Falls was discovered and passed.

Below the falls the river expands, sometimes to as much as two miles in breadth. The opposite bank could hardly be seen, and the boats came into a labyrinth of channels between islands. The rowers sang to the swing of their oars, and a sharp look-out had always to be kept. Sometimes canoes followed them, and occasionally ventured to attack. Wild warriors were seen with loathsome features, and red and grey parrots' feathers on their heads, and bangles of ivory round their arms.



In one village was found a temple with a round roof supported on thirty-three elephants' tusks. In the middle was set up an idol carved in wood and painted red, with black eyes, hair, and beard. Knives, spears, and battle-axes were wrought with great skill, and were ornamented with bands of copper, iron, and bone. Among the refuse heaps were seen remains of horrible feasts, and human skulls were set up on posts round the huts.

Interminable forests grew on the banks and islands, with the many-rooted mangrove-tree, tall, snake-like canes with drooping tufts of leaves, the dragon's-blood tree, the india-rubber, and many others.

Danger and treachery lurked behind every promontory, and the men had to look out for currents, falls, rapids, and whirlpools. Hippopotami and crocodiles were plentiful. But the savages were the worst danger. Stanley and his men were worn out with running the gauntlet month after month.

At the village of Rubunga, where the natives were friendly, Stanley heard for the first time that the river actually was the Congo. Here the traveller was able to replenish his stock of provisions, and when the drums of Rubunga were sounded it was not for battle but to summon the inhabitants to market, and from the surrounding villages the people came to offer for sale fish, snails, oysters, dried dog-flesh, goats, bananas, meal, and bread. As a rule, however, no trust could be placed in the natives. In their hideous tattooing, with strings of human teeth round their necks and their own teeth filed to a point like a wolf's, with a small belt of grass round their loins and spears and bows in their hands, they did not inspire confidence, and frequently the boats had barely put out from the bank where the people seemed friendly before the natives manned their canoes and pursued them. In this region they were armed with muskets procured from the coast. Once Stanley's small flotilla was surrounded by sixty-three canoes, and there was a hard fight with firearms on both sides. In the foremost canoe stood a young chief, handsome, calm, and dignified, directing the attack. He wore a head-covering and a mantle of goatskin, and on his arms, legs, and neck he had large rings of brass wire. A bullet struck him in the thigh. He quietly wound a rag round the wound and signed to his oarsmen to make for the bank. Then the others lost courage and followed their leader's canoe.

They struggled southwards from one combat to another. The passage of the great curve of the Congo had cost thirty-two fights. Now remained a difficult stretch, where the mighty river breaks in foaming falls and rapids through the escarpment which follows the line of the west coast of Africa. These falls Stanley named after Livingstone; he was well aware that the river could never be called by any other name than the Congo, but the falls would preserve the great missionary's name. Innumerable difficulties awaited him here. On one occasion half a dozen men were drowned and several canoes were lost, and the party had to wait while others were cut out in the forest. One day Pocock drifted towards a fall, and was not aware of the danger until it was too late and he was swept over the barrier. Thus perished the last of Stanley's white companions.

At another fall the coxswain and the carpenter went adrift in a newly excavated canoe. They had no oars. "Jump, man," called out the former, but the other answered, "I cannot swim." "Well, then, good-bye, my brother," said the quartermaster, and swam ashore. The other went over the fall. The canoe disappeared in the seething whirlpool, came up again with the man clinging fast to it, was sucked under once more, and rose again still with the carpenter. But when it reappeared for the third time in another whirlpool the man was gone.

At last all the boats were abandoned and the men travelled by land. The party was entirely destitute, all were emaciated, miserable, and hungry. A black chief demanded toll for their passage through his country, and they had nothing to give. He would be satisfied with a bottle of rum he said. Rum, indeed, when they had been three years in the depths of Africa! Stanley was reasoning with the chief when the coxswain came and asked what was the matter. "There's rum for him," he said, and gave the chief a buffet which knocked him over and put his whole retinue to flight.

Now it was only a couple of days' journey to Boma, near the mouth of the Congo, where there were trade factories and Europeans. Stanley wrote a letter to them, and was soon supplied with all necessaries; and after a short rest at Boma the party made the voyage round the south of Africa to Zanzibar, where Stanley dismissed his men.

He then travelled home, and was, of course, feted everywhere. For a thousand years the Arabs had travelled into the interior of Africa, but they did not know the course of the Congo. European explorers had for centuries striven to penetrate the darkness. The natives themselves did not know whither the Lualaba ran. All at once Stanley had filled up the blank and knit together the scattered meshes of the net; and now a railway runs beside the falls, and busy steamboats fly up and down the Congo. Well did Stanley deserve his native name of Bula Matadi, or "the breaker of stones," for no difficulty was too great for him to overcome.

After a life of restless activity—including another great African journey to find Emin Pasha, the Governor of the Equatorial Province after Gordon's death—Stanley was gathered to his fathers in 1904. He was buried in a village churchyard outside London, and a block of rough granite was placed above the grave. Here may be read beneath a cross, "Henry Morton Stanley—Bula Matadi—1841-1904," and lastly the word that sums up all the work of his life, "Africa."

TIMBUKTU AND THE SAHARA

In the middle of north-western Africa, where the continent shoots a gigantic tongue out into the Atlantic, lies one of the world's most famous towns, Timbuktu.

Compared with Cairo or Algiers, Timbuktu is a small town. Its three poor mosques cannot vie with the grand temples which under French, Turkish, or English dominion raise their graceful minarets on the Mediterranean shores of Africa. Not a building attracts the eye of the stranger amidst a confusion of greyish-yellow mud houses with flat roofs and without windows, and neglect and decay stare out from heaps of ruins. There is hardly a tottering caravanserai to invite the desert wanderer to rest. Some streets are abandoned, while in others the foot sinks over the ankle in blown sand from the Sahara.

Timbuktu is not so famous as the sparkling jewels in the diadem of Asia—Jerusalem and Mecca, Benares and Lhasa. The very name of each of these is, as it were, a vital portion of a great religion, and indeed almost stands for the religion itself. Timbuktu has scarcely any religion, or, more correctly, too many. And yet this town has borne a proud name during its eight hundred years of existence—the great, the learned, the mysterious city. No pilgrims flock thither to fall down in prayer before a redeemer's grave or be blessed by a high priest. No pyramids, no marble temples, make Timbuktu one of the world's wonders. No wealth, no luxuriant vegetation exist to make it an outer court to Paradise.



And yet Timbuktu is an object of desire. Millions long to go there, and when they have been, long to get away again. Caravan men who have wandered for months through the desert long for the tones of the flute and the cithern, and the light swayings of the troops of dancers. Palms and mimosa grow sparsely round Timbuktu, but after the dangers of the desert the monotonous, dilapidated town with its dusty, dreary streets seems really like an entrance to Paradise. Travelling merchants who have risked their wealth in the Sahara among savage robbers, and have been fortunate to escape all dangers, are glad at the sight of Timbuktu, and think its grey walls more lovely than anything they can imagine.

The remarkable features of Timbuktu are, then, its situation and its trade. We have only to take a look at the map to perceive that this town stands like a spider in its web. The web is composed of all the routes which start from the coast and converge on Timbuktu. They come from Tripoli and Tunis, from Algeria and Morocco, from Senegal and Sierra Leone, from the Pepper Coast, the Ivory Coast, and Slave Coast, the Gold Coast, and from the countries round the Gulf of Guinea, which have been annexed by France, England, and Germany. They come also from the heart of the Sahara, where savage and warlike nomad tribes still to this day maintain their freedom against foreign interference.

In Timbuktu meet Arabs and negroes, Mohammedans and heathens from the deserts and fruitful lands of the Sahara and Sudan. Timbuktu stands on the threshold of the great wastes, and at the same time on the third in rank of the rivers of Africa. At the town the Niger is two and a half miles broad, and from its mouth it discharges more water than the Nile, but much less than the Congo. Like the Congo, the Niger makes a curve to the north, bidding defiance to the Sahara; but the desert wins in the end, and the river turns off towards the south.

It is a struggle between life and death. The life-giving water washes the choking sand, and just where the strife is fiercest lies Timbuktu. From the north goods come on dromedaries to be transported farther in canoes or long, narrow boats with arched awnings of matting, or, where the river is not navigable, on oxen and asses or the backs of men. Dromedaries cannot endure the damp climate near the Niger, which especially in winter overflows its banks for a long distance. Therefore they are led back through the Sahara. They thrive on the dry deserts. The constantly blowing north-east trade-wind dries up the Sahara, and in certain regions years may pass without a drop of rain.

The name Timbuktu has a singular sound. It stands for all the mystery and fascination connected with the Sahara It leads the thoughts to the greatest expanse of desert in the world, to long and lonely roads, to bloody feuds and treacherous ambushes, to the ring of caravan bells and the clank of the stirrups of the Beduins (Plate XXXI.). There seems to be a ring in the name itself, and we seem to hear the splash of the turbid waters of the Niger in its vowels. We seem to hear the plaintive howl of the jackal, the moan of the desert wind, the squealing of dromedaries outside the northern gateway, and the boatmen splashing with oars and poles in the creeks of the river.

Caravans from the northern coast bring cloth, arms, powder, paper, tools, hardware, sugar, tea, coffee, tobacco, and a quantity of other articles to Timbuktu. But when they begin their journey through the Sahara, only half the camels are laden. The other half are loaded with blocks of salt on the way, for salt is in great demand at Timbuktu. Caravans may be glad if they come safely through the country of the Tuaregs, and at best they can only obtain an unmolested passage by the payment of a heavy toll. On the return journey northwards the dromedaries are laden with wares from the Sudan, rice, manioc, honey, nuts, monkey breadfruit, dried fish, ivory, ostrich feathers, india-rubber, leather, and many other things. A small number of black slaves also accompany them. The largest caravans contain five hundred or a thousand dromedaries and five hundred men at most. The goods they can transport may be worth twenty-eight thousand pounds or more. Five great caravan roads cross the Sahara from north to south.

Let us set out on a journey from Timbuktu, and let us go first eastwards to the singular Lake Chad, which is half filled with islands, is shallow and swampy, choked with reeds, rises and falls with the discharge of the great rivers which flow into it, and has a certain similarity to Lop-nor in Central Asia. Nearly 17 cubic miles of water are estimated to enter Lake Chad in the year, and when we know that the lake on the whole remains much about the same size, we can conceive how great the evaporation must be.

We have our own dromedaries and our own Arab guide on whom we can rely. We can therefore go where we like, and we steer our course from Lake Chad towards the eastern Sudan, where we have already been in the company of General Gordon. But before we come to the Nile we turn off northwards to cross the Libyan desert, the most inaccessible and desolate, and therefore the least known, part of the Sahara. On our way northwards we notice that animal and vegetation life becomes more scanty. Even in the Sudan the grasslands are more thinly clothed and the steppes more desert-like the farther we travel, and at last blown sand predominates. We must follow a well-known road which has been used for thousands of years by Arabs and Egyptians.



We are in the midst of the sea of sand. Here lie at certain places dunes of reddish-yellow drift sand as high as the tower of St. Paul's Cathedral. We see no path, for it has been swept away by the last storm; but the guide has his landmarks and does not lose his way. The sand becomes lower and the country more open. Then the guide points to a bare and barren ridge which rises out of the sand like a rock out of the sea, and says that he can find his way by this landmark, which remains in sight for several days, and is then replaced by another elevation.

We encamp at a deep well, drink and water our camels. Next day we are out in the sandy sea again. The sky has assumed an unusual hue. It is yellow, and soon changes into bluish grey. The sun is a red disc. It is calm and sultry. The guide looks serious, and says in a low tone "samum." The hot, devastating desert storm which is the scourge of Arabia and Egypt is approaching.

The guide stops and turns round. He is uncertain. But he goes on again when he sees that we cannot get back to the well before the storm is upon us. It is useless to look for shelter, for the dunes are too flat to protect us from the wind. And now the storm sweeps down, and it becomes suffocatingly close and hot. The dromedaries seem uneasy, halt, and turn away from the wind. We dismount. The dromedaries lie down and bury their muzzles in the sand. We wrap up our heads in cloths and lie on our faces beside our animals to get some shelter between them and the ground. And so we may lie by the hour panting for breath, and we may be glad if we get off with our lives from a samum when we are out in the desert. Even in the oases it causes a feeling of anxiety and trouble, for the burning heat is most harmful to palms and crops. The temperature may rise to 120 deg. in this dangerous storm, which justifies its name of "poison wind."

The storm passes off, the air becomes clear and is quiet and calm, and the sun has again its golden yellow brilliance. It is warm, but not suffocating as it was. The heated air vibrates above the sand. Beside our road appears a row of palms and before them a silver streak of water. The guide, however, goes on in quite a different direction, and when we ask him why, he answers that what we see is a mirage, and that there is no oasis for many days' journey in the direction in which we see the palms.

In the evening we come to a real oasis, and there we are glad to rest a couple of days. Here are a hundred wells, here the ground is cultivated in the shade of the palms, here we can enjoy to the full the moist coolness above the swards of juicy grass. The oasis is like an island in the desert sea, and between the palm trunks is seen the yellow level horizon, the dry, heated desert with its boundless sun-bathed wastes.

If we now turn off towards the north-west, Fezzan is the next country which our route touches. It is a paradise of date palms. They occur in such profusion that even dromedaries, horses, and dogs are fed with the fruits. The surface of the ground also has undergone a great change, and is not so sterile and choked with sand as in the Libyan desert. Here and farther to the west the country becomes more hilly. Ridges and bosses of granite and sandstone, weathered and scorched by the sun, stand up here and there. Extensive plateaus covered with gravel are called hammada; they are ruins of former mountains which have burst asunder. In the Sahara the differences of temperature between day and night are very great. The dark, bare hill-slopes may be heated up to 140 deg. or more when the sun bathes them, while during the night the radiation out to space is so intense that the temperature sinks to freezing-point. Through these continual alternations the rocks expand and contract repeatedly, fissures are formed and fragments are detached and fall down. The hardest rocks resist longest, and therefore they stand up like strange walls and towers amidst the great desolation.

If we go another step westwards we come to the land of the Tuaregs. There, too, we find hilly tracts and hammadas, sandy deserts and oases, and in favourable spots excellent pastures. We have already noticed in Timbuktu this small, sturdy desert people, easily recognised by the veil which hides the lower part of the face. All Tuaregs wear such a veil, and call those who do not "fly-mouths." They are powerfully built, and of dark complexion, being of mixed negro blood from all the slaves they have kidnapped in the Sudan. They are as dry and lean as the ground on which they live, and nature in their country obliges them to lead a nomad life. Wide, simple, and dreary is the desert, and simple and free is the nomad's life. The hard struggle for existence has sharpened their senses. They are acute observers, clever, crafty, and artful. Distance is of no account to them, for they do not know what it is to be tired. They fly on their swift dromedaries over half the Sahara, and are a terror to their settled neighbours and to caravans. On their raids they cover immense distances in a short time. To ride from the heart of their country to the Sudan after booty is child's play to them. They have made existence in many oases quite unendurable. What use is it to till fields and rear palms when the Tuaregs always reap the harvest? The French have had many fights with the Tuaregs, and the railway which was to pass through their country and connect Algiers with Timbuktu is still only a cherished project. Yet this tribe which has so bravely defended its freedom against the stranger does not number more than half a million people. The Tuaregs are not born to be slaves, and we cannot but admire their thirst for freedom, their pride, and their courage.

The desert here exhibits the difficult art of living. Even animals and plants which are assigned to the desert are provided with special faculties. Some of the animals, snakes and lizards for instance, can live without water. Dromedaries can go for many days without drinking. Ostriches cover great distances to reach water before it is too late. Plants are provided with huge roots that they may suck up as much moisture as possible, and many of them bear thorns and spikes instead of leaves so that the evaporation may be insignificant. Many of them are called to life by a single fall of rain, develop in a few weeks, and die when long drought sets in again. Then the seeds are left, waiting patiently for the next rain. Some desert plants seem quite dead, grey, dried-up, and buried in dust, but when rain comes they send out green shoots again.

Every river bed is called in the Sahara a wadi. Very seldom does a trickle of water run down it after rain, but in these beds the vegetation is richer than elsewhere, for here moisture lingers longer than in other spots. Many caravans march along them, and gazelles and antelopes find pasture here.

A European leaves Algeria to make his way into the Sahara with an incomprehensible feeling of fascination. In the French towns on the Mediterranean coast he has lived just as in Europe. He has been able to cross by train the forest-clad heights of the Atlas Mountains, where clear brooks murmur among the trees. He leaves the railway behind, and finds the hills barer the farther he travels south. At last the monotonous, slightly undulating desert stretches before him, and he feels the magical attraction of the Sahara drawing him deeper and deeper into its great silence and solitude. All the colours become subdued and greyish-yellow, like the lion's hide. Everything is yellow and grey, even the dromedaries which carry him, his tent and baggage, from well to well. He can hardly tell why he finds this country pleasanter than the forests and streams on the slopes of the Atlas Mountains; perhaps owing to the immense distances, the mysterious horizon afar off, the blood-red sunsets, the grand silence which prevails everywhere so that he hardly dares speak aloud. It is the magic of the desert that has got hold of him.

Thirty years ago a large French expedition, under the command of Colonel Flatters, marched along this route from Algeria southwards through the Sahara. It consisted of a hundred men, including seven French officers and some non-commissioned officers, and its equipment and provisions were carried by three hundred dromedaries. The French Government had sent out the expedition to examine the Tuaregs' country, and to mark out a suitable route for a railway through the Sahara to connect the French possessions in the north and south. It was not the first time that the Colonel had travelled in the Sahara, and he knew the Tuaregs well. Therefore he was on his guard. Everything seemed most promising. The Frenchmen mapped parts of the Sahara which no European had ever succeeded in reaching before—even the great German traveller, who had crossed the Sahara in all directions, had not been there. The most dangerous tracts were left behind, and the Tuaregs had offered no resistance: indeed some of their chiefs had been friendly. In the last letters which reached France, Flatters expressed a hope that he would be able to complete his task without further trouble, and to advance even to the Sudan.

Then the blow fell. The expedition was suddenly attacked at a well, and succumbed after a heroic defence against superior numbers. Most of the Frenchmen were cut down. Part of the caravan attempted to reach safety by hurrying northwards on forced marches, but was overtaken and annihilated. Many brave Frenchmen have met the same fate as Flatters in the struggle for dominion over the Sahara.

If we travelled, as we have lately imagined, on swift-footed dromedaries in a huge circuit from Timbuktu through the Sudan, the Libyan desert, and the land of the Tuaregs, we should at last come to Morocco, "The Uttermost West," as this last independent Sultanate in Africa is called. Morocco is the restless corner of Africa, as the Balkan Peninsula is of Europe, Manchuria of Asia, and Mexico of North America—in South America all parts are unsettled.



III

NORTH AMERICA

THE DISCOVERY OF THE NEW WORLD

Now we must say farewell to Africa. We have in front of us the Straits of Gibraltar, little more than six miles broad, the blue belt that connects the Mediterranean with the Atlantic, the sharply defined boundary which separates the black continent from the white.

We have but a step to take and we are in Spain. Here, also, a dying echo from the splendid period of Arab rule reaches our ears. We are reminded that twelve centuries have passed away since the Prophet's chosen people conquered the Iberian Peninsula. The sons of Islam were a thorn in the sides of the Christians. Little by little they were forced back southwards. Only Cordova and Granada still remained in the possession of the Arabs, or Moors as they were called, and when Ferdinand the Catholic married Queen Isabella of Castile in the year 1469, only Granada was left in the hands of the Moors. Their last king lived in his splendid palace, the Alhambra in Granada. In 1491 the Spanish army besieged the Moorish city. Barely forty years earlier the Mohammedans had taken Constantinople. Now other Mohammedans were to be turned out of western Europe. New Year's Day 1492 came and Granada fell. The Moorish king had to bend humbly on his knees before the victor ere he went on his way, and the Castilian flag waved from the towers and pinnacles of the Alhambra.

This remarkable incident was witnessed by a mariner from Genoa, forty-six years old. His name was Christopher Columbus.

At the time of the fall of Granada there was no one among the learned men of Europe who had any suspicion of the existence of a continent in the western ocean, and the Portuguese sought only a sea route to India—the rich land of spices, gold, pearls, and coral. But there was a learned mathematician, Toscanelli of Florence, who perceived that, as the world was round, a mariner must necessarily reach Japan, China, and India by sailing westwards from Europe, and as early as 1474 he produced maps and other proofs of the correctness of his theory. It was Columbus, by his boldness and ability, who converted this theory into fact.

Christopher Columbus was the eldest of five children of a weaver in Genoa. He and his brothers also engaged in the weaving industry, but as their father's affairs were anything but flourishing, the sons decided to seek a living in foreign countries. Christopher became a sailor, and acquired all the qualifications necessary to handle a ship. He gained great experience and a thorough knowledge of his new profession. He once sailed on an English vessel to Thule or Iceland, the longest voyage which mariners of that time dared attempt. Then he tried his fortune in Portugal, earning a living by drawing sea-charts and serving as skipper on Portuguese vessels sailing to the eastern shores of the Mediterranean and to Guinea. In the Portuguese school he learned much which was to be of great importance in his future career. He made his home in Lisbon, where he married a lady of rank.

It was at this time that he entered into correspondence with Toscanelli, who sent him a map of the route over the Atlantic to Japan, and gave him much information drawn from Marco Polo's descriptions. These letters made a deep impression on Columbus. He wrote back to Toscanelli that he thought of sailing westwards to Marco Polo's countries according to his instructions, and Toscanelli replied that he was glad to find his ideas were so well understood, and that such a voyage would bring great gain to Columbus, and an extraordinary reputation among all Christian peoples.

Columbus tried in vain to obtain the support he needed for carrying out his plan. The King of Portugal and the learned men of the country listened to him, but treated him as a presumptuous dreamer. There were a few, however, who thought that he might be right, and on their advice the King sent a vessel over the ocean without telling Columbus. It soon returned without having seen land. When Columbus heard of this underhanded proceeding, he left Lisbon in disgust and travelled alone to Spain. His wife and children never saw him again, except his son Diego, who afterwards joined his father.

For two years he travelled from town to town in that part of southern Spain which is called Andalusia, selling charts, which he drew with his own hand. At last he was received at Court, and was able to set forth his plan before an assembly of courtiers and ecclesiastics. But Castile was too much occupied with the war against the Moors in Granada and Malaga to venture on such a great enterprise, and Columbus had to wait for better times.



Two years more passed by and Columbus was again summoned to the Court, then in Cordova on the bank of the Guadalquivir. His eloquence and enthusiasm had little effect, however, and after two more years of useless waiting he resolved to turn his back on Spain and try his fortune in France.

Sad and depressed, he followed the great highroad from Cordova. Being destitute he went up to a monastery beside the road, knocked at the gate, and begged for a piece of bread for his little son Diego, whom he held by the hand. While he was talking to the porter the prior came by, listened to his words, perceived by his accent that he came from Italy, and enquired into his story and his aims. The prior was a learned and benevolent man, and entered warmly into the plans of the Italian mariner, perceiving that such an opportunity of acquiring lands in eastern Asia should not be lost to Spain. He accordingly wrote to Queen Isabella, and at the end of 1491 Columbus spoke again before the learned men of the realm. Some of them treated him as an impostor, but others believed his words; and when, after the fall of Granada, the Court had a free hand, it was decided to equip Columbus for his first voyage over the Atlantic.

All the negotiations nearly fell through at the last moment, owing to the demands of Columbus. He wished to be appointed High Admiral of the Ocean and Viceroy over all the savage countries he discovered, and he demanded for himself and his descendants an eighth part of all the revenues of the new lands. But when he declared that he intended to devote his gains to the recovery of Jerusalem from the Turks, his wishes were granted and funds were assigned for the equipment of three ships in the harbour of Palos.

These vessels each had three masts, but they were far too small for such an adventurous enterprise. Only the Admiral's ship, the Santa Maria, was completely decked over. The other two, the Pinta and Nina, had only decks fore and aft. The two brothers Pinzon, of noble extraction, at once volunteered for the voyage, but it was far from easy to enlist crews. Had it been a voyage along the coasts of Europe and Africa, there would have been no difficulty in finding men, but for a voyage straight out into the unknown ocean—with that the sailors would have nothing to do. At last it was necessary to open the prisons in order to procure ninety men, for only that number was needed for the whole three vessels. The lists of the crews are still extant, and show that most of the men were Castilians.

Two doctors were taken, as well as a baptized Jew, who spoke Hebrew and Arabic, and might be useful as an interpreter when the expedition came over the ocean to India. Curiously enough, Columbus had no chaplain on board, but before he set sail his friend the prior administered the sacrament to all his men, who in the opinion of most were doomed to a watery death.

Armed with a royal despatch to the Great Khan of Mongolia, Columbus stepped on board the Santa Maria, the moorings were cast off, and on August 3, 1492, the three ships steered under full sail out into the open sea.

They kept on a south-westerly course, and in six days reached the Canary Islands, where the little fleet stayed a month to repair some damages and patch up the Pinta's broken rudder.

On September 8 a definite start was made, and when the lovely Canary Islands and the Peak of Teneriffe sank beneath the horizon, the sailors wept, believing that wind and sails would carry them from the world for ever, and that nothing but water and waves awaited them in the west.

From the first day Columbus kept a very exact diary, which shows how thoroughly he embraced Toscanelli's theory and how implicitly he relied on his fellow-countryman's calculations. To his crews, however, he represented the distance as short, so that their fears should not be increased by the thought of the great interval that separated them from the Old World. They became more anxious as days came and went, and still nothing but boundless deserts of water spread in every direction.

After a week's sail their keels ploughed through whole fields of floating seaweed, and Columbus pacified his men by the suggestion that this was the first indication of their approach to land.

The Santa Maria was a broad and clumsy vessel, really intended to carry cargo. She was, therefore, a slow sailer, and the other two ships usually took the lead. They were of more graceful build and had large square sails, but were of barely half the tonnage of the flagship. But all three kept together and were often so close that shouts could be heard from one ship to the other. One day Pinzon, captain of the Pinta, called out to Columbus that he had seen birds flying westwards and expected to sight land before night. They therefore sailed cautiously lest they should run aground, but all their apprehension ceased when a sounding-line two hundred fathoms long, lowered through the floating sea-wrack, failed to reach the bottom.

Their progress was stopped by several days of calm, and it was September 22 before the sea-weed came to an end and the vessels rolled again out to the open bluish-green water.

Through hissing surge the Santa Maria and her two consorts cut their way due west. A more favourable breeze could not be wished. It was the trade wind which filled their sails. The sailors were afraid of the constant east wind, and when at length it veered round for a time, Columbus wrote in his journal: "This head-wind was very welcome, for my men were mightily afraid that winds never blew in these seas which would take them back to Spain."

Toscanelli's map was sent backwards and forwards between Columbus and Pinzon, and they wondered where they really were, and how far it was to the islands of eastern Asia. On September 25, Pinzon ascended the poop of the Pinta and called out to Columbus, "I see land." Then he fell on his knees with all his crew, and, with voices trembling with excitement and gratitude, the Castilian mariners sang "Glory to God in the Highest." This was the first time a Christian hymn had sounded over the waves of the Atlantic. The sailors of the Santa Maria and Nina climbed up into the rigging, and also saw the land and raised the same song of praise as their comrades. But next day the longed-for land had vanished. It was only a mist which lay over the sea to leeward, a mirage in the boundless desert of water.

At the beginning of October, Columbus began to suspect that he had already passed the islands laid down on Toscanelli's map, and he was glad that he had not been detained by them but could sail straight on to the mainland of India. By India was meant at that time the whole of eastern Asia.

On October 7 the men on all the three vessels were sure that they saw land. Every sail was set. Each vessel thought it an honour to reach it first. The Nina took the lead. At sunrise the flag of Castile was hoisted to the topmast and a shot thundered from its poop. During the day the land vanished again. But now flocks of birds were seen, all making south-westwards, and Columbus gave orders to follow in the same direction. He wrote in his diary: "The sea, thank God, lay like the river at Seville, the temperature was as mild as in April at Seville, and the air was so balmy that it was delightful to breathe it."

But they sailed day after day and through the nights, and still there was nothing to be seen but water. The men had several times given vent to their discontent, and now began to grumble again. Columbus soothed them and reminded them of the reward that awaited them when they had attained their goal. "Besides, their complaints were useless, for I have sailed out to reach India, and intend to prolong my voyage until, with God's help, I have found it."

On October 11 a log was seen floating in the sea with marks on it apparently cut by human hands; and shortly after, a branch with clusters of berries. Then the sailors became content, and the Admiral promised a reward to the man who first sighted land. All kept their eyes open and watched eagerly.

In the evening Columbus thought he saw a flash of light as though a man were carrying a torch along a low shore, and later in the night one of the Pinta's men swore that land was visible in front. Then all sails were taken in and they waited for the dawn.

When the sun rose on October 12, 1492, its rays illumined, before the eyes of the Spaniards, a flat grass-covered island which Columbus called San Salvador or St. Saviour, after Him who had rescued them from the perils of the sea. This island evidently lay north of Japan—at any rate, it would appear so from Toscanelli's map. Little did Columbus and his men suspect that a whole unknown continent and the world's greatest ocean, the Pacific, still separated them from Japan. The small island was one of the Bahama group, and is now known as Watling Island. If the voyages of the Northmen five hundred years earlier be left out of account, this island was the first point of the New World reached by Europeans.

The great day was begun with the Te Deum. The officers congratulated the Admiral, the sailors threw themselves at his feet and begged forgiveness for their insubordination. A boat was lowered, into which stepped Columbus with the flag of Castile in his hand, followed by the Pinzon brothers with the Banner of the Cross, and a few others. Without knowing it, Columbus stepped on to the soil of America. Solemnly he took possession of San Salvador on behalf of the crown of Castile. A cross was erected on an elevation on the shore in token that the island was in Christian hands.

The natives must have been astonished when they saw the three wonderful ships arrive off their coast and white men come ashore. At first they held aloof, but with beads and other gifts the Spaniards soon gained their confidence. They had only wooden javelins for weapons, did not know iron, had long lanky hair, not woolly like the negroes, were naked, and painted their bodies red and white. They knew gold, and that was well, for it was gold, and gold above everything, that Columbus needed to free the Holy Sepulchre from the Turks. These savages had gold rings in their noses, and when the Spaniards inquired by signs where the gold came from, they pointed towards the south-west.

Columbus, of course, called them Indians. Seven of them were taken on board. They were to go to Spain and "learn to talk," so that they might act as interpreters on subsequent voyages.

Then the voyage of discovery was resumed. The ships had to be sailed with great caution, for dangerous reefs lay round the islands. According to the signs made by the savages two large islands lay to the south. One must be Japan, and when Columbus landed on the coast of Cuba and heard of a prince named Kami, he thought that this man must be the Great Khan, and that he was really on the mainland of eastern Asia. Accordingly he sent his Jew and two of his savages ashore to look for the Great Khan. They were four days away and searched as well as they could among the tent-like huts of the natives, but never saw a glimpse of any Mongolian Great Khan in Cuba.

Exceedingly beautiful was this strange coast, reminding them of Sicily. Sweet song of birds was heard, there was an odour of fruits, and green foliage and palms waved like plumes in the breeze. The Spaniards were astonished to see the natives walking about smoking rolled-up leaves which they called tobacco, and had no notion what a source of wealth these leaves in the form of cigars would become in the future. Pinzon on the Pinta must have been bewitched by all the wonders he saw, for he ran off with his vessel to seek the land of gold on his own account. Columbus himself sailed across to the large island of Haiti, which as usual he took possession of in the name of Castile. The natives received him everywhere with amazement and submission, believing that he was an emissary from the abode of the gods.

On the northern coast of the island a great misfortune occurred on Christmas Eve. An inexperienced steersman was at the Santa Maria's rudder, and let the vessel run on a sandbank, where it became a wreck. The crew had to take refuge on the Nina. The natives helped to save all that was on board, and not even a pin was stolen.

But the Nina could not hold them all, and how were they to get back to Spain? Columbus found a way out of the difficulty. He decided to found a colony on the coast. Forty men were to be left behind to search for gold, and by the time Columbus returned from Spain they would no doubt have a tun full of the precious metal, and that would be enough for the conquest of Jerusalem. The sailors were only too glad to remain, for they found the natives accommodating and the climate good. It was in all respects much pleasanter than to endure hardship on the Nina, and perhaps founder with the wretched little ship.

Accordingly, a blockhouse was built of wreckage from the Santa Maria, was surrounded by a wall and moat and provisioned, and after presenting the chief of the Indians with a shirt and a pair of gloves, Columbus weighed anchor and steered for home.

He had not sailed far before he fell in with the Pinta, and took the independent Pinzon into favour again. Then they sailed eastwards across the Atlantic.

On February 12 a storm arose. All the sails were furled and the two ships lost sight of one another for good. The Nina pitched horribly and threatened to sink. All made ready for death. Columbus, fearing that his discoveries would perish with him, wrote a narrative on parchment, covered it with wax and placed it in a cask, which was entrusted to the angry waves. The sailors thought that it was an offering with which Columbus sought to allay the storm.

A few days later the Nina arrived safely at the southernmost island of the Azores, and thence continued her voyage to the mouth of the Tagus and Lisbon.

On March 15 the inhabitants of Palos saw the most famous of all the ships of the world come into the harbour. The people streamed down with the wildest jubilation and all the church bells were rung. The same evening the Pinta also sailed in, but was very differently received, for it was already known that Pinzon wished to usurp the honour of the discovery, being convinced that Columbus's vessel had been lost in the storm. No one took any notice of him, and he died a few days later, probably of chagrin and sorrow.

In Seville Columbus received a summons from the King and Queen, who were staying in Barcelona. His journey through Spain was one great triumphal progress. He was feted as a conqueror in every town. He was conducted in a brilliant procession through the streets, six copper-brown "Indians" marching at the head with coloured feathers in their head-dresses. This was Christopher Columbus, who had given new lands to Spain, who had discovered a convenient sea route to India just at the time when the Portuguese were looking for a route thither round the coast of Africa. In Barcelona all his titles and privileges were solemnly confirmed. Now he was actually the Admiral of the Ocean and Viceroy of India. Now he had attained the height of worldly honour.

Then began the time of adversity.

On his second voyage, when he set out with seventeen ships, he discovered the northern Antilles as far as Porto Rico and came in contact with cannibals. At Haiti he found that the forty men whom he had left behind on his first voyage had been killed by the natives. He took it for granted that Cuba was the mainland of Asia, and that thence the journey to Spain might be made dryshod by following Marco Polo's footsteps. Discontent was rife among his men, the natives rose up against the intruders, rivals sprang up around him like mushrooms, and in the home country he was abused by high and low.

He returned to Spain to put everything right; but this time he was no longer received with rejoicing, and found that he had now a formidable rival in Portugal. In the year 1497 Vasco da Gama discovered the real sea route to the real India by sailing round the south of Africa, an event which, in the eyes of that generation, quite eclipsed the discoveries of Columbus. In India inexhaustible riches were to be found, whereas the poor islands of Columbus had simply cost money, ships, and men.

But the strong will of Columbus overcame all obstacles, and for the third time he sailed for his fictitious India. Now he held a more southerly course, and discovered the island Trinidad, and found that the water between it and the coast of Venezuela was fresh. There must then be a large river near. This river was the Orinoco.

Disturbances broke out again in Haiti, and Columbus's opponents sent home complaints against him. A Royal Commission was sent out to hold an enquiry, and in the end arrested the Admiral and sent him in chains to Spain. The captain of the vessel wished to remove his fetters and leave him free as long as he was on board, but Columbus would not consent, for he wished to retain them as a "reminder of the reward he had got for his services."

But when he was led in chains through the streets of Cadiz, the scene of his former triumph, the displeasure of the people was aroused, and at the Court Columbus met with a friendly reception. He even succeeded in fitting out a fourth expedition and crossed the Atlantic in nineteen days. The new Governor forbade him to land, and Columbus expressed his indignation that he, the discoverer, should not be allowed to set foot on his own islands. He then steered westwards and came to the coast of Honduras, and thence followed the coast of Nicaragua southwards. He fully and firmly believed that this was Malacca, and that farther south would be found a passage to India proper. He sailed back towards Cuba, but was driven by bad weather to Jamaica, where in great extremity he had to run his ship ashore. One of his trusty men rowed for four days in a canoe over the open sea to Haiti to beg for help. Meanwhile the shipwrecked men were in hard case. The natives threatened them, and refused them all help. Columbus knew that an eclipse of the moon would shortly occur, and told the natives that if they would not help them, the God of the Spaniards would for ever deprive them of the light of the moon. And when the shadow of the earth began to move over the moon's disc, the natives were terrified, fell at the feet of Columbus, and promised him everything. He pretended to consider the matter, but at last allowed himself to be persuaded and promised that they should keep their moon. And then the shadow moved off quietly into space, leaving the moon as bright as a silver shield.

At last he received assistance, and in 1504 was back in Spain. No one now paid any attention to him. His property was confiscated, his titles were not restored to him, and even the outstanding pay of his followers was kept back. Ill with gout and vexation, he stayed at first in Seville. His former friends did not know him. Lonely and crushed down by grief and disappointment, he died in 1506 at Valladolid. No one took any notice of his decease, and not a chronicle of the time contains a word about his death. Even in the grave he seemed to find no rest. He was first interred quietly in Valladolid; then his remains were transferred to a monastery church in Seville; half a lifetime later his body was carried to San Domingo in Haiti, where it rested for 250 years until it was deposited in the cathedral of Havana in Cuba; and finally, when Cuba was lost to the United States, the remains of the great discoverer were again brought back to Spain.

Columbus was a tall, powerfully built man, with an aquiline nose, a pink and freckled complexion, light-blue eyes and red hair, which early became white in consequence of much thought and great sorrows. During four centuries of admiration and detraction his life and character have been dissected and torn to bits. Some have seen in him a saint, a prophet; others have called him a crafty adventurer, who stole Toscanelli's plan in order to gain power, honour, and wealth for himself. But when, about twenty years ago, the fourth century since his discovery was completed, full amends were made to his memory and his achievements were celebrated throughout the world. He opened new fields for unborn generations, he extended the bounds of the earth, and guided the world's history into new channels.

Four years before the death of Columbus, Amerigo Vespucci of Florence, who made four voyages across the ocean, suggested that the new lands had nothing to do with Asia, but were a "New World" in distinction to the Old; and a German schoolmaster, who wrote a geographical text-book, suggested in the introduction that as the fourth continent had been discovered by Amerigo Vespucci (Americus Vesputius), there was no reason why it should not be called Amerigo or America after its discoverer. The proposal was accepted, and only too late was it realised that Columbia would have been the proper name.

One discovery followed after another, and the coasts of America gradually assumed on charts and maps the form with which we are familiar. Let us for a moment dwell on another of the most striking voyages in the history of the world. In the year 1519 the Portuguese Magelhaens sailed along the east coast of South America and discovered the strait which still bears his name; and what is more, he found at last, through this strait, the western passage to India. He sailed over an immense ocean, where the weather was good and no storms threatened his ships; and accordingly he called it the Pacific Ocean. Other dangers, however, awaited him. The mariners sailed for four months over unbroken sea, suffering from hunger and disease. At last three of the vessels reached the Philippines. There Magelhaens landed with a small party, and was overpowered and slain by the natives. Only one of the ships, the Victoria, came home, but this was the first vessel which sailed round the world.

During the succeeding centuries white men struck their claws ever firmer into America. The Indians were forced back into the backwoods, and in North America they have been almost exterminated. Under French, and later, under English rule, those parts of North America have developed an unexpected power and wealth which were despised by the Spaniards, who in their boundless greed of gain thought of nothing but gold.

NEW YORK

In a house in a Swedish countryside sit an old man and woman talking seriously.

"It is a great pity," says the old woman, "that Gunnar is beginning to think of America again."

"Yes, he will never rest," replies the old man, "till we have given our consent and let him go. To-day he says that an emigration 'touter' has promised him gold and green forests if he will take a ticket for one of the Bremen line steamers. I reminded him that the farm is unencumbered, but he answered that it could not provide for both his brothers and himself. 'It was a very different thing for you, father,' he said, 'but there are three of us to divide the produce.' He thinks it is a hopeless task to grub in our poor stony hills, when boundless plains in the western states of North America are only waiting to be ploughed, and in any factory he can be earning wages so large as to yield a small income for several years."

"Yes, indeed, I know, it is his cousins who have put this fancy in his head with their glowing letters. But I suppose we cannot prevent him going if his heart is set on it?"

"What can we do? He is a free man and must go his own way."

"Well, perhaps it is best. When he is home-sick he will come back again."

"I am afraid it will be long enough before that happens. At starting all seems so fine. 'I shall soon come home with a small pile.' In reality all his memories will grow faint within a year, and the distance to the red cottage will seem to grow longer as time flies. I mourn for him as dead already; he will never come back."

* * * * *

A few days after this our emigrant Gunnar breaks all ties and tears up all the roots which since his birth have held him bound to the soil of Sweden. He travels by the shortest route to Bremen and steps on board an emigrant steamer for New York. During the long hours of the voyage the people sit on deck and talk of the great country to which they are all bound. Before the last lighthouse on the coast of Europe is lost to sight, Gunnar seems to have all America at his finger-ends. The same names are always ringing in his ears—New York, Philadelphia, Chicago, and San Francisco have become quite familiar, and he has only to insert between them a number of smaller towns, a few rivers, mountains, and lakes, to draw in a few railway lines, to remember the great country of Canada to the north and mountainous Mexico in the south, to place at three of the corners of the continent the peninsulas of Alaska, California, and Florida, and at the fourth the large island of Newfoundland, and then his map of North America is complete.

* * * * *

The voyage over the Atlantic draws to an end. One day a growing restlessness and excitement is perceptible, and the travellers cast inquiring glances ahead. It is said that the American coast will be visible in an hour. And so it is. An irregular line appears to starboard. That is Long Island. Two hours more, and the boat glides into the mouth of the Hudson River and comes alongside at Ellis Island in the harbour of New York. A row of other vessels lie moored at the quays. These also have brought immigrants to America and will soon return to fetch more. They must go backwards and forwards year out and year in to carry three thousand persons daily to the United States.

Gunnar has packed his things in good time and takes up a favourable position from which he can observe his fellow-travellers. He has never heard such a noise and never seen such bustle. The people throng the gangways, call to one another, haul out their discoloured portmanteaus and their roped bundles. There are seen Swedes and Germans, Polish and Russian Jews, Galicians and Croats mingled together, some well dressed and with overcoats, others in tattered clothes and with a coarse handkerchief in place of a collar.

Yonder, overlooking New York harbour, stands the colossal statue of Liberty, a female figure holding a torch in her right hand. When darkness lies over the earth she throws a dazzling beam of electric light out over the water, the quays, houses, and ships. But Gunnar experiences no feeling of freedom as he sets his foot on American soil. He and all his fellow-travellers are provided with numbered tickets and marshalled into long compartments in a huge hall. Then they are called out one after another to be questioned, and a doctor comes and examines them. Those who suffer from lung disease or other complaint, or being old and feeble have no prospect of gaining a livelihood, receive a peremptory order of exclusion on grey paper and must return by the next vessel to their fatherland. The others who pass the examination proceed in small steamers to the great city, where, among the four millions of New York, they vanish like chaff before the wind.

From whatever land they may come they always find fellow-countrymen in New York, for this city is a conglomeration of all the peoples of the world, and seventy different languages are spoken in it. A third of its inhabitants have been born in foreign countries. In Brooklyn, the quarter on Long Island, there are whole streets where only Swedes live. In the "Little Italy" quarter live more Italians than there are in Naples, in the "Chinese Town" there are five thousand Chinese, and even Jews from Russia and Poland have their own quarter. Gunnar soon finds that New York is more complicated than he supposed when he was rolling out on the Atlantic.

Meanwhile he decides to take it easy at first, and to learn his way about before plunging into the struggle for existence. In Brooklyn he soon meets with a fellow-countryman and gets a roof over his head. A pleasant, well-to-do railway employe from Stockholm takes pleasure in showing him about and impressing him with his knowledge of America.

"This town must be old," says Gunnar, "or it could not have grown so large."

"Old! No, certainly not. Compared to Stockholm it is a mere child. It is barely three hundred years old, and at the time of Gustavus Adolphus it did not contain a thousand inhabitants. But now it is second only to London."

"That is wonderful. How can you account for New York becoming so large? Stockholm and Bremen are pigmies beside it. I have never seen the like in my life. There are forests of masts and steamboat funnels in all directions, and at the quays vessels are loaded and unloaded with the most startling speed."

"Yes, but you must remember that the population of the United States increases at an extraordinary rate. During last century it doubled every twenty years. And remember also that nearly half the foreign trade of the Union passes through New York. Hence are exported grain, meat, tobacco, cotton, petroleum, manufactured goods, and many other things. It is, therefore, not remarkable that New York needs 36 miles of quays with warehouses, and that more than seventy steamboat lines sail to and from the port. And, besides, it is a great industrial town. Think of its position and its fine harbour! Eastward lies the Atlantic with routes to Europe; westwards run innumerable railway lines, five of which stretch right through to the Pacific coast."

"Tell me something about the railways," exclaims Gunnar, who wants to go out west at the first favourable opportunity.

"Yes, I can give you information about them, for I have been working on several lines. As far back as 1840 the United States had 2800 miles of railway, and twenty years later 30,000 miles. Now it has nearly two hundred and forty thousand miles of rails, a strip which would reach to the moon or ten times round the equator. The United States have more railways than all Europe, though the population is only a fifth that of Europe; but the area is about the same."