Choir. The white man will make us glad! Sh-sh-sh
Sh - - -sh-h-h - - -sh-h-h-h-h-h!
Um-m - mu - -um-m-m - - sh!
This is the singular farewell which I received from the Wanyamwezi
of Singiri, and for its remarkable epic beauty(?), rhythmic
excellence(?), and impassioned force(?), I have immortalised it in
the pages of this book, as one of the most wonderful productions of
the chorus-loving children of Unyamwezi.
March 13th. - The last day of my stay with Livingstone has come
and gone, and the last night we shall be together is present, and
I cannot evade the morrow! I feel as though I would rebel against
the fate which drives me away from him. The minutes beat fast,
and grow into hours.
Our door is closed, and we are both of us busy with our own
thoughts. What his thoughts are I know not. Mine are sad. My
days seem to have been spent in an Elysian field; otherwise, why
should I so keenly regret the near approach of the parting hour?
Have I not been battered by successive fevers, prostrate with
agony day after day lately? Have I not raved and stormed in
madness? Have I not clenched my fists in fury, and fought with
the wild strength of despair when in delirium? Yet, I regret to
surrender the pleasure I have felt in this man's society, though
so dearly purchased.
