the very regions of earthly mystery; yet how profoundly and pathetically human after all in their strange disclosures!
Poets used to sing of heroes, and great actions. I do not know why they should now only spin subtle cobwebs out of their own insides. Nor, however, do I know how long a period must elapse, according to the dogmas of "culture," before a mere dead man may, (by virtue of mischievous worshipping and myth-making propensities unfortunately inherent in our race,) be considered as fairly canonized—elevated to the dignity of "a hero." But for my part, I used to think Livingstone a true hero while he was alive; and my opinion of him is only not changed now that he is dead. Our two Florences, Florence Nightingale, and Florence Lady Baker, moreover, appear to me to be heroines—though both of them (one is glad to know) are still alive. Nor should those brave exploring ladies, the Dutch Miss Tinnés, be forgotten here. At any rate, the figure of David Livingstone admirably fills the shadowy, but colossal outlines of the Explorer.
