subject, and the writers of more ancient date consulted, it appears that from a remote period of antiquity until a time comparatively recent, all the east coast of Africa between Abyssinia and the confines of the Cape Colony has been regarded as rich in gold. Not only did Heber use no poet's licence when he said "Where Afric's sunny fountains roll down their golden sands;" but Livingstone speaks of the practice of gold washing in the rivers. It appears that when a native discovers a particle of gold larger than usual, he carefully replaces it where he found it, believing it to be the seed of gold.
The southern gold fields are believed to be about sixty miles long and twenty broad. The extent of the northern, which lie near the Zambesi river, is not yet equally well determined; but traces of gold have been found nearer the Cape Colony.
On the receipt of Machien's proposal of annexation, which the Governor of the Cape was not in a position to accede to, without authority from home, his excellency submitted to the Cape parliament a proposal to send an exploring party to investigate the matter; to determine the best route; and to ascertain what were the facilities for procuring food and water. The parliament at once voted a sum of money for the purpose; and when the writer left the colony affairs were in progress for carrying out the designs. Meanwhile, private parties were already forming for reaching the gold fields, and various suggestions as to the best route appeared in print.
Some advocated their approach from the wertern coast, from a spot called Waalfisch, or Walich Bay; this would mean a somewhat long voyage by sea, and a still longer and much more precarious journey over land, for the gold fields lie nearer the eastern than the western coast of Africa; while Walich Bay is on the west coast. As, however, a party was forming to adopt that route, it is to be presumed that the originators of the plan had good reason for pursuing this course. Some, again, advocate the line through the Cape Colony by Hope Town, on its frontiers, thence skirting the western boundary of the Transvaal Republic by the mission station of Kuruman and Kolobeny, into Machien's territory. Others propose to start from Port Natal, and to pursue a north-western course; and a fourth class, believing that the Transvaal boers, in spite of their rowdyism and hatred of the English, would still be sufficiently alive to their own interest to further the attempt to pass through their land, advocate the adoption of that route. The man of all others best able to form a judgment, in the absence of Dr. Livingstone, one who though never actually on the spot, has been in constant communication with the great traveller, is of opinion, that the proper route will be by the Zambesi; and that in spite of the difficulty of landing at the mouth of that river, and the malaria so fatal along part of the banks, it will be better to face these perils and make a rush to the northern fields, which are not far from the Victoria falls, than to traverse the deserts from the Cape, and to risk annoyance from Kaffir chiefs and unruly boers.
The Poet.
himself.
"Who is this?" said the Moon
To the rolling Sea,
"That wanders so sadly, madly, and gladly,
Looking at thee and me?"
Said the Sea to the Moon,
"'Tis right you should know it,
This wise good man,
Is a wit and a poet;
But he earns not, and cannot,
His daily bread,
So he'll die
By-and-by,
And they'll raise a big monument
Over his head!"
Said the bonnie round Moon to the beautiful Sea,
"What fools the men of your Earth must be!"
his critic.
What knows the critic of the book?
As much, it may be, as the rook,
Perched on the high cathedral tower,
Knows of the solemn organ's power
That heaves below with tides of sound,
Ebbing and flowing all around.
As much, it may be, as at Rome,
The fly upon St. Peter's dome
Knows of the architect's design,
Who planned and built that fane divine.
As much, perchance, if truth were said,
As the hat upon the critic's head
Knows of the critic's rule or plan,
Or whether he is ass or man!
his dream of his poems.
'Twas in the starry midnight,
The wind was whirling low,
And the tall beech trees replying,
As it rocked them to and fro,
When half awake, half sleeping,
I thought that I was dead,
And floated to the gates of Heaven,
With angels at my head.
Angels; ah, well I knew them!
Pleasant, and fair, and kind;
Things of my own creation,
And children of my mind.
I looked upon their faces,
And on their sunny wings;
Their eyes as bright as morning,
Their breath like balm of springs.
And some of them were smiling
Like innocence when glad;
And some were grave and pensive,
With tearful eyes and sad.
But all of them were lovely;
They were no more than seven;
And they floated me and wafted me,
And carried me to Heaven.
"And are ye all?" I whispered,
Betwixt a smile and tear,
"Out of a thousand, only seven,
To make my light appear?
Out of a thousand, only seven,
To shine about my name,
And give me what I died for,
The heritage of fame?"
