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places in the world. A white man had never before visited it, and as these tribes never visit the coast, not one of them had ever seen a European, though such beings had often been heard of, and were regarded as a superior order of intelligences or "spirits," which make the wonderful things brought to them by their traders. The Bakalai chief, who acted as his guide and protector, willing to make the most of the opportunity, sent a herald in advance to announce his advent, and then proceeded in solemn state, "proclaiming in the most magniloquent manner the many virtues of the great white man or spirit whom he had brought to see his countrymen."

At first all was awe and alarm at his presence. Then followed great rejoicings among all the people, because "the white man who makes the guns, the cloth, the beads, the brass rods, and the copper rings" had come among them, and at length he was escorted into the royal residence, and was presented with the "kendo," or ensign of royalty, and so became joint king of Ashira. And then, that he might feast right royally, a young and fat slave was brought to him to be killed and served up for his supper. These people fully believed that the white man was a veritable spirit come to them from another world, and his clock and music-box, which he allowed to be in sight, were supposed to be his attendant spirits; and the steady ticking of the clock by night proved to be the best possible protection for his goods against the universally prevalent theivishness of the Africans. Of the country and people the writer gives a glowing account, which we have not room for.

A terrible up-hill journey of more than a hundred miles, through tangled woods, among rocks and over swollen mountain streams, (it was the rainy season,) with an occasional encounter with gorillas, brought the traveler and his escort after a journey of ten days to the country of Remandji, king of the Apingi, where he was received as a spirit, and a young slave was brought him to be used for his supper, which when he declined all were greatly amazed, as they had always supposed that white men were especially fond of human flesh, and that the slave-trade was carried on for the purpose of supplying the tables of white men with the flesh of young negroes. Nor could they be made to comprehend what other use could be made of them. The Apingi were no less gratified at the idea of having

a spirit among them than had been the Ashira, and hoping to profit by his presence they presented him a formal request that he would make them "a pile of beads as high as a tree,” and also "cloth and brass kettles, and copper rods, and guns and powder." This request was presented by the king in person, after a full consultation with the tribe, who were gathered by thousands, and who seconded the request by a vociferous Yo! yo! and it was with much difficulty that he could persuade them that he could not do as they desired. The failure of that purpose did not however cost him the loss of their favor.

The Apingi are an athletic race of negroes, much lighter colored than those nearer the coast, not especially addicted to war, and more industrious than most of their neighbors, for even the men do some work. They are skillful in the manufacture of a cloth made from the bark of a species of palm. They dwell permanently in one place, but have no flock or herds. Slavery exists among them, but only in a mitigated form.

On the twenty-eighth of December, 1858, our traveler left Remandji's village determined to proceed as far eastward as practicable, and if possible to reach the tribes of which he had been told residing three days' journey in that direction. Twenty-five miles were made the first day. The next day the traveling was excessively severe, and the weather stormy; they traveled due east by the compass, but made less headway than on the first day. The third day the country continued to be rough, and an almost total absence of animal life was noticeable. "The gloom of the woods," he writes, "was something quite appalling to the spirits. It seemed a fit place for the haunts of some sylvan monster, delighting in silence and the shades of night." Another day, the last of the year, brought them nothing new. The country was still an awful solitude. On New Year's day, 1859, they pushed forward with light burdens and a desperate purpose to reach the looked-for country and people, but in vain. The traveler's last pair of shoes entirely gave out, and his feet were terribly lacerated. Their provisions were all spent, and on every side appeared only solitude and desolation. To proceed was impossible, and the hope of being able to return not flattering.

Then finding it impossible to advance further, I sent two men to climb the highest tree in sight and fasten the American flag at the

top. When it floated on the breeze I made my men give three cheers for the star-spangled banner, and divided the remainder of my brandy among them.

"Having eaten our dinner and breakfast and supper, all in one, I drank a glass of wine to the health of friends at home, then carefully bandaged my feet with the sleeves of my shirt, forced them gently into the ragged shoes, and we set out on our way back. It was a sorry day for me. It seemed too great a disappointment to stand as I did just here, to have within my grasp almost the solution of an important geographical problem, and to have to leave it unsolved."-Pp. 513, 514.

The retreat was not sounded any too soon for the safety of the poor overdone wayfarers, who scarcely found strength to carry themselves back to their friends, where they arrived more dead than alive. Du Chaillu himself was completely prostrated by a fever attended with delirium, and only by the most careful nursing was kept alive and brought back to consciousness and at length to health. His explorations were ended, and he set his face, first toward the coast, and then toward home.

His suggestions as to the geography of equatorial Africa are at least worthy of consideration, though it is yet too soon to speak confidently on those questions.

The mountain range which I explored on my last journey, and which is laid down on the map as far as my extreme point or terminus, seems to me, beyond doubt, to be a part of a great chain extending nearly across the continent without ever leaving the line of the equator more than two degrees. Not only were the appearances such, as far as I was able to penetrate, but all accounts of the natives and of their slaves tend to make this certain. Some of the slaves of the Apingi are brought from a distance to the eastward, which they counted as twenty days' journey, and they invariably protested that the mountains in sight of their present home continue in an uninterrupted chain far beyond their own country, in fact as far as they knew.

Judging, therefore, from my own examination, and from the most careful inquiries among the people of the far interior, I think there is good reason to believe that an important mountain range divides the continent of Africa nearly along the lines of the equator, starting on the west from the range which runs along the coast north and south, and ending in the east probably in the southern mountains of Abyssinia, or perhaps terminating abruptly to the north of Captain Burton's Lake Tanganyika.-Preface.

It is pretty certain that the water-shed between the basin of the Tsad and the Niger on the north, and the great southern basin drained in part by the Zambezi, is nearly coincident with

the equator; nor is it improbable, as this writer suggests, that the impenetrable forests of this mountain range and its savage inhabitants together put a stop to the victorious southward course of the Mohammedan conquest.

His closing estimate of his own exploits is at once comprehensive and satisfactory, an allowable claim upon the great world for a just recognition of what he has done, as a contributor to its stock of valuable knowledge:

. I traveled, always on foot, and unaccompanied by other white men, about eight thousand miles. I shot, stuffed, and brought home over two thousand birds, of which more than sixty are new species, and I killed upward of one thousand quadrupeds, of which two hundred were stuffed and brought home, with more than eighty skeletons. Not less than twenty of these quadrupeds are species hitherto unknown to science. I suffered fifty attacks of the Áfrican fever, taking to cure myself over fourteen ounces of quinine. Of famine, long-continued exposures to heavy tropical rains, and attacks of ferocious ants and venomous flies, it is not worth while to speak.

The later explorations of Dr. Livingstone and those of Lieutenant Speke are still unfinished, and are proper matter for the newspaper rather than the review. Doubtless further valuable contributions to geographical and ethnological science will be made by them. Events seem to indicate that the next great movement in the drama of the world's affairs will be in Africa, which indeed presents a broad and hopeful field for the exercise of the giant energies of the age.

ART. V.-THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT IN HEBREW

TRANSLATION.
[FIRST ARTICLE.]

A PERFECT translation is one that conveys to the mind of the reader, without either excess or deficiency, the thought as it lay in the mind of the writer. The two constituent elements of every thought thus expressed are the idea and the emotion. Both must be transferred, the one neither enlarged nor diminished, the other neither strengthened nor weakened. They are addressed to two departments of the soul, the one to the intelFOURTH SERIES, VOL. XIV.-6

lect as something to be known, the other to the affections as something to be felt. They are logically separable, though indivisible in fact. The idea can never be clearly given without the emotion; the emotion can never be felt in its spiritual heartiness without accuracy in the accompanying idea. When the first element predominates translation is comparatively easy. It is in such case mainly the transfer of the force of single equivalent words from one language to another. Such equivalents may always be found, or periphrases that do not change the sense; since what would affect the strength may not impair the fullness or clearness of a sentence. When the second element, of emotion, so prevails as to give character to the passage, translation becomes far more difficult; a perfect translation is sometimes impossible. The reason of this is that the emotion of a sentence, as distinguished from the fact or knowledge conveyed, rests mainly in some peculiar collocation of the words, giving rise to emphasis and surprise, or in some peculiar effect of those parts of speech we style the particles. It resides, sometimes, in the very absence of words, paradoxical as such an assertion may at first appear. It may dwell in an ellipsis, from which it would be driven out by any attempt at filling up. The tender breath of its being is conveyed in the delicate implication of some connective particle, and it perishes the moment we attempt to reduce that particle to a thought, or to render it by any word containing a distinct logical statement. These little words are the emotional germs of a sentence. They are called particles (particula) merely in reference to the diminutive space they occupy; but this mere quantitative term is far wide of their spiritual significance. They are rather articles, the articulations or joints of a sentence, without which all its bone and muscle of nouns and verbs would have no power of moving or of being moved. Without these, or idiomatic constructions having a similar power, there would be nothing in language but a siccum lumen, a dry intelligence. They are the nerves, the nervous pulsations; they are the cells of life, yea, the very life itself.

Hence we say it is very difficult, sometimes impossible, to convey these germinal elements of emotion from one language to another. It has been maintained that there is always to be found some method of exact translation. When there is a

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