ful or
useful as I intended. Will try to do better in 1867, and be better--more
gentle and loving; and may the Almighty, to whom I commit my way, bring
my desires to pass, and prosper me! Let all the sins of '66 be blotted
out, for Jesus' sake. May He who was full of grace and truth impress his
character on mine: grace--eagerness to show favor; truth--truthfulness,
sincerity, honor--for his mercy's sake."

Habitually brave and fearless though Livingstone was, it was not without
frequent self-stimulation, and acts of faith in unseen truth, that the
peace of his mind was maintained. In the midst of his notes of progress,
such private thoughts as the following occur from time to time: "It
seems to have been a mistake to imagine that the Divine Majesty on high
was too exalted to take any notice of our mean affairs. The great minds
among men are remarkable for the attention they bestow on minutiae. An
astronomer cannot be great unless his mind can grasp an infinity of very
small things, each of which, if unattended to, would throw his work out.
A great general attends to the smallest details of his army. The Duke of
Wellington's letters show his constant attention to minute details. And
so with the Supreme Mind, of the universe, as He is revealed to us in
his Son. 'The very hairs of your head are all numbered,' 'A sparrow
cannot fall to the ground without your Father,' 'He who dwelleth in the
light which no man can approach unto' condescends to provide for the
minutest of our wants, directing, guarding, and assisting in each hour
and moment, with an infinitely more vigilant and excellent care than our
own utmost self-love can ever attain to. With the ever-watchful, loving
eye constantly upon me, I may surely follow my bent, and go among the
heathen in front, bearing the message of peace and good-will. All
appreciate the statement that it is offensive to our common Father to
sell and kill his children. I will therefore go, and may the Almighty
help me to be faithful!"

Writing to his son Thomas, 1st February, 1867, he complains again of his
terrible hunger:

The people have nothing to sell but a little millet-porridge
and mushrooms. "Woe is me! good enough to produce fine dreams
of the roast beef of old England, but nothing else. I have
become very thin, though I was so before; but now, if you
weighed me, you might calculate very easily how much you
might get for the bones. But--we got a cow y