WHEN David Livingstone, former student of Andersonian University, returned to his native country for the second time, he was everywhere greeted with applause, as a token of the high esteem in which he was held for his noble courage, enterprise, and humanity. But amid all the exciting and flattering scenes through which he passed, he was ever the same retiring and modest Scotsman. He went with his daughter Agnes to see the launching of a Turkish frigate from Mr. Napier’s shipbuilding yard, Glasgow, and after the vessel of eight thousand tons weight had been plunged into the Clyde, sending a wave of water over to the other side, they were of the party of invited guests to Shandon.
The Turkish ambassador, Musurus Pasha, who was also one of the party, travelled in the same carriage as Livingstone. At one of the stations there was great cheering on the part of the volunteers who were there drawn up.
“The cheers are for you,” Livingstone said to the ambassador, with a smile.
“No,” said the Turk, “I am only what my master made me; you are what you have made yourself.”
When the party reached the Queen’s Hotel, a working-man rushed across the road, seized Livingstone’s hand, and said:
“I must shake your hand,” then clapped him on the back, and rushed back again.
“You’ll not deny, now,” said the ambassador, “that that’s for you.”