"After leaving my house he had lodgings in Chelsea, and used frequently to come and spend the Sunday afternoon with my family, often bringing his sister, who was staying with him, and his two elder children. It was beautiful to observe how thoroughly he enjoyed domestic life and the society of children, how strong was his attachment to his own family after his long and frequent separations from them, and how entirely he had retained his simplicity of character.
"Like so many of his countrymen, he had a keen sense of humor, which frequently came into play when relating his many adventures and hardships. On the latter he never dilated in the way of complaint, and he had little sympathy with, or respect for, those travelers who did so. Nor was he apt to say much on direct religious topics, or on the results of his missionary efforts as a Christian teacher. He had unbounded confidence in the influence of Christian character and principles, and gave many illustrations of the effect produced on the minds and conduct of the benighted and savage tribes with whom he was brought into contact by his own unvarying uprightness of conduct and self-denying labor. The fatherly character of God, his never-failing goodness and mercy, and the infinite love of the Lord Jesus Christ, and efficacy of his atoning sacrifice, appeared to be the topics on which he loved chiefly to dwell. The all-pervading deadly evils of slavery, and the atrocities of the slave-trade, never failed to excite his righteous indignation. If ever he was betrayed into unmeasured language, it was when referring to these topics, or when speaking of the injurious influence exerted on the native mind by the cruel and unprincipled conduct of wicked and selfish traders. His love for Africa, and confidence in the steady dawn of brighter days for its oppressed races, were unbounded."
From a member of another family, that of Mr. Frederick Fitch, of Highbury New Park, with whom also the Livingstones spent part of their time, we have some homely but graphic reminiscences:
"Dr. Livingstone was very simple and unpretending, and used to be annoyed when he was made a lion of. Once a well-known gentleman, who was advertised to deliver a lecture next day, called on him to pump him for material. The Doctor sat rather quiet, and, without being rude, treated the gentleman to monosyllabic answers. He could do that--could keep people at a distance when they wanted to make capital out of him. When the stranger had left, turning to my mother, he would say, 'I'll tell _you_ anything you like to ask.'
"He never liked to walk in the streets for fear of being mobbed. Once he was mobbed in Regent street, and did not know how he was to escape, till he saw a cab, and took refuge in it. For the same reason it was painful for him to go to church. Once, being anxious to go with us, my father persuaded him that, as the seat at the top of our pew was under the gallery, he would not be seen. As soon as he entered, he held down his head, and kept it covered with his hands all the time, but the preacher somehow caught sight of him, and rather unwisely, in his last prayer, adverted to him. This gave the people the knowledge that he was in the chapel, and after the service they came trooping toward him, even over the pews, in their anxiety to see him and shake hands[50].
[Footnote 50: A similar occurrence took place in a church at Bath during the meetings of the British Association in 1864]
"Dr. Livingstone usually conducted our family worship. On Sunday morning he always gave us a text for the day. His prayers were very direct and simple, just like a child asking his Father for what he needed.