The joy of finishing and of finishing well! How passionately good men
have coveted for themselves that ecstasy! I think of those pathetic
entries in Livingstone's journal. 'Oh, to finish my work!' he writes
again and again. He is haunted by the vision of the unseen waters, the
fountains of the Nile. Will he live to discover them? 'Oh, to finish!'
he cries; 'if only I could finish my work!' I think of Henry Buckle, the
author of the _History of Civilization_. He is overtaken by fever at
Nazareth and dies at Damascus. In his delirium he raves continually
about his book, his still unfinished book. 'Oh, to finish my book!' And
with the words 'My book! my book!' upon his burning lips, his spirit
slips away. I think of Henry Martyn sitting amidst the delicious and
fragrant shades of a Persian garden, weeping at having to leave the work
that he seemed to have only just begun. I think of Doré taking a sad
farewell of his unfinished _Vale of Tears_; of Dickens tearing himself
from the manuscript that he knew would never be completed; of Macaulay
looking with wistful and longing eyes at the _History_ and _The Armada_
that must for ever stand as 'fragments'; and of a host besides. Life is
often represented by a broken column in the church-yard. Men long, but
long in vain, for the priceless privilege of finishing their work.