ty left Uganda and turned their faces to the Congo, resolved to follow the great river down to the sea. His gifts of leadership were at their highest in this memorable march, from the time that he left Nyangwe, in November, 1876, to his arrival at Boma, near the Congo estuary, in August, 1877.
He had to be everything by turn in this space of ten eventful mouths — strategist, tactician, geographer, medical superintendent, trader, and diplomatist.
There were impracticable native chiefs to be conciliated, the devious designs of that formidable Arab potentate, Tippu-Tib, to be penetrated and countered, inexorably hostile savages to be beaten off by hard fighting.
The expedition arrived at Boma, a remnant of toil-worn men, weakened by disease, and very nearly at the point of starvation.
Stanley's white companions had perished, and his native contingent had suffered heavily; but the allotted task was accomplished, and the silent pledge, registered by Livingstone's grave, had been fulfill
appear at all; and beyond the line of the lakes, and north of the tenth degree of south latitude, the blank of the interior is still as conspicuous, and almost as unrelieved, as it was two-and-twenty years earlier.
By 1882, there is a great change.
The name of Stanley has begun to be written indelibly upon the surface of the Continent.
The vague truncated Congo, or Zaire is the Livingstone River, flowing in its bold horseshoe through the heart of the formerly unexplored region, with Stanley Falls just before the river takes its first great spring westward, and Stanley Pool a thousand miles lower down, where, after a long southerly course, the mighty stream makes its final plunge to the sea. Tributary rivers, hills, lakes, villages, tribal appellations, dot the waste.
Uganda is marked, and Urua, and Unyanyembe.
If we pass on to the present day, and look at any good recent map, the desert seems to have become — as, indeed, it is — quite populous.
There is no stretch of unknown