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Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley, part 2.13, chapter 2.16 (search)
e is off to Aden, which he reaches November 21, 1868. Not a word can he learn of Livingstone. He writes enquiries to Consul Webb at Zanzibar, and, in the wretched and sun-scorched little town, sets himself to wait; but not in idleness. He works the Magdala campaign into book-form, designing in some indefinite future to publish it. (It came out five years later.) Then he falls upon a pile of good books which my interesting visit to Greece and Asia Minor induced me to purchase — Josephus, Herodotus, Plutarch, Derby's Iliad, Dryden's Virgil, some few select classics of Bohn's Library, Wilkinson's and Lane's books on Egypt, hand-books to Greece, the Levant, and India, Kilpert's maps of Asia Minor, etc. Worse heat, worse dust, and still no word of Livingstone! New Year's Day, 1869. Many people have greeted me, and expressed their wish that it should be a happy one, and that I should see many more such days. They were no doubt sincere, but what avail their wishes, and what is happin
Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley, part 2.13, chapter 2.22 (search)
had found the Doctor, and restored the weary old man's spirit and confidence, induced him to join in an exploration trip round the north end of Tanganyika, which proved that there was no river flowing out of the lake, and therefore that no connection was possible with the Nile system. But Livingstone still believed that he was on the track of the great Egyptian stream. He persisted in regarding his Lualaba as one of the feeders of the Nile, and he was in search of the three fountains of Herodotus, in the neighbourhood of Lake Bangweolo, when he made his last journey. It was reserved for Stanley to clear up the mystery of the Lualaba, and to identify it with the mighty watercourse which, after crossing the Equator, empties itself, not into the Mediterranean, but into the South Atlantic. Stanley regarded himself, and rightly, as the geographical legatee and executor of Livingstone. From the Scottish missionary, during those four months spent in his company in the autumn of 1871,
Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley, part 2.13, chapter 2.23 (search)
names? he asked, with the corrugation of a frown on his brow. I called them, sir. By what right? he asked. By the right of first discovery, and those two gentlemen were the patrons of the expedition. How can you say that, when Herodotus spoke of them twenty-six hundred years ago, and called them Crophi and Mophi? It is intolerable that classic names like those should be displaced by modern names, and-- I humbly beg your pardon, Mr. Gladstone, but Crophi and Mophi, if they ever existed at all, were situated over a thousand miles to the northward. Herodotus simply wrote from hearsay, and-- Oh, I can't stand that. Well, Mr. Gladstone, said I, will you assist me in this project of a railway to Uganda, for the suppression of the slave-trade, if I can arrange that Crophi and Mophi shall be substituted in place of Gordon Bennett and Mackinnon? Oh, that will not do; that is flat bribery and corruption ; and, smiling, he rose to his feet, buttoning his coat
Henry Morton Stanley, Dorothy Stanley, The Autobiography of Sir Henry Morton Stanley, part 2.13, chapter 2.29 (search)
hard. Stanley gave her a bathing-house and canoes. I gave her roses. One day Stanley told me that a case full of books had just arrived, which we could unpack together in the evening. The case was opened, and I greatly rejoiced at the prospect of book-shelves crammed with thrilling novels, and stories of adventure. Stanley carefully removed the layers of packing-paper, and then commenced handing out . . . translations of the Classics, Euripides, Xenophon again, Thucydides, Polybius, Herodotus, Caesar, Homer; piles of books on architecture, on landscape gardening, on house decoration; books on ancient ships, on modern ship-building. Not a book for me! I exclaimed dismally. Next week, another case arrived, and this time all the standard fiction, and many new books, were ranged on shelves awaiting them. Stanley's appetite for work in one shape or another was insatiable, and the trouble he took was always a surprise, even to me. Nothing he undertook was done in a half-and-hal