The Personal Life of David Livingstone / Chiefly from his Unpublished Journals and Correspondence in the Possession of His Family

by William Garden Blaikie

The conversation began--but Stanley could not remember what it was. "I found myself gazing at him, conning the wonderful man at whose side I now sat in Central Africa. Every hair of his head and beard, every wrinkle of his face, the wanness of his features, and the slightly wearied look he bore, were all imparting intelligence to me--the knowledge I craved for so much ever since I heard the words, 'Take what you want, but find Livingstone,' What I saw was deeply interesting intelligence to me and unvarnished truth. I was listening and reading at the same time. What did these dumb witnesses relate to me?

"Oh, reader, had you been at my side on this day in Ujiji, how eloquently could be told the nature of this man's work? Had you been there but to see and hear! His lips gave me the details; lips that never lie. I cannot repeat what he said; I was too much engrossed to take my notebook out, and begin to stenograph his story. He had so much to say that he began at the end, seemingly oblivious of the fact that five or six years had to be accounted for. But his account was oozing out; it was growing fast into grand proportions--into a most marvelous history of deeds."

And Stanley, too, had wonderful things to tell the Doctor. "The news," says Livingstone, "he had to tell one who had been two full years without any tidings from Europe made my whole frame thrill. The terrible fate that had befallen France, the telegraphic cables successfully laid in the Atlantic, the election of General Grant, the death of good Lord Clarendon, my constant friend; the proof that Her Majesty's Government had not forgotten me in voting £1000 for supplies, and many other points of interest, revived emotions that had lain dormant in Manyuema." As Stanley went on, Livingstone kept saying, "You have brought me new life--you have brought me new life."

There was one piece of news brought by Stanley to Livingstone that was far from satisfactory. At Bagamoio, on the coast, Stanley had found a caravan with supplies for Livingstone that had been despatched from Zanzibar three or four months before, the men in charge of which had been lying idle there all that time on the pretext that they were waiting for carriers. A letter-bag was also lying at Bagamoio, although several caravans for Ujiji had left in the meantime. On hearing that the Consul at Zanzibar, Dr. Kirk, was coming to the neighborhood to hunt, the party at last made off. Overtaking them at Unyanyembe, Stanley took charge of Livingstone's stores, but was not able to bring them on; only he compelled the letter-carrier to come on to Ujiji with his bag. At what time, but for Stanley, Livingstone would have got his letters, which after all were a year on the way, he could not have told. For his stores, or such fragments of them as might remain, he had afterward to trudge all the way to Unyanyembe. His letters conveyed the news that Government had voted a thousand pounds for his relief, and were besides to pay him a salary [74]. The unpleasant feeling he had had so long as to his treatment by Government was thus at last somewhat relieved. But the goods that had lain in neglect at Bagamoio, and were now out of reach at Unyanyembe, represented one-half the Government grant, and would probably be squandered, like his other goods, before he could reach them.

[74] The intimation of salary was premature. Livingstone got a pension of £800 afterward, which lasted only for a year and a half.

The impression made on Stanley by Livingstone was remarkably vivid; and the portrait drawn by the American will be recognized as genuine by every one who knows what manner of man Livingstone was:

"I defy any one to be in his society long without thoroughly fathoming him, for in him there is no guile, and what is apparent on the surface is the thing that is in him.... Dr. Livingstone is about sixty years old, though after he was restored to health he looked like a man who had not passed his fiftieth year. His hair has a brownish color yet, but is here and there streaked with gray lines over the temples; his beard and moustaches are very gray. His eyes, which are hazel, are remarkably bright; he has a sight keen as a hawk's. His teeth alone indicate the weakness of age; the hard fare of Lunda has made havoc in their lines. His form, which soon assumed a stoutish appearance, is a little over the ordinary height, with the slightest possible bow in the shoulders. When walking he has a firm but heavy tread, like that of an overworked or fatigued man. He is accustomed to wear a naval cap with a semicircular peak, by which he has been identified throughout Africa. His dress, when first I saw him, exhibited traces of patching and repairing, but was scrupulously clean.
"I was led to believe that Livingstone possessed a splenetic, misanthropic temper; some have said that he is garrulous; that he is demented; that he is utterly changed from the David Livingstone whom people knew as the reverend missionary; that he takes no notes or observations but such as those which no other person could read but himself, and it was reported, before I proceeded to Africa, that he was married to an African princess.
"I respectfully beg to differ with all and each of the above statements. I grant he is not an angel; but he approaches to that being as near as the nature of a living man will allow. I never saw any spleen or misanthropy in him: as for being garrulous, Dr. Livingstone is quite the reverse; he is reserved, if anything; and to the man who says Dr. Livingstone is changed, all I can say is, that he never could have known him, for it is notorious that the Doctor has a fund of quiet humor, which he exhibits at all times when he is among friends." [After repudiating the charge as to his notes, and observations, Mr. Stanley continues:] "As to the report of his African marriage, it is unnecessary to say more than that it is untrue, and it is utterly beneath a gentleman even to hint at such a thing in connection with the name of Dr. Livingstone.
"You may take any point in Dr. Livingstone's character, and analyze it carefully, and I would challenge any man to find a fault in it.... His gentleness never forsakes him; his hopefulness never deserts him. No harassing anxieties, distraction of mind, long separation from home and kindred, can make him complain. He thinks 'all will come out right at last'; he has such faith in the goodness of Providence. The sport of adverse circumstances, the plaything of the miserable beings sent to him from Zanzibar--he has been baffled and worried, even almost to the grave, yet he will not desert the charge imposed upon him by his friend Sir Roderick Murchison. To the stern dictates of duty, alone, has he sacrificed his home and ease, the pleasures, refinements, and luxuries of civilized life. His is the Spartan heroism, the inflexibility of the Roman, the enduring resolution of the Anglo-Saxon--never to relinquish his work, though his heart yearns for home; never to surrender his obligations until he can write FINIS to his work.
"There is a good-natured abandon about Livingstone which was not lost on me. Whenever he began to laugh, there was a contagion about it that compelled me to imitate him. It was such a laugh as Teufelsdröckh's--a laugh of the whole man from head to heel. If he told a story, he related it in such a way as to convince one of its truthfulness; his face was so lit up by the sly fun it contained, that I was sure the story was worth relating, and worth listening to.
"Another thing that especially attracted my attention was his wonderfully retentive memory. If we remember the many years he has spent in Africa, deprived of books, we may well think it an uncommon memory that can recite whole poems from Byron, Burns, Tennyson, Longfellow, Whittier, and Lowell....
"His religion is not of the theoretical kind, but it is a constant, earnest, sincere practice. It is neither demonstrative nor loud, but manifests itself in a quiet, practical way, and is always at work. It is not aggressive, which sometimes is troublesome if not impertinent. In him religion exhibits its loveliest features; it governs his conduct not only toward his servants but toward the natives, the bigoted Mohammedans, and all who come in contact with him. Without it, Livingstone, with his ardent temperament, his enthusiasm, his high spirit and courage, must have become uncompanionable, and a hard master. Religion has tamed him and made him a Christian gentleman; the crude and willful have been refined and subdued; religion has made him the most companionable of men and indulgent of masters--a man whose society is pleasurable to a degree....
"From being thwarted and hated in every possible way by the Arabs and half-castes upon his first arrival at Ujiji, he has, through his uniform kindness and mild, pleasant temper, won all hearts. I observed that universal respect was paid to him. Even the Mohammedans never passed his house without calling to pay their compliments, and to say, 'The blessing of God rest on you!' Each Sunday morning he gathers his little flock around him, and reads prayers and a chapter from the Bible, in a natural, unaffected, and sincere tone; and afterward delivers a short address in the Kisawahili language, about the subject read to them, which is listened to with evident interest and attention."

It was agreed that the two travelers should make a short excursion to the north end of Lake Tanganyika, to ascertain whether the lake had an outlet there. This was done, but it was found that instead of flowing out, the river Lugizé flowed into the lake, so that the notion that the lake discharged itself northward turned out to be an error. Meanwhile, the future arrangements of Dr. Livingstone were matter of anxious consideration. One thing was fixed and certain from the beginning: Livingstone would not go home with Stanley. Much though his heart yearned for home and family--all the more that he had just learned that his son Thomas had had a dangerous accident,--and much though he needed to recruit his strength and nurse his ailments, he would not think of it while his work remained unfinished. To turn back to those dreary sponges, sleep in those flooded plains, encounter anew that terrible pneumonia which was "worse than ten fevers," or that distressing hæmorrhage which added extreme weakness to extreme agony--might have turned any heart; Livingstone never flinched from it. What a reception awaited him if he had gone home to England! What welcome from friends and children, what triumphal cheers from all the great Societies and savants, what honors from all who had honors to confer, what opportunity of renewing efforts to establish missions and commerce, and to suppress the slave traffic! Then he might return to Africa in a year, and finish his work. If Livingstone had taken this course, no whisper would have been heard against it. The nobility of his soul never rose higher, his utter abandonment of self, his entire devotion to duty, his right honorable determination to work while it was called to-day never shone more brightly than when he declined all Stanley's entreaties to return home, and set his face steadfastly to go back to the bogs of the watershed. He writes in his journal: "My daughter Agnes says, 'Much as I wish you to come home, I had rather that you finished your work to your own satisfaction, than return merely to gratify me.' Rightly and nobly said, my darling Nannie; vanity whispers pretty loudly, 'She is a chip of the old block,' My blessing on her and all the rest."

After careful consideration of various plans, it was agreed that he should go to Unyanyembe, accompanied by Stanley, who would supply him there with abundance of goods, and who would then hurry down to the coast, organize a new expedition composed of fifty or sixty faithful men to be sent on to Unyanyembe, by whom Livingstone would be accompanied back to Bangweolo and the sources, and then to Rua, until his work should be completed, and he might go home in peace.

A few extracts from Livingstone's letters will show us how he felt at this remarkable crisis. To Agnes: