INTRODUCTORY. MY INSTRUCTIONS TO FIND AND RELIEVE LIVINGSTONE.
On the sixteenth day of October, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and sixty-nine, I was in Madrid, fresh from
the carnage at Valencia. At 10 A.M. Jacopo, at No. - Calle de la
Cruz, handed me a telegram: It read, "Come to Paris on important
business." The telegram was from Mr. James Gordon Bennett, jun.,
the young manager of the `New York Herald.'
Down came my pictures from the walls of my apartments on the
second floor; into my trunks went my books and souvenirs, my
clothes were hastily collected, some half washed, some from the
clothes-line half dry, and after a couple of hours of hasty hard
work my portmanteaus were strapped up and labelled "Paris."
At 3 P.M. I was on my way, and being obliged to stop at Bayonne a
few hours, did not arrive at Paris until the following night. I
went straight to the `Grand Hotel,' and knocked at the door of
Mr. Bennett's room.
"Come in," I heard a voice say. Entering, I found Mr. Bennett in
bed. "Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Stanley," I answered.
"Ah, yes! sit down; I have important business on hand for you."
After throwing over his shoulders his robe-de-chambre Mr. Bennett
asked, "Where do you think Livingstone is?"
"I really do not know, sir."
"Do you think he is alive?"
"He may be, and he may not be," I answered.