The Sun.
London, England, 1870-01-27 00:00:00

LETTER - FROM DR.`" LIVINGSTONE.
_ ,i 1

An interesting letter from Dr. Livingstone is published.
It is earlier in date than the last communication received,
The most xecent was dated Ujiji, May 30, 1869.. ne
following was written on the 2nd of February, 1867. lie,
could not say exactly where he was when he wrote :- -
" I have not taken my latitude here even, but reckc os
that I am about 10 deg. 10 min. south, and 31 del
50 min. east. We are probably about 4,5001
feet above the sea; but I guess that from thee
barometer, which stood at 30.00 inches at the sea level,.
now showing 25-50 'inches. I have come a long way-
about; could not go round the north end of the lake
(Nyassa), partly from want of food, partly from fear
that my Johanna men would bolt at the first sight of
danger ; and they did skedadle, after all, at the south end,
on the mere report of danger in front from the
hlaritu. Their eyes actually stood out with fear as those
of an ox sometimes do. I was then left with a following
of only nine Africans. The Johanna fellows were such
inveterate thieves, constantly stealing from their loads
and from the gardens of the people, that it was a
relief to get rid of them. I would have crossed at the
middle of the lake, but the Arabs avcided me
as if I had had the plague. No sooner did they
hear that the English were coming than off they scampered
through bush and brake across pathless forests, "Dcii tak
the hindmost." The English name was for the first time
an inconvenience. The highlands of Magomero extend
up parallel with the lake to an unknown distance. The
watershed is almost fifty miles east of the lake, and there
wo counted fifteen running burns in one day's march—
the sources of the Rovuma. Here the same process of
depopulation goes on. It is in the hands of the half-
caste Arabs. It is Agawa against hlanguaja, or as they
are called Waiyan against Wanyana. It was on this high
and cool country that poor Bishop Mackenzie hoped
to have his mission in time. At the town of Mataka,
opposite the middle of the lake and fifty miles east of it,
we saw a great many patches of English peas in full
bearing and blossom in July. The people understand the
season to plant them in, and wheat would undoubtedly
flourish if irrigated by one of the numerous springs which
run among the hills. It is a land of plenty. But instead
of the three weeks' easy canoe sail up the Zambezi
and Shire, the other route took three and a half
months' weary treadmill trudging. I had, however, an
intolerable drag in the Sepoys, and sent them all back
from Dlatakasi. I heard afterwards that seven
of them remained to let their pay run on. . . . I feel
more and more that Africa must be civilised from within.
No people can be more hopelessly bigotted than the coast
slaving tribes. Mataka is a better subject than any to be
found within 200 Miles of the coast. (Here follows
description of a gang of slaves he met.) We visited the
three most important Agawa, or Wangan chiefs near the
south end of the lake, and then went to Katosa or
Kreemasuas, an old friend, who thought that plying us
with huge baskets of beer was the proper way
of showing respect. We wanted to go up to Kirk's Renge
and avoid the Mazetu, but the people below were afraid
of those above, because they had driven back a party of
slaving Arabs. Katosa at last turned out with his wives
to carry our extra loads, rather than see his old friend at
a standstill, and the fat ladies soon shamed the young
dandies with their sharp tongues. Kirk's Range is just
the edge of a plateau, high and cold, and densely
peopled by Manganyia in their primitive state. They
go by different names, as Kanthunda—those who live on
mountains jutting out of the plateau, Chipeta—those who
live more on the plains, but pure Manganya, spinning
buaze and working iron. It is too cold, apparently, for
cotton. Their huts are plastered inside and out—even
the roofs to defend themselves against the cold. One
village was scarcely over a mile from another. They were
extremely hospitable. I gave a cloth to the headman of
the village where we spent the night, and he immediately
gave us all a bountiful supper and breakfast next
morning. . . . The had never slaved, and I spent

a good deal of time in trying to warn them against com-
mencing it. We went westwards till we imagined we were
beyond the longitude of the Mazetu, and then turned to
the north, making fer the point we left off at in 1863. We
came at last to parts where Mazetu had plundered
the year before, and once nearly walked into the hands
of a party of them out plundering. We had killed a
hartebeeste, and wore surprised to see two parties
of villagers pass us at a trot. They had escaped
from the villages to which we were bound, and
the Mazetu were actually there. We turned westward
again, but never came near the Portuguese route
to Cazembe. The map-makers have placed it too far
east. We crossed the Leang,wa. in 12.45 and about thirty
miles west of Nomberurne; then the great Leangwa
valley—the bed of an ancient lake; then mounted the
Babira plateauin the southern borders of 11 deg.south. The
watershed between Chambeze (the Zambesi is here called),
and Leangwa rises to 6,600 feet. Crossing the Chambeze
in latitude 10.35, we found in flood with clear water; but
the lines of trees which sheaved its actual banks were
only forty yards apart, and came here on the last day of
January, 1867. If lam not much mistaken we are on

the watershed we arc in search of. Luapula is in
front; but I hope to tell you better about it when we
reach Tanganyika in May next. The Barbera country
is depopulated by their own slaving. Most of
the central parts of the country are covered with
forest. Sobisa, we passed through when it was dripping
wet, for this is the rainy season, and more water falls than
I ever saw in Africa. The few people had no food to
sell, no animals could be seen, and we had, my friend,
hard lines. The few people wore living chiefly on
mushrooms; they could collect a half cwt. in a short
time—good, of course, but only for producing dreams
of the roast beef of bygone days. Trudging through
dripping forests and across sloppy, marshy places—the feet
almost constantly wet, and gnawing hunger at the inner
man—soon took the flesh off our bones. The want of salt
made the gnawing sensation worse. Of sugar I scarcely
remember the taste, but I am like a certain brood of pigs
that take to fat kindly. "We shall rest a fortnight hero.
Lost all our medicines, making me feel as if sentence of
death by fever had, as in my poor friend Mackenzie's case,
been passed upon me."

A later note received, while it gives no details, describes
the Doctor as pursuing his work under great difficulties.

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