On our journey out we saw little or nothing that calls for remark. Flying fish and frisking dolphins are great wonders at first, but one soon gets used to them. Intending travellers sometimes trouble themselves by speculating about the evils of intense heat and sea-sickness. But our thoughts went beyond these annoyances, knowing as we did that we should have to grapple with the malaria of tropical rivers and mangrove swamps. Still we found it a distressing experience to be shut up in an underdeck cabin with the port-holes closed. It is a pity that ships have no apparatus that would shut when the waves come up and open when they recede: modern mechanics ought to solve this problem. With regard to sea-sickness, however, we seem with all our science to be no better off than our fathers. We are told that the motion of the vessel disturbs “cerebral circulation”. We are thankful for this information, but all the same we must resolutely keep down our heads on the pillow! By the 22nd of May, 1878, we passed the mouth of the Zambeze. As we gazed on the spot where the great river discharges itself into the sea, well might our thoughts turn back to the time long gone by when the Portuguese missionaries used to land there. These men had stations all along the Zambeze before there was any European settlement at Quilimane. The name Quilimane, or more correctly Quelimane (Kwelimani) is said to represent two native words which mean “Come and hoe”. This derivation I heard from the Portuguese, and I have no hesitation in preferring it to one given by Captain Burton, which would make the name mean “From the hillock”. “Kwe-limani” might almost mean “Come and hoe” in the Yao language. The tradition is that an old missionary found out the place, which was then under a native chieftainess; and on requesting her permission to settle, he was told that he might “come and hoe”. The native name for Quilimane is Chuambo, which other dialects make Chuabo and Chiwambo. The old missionaries worked hard, and in course of time they had a convent of considerable importance at Quilimane. But many are the changes that take place amidst the lapse of centuries—the Quilimane river now flows over this consecrated ground. The church of Luabo at the mouth of the Zambeze was the victim of a similar fate. Houses “built on the sand” are peculiarly unstable on the margin of a great tropical river. Alas! those missionary efforts of the remote past have left no trace behind them except in a few chants still sung by the boatmen of Mazaro, who keep time with their paddles to the tune of some old missionary hymn. One of the greatest favourites begins “Sina mama, sina baba,” and the burden of it is “I have no father, I have no mother: thou, O Mary, art our mother”. We were told that the belfry of the church of Luabo stood out in the middle of the broad Zambeze long after the rest of the building was submerged. The natives would not allow the old bell