to be taken away—it was to them a kind of patron saint, and might, amidst all their superstition, carry them back to a time when the Portuguese tried to reach their hearts by something more sacred than merchandise or military discipline. All that we had heard of Quilimane led us to believe that it was one of the most unhealthy and undesirable places in the world. Livingstone speaks of it as a mangrove swamp, and we knew that some of his European followers had died there and been buried, although, as we afterwards discovered, the natives did not allow them to rest long in the grave. Even the Portuguese have to watch the graves of their kindred for several weeks—a circumstance which does not prepossess one in favour of the native population. With regard to the European inhabitants we learned that Quilimane had been used as a penal settlement, and that every second person we should meet must either be a convict himself or a descendant of convicts. Then as to its comforts, one of our countrymen who had visited the place complained that he had been charged an exorbitant sum for accommodation not good enough for a cow. On the 23rd of May, our steamer anchored at the mouth of the Quilimane river—a distance of twelve miles from the town. We found to our great disappointment that no one had come from the Mission to meet us. But we soon got into a small boat manned by Africans and proceeded up the river. Our black boatmen were hearty fellows, and every few minutes they struck up a lively song. The noise was something terrific! But we were delighted with their wild chants, which seemed to afford equal pleasure to the singers. I saw one man prepare a cigar, and just as he was proceeding to smoke, another song was begun. I watched with interest to see whether he would prefer his pipe to the music. At first he seemed disposed to try both; but soon he decided in favour of the song, and laid aside his twisted tobacco leaf. After we had rowed for about two miles, our boat captain shouted “Inglez” (Englishman)—and pointed to an “Englishman” coming down the river in another boat. There is a proverb that every Englishman found on this coast is sure to be a Scotchman, and it proved true on this occasion. We had the pleasure of meeting a Scotch gentleman—Mr. Fairlie—who had been hunting on the Zambeze, and who was now hasting down to meet the steamer. From him we learned that in Quilimane there was only one person that could speak English—hence we could see that our society would be very select. By the time that we arrived, it was dark. As the river had a broad border of mud, in which the natives were sinking over the knees, we could not step on _terra firma_, but had to be taken out of the boat on the shoulders of two negroes. A palanquin was brought for the lady. We now met Senhor Nunes, the British Consul, who received us kindly and conducted us to the hotel. Here our wants were attended to by half-a-dozen little black boys and one