We expected to reach Shupanga on the first night. It is here that Mrs. Livingstone lies under the large baobab tree. But we did not get so far, and, as the channel of the river has changed, we passed next morning on the other side. Mrs. Macdonald was disappointed at this, as she wished to place a wreath of flowers upon the lonely grave. Neither did we see Bishop Mackenzie’s last resting-place, as it was late at night when we passed the spot. The natives perceiving that we felt an interest in these graves, spoke of them with an air of solemnity. Our boatmen were all from Mazaro, and ought to have known something of Livingstone while he stayed at Shupanga. We produced a portrait of him on the lid of a match-box, and fondly hoped they might recognise it! On June 28th, we reached Shamo, where Dr. Macklin wished to buy a score of cows for the Mission. As our big boat was apt to fall behind, he sent us on before, proposing to overtake us in a few days. Soon we were on the river Shire (more properly Chiri) which is narrower and deeper than the Zambeze.[3] Here the boatmen used their oars oftener. On getting a favourable wind they put up a small sail, but as sails are not a native contrivance, their method of using them was not very assuring. Notwithstanding the force of the current we made fair progress, but we waited longer at every landing place, in order to be overtaken by the rest of the party. Thus we had a better opportunity of seeing the country. One night we walked over to see a celebrated hot spring at the base of Morumbala. Still, we had a salutary dread of making ourselves too much at home in this malarious region. Three or four of our men in succession, suffered from fever, and as the Doctor was behind, I had to try my hand at making pills. The natives receive our medicine with such implicit faith that the cure is half effected the moment they swallow it. I took care, above all things, not to give them anything too weak. We used saline draughts both for ourselves and the natives. In malarial climes there is a craving for such beverages. One medical man told us that seidlitz powders required to be labelled ‘poison’ as otherwise they disappeared like magic. [Illustration: NATIVES CUTTING UP A HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR FOOD.]