from this supposition he increased the distance threefold. But when Arnaud arbitrarily reduces that first statement to fifteen days’ journey, it shews a thoughtless disposition; for he was not only present at the conversation with the king, but we have spoken of it among ourselves. He has, therefore, either entirely forgotten it, and his recollection has not been assisted by any notes written down at the time, which is quite necessary in these countries, notwithstanding the illness to which we are constantly liable; or he wanted to give a greater air of probability to his account by fiction, namely, by substituting thirty hours for thirty days. When I find marked on his map above Bari, “Country of the Pulunchs,” it recalls clearly to my recollection how he believed every thing without investigation, and noted down what Thibaut told him. I was sitting one day sketching on the rocks of the island: some natives stood by, who understood very well what I was doing, and I still see them—how they extended their arms horizontally, and made undulating movements, which was meant to denote a continuation of the mountains lying before us to the south, and then mentioning several names, held up their hands together, and by the thumb indicated to me that there was _one_ mountain exceeding all the others in height, whilst they looked contemptuously at the other chain of mountains. At the same time they bawled in my ears, because I did not speak, and still less could answer, so that I was nearly deaf, under which affliction they probably thought I was labouring. I got up and went down to the shore, where I saw Thibaut standing. He stretched his hand towards the south, with an enquiring look, and the people said “Pulunch,” whereupon he burst out into an Homeric laugh, and said, “that is something for Arnaud.” The latter has made a country out of this observation, and perhaps with justice.