As I have now made many journeys in Borneo, and seen much of forest walking, I think I can speak of it with something like certainty. I have ever found, in recording progress, that we can seldom allow more than a mile an hour under ordinary circumstances. Sometimes, when extremely difficult or winding, we do not make half a mile an hour. On certain occasions, when very hard pressed, I have seen the men manage a mile and a half; but, with all our exertions, I have never yet recorded more than ten miles progress in a day through thick pathless forests, and that was after ten hours of hard work. Of course we actually walk more than we record, as one cannot calculate the slight windings of the way; but allowing for all this, I have the strongest suspicion that Madame Pfeiffer measured her miles by her fatigue. She talks of twenty miles a day as a common performance of hers; and another visitor to this island beats her, recording walking thirty miles in one day through Bornean forests--an utter impossibility. There was an Adang man among the wax-hunters, the one who accompanied our guide for a short distance, who was pointed out to me as a model of activity, and he certainly appeared so; well built, strong, but light, he skimmed the ground; and the story is told of him, that on receiving information of the illness of his child, he started home, leaving everything behind him but his spear and a little food, and walked from forty to forty-five miles in two days. No European that I have ever seen would have had a chance with him in his own forests. Six miles a day is quite enough for any man who wishes to take his followers long journeys, unless specially favoured by the ground and the paths; Galton, in speaking of African travelling, says three miles a day with waggons, horses, and cattle, and he is of some authority. I have often thought that we must have walked twenty miles, but the bearings have always proved to me that we have seldom done half that distance. It requires great experience not to judge distance by the fatigue we feel. Whilst referring to the mistakes in the estimates of distance, I may notice the very remarkable errors into which two visitors to the Limbang have fallen. Mr. Motley[9] mentions exploring that stream to an estimated distance of one hundred and fifty miles, by the windings of the river, and about fifty in a general south-west direction. He reached the Limbuak village, which by my measurement is under twenty miles in a straight line from the mouth: fifty miles in a direct line to the south-west, would have nearly brought him to the Baram, across numerous ranges of hills, and several navigable streams, and a hundred and fifty miles up the river would have brought him nearly to the farthest point I reached, long past the limestone districts. It proves how impossible it is to trust to estimates.