The expense of the journey was an even more serious consideration. In these lands the dollar is almighty. If it be lacking, you must travel alone, unaccompanied, at least, by any but blacks; without other instrument but a pocket-compass, and with few weapons. You must conform to every nauseous custom; you will be subjected at the most interesting points to perpetual stoppages; the contents of your note-book will be well-nigh worthless; and unless you be one in a million, you may make up your mind that want and hardship will conduct you to illness and perhaps to death. This is one extreme, and from it to the other there is no ‘golden mean.’ With abundance of money—say £5000 per annum—an exploring party in these parts could trace its own line, paying off all opposers. It could study, if it pleases, even infusoria; handle sextants in the presence of negroes, who would willingly cut every throat for one inch of brass; and, by travelling comfortably, it would secure the best chance of return. Either from Mombasah or from Panga-ni we might have marched through the plundering Wamasai to Chaga and Kilima-njaro; but an escort of at least 100 matchlocks would have been necessary. Pay, porterage, and provisions for such a party would have amounted to at least £100 per week; and a month and a half would have absorbed the whole of our scanty supplies. Thus it was, gentle reader, that we were compelled to rest contented with a walking trip to Fuga. Presently the plot thickened. Muigni Khatib, eldest son and heir of Sultan Kimwere, a black of unprepossessing physiognomy, with a ‘villainous trick of the eye and a foolish hanging of the nether lip;’ a prognathous jaw garnished with cat-like mustachios and cobweb beard; with a sour frown and abundant surliness by way of dignity, dressed like an Arab, and raised above his fellows by El Islam, sent a presumptuous message requesting us to place in his hands what we intended for his father. This chief was then journeying to Zanzibar with fear and trembling: he had tried to establish at his village, Kirore, a Romulian asylum for fugitive slaves, and having partially succeeded in enticing away many ruffians, he dreaded the consequences. The Baloch Jemadar strongly urged us privily to cause his detention in the Island, a precaution somewhat too Oriental for our taste; he refused, however, the Muigni’s request in his own tone. Following princely example, the dancing Diwans claimed a fee for permitting us to reside. As they worded it El Ada—the habit—basing it upon an ancient present from Lieut.-Colonel Hamerton, and as they were in palpable, manifest process of establishing a local custom, which in Africa becomes law to the latest posterity, we flatly objected, showed our letters, and in the angriest of moods, threatened reference to Head Quarters. Briefly, all began to angle for bakhshish, but I cannot remember any one catching it: they revenged themselves by promising to show us a minaret, and by