e is off to Aden, which he reaches November 21, 1868.
Not a word can he learn of Livingstone.
He writes enquiries to Consul Webb at Zanzibar, and, in the wretched and sun-scorched little town, sets himself to wait; but not in idleness.
He works the Magdala campaign into book-form, designing in some indefinite future to publish it. (It came out five years later.) Then he falls upon a pile of good books which my interesting visit to Greece and Asia Minor induced me to purchase — Josephus, Herodotus, Plutarch, Derby's Iliad, Dryden's Virgil, some few select classics of Bohn's Library, Wilkinson's and Lane's books on Egypt, hand-books to Greece, the Levant, and India, Kilpert's maps of Asia Minor, etc. Worse heat, worse dust, and still no word of Livingstone!
New Year's Day, 1869.
Many people have greeted me, and expressed their wish that it should be a happy one, and that I should see many more such days.
They were no doubt sincere, but what avail their wishes, and what is happin