he is, perforce, halted by utter exhaustion of his means.
He meets an Arab, begs a loan for mere subsistence; and, on that account, must needs march whither the Arab goes.
Hearing of a caravan bound coastward, he writes a letter to Zanzibar in 1867, and directs that goods should be sent to him at Ujiji; and, bidding his soul possess itself with patience, he wanders with the Arab merchant for a whole year, and, in 1869, arrives at Ujiji.
There is nothing there for him; but a draft on Zanzibaho seems bent on self-destruction, and so blind, they say, that he will not see he is marching to his doom.
The ninth month brings relief — his body is cured, a small re-enforcement of men appear before him, in answer to the letter he had sent in 1867.
The new men inform him they have only come to convey him back to the coast.
He repudiates the insinuation their words convey with indignant warmth.
He buys their submission by liberal largesse, and resumes his interrupted journey westward.
e by little, I softened down; and, before night, I had shaken hands with Ulimengo.
It is the memory of several small events, which, though not worth recounting singly, muster in evidence and strike a lasting impression.
You bad fellow.
You very wicked fellow.
You blockhead.
You fool of a man, were the strongest terms he employed, where others would have clubbed, or clouted, or banned, and blasted.
His manner was that of a cool, wise, old man, who felt offended, and looked grave.
March 4, Sunday.
Service at 9 A. M. Referring to his address to his men, after the Sunday service was over, he asked me what conclusions I had come to in regard to the African's power of receiving the gospel?
Well, really, to tell you the truth, I have not thought much of it. The Africans appear to me very dense, and I suppose it will take some time before any headway will be made.
It is a slow affair, I think, altogether.
You do not seem to me to go about it in the right way — I do not mean
