When daylight was dying, and the sun was sinking down rapidly over the western horizon, vividly painting the sky with the colours of gold and silver, saffron, and opal, when its rays and gorgeous tints were reflected upon the tops of the everlasting forest, with the quiet and holy calm of heaven resting upon all around, and infusing even into the untutored minds of those about me the exquisite enjoyments of such a life as we were now leading in the depths of a great expanse of forest, the only and sole human occupants of it—­this was the time, after our day’s work was ended, and the camp was in a state of perfect security, when we all would produce our pipes, and could best enjoy the labors which we had performed, and the contentment which follows a work well done.

Outside nothing is heard beyond the cry of a stray florican, or guinea-fowl, which has lost her mate, or the hoarse croaking of the frogs in the pool hard by, or the song of the crickets which seems to lull the day to rest; inside our camp are heard the gurgles of the gourd pipes as the men inhale the blue ether, which I also love.  I am contented and happy, stretched on my carpet under the dome of living foliage, smoking my short meerschaum, indulging in thoughts—­despite the beauty of the still grey light of the sky; and of the air of serenity which prevails around—­of home and friends in distant America, and these thoughts soon change to my work—­yet incomplete—­to the man who to me is yet a myth, who, for all I know, may be dead, or may be near or far from me tramping through just such a forest, whose tops I see bound the view outside my camp.  We are both on the same soil, perhaps in the same forest—­who knows?—­yet is he to me so far removed that he might as well be in his own little cottage of Ulva.  Though I am even now ignorant of his very existence, yet I feel a certain complacency, a certain satisfaction which would be difficult to describe.  Why is man so feeble, and weak, that he must tramp, tramp hundreds of miles to satisfy the doubts his impatient and uncurbed mind feels?  Why cannot my form accompany the bold flights of my mind and satisfy the craving I feel to resolve the vexed question that ever rises to my lips—­“Is he alive?” O soul of mine, be patient, thou hast a felicitous tranquillity, which other men might envy thee!  Sufficient for the hour is the consciousness thou hast that thy mission is a holy one!  Onward, and be hopeful!

Monday, the 2nd of October, found us traversing the forest and plain that extends from the Ziwani to Manyara, which occupied us six and a half hours.  The sun was intensely hot; but the mtundu and miombo trees grew at intervals, just enough to admit free growth to each tree, while the blended foliage formed a grateful shade.  The path was clear and easy, the tamped and firm red soil offered no obstructions.  The only provocation we suffered was from the attacks of the tsetse, or panga (sword) fly, which swarmed here.  We knew we were approaching an extensive habitat of game, and we were constantly on the alert for any specimens that might be inhabiting these forests.