experience—­though it weighs nothing against what he has endured—­ has proved to me that quinine is useless until after the medicine has taken effect.  My stomach could never bear quinine unless subsequent to the cathartic.  A well-known missionary at Constantinople recommends travellers to take 3 grains of tartar-emetic for the ejection of the bilious matter in the stomach; but the reverend doctor possibly forgets that much more of the system is disorganized than the stomach; and though in one or two cases of a slight attack, this remedy may have proved successful, it is altogether too violent for an enfeebled man in Africa.  I have treated myself faithfully after this method three or four times; but I could not conscientiously recommend it.  For cases of urticaria, I could recommend taking 3 grains of tartar-emetic; but then a stomach-pump would answer the purpose as well.

On the 27th we set out for Misonghi.  About half-way I saw the head of the Expedition on the run, and the motive seemed to be communicated quickly, man after man, to those behind, until my donkey commenced to kick, and lash behind with his heels.  In a second, I was made aware of the cause of this excitement, by a cloud of wild bees buzzing about my head, three or four of which settled on my face, and stung me frightfully.  We raced madly for about half a mile, behaving in as wild a manner as the poor bestung animals.

As this was an unusually long march, I doubted if the Doctor could march it, because his feet were so sore, so I determined to send four men back with the kitanda; but the stout old hero refused to be carried, and walked all the way to camp after a march of eighteen miles.  He had been stung dreadfully in the head and in the face; the bees had settled in handfuls in his hair; but, after partaking of a cup of warm tea and some food, he was as cheerful as if he had never travelled a mile.

At Mrera, Central Ukonongo, we halted a day to grind grain, and to prepare the provision we should need during the transit of the wilderness between Mrera and Manyara.

On the 31st of January, at Mwaru, Sultan Ka-mirambo, we met a caravan under the leadership of a slave of Sayd bin Habib, who came to visit us in our camp, which was hidden in a thick clump of jungle.  After he was seated, and had taken his coffee, I asked,

“What is thy news, my friend, that thou bast brought from Unyanyembe?”

“My news is good, master.”

“How goes the war?”

“Ah, Mirambo is where?  He eats the hides even.  He is famished.  Sayd bin Habib, my master, hath possession of Kirira.  The Arabs are thundering at the gates of Wilyankuru.  Sayd bin Majid, who came from Ujiji to Usagozi in twenty days, hath taken and slain `Moto’ (Fire), the King.  Simba of Kasera hath taken up arms for the defence of his father, Mkasiwa of Unyanyembe.  The chief of Ugunda hath sent five hundred men to the field.  Ough—­Mirambo is where?  In a month he will be dead of hunger.”