IN the year 1861 I reached East Africa with Bishop Mackenzie and his party. The scheme we had in view was, not only to introduce Christianity into a land hitherto devoid of every influence for good, but also to counteract, by our presence, that fearful evil, the slavetrade. It has long been the opinion of men most practically acquainted with this evil, that it is all but useless to attack, or try to suppress it, by what we may term external applications. The blow must be struck at the root of the evil. In the little jottings I am about to lay before the reader, and which are mainly taken from journals kept during a three years' residence in the interior, I shall try to bring out some of the native customs and peculiarities, and some of the customs of Europeans when sojourning amongst Africans, and generally to give as good a glimpse as I can of the normal state of things at present in East Africa. Would that all who were with me when we entered the Zambesi in 1861 werealive to join in setting our experiences before those who cheered us on SO heartily in the outset! A large proportion of them, alas! can speak no more, save when we listen to them in memory, or look on the calm faces turned towards the foe.

The remarks I have to make relate mainly to a country lying some 300 miles in from the sea. It is reached by passing in at one or other of the many mouths of the Zambesi, ascending this river for a hundred miles, and then striking up one of its tributaries, the Shiré, or Chirri, as it is pronounced. It is with this Shiré that we have mainly to do. He who first navigated its tortuous lengths as an explorer is now hard at work in preparing, as he only can prepare it, information about it for the

public. Dr. Livingstone will soon lay before us the results of his exertions and his travels in the time that has elapsed since he last wrote a book on Africa. That work no one can appreciate more than those who have in the same scenes been able to trace the minuteness of his observation, and the care and truthfulness of his records. In matters of geography and natural history his writings are photographs in words.

When the Doctor first went up the Shiré with his energetic companions, he saw at a glance that it was a road by which the tract of country parallel to the seaboard, but well behind it, could be dealt with, and with prospects of success. Livingstone traced it to its source, discovering, at the same time, Lake Nyassa, from which it flows.

Draining the lake, the Shiré flows almost due south, gathering the waters of the many tributary streams that run over the edge of the high lands of East Africa, and of that portion of them in particular on which stands Lake Shirwa, likewise opened up by Livingstone. But for one sad and common failing in African rivers, one might sail from Plymouth and reach the heart of Africa by this route without stepping on shore. As it is, the traveller has to ascend a steep staircase of cataracts, say 35 miles in extent, before he reaches the level on which lies the Lake Nyassa. We will do one day afloat, taking down a few notes as we leave the Zambesi and pass up the Shiré, and, when our water journey is ended, consider the state of things one is introduced to on reaching the high lands before mentioned.

It was during a hotter season than usual, in the year 1862, that I was returning from the Portuguese possessions with a quantity of provisions which I

had procured to relieve the famine in our little village, some 150 miles up the river. Weakened as our party was by the loss of poor Bishop Mackenzie and others, I knew I was most anxiously looked for, and most bitterly did I grudge the time that must be spent before reaching them.

For I had to do the journey in one of the rough canoes of the country, and take care that two others, following me, kept up. The canoe has little to show in improvement, I suspect, since the first one was launched. It is merely a tree, sufficiently large and sound, burnt out and trimmed up with native axes. In the middle is stowed a cargo of rice or corn; room is left at the stern for eight paddlers, sitting two and two, and a space also is arranged in front for myself. So crank and round-bottomed are these canoes that the traveller is forced to recline at his full length; the sun is kept off him by a roofing of grass thatch which keeps him, as it were, shut down-for to have it raised above a foot or so would be to incur a certain upset in the first squall of wind that might meet the canoe.

The part of the river I am about to describe is singular for a species of canalization which nature has arranged for it, as she tattoos fresh lines and wrinkles on Africa's face. Shortly after entering the Shiré, one gets to a tract, which, not many years since, was no doubt a lake. Time has altered this, and in the place of the lake there is a nearly grown-up marsh, for the river, a broad and shallow one before it comes thus far, to writhe and turn about in. When it gets to this part its whole character alters; it winds in countless turns, is narrow, and has a deep channel. One sees that in the gradual desiccating process (visible to so many African travellers) the current of this river has, in some unusually severe drought, lasting perhaps two to three years (and droughts often last that time), been reduced to a form which it still maintains with little alteration. It is true that in ordinary seasons it would quickly have regained its original space,

and the first heavy rains of the "wet season" would have spread the waters as wide as ever; but in the lengthened period of a drought a very important operation takes place. The growth of rush and water plants would now be most luxuriant along the edge of the river. Here the roots of the rank tropical vegetation are better watered than further away, where all is one hard, baked, black mass of earth sweltering in the sun. Here too a current of air is ever passing up or down the river; in short, vegetation can want nothing more, and is luxuriant beyond measure. It happens, then, that when the fires, which every hot season pass over the whole country, crackle and roar across the space that was so lately a lake, they find more to consume along the banks than further away. Thus it is that the amount of débris left from the conflagration is larger on each side of the water, and also more solid in character; for, during the period of the fires, there is every afternoon a gale of wind, for the most part blowing up the river's course, and this sweeps the flames so rapidly through the reeds that they do not get so thoroughly consumed as those that grow further away from its influence. The waters in fact cause and encourage an extra growth, and when the fires come, they act as the "navvies," taking the excess of vegetation there is along the edge to make the dam. As my canoe drags its length beneath the bank, I can trace each year's quota in the strata of red ashes and charred reed-stalks. In places a hippopotamus's path causes an outlet. for the water, and the river rushes through to try and regain its lost territory. It only wastes itself in the vast spongy marsh and the small lagoons, which give off more in evaporation than can be supplied by such means to counterbalance the effects of the sun. Throughout some thirty miles of the river in the Morambala marsh, this very interesting piece of natural engineering is to be seen. As one steps on the bank there is a dip to be gone down on the other side in nearly every spot, if one wants to walk inland many paces.

But we have not time to do more than take a look over the bank. Let us return to the canoe. My men, poor fellows, twenty-four in number, have had a very hard week's work, and I am glad to see them appreciate the day's rest they are to have as soon as we can find a less pestiferous spot to spend it in than our last night's halting-place. So it is that I am peering out, between the gunwale of the canoe and its low thatch of grass, one Sunday morning. My object was to spy out a break in the long wall of reeds, and, if luck were with us, something that would afford a little shade. At last my "Kadamo," or head man, whose bronzy back shut out the view in front as he sat kingfisher-like on the look-out for snags, sandbanks, &c., rose to his feet and got a spurt out of his companions. Dig by dig, and jerk by jerk, we crossed to the other side, and found a welcome clearing on the bank, and some half-dozen huts, standing like beehives in the midst of the steaming tobacco-gardens with which they were surrounded.

We no

The head man of this little settlement, after the formal ceremony of clapping hands, put his hut at my disposal, and cleared it out for myself and my servant, whom I was very anxious to get into dock as soon as possible, from certain symptoms which began to show, and which, without doubt, meant fever. ticed, as a rule, that any black men who had been away from their native land for some years seemed, if anything, more prone to fever and general illness than Europeans. In this case a few hours. conquered the attack, and afforded me. also a good opportunity of gaining some particulars of one of the wild superstitions of Africa.

and less defined from the time when their fathers, on the borders of old Egypt, first forgat the God that made them. I never saw aught but deep reverence and awe in them when I spoke of Him, even a fear was present at most times: levity is a thing unknown in speaking of religious matters, and beliefs such as barbarism has for its religion. And here it will not be out of place to mention that the theory will not hold good which places the East African tribes within the group of descendants from the Egyptians. Very many of the cus toms of those wondrous men, as depicted on their walls and ruins, are identical with the ways of the Manganjas 'of the present day; but those careful old limners have drawn the line for us. No better caricatures of the natives, even to their head - dress, mode of salute, dancing steps, children's hair, &c. could be depicted than we find on some of the sculptures of Thebes. They were then the "black races," if not the hard-worked slaves, the bearers of tribute, or captives with Jews and men from far countries.

But to M'Bona. He was, say his worshippers, a great and brave warrior while amongst them-a quality so rare in a race divided against itself, and paralysed by the slave-trade, that it does not seem wonderful it should lead to his being deified when dead. For death took him at last-not to cut him off from them entirely, however; for in spirit he still wields the destinies of his nation, dictating his laws to them from the heights of Kolubvi. This is done through a priestess, who, as long as she holds office, goes by the name of Zarima. Poor Zarima-I must speak out for an old friend-I am anxious to save her from the ordinary category of humbugs. She is a medium, it is true, and a black one, but I can vouch for the character of M'Bona's present wife; and she has, besides, everything to lose, nothing to gain, in her capacity. This in itself will distinguish her from the common genus impostor. On the highest peak of the mountain there is a little hut erected for her dwelling, and in this she has to pass her life, cut off from the outer world,

which thinks it sacrilege of the deepest dye to go near her. She is attended by one or two of her own sex, who provide her with the necessaries of life. Her spirit liege is supposed to abide with her, and to communicate his wishes through her, to the tribe. At times, a deputation arrives at one of the villages. at the foot of the mountain with offerings, and receives in return, corn or other seed, blessed by Zarima for the sowing, and which is sure to turn out fruitful. Mortal as others, Zarima dies at last, and then comes a fear on all the dwellers in the valley. None can tell who may have to furnish her successor. On my travels once with Mr. Stewart, we were all but eye-witnesses (certainly ear-witnesses) to the consternation that was caused by the wife of a man, well known to us, being seized to occupy that weird hut we hope to look up at to-morrow as we journey up the Shiré. The mist-cloud hangs around it, and the lightning flashes amongst peaks and trees. Man's mind in all ages seems to be struck with the awe that belongs to such places. What a pity it is his reverence for the groves and the high places should have been turned to so bad account!

There is another such mountain, a good deal higher up the river, on the left bank, called Choro, on which lives another priestess. There is a pretty tradition connected with it. The natives say it is a sure refuge for any of the Manganja race in time of war, and that, many years ago, a portion of the tribe fled to its dark glens for shelter. Here the spirits fed them day by day, hanging corn and pumpkins in the trees. I have seen the spot: a more lovely one I do not know, or one more likely to bring out romance. It has certainly been able to do it, even from natures that I suppose are not credited with any such attributes.

But my informant, who lets out more about M'Bona than he would if I did not show so much interest in his story, suddenly begins to fear he may have said too much. Indeed, as evening approaches, it is more difficult for him to make himself heard. Α hundred and one voices make a common

rejoicing at the prospect of breathing cooler air; crickets chirp, grasshoppers chirrup, the little tree-frogs in their various liveries begin their clear piping, and the skeins of spur-winged geese whistle as they pass overhead to their feeding-grounds.

I begin to hope there may be no mosquitoes to-night; but alas, the wind dies out, and in a moment they are upon us. After short prayers in a hut (which holds more cockroaches than ever I saw before in a given space), I bundle into my canoe, and, with the tactics peculiar to the operation, rig up my mosquitoe curtain to the roof in the dark, whilst lying on my back in the narrow length-withoutbreadth space I pass my days and nights in. It has been a success, and I feel soothed, whilst in my evening bath of perspiration, to hear the high-pitched yell of thousands of little blood-thirsty wretches come from without. grim satisfaction; and, although the heat of the air is close on 100°, and of the water outside me about 83° (we have registered it higher), rest seems probable.

It is a

But no; there are two hippopotami trying to get out of the river on the other side by a path that will only do for one at a time. They consequently fight, as they always do whenever a chance offers, and the noise they make is better imagined than described. One at last tumbles backwards, and the ripples caused by the splash come across and break against the side of the canoe just outside my ear. I soon have to turn and lie with my head where my feet were; the men have forgotten to bale the bilgewater out, which is redolent of fermenting rice and high waterbuck venison. This is no easy task in a narrow muslin curtain, the tearing of which, or its untucking for a second, involves a night's misery. Then comes a furious row on shore, between my twenty-four men and forty-eight villagers. Each one tries to bawl his best. It dwindles down at last into one voice, which manages to tire the others out and hold its own supreme. It is a woman's. Her grievance, from what I can make out, is that she has been kept waiting all the afternoon on the other

side of the river, no one fetching her across to take an equal chance of selling things to, and staring at, the M'Zungu, or white man.

But there was an end even to her tongue, or at least it was drowned by a battery of drums which was brought to bear. The drummers, to make victory doubly sure, kept it up with might and main till 5 o'clock A.M., at which time a cock (which I kept in a basket overhead for the purpose) began to sound the reveillé just as the 'potami tumbled back into the river, and that horrid woman saw her way to get the last word, the drums for the moment being rather piano. The head canoe-man makes coffee for me—as great a mystery to the lookers-on as is the piece of soap I am busy with. On the whole, it is a refreshing process, and seems to exhilarate them likewise, for they tune up again with fresh vigour, and bring their wives and sisters to the front to dance for my edification. Breakfast over, I make a present to my host and to the danseuses, and we all part the best of friends. I resume my place in the hollow tree, and the canoe song strikes up as the sun comes with a jump over the pepperbox-looking hills in the east.

As compared with the Natal Caffres, one finds a very radical improvement on reaching these people. When first we knew them there was a large population throughout the valley; and the natives, far from being the idle set they are often represented, in times of peace do full justice to the richness of the soil. Here too, the social organization is much higher. For instance, woman takes her proper position. She is respected and consulted at all times by her husband; he does not disdain to do the hard day's work by her side hoe in hand. The Caffre would die first.

To the husband certainly fall offices that look strange to a European eye. He must work the distaff and spindle, and he alone must be the weaver of cotton cloth, and well do I know that the muchprized needles he coaxes me out of will never be plied by his wife's fingers, any more than yon skewer-like instrument

was which they now replace. His wife, or wives-for he may have half a dozen or more (and, let me remark, with the probability of not as many quarrels be tween them in twice as many years)— have day by day to draw the water, hew the wood, and wash every cooking, drinking, and brewing utensil, to within an inch of its life. The wife must also be the brewer, and her liege looks fairly disgusted at being questioned on the secrets of the trade.

Oh that the crusty bachelor, whose motto is "organic destruction and death to all Italians," could be transported to a Manganja village on a marriage morn! At any time during three days and nights would he have the best opportunity of appreciating what, no doubt, he would call the "devil's tattoo." He must admit its variations are wonderful, as it sways backwards and forwards, not unlike a peal of church bells, and correct in time as the clatter of machinery. Sometimes there are as many as twelve drums going at once-the largest as big as a sherry butt, covered with an elephant's ear, and beaten with the hands; the smallest, no bigger than a quart measure, giving out its sound from an iguana skin belaboured by a twig.

Right well do I remember coming to a scene such as this during some of the first marches we made in the hill country. We were attracted from the main path-dry, hot, and thirsty as we were-by the sound of drums, and the consequent prospect of mowa, or native beer.

It is always considered etiquette to send a guide forward to announce the coming of strangers. We did not omit to do this; but the man was so long, and our journey also, that we did not wait for him to bring back the welcome we knew we should get from the chief, with whom we had some previous acquaintance. The clatter of the drums had hidden the sound of our approach, and we were almost in the middle of the village before we were seen. Some two or three hundred men, women, and children were dancing and singing with might and main.

I shall never forget the terror and