The near prospect of beggary among Ujijians made me miserable.

I could not despair, because I laughed so much at a friend who, on reaching the mouth of the Zambezi, said that he was tempted to despair on breaking the photograph of his wife.  We could have no success after that.  Afterward the idea of despair had to me such a strong smack of the ludicrous that it was out of the question.

Well, when I had got to about the lowest verge, vague rumors of an English visitor reached me.  I thought of myself as the man who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho; but neither priest, Levite, nor Samaritan could possibly pass my way.  Yet the good Samaritan was close at hand, and one of my people rushed up at the top of his speed, and, in great excitement, gasped out, “An Englishman coming!  I see him!” and off he darted to meet him.

An American flag, the first ever seen in these parts, at the head of a caravan, told me the nationality of the stranger.

I am as cold and non-demonstrative as we islanders are usually reputed to be; but your kindness made my frame thrill.  It was, indeed, overwhelming, and I said in my soul, “Let the richest blessings descend from the Highest on you and yours!”

The news Mr. Stanley had to tell was thrilling.  The mighty political changes on the Continent; the success of the Atlantic cables; the election of General Grant, and many other topics’ riveted my attention for days together, and had an immediate and beneficial effect on my health.  I had been without news from home for years save what I could glean from a few ’Saturday Reviews’ and ‘Punch’ of 1868.  The appetite revived, and in a week I began to feel strong again.

Mr. Stanley brought a most kind and encouraging despatch from Lord Clarendon (whose loss I sincerely deplore), the first I have received from the Foreign Office since 1866, and information that the British Government had kindly sent a thousand pounds sterling to my aid.  Up to his arrival I was not aware of any pecuniary aid.  I came unsalaried, but this want is now happily repaired, and I am anxious that you and all my friends should know that, though uncheered by letter, I have stuck to the task which my friend Sir Roderick Murchison set me with “John Bullish” tenacity, believing that all would come right at last.

The watershed of South Central Africa is over seven hundred wiles in length.  The fountains thereon are almost innumerable—­that is, it would take a man’s lifetime to count them.  From the watershed they converge into four large rivers, and these again into two mighty streams in the great Nile valley, which begins in ten degrees to twelve degrees south latitude.  It was long ere light dawned on the ancient problem and gave me a clear idea of the drainage.  I had to feel my way, and every step of the way, and was, generally, groping in the dark—­for who cared where the rivers ran?  “We drank our fill and let the rest run by.”