that tread the deep, faded slowly from view, and looking westward,
the African continent rose, a similar bank of green verdure to
that which had just receded till it was a mere sinuous line above
the horizon, looming in a northerly direction to the sublimity of
a mountain chain. The distance across from Zanzibar to Bagamoyo
may be about twenty-five miles, yet it took the dull and lazy
dhows ten hours before they dropped anchor on the top of the
coral reef plainly visible a few feet below the surface of the
water, within a hundred yards of the beach.

The newly-enlisted soldiers, fond of noise and excitement,
discharged repeated salvos by way of a salute to the mixed
crowd of Arabs, Banyans, and Wasawahili, who stood on the beach
to receive the Musungu (white man), which they did with a general
stare and a chorus of "Yambo, bana?" (how are you, master?)

In our own land the meeting with a large crowd is rather a tedious
operation, as our independent citizens insist on an interlacing of
fingers, and a vigorous shaking thereof before their pride is
satisfied, and the peaceful manifestation endorsed; but on this
beach, well lined with spectators, a response of "Yambo, bana!"
sufficed, except with one who of all there was acknowledged the
greatest, and who, claiming, like all great men, individual
attention, came forward to exchange another "Yambo!" on his own
behalf, and to shake hands. This personage with a long trailing
turban, was Jemadar Esau, commander of the Zanzibar force of
soldiers, police, or Baluch gendarmes stationed at Bagamoyo.
He had accompanied Speke and Grant a good distance into the
interior, and they had rewarded him liberally. He took upon
himself the responsibility of assisting in the debarkation of