scale? The only hope of preserving their lives lay in once more disencumbering the expedition of the sick, who were left at Starvation Camp, whilst the remainder struggled on towards Ipoto.

The experience of the next few days might have reduced the most stout-hearted to despair. On the 10th, after an absence of thirty-six hours, the foragers returned with sufficient plantains 'to put four ounces of solid stuff into stomachs that would have required eight pounds to satisfy.' It is pathetic to read that under such conditions the officers-Stairs, Jephson, and Parke-amused themselves in drawing up fanciful menus in which dainties such as 'filets de boeuf en Chartreuse' and 'petites bouchées aux huîtres' figured with substantial items, such as roast beef unlimited, or ham and eggs and plenty of them. But the utmost extremity of endurance was almost reached. The most loyal were deserting, the bravest were cowed, when the blaze that pointed the road to Ipoto was discovered. Seventy-one men had either died, been killed, or deserted in less than ten days. Of the 200 which survived about fifty were in fair condition; the rest were 'skeletons covered with ugly grey skins, jaded and worn out, with every sign of wretchedness printed deep in their eyes, in their bodies, and movements. They could hardly do more than creep on, and moan, and shed tears, and sigh.' Such was the condition of the host that on October 18 entered the Manyuema camp.

We have no space to record how the hearty hospitality of Ipoto speedily declined to a grasping avarice which threatened to strip the entire expedition despite the formal entrance of Ismaili into blood-brotherhood with Stanley. The first care was the relief of those who had been left behind under Captain Nelson, the next to press forward on their quest. We must omit the long indictment which Stanley drew up against the Manyuemas, and of the ills which association with them brought in its train. It was absolutely necessary to leave Captain Nelson and thirty other sick men under the charge of Dr. Parke at the camp of these ruthless bandits, so for the present Stanley dissembled his wrath. The march beyond Ipoto, though not without its trials, lay through a land of abundance, and the spirit of the men rose under their altered circumstances. We have already quoted the description of a clearing in the country of Balessé. Yet another month of this toilsome struggling over obstacles and entanglements that baffle description, and their troubles would be almost ended.

On the last of November the caravan was passing through plantations which surrounded the abodes of a powerful tribe, and were beginning to breast a lofty hill, when some of the advanced scouts were seen returning rapidly, and with excited looks. They came to report that the end of the forest had been reached, and that a splendid country lay beyond it. The news soon spread through the column, and the porters hurried forward. The joy of the Ten Thousand at their first glimpse of the sea could not have surpassed the exultation of Mr. Stanley and his devoted band. The promised land was at length in sight and suggested the name of Mount Pisgah for the height that crowned the desired pasture-lands of Equatoria.

'The men crowded up the slope eagerly with inquiring, open-eyed looks, which before they worded their thoughts, we knew meant, "Is it true? Is it no hoax? Can it be possible that we are near the end of this forest-hell?' They were convinced themselves in a few moments after they had dropped their burdens, and regarded the view with wondering and delighted surprise. "Aye, friends, it is true. By the mercy of God, we are well-nigh the end of our prison and dungeon." They held their hands far out yearningly towards the superb land, and each looked up to the bright blue heaven in grateful worship, and after they had gazed as though fascinated, they recovered themselves with a deep sigh, and as they turned their heads, lo! the sable forest heaved away to the infinity of the west, and they shook their clenched hands at it with gestures of defiance and hate. Feverish from sudden exaltation, they apostrophized it for its cruelty to themselves and their kinsmen; they compared it to Hell, they accused it of the murder of one hundred of their comrades, they called it the wilderness of fungi and wood-beans; but the great forest which lay vast as a continent before them, and drowsy, like a great beast, with monstrous fur thinly veiled by vaporous exhalations, answered not a word, but rested in its infinite sullenness, remorseless and implacable as ever' (i. 267–8).

After five months of ceaseless struggle in the dim twilight of the primeval forest there followed another fortnight of hard fighting and harder climbing before the southern shore of the Albert Nyanza was gained. Here was the rendezvous appointed for meeting Emin. But no mark of his presence could be traced, no news even of his ever having visited the spot, no sign of the steamers under his command; not a canoe in which to launch from the barren and inhospitable shore, not even a tree out of which one could be made. Were they to be baffled just as they reached the goal of their long and weary enterprise? Had Emin Pasha not received Stanley's despatches or had he started to cut his way by the east

coast to Zanzibar? With the stock of ammunition they had brought so far it was hopeless to attempt to fight their way to him at Wadelai. There was nothing for it but to turn back and build a fort where the bulk of the expedition could be sheltered, whilst others returned and brought up the stores they had left in concealment beyond Ipoto, as well as the sections of the steel boat.

With the arrival of the force at the shore of Lake Albert the most thrilling act of the drama closes, but the subsequent parts of Mr. Stanley's work are hardly inferior in interest. The latter part of the first and the whole of the second volume might be fittingly described as a series of episodes whose subject and dénoûment are singularly varied. The building of the camp at Bodo and the daily life within its walls-the first meeting with Emin Pasha and his strange vacillation and misconception of his own position-Stanley's return to seek the rear-guard, and the inexplicable tale of disaster which greeted his arrival-life in the vast forest with its teeming myriads of insects and its luxuriance of life and foliage, the former of which made its woods resonant with cries uttered from a thousand unseen throats-the unique race of Wambutti pigmies, with their elfish cunning and dexterity that might rival the imps or fairies of legendary story-the discovery and exploration of the snowy range of Ruwenzori, the Mountains of the Moon, whose existence, like that of the dwarf tribes, is now first placed beyond dispute-the deposition and imprisonment of Emin and Mr. Jephson by the rebels in Equatoria—the arrangements for his convoy and that of his 600 Egyptian followers with their journey to the east coast and their safe arrival at Zanzibar--and the incomprehensible indifference (to use no stronger term) of the German Pasha to the heroic Englishmen who had braved death in a thousand forms to save him: each and all these furnish chapters that teem with life and incident, and carry the reader on unflaggingly through new and stirring scenes.

If life on the march had its full share of miseries, life in the forest was also not without its trials. Rats, fleas, and microscopically small musquitoes were among the lesser plagues; but, of all living abominations, in the fort and in the forest, the red ants were the most terrible :

'Armies of them would sometimes invade the fort from the clearing; their columns were not interrupted by the ditch. In long, thick, unbroken lines, guarded by soldiers on either flank, the innumerable insects would descend the ditch and ascend the opposite sides, over the parapets, through the interstices of the poles, over the

banquette, and down into the plaza of the fort, some columns attacking the kitchen, others head-quarters, the officers' mess-hcuse, and woe betide any unlucky naked foot treading upon a myriad. Better a flogging with nettles, or cayenne over an excoriated body, or a caustic bath for a ravenous itch, than these biting and venomous thousands climbing up the limbs and body, burying themselves in the hair of the head, and plunging their shining, horny mandibles into the flesh, creating painful pustules with every bite. Every living thing seems disturbed at their coming. Men are screaming, bellowing with pain, dancing, and writhing. There is a general rustle, as of a host of migrant creatures among the crisp, dry phrynia leaves overhead. The rats and mice, snakes, beetles, and crickets are moving. From a slung cot I have observed, by candle-light, the avengers advancing over the floor of my house, scaling the walls, searching the recesses of every layer of leaves, skirmishing among the nooks and crannies, mouse-holes and cracks; heard moaning and crying of little blind mice, and terrified squealing of motherly and paternal rats, and hailed them as a blessing, encouraging them along their career of destruction, until presently some perverse and undisciplined tribes would drop from the roof on my cot, and convert their wellwisher into a vindictive enemy, who, in his rage, would call aloud for hot glowing embers and roast them alive by thousands, until the air was heavy with the odour of frizzling and frying ants. Bad luck to them!' (i. 334-5).

We have not space to record the sad fate of Major Barttelot nor the horrors of the return journey, which rivalled those experienced on the first march to Lake Albert. The inevitable difficulties of the way were aggravated tenfold by the incorrigible folly of the Zanzibari, who would squander a week's provision at a single meal, or throw down a burden of priceless food on the mere rumour of fresh supplies at the next camping-ground. Yet trials which could be faced and overcome by manly endurance could hardly have been so intolerable to a man of Stanley's temperament as the apathy and indecision of the governor whom he risked so much to save. We had marked a score of passages for quotation, but we forbear.

But who can fail to sympathize with the astonishment of Stanley at the stamp of man to whom the charge of so vast a territory had been assigned? To Emin Pasha's high qualities of tact and temper, to his genuine concern for the welfare of his people, to the ingenuity with which he devised plans for their comfort, to his ability and gentleness, Mr. Stanley bears ample and ungrudging testimony. But the man was at heart a mere naturalist more than aught else—far happier with the scalpel than with the sceptre of command; more deeply interested in the last new-found butterfly than with

the anxious problem of pioneering an unwieldy host safe through a hostile country. When the folly of his Egyptians has perilled brave men's lives, or their lack of discipline threatened to overwhelm the caravan in ruin, one grows impatient at the apathy which, amidst such dangers, can delight in stuffing birds or dissecting monkeys' skulls.

Whatever future may be in store for the vast continent over which England has acquired so enormous a sphere of influence, and however dark the record which its annals may present of the treatment which its sons in the past have suffered at our hands, there are some names at least which will ever stand out conspicuously as upholding the Christian honour of Great Britain in this nineteenth century. Bishops Mackenzie and Hannington, General Gordon and Miss Whately, and many others might be quoted whose lives have shed the light of heaven over the dark continent and carried Gospel blessings to the sad tents of Ham. Mr. Stanley's labours have been in another and a rougher field, and we may not perhaps approve all that he has done; but he has earned full well his own place amongst the heroes of our own heroic age, and never has his well-tried gallantry been more keenly tested, or shone with purer radiance, than in the unique exploit recorded in these volumes.

ART. IV. PIOUS FRAUDS.

Blunders and Forgeries. Historical Essays. By the Rev. T. E. BRIDGETT, of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. (London, 1890.)

PIOUS frauds are mostly of the kind of which Charles Fox declared, in somewhat more forcible language than shall be repeated here, that it is easy enough to see the fraud but very hard to discover the piety. They would form a curious and interesting subject to a student of human nature who should try to examine the history of some of the most celebrated of them, and determine the relative proportions in each case of the piety and the fraud. Probably every variety of proportion would be found to exist, from the piety so unthinking that it never occurs to it to consider the morality of doing evil that good may come, to the fraud which is perfectly self-conscious and intentional, but which works under