I now publish the notes I wrote the 1st of September at Zinga–a place which will ever be memorable to me as that from which I viewed the sad end of Francis Pocock in 1877.
          The only thing left to the traveller to study in this region is the human aborigine. His gun, which he always faithfully carries with him, loaded with scraps of iron and copper, has driven away every other creature except such as are domesticated and subject to his interests. {314}
          “He is not a bad fellow, provided the traveller has the happy fortune to impress him with confidence that he risks no personal interest or inconvenience in accepting him as a friend. He is somewhat of a traveller himself, and this in a manner creates a fellow-feeling; but he is easily provoked to cry out ‘Mandaka mabi,’ or ‘Evil designs,’ and if he is really serious, and cannot be persuaded to think otherwise, previous acts of friendship or kindness are soon forgotten, coolness follows and a drinking-bout fit a market gathering will serve to increase the trouble, and, to use his own words, ‘The road is dead.’ He is aware that to ‘kill the road’ is to incur punishment or retribution elsewhere, unless he means to retire from the caravan business. As he has meted out to others, he is in danger of its being meted to him, if he travels away from home. The bruit of the rupture soon spreads over a wide area, and the name of the offending district and village is extensively published. At the same time he is such a thoughtless being, especially on a drinking-spree, that forgetful of this, he often gives vent to a raging humour.
          “To an expedition of some strength whose only object was exploration, this rupture and closing of the road would matter little beyond the bad repute of having successfully forced its way through; but to one like ours, which hopes to make every man useful, for all time to come, to himself and country and tribe, it would be lamentable, if not fatal. Howsoever we might emerge from a conflict, a delay of many months would {315} ensue, besides vexatious parleying and explanation, and extravagant presents to every person of consequence.
          “To-day the natives returned from the market are very hilarious, even in a worse state in many cases, proving that many gourds of palm-wine have been emptied. They are very numerous round the camp; but fortunately we have surrounded it with brushwood, not against attack, but to prevent a temptation to it during their arrogant moods, and to prevent them from laying their hands on property not belonging to them. If they were much tempted and unreasonable in their inebriety, it might lead them to commit acts which they would ever regret afterwards.
          “There are six chiefs in Zinga district, Mvula, Monanga, Nzabu, Makanga, Kiubi, and Nsaka. In the aggregate these govern eighteen villages, averaging fifteen houses, or grass huts, each, say altogether about 270 houses, spread over an area of about fifteen square miles. If we allow five souls to each house, Zinga district will have a population of 2,350 souls, or ninety souls to the square mile.
          “Close to Zinga are many populous districts. East lie Mowa and Massassa; west are Mbelo, Bukala, Suki, Kilanga, and Kinzore.
          “I perceive, by looking around from my camp, that these several communities have settled near or under the groves which crown the summit of almost every hill; that they are ancient for a country left to the haphazard care of patriarchal chiefs ignorant of written laws. {316}  “Monango and his brother Mvula are very old men, probably near eighty. Yangassa of Nzabi district is white-headed; in the village of Mpakambendi there were three men between sixty and eighty years old. None of these aged men know of any other grove as the landmark of his village, but that which rises high above his grass-covered hamlet, and affords him friendly protection from the sun during his open-air meetings.

          “The oldest, tallest, and most conspicuous tree for height, girth, and umbrageousness may be 200 years old. It was not by an accident it grew there; of that one feels assured by comparing the hill on which it grows with other hills. It was planted by the founder of the community which now flourishes under its shade. No disastrous event can have marred the growth of the groves, though the community must have often suffered from small-pox, dysentery, fetishism, and internecine squabbles. Had the community utterly perished, the grove had died; the fires during the month of August, September and October recurring at each year penetrate further and further in such cases until at last the wild grass covers all.
          “Reflecting on these things, a certain amount of respect is inspired in one as he gazes reflectively upon the scene. I am not ashamed to confess to feeling even something like reverence, – not for the hutted village, for the huts are mere mushrooms, scarcely one of them being older than three years – not for the individuals who own the houses, for few of them can boast of having seen three generations, – but for the {317} community collectively which, despite many vicissitudes, sad domestic events, evils belonging to crassest ignorance, low morals, &c., has maintained its own, clung together, and flourished, become possessed of traditions, and still promises, if it can bear the influence of these novel events, of iron steamers, engines and strange objects rolling overland close to its villages without convulsion, to last for many generations yet.” 
          On September 2nd, the axle-tree of the boiler wagon snapped in two. We took out the piece of English elm, which had arrived from the honest English wagon-maker only about a year ago. It was perfectly rotten. Externally it looked a piece of fine wood well painted. It was four feet one inch long, seven inches by five inches thick, and only weighed twenty-three pounds! An exact duplicate of this made in African guaiacum weighed eighty-one pounds.
          Across the Inkissi River Albert built a strong bridge, over which the five-ton wagons rolled safely.
          On the 14th of September, being incapacitated with a slight fever, I turned the command over to Lieut. Braconnier, and, for the first time, he had charge of the wagons. I requested him to take them down the slope of a hill to a camp at the river-side. Five minutes after he had taken the command, he was brought back, supported between two men; he was limping, and deathly pale, his body considerably bruised, and his shirt in tatters. Some confused command had been given, while the wagon was on the slope. This caused a misunderstanding, in the midst of which the boiler {318} wagon shot down the hill, and one of the trailing ropes gliding swiftly down caught the officer, and dragged him over the rough road at a frightful speed until the wagon ran into a tree, smashing the shafts, and damaging the boiler. Fortunately, beyond a severe bruising and a shock to the nerves, the officer suffered no harm. He was, however, placed on the sick list, and left at a small ferry which we established at Kinsendé a few days later, where he remained for several weeks.

          On the 18th of September our boats were in the Congo again, to avoid the terribly broken country east of the Inkissi, and which continues to beyond Kinduta. By the river we ascended past Msaropala’s narrows, where the Congo is only 400 yards wide, sometimes by ropes helping the steamer through the rapids until we arrived at the confluence of the Lubamba with the Congo at the foot of the Lady Alice Rapids. Here the expedition on the 11th of October crossed to the south bank, to a small cove in Kinsendé district, the chief of which is Luemba.
          Four days later a road, that cost much labour, had been made to the Ufuvu River, the steamer, the boiler and engines had been mounted on their respective wagons, and were preparing to depart, when two shots were fired on the opposite side, and through the binocular I recognised Susi and his squad from Kintamo with the asses that we had given Ngalyema. The whale-boat in a short time transported the people across, and as Susi’s tale was interesting, I will give it in his own words:–
          “The news from Ngalyema is good and bad. That moon in which you left us at Kintamo passed peacefully away without trouble, but the next moon, some native traders from Zombo came, and asked us what we wanted in the country. ‘Leave them alone,’ said Ngalyema. ‘What is that to you? They are staying in my village; they therefore must be my friends.’ From the people, however, they learn that Ngalyema had invited a white man to settle with him, and that we were the white man’s people. ‘Very well,’ said they; ‘if that is the case the country is dead; we come no more. It will be no place for trade for us if the white man comes. They left Kintamo, and went to {320} the Wambundu, the real owners of the country-for Ngalyema himself has no country. What he has been saying to you about his being a big king, and all that, is all boasting. The Wambundu, not having seen any white man, were frightened, and came storming to Ngalyema, asking, ‘Is this the way you behave, after we gave you ground to live on and trade; that you take upon yourself to say who shall come into the country? Very well; we shall kill your trade, your markets shall be closed, and you will die of hunger.’ For several days there was no market, and the people began to suffer for want of food. Then Ngalyema’s chiefs and great men came to him, and insisted that we should be sent away, otherwise they would go, and live at Kinshassa.

          “Ngalyema stood alone against them, for a few days more, but it was clear to us that he would have to yield before long. We had not long to wait. He said to us one day, ‘You must go back to your father. Take the goods and the asses with you. I send the asses because they have a great name, and much of this trouble has arisen because of them.’ Then I said, ‘Our father gave us fifteen loads here, and we are but eleven men; how can we carry all of them?’ He replied, ‘That is nothing to me. Do you not see that the country will die if you stay here longer? Go and tell your father not to come on this side, but to return and build with Bwabwa Njali.’ He put us into a canoe, and we travelled from Kintamo here, having paid seven pieces of cloth to that wicked Bwabwa Njali. I have ended.” {321}
          In the narrative of Susi, despite the apparent gloominess of our prospects, I found one piece of consoling information. Ngalyema, in our absence, overawed by the unanimous hostile feeling of the ivory-traders at Kintamo, had at last yielded to their wish to sever all connection with the white men, and we might no doubt be assured that he would become as active an opponent as he had been a friend. But it transpired that Susi, during a residence of a few weeks there, had discovered that Ngalyema’s fine assumption of principal chieftainship was simply vanity and arrogance. He was a Mteké ivory-trader, who owned a large number of armed slaves, one of many similar chief’s in the territory of the Wambundu. Kintamo, or Ntamo, then, was merely a village of a foreign community. True, the Wambundu did not appear to be very friendly to us; but they had never seen the white men, and it was but natural that the Bazombo and Bakongo traders from the coast – as these coast middle-men have been the bane of all advance of Europeans from the West Coast of Africa – would excel in artful word-painting of our fiendish qualities, our insatiable appetite for black babies, &c. Therefore the expedition was ordered forward, and the wagons were hauled that day to the Ufuvu River.
          On the 4th of November our camp was on the summit of Iyumbi mountain, 2455 feet above the sea, and 1450 feet above the Congo at its base.
          Since leaving the Ufuvu River, we had made sections of road in advance of the wagons. Then, all united, {322} we advanced with them, first across the plateau, then into the Mpalanga Gorge, and across the pretty clear-water stream of that name, over another stretch of grassy plateau and into another gorge, then across another pretty stream, and so on in succession of gorges and plateaus until we came to the beautiful Lulu River, rejoicing in pretty little falls and cascades. After the Lulu we crossed the Kiki stream, and after the Kiki, we crossed the Lou River, whence we emerged in full view of Iyumbi Mountain.

          Provisions were abundant, and the temper of the natives excellent. Our slow progress through their district was in fact an excellent education for them. {323} They understood very well why the Bazombo traders had spread those absurd rumours about us. Fond of trading a little themselves, it did not take long to prove to them that it was mere jealousy that inspired the traders’ hostility to the entry of the white man into a region which for generations they had exploited for the large profits obtainable in the ivory trade.
          Long before we had surmounted the summit of Iyumbi Mountain we were thoroughly informed in the politics of the country. Since leaving the ferry of Kinsendé we had heard of a Makoko who, by reason of his seniority and the rank and powers of his father, was regarded as the umpire and referee in all disputes among minor chiefs between Kinsendé Ferry and Kintamo. His immediate district lay on the Kintamo side of Iyumbi Mountain. Next to him in rank were Ngamberengi and Kimpalampala, and after these came a host of minor chiefs owning small villages, every other mile or so, all along the road to Kintamo. The people of these villages were called Wambumdu, sometimes Banfumu, or Freemen, a very ancient people, for in the very earliest accounts of this region will be found mention of them. Their territory begins at the Inkissi River, and extends to Kintamo, a length of 45 miles.
          At first Makoko had sent word prohibiting the sale of food to the white people, lest the country might die. We bore it ungrudgingly, though it imposed on us the necessity of halting every three days to permit our people to go great distances to purchase provisions. {324} But as favourable reports were daily carried forward by the country people, this prohibition was withdrawn, provisions flowed abundantly, and everybody became sanguine of success.

          From the broad summit of Iyumbi Mountain we may have a wide-sweeping view over a panorama of billows and hollows covering an area of 2000 square miles. Its commanding altitude will enable generations of tourists in time to come to thoroughly understand, by one round glance, the character and features of the region of the Lower Congo. Towards the north-east they will obtain the first glimpse of Stanley Pool, sixteen miles distant. Dover Cliffs at sunset {325} will show their white glistening walls, and every peak at the entrance to the Upper Congo will be easily distinguished; in an air line, they are about thirty-five miles away. To the southward we now can see our red road conspicuously winding past palm clusters and hamlets, dipping into the green wooded hollows, and rising up the lengthy slopes. Even Mowa is distinctly visible, while the twin peaks near Nsangu Ferry offer unmistakable landmarks. If we look on the right bank of the Congo, all the land from Mowa to Dover Cliffs, a distance of seventy miles, is clearly mapped out, with its numberless wrinkles and irregularities softened by distance to mere trifles. The south bank is likewise seen of similar length and irregularities; while between, the Congo’s gorge may be easily followed until it is lost in the blue. The land is fair to look upon, and were it possible to be in possession of a tithe of the ordinary necessaries of a civilised life, and to be able to communicate freely and safely with civilisation, a residence on the best parts of this breezy ridge, with such a daily prospect, would by no means be considered a privation.
          The advance pioneer guard prepared a road down to the village of Ngoma’s, which lay at the end of a spur projecting westward, and planted the white store tents. As they were seen by us from Iyumbi, they looked like mere snowballs, amid a general greenness of, trees, shrubs, palm groves, and bananas. Four caravan journeys completed the transport of the goods, and a hard day’s work ended with the arrival of the entire force in {326} Usansi, at a camp not a thousand yards distant from the village of the senior chief of the region, Makoko.
          On the 7th of November the man, who was reported by all the natives on the south bank to be the arbiter of all questions relating to territory between Kintompe and Stanley Pool, appeared in our camp with an imposing following of neighbouring chiefs, Bazombo and Bakongo ivory-traders. Not that he had sufficient authority to command such an attendance, but man is a gregarious animal, and naturally of a curious, inquisitive mind. A caravan having arrived from the coast, and its members suddenly viewing this tented camp in the Usansi hollow, in the immediate neighbourhood of Makoko’s village, and hearing that Makoko {327} was going to visit the white man who bore the name of “Breaker of Rocks,” of whom they had heard frequently, had, out of sheer curiosity, joined their number to others inspired with the same idea.
          Now, it would have been difficult to say which of us was most curious to see the other. As Makoko had been daily informed, during some months, of my doings, I, on the other hand, for some weeks, had become impressed with the fact that Makoko was to decide the future of the Congo State.
          One look at Makoko satisfied me that he was not going to be a stern opponent. Such a little man, five foot nothing high, with such a guileless, innocent look on his thin meagre face, could surely allow his goodwill to be purchased if there was any merit in cloth and amiability! He came forward bravely, announced himself as Makoko, lord of that region between Kintompé and Stanley Pool, and held out his hand with a kindly smile. An old man, probably sixty, with a tall narrow forehead, temples deeply sunk, a pair of small eyes gleaming brightly out of deep cavities, cheekbones very prominent, face thin, a curled beard on his chin, which proved, when at a later period he unrolled it, to be six feet in length!
          His mat, covered with a leopard skin, had been prepared to receive him. He pointed his finger at the leopard-skin before seating himself, and said, “There is the proof of my titles.” There were about 100 people present at this meeting, and all were now seated expecting words from me. {328}
          I began, “People call me Bula Matari (Rock-breaker). In old times I was known to Kintamo as Stanley. I am the first Mundele seen by the natives of this country. I am the man who went down the great river with many canoes and many men years ago. I lost many men in that river, but I promised my friends at Kintamo that I would come back some day. I reached the white man’s land, but, remembering my promise, I have come back. I have been to Mfwa already. The people of Mfwa have forgotten me, but the people of Kintamo have remained true. I saw them again, and Ngalyema asked me to return to my people, and lead them along the south bank to his village. Here is his staff as a sign that I speak the truth. I am going to him, to live with him, and to build a town alongside of his village; and when that is done, I will put the boats you see on the wagons here into the water, and I will go up the great river, and see if I can build more. That is my story. Let Makoko speak to his friend and say if it is good.”
          After a short pause, during which there was a good deal of whispering, Makoko in a very quiet manner and low voice, which gradually became stronger as he proceeded with his speech, said:
          “We have heard, day after day for many moons, of Bula Matari. When we heard that he was breaking rocks, and cutting wide roads through the forests, we became a little anxious. What manner of man is this? we asked, who treats the country in this way. Does he mean to destroy it? Then we suddenly heard of Bula {329} Matari at Kintamo, and the word was whispered around that you had made a league with Ngalyema to take the Usansi country from us. Then we all got angry, for who is Ngalyema that he should do this thing? Is he not a runaway from the Bateke country who asked us for a place to build a house that he might trade? Has he not grown rich and great through our kindness to him? Little enough, O people, have any of us received from him. Yet he pretends to own all the land for himself now.
          “Well, your people had to leave Kintamo. We did that. For how could you do what you proposed without hearing from us? Then we said, If the white man despises us, the real owners of the land, then he is a bad man, and there will be war.
          “But now you are passing through our country to Kintamo. We have heard of you daily. We are pleased with what we have heard. We now know that you break rocks and cut trees to pass your boats over the country. That is right. It is all good. But, my friend, remember that we own the country. Neither Ngalyema nor any of the Bateké who buy ivory at Kintamo, Kinshassa, and Kindolo, have any country on this side of the river.”
          Then followed a murmuring approval of this speech from the assembly. When the applause had subsided, my response was as follows: “You have spoken well, Makoko. Though I passed through the country years ago, I knew nothing of native laws, customs, or rights. You all seemed very {330} much alike. Until lately I could not tell the difference at sight between one of the Bateké and an Mbundu. I thought you all black men, and it takes a long time for a white man to tell the difference between one black face and another, just as it will take you a long time to tell the difference between Bula Matari and one of his sons. Therefore, for speaking to Ngalyema about the country before I knew Makoko, you will forgive me. I now speak to Makoko, and ask him what has he to say to my request for land near Kintamo, or somewhere near the river, where my boats can come and go safely?”
          “Only this,” replied Makoko, kindly, “that I am glad to see Bula Matari and his sons. Rest in peace. Land shall be given to you where it will suit you to build. I want to see plenty of white men here. I have many things given me long ago from the white men’s land, and I have often wished to see those who could make such wonderful things. I am told you people make all the cloth, the beads, the guns, the powder, plates, and glasses. Ah! you must be great and good people. Be easy in your mind. You shall build in Kintamo, and I should like to see the man who says No, to Makoko’s Yes.”
          The mild old man, so little and weak in frame, was actually valorous! Comfort he certainly imparted to {331} me; but how much reliance in himself could not yet be defined. However we treasured his words.
          Under the cheerful influence of his softness of speech we accepted his gifts of palm-wine, goats, fowls, and bananas, and reciprocated them in the spirit of men who had been just gratified with a life’s desire. Perhaps we were over liberal at this first meeting, but then we were overjoyed. We gave largely also to his four wives, beads to his children, and draped most of his principal men in cloth. Finally, Makoko introduced a man named Ngako, who was the brother of an Mbundu chief, who owned the land near Kintamo. We gave him twelve whole cloths, a cap, a blanket, a mirror, a few white-handled table knives, and endowed him with various other trifles. After the pile of gifts were made ready, Makoko appeared with Ngako to receive them. Makoko counted the gifts over, re-sorted them in a curious manner, and took with him over one half of them for his own share without demur from the other.
          A little later Makoko appeared with another man, and ascribed to him also considerable influence on the shores of Stanley Pool, to which I only answered, “Indeed. Well, I am really glad to see you.” But no present of cloth came, and I fancied that Makoko’s dark face – made darker by the soot of mourning – effused a stronger odour and a few more beads of perspiration.
          Before the evening of a very pleasant happy day came, Makoko said to me, “Ngalyema gave you his staff to show the people he was your friend. Take {332} this sword from Makoko as a sign that Bula Matari is Makoko’s brother .”
          With a mind emancipated from all anxiety, and at peace with the whole world, so far as I knew, I was about to retire for the night, when a messenger from Makoko craved admittance to my tent with a message which boded trouble on the morrow, perhaps war.
          Said he, “Makoko has sent me to tell you that Ngalyema, and all ‘the, chiefs of Ntamo, with about 200 guns, have arrived at his village. Ngalyema has already been trying to engage Ngamberengi, Kimpalampala, and others to assist him. He has also asked Makoko to help him to fight you, and drive you back. He says he does not want you, or any white man, near him, as no Bakongo trader would ever come near him if you did. But Makoko has sent me to tell you to sleep in peace, and that if Ngalyema fights he will cut the road between here and Kintamo, and his guns will help you tomorrow.’”
          This was not very agreeable news, nor calculated to produce slumber and calm forgetfulness. To have travelled twelve miles so swiftly and suddenly indicated on the part of Ngalyema earnestness of purpose, and a determination to nip my hopes of peaceful settlement just as they had emerged in full bloom.
          Tuesday, November the 5th, began with a drizzling rain, but at ten o’clock the sun shone, and the day promised to continue fair.
          Ngoma’s village, near which we were camped, was situated on a narrow but level-faced spur, extending {333} from the eastern flank of Iyumbi Mount. It was one of several such spurs, separate from one another by Usansi. wooded, scrubby gorges – the sources of several small crystal streams. On the next spur to that which we occupied stood Makoko’s residential village, and it was from this direction we expected Ngalyema’s approach. To approach our camp after declaration of hostilities was therefore impossible, if we chose to take him at his word, without risk of utter extermination. Ngalyema, though a barbarian, was too astute a person to commence operations in this manner. More probably, on the strength of previous brotherhood and mutual exchange of civilities, he would enter the camp with a bland face and an affectation of fraternal love, with ostentatious and noisy greeting, and trust to surprise in the midst of social drinking of palm-wine, &c., &c.
          I sent my tent-boy to tell the people to muster on the furthest side of the hill, to be out of view of any spies who might be on the watch at Makoko’s hill. In a few minutes I proceeded there myself, and found the men all assembled.
          The instructions I gave them there were brief, and such as they could easily remember.
          “Go, each of you to his own hut; put your cartridge belts on. See that your cartridges are in your pouches. Place your guns under your sleeping mats or grass beds. All of you then, excepting Susi’s men (twenty), scatter yourselves about in the bush on this side of the hill. Some lie down in the En Avant in the wagon; some of you behind my tent; a dozen in the store tent; {334} some of you pretend to be sick in your huts. No matter how many people are in the camp, or what you may hear, do not stir from your places until you hear the gong; but when you hear the gong struck, then all run and seize your guns, and rush up all of you, yelling like madmen; flourish your guns about wildly, and so on, like the Ruga-Ruga of Unyamwezi. Do you understand? “
          “Inshallah!” they cried.
          Susi’s detachment were instructed to seat themselves about in the open, and assume a listless and indifferent attitude.
          A quarter of an hour later a long line of men were seen descending Makoko’s hill to the bottom of the valley intervening between it and our own. I counted 197 persons, inclusive of all ranks, who were in Ngalyema’s expedition. Drum, trumpet, and native music announced that the chief had assumed state and ceremony for this occasion. Before any of them had shown themselves on our hill I was seated in a chair in the front of my tent, reading a book. I cast furtive glances about, and saw my own camp almost abandoned, except by a few Zanzibaris, some of whom were altogether over-acting their parts by pretending to be half asleep.
          Keeping my eyes hidden by the vizor of my cap, I noted the quick glance thrown around the apparently abandoned camp by the advancing natives. When about a third of their number had entered the camp I rose, at the same time the near sound of the not {335} inharmonious music informed me that Ngalyema was not far off.
          I advanced towards them, and when Ngalyema finally came, gave him an effusive welcome. I turned sharply round to Susi, and pretended to scold him well for not preparing mats, sails, &c., to spread on the ground for my dear brothers and friends of Kintamo.
          Ngalyema was moody-browed, stiff, most unbrotherly in his responses to my welcome, while I looked like one almost ready to leap into his arms with an irrepressible affection. Makabi was cold and repelling; Mubi grim and defiant; Ganchu seemed like a young leopard eager for bloody sport; young Enjèli acted surely like one who had suddenly come of age, so well he aped the man.
          “Come, my brethren, friends, sit down. Tell Ngalyema, Susi, through Enjèli there, who knows Kikongo so well, how glad I am at seeing them all. Though it is very sudden, I take this visit and to have come so far to see Hula Matari as most kindly intended.” Susi, who was so very clever, and could well enter into the elaborate joke I was perpetrating, did not, I am certain, interpret the welcome so well as I acted it. 
          The chiefs, who kept their eyes wandering over the boat, boilers, and machinery tents, and kept up in undertones a perpetual interchange of ideas, scarcely deigned to regard me, until, after being seated, Ngalyema abruptly spoke to Enjèli, his son, in Kiteke, who translated it into Kikongo to Susi and myself: {336}
          “I have come from Kintamo to see my brother. Let him tell me what he has come here for.”
          I replied, showing the brass-banded staff: “This is what brought me. I have done exactly what you asked me.”
          At this moment another body of natives, also carrying guns, came by another path up the gorge, who seated themselves apart from Ngalyema’s large force. These were Makoko’s men.
          The appearance of this force caused Ngalyema to launch forth into a history of his acquaintance with me, beginning from 1877, which was intended for their special benefit, as they had been accusing him of an intention to overstep his proper status as a foreigner who was only permitted residence on their soil to trade in ivory. He ended it in a peremptory manner thus:–
          “Now, my brother has been misinformed, and has misunderstood me. We Bateke are strangers living on this side of the river for trade only. The Bazombo and the Bakongo are our custorners. We have no objection to trade with white men if they come for trade, but we do not think you have come to trade; therefore you cannot come to Kintamo. My brother must go back the way he came, unless he likes to stay here with Makoko. I have said it.”
          Through my interpreter I replied,
          “I am not a little boy, Ngalyema, and I will not use many words. You have brought me thus far yourself, Makoko is going to give me land near Kintamo, and on that land I will build my town. I know something {337} about the country now. The land is not yours to give away, therefore be easy. I have but one tongue, and if Makoko will take me to Kintamo, I will go with him and build a fine place there, where, if you like, you may come and see me; if not, why then, keep away. I have spoken.”
          “Blua Matari speaks well,” he responded mockingly. “We know white men are clever, but Kintamo is still far, and in the way is Ngalyema and Makabi and Mubi, and plenty more chiefs, and the people you see here are few, and yet these people know how to shoot. How will Bula Matari reach Kintamo with those few men that he has got?”
          Adopting the tone of my friend, I said, “Yes, white men are clever, I believe, and Ngalyema will say so before long. Ngalyema has many men and guns as I see, but Ngalyema and all his men cannot take that wagon to Kintamo; yet you see I have crossed many mountains and valleys so far as here, and in the same manner it will reach Kintamo. But, my friend, do not let us quarrel. Wait and see. I could be in Kintamo to-day if I wanted to; but I will take my time about it; meantime, be easy in your mind.”
          Now followed a consultation among the Bateke in an undertone, though once or twice some vehemence of manner attracted attention, and while they communed together I cast my eyes about the assembly. They were mostly fine-looking men, but made hideous by daubs and splash-like spots and lines and bars of white and yellow and black over their faces and bodies. They {338} were all armed with muskets, except those who carried the ammunition, the gourds being full of powder and slugs of iron and copper.
          Suddenly Ngalyema asked, after the knot of chiefs had ceased their whispers, “What nice thing has my brother brought me from the white man’s land since I saw him?”
          Evidently Ngalyema supposed that I had been to the coast since my departure from Mfwa; but I simply said, “Come to my tent, and see for yourself.”
          Ngalyema and his son Enjèli, with Ganchu and others, rose to their feet, and followed me to the tent. Here the party inspected a quantity of red baize, bright handkerchiefs, a pile of figured blankets, and lovingly passed their hands over japanned tin boxes and iron trunks; and, after his curiosity was thoroughly satisfied, and Ngalyelma had chosen a quantity of goods valued at £138 for his own perquisites, he expressed himself as follows:
          “I will take these goods, but on the condition only that you stay where you are. You must make up your mind that you cannot come to Kintamo. The chiefs will not have it. If you do not promise, this must end in war, and I can no longer be your friend. Now, what do you say?”
          “It is useless, Ngalyema, to talk more about this,” I {339} replied, “Make up your mind that I go to or near Kintamo. All the Wambundu are willing. You admit that you have no right to the country; that you and the Bateke are strangers; that the Wambundu own the land, How can you stop the Wambundu from doing what they like with their own country?”
          “But the village of Kintamo is mine,” he said; “I and my people built it,”
          “That is all well, I do not want your village; I only want to get near the river and build a village of my own, whither many white men will come to trade. White men will do you no harm; you do not care to whom you will sell your ivory.”
          “Enough, enough!” he cried, “I say for the last time you shall not come to Kintamo; we do not want any white men among us. Let us go, Enjèli.” And as he said the last words he pushed aside the tent door and strode outside, with the emotions of suppressed passion visible on his face, While standing near the tent door, for a moment irresolute, he caught sight of the large Chinese gong suspended to a cross-bar supported by two forked poles.
          “What is this?” he asked, pointing to the gong.
          “It is fetish,” I answered sententiously.
          His young son Enjèli, who was much more acute than his father, whispered to him his belief that it was a kind of a bell, upon which Ngalyema cried out –
          “Bula Matari, strike this; let me hear it.”
          “Oh, Ngalyema, I dare not; it is the war fetish!” {340}
          “No, no,” said he, impatiently. “Beat it, Hula Matari, that I may hear the sound.”
          “I dare not, Ngalyema. It is the signal for war; it is the fetish that calls up armed men; it would be too bad.”
          “No, no, no! I tell you to strike. Strike it, Bula Matari;” and he stamped on the ground with childish impatience.
          “Well, then” – taking the beater in my hand – “remember, I told you it was a bad fetish – a fetish for war;” and as I lifted the beater high with uplifted hand, I asked again, “Shall I strike now?”
          “Strike–strike it, I tell you!”

          With all my force I struck the gong, the loud bell-like tone sounding in the silence caused by the hushed concentrated attention of all upon the scene, was startling in the extreme, but as the rapid strokes were applied vigorously the continued sound seemed to them like thunder. They had not recovered from the first shock of astonishment when the forms of men were seen bounding over the gunwale of the En Avant right over their heads, and war-whooping in their ears. From my tent, and from the gorge behind them, a stream of frantic infuriates emerged as though from the earth. The store-tent was violently agitated, and finally collapsed, and a yelling crowd of demoniac madmen sprang out one after another, everyone apparently madder than his neighbour. The listless, sleepy-eyed stragglers burst out into a perfect frenzy of action. From under the mats in the huts there streamed into {341} view such a frantic mob of armed men, that to the panic-struck natives the sky and the earth seemed to be contributing to the continually increasing number of death-dealing warriors. Every native present, would-be friend and would-be foe, lost his senses completely; the seated warriors forgot their guns and fled before this strange deluge and awful scene. The ammunition-bearers threw their gourds away – some were broken, and the powder and slugs were scattered over the ground; and as Ngalyema was standing paralysed with fear, and with his faculties benumbed, I seized him by the arm, and said softly to him –
          “Be not afraid, Ngalyema. Remember Bula Matari is your brother. Stand behind me; I will protect you.”
          The Zanzibaris were now a yelling crowd in front of me, calling out taunting and menacingly —
          “Ha, ha, Ngalyema! You came to fight. Bula Matari, Ngalyema ! Where are your warriors, Ngalyema?”
          There could not be a better representation of relentless, bloodthirsty fury than that which was shown by these amateur black actors in the suddenly improvised scene. Their assumed frenzy was the next thing to reality. Had I not been in the secret I also should have been duped; while the valour with which I defended my poor brother, who with his two hands grasped me round the waist, danced from side to side to avoid furious strokes from the wild-eyed men, while young Enjèli clung behind his father and followed his {342} movements, reminded me of the long-forgotten play of “hen-and-chickens.”
          “Save me, Bula Matari; do not let them hurt me! I did not mean anything,” cried Ngalyema.
          “Hold hard, Ngalyema!” I cried, “ keep fast hold of me; I will defend you, never fear. Come one, come all, Ah, ha!” &c.
          But the camp was almost emptied of our visitors, much of the ammunition was left behind, the guns were strewn over the ground, and the play was well acted.
          “Enough, boys; fan into line,” and “Silence” was cried out by Susi and his brother captains, and the obedient, well-trained fellows fell into line at “Shoulder arms” with the precision of military veterans. Then, as Ngalyema had allowed his hands to fall down by his side in mute surprise at this other transformation scene, I took hold of his two hands, and said with an assuring smile –
          “Well, Ngalyema, what do you now think of the white man’s fetish?”
          “Ah, I was not afraid, was I? See, all my people are run away! Ay me, such braves! Only Enjèli and Ganchu left with me! But tell me, Bula Matari, where did an these people come from?”
          “Ah, that is the bad fetish I told you of! Do you want to see any more? Come, I will strike the gong again, and the next scene may perhaps be more wonderful still.”
          “What!” he shrieked, while he laid his hand upon {343} my arm. “No, no; don’t touch it. Ay, verily, that must be a bad fetish,” he said gravely, shaking his head at the round innocent face of the gong.
          “Look yet again at these people, Ngalyema,” said I, pointing to the long line of smiling soldier-labourers.
          “Attention! right face! all of you march forward quietly; put your guns away, and each go about his business. Forward, march!” The line vanished, and it was only then Ngalyema began to recover himself, while Enjèli and Gancbu halloed loudly to the fugitives for their return. Half-an-hour later they were all back again in the camp, retailing to one another, amid boisterous merriment, their individual experiences, while Ngalyema’s loud laugh was heard above all others. Messengers were then sent to Makoko’s and Ngoma’s for great gourds full of palm-wine; others were sent to procure goats and pigs and bananas, and these were given to me. Over the palm-wine we mutually swore faithful brotherhood and an everlasting peace; and the doughty warriors of Ngalyema embraced in a fraternal manner the jolly good fellows of Bula Matari, and the Europeans – the sons of old “Bula Mutari,” who, for a man that was never married, and one of the most unlikely of men to be ever married, really were a credit to him – were fondly besieged by their ardent brothers of Kintamo. Makoko, who was generally believed to be the oldest inhabitant in the country, on being asked his opinion of the scene, said that he had “never witnessed such a day as this.” {344}
          Before evening, Ngalyema returned on his way to Kitamo with his people, much wiser than when he came, and I was left with the memories of my first practical joking on this expedition, which had so highly entertained everybody concerned in it.