{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_71970/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_71970","id":"gutenberg_71970","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/71970","summary":null,"tags":["Africa, West -- Description and travel","Category: Archaeology & Anthropology","Category: Biographies","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Missions -- Africa"],"text":"THE JUNGLE FOLK OF AFRICA\n\n\n\n\nBY ROBERT H. MILLIGAN\n\n\nThe Jungle Folk of Africa\n\n_Illustrated, 8vo, cloth, net $1.50_\n\n\u201cAs one reads, the mystery and terror of the jungle seem to penetrate\nhis soul, yet he reads on reluctant to lay down a book so grimly\nfascinating.\u201d\u2014_Presbyterian._\n\nFetish Folk of West Africa\n\n_Illustrated, 8vo, cloth, net $1.50_\n\n\u201cMr. Milligan has written interestingly and vividly of the people among\nwhom he labored, telling of their ways and habits, repeating some of\ntheir legends and beliefs and pointing out their failings as well as\ntheir good qualities.\u201d\u2014_N. Y. Sun._\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: CANOE OF A CHIEF ON THE CAMERON RIVER. (_See page 354_)]\n\n\n\n\n                        The Jungle Folk of Africa\n\n                                    By\n                            ROBERT H. MILLIGAN\n\n                              _ILLUSTRATED_\n\n                              [Illustration]\n\n                         NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO\n                        Fleming H. Revell Company\n                           LONDON AND EDINBURGH\n\n                           Copyright, 1908, by\n                        FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY\n\n                             _Second Edition_\n\n                      New York: 158 Fifth Avenue\n                      Chicago: 17 North Wabash Ave.\n                      Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W.\n                      London: 21 Paternoster Square\n                      Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\n\u201cIn the realm of the unknown, Africa is the absolute,\u201d said Victor Hugo.\nSince the time of Hugo the civilized world has become better acquainted\nwith African geography; but the Africans themselves are still a people\nunknown.\n\nA certain noted missionary, while on furlough in America, after\ndelivering a masterly and brilliant lecture on Africa to an audience of\ncoloured people, gave an opportunity for persons in the audience to ask\nhim questions pertaining to the subject. He was rather abashed when an\nelderly negro, who had been deeply interested in the lecture, called out:\n\u201cSay, Mistah S., is they any colo\u2019ed folks ovah thah?\u201d Most people know\nthat there are a goodly number of \u201ccolo\u2019ed folks\u201d in Africa; but the\nknowledge of the majority extends only to the colour of the skin. And if\nin this book I endeavour to make the Africans known as they really are,\nit is because I believe that they are worth knowing.\n\nIn the generation that has passed since the books of Du Chaillu were the\ndelight of boys\u2014old boys and young\u2014the African has received but scant\nsympathy in literature. Du Chaillu had the mind of a scientist and the\nheart of a poet. He never understated the degradation of the African nor\nexaggerated his virtues, but he recognized in him the raw material out\nof which manhood is made. He realized that the African, like ourselves,\nis not a finality, but a possibility\u2014\u201cthe tadpole of an archangel,\u201d as\ngenius has phrased it. But, then, Du Chaillu lived among the Africans\nlong enough to speak their language, to forget the colour of their skin,\nand to know them, mind and heart, as no passing traveller or casual\nobserver can possibly know them.\n\nIn more recent books the African is usually and uniformly presented\nas physically ugly, mentally stupid, morally repulsive, and never\ninteresting. This is by no means my opinion of the African. Kipling\u2019s\ncharacterization, \u201chalf child, half devil,\u201d is very apt. But what in the\nworld is more interesting than children\u2014except devils?\n\nThis book is an attempt to exhibit the human nature of the African, to\nthe end that he may be regarded not merely as a being endowed with an\nimmortal soul and a candidate for salvation, but as a man whose present\nlife is calculated to awaken our interest and sympathy; a man with\nsomething like our own capacity for joy and sorrow, and to whom pleasure\nand pain are very real; who bleeds when he is pricked and who laughs\nwhen he is amused; a man essentially like ourselves, but whose beliefs\nand whose circumstances are so remote from any likeness to our own that\nas we enter the realm in which he lives and moves and has his being we\nseem to have been transported upon the magic carpet of the Arabian fable,\naway from reality into a world of imagination\u2014a wonderland, where things\nhappen without a cause and nature has no stability, where the stone that\nfalls downwards to-day may fall upwards to-morrow, where a person may\nchange himself into a leopard and birds wear foliage for feathers, where\nrocks and trees speak with articulate voice and animals moralize as men\u2014a\nworld running at random and haphazard, where everything operates except\nreason and where credulity is only equalled by incredulity. Elsewhere it\nis the unexpected that happens: in Africa it is the unexpected that we\nexpect.\n\nA knowledge of the jungle folk of Africa will include some acquaintance\nwith their jungle home, their daily life, their work, their amusements,\ntheir social customs, their folk-lore, their religion, and, among the\nrest, it will include their response to missionary effort. Of these\nseveral subjects, those which receive scant treatment in this book will\nbe more fully presented in a second book on Africa, which is now in\ncourse of preparation.\n\nI have avoided generalizations and abstractions, in the belief that the\nconcrete and the personal would be not only more interesting but also\nmore informing. This book is, therefore, in the main, a narration of the\nparticular incidents of my own experience and observation during seven\nyears in Africa; incidents, many of which, at their occurrence, moved me\neither to laughter or to tears, and sometimes both in alternation. For,\nnowhere else in the world does tragedy so often end in comedy, and comedy\nin tragedy.\n\nI am indebted to Mr. Harry D. Salveter for his kindness in furnishing me\nwith many photographic illustrations, including the best of my collection.\n\n                                                       ROBERT H. MILLIGAN.\n\n_New York._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                    I\n\n  THE VOYAGE                                                            19\n\n    Dreadful alternatives\u2014A pork and cabbage saint\u2014The\n    outfit\u2014A parting pain\u2014Canary Islands\u2014The change to the\n    tropics\u2014Sierra Leone\u2014The native yell\u2014Deck passengers\u2014A meal of\n    potato-peelings\u2014Liberia\u2014Shipboard conversation\u2014A shrewd decision.\n\n                                   II\n\n  THE COAST                                                             36\n\n    Wet and dry seasons\u2014The climate\u2014The trader\u2014Old Calabar\u2014The\n    crocodile\u2014The most beautiful place in West Africa\u2014The ugliest place\n    in the world\u2014Mount Cameroon\u2014A ride on a mule\u2014Landing in the surf.\n\n                                   III\n\n  BUSH TRAVEL                                                           55\n\n    Where no white man had been\u2014The greatest forest in the\n    world\u2014The caravan\u2014Outfit\u2014African roads\u2014Bridges\u2014The worst of the\n    road\u2014Blessings in disguise\u2014The art of walking\u2014The arrival in\n    camp\u2014The misery of morning\u2014Rubber stomachs.\n\n                                   IV\n\n  BUSH PERILS                                                           73\n\n    The road at the worst\u2014Tired out\u2014A palaver with the\n    carriers\u2014Elephants\u2014A caravan astray\u2014A long night\u2014A borrowed\n    shirt\u2014The sullen forest\u2014Accident the constant factor\u2014A last\n    journey\u2014Advantage of breakfast before daylight.\n\n                                    V\n\n  THE CAMP-FIRE                                                         89\n\n    The camp\u2014African mimics\u2014The lemur\u2019s cry\u2014Legend of the snail\u2014The\n    chimpanzee and the ungrateful man\u2014A fable of the turtle\u2014Why the\n    leopard walks alone\u2014A \u201ctrue\u201d story\u2014A magic fight\u2014Discovering\n    a thief\u2014A spirit who spreads disease\u2014A shadow-slayer\u2014A witch\n    discovered\u2014Lying awake at night.\n\n                                   VI\n\n  A HOME IN THE BUSH                                                   107\n\n    Efulen\u2014The \u201cwhite animal\u201d performs\u2014Africa no solitude\u2014The mail\u2014The\n    first fever\u2014Yearning for a shirt\u2014A vivid account of my funeral\u2014The\n    first house\u2014Cooks and cooking\u2014The medical layman\u2014Mrs. Laffin\u2019s\n    visit.\n\n                                   VII\n\n  THE BUSH PEOPLE                                                      131\n\n    The Bulu tribe\u2014\u201cBetter-looking than white\n    people\u201d\u2014Dress\u2014Ornamentation\u2014A sociable queen\u2014The white man\u2019s\n    origin\u2014Our fetishes\u2014A magic letter\u2014Buying and selling\u2014Chief\n    Abesula.\n\n                                  VIII\n\n  AFTER A YEAR                                                         148\n\n    Killed by mistake\u2014A woman stolen\u2014A passion for clothes\u2014The\n    Batanga church\u2014Expectoration a fine art\u2014Romantic career of a\n    nightshirt\u2014Bekalida\u2014Keli, the incorrigible\u2014Death of Dr. Good.\n\n                                   IX\n\n  THE KRUBOYS                                                          170\n\n    The Kru tribe\u2014The \u201creal thing\u201d\u2014Kru English\u2014The Kruboy\u2019s\n    superstition\u2014The ship\u2019s officers\u2014Dressing with much\n    assistance\u2014Loading mahogany\u2014The Kruboy and the surf\u2014The white man\n    out of his element.\n\n                                    X\n\n  WHITE AND BLACK                                                      195\n\n    St. Paul de Loanda\u2014Canine passengers\u2014Portuguese slavery\u2014An American\n    problem\u2014A health-change\u2014Boma\u2014Belgian atrocities\u2014Matadi\u2014Stanley\u2014What\n    I heard at Matadi\u2014The apathy of the nations.\n\n                                   XI\n\n  THE FANG                                                             217\n\n    Gaboon\u2014The village\u2014The house\u2014The door\u2014The kiss unpopular, and no\n    wonder\u2014Marriage customs\u2014A woman tortured\u2014An elder brother\u2014Immoral\n    customs\u2014The Gorilla Society\u2014War\u2014A troublesome sister\u2014A blessing\n    that resembled a curse\u2014A strange war-custom\u2014Music\u2014Dancing\u2014Story of\n    the elephant and the gorilla\u2014Fable of the sun and moon.\n\n                                   XII\n\n  FETISHES                                                             249\n\n    The conception of God\u2014Dreams\u2014Ancestor-worship\u2014The conception\n    of nature\u2014The fetish proper\u2014A wonderful medicine-chest\u2014Various\n    fetishes\u2014A case of discipline\u2014Witchcraft\u2014A convicted witch\u2014Wives\n    and witchcraft\u2014The white man and witchcraft.\n\n                                  XIII\n\n  A BOAT CREW                                                          273\n\n    The Evangeline\u2014Makuba\u2014An un-dress ball\u2014Ndong Koni\u2014A saint\n    that lied\u2014Capsized and rescued\u2014A dying slave\u2014Dressed in a\n    table-cloth\u2014Flogging a chief\u2014A story of true love.\n\n                                   XIV\n\n  A SCHOOL                                                             302\n\n    The language difficulty\u2014Lacked nothing but the essentials\u2014The late\n    M. de la R.\u2014One of Macbeth\u2019s witches\u2014Death of Nduna\u2014Bojedi\u2014More\n    candid than kind\u2014The racial weakness\u2014A royal romance\u2014Marriage\n    ceremonies\u2014A penitent\u2014A fall.\n\n                                   XV\n\n  A LITTLE SCHOLAR                                                     329\n\n    A health-change\u2014The brightest of his class\u2014Rotten Elephant\u2014Very\n    sick\u2014An object of wonder\u2014Mount Teneriffe\u2014Adventure with a\n    stage-coach\u2014Adventure with a donkey\u2014The crisis\u2014The Ashantee war\u2014A\n    burial at sea.\n\n                                   XVI\n\n  A CHURCH                                                             354\n\n    Reality versus romance in missions\u2014Arrival of the steamer\u2014Adventure\n    in a canoe\u2014An Apollo Belvidere in ebony\u2014A sensational call to\n    worship\u2014A white man\u2019s foot\u2014A prayer that caused a panic\u2014Not\n    wickedness, but worms\u2014The right hand, or the left?\u2014\u201cDawn of the\n    Morning\u201d\u2014M\u2019abune J\u00e9su\u2014Keeping the Sabbath\u2014The harvest\u2014The Jesuits\u2014A\n    building not made with hands\u2014\u201cO\u2019er crag and torrent.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n                                           _Facing Page_\n\n    CANOE OF A CHIEF ON THE CAMEROON RIVER       _title_\n\n    MOUNT TENERIFFE, CANARY ISLANDS                  24\n\n    MISSION HOUSE AT BATANGA                         52\n\n    REV. A. C. GOOD, PH. D.                          55\n\n    LITTLE FRANCES BORN IN AFRICA                    86\n\n    A GROUP OF ADMIRING NATIVES                     110\n\n    AN IMPROVED MISSION HOUSE AT EFULEN             118\n\n    THE PASSION FOR CLOTHES                         131\n\n    THE OLD CHURCH AT BATANGA                       154\n\n    PASTORS AND ELDERS OF THE BATANGA CHURCH        160\n\n    THE DEBARKATION OF A DECK PASSENGER             181\n\n    MAN AND WIFE                                    224\n\n    TWO MEN DANCING                                 224\n\n    NDONG KONI                                      236\n\n    MAKUBA, CAPTAIN OF THE BOAT CREW                276\n\n    BOJEDI, TEACHER OF FANG SCHOOL                  314\n\n    THREE FANG BOYS                                 378\n\n\n\n\nThe Jungle Folk of Africa\n\n\n\n\nI\n\nTHE VOYAGE\n\n    \u201cO ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,\n    Feast them upon the wideness of the sea.\u201d\u2014_Keats._\n\n\nWhen I was about to sail for Africa a friend read to me a thrilling\nincident which was supposed to be prophetic of my own fate. A cannibal\nmaiden proposes marriage to a newly-arrived missionary. The missionary\nmodestly declines her offer; whereupon, looking down at him with\nutmost complacency, she tells him that she will have him anyhow\u2014either\n_married_, or _fried_. I have gone to Africa twice, and have lived\nthere nearly seven years, yet I have escaped both of these dreadful\ncontingencies. There is no longer any glamour of romance about the\nmissionary life. It is not a life of hair-raising adventures and narrow\nescapes. In those seven years I was never frightened and seldom killed.\nDull monotony is the normal experience and loneliness the besetting trial.\n\nNeither are the sacrifices and privations of missionary life so great\nas many of us have supposed. The sacrifices of the missionary are more\ntangible, but not therefore greater, than those of the faithful minister\nat home; whose sacrifices are often more real because less obvious. A\nfew days before I sailed the second time for Africa, when I knew from\nformer experience that the missionary life was no martyrdom, I was one\nday seated at a dinner-table where Africa and my going was the subject\nof conversation. The company had the most exaggerated ideas of the\nprivations incident to missionary life. There was no use in a denial on\nmy part; and to have disclaimed any of the fictitious virtues with which\nthey loaded me would only have caused them to add the virtue of modesty\nto the rest.\n\nA maiden lady across the table, who for some time had sat with abstracted\ncountenance, at last, with upturned eyes and clasped hands, remarked:\n\u201cWell, I think it is an _appalling_ sacrifice.\u201d\n\nTo have lived up to my part, my face at that moment should have worn a\nsaintly expression of all the virtues rolled into one; but it happened\nthat my mouth was quite full of pork and cabbage, with which my carnal\nmind was occupied, and I am sure I looked more like an epicure than an\nascetic. Nothing but the pork and cabbage kept me from laughing outright.\n\nReally, life in Africa is much the same as life anywhere else; and the\n\u201cprivations\u201d only teach us how many things we can do without which we\nonce thought were indispensable. This lesson is impressed the more deeply\nin such a land as Africa, where a human being may live for threescore\nyears\u2014comfortable, apparently happy, and at least healthy\u2014with little\nelse than a pot, a pipe and a tom-tom; the first ministers to his\nnecessity, the second to comfort and the third to pleasure. If we will\npersist in regarding the missionary as a martyr, let us consider that\nthe martyr does not differ essentially from other Christians. Martyrdom\nis potentially contained in the initial decision of each Christian.\nThe consecration of a life to Christ implies the willingness to lay it\ndown for Him. In an uncivilized land there is a likelihood of unwonted\nhardships, and among savages some possibility of a violent death; but the\nlatter is vastly improbable.\n\nOne can procure an outfit more conveniently and at less cost in Liverpool\nthan in New York. A week at Liverpool is sufficient for this purpose.\nThe outfit will depend somewhat upon whether one expects to live on the\ncoast or in the bush where he will be cut off from the facilities of\ntransportation by water. All transportation to the interior is by native\nporters, who carry sixty or seventy pounds on their backs, in loads as\ncompact as possible. This excludes most furniture; and such furniture\nas can be transported is usually \u201cknocked down.\u201d An ordinary outfit\nwill include several helmets of cork or pith, several white umbrellas\nlined with green, a dozen white drill suits, denim trousers, canvas\nshoes, leather shoes, rubber boots, cheese-cloth for mosquito-bars,\nrubber blankets, pneumatic pillows, hot-water bags, a supply of\nmedicines (unless these are already on the field) especially quinine\nand castor-oil, a six-mouths\u2019 supply of food\u2014canned meats, vegetables\nand fruits\u2014besides bedding and kitchenware, tableware, napery, etc.,\naccording to need, and guns and ammunition.\n\nThere is a romantic interest about this last week spent in the purchase\nof strange articles for an untried life, and in taking leave of\ncivilization,\u2014of such things as cities, society, music, fresh beef and\nfine clothes. The last evening in Liverpool I went to hear _Tannhauser_.\nMusic had always been my pastime, and it was not an easy sacrifice to\nmake. I therefore looked forward to that evening with peculiar interest,\nknowing that not again until my return, however long I might remain in\nAfrica, would I hear any music worthy of the name. But _Tannhauser_\nproved to be not a sweet parting from civilization but an awful\nexperience, by reason of some one in my neighbourhood beating the time\nwith his foot, as they so often do in England. I had one of the best\nseats in the house, but I exchanged it for another, only to find myself\nin a worse neighbourhood; for, in addition to a man on each side of me\nbeating the time, a woman immediately behind \u201chummed the tune.\u201d At the\nclose of the performance I was in a condition of \u201cmortal mind\u201d that would\nhave scandalized those who are disposed to canonize missionaries. But the\nsorrow of parting was thus mitigated as I reflected that civilization has\nits pains and savagery some compensations.\n\nI went home and wrote the following to a friend: \u201cSome one alluding to\nMacaulay\u2019s knowledge of history and his unerring accuracy once said that\ninfinite damnation to Macaulay would consist in being surrounded by\nfiends engaged in misquoting history while he was rendered speechless and\nunable to correct them; and I am thinking that my _inferno_ would consist\nin being compelled to listen to some such exquisite melody as _O Thou\nSublime Sweet Evening Star_, surrounded the while by fiends keeping time\nwith their feet, and Beelzebub humming the tune.\u201d\n\nOn my first voyage to Africa (having been appointed to the West Africa\nMission, by the Board of Foreign Missions of the Presbyterian Church)\nI was four weeks on the way, from Liverpool, and landed at Batanga, in\nCameroon, two hundred miles north of the equator. On the second voyage\nI was five weeks on the way, and landed at Libreville (better known\nas _Gaboon_) in the Congo Fran\u00e7ais, almost exactly at the equator.\nLibreville was the capital of the French Congo. _Gaboon_ is properly the\nname of the bay or great estuary upon which Libreville is situated, and\nis one of the very few good harbours on the west coast. But long before\nthe existence of Libreville, captains and traders had used the name\n_Gaboon_ to designate the adjacent settlement of native villages and\ntrading-houses, and it is still the name in general use.\n\nWe made many calls along the way. Some of the places are very beautiful,\nsuch as the Canary Islands, Sierra Leone, Cape Coast Castle, Victoria,\nFernando Po and Gaboon; and some are quite otherwise, for Africa is a\nland of extremes. Bonny is repulsive, and the Rio del Rey is a nightmare.\nMeanwhile, we are getting further and further away from all that is known\nand natural to our eyes, and nearer to a land of strange birds and beasts\nand trees, inhabited by tribes that to the white man are only a name, or\nhave no name, and to whom he is perhaps an imaginary being, or the ghost\nof their dead ancestors.\n\nAt the Canary Islands, a week after leaving Liverpool, one may spend a\nday of interest and pleasure. On my first voyage we called at Las Palmas,\nin Grand Canary Island. On the second voyage we called at Santa Cruz\non Teneriffe Island. The object of chief interest is the great Mount\nTeneriffe, seen sometimes a hundred miles at sea; probably the Mount\nAtlas of ancient fable, which was supposed to support the firmament.\nThere are of course many mountain peaks in the world which rise to a\ngreater height above the sea-level; but they are usually in ranges or on\nhigh table-lands far from the sea, and while the altitude is great, the\nindividual peak may not be great. Teneriffe rises directly out of the\nsea, slowly at first but with increasing inclination, until at last it\nsweeps upward to the clouds and far above them, to a height of 12,500\nfeet. The sandy slopes upon the higher altitudes reflect the light with\nunequalled splendour. From the harbour of Las Palmas we saw the sun\nrising on Teneriffe. We stood on the deck before the dawn, and while\ndarkness was all around us, saw the heights already struggling with the\ndarkness, and the summit bathed in the light of the unrisen day. A heavy\nmist rolled down and spread over the valleys, like a sea resplendent\nwith every interchange of deepening and dissolving colour; while from\nbelow arose the increasing noise and tumult of a half-civilized city\nawaking from slumber. In a little while the clouds begin to assemble,\nand the peak is hidden throughout the day: so it is always. But in the\nevening, the clouds again are parted, like opening curtains, and the\nwhole mountain is disclosed, majestic and beautiful in the light of the\nsetting sun.\n\nOn the homeward voyage the steamers often take on an enormous deck-cargo\nof bananas. They are put in crates the size of barrels and are packed\nin straw. In the event of a severe storm before reaching Liverpool they\nare more than likely to be washed overboard. It is a pleasure to watch\nthis loading from the upper deck. The Spanish workmen are neat and clean;\nthey are skillful and work rapidly, as indeed they must in order to load\nthe entire cargo in one day, which is usually the limit of time. All day\nlong Spanish boys without clothes are crowded around the steamer in small\nboats, begging the passengers to throw pennies into the water and see\nthem dive and get them. Many pennies and small silver coins are thrown\nover in the course of the day; and the boys seldom miss one.\n\nA number of the passengers debark at the Canary Islands, and the rest\nhave more room and more comfort. Immediately upon leaving the Islands\ndouble awnings are stretched over the decks; and the passengers and\nship\u2019s officers the next day don their tropical clothing. The sea is\nexceedingly calm as compared with the North Atlantic and the air soft and\nbalmy. It recalled those lines of Keats\u2014\n\n    \u201cOften it is in such gentle temper found,\n      That scarcely will the very smallest shell,\n      Be moved for days from where it sometime fell,\n    When last the winds of heaven were unbound.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT TENERIFFE, CANARY ISLANDS.\n\n_Probably the Mount Atlas of ancient fable, which was supposed to support\nthe firmament._]\n\nThe change to tropical life takes place in one day and it is like being\nsuddenly transported into another world. The men nearly all are dressed\nin white drill suits, and most of them wear white caps and white canvas\nshoes. If they go ashore at various ports along the way they will\nexchange the cap for a cork helmet and besides will probably carry a\nwhite umbrella. The white suits if well made and well laundered look\nmuch more comfortable and becoming than any other clothing. They are\nusually made in military style with stitched collar, so as we go on\nfurther south the shirt of civilization may at length be dispensed with\nand the coat worn directly over an undershirt,\u2014which latter ought to\nbe of wool and medium weight. Except my first year, I wore no shirt at\nany time through all the years that I lived in Africa, not even at the\nFrench Governor\u2019s annual reception at Gaboon. The English at Old Calabar\non formal occasions make themselves ridiculous in black dress suits with\nthe conventional area of shirt-front and collar. In these they swelter,\nvastly uncomfortable, while the starch dissolves and courses towards\ntheir shoes down back and breast. It is not only, nor chiefly, the\nhigh temperature but the extreme humidity that makes the atmosphere so\noppressive. It seems to be seventy-five per cent, warm water.\n\nOn shipboard it is usually comfortable and pleasant while we are under\nway. The most delightful part of the voyage is the first few days after\nleaving the Canary Islands, when the course lies in the track of the\nnortheast trade-winds. One thinks very differently, however, of this\ntrade-wind in coursing against it on the homeward voyage after a length\nof time on the fever-stricken coast. It seems piercing cold, and, as\nMiss Kingsley says, one wishes that the Powers above would send it to\nthe Powers below to get it warmed. It is in this zone that deaths most\nfrequently occur on board. On the outward voyage immediately after the\nmost delightful part of the voyage comes the very worst part of it, as\nwe pass beyond the trade-wind and close in to the coast near Cape Verde.\nFor several days one is tempted to wish that he might turn back. There\nis a dead calm on board, and the heat is enough to curl one\u2019s hair. It\nrecalled Sydney Smith\u2019s description of some such place, where \u201cone feels\nlike taking off his flesh and sitting in his bones.\u201d But it continues\nonly two or three days. During this time the \u201cpunka\u201d is installed, a\nlarge fan suspended from the ceiling, the entire length of the table,\nworked by a rope, which a boy pulls with his hand.\n\nA week after leaving the Canary Islands we reached our first African\nport, Sierra Leone. It has the finest harbour on the entire west coast.\nFrom the harbour it is very beautiful, with mountains of intense green\nstanding like sentinels on either side and behind the town. The sound\nof the wind raging about these peaks, like the roaring of a lion, gives\nthe name, _Sierra Leone_. Despite its attractive appearance, it is\ncalled _The Whiteman\u2019s Grave_, and its history justifies the name. But\nas we proceed down the coast we find that every place which has any\nconsiderable number of white men is called _The Whiteman\u2019s Grave_. The\nname _Sierra Leone_ applies to the entire English colony; that of the\ntown at this place is _Freetown_. It was originally a colony of freed\nslaves, which the English planted there during the suppression of the\nslave traffic. The first ship-load of colonists, between four and five\nhundred, was landed in 1787. Of these, sixty died on the way or within\na fortnight after landing. Freetown has now a population of thirty\nthousand, and is prosperous. Along the wharf are warehouses with roofs\nof corrugated iron. The roofs of the traders\u2019 houses also, both here and\nall along the coast, are of corrugated iron. Here and there among the\ncolourless huts of the natives there stands out boldly the frame houses\nof successful native traders, made of imported material and usually\npainted an impudent blue. Houses with floors are everywhere called\n_deck-houses_; for the decks of ships were the first floors ever seen by\nthe natives.\n\nSo soon as we had anchored, the natives, in a score of boats, were\ncrowding about the gangway, pushing back each other\u2019s boats, fighting,\ncursing and yelling, in a general strife for the very lucrative privilege\nof rowing passengers ashore. However otherwise engaged in this scramble\nthey are all yelling; and the resultant noise is the proper introduction\nto Africa. For, as noise is the first, so it will be the final and\nlasting impression. It is the grand unity in which other associations are\ngradually dislimned. We went ashore in the late afternoon. The people\nwere all in the streets, moving about, but no one moving rapidly; all\nactive, but no one _very_ active. As there are no vehicles, pedestrians\noccupy the whole street, which is covered with grass. There is a great\nvariety of dress and considerable undress. Many of the women wear a loose\ncalico wrapper\u2014a Mother Hubbard; and many of the men are dressed in the\nMohammedan costume, which is more becoming, and more suitable for the\nclimate, than any possible modification of European dress. It consists\nof a long white shirt with loose, flowing sleeves, and an outer garment\nsomewhat like a university gown, of black or of blue. The ordinary man\nwears anything he may happen to have, from an eighth of a yard of calico\nto a rice-bag in which he cuts holes for his head and arms.\n\nEver so many were carrying loads on their heads\u2014never any other way\u2014and\nwithout touching them with their hands. Indeed, if their hands were\nengaged I am not sure whether they could talk; for when they talk they\ngesticulate continually. Some were carrying beer bottles erect on their\nheads, some carried books, some of the women carried folded parasols;\nothers carried fire-wood, or bananas, or large baskets of vegetables.\nThey exchange the neighbourhood gossip as they pass, but without\nturning their heads; and sometimes they throw down their loads and seat\nthemselves on opposite sides of the street to have \u201ca friendly yell.\u201d\nWhen we returned to the steamer we found on board, on the lower deck,\nabout twenty native passengers. They have brought all their household\ngoods, including chickens; and several of the women have babies strapped\nto their backs. They pay only for a passage on deck, taking the risk\nof the weather, and expect to yell their way to Fernando Po, in about\ntwo weeks. The number of deck passengers increases at each of the next\nseveral ports, until the deck is crowded; but they are never allowed on\nthe upper deck.\n\nThe deck, formerly spacious and shining, is now covered with baggage,\nthe abundance of which is only exceeded by its outlandish variety. The\nfirst mate is the ship\u2019s general housekeeper. Cleanliness and order\nare a mental malady with him. If he could have his way the ship would\ncarry no cargo, since the opening of the hatches and the discharging of\nit deranges the order of the lower deck and litters it with rubbish.\nBesides he would like to employ the boat-crews in holystoning one deck\nor another all the time instead of only once each morning. The sight of\na dog affects him more seriously than seeing a ghost. Passengers are a\ngreat trial to him who carelessly place their deck chairs for comfort or\nfor conversation with each other instead of leaving them in unneighbourly\nstraight lines as he arranged them. He is rarely on speaking terms with\nthe chief engineer, because the latter must frequently have coal carried\nfrom the forehold; and there is a standing feud between him and the\ncook, whose grease-tub sits outside the galley door. The mate\u2019s sole\nhorror of a storm at sea is that the rolling of the ship spills the\ngrease. Imagine the life this gentleman lives from the time that the\nnative passengers begin to come aboard and fill the deck with their piles\nof miscellaneous baggage. He ages perceptibly. Disorder is precisely the\nweak point in the native character; and much of the mate\u2019s time is spent\nin pitched battles with the native women, over the bestowment of their\ngoods. No sooner has he, with the help of several deck-hands, arranged a\nlady\u2019s goods in a neat square pile ten feet high and seated her children\nin a straight row than the lady orders all her children to get out of her\nway and proceeds to tear down the pile in order to get a cosmetic and a\nmirror that happen to be in two different boxes in the bottom. When the\nmate is not around the deck passengers seem very happy as they sit at\nrandom on their baggage and yell at each other. Here and there men in\nMohammedan dress sit on the sunny deck in cross-legged tailor-fashion,\nreminding one of old Bible pictures. If they quarrel a great deal they\nalso laugh a great deal, and the quarrels are no sooner ended than they\nare forgotten.\n\nAt Lagos several native men came out in a boat to meet a deck passenger\nand land his baggage. The natives are not allowed to use the gangway,\nand if the rope ladder is in use they pass up and down a single rope\nsuspended over the ship\u2019s side. On this occasion I observed one of the\nmen from the boat alongside sliding down a rope and carrying a heavy box,\nby no means an easy thing to do. He expected that the others of his party\nwould be waiting to receive him in the boat below. But they had drifted\nseveral yards away and were engaged in eating some potato peelings\nwhich a steward had thrown to them. He called to them but they paid no\nattention:\u2014they were eating. He yelled at them and cursed them, at the\nsame time making with his legs impressive gestures of appeal and threat.\nBut they sat indifferent until they had finished, while he with his load\nremained suspended in the air. Moreover, the sea at Lagos abounds with\nsharks. At last, having finished their repast, they came to his rescue.\nI was watching eagerly to see how many would be killed in the ensuing\nfight. But not a blow was struck, and the palaver did not last a minute.\nSo forgetful are they of injuries. And though they are capable of great\ncruelty towards their enemies, their cruelty is callous rather than\nvindictive; not the cruelty that delights in another\u2019s pain, but rather\nthat of a dull imagination which does not realize it.\n\nA few days after leaving Sierra Leone we anchored off Monrovia, the\ncapital of Liberia, where we shipped eighty native men, _Krumen_, who\nwere engaged by the ship as workmen for the discharging and loading of\ncargo. They are engaged for the round trip down the coast, three or four\nmonths, and are unshipped again on the homeward voyage. Of these Krumen\nI shall speak at some length in another chapter. They are the original\nnative tribe of this part of the coast and are not to be confounded with\nthe proper Liberians whose ancestors emigrated from America.\n\nLiberia represents the philanthropic effort of America to restore to\ntheir native land the Africans carried to America by the slave trade.\nA large area of country was purchased from the native chiefs, and in\n1820 the first settlement of colonists was established. Liberia is a\ncountry of possibilities. There is no richer soil on the entire west\ncoast. It is especially suitable for coffee and cocoa; but it has\nremained undeveloped. The poor and ignorant colonists were not fit\nfor self-government. America should have done more or else less. The\nLiberians might far better have remained in America. During the several\ngenerations of their absence from Africa they seemed to have lost the\npower of resisting the malaria. The mortality among them was very great\nand they were pitiably helpless. The government of Liberia some one has\nsaid is a fit subject for comic opera. At one time becoming possessed of\na little cash, by some wonderful accident, they provided themselves with\na small gunboat by which they hoped to convince calling ships that theirs\nis a real government competent to collect dues, impose fines, and enforce\nthe rules of quarantine and release that obtain at other ports, for which\npurpose it has proved as ineffective as a pop-gun. But they have used\nit successfully against the canoes of the Krumen in levying a heavy and\nunjustifiable duty upon these men when they return from the south voyage\nwith their pay.\n\nAfter two weeks on shipboard the immobility of life becomes agreeable\nand we are all content to be lazy. And in the evening when the social\ninstinct is lively and men sit together at leisure in the balmy breeze,\nunder the canvas roof, on a well-lighted deck, the sea so calm as to\nallay all apprehension, a wall of darkness around us, and the immensity\nof the sea beyond, as separate from the rest of the world as would be\nsome tiny planet that has separated from the solid earth and rotates upon\nits own axis, then the charm of travel on the tropical sea is all that\nthe imagination had preconceived,\u2014a lazy, luxurious dream. When Boswell\nremarked to Johnson, \u201cWe grow weary when idle,\u201d Johnson replied: \u201cThat\nis, sir, because others being busy, we want company; but if all were idle\nthere would be no growing weary; we should entertain one another.\u201d We\nwere all equally idle and lazy, and wished we could be lazier. There were\nwhole days when the conversation\u2014until evening\u2014contained nothing more\nepigrammatic than \u201cPlease pass the butter,\u201d or \u201cHave a pickle?\u201d\n\nThe company consists of traders, government officials and missionaries;\nand the captain is usually present. As our number diminishes at each\nsuccessive port, we become better acquainted and more friendly. Men of\nantipodal differences are thus frequently brought into friendly and\nsympathetic relations, men who in ordinary life would seldom have been\nbrought into contact with each other, and who never would have known that\nthey had anything in common; and the experience is wholesome. I have\nlearned to think more kindly of the African trader and to refrain from\ncriticism because of some whom I have known intimately on these long\nvoyages.\n\nAs we sit on deck in the evening the captain tells us that at Lagos,\nwhere we are due in a few days, he has seen the natives fight the sharks\nin the sea and kill them. The shark is the monster of the tropical seas,\nthe incarnation of ferocity and hunger. The native takes a stout stick,\nsix inches long and sharpened at both ends. With his hand closed tight\naround this he dives into the sea, and as the shark comes at him with its\nterrible mouth open, he thrusts the stick upright into its mouth as far\nas he can. There it remains planted in the upper and lower jaws of the\nshark, which, not being able to close its mouth, soon drowns and comes to\nthe surface. It is a good story, and not incredible as a fact; for the\nnative is brave enough and fool enough to do this very thing. But this is\nthe same captain who tells of fearful storms which he has successfully\nencountered, when the ship rolled until she took in water through the\nfunnels. He remarked to me one day, speaking of one of his officers\nwho was not the brightest: \u201cI always have to verify his reckoning; for\nhe always mistakes east for west and invariably puts latitude where\nlongitude ought to be.\u201d He also tells of an invitation he once received\nfrom a cannibal chief near Old Calabar, to come ashore and help him pick\na missionary. He has seen the sea-serpent many a time and knows all about\nit. It is not dark green with brown stripes, as is generally supposed,\nbut is bright yellow with blue spots, and is quite three hundred feet\nlong. On one occasion it followed the captain\u2019s ship for several days,\nat times raising one hundred and fifty feet of its length out of the\nwater, and being prevented from helping itself to a sailor now and then\nonly by great quantities of food which they threw over to it. This caused\na famine on board, and they reached the nearest port in a half-starved\ncondition. An affidavit goes with each of the captain\u2019s stories. Most\ncaptains indulge in this entertaining hyperbole. Some are decidedly\ngifted with what has been called a \u201ccreative memory.\u201d I have never yet\nknown a captain who could not turn out as handsome a yarn as Gulliver.\n\nAs the company become better acquainted conversation is more intimate and\nvaried. Now we are discussing some subject of continental magnitude, and\nagain, with equal interest, some infinitesimal triviality. Detached from\nthe rest of the world, and with no daily budget of news, our interest\nbecomes torpid, and things great and small appear without perspective on\na flat surface of equality. We avowed our disbelief in the infallibility\nof the pope, and pronounced against his claim to temporal authority. We\nanticipated all the conclusions of the Hague Conference, and discussed\nthe imminence of the \u201cyellow peril.\u201d We resolved that the Crown Colony\nsystem was a failure and had never been a success, and we devised an\nelaborate substitute but could not agree upon the details. We agreed that\nthe English aristocracy had long been effete, and that the Duke of X,\nrelated to the queen, was a \u201chog.\u201d We reached the amicable conclusion\nthat the thirteen colonies should never have rebelled, and that the blame\nwas all on the side of England. We left posterity nothing to say on the\nrelative merits of the republican and the monarchic forms of government,\nand decided that the enfranchisement of the negro was a mistake.\n\nIn juxtaposition to these discussions, one man occupied the company\na part of an evening recounting the entire history of his corns; but\nI regret that I have forgotten their number and disposition. Another\ndisclosed the fact that he always wore safety-pins instead of garters,\nand descanted upon his preference with such enthusiasm that he made at\nleast one convert that I know of. I was carefully told how to mix a gin\ncocktail (though I may never have any practical use for this valuable\nknowledge) and how to toss a champagne cocktail from one glass to another\nin a beautiful parabolic curve; also how many cocktails a man might drink\nin a day without being chargeable with intemperance: in short, if there\nis anything about \u201cbooze\u201d that I do not know it must be because I have\nforgotten.\n\nOne night (but this was another voyage and a different kind of captain)\nwe put in practice the principle of arbitration of which we were all\nadherents; and the result was my discomfiture. An argument had arisen\namong us as to which was the more simple of the two currency systems,\n_dollars and cents_, and _pounds, shillings and pence_\u2014as if there were\nlogical room for difference of opinion! At last, the captain arriving, we\ndecided to refer the matter to him and to surrender our judgment to his\narbitrament. The captain (an Englishman of the very stolid sort), after a\nperiod of reflection replied very slowly, and with all the gravity of a\njudge: \u201cPounds, shillings and pence is the simpler system; for, don\u2019t you\nknow, that when you are told the price of a thing in dollars and cents\nyou always, in your mind, convert it into pounds, shillings and pence.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course, Captain,\u201d said I; \u201cI had not thought of that until you\nmentioned it; neither had I recalled the well-known fact that a\nFrenchman, while speaking French in the streets of Paris, is really\nthinking in English. Your decision is as shrewd as it is impartial.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nII\n\nTHE COAST\n\n\nBut the pleasure of the voyage depends largely upon the season. The wet\nand the dry seasons are distinctly divided. There is a long wet season\nof four months and a short wet season of two months each year, and\ncorresponding long and short dry seasons. The rains generally follow the\ncourse of the sun as it moves between the northern and southern solstice.\nThe regularity of the seasons is modified by local influences such as\nthe proximity of mountains. The seasons at Batanga, for instance, are\nnot so distinctly divided as at Gaboon. I am most familiar with the\nclimate of Gaboon, which is practically at the equator. The long wet\nseason begins in September, when the sun is coursing from the equator\ntowards the southern solstice, and continues nearly four months. The\nlong dry season begins in May and continues for four months. Those are\nthe delightful months of the year. We are accustomed to associate a dry\nspell with heat and glaring sunshine. But there the brightest sunshine is\nin the wet season between the showers. The dry season is both cool and\nshady; so cool that the natives find it uncomfortable, while the sun is\nsometimes not seen for a week. It always seems to be just about to rain.\nA stranger to the climate would not risk going half a mile without taking\nan umbrella. But he is perfectly safe. There is not the least danger of\nrain between May and September. Often in the dry season I have travelled\nthrough the midday hours in a canoe, lying full length on a travelling\nrug with my face towards the sky; for there is no glare: the mellow\nlight has the quality of moonlight.\n\nBut a strong wind prevails during the dry months, and it is the season\nwhen the surf rages wildly on the open coast; when surf boats with cargo\nare often broken on the beach and the native crews lose their limbs\nand sometimes their lives. The ground though very dry does not become\nparched. The rustling of the palms or of the thatch roof at the close of\nthe season is like the heavy pattering of rain, so much so that sometimes\none is deceived in spite of himself. The dry season is healthiest for\nwhite men, but not for the native. They are not sufficiently protected\nagainst the wind, and pneumonia is common. However much we prefer the dry\nseason, yet we weary of it towards the close, and like the natives we\nfairly shout for joy at the first shower.\n\nThe wet season is very disagreeable. The rain falls in streams, and,\nas Miss Kingsley says, \u201cdoes not go into details with drops.\u201d There\nare several torrential downpours each day and night. In the intervals\nduring the day the sky is swept clear of clouds and the sun shines the\nstrongest. The atmosphere is extremely humid and sultry. With the least\nexertion, or with no exertion, one perspires profusely, and there is no\nevaporation. One ought to change his clothing several times a day; but\nmost of us cannot afford to devote so much time to comfort. Frequent\ntornadoes often cool the air in the evening.\n\nThe most uncomfortable of all places during the rain is on shipboard. The\nrain will at length find its way through any thickness of awning, and the\ndelightful deck must be deserted for the stifling saloon. Our paradise is\ntransformed to a purgatory. The rain is accompanied by a heavy mist and\nas it dashes upon the surface of the sea it lifts a cloud of spray that\nhides the water beneath and we seem to be drifting courseless through\ncloudland, with our horizon immediately around us. As it continues day\nafter day everybody becomes depressed; and as for the captain, it is\nscarcely safe to speak to him. One day when I was travelling in the wet\nseason, the captain lost a whole day prowling up and down the coast\nlooking for a place which was completely hidden in the rain and mist. He\nwas angry; and an angry captain is a fearsome object. He is accustomed to\nbeing obeyed, and is master of everything else but the fourth element,\nwhich occasionally thwarts his plans and derides his authority. At a\nmoment when the rain slackened from a torrent to a heavy shower, a\npassenger put his head out on deck and remarked: \u201cIt\u2019s not raining,\nCaptain.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, if that is not rain,\u201d thundered the disgusted captain, \u201cit is the\nbest imitation of rain that I have ever seen.\u201d\n\nThe subject upon which conversation dwells longest and to which it ever\nreturns with gruesome interest is the African fever. The news that is\nbrought on board at each port is like a death bulletin. To the new comer\nit is all very trying and very tragical. But he cannot escape from it;\nfor the Old Coaster (and a man who has been out once before is an Old\nCoaster) assumes the grave responsibility of impressing deeply upon\nthe mind of the tenderfoot the serious conditions which he is about to\nconfront. It is impressed upon him that the fever is inevitable, and\nthat the young and healthy die first; that temperate habits instead of\nbeing a defense are a snare, and that not to drink is simply suicide.\nMissionaries die like flies. But then of course it comes to the same\nthing in the end; there is no escape; and to worry about it, or to expect\nit, will bring on a fever in two days. Exposure to the sun is sure to\ninduce fever; and yet none die so quickly as those who carry umbrellas.\nQuinine is useless except to brace the mind of those who believe in\nit; but it isn\u2019t any good. And when you get fever, you can\u2019t escape, by\nleaving the coast in a hurry, even if there should be a steamer in port,\nwhich is very unlikely; for a man going aboard with fever is sure to die.\nPerhaps it is the horror of being buried at sea that kills him.\n\n\u201cHow is that new clerk whom I brought out for you last voyage?\u201d asks the\ncaptain, of a trader who has come aboard for breakfast.\n\n\u201cPoor chap!\u201d says the trader, \u201che didn\u2019t live two weeks. Another came on\nthe next steamer, and he pegged out in three weeks. They ought to be sent\nout two at a time.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou remember so-and-so,\u201d says another; \u201cwell, poor chap! (and as soon\nas he says \u201cpoor chap\u201d we know the rest) he was found dead in bed one\nmorning since you were here. They had used up all the lumber that they\nhad laid away for coffins, so they took half the partition out of his\nhouse, to make a coffin; and then they didn\u2019t get it long enough.\nThe next fellow is now living alone in that same house with half the\npartition gone, and of course he can\u2019t help reflecting that there is just\nenough left to make another coffin; and, indeed, to judge by the way he\nwas looking when I saw him last they may have used it by this time.\u201d\n\n\u201cHave you heard about the poor chap that so-and-so sent up country? Well,\nhe died a few weeks ago. He was all alone except for the native workmen,\nand as soon as he died they ran away in fear. The agent got word of it\nand started up country immediately; but the rats had found him first.\u201d\n\nIt is only when one reflects that all these \u201cpoor chaps\u201d were somebody\u2019s\nsons, and somebody\u2019s brothers, that one realizes the tragedy of the\ncoast. These little conversations on board seem like the final obsequies\nperformed for those who are dead.\n\n\u201cDo men ever die of anything except fever?\u201d asks a new comer.\n\n\u201cO yes,\u201d says the Old Coaster. \u201cLet me see: there\u2019s dysentery,\u2014poor\nC died of that last week; and there\u2019s enlarged spleen, abscesses,\npneumonia, consumption (one falls into consumption here very quickly, and\noften when he least expects it), kraw-kraw and smallpox (smallpox has\njust broken out at Fernando Po: that\u2019s our next port), not to speak of\nseven or eight varieties of itch, which some men have all the time; but\nitch doesn\u2019t kill. By the way, I suppose you know that in this climate it\nis necessary that bodies be buried a few hours after death.\u201d\n\nIn the speech of the coast there is no such thing as reticence, and soon\nenough we all learn to speak with brutal bluntness. The only comfort\nheld out to the new comer is the hope that he will receive, as a sort of\nobituary, the kindly designation, \u201cPoor Chap.\u201d\n\nI have never argued for the salubrity of the African climate; nor am I\ndisposed to protest the general opinion that it is \u201cthe worst climate\nin the world.\u201d The white man never becomes acclimatized, and never will\nuntil he develops another kind of blood. One lives face to face with\nthe constant and proximate possibility of death as long as he is on the\ncoast. It is an unnatural consciousness, which, when prolonged through\nyears, tends to become fixed and permanent even when one has removed from\nthe circumstances that were its occasion. And yet, the conversation of\nthe Old Coaster is liable to make an exaggerated impression. In the first\nplace, the impression is natural that the climate being so unhealthful\nmust also be uncomfortable. But, in reality, while several months of\nthe year are extremely uncomfortable, the greater part of the year\nis tolerably comfortable and there are several months of exceedingly\npleasant weather. Neither is the heat so great as is generally supposed.\nWith the greatest effort on my part, I never succeeded in disabusing my\nfriends of the notion that I was slowly roasting to death in Africa.\nWith every hot spell in America, when the thermometer was standing at\n100\u00b0, their thoughts turned towards me in profound sympathy. While\nI have at times suffered with the heat and there have been times on\nthe river, between high banks, cut off from the breeze, when I nearly\nfainted, and one occasion upon which I was quite overcome, yet as a rule\nI lived comfortably by day; and the nights are always cool. The maximum\ntemperature on the coast is from 86\u00b0 to 88\u00b0, Fahrenheit, and even such a\ntemperature is rare. One ought to add, however, that owing to the extreme\nhumidity this temperature in Africa is incomparably hotter than the same\ntemperature in America. It is the sultriness of the hottest weather that\nmakes it insufferable. West Africa is heated by steam and without the\nmedium of radiators. The uniformity of the climate is pleasurable, and is\nvery strange to us of northern latitudes. One may reckon upon the weather\nto a certainty. Within the limits of a given season there is scarcely any\nvariation from day to day.\n\nThe insalubrity is due to the deadly malaria of the reeking,\nmosquito-infested swamps. Mr. Henry Savage Landor, after a journey across\nAfrica, announces to the world that he is a strong disbeliever in the\nmosquito theory of malaria. But, that the mosquito is the agent of the\nmalaria bacillus, medical science no longer regards as theory, but as\nfact, a fact established by the most elaborate and painstaking series of\nexperiments ever conducted in the interest of medical science. Mr. Landor\nalso tells us that he and his men were frequently attacked by malarial\nfever, becoming so weak that they could not raise their hands; but in\nevery case a dose of castor-oil effected a cure in a few hours. He is\ntherefore a strong advocate of castor-oil, but disbelieves in quinine.\nThe use of castor-oil is no new discovery. Every man who has had any\nexperience in West Africa takes it at the approach of a fever. But there\nis no substitute for quinine. And the medical men of the coast will agree\nin saying that life depends always upon the judicious use of it.\n\nIn recent years there has been such progress in the knowledge of malaria,\nand how to meet malarial conditions, that the record of West Africa is\ncontinually improving. Then again, missionary societies, following the\nexample of the various European governments, have ceased to make war\nupon the inevitable and have greatly reduced the term of service. In\nAmerican missions the term is generally three years; in English missions\nit is a year and a half or two years; and in the government service the\nterm is usually much shorter than in the missions. My first experience\nin Africa was not a fair test of the climate. We were engaged in opening\na new mission station in the bush, and the conditions were the most\nunhealthful. Our food was the coarsest,\u2014it was several mouths before\nwe tasted bread; our accommodations were the poorest,\u2014part of the time\nwe lived in a tent that did not protect us against the heavy rains;\nand besides there were forced journeys to the coast in the wet season\nwith incidental hardships. After a succession of fevers and sensational\nrecoveries I fled from the coast with broken health at the end of a year\nand a half.\n\nBut the second time, when I lived at Gaboon, I stayed five and a half\nyears,\u2014far too long. During the first three years at Gaboon T had\nfever once every two or three months. I became very familiar with its\npreceding symptoms\u2014physical exhaustion for several days, such that the\nleast effort induced painful weariness and a frequent heavy sigh; aching\nof head and limbs; chills alternating rapidly with feverish heat, and a\nterrible temper. At the end of the third year I had a very severe fever\nwhich, instead of yielding to quinine the third day, became much worse,\nand the natives carried me in a hammock to the French hospital. There I\nremained for five weeks. But after that I had no more fever, not even\nonce, though I remained in Africa more than two years longer, which\nwould have been absolutely impossible if the fevers had continued. The\ndifference was in my use of quinine. At first I took quinine only with\nthe attacks of fever, and then I took an enormous quantity. But in the\nlater period I kept myself immune by taking it daily whether I was ill or\nnot. I took five grains every night for those several years. People are\nusually greatly surprised at this and ask if such an amount of quinine\nwas not a terrible strain upon the constitution. It was, without doubt;\nbut not so great a strain as malarious blood, and frequent fevers, and\nthe shock of very large doses of quinine at such times. If I had not\nbeen in greatly reduced health before I began to take it regularly it\nis not likely that I should have required nearly so much. But this is\nanticipating; for we are still on the outward voyage.\n\nIn general the coast of West Africa is not beautiful; although it has a\nweird fascination for those who have once lived on it. It is low-lying,\nstraight and monotonous: a gleaming line of white surf, a golden strip\nof sandy beach, a dark green line of forest\u2014and that is all, for days\nand days and days, and for some two thousand miles, only broken at\nlong intervals by the great estuary that is a peculiar characteristic\nof African rivers, and by low hills far away on the horizon. Many of\nthe traders are living, not in the white settlements, but in single\ntrading-houses and far apart along this lonely shore. They like it or\nthey hate it. To some it is an idle dream-life that they enjoy, and to\nothers it is a nightmare that they abhor. Some of those who came aboard\nlooked like haunted men. Each day is exactly like all the others, and\nthe natural surroundings never vary however far they may wander along\nthe beach\u2014three endless lines of colour stretching away to eternity, the\ndull green forest front, the yellow strip of sand, the white surge of\nthe foaming surf, and beyond it the boundless sea. Even in the darkest\nnight the forest still shows as a blacker rim against the darkness, and\nthe surf-line is white with a whiteness that no night can obscure. The\nunceasing sound of it is like low thunder, and unless one loves it he\nmust often think what a relief it would be if it would stop but for one\nbrief moment, and how the silence would \u201csink like music on his heart.\u201d\n\nIn such places, and in the bush, the traders sometimes wear only pajamas,\nby day as well as night. There are natives enough around, and there is\nalways noise enough; but it is the noise that only emphasizes solitude.\nAnd one were better to live entirely alone than to be subjected to the\ninfluence of African degradation without the moral restraints of home and\nthe society of equals, unless his religious belief be something more than\na mere acceptance of tradition, and his principles something more than\nconventional morality. There is a better class of natives whose society\nmight relieve loneliness, but the trader, as a rule, does not gather this\nclass around him.\n\nSome are pleased to say very hard things about the traders. But he who\nwould judge justly must have a mind well attempered to the claims of\nmorality on the one hand, and on the other, to the allowance due to the\nfrailty of human nature when placed in circumstances of unparalleled\ntemptation. No man ever realizes the moral restraints of good society\nuntil they are all withdrawn; nor how insidious the influence even of the\nmost repulsive vices when they have become so common to our eyes that\nthey cease to shock: the moral safety of most men is in being shocked.\nOf course there are bad men among the traders, and some _very_ bad; and\nthe rumshop which, wherever the white man has penetrated, rises like\na death-spectre in the landscape, is an abomination to which it would\nbe difficult to do injustice. But it is not chiefly the trader who is\nresponsible for the rum traffic. Many of them would be thankful if the\nvarious governments would entirely prohibit its importation. Moreover,\nthey sell a thousand things besides rum,\u2014as many useful things, and\nnecessary to civilization, as the native is willing to buy. The traders\nare all men of courage\u2014we can at least admire them for that\u2014and many\nare honest and many are kind; and it were far better to refrain from\ncondemning the dissolute than that in so doing one should soil the\nreputation of an honest man.\n\nWe called at Cape Coast Castle, Accra, Lagos, Monrovia and several other\nplaces where there are no harbours, and where the surf is so violent that\npassengers rarely go ashore unless these places are their destination.\nThe longest stop on the voyage was at Old Calabar, sixty miles up the\nCalabar River, where we stayed five days. Old Calabar when I was there\nfirst was the English capital of the Oil Rivers Protectorate, which\nafterwards became a part of Nigeria. The heat was insufferable; for,\nwhile it is possible to keep cool on the hills where the white men live,\nit is not possible in the low channel of the river, and especially in the\ncabin of a steamer. The name _Old Calabar_ has a fine far-away sound,\nlike _Cairo_ or _Bagdad_, and suggests a place of romantic and legendary\ninterest. And indeed the tales of the _Arabian Nights_ scarcely surpass\nthe real history of the native despots that have ruled at Old Calabar\neven down to the death of King Duke in our own times, when, despite\nthe presence of the English, it is said that five hundred natives were\nstealthily put to death to furnish the king a seemly retinue in the other\nworld.\n\nThe run up the Calabar River is a pleasant variety after the long weeks\non the sea. Here we first saw the crocodile, which abounds in all the\nlargest rivers of Africa. It is the ugliest beast in the world. Lying\non a bank of mud, its head always towards the water, and among old logs\nand roots, it looks itself like some gnarled and slimy log, and is\ndifficult to discern. But at the sound of a gun or the near approach of\nthe steamer it slides down into the water quick as a flash. Most of the\npassengers get their guns and take a few shots at them. In every case the\npassenger declares that he has shot the crocodile without a doubt; and\nas the creature disappears into the water there is of course no way of\ndisproving the statement. But when we were coming down the river there\nseemed to be as many as ever.\n\nThe Spanish Island of Fernando Po is the most beautiful place in West\nAfrica. Seen from the harbour in the early morning light or in the soft\nglow of the evening it is a fairy-land of tropical beauty. The bottom\nof the semicircular harbour is the crater of an extinct volcano and is\nvery deep. The bank is covered down to the water with a lavish growth of\nferns, and trailing vines, and flowers of many colours; while above the\npalm tree is abundant\u2014the most graceful of all trees, and the billowy\nbamboo tosses in the breeze. In the middle and extending backwards is the\nwhite town of Saint Isabel, and behind the town stands a great solitary\nmountain of green, which rises to a height of ten thousand feet. Like\nother fairy-lands it requires the illusion of distance. It appears best\nfrom the harbour, and that is true of most tropical beauty. The soil is\nthe most fertile in West Africa. I have seen plantains there full twice\nas large as any that I have seen elsewhere. For some years it has been\nproducing large quantities of cocoa, most of which is shipped to Spain\nand thence over the world in the form of chocolate.\n\nAfrica is a land of extremes. From Fernando Po crossing again to the\nmainland we went fifteen miles up the Rio del Rey to the ugliest place\nin the world. I have also been in the Rio del Rey several times on the\nhomeward voyage, when the steamers usually spend a day there taking on\npalm-oil and rubber,\u2014a coast steamer would go to Hades for palm-oil\nand take all the passengers along with it. There is no native village\nhere. The three trading houses receive the produce which the natives\nbring down the river. All around is one vast mangrove swamp, an ideal\nmosquito-incubator. The trading-houses are erected upon a foundation made\nwith the ashes of passing steamers, which were saved and deposited here.\n\nThe foliage of the mangrove is thin, and at a distance resembles our\npoplar. But the greater part of the mangrove is a solid mass of roots,\nalmost wholly above ground and more nearly vertical than horizontal. The\ntrees seem to be standing on stilts, six or eight feet long, as if they\nwere trying to keep out of the water. There are also aerial roots, long,\nleafless and straight, depending from all the branches, even the highest,\nwhich as they reach the water spread into several fingers. At the high\ntide the roots are submerged and the ugliness of the swamp concealed\nfor a while. But as the tide ebbs the roots appear dripping and slimy\nuntil they are completely exposed: and as the water still recedes long\nstretches of f\u0153tid mud-bank appear. The smell has been accumulating for\nages. A low-lying mist rises from the oozing banks, and now and then\nstretches a stealthy arm out over the river, or creeps from root to root.\nSome one standing near exclaimed: \u201cO heavens, what a place!\u201d I could only\nwonder at the geographical direction of his thoughts; for my thoughts\nwere of Gehenna and the river Styx. The mangrove swamp is surely the\nworst that nature has ever been known to do. My feeling of disgust was\nintensified by many experiences of after years. Sometimes approaching a\ntown at the ebbing tide, a strong native has carried me on his back from\nthe boat to the solid bank, across a waste of sludge, and sometimes he\nhas fallen in the act. Other times, when one could not wade, they have\nthrown me a line and have dragged me across in a canoe; and I felt that\nif the canoe should capsize I would sink almost forever; or, perhaps\nbe dug up twenty thousand years hence and exhibited as a pre-historic\nspecimen. \u201cEvery prospect pleases,\u201d reads the hymn, \u201cand only man is\nvile.\u201d But the worst d\u00e9bris of humanity is not half so vile as the\nprospect of a mangrove swamp at low tide.\n\nThe death record of the Rio del Rey is appalling. Every time that I have\nbeen there\u2014seven times\u2014the traders that came on board looked like dying\nmen; and often their limbs were bandaged for ulcers or kraw-kraw. I was\nonce on board when an English missionary and his wife debarked at this\nplace, expecting to go on up the river, beyond the swamps, to the mission\nstation in the hills of the interior. The lady was becoming more and more\nfearful during the voyage, and the effect upon her of this lower river\nwas such that she was almost hysterical. She remained on board all day\nuntil we were about to weigh the anchor. The first impression counts for\nmuch in the matter of health and resistance to the fever; and the sight\nof that shrinking woman going ashore in such a place was pitiable; for we\nall felt that she was doomed. After a few months, however, she escaped\nwith her life; but she was never able to return to Africa. The mangrove\nswamp stretches along the greater part of the coast of West Africa, and\nalong the rivers where the water is salt or brackish because of the flow\nof the tide from the sea.\n\nThe next experience after the Rio del Rey was a greater contrast than\never. We proceeded forty miles southward and called at Victoria, in the\nGerman colony of Cameroon. The harbour at Victoria is divided from the\nsea by a semicircle of islands, some small and some larger. One of these\nislands, a large barren rock, when seen from a certain part of the beach,\nbears a singular though grotesque resemblance to Queen Victoria as she\nappeared when seated upon the throne. It is presumably from this that the\nplace was given the name _Victoria_; for the English traders were there\nbefore Germany occupied the territory.\n\nImmediately behind the harbour is the great Mount Cameroon, one of the\ngreatest mountains in the world, a solitary peak, which rises immediately\nfrom the sea to a height of 13,700 feet; which is twelve hundred feet\nhigher than Teneriffe. It was evening as we approached, and before we had\nentered the harbour it was night; for in the tropics day darkens quickly\ninto night and there is no twilight. But on the top of the mountain, far\nabove our night, we still saw the rose-red of the lingering day. The moon\nrose behind the mountain and we steered into the shadow of it closer and\ncloser, for by night it seemed much nearer than it really was. The number\nof passengers had diminished to a very few, and they were silent; not a\nvoice was heard on the deck. It was the strangest silence I have ever\nexperienced; not the mere negation of sound, but like something positive,\nand diffused from the mountain itself; a silence more impressive than\nspeech; the silence of an infinite comprehension. The engines stopped:\nwe were ready to cast the anchor, and I found myself wondering how the\ncaptain\u2019s voice would sound when in a moment he would shout: \u201cLet go.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow fit a place,\u201d someone at length remarked, \u201cfor the sounding of the\nlast trumpet and the final judgment! before this mountain which has\nlooked down unchanged upon all the generations that have come and passed\naway since the world began.\u201d\n\nIt is not always silent, however, for the natives, with some sense of\nits majesty, call it the \u201cThrone of Thunder.\u201d Fierce storms wage battle\naround its middle height, with terrific peals of thunder such as I\nhave never heard elsewhere. Sometimes for many days it wraps itself in\nclouds and darkness, completely invisible. I was once a whole week at\nvarious ports within a few miles of it, and did not catch a glimpse of\nit. The clouds wrapped it about to the very base, and there was nothing\nto indicate that it was there except the unusual frequency of storm and\nthunder. Then, one day when we were at Victoria, the weather brightened\nso much that we expected soon to see the peak. I asked a native\nattendant, a young man, to watch for it and tell me if he saw it. At\nlength, while I was sitting on deck watching for it myself, he exclaimed:\n\u201cThe peak! Mr. Milligan, the peak!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere?\u201d I said. \u201cI don\u2019t see it.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook higher,\u201d he exclaimed.\n\n\u201cI am looking as high as I can. I am looking as high as the sky.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook higher than the sky,\u201d he cried, with native simplicity; \u201cthe sky is\nnot high.\u201d\n\nI lifted my eyes still higher towards the zenith, and there, through\nan expanding rift in the heavy cloud, I saw the peak, calm, bright\nand beautiful, just as it had been all the time, even when hidden by\nlow-hanging clouds. I have often thought of it since. God is higher than\nour highest thought, higher than our sky. Our habits of mind and heart,\neven our theology may hide Him from our sight, until by some unwonted\nexperience these are shattered, and through the rent clouds of our former\nsky we see the living God.\n\nA short time before I left Africa I spent ten days at a sanitarium of the\nBasle Mission, on the side of Cameroon, between three and four thousand\nfeet high. I had then been in Africa for years and had tropical blood in\nmy veins, and I suffered much with the cold. There was so much covering\non my bed that I was fairly sore with the weight of it, and yet I was\ncold. The storms raged frequently, hiding the heavens from those below\nand the earth from us; for we were above the storm-cloud, and dwelt in\nlight and sunshine. The detonation of thunder beneath us was like the\nmuttering rumble of an earthquake.\n\nThe German government has built a splendid road from the base of the\nmountain up to the sanitarium. The road is well graded, and winds upwards\nlike a continuous S, covering a distance of sixteen miles in the ascent.\nI was delighted when I found that the missionaries would provide me\na mule upon which I could ride up to the sanitarium. I am a lover of\nhorses, and often during those years in Africa I had been homesick for\nthe sight of one. The mule, when he appeared, was sleek and strong; I\nput my arms around his neck and patted him and caressed him as if he\nwere a long-lost friend. Then I mounted him and started up the road, an\nattendant following behind with another mule and carrying my baggage.\nThe mule which I rode was deeply imbued with Longfellow\u2019s sentiment:\n\u201cHome-keeping hearts are happiest; to stay at home is best.\u201d He climbed\nslowly and reluctantly, and by some mysterious operation of the law of\ngravitation his head had a persistent tendency to turn about and swing\ndown the grade. I soon realized that I could go faster without him, and\nthat the strength which I was expending in keeping him in the path of\nduty was greater than that which I would require in going my way alone;\nand I had no strength to spare. Therefore after three or four miles in\nhis company, finding his disposition fixed and unaspiring, I dismounted,\nand leaving him in the road for the guide, I walked the rest of the\nsixteen miles.\n\nBut ten days later, when I was returning to Victoria, the same mule\nwas again put at my disposal, and I gladly accepted him. For I was\nmuch stronger, and I was going in the direction of his own desire; and\nbesides it was down-hill all the way, and I knew that he was too lazy to\nhold back. The grade was not such that there was any danger to him from\nrunning; so I galloped the sixteen miles, and had the ride of my life. I\ncould have shouted with delight. After a few miles I took a severe pain\nin my side. I dismounted and lay down on the ground. In a little while\nI was all right again, and taking off a pair of stout suspenders I tied\nthem as tight as possible around my waist with a large clumsy knot at my\nside. I had already discarded my coat, and my only upper garment was a\nwoolen undershirt with short sleeves. The suspenders around my waist gave\nme a new accession of strength and I galloped all the rest of the way,\nwith the same pleasure, and entered Victoria where I made something of a\nsensation. My last association, therefore, with the great mountain, was\nnot an impression of its solemn majesty, but the memory of a jolly good\nride.\n\n[Illustration: MISSION HOUSE AT BATANGA.]\n\nI was glad when at last we reached Batanga, and the long voyage was\nover. Our attention was drawn to the canoes in which men were fishing,\nand for which Batanga is famous. The quiet morning sea was dotted with\nthem within a radius of a mile around us, some of them being two miles\nfrom the shore. The Batanga canoe is the smallest on the entire coast.\nIt is almost as light as bark; the men come to the beach in the morning\ncarrying their canoes on their heads. It is quite an entertainment to see\nthem going out through the surf, and I have seen a canoe capsized half a\ndozen times in the attempt. Later in the day, when the surf is heavier,\nthey cannot get out at all. At sea the man straddles his canoe and lets\nhis legs hang in the water; and in this fashion he sometimes ventures two\nmiles from the shore.\n\nWe anchored nearly a mile from the beach and were sent ashore in a\nsurf-boat manned by native Krumen. There is no harbour at Batanga, and\nthe landing in the surf was the most exciting of my African experiences\nuntil that time. As we entered the surf the boat stood still for a\nmoment, until caught up on the breast of a breaker, and\u2014\u201cThen, like\na pawing horse let go, she made a sudden bound,\u201d and we were carried\ntowards the beach with violent speed that looked like destruction for\nus all. The crest of the breaker passed under us, however, when we were\nclose to the beach, and immediately the Krumen leaped into the water, and\nwith all their might ran the boat up on the beach far enough to escape\nthe next wave. Then, while most of them placed themselves around the boat\nto steady it, the rest of them presented their backs to the passengers\nand yelled at them to jump on and ride ashore.\n\nAs the pitching boat was poised for a moment, standing on the gunwale,\nI seized a Kruman firmly by the hair with both my hands, and leaped\nupon him, astride his neck with my legs over his shoulders. I had put\non a fresh white suit for the occasion, notwithstanding that I had been\ninstructed by the Old Coasters that the Kruman, with his unique sense of\nhumour, makes it a point to drop the new comer into the surf and present\nhim to his friends ashore as much bedraggled and beflustered as possible.\nI also had on the inevitable cork helmet, so bulky, and drooping over\nthe eyes. Most men unaccustomed to them feel as awkward as they would in\na Gainsborough hat. The Kruman, I am glad to report, did not drop me;\nperhaps because I kept so firm a hold on his hair that he did not know\nhow much of it he might lose by a sudden or unexpected separation from\nme. It was probably my own fault, and not his, that when he stooped to\ndeposit me, I missed the trick of lighting on my feet, which I afterwards\nlearned. I reached the ground on all fours, in the wet sand. The white\nhelmet fell from my head and rolled off towards the sea and I followed\nit, running quadrupedal fashion, and snatched it from an approaching wave.\n\nA moment later I was exchanging greetings with a group of missionaries\nwho had gathered on the beach.\n\nAt this landing on the beach I observed that we were standing under a\ncocoa-palm. I looked up, and lo, there was no snake hanging from it.\nNow, the most vivid impression\u2014in fact the only impression of Africa\nthat I had carried thus far through life, except that of sunny fountains\nrolling down golden strands, was made by a picture in the old-fashioned\ngeography; in which there were crowded together, with contempt of\nperspective, an elephant, a hippopotamus, a rhinoceros, a lion, a\nleopard, a gorilla, a chimpanzee, several other monkeys, and a python\nhanging from a tree.\n\n\u201cThey are all here,\u201d said some one, in explanation; \u201cbut they are not so\nthick on the ground as you may have supposed.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: REV. A. C. GOOD, Ph.D.\n\n_Dr. Good died at Efulen at the age of thirty-seven. He was a man of the\nLivingstone type._]\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nBUSH TRAVEL\n\n\nUpon our arrival at Batanga we at once commenced the preparations for\na journey into the bush, than which nothing could have been a greater\ncontrast to the long, idle voyage on the sea; for our physical strength\nand powers of endurance were to be taxed more than ever before.\n\nThere were two others besides myself, Mr. Kerr, a new arrival, and the\nRev. A. C. Good, an intrepid and consecrated missionary whose name was\nalready known throughout the United States. Dr. Good had been twelve\nyears in Africa, working most of the time among the Fang of the Ogow\u00e9\nRiver, but had lately come to Batanga for the purpose of opening the Bulu\ninterior. The language of the Fang was so much like the Bulu that Dr.\nGood could converse with the latter from the first. Before the arrival of\nMr. Kerr and myself Dr. Good had already made one journey into the Bulu\ncountry to a distance of seventy-five miles, where he chose the site of\nthe first station, afterwards named Efulen.\n\nIn those days nearly all the distance between Efulen and the beach was\ncovered with dense unbroken forest. None of the Bulu as far as we knew\nhad ever been to the coast; and no white man had ever entered that part\nof the interior. The Mabeya tribe, living immediately behind the coast\ntribe, were already in trade relations with the Bulu; so that there were\nroads, that is, foot-paths, through the forest. But they were seldom\nused, and were only a little better than none at all. The present good\nbush-road from Batanga to Efulen did not exist in those days. We made it\nourselves after we had been there nearly a year, and it has been greatly\nimproved from time to time. The first road which we followed made a great\ndetour to the south, and we walked, according to Dr. Good\u2019s calculation,\nseventy-five miles from Batanga to Efulen, although the distance by the\npresent straight road is less than sixty miles.\n\nAnd, by the way, before we enter the forest, bidding a temporary farewell\nto civilization, we do well to take leave of this highly civilized term,\n\u201cmile.\u201d It is more than superfluous in such a forest: it is positively\nmisleading. Such roads are not measured in terms of linear distance, but\nonly in measures of time. To say that a place is distant half a day\u2019s\njourney, or five hours, is to speak intelligibly; but to say that a place\nis five miles distant is to give not the slightest information as to the\ntime it will take to reach it. On the few good roads which in recent\nyears have been improved by the government one might perhaps walk thirty\nmiles a day: on the worst roads that I have attempted I could not walk\nfive miles a day with equal labour.\n\nMen can now walk to Efulen in three days over the present road, and\nI with others have done it in that time, although in greatly reduced\nhealth; yet I was not nearly so tired as when I used to walk it in five\ndays over the road that we first followed. The greater distance was by\nno means the only difference; the chief difference was in the quality\nof the road. The first road was so obscure that in many places we could\nscarcely follow it; and in some places it was so completely overgrown\nthat we had to cut our way through, making the road as we went, for which\nreason we always kept men with cutlasses ahead of the caravan. Much also\ndepends upon the season. A road might be very good and easy to travel in\nthe dry season, but almost, or quite, impassable in the wet season, when\nthe forest is flooded, when the streams have become rivers and the rivers\nhave far overspread their banks, so that the traveller is wading in water\nmuch of the time. In opening a new station we could not choose our time\nfor travel, and it so happened that in my year and a half at Efulen I\nonly made two round trips in the dry season.\n\nThe African forest is the greatest in the world, both in the area covered\nand in the density of growth. The tribes with whom I am familiar conceive\nof the whole world as a vast bush intersected with rivers. The tribes\nare moving ever from the interior towards the sea; and some of those who\nhave long been coast tribes still retain in the idiom of their language\nthe record of their former ignorance. The word for \u201criver\u201d is used to\ndesignate the sea, and \u201cthe whole world\u201d is \u201cthe whole bush.\u201d A man will\nspeak of his country as his \u201cbush,\u201d and the white man\u2019s country he calls\n\u201cthe white man\u2019s bush.\u201d God, they say, loves \u201cthe whole bush.\u201d Heaven, or\nthe other world, is \u201cthe other bush,\u201d and in singing \u201cI have a Father in\nthe promised land,\u201d they say: \u201cI have a Father in the bush beyond.\u201d\n\nOne who is accustomed to the maple, beech, oak and pine, finds the\nAfrican forest strangely unfamiliar. There are extremes of soft and hard\nwoods; and one will soon observe that as a rule the soft woods have large\nleaves, while most of the hard woods have small leaves. Teak, mahogany,\nlignum vit\u00e6, ebony and camwood are characteristic. The most striking and\nbeautiful tree of the forest is a species of cotton wood. It grows an\nenormous height, with a silver-gray trunk like a column of granite, and\nis supported by immense buttresses. In the primeval forest, that which\nhas not at any time been cut down for man\u2019s habitation, the foliage is\nvery high and the gray trunks suggest the columns of a cathedral. The\nbranches above interlace, forming a canopy of foliage and excluding the\nsun. Cable vines of various sizes, many of them six or eight inches in\ndiameter, lash the trees together, ascending the tree trunks in a spiral\ncoil like an endless python and sometimes strangling them to death, then\nswinging from tree to tree in loops and coils, gnarled and twisted. The\nfoliage and flowers of these spread through the tree tops, making the\ndim light below more dim, and from the swinging cables an undisciplined\nprofusion of other vines and various hanging plants depend in festoons\nand draperies, all interwoven in bewildering confusion. The ground is\ncovered with a thick compost of rotting leaves and branches and insects.\nEvery few yards a giant tree trunk lies prostrate and is filled with\nmyriad insects that will soon devour it.\n\nLightning sometimes strikes the tallest trees, which come crashing down\nbringing half a dozen others with them. Then in this open place where\nthe sunlight reaches the ground there shoots up with amazing rapidity\na tangled undergrowth, from which young trees race upwards to secure\nthe light and air in such rivalry and struggle that the weak are soon\nstrangled or crowded to death, and the battle is to the swift.\n\nThe poet William Watson in melodious verses prays for\u2014\n\n    \u201cThe advent of that morn divine\n      When nations may as forests grow,\n    Wherein the oak hates not the pine,\n      Nor beeches wish the cedars woe,\n    But all in their unlikeness blend\n      Confederate to one golden end.\u201d\n\nNo one will deny that this is beautiful poetry; but it is deplorably\nfalse science. Nothing could be more untrue to the facts. The oak, the\npine and the cedar, considered as living things with conscious aims and\nindividual interests (for that is how the poet would have us consider\nthem), do hate each other with a hatred to which there is no parallel in\nhuman society. Men sacrifice for each other, and we even have martyrs.\nBut in the forest there is no sacrifice, no martyrdom, nor do trees\never confederate; but each fights for itself in a ceaseless and savage\nstruggle. And nowhere else in the forest world is the struggle for\nexistence so remorseless as in the tropic zone of Africa; for nowhere\nelse is variety so profuse and growth so rapid.\n\nIn the primeval forest the undergrowth is not dense and travel is not\nso difficult. But as the natives are always moving their towns and\nabandoning old sites, a considerable portion of the forest is the growth\nof a few years; and here the undergrowth is so dense and matted that\nthere is no possibility of passing through it except as one tunnels his\nway with the cutlass, and the jungle closes on both sides of the path\nlike a wall. This is the usual character of the bush along the rivers.\nThere are not many flowers in the forest. The most common is the orchid.\nBut flowers are numerous in the clearings and more open places. In\nparticular there is a lovely convolvulus of delicate lavender that climbs\nover all the lower growth of the clearing and blooms in such profusion\nas to give its colour to the landscape. The impression of the beauty or\nthe ugliness of the forest depends largely upon whether one sees it in\nthe wet or the dry season. In the dry season, travelling on a fairly good\nroad, the idea of the cathedral with its solemn majesty was often present\nwith me; I was impressed with its beauty and enjoyed the solitude. But in\nthe wet season I loathed it. Who could enjoy, or even recognize, beauty\nwhile standing knee-deep in mud? Its stillness is not the stillness that\nspeaks to the mind and heart. It is dull and dead.\n\nWe had twenty-eight native carriers (whom we must call _porters_ when\nspeaking to Englishmen) each with a load of about forty pounds. They\noften carry more than twice that weight over the present road to\nEfulen; seventy pounds is the standard load. But besides the better\nroads there is also this great difference that the natives were at that\ntime new to the work of carrying heavy loads, to which they have since\nbecome accustomed. The present young men have grown up in the work.\nBesides our personal effects and food supplies we carried trade-goods,\nwith which to buy food and building material from the natives, and to\npay native workmen. There was no currency in that interior tribe. We\npaid out principally salt, beads, and brass rods, the latter used for\nornaments for the legs and arms. After a year there was some demand for\ncloth\u2014highly coloured prints\u2014and other articles for which there was no\nuse at first.\n\nWe were dressed in suits of denim or other cheap material. I bought my\nsuit at a trading-house in Batanga for two dollars, and packed away all\nmy better clothing. Beneath the coat I wore a heavy woollen undershirt,\nthe only proper kind for the tropics, and proper all the time, no matter\nwhat else one may choose or discard. We were glad to discard the helmet\nwhile travelling in the forest, and to substitute a felt hat. Tastes\ndiffer widely as to the best footwear; but I like best for such a road a\npair of canvas shoes with rubber soles, alternating with stout leather\nshoes every second or third day. Each man carries a wooden stick or\nstaff about five feet in length. When a man has chosen and trimmed for\nhimself a stick that exactly suits him, he becomes attached to it with a\nsentimental regard, according to the distance he has travelled with it\nand the journeys he has made. He is sensitive to any criticism passed\nupon it; and no experienced bush-traveller will make disparaging remarks\nabout another man\u2019s staff, but around the camp-fire they will vie with\neach other in praising each his own. I remember mine very well and I\nwould give much to have it now.\n\nPerhaps this attachment is the stronger because, as a rule, we do not\ncarry watches in that country. Most watches will run only for a short\ntime. A fine gold watch is the most useless of all; the very cheapest\nwill run longest. When I began to tell this in America, I found that\nI was sacrificing my reputation for accuracy of statement: whereupon\nI stated the facts to a jeweller who, after consideration, said there\nwas a very plain explanation, namely, that the hair-spring of the more\nexpensive movements is usually finer and more closely coiled than that of\nthe cheaper watches, so fine that the least rust upon it would interfere\nwith its motion.\n\nOur outfit for the road was very light. This was Dr. Good\u2019s habit and\nwith me it was a kind of instinct. We were measuring our strength against\nthe forces of the forest, testing our ability to endure and to wrest from\nthe forest itself the means of enduring. Having this feeling, to carry\nalong the ready-made comforts of civilization seems like taking a mean\nadvantage of nature. Some few things must be taken. But the opinions of\nthe wisest differ as to what those few things should be, and each man\nardently believes in, and advocates his own outfit. The explanation is\nthat nothing of the outfit except food is an absolute necessity. Other\nthings, however important, are of the nature of comforts; and what is\nnecessary to one man\u2019s comfort, another can often do without.\n\nOne may suggest for such a journey a good water-proof bag containing a\nsweater, extra socks and pajamas, and two blankets. A good rubber blanket\nis a necessity if one expects to sleep in the open forest. Canned foods,\nof course, are used, and for cooking utensils, a frying-pan and a\nsauce-pan will suffice for three, and a cup, tin plate, knife, fork and\nspoon for each. Several cutlasses are necessary for clearing the road,\npreparing beds, cutting fire-wood and other uses. Matches also must be\ntaken and kept in a dry place. A few towels and toilet articles complete\nthe necessary outfit. On our first journey we took camp-beds, but only\nbecause we had need of them at Efulen. I never carried one again.\n\nBesides this general and common outfit each man nearly always has some\none article that nobody else carries but himself, and that, in his mind,\nis more important than anything else. I do not remember what Mr. Kerr\u2019s\n_indispensable_ was, for we never walked together except this once, it\nbeing necessary that either one of us should stay at the station. Mine,\nhowever, was a pair of leather gloves, at which Dr. Good used to laugh;\nfor we travelled often together. But they saved me much loss of blood and\nthe pain of torn hands from the brambles and long briers that stretched\nacross the path, and they also enabled me to protect my face from them\nby pushing them aside better than I could have done with bare hands. Dr.\nGood\u2019s indispensable was a mosquito-net with canopy and sides which he\nalso urged upon me as a necessity and which I insisted was a superfluity.\nThere were no mosquitoes in our camping-places in the forest; but he used\nthe net to protect against damp and against any slight motion of the air,\nfor one takes cold very easily and the least cold is liable to induce\nfever. We had many a good-natured \u201cscrap\u201d over these hobbies; but neither\nof us ever converted the other. There was, however, one article with\nwhich I was always well supplied and for which Dr. Good himself usually\nthanked me before the end of a journey, and that was the indispensable\nsafety-pin. I never foresaw any particular use for it, but many uses\nunforeseen invariably emerged as we travelled. Some travellers carry\na piece of oiled baize in a convenient and accessible place. It can be\nused to sit down on; for one can never sit on the ground, even if it is\ndry, because of insects. But its special use is for an apron, which is\nattached with safety-pins and worn in the morning through the dripping\nshrubbery. If one is wearing high shoes he can even keep his feet dry by\nthis means.\n\nThe road that threads the forest from Batanga to Efulen was a narrow\nfoot-path twelve inches wide and poorly beaten. The wet season had begun\nand the rains had been falling two or three weeks. The road was not even\nas good as we had expected; for Dr. Good, who had fully described it,\nhad passed over it at the end of the dry season, when the road was at\nthe best. The typical African road is a contorted line that vacillates\nand swerves to right and left, turning and twisting at acute angles\ncontinually, and often for no apparent reason, as if it had been made by\nsome crazy person. But in such cases there was always an original reason\neven when it no longer exists. For instance, the native carrying a load\nfinds a tree fallen across the path. It is easier for him with his load\nto go around it than to climb over it. But a log does not remain long\nin an African forest. Between insects and rot it is soon demolished.\nMeantime, along its length there has grown up a dense undergrowth; and\nrather than cut through this the native keeps to the path, now beaten,\nwhich passed around the log; and the new traveller wonders why the path\nshould not be straight. It is estimated that an African road is a third\nlonger in each mile by reason of its crookedness. But this is not the\nonly peculiarity of a forest path. African trees have enormous roots, and\nmuch of them is above ground. This is the chief obstruction, and there\nare many others.\n\nNo two successive steps are the same length, nor upon the same level.\nIf the attention is diverted for a moment, one may stumble and fall. The\nroad carefully avoids the hills and keeps down in the lowest parts. The\nnatives, carrying loads, dislike climbing, but they have not the least\naversion to mud; indeed, it has some advantages for their bare feet.\nOne passes through every variety of it and every depth. The road often\nfollows the bed of a stream for a distance, a foot or more under water\nor in mud, according to the season. Meanwhile, the part of the traveller\nthat is above ground is kept moist by the dripping shrubbery that meets\nacross the path. Many of the shrubs are covered with thorns, spines and\nhooks. One of the worst of these, armed with sharp spikes and not easy\nto see because it bears but little foliage, sprawls across the path just\nhigh enough to catch the average man under the chin, where it leaves\na mark that looks as if it might have been made with a cross-cut saw.\nThen, again, there are long stretches of road that are not any worse than\ncrossing a ploughed field after a rain. Every day, and sometimes several\ntimes a day, we forded streams, often wading to the waist, and we rather\nenjoyed it after the mud.\n\nThe deeper ravines we crossed on bridges. Bridge-building in Africa is no\ngreat triumph of mechanical engineering. The bridges which crossed the\nnarrower ravines and gorges consisted simply of several long, slender\npoles laid down side by side. They ought to be on a level but are not.\nOne is six inches or a foot higher than the other, and there is so\nmuch spring in them that the feat of crossing is equal to a tight-rope\nperformance. Over extensively flooded areas where the water is too deep\nto wade, a bridge of single poles is supported in forked uprights at\nintervals of the length of the poles, and above the bridge a rope of vine\nis stretched to hold with the hand. It happened more than once that by\nsome mishap we tumbled into the stream below; but the natives were quick\nto fish us out.\n\nThe worst part of the journey was on the last day, through the new\nclearings which the natives had made for their gardens. In these the\nwhole forest lay prostrate,\u2014trees great and small, the tangled mass of\nvines, and all the d\u00e9bris made by its crashing fall. The whole enormous\nmass is left lying until the lighter parts of it dry: then it is burned\nover. This burning is repeated at long intervals until at length much of\nit is burned away. But by this time the natives are perhaps thinking of\ndeserting it and making a new garden somewhere else, or they may have\nmoved their town away. Meanwhile, they somehow reach the ground and plant\ntheir cassava which flourishes in the fresh, rich soil. The difficulty in\nan African garden is not to get things to grow, but to keep other things\nfrom growing. They never hesitate to fell the forest thus across the\nroad, obstructing the caravans and bringing curses on their heads.\n\nOne might think on approaching a town through one of these clearings that\nit had been made as a formidable defense in time of war. To go through it\nis a tedious and exhausting trial. One moment the traveller is crawling\non all fours under a log; then he walks up the inclined trunk of a tree\na distance of fifty feet, then turns and follows one of its branches,\nfrom this leaps to a branch of another tree which he follows down to\nthe trunk, which is perhaps ten feet above the ground, while below him\nare upright sticks or broken branches upon which he may be impaled if\nhe falls, or at least badly bruised. From this he mounts a cross-log\nand proceeds downwards to another which he follows until it brings him\nfive feet from the ground, when he jumps the rest of the way, crawls\nunder another log, proceeds a few yards on the ground, mounts another\nlog, follows it until he finds himself again six feet off the ground\nand wondering how he will reach it; but the next moment he has already\nreached it and wonders how he got there. Then he does this all over\nagain, and then again. I never passed through such a clearing without\ngetting bruised or hurt in some way. The natives with their bare feet\nclimb over these smooth logs better than the white man with his shoes\nunless they have rubber soles; in the morning before the dew has dried\nit is especially hard. It is much harder from the fact that we are no\nlonger in the shade of the forest, but exposed to the fierce tropical sun\nunrelieved by the least breeze because of the surrounding forest.\n\nA caravan with their heavy loads, walking through such a forest ruin,\npresents a picturesque scene to the spectator. Some are crawling under\nlogs, some are climbing on top of them, half a dozen are walking in\nprocession up an inclined trunk, some are walking a log ten feet in the\nair, others are twisting their way through a maze of branches and some\nhave fallen to the ground. With such a clearing in mind, and remembering\nwhat has been said about African bridges, the reader will not be likely\nto ask the oft-repeated question, why donkeys and horses are not more\nused. The use of either would necessitate the carrying of a derrick with\nrope and tackle.\n\nThis recalls to my mind an occasion some years afterwards that afforded\nhigh amusement to some friends of mine. I had been home in America\nfor several years and was about to go to Africa a second time when I\nreceived a visit from Mr. Kerr, who was home on furlough. He gave me\nan enthusiastic account of the work done by the German government in\nimproving the Bulu roads,\u2014although it was perhaps the road to Lolodorf\nrather than that to Efulen of which he was speaking. He declared that as\ncompared with the first roads that he and I had travelled, I would never\nrecognize it as an African road; for it was \u201cgrand,\u201d\u2014\u201csimply grand.\u201d\n\nWith an outburst of enthusiasm I replied that since I might be appointed\nto that station, and since the road was \u201csimply grand,\u201d I would buy a\npair of donkeys at the Canary Islands and take them with me.\n\n\u201cMan alive!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cone would think you had never been in Africa;\na donkey couldn\u2019t get over it.\u201d\n\nTo my friends it was a hopeless paradox that a road could be \u201csimply\ngrand,\u201d and yet be impassable to a donkey. Nevertheless, about that time\nthey began using donkeys on the road to Efulen, so much had the roads\nbeen improved in the intervening years, and they have been using them\nmore and more since that time. There is difficulty, however, in getting\nthem over the streams and ravines, and I am not sure whether they are\nused to advantage in the wet season.\n\nOnly experience will teach a man to walk the bush-road with the least\neffort; and some never learn. I can remember yet how on that first\nmorning I shrunk from the water and the mud, trying to keep my feet dry\nand my clothes clean. I think Mr. Kerr had more sense from the beginning.\nI, however, was in a state of rigidity, both physical and mental, that\nwould soon have exhausted me. But after a while a kindly Providence\ntook me in hand, sending upon me a rapid succession of blessings in\ndisguise. The mud lay deep in the path and I was trying to straddle it as\nI walked, when, as I sprang forward to clear a wider space, some demon\nwas evidently permitted to catch my foot and throw it up, with the result\nthat I landed full length on my back in the mud. A few minutes later\nthe same impalpable enemy tripped me and I fell headlong on my stomach.\nStill later we reached a broad, black, quiescent pond of water of the\nconsistency of molasses.\n\n\u201cCan you swim?\u201d said Dr. Good to me; \u201cI forgot to ask you that.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said I, thinking of the glowing description he had given me of the\nroad, \u201cthere were several things you forgot to ask me, and some things\nyou forgot to tell. But even if I could not swim in clear water, I could\nprobably swim in that pond.\u201d\n\nWe plunged in and were able to wade through it.\n\nShortly after this a drenching rain fell, a tropical downpour, that wet\nus to the skin. In this rain we stood and ate our first lunch, some fresh\nbiscuits which one of the ladies at Batanga had baked that morning,\nsaying as she tied them up for us in heavy oil paper, that it would be\nthe last food of that sort that we would taste for a long time. But when\nthe rain came on, the native carrier who had them in charge appropriated\nthe oil paper to carry his shirt in, leaving the biscuits exposed to\nthe rain. As we stood eating them while it still rained, it was with\nmitigated sorrow we reflected that it would be the last of that sort we\nwould taste for a long time. I will admit that this was a dreary outset,\nbut it was not unfortunate. My tenderfoot rigidity had completely relaxed\nfor the remainder of the day. I cared not what happened afterwards, and\nwalked without timidity, fearing neither mud nor water, nor height, nor\ndepth, nor any such thing.\n\nNo amount of experience and practice in walking long distances on our\npublic roads at home will insure success in walking a bush-path. In the\nlatter there are constant obstructions and frequent annoyances, the\nobstructions requiring a peculiar physical aptitude, the annoyances\na peculiar mental aptitude. The native possesses both aptitudes to a\nmarvellous degree. The average native, carrying on his back a load of\nforty pounds, can keep up with the average white man carrying nothing.\nYet, I have no doubt that on a turnpike, neither of them carrying\nanything, the average white man would equal the native and perhaps\noutwalk him. It must also be remembered that the white man is in a\nhostile climate in Africa, and is never normally strong.\n\nWe started in the morning as soon as it was light enough to see the\npath, that is, about six o\u2019clock, and walked eight or nine hours a day,\nstopping an hour at noon. We walked at a very rapid pace, almost on a run\nwhere the path would permit. About four o\u2019clock we stopped for the day,\nusually at a camping-ground made by the natives in carrying produce from\nthe interior. These camps were open glades surrounded by the forest wall\nand ceiled by the blue sky.\n\nTwo or three nights we camped beside a flowing stream, a hidden brook,\nthat \u201call night to the sleeping woods sang a quiet tune.\u201d\n\nAfter sitting ten minutes I followed along a short distance till I found\nan inviting spot where the pellucid stream widened and spread over a sand\nbottom, and there, all mud-bespattered, perspiring, weary and sore, I lay\ndown in the cool, running stream, with my clothes on. Does the reader\nknow what luxury is? Certainly not, unless after eight or nine hours of\nwalking and wading over such a road he has lain down in a cool stream\nwith his clothes on. I turn my face to one side and then the other, and\nlet the flowing water caress my cheek, and as it washes away the mire\nfrom my clothing, it also soothes the weary limbs and sore joints and\nsmoothes out the wrinkles of care; and my heart answers back in a song\nto the murmur of its music. This is the ancient Lethean stream in which\nthe weary and the aged bathed and became oblivious of pain and sorrow.\nAfter a bath I get into woollen pajamas and slippers, and sit down a\nlittle later to the best repast of modern times\u2014an absolutely unlimited\nquantity of boiled rice and corned beef. \u201cIs this really corned beef?\u201d\nsaid I; \u201cit tastes like angel.\u201d Does the reader know what luxury is?\nNot unless after such a journey he has sat down to such a meal. For\nluxury is not something objective in the thing that we enjoy, but in the\nkeenness of our relish; and that depends upon contrast\u2014in this instance\nthe contrast of rest and food with hard and hungry endurance. A few\ndays after reaching New York, I attended a banquet at which was served\nI know not how many courses, the richest and the best. Objectively, it\nwas everything that ingenuity could devise; only keen-edged appetite was\nwanting. And I was saying within me to my fellow guests: \u201cAh! I have a\nsecret that you know not. This is only a taste of luxury; but if you\nwould enjoy it to the full measure of your capacity, you must follow me\neight hours through the fell roads of the jungle, bathe in running water,\nget into woollen pajamas, and then sit down in an arboreal _salle \u00e0\nmanger_ to a banquet of unlimited rice and corned beef.\u201d\n\nWe usually slept under booths made from the boughs of trees which we\nfound in most of the camps. The most primitive bed and that which we\nsometimes used, was made by cutting slender, round poles six feet long\nand laying them side by side on two cross-sticks at the head and foot.\nThe native carrier sleeps on this bed of poles with nothing under him and\nnothing over him; but when possible he keeps a fire beside him. We white\nmen were wrapped in a blanket or two. But the use of such a bed is not\nwise when it can be avoided, and it is seldom necessary. More than once\nsome one unable to sleep had to rise in the dark, find one or two bags in\nwhich loads were packed, spill the contents on the ground (making such a\nnoise that one suddenly waking might suppose that an elephant had charged\nthe camp) and spread the bags upon the bed in the hope of subduing the\neffect of its knots and depressions and its general hardness. I soon\ndiscarded that sort of bed and preferred to bivouac in a hammock of stout\nand stiff canvas, suspended between two trees, with a rope stretched taut\nabove it upon which I threw a large and light rubber blanket which formed\na gable over me. This was, at least for me, the most comfortable and\nluxurious bush-bed that I ever slept in.\n\nBut in the early morning of the second day both comfort and luxury seemed\nremote and unrealizable ideas. There is a miserable chill in the forest\nat five o\u2019clock in the morning that always makes one reluctant to leave\nhis warm blankets; and on that morning it was raining. After coming out\nof the stream the night before, I had wrung out of my clothes what water\nI could, and they remained without further drying until I put them on in\nthe morning to the accompaniment of chattering teeth, for they seemed\nas cold as ice. The boys\u2019 fires had all gone out and we ate some boiled\nrice left over from the night before\u2014ate it standing; for sitting down\none\u2019s clothes will get next to him, but standing up one can shrink away\nfrom them, or, at least, he can try. After some experience I was almost\nable to stand up in a suit of clothes without letting them touch me.\nEverything was wet and cold and the branches and shrubs shook water on\nus. There is a right way and a wrong way to conquer the ill-will of such\na morning. The wrong way is to confess your misery, to shiver and shrink\nand try to save yourself. The right way is to plunge into it suddenly,\nget wet as quickly as possible, step lively, and make believe that you\nlike it. The power of this mental attitude is astonishing, and with a\nlittle determination you will soon be master of the situation.\n\nBefore the end of the second day we discovered that the native stomach is\nmade of the finest kind of rubber. Before leaving Batanga we had given to\neach carrier a supply of food for seven days, and before the end of the\nsecond day, some of them had eaten it all. That meant hunger and trouble\nfor all those \u201cfoolish virgins\u201d for the rest of the journey. It also\nmeant trouble for us. The others divided with them, as they nearly always\ndo when this happens. But still they did not have enough and all were\nhungry before the end of the journey. In consequence they were too weak\nto carry their loads. They lagged behind and grumbled continually, and\nsometimes they seemed on the point of refusing to go on. The difference\nbetween a good carrier and a poor one is often simply this, that the one\nstops eating when he is full and the other stops only when the supply of\nfood is exhausted.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nBUSH PERILS\n\n    \u201cBy what I have read in books, I think few that have held a\n    pen were ever really wearied, or they would write of it more\n    strongly.\u201d\u2014_Robert Louis Stevenson._\n\n\nSeveral months later Dr. Good and I returned from the interior to\nBatanga, passing over the road at its very worst. It was near the end\nof the wet season. For many weeks the rains had fallen day and night.\nThe forest was flooded; the streams were rushing rivers, and the rivers\nhad far overspread their banks. Beyond these floods were marshes which\nwere still worse. Where the water was too deep to be waded, temporary\nbridges such as I have described had been constructed, consisting of a\nsingle line of poles extending from one support to another, sometimes\ntwo or three feet under the water, with a rope of vine stretched a few\nfeet above that one might hold with his hand. These bridges were more\nsimple than ingenious, and more ingenious than safe. A number of times\nthe vine above broke, upon which we lost our balance and fell into the\nwater but were rescued by a life-saving crew of the carriers. For in\ncrossing the worst places we always waited for the carriers. Nor did we\nproceed until we saw all the loads over safely. One or two crossed at\na time and the others, having laid down their loads, stood by to be of\nservice in case of accident. In one place when we were crossing a rushing\nstream in which the bridge was buried two feet under the water, the line\nof poles beneath our feet suddenly came to an end, having been swept\naway by the current, and we crossed the deepest part on the upper vine\nalone going hand over hand until our feet came in contact with another\npole. But this let us down into the water almost to our necks. In another\nplace, crossing a considerable stretch of water, the bridge was such that\nDr. Good preferred to cross by climbing the trees and passing along the\ninterlacing branches.\n\nWe were seven days on the way between Efulen and Batanga, including a\nSunday on which we rested. I was a convalescent, having recently been\nsick with a very severe fever that had kept me in bed for more than a\nmonth, and I was still weak. Indeed, the reason for hurrying to the coast\nat this time instead of waiting for the dry season was chiefly my need\nof a physician. The first day I walked four hours very slowly and could\ndo no more; but my strength increased greatly on the way and we walked\nfurther each day.\n\nOn that journey we had to use the cutlasses very often to clear the road\nso as to make it passable; and one day we found the road so flooded that\nwe were obliged to leave it and for several hours we cut our way through\nthe matted undergrowth where there was no road; but it was very slow\nwork. That same day Dr. Good, in jumping over a muddy place, lighted on a\nslippery stick that was hidden beneath the surface and fell headlong. I\nwas following so close behind that I was already in mid-air when he fell;\nand, of course, I tripped over him and fell too. For a few seconds at\nleast we were a sorry sight. There was a stream near by, however, and we\nwashed away the portion of German territory that clung to us, and made a\npresentable toilet.\n\nBut Dr. Good had fallen on a projecting root and had hurt his side quite\nbadly. It was like him to say nothing about it until, as we stood at\nthe stream, I observed that he was pale. Then he told me that he had\nhurt himself and that there was a pain in his side. He thought that a\nband tied around his waist would relieve him; so I peeled a strip of\nbark four inches wide from a tree and tied it tight around him, over his\ncoat, making a bow at his back. Considered \u00e6sthetically it left much to\nbe desired, but it served the purpose. He walked with difficulty the\nfirst hour or two; then the pain gradually subsided, and although he was\nbruised, it occasioned him no further trouble.\n\nOn the last night of our long immurement in the forest, we camped for\nthe first time in an open glade where the sun had warmed and dried the\nground, and the wood also was dry enough to enable us to have a big\ncamp-fire. We kept the fire all night, and for the first time on the\nway got our clothes well dried. Not only were they dry; they were even\nwarm when we dressed in the morning. We were in high spirits and greatly\nenjoyed our breakfast. But immediately upon starting out, and before our\nblood was in vigorous circulation, we came to a long stretch of water\ncovering acres of ground. We were greatly surprised at this, for Dr. Good\nknew this place and had not expected any such thing. The explanation,\nas we found two hours later, was that a little town had just been built\nnear by and the people, being at war with their neighbours, had dammed\na stream so as to surround their town with water and marsh for defense\nagainst the approach of their enemies. This unsightly and disgusting\nplace they were very proud of as serving admirably their purpose of\nsafety.\n\nWhen we came to the water we waded in and walked on and on not knowing\nits extent. But at last we were in almost to our shoulders, and Dr. Good\nsuggested that I should wait while he looked for the road, for he knew\nthe way better than I. It was long before he found it and I stood for an\nhour in the water. I had never felt any ill effects from wading water,\nbut now I was standing, not wading; and I had not done any walking that\nmorning to invigorate me. Before we had proceeded far after leaving the\nwater, my joints were stiff and muscles sore, especially the tendons of\nthe heel and the knee, and every step cost pain. But we had the longest\nday of all before us, and our food supply being exhausted, we must reach\nBatanga that night. It was a day I shall never forget. To the pain of\naching joints and sore muscles was soon added that of exhaustion. It\nhappened that I had been quoting Heine and passing severe moral verdicts\nupon him for saying somewhere\u2014\u201cPsychical pain is more easily borne than\nphysical; and if I had my choice between a bad conscience and a bad\ntooth, I should choose the former.\u201d This, no doubt, is pure paganism; but\nnow when I was suffering something of the weakness and pain that poor\nHeine endured, I am afraid that if I had been offered a bad conscience in\nexchange for physical suffering, with the sure promise that I could get\nmy better conscience back again at the beach, I might have succumbed to\nthe temptation. Thank God that in the crises we seldom have the choice.\nAt any rate, Heine did not seem so much of a pagan that day as when I\nsat by the warm camp-fire the night before descanting on another\u2019s pain,\nand Dr. Good did not have to listen to further moral dissertations on my\npart. Hours before we reached the beach my legs were fainting under me\nbut still we walked on with long strides and at the usual rapid pace,\nthreading the forest while hour was added to hour.\n\nWe did not take our usual noonday rest, for we both knew that if I should\nstop walking for a little while I would be unable to go on. We usually\nchatted together as we walked, but that day from noon until we reached\nthe beach, I do not recall that a word was spoken. Dr. Good was too wise\nto express the sympathy that I knew he felt. We had always taken turns\nin setting the pace; but at noon I said to him: \u201cYou go ahead; I am not\nequal to the extra mental exertion of setting the pace: it will be easier\nfor me to keep up with you.\u201d\n\nThe last hour of that interminable day was through a grass field where we\nwere exposed to the sun and the heat. The rank grass was much higher than\nour heads and intercepted the sea-breeze. It also cut my arms and face\ntill I was covered with blood; for I was too tired to protect myself.\nEach successive step required a new decision, and an effort involving\nthe utmost conjoint exertion of mind and body. My teeth were set and I\nwas breathing audibly. At last we entered a native town and as we passed\nthrough the long street, the people and their chief, Bivinia, came\ntrooping forward with cordial greetings and hands extended towards us;\nbut I neither extended my hand nor replied to their salutations. Indeed,\nmy mind was so concentrated on the effort that it required to keep on\nwalking that I was only half-conscious of the presence and attention of\nthe natives; they were like forms moving to and fro in an uneasy dream.\nBut the longest day has an end. We reached Dr. Good\u2019s house and I threw\nmyself into a chair while he dispatched a messenger to Mr. Gault who\nlived two miles further, asking Mr. Gault to send men with a hammock to\ncarry me on to his house where I was going to stay.\n\nIt is doubtful whether one ever recovers from such an unnatural straining\nof nerves and muscles. The muscles in a few days may regain their\nelasticity and the joints their suppleness; but somewhat of the power of\nendurance is lost and especially the quality of resiliency, the power of\nquickly recovering from mental or physical prostration, leaving one an\neasier victim of virulent disease; and nerves so overwrought may from\ntime to time wreak the vengeance of untold misery through all the after\nyears.\n\nDuring the following dry season we employed a force of men in making a\nnew road, the present road from Batanga to Efulen. It is practically\nstraight, and therefore much shorter than the old road, so that a good\nwalker can make the journey in three days. Moreover, it follows higher\nground and is more dry. We also cut down many trees along the way, which\nrelieved the gloom, although the road still passes beneath a leafy arcade\nsufficient to protect from the sun. We improved the bridges and wherever\npossible made a bridge by felling a tree. But the native roads, except\nthe few that have been improved by white men, are still such as I have\ndescribed. It happened also that most of our journeys were at first made\nin the wet season. After the first year, however, that was no longer\nnecessary, and we began to feel that the pioneer period was drawing to a\nclose. But I presume that those who now live at Efulen and other interior\nstations, in journeys to the further interior, especially to towns off\nthe main road, if they travel in the wet season, find just such roads as\nwe first travelled.\n\nThe last time I walked from Efulen during my first term in Africa, I\nenjoyed the journey. The forest was more dry than I had believed it could\nbe. The ground was strewn with leaves suggestive of our autumn. Nor\nwas it dark and depressing as before. Upon the forest-canopy of green,\nsupported by tall columns of sombre gray, the light danced and played\nlike sunshine on rippling water and shone through in silvery streams and\nshifting golden bars. The forest floor was a humus of soft mould and\nlight, dry leaves. The low green undergrowth, closing the path before\nand behind me, now that it was not dripping with water, was attractive,\nand gave a pleasant sense of privacy combining with the subtle sense\nof companionship with the vast life of the great forest. For it was no\nlonger the dead, repellent jungle of some months ago, but a real forest\nin which one loves to walk alone, a forest full of mystery and spiritual\nsuggestion, whose stillness speaks to us in a language that we strive to\nunderstand, or gives, as Tennyson says, \u201cA hint of somewhat unexprest:\u201d\n\n    \u201c\u2019Tis not alone the warbling woods,\n      The starred abysses of the sky,\n    The silent hills, the stormy floods,\n      The green, that fills the eye.\u2014\n    These only do not move the breast;\n      Like some wise Artist, Nature gives\n    Through all her works, to each that lives,\n      A hint of somewhat unexprest.\u201d\n\nIn setting out from Efulen we always had a \u201cpalaver\u201d with the carriers\nwhich in one instance, at least, threatened to become a fight. Dr. Good\non his first journey before my arrival in Africa had paid the carriers\na certain amount for the round trip; for they had to carry their loads\nboth ways. One can scarcely overestimate the authority of _precedent_\nin Africa. The citation of a precedent is sufficient to justify any\nsubsequent action that may be to the advantage of him who cites it, even\nthough the action be flagitious and the precedent only remotely relevant.\nA single precedent may establish a custom and established custom is a\ndespot from whom there is no appeal, and whose authority transcends\nmoral law. A Kruman, if asked why he does this or that, thinks that he\ngives the most lucid explanation when he answers: \u201cIt be fashion for we\ncountry.\u201d We had expected to pay our carriers from Batanga to Efulen less\nthan Dr. Good had paid, since they were carrying loads only one way. But\nhis one trip had established the amount of pay, and at the first mention\nof lower prices there was a storm of protest accompanied by scathing\nmoral observations. It made no difference to them, they averred, whether\nor not they carried loads both ways; they would just as soon walk with a\nload as without one, and indeed a little rather. We had no alternative,\nso we paid the full price of a round trip; but we stipulated that if at\nany time we should wish to send loads from the interior to Batanga, we\nshould require the carriers to take them without any additional pay; and\nto this they cordially agreed.\n\nIt was seldom that we had anything but mail to send to Batanga, except\nwhen one of ourselves was going, and then we usually had four or five\nloads. But there were always several times this number of carriers. Some\nfew, therefore, must be selected to carry the loads, while the rest\nwalked light. It was natural, I suppose, that when they knew a white man\nwas going back with them to Batanga they should all pretend to be sick in\norder to escape carrying a load. So sure as they heard me coming towards\ntheir house in the early morning to choose several carriers, immediately\nthey presented such a spectacle of suffering as was never seen in any\nhospital. It was very perplexing for almost invariably some one or two\nof them were really sick and quite unfit to carry loads. On one occasion\nas I approached, the scene was more heartrending than usual. There were\nmeans and cries and shrieks such as might issue from a railroad wreck\nin which a score of broken and mangled human beings were pinioned by\nthe wreckage. I found them sitting and lying around in every posture of\npain. Some were nursing sore feet and sprained ankles, some had violent\nattacks of indigestion, several had fever, and one had a fit. Each one\nwas occupied with his own suffering and betrayed no consciousness of my\npresence.\n\nAfter looking around I walked out without speaking. I made a bold guess\nas to the sick and the well; and returning a few minutes later, followed\nby several workmen with the loads, I advanced as if by some occult means\nI knew exactly the degree of sincerity or insincerity on the part of\neach, and placed the heaviest load in front of a certain man, saying\nquietly: \u201cYou will carry this load.\u201d Now it happened that this was the\nonly sick man in the crowd and he was quite unfit to carry anything. The\ntruth is that the man, being really sick, did not call in the assistance\nof dramatic art, and he made less fuss than any of the others. We were\nnot many hours on the way before I discovered the mistake I had made.\nIt is very difficult to make any change on the road, and is regarded as\nsomething less than fair. To accomplish it without a mutiny one must\nassume a terrifying countenance of the utmost ferocity and cannibalism.\nIn this I was evidently successful; for late in the afternoon I suddenly\ncalled a halt, waited until all the men came up, and then ordered a man\nto take the load off the back of the sick man and put it on the man who\nthat morning had been seized with a fit at my approach. This I did with\nthe more relish because I had heard him chuckling about it along the way\nand telling the joke on the white man.\n\nWe seldom saw an animal in the forest, although we knew they were there.\nThe only monkey that we saw on our first journey Mr. Kerr shot and gave\nto the carriers who ate every part of it, inside and out, including the\nskin\u2014after burning off the hair. We sometimes heard the blood-curdling\nnight-cry of the leopard; but we never saw one. On several occasions\nwhen I was alone I heard elephants plunging along the path before me, or\nsuddenly discovered their tracks at my feet, so fresh that the water was\nstill trickling into them. The elephant is not dangerous unless one comes\nupon him suddenly and startles or frightens him; but if he \u201ccharges,\u201d\nhe is terrible. A chief near Efulen was one day walking in the forest at\nthe head of a hunting party. At a point where the path suddenly swerved\naround the upturned root of a tree, he found himself face to face with\nan elephant. Before he had time to fire the elephant instantly charged.\nIt put its tusk through his body and then trampled him to death under\nits feet. The natives taught me, when I heard elephants ahead, to stop\nand shout until there was complete silence; which meant that they had\nhidden in the forest and I could pass along the path in perfect safety,\nno matter how near they might be. But the first time that this occurred,\nand the second time, I made the natives prove their advice by going ahead\nthemselves, which they never hesitated to do.\n\nIn the wet season I always walked in company with the caravan; but in the\ndry season I preferred to walk alone, and often left the carriers far\nbehind me, scattered along the road in different groups. At a fork in\nthe road I always threw a handful of fresh leaves upon the road that I\nfollowed, as a sign to the carriers that they might be sure to take the\nsame way. Never but once did they fail to follow me. On that occasion\nsome of the carriers were boys of a strange tribe, the Galway, more used\nto waterways than to bush roads. Until the last evening they had walked\nbehind others who were familiar with bush travel and whom they could\nfollow heedlessly. But that evening it happened that the Galway were\nahead and they took the wrong road, not observing my sign of the leaves\non the path, and the whole caravan went astray except two carriers who\nwere far behind and separated from the others. To follow their misfortune\nto the issue, the Galway got separated from the rest of the caravan and\narrived at Batanga two days late, famished with hunger and frightened\nhalf to death.\n\nMeanwhile, I had walked on far ahead until I thought that the carriers\nmight require all the daylight that was left to catch me, and then I\nstopped and waited for them; though I had not yet reached the camp. As\ntime passed and no carriers appeared I began to feel uneasy. The chill\nof the evening was approaching, and I had not even a coat; so I began to\nwalk back and forth rapidly to keep warm. Finally, two carriers arrived.\nOne of them had my food, which was fortunate; but the other had nothing\nthat I wanted on the road. The lost Galway had my bed and extra clothing,\nand even the matches. We waited for them anxiously and called loudly,\nbut there was no answer. Then swiftly, as always in the forest of the\ntropics, the day turned into night: \u201cAt one stride comes the dark.\u201d A\nheavy, palpable darkness, like smoke, enshrouded us and rose higher till\nit blotted out the leafy canopy and blackened the very sky. The opacity\nof the darkness was such that we could not see each other, nor could I\nsee my hand when I placed it before my eyes.\n\nFor a while I forgot the loss of the other carriers in thankfulness for\nthe company of these two men. For, however kindly the mood of the forest\nby day, or however joyful the camp-fire by night in congenial company,\nyet, to one alone through the night, without comfort or means of rest,\nand with the possibility of being lost, the forest is truly dreadful. One\nin such a plight interprets the forest through the medium of his misery\nand his fear. The intolerable vastness of his prison dungeon suggests the\n\u201couter darkness,\u201d and the experience of a soul forsaken. I was miserably\ncold and had nothing to protect me; nor had I a bed except a rubber\nblanket. I kept walking back and forth on a bit of path a few yards long,\nnotwithstanding that I had walked all day. There was but little rest.\nOccasionally I threw myself down on the rubber blanket but was so cold\nthat before long I rose again and began walking. Fortunately I was in\nunusually good health, for Africa, or the exposure might have resulted\neven more seriously than it did. My cook, Eyambe, a Batanga man, who\nhad worked for us at Efulen for several months, possessed the remnant\nof a shirt, so much prized that he had carried it with him to the bush,\nlest his numerous relatives, male and female, should wear it out in his\nabsence. He came to me in the darkness feeling his way, and said, \u201cMr.\nMilligan, my shirt, you must take him and wear him, please. This bush he\nno be too bad for we black man; but my heart cry for white man.\u201d\n\nI took it, of course, and wore it. But the cheer that I derived from the\nkindness of his heart was greater than the poor comfort of the shirt.\n\nI thanked God when morning dawned at last; but it is unnecessary to say\nthat I was in poor condition for walking next day, the last day of the\njourney. I knew that the exposure would bring on fever and I walked\nmore rapidly than usual so as to reach Batanga as soon as possible. I\nsometimes even ran, as if in precipitate flight from a pursuing beast.\nThe part of the road over which I passed that day was quite new and\npoorly cleared. My clothing may not have been stout enough to withstand\nthe thorns and briers which I encountered; or else, in my hurry, I was\nreckless. At any rate, when I emerged from the forest, behind Mr. Gault\u2019s\nhouse, one leg of my trousers was gone from above the knee, and the\nother leg was also exposed through several rents, the remainder of the\ntrousers being fastened with numerous safety-pins. I was also scratched\nand bleeding more than on any previous trip.\n\nAs I turned and looked back from the beach towards the gloomy and sullen\nforest, in the vivid realization of the exposure of that long night and\nthe fever which I knew was imminent, I had the feeling which Stanley\ndescribes when he and his long caravan emerged from the dark prison\nforest after the immurement of several months, in which scores of their\ncomrades had died by the way, the whole caravan now enfeebled and wasted\nwith hunger, the black, glossy skin turned an ashen gray. They ascended\na hill and first looking up yearningly towards the bright blue sky, they\nthen turned with a sigh and looked back over the sable forest that heaved\naway to the infinity of the west. In their sudden exaltation they shook\ntheir clenched fists at it, uttering imprecations, and with gestures of\ndefiance and hate. They apostrophized it for its cruelty to themselves\nand their kinsmen; they compared it to hell, and accused it of the\nmurder of a hundred of their comrades. But the forest which lay vast as\na continent before them, and drowsy, like a great beast, answered not a\nword, but rested in its infinite sullenness, remorseless and implacable.\n\nI was not mistaken in my apprehension of fever. I did not return to\nEfulen again. One fever followed another in quick succession, becoming at\nlength so serious that my fellow missionaries at Batanga united in urging\nme not to risk another attack. An English steamer on the outward voyage\ncalled just at that time and I went south to Gaboon, where I sailed on a\nFrench steamer for Marseilles and thence home.\n\nLittle did I think when I was leaving Efulen for a few days, as I\nsupposed, that I was really taking a long leave of Efulen and Africa,\nnot again to see either for four years, and never again to see Dr. Good.\nThat last morning, when I was setting out for the beach, he walked with\nme down the long Efulen hill to the foot, where we stood perhaps half an\nhour, formulating our expectations and making the clearest-cut plans,\nnone of which were realized, although they pertained to the immediate\nfuture.\n\nThe element of accident is a constant factor in Africa, that continually\nchanges the course of our reckoning and overturns our surest\ncalculations. Accidents are no more numerous there than elsewhere, but\nthey are more serious. Climbing a mountainside, a slip of the foot is\nfraught with more danger than on a level road. In the hostile climate of\nAfrica, the smallest accident, a moment\u2019s incaution or forgetfulness on\nyour own part or on the part of others, may change the entire future.\nElsewhere the best-laid plans of men have about an equal chance with the\nbest-laid plans of mice, if the observation of Burns is to be trusted.\nBut in Africa the probability of the future is entirely with the mice.\n\nWhile I was in Africa a second time and living in Gaboon, two hundred\nmiles further south on the coast, I visited Efulen once more. The road\nwas much more improved than when I had seen it last. The sun shone\nthrough the arcade of vines and branches and formed upon the pathway\na filigree of gold and silver light. The mode of travel was different\naccordingly. It was the best time of the year and there was a happy party\nof eleven, so that the journey was like a continuous picnic. Four of the\nparty were ladies, three of whom were carried in hammocks and one rode\na donkey. Besides, and chiefly, there was a very sweet little girl, two\nyears old\u2014a little splash of golden sunshine in the gray forest light, a\ndream of home, a fragment of a song\u2e3a Ah me! how lonely one becomes for\nthe sight of a white child when he has lived some years in the jungles!\nMuch of the time the ladies were walking and the hammocks empty. The\nhammock is suspended from a long bamboo pole borne upon the shoulders of\ntwo carriers. But the carriers must be relieved frequently, for it is\ndreadfully hard work. Six of the strongest native men are required for\none hammock. Little Lois also had her special hammock, with a firm floor\nin it, so that she could sit upright, and she was perfectly happy when\nriding through the forest.\n\n[Illustration: LITTLE FRANCES, BORN IN AFRICA.\n\n_Ah me, how lonely one becomes for the sight of a white child when he has\nlived some years in the jungles!_]\n\nSeveral towns had been built along the way and in one of them we stopped\neach night, where we occupied native houses and slept on native beds of\nstraight bamboo poles covered with armfuls of grass\u2014as good a bed as\none could desire. The numerous ticks in the grass were converted into\nbed-ticks\u2014such was our resourcefulness of expedient. The only dislikable\npart of the journey was rising so early in the morning when we could have\nslept on for hours, after the walk of the preceding day. But an incident\nof that journey impressed it distinctly upon my mind that there is some\nadvantage in eating breakfast before daylight. One morning we had an\noatmeal breakfast. The day dawned upon two tardy boarders before they\nhad eaten and they were horrified at discovering that the oatmeal was\nfull of vermiform animalcules. Of course, they could not eat it and had\nthe poorer breakfast in consequence, and the other nine thought that it\nserved them quite right for being so late. A doubt has always lurked in\nthe recesses of my mind as to whether the joke was really on the two or\non the nine.\n\nWe did not, as in former days, keep steadily to a regular pace without\nstopping, even for hours at a time, and walking in comparative quiet.\nFor the hammock carriers go very rapidly, on a dog-trot, continually\nshouting, and a white man follows immediately behind each hammock. They\nrepeat a regular call and response, half song, half shout, as if to\nsustain their animation and courage. What wonderful voices they have! The\nforest, startled from her deep repose as we pass along, rebounds with\nshout and answering echo, while we dash on over height and depth, over\nrock and stream and mire, for an hour. Then, out of breath and in copious\nperspiration, we sit down for fifteen or twenty minutes, and at the word\nof command we are off again with a dash and a shout. It is all very\npleasant and a great improvement on the old way, although one pays very\nlittle attention to the forest and is wholly oblivious to its moods. But\nthe old way is still the regular way on all roads except those few which\nthe white man has undertaken to improve.\n\nAnd this disposition to \u201cimprove\u201d everything he puts his hand to is a\nradical difference between the native and the white man. The mental\nhabit of the native is contentment with things as they are; in which\nhe is far more happy than fortunate. He would let this old world, or\nthis old \u201cbush\u201d as he calls it, stay as it is to the end of time. The\nunhappy restlessness of the white man, his dissatisfaction with what he\nhas and his longing for what he has not, his eagerness for change and\n\u201cimprovement,\u201d the native is sometimes disposed to regard as a morbid\nmental disease. But the greatest wonder of it is that the white man\nincludes the native himself in his program of improvement. He finds him a\ndenizen of the forest, his mental habitudes like her changing moods, now\nsullen and cruel, now gentle and cheerful for a little while, partaking\nof her darkness mingled here and there with broken beams of light; and as\nhe clears a way through the deep forest making the darkness light, so he\nlabours that a gleam of heaven\u2019s light may shine down into the benighted\nnative soul; that it may lighten the path of his destiny more and more,\nand lead him on, in ways of purity and peace, till the gleam become the\n\u201cperfect day.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nV\n\nTHE CAMP-FIRE\n\n\nIf it is dreadful to be overtaken in the forest by the punctual night of\nthe tropics, while unprepared, without camp or comfort, yet, to the weary\nman, after a good bath and a good supper, and with a good bed awaiting\nhim, the brief period of the departing day and the increasing camp-fire\nglow, the smell of wood smoke and the crackle of the burning log, are a\ndelightful experience.\n\nThe camp is usually an open glade, where the night is not so sudden in\nits fall. The shadows grow longer in the evening light, and the gray\ntwilight deepens till the stars shine through. Then in the red glow\nof the camp-fire, phantom shadows and eerie forms flit to and fro,\napproaching towards us and receding into the darkness like spirits\nimpelled by curiosity, and planning either play or mischief according to\nthe mood of the observer. In the day the man is properly the master of\nhis mood, but in this hour it is pleasant to relax and let the mood be\nmaster of the man, giving a free rein to fancy.\n\nImmediately after supper it was my custom to hold prayers with the\ncarriers. Then, if the labour of the day has been easy, or a Sunday rest\nhas intervened, they become more sociable and communicative than usual,\nand often prolong the evening with camp-fire stories. They are born\norators and can tell a story to perfection, whether it be a fable handed\ndown from others, or a narrative from their own experience. The knowledge\nof the native may be ever so limited and his thought meagre, but he\ncan always give it appropriate and striking form and express himself\nin forceful and sometimes beautiful language. He never hesitates nor\nbecomes incoherent; his words flow like a river and keep well within the\ncourse of his purpose. His gestures are animated and infinitely varied,\nsometimes grotesque, more often graceful, and always expressive.\n\nHe has also a faculty of imitation beyond all men. For instance, two\nschoolboys (if we may leave the camp-fire for a while to digress upon\nthis native talent for imitation)\u2014two schoolboys sit talking together,\nmyself paying no attention, when one of them imitates the clicking of my\ntypewriter so that I immediately recognize it. A new clock has recently\nbeen placed in the school, and I recognize their imitation of its stroke.\nAgain, I recognize the noise of the gasoline engine of the launch,\n_Dorothy_, now at half speed, now full speed, now running smoothly and\nnow with the peculiar omission followed by a heavier stroke, due to a\nweak battery.\n\nA boy in talking to me refers to another boy by a name that I do not\nknow, one with rather a peculiar countenance.\n\nI say: \u201cI do not know of whom you are speaking.\u201d\n\nHe replies: \u201cHe looks like this\u201d\u2014slightly twisting his face into an\nexaggerated and ludicrous likeness of the other boy, which I instantly\nrecognize.\n\nOne day at Efulen the body of a very large monkey, killed by Mr. Kerr or\nDr. Good, hung suspended from the roof of our back porch. The expression\nof the monkey\u2019s face was fearfully human. It did not look dead, but\nrather as if it had been very drunk the night before and was sleeping off\nthe effects. I heard our two house-boys giggling and chuckling on the\nporch, and looking out I saw them standing in front of the monkey trying\nto look just like him, which they did with such startling success that\nI complimented them by telling them that either of them might exchange\nplaces with the monkey without Dr. Good ever knowing the difference.\n\nOn one occasion a party of white men and native boys were travelling on\na river launch for several days. Four of the white men occupied their\nspare time in playing a certain game with dominoes. One day when they had\nleft the cabin, four native boys sat down in their places and taking the\ndominoes, began to imitate the white men. They were absolutely ignorant\nof the game, and did not know the white men\u2019s language, and yet they\npresented the semblance of the whole performance, each boy impersonating\nan individual white man\u2014his exclamations, manner, and general behaviour\nduring the progress of the game, from the deal to the last trick and the\nnoisy conclusion.\n\nThis art of imitation is useful to the natives in hunting. For instance,\na deer hunter in the forest will imitate the noise of two fighting\nbush-deer, and he will do it so well that any deer within hearing will\ncome running to the spot. In reciting their numerous fables, in which\nanimals are made to talk and act so as to teach lessons of prudence and\ngoodness, the native will imitate the noise or the movements of each\nanimal, and some of these stories one might almost follow without knowing\nthe language.\n\nThis talent is also useful to the native in preaching the Gospel, which\nthey all do, great and small, old and young, as soon as they become\nChristians, and often long before. I talked one day to a group of\nChristian boys, or young men, on the words: \u201cNow the serpent was more\nsubtile than any beast of the field,\u201d applying the words obviously to\nthe subtility of the Evil One in tempting us. Shortly afterwards, one\nof those young men, Ndong Koni (whose name I am likely to mention very\nfrequently in the succeeding chapters) preached to a large audience a\nsermon on those words, which put mine to shame:\n\n\u201cYou know where you may expect to find other animals,\u201d he said, \u201cand you\nalso know their times.\u201d And then naming first the leopard, he told them\nthe kind of place that it frequents, and at what hours it seeks its prey,\nwhile the eager audience roared assent. So he did with the elephant, the\ngorilla and others. But the serpent, he told them, is found everywhere,\noften in the path before them, even in their houses, and always when\nleast expected. Then he compared its powers with those of other animals,\ndescribing the leopard\u2019s strength to fight, the fleetness of the deer\nin escaping, and how the monkey climbs; but how the serpent outfights\nthe leopard, outruns the deer, outclimbs the monkey. The audience\nknowing well all the habits of the animals of the forest, was wildly\nappreciative, and several times took the sermon out of the speaker\u2019s\nmouth.\n\nOn another occasion, a young man, Amvama, preached on the \u201cLost Sheep\u201d\nof the parable, describing its peculiar helplessness. All the animals of\nthe forest, however far they wander, can find their way back\u2014but not the\nsheep; every other animal has some peculiar defense against its enemies\nof the forest, but the sheep is defenseless. The sheep lost in the forest\ncannot of itself get back to the town, and it is sure to be devoured\nby the wild beasts. Amvama did not fail to apply this to our own moral\nplight as lost and helpless.\n\nBut, we will return to the camp-fire in the forest, and the dim and dusky\ncompany seated around it, and the larger circle of fitful shadows and\nfurtive forms that come gliding out, and back again into the forest. The\nopaque darkness pours forth such a volume of sound as never was heard in\nany forest elsewhere;\u2014a thousand mingled noises of the night, weird, and\ndifficult to associate with any bodily form, but belonging, one might\neasily fancy, to the shadow spirits of the forest, some of them perhaps\nthe spirits of dead men\u2014of those who, labouring under heavy loads, fell\nby the wayside, and died of sickness or fatigue, whose skeletons we\nsometimes pass; of those who by the spell of an enemy\u2019s fetish lost their\nway, and never saw the face of man again; of those who for some crime\nhave been driven forth into the forest by their own people, to die of\nhunger, or by the beasts.\n\nAbove all the myriad noises of the night, and separate from them, at\ntimes there falls upon the ear a prolonged cry of distress, that smites\nupon the heart, heard always in the African forest and never afterwards\nforgotten. It is a succession of ten or twelve long cries, shrill,\ntremulous and piercing; rather low at first, and vague, but gradually\nrising to a cry of definite terror, and again descending until it is lost\nin the volume of the forest noise.\n\nIt is a little disappointing to find the real source of this peculiar\ncry; and most people never find it, for it is exceedingly difficult to\nlocate; whether near or far, whether high or low, one cannot be sure. It\ndoes not proceed as imagination suggested, from the spirits of the dead\nat variance and afflicting one another, but from a warm-bodied, innocent\ncreature, the lemur, which lives in the heights of the trees, feeds\nupon insects, birds and reptiles, and seldom comes to the ground. In\nappearance it is somewhat like a bulky bear\u2019s cub, but not well armed for\noffense or defense, and leading a precarious life among the stronger and\nfiercer creatures of the forest.\n\nAnd now it occurs to me that the _Lemures_ in Roman mythology were the\nspirits of those who had died in sin and who could not find rest, for\nwhom expiatory rites were celebrated in the temple. It is generally\nsupposed that Linn\u00e6us gave the name _lemur_ to this family of animals\nbecause of the pale and strangely ghost-like faces of some of them; but\nthe peculiar cry of this particular kind of lemur is more sepulchral than\nthe appearance of any of them, and might well be a reason for the name\nthey bear.\n\nThere is one other characteristic sound in the night-forest, though\npersonally I have not heard this sound when far from the coast. It is a\nsingle monotonous note, a little like a low tone on a flute, about ten\nseconds in duration, and without rise or fall, a doleful sigh or sob of\nunending remorse. This sound, although it always seems to be distant, is\neven more difficult to locate than the other. It is human more than all\nother sounds of the forest, and yet sepulchral, and the superstitious\nmind is easily persuaded that it issues from the unseen world. The source\nof it is rather extraordinary; for according to native testimony it\nproceeds from a certain gigantic snail, as it slowly draws itself into\nand out of its shell. This theory is difficult either for white man or\nblack man to verify; for the sound is heard only at night, and it ceases\nas one approaches. But the native is by no means likely to be mistaken.\n\nAnd now at the camp-fire a native is relating to his fellows a strange\nlegend of the origin of this sound; a legend familiar to all the tribes\nof West Africa, and illustrating a rare interpretative faculty of the\nnative mind. This is the camp-fire story:\n\n\u201cThere was once a wayward and wilful son who lived alone with his mother.\nOne day coming home hungry he ordered her to gather some greens and\ncook them for him. The mother, who never resisted his wishes, went out\nand gathered plenty of greens and cooked them. But in the cooking they\nshrivelled up as greens always do. Then the mother presented the greens\nto her son; but the son looking at them accused his mother of having\neaten the greens herself. This she denied; but the son would not believe\nher, and in his anger he struck her a blow on the head, and the mother\nfell dead at his feet. Then he cried out in anguish and sorrow; long and\nbitterly did he cry, but in vain. She was dead! She was dead! He had\nkilled his own mother. From that day, all the days he mourned, saying\nalways: \u2018I killed my mother; I killed my mother;\u2019 and all the nights he\nsobbed and moaned: \u2018I killed my mother.\u2019\n\n\u201cThen the spirits seeing his sorrow, that it was very great, and\nhearing him cry always day and night, at last were moved with pity, and\nturned him into a snail, which cannot suffer like a man. But though the\nsnail does not weep in the daytime, yet at night it mourns and cries:\n\u2018I\u2014killed\u2014my\u2014mother;\u2019 and so it will keep on crying until the end of the\nworld.\u201d\n\nThe reader will of course understand that the note of the snail is single\nand bears no resemblance to these articulate words of the son\u2019s sorrow.\nThe interpretation is purely spiritual, and poetic genius could scarcely\nimprove upon it as an expression of the unending remorse which the sound\nconveys to sensitive and susceptive minds.\n\nSitting around the camp-fire they listen to the story as interested as if\nthey had never heard it before, as children listen to the repetition of\nfables and nursery tales. Then remarks are made upon a son\u2019s duty towards\nhis mother, and some of them tell what good mothers they have; for this\nis the deepest reverence and highest sentiment of the African mind.\n\n\u201cWhatever other estimate we may form of the African,\u201d wrote Leighton\nWilson, than whom no one has ever known the African better, \u201cwe may not\ndoubt his love for his mother. Her name, whether she be dead or alive, is\nalways on his lips and in his heart. She is the first being he thinks of\nwhen awakening from his slumbers and the last he remembers when closing\nhis eyes in sleep; to her he confides secrets which he would reveal to\nno other human being on the face of the earth. He cares for no one else\nin time of sickness; she alone must prepare his food, administer his\nmedicine, perform his ablutions and spread his mat for him. He flies to\nher in the hour of his distress, for he well knows if all the rest of the\nworld turn against him she will be steadfast in her love, whether he be\nright or wrong.\n\n\u201cIf there be any cause which justifies a man in using violence towards\none of his fellow men it would be to resent an insult offered to his\nmother. More fights are occasioned among boys by hearing something said\nin disparagement of their mothers than all other causes put together. It\nis a common saying among them that if a man\u2019s mother and his wife are\nboth on the point of being drowned, and he can save only one of them, he\nmust save his mother, for the avowed reason that if the wife is lost he\nmay marry another, but he will never find a second mother.\u201d\n\nFollowing the legend of the snail, several fables are told as we sit\nby the camp-fire. There is a fable called, _The Chimpanzee and the\nUngrateful Man_:\n\n\u201cThere was once a poor man who had but one wife and one child, and they\nlived in a small house in a far-away bush town near which was a stream\nwith fish. The man was a hunter, and with his spear he hunted game in the\nforest, but the woman made fish-traps of basketwork and caught fish in\nthe stream.\n\n\u201cOne day when the man was hunting in the forest the woman took her babe\nand went to look at her fish-traps. She put her babe on the bank and\nherself went down into the water. Soon the babe began to cry; but the\nmother heard not for the noise of the running water. Now there was a\nmother chimpanzee in the top of a great tree near by. The chimpanzee had\nher home there in a safe place; but when she heard the babe she felt pity\nand she came down to the ground and taking the child in her arms, nursed\nit to sleep.\n\n\u201cThe mother, having removed the fish from the traps, came up the bank\nto get her babe, and lo! there sat a great monkey and the babe sleeping\nupon its breast. She screamed with fright, and screamed again, so that\nthe chimpanzee, afraid lest the hunter might come, put the babe down and\nran into the forest. The woman snatched her babe and ran home very much\nfrightened. She told the story to her husband but he only laughed.\n\n\u201cHowever, the next time the woman went to work at her fish-traps the man\nfollowed her and hid in the thicket. Again the woman laid down her babe\nand waded into the stream and again the babe began to cry and again at\nlength the kind chimpanzee ventured down the tree and quieted the babe\non her breast. Then the man thinking only of procuring a big feast of\nmeat drew stealthily near with spear in hand and aiming it right at the\nheart of the chimpanzee suddenly hurled it with all his might. But the\nchimpanzee, seeing him just in time, held out the babe to receive the\nflying spear which pierced through its body. The horrified father had\nslain his own child.\n\n\u201cThe chimpanzee laid the dead babe on the ground with the spear still\nsticking in it, and fled to the forest. But before disappearing it turned\nand said: \u2018I was doing you a kindness in taking care of your babe.\nTherefore the evil that you would have done me has fallen upon yourself.\u2019\u201d\n\nThere is a very common fable in which the turtle teaches the wisdom and\nprudence of not interfering in other people\u2019s palavers. The leopard and\nthe python had a quarrel. The leopard visits the turtle and asks his\nhelp against the python. The turtle says to the leopard: \u201cCome again\nto-morrow evening.\u201d\n\nThen the python comes to the turtle and asks his help against the\nleopard, and the turtle says to the python: \u201cCome again to-morrow\nevening.\u201d\n\nThe next evening the python comes again to the turtle and asks his help\nagainst the leopard. The turtle says to the python: \u201cGo hide in the\nthicket and keep still for a while.\u201d\n\nThen the leopard comes to the turtle and asks his help against the\npython. \u201cGo hide in the thicket,\u201d says the turtle.\n\nThen the leopard ran into the thicket and walked on top of the python.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d says the turtle to the python and the leopard, \u201cyou can settle\nyour own palaver.\u201d\n\nAnother man tells why it is that the leopard has no friend among all the\nanimals, but walks always alone in the forest. Once upon a time a chief\nmade a great trap to catch animals. First a gazelle fell into the trap.\nThen he cried and cried to his companion (the story-teller imitates\nthe cry of this and the following animals to a critical but delighted\naudience) but the gazelle\u2019s companion did not hear and he died there, for\nthe chief was away on a journey. Then a wild boar came and was caught and\nhe also cried to his companion. Then an antelope came and was caught.\nThey all died in the trap. Then came a leopard and was caught, but before\nthe leopard died a turtle came; and the turtle felt pity for the leopard\nand released him. Then the leopard wanted to kill the turtle which had\nreleased him. So the turtle crawled inside of a hollow tree. The leopard\nfollowed the turtle into the tree, but he got fast in the tree and could\nnot get out.\n\nNow this was a tree that bears fruit upon which monkeys feed. So after a\nwhile there came a blue-nosed monkey to eat the fruit of the tree. Then\nthere came a white-nosed monkey; then a red-headed monkey; then a black\nmonkey. When the leopard heard the noise of the monkeys he begged them\nto come and release him. Then the monkeys all came and got the leopard\nout of the tree. But no sooner did the leopard find himself safe than he\nfought with the monkeys, and he killed the white-nosed monkey and the\nred-headed monkey and ate them. Then the black-haired monkey, who had\nescaped up a tree, said to the leopard: \u201cYou leopards are rogues and\ntreacherous. We helped you and saved your life, and as soon as you were\nhelped you turned on us and began to kill us.\u201d So the leopard to this day\nhas no friends, but walks alone in the forest, for he cannot be trusted.\nAnd there are men who cannot be trusted any more than the leopard;\ntherefore they live without friends.\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d cried the audience, \u201cmen do not know the language of the leopard\nand the language of the monkey.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d replies the story-teller, \u201cmen\ncannot speak the language of either of these animals; but some men have\nfetishes by which they can understand the language of all animals when\nthey hear them talk.\u201d\n\nA man tells \u201ca true story\u201d about a slave who lives in his town, and who\nfrequently turns himself into a leopard and eats the sheep of the town.\nHe has also, in the form of a leopard, attacked men and women of the\ntown, who had offended him. Everybody in the town knows this to be true.\n\nThis suggests to another the story of a magic fight. A certain stranger\ncoming into a town walked rudely against a man, wishing to quarrel with\nhim that he might get his goods. The man said nothing, but expecting that\nthe stranger would return and try to provoke a fight he prepared himself\nby making medicine; for he had great knowledge of medicine and magic,\nthough he never used his knowledge except in self-defense. The stranger\nreturned as he expected and again walked rudely against him. The man said\nto the stranger: \u201cDo you want to fight with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied the stranger, and he cursed the man\u2019s mother, at which the\nman struck him.\n\nNow the stranger was a powerful witch, and immediately he turned into\na leopard; but to his great surprise his opponent also turned into a\nleopard. Then a terrible fight took place between the two leopards. They\nleaped and sprang upon each other and howled so frightfully that the\nwomen of the town fell down with fear; but the men all gathered around\nthe fighting leopards. Then suddenly the stranger turned himself into\na python and springing upon the leopard threw a deadly coil around its\nneck; but the other leopard also turned into a python, and the pythons\nfought together, coiling about each other, hissing, and biting. Then\nthe stranger turned into a gorilla that he might seize the python and\nchoke it in his terrible hands, but the other python also turned into\na gorilla, and the gorillas fought and tried to squeeze each other to\ndeath. At last the stranger, getting exhausted, turned into an eagle that\nhe might fly away, but the other also turned into an eagle, and pursuing\nhim dealt him a fatal blow. The dying eagle changed again into a man and\nbegged the other man for mercy, which was refused. He would not make\nmedicine for him, and so the stranger died.\n\nOn one of these camp-fire occasions a coast man who had been employed\nat Efulen tells how he recovered certain goods that a Bulu workman had\nstolen from him. He called together all the workmen, both Bulu and coast\nmen, and after telling them that his goods had been stolen he proposed\nto discover the thief by ordeal. He told them of an ordeal that was well\nknown in his town, and that never failed. Then he produced a dish of\nmedicine he had made, which he said he would squirt into the eye of each\nman. In the eye of an innocent person it would be harmless as water, but\nit would burn the eye of the guilty one. From the first he had suspected\na certain Bulu man, but he wanted formal evidence and the best evidence\nwould be the man\u2019s confession, which he determined to obtain. He stood\nthe men in a row, with the suspected Bulu man near the last. Then he\nbegan squirting a copious dose of medicine into an eye of each man in\nturn. It did not hurt in the least, for the very good reason that it was\nnothing but water\u2014which nobody knew but himself. Then when he came to\nthe suspected man, he slipped a handful of red pepper into the water,\nand squirted it into the man\u2019s eye. A sudden scream, a full confession,\nand the goods restored were some of the more important effects of this\nwonderful ordeal. And many African ordeals are useful for discovering a\ncriminal when you happen to know who he is.\n\nOne man tells \u201ca true story\u201d of an evil spirit who hates people and\nwho spreads disease and death. He once appeared in the forest near a\ntown, in the form of a little child, evidently lost and hungry, and\ncrying bitterly. Some kind-hearted woman finding him took pity on him\nand carried him to the town in her arms. But she was soon smitten\nwith smallpox, which spread from her to others and the whole town was\ndestroyed.\n\nHowever the evening may begin with fable and fiction, it usually ends\nwith narratives of fact and experience. But their facts are as fabulous\nas their fables and there is no distinct line between. One may listen to\na story that is a tissue of impossibilities, and may suppose that the\nnative is repeating a myth or a legend to which the imagination of at\nleast several generations has contributed fantastic details, only to find\nthat the purport of the story is a narrative of fact which the native\nsolemnly believes. For they know little of nature\u2019s laws and nothing of\ntheir uniformity.\n\nTherefore \u201cmiracles\u201d are always happening. The miracles of the New\nTestament, as a display of supernatural power, do not at first impress\nthe native mind; not because he cannot believe them, but because he\nbelieves them too easily, and believes that miracles more wonderful take\nplace in his own town every day. But the moral quality\u2014the benevolence\nand mercy\u2014of the New Testament miracles impresses him deeply, and this\nto him is their wonder. For, among his people, men and women who possess\nsupernatural power wield it to an evil purpose, or at best, in their own\ninterest.\n\nA man tells of a murderer in his town who was suspected of having killed\na number of persons who had died a mysterious death, after having first\nlost their shadows. The suspected man was closely watched, and, sure\nenough, one day they caught him in the very act of driving a nail into\nanother man\u2019s shadow. Everybody knows that a man\u2019s shadow is his spirit,\nor at least _one_ of his spirits, and if it be mortally wounded, or in\nany way induced to leave him, he will die. No man will long survive the\nloss of his shadow. But while witches and other murderers commit their\nevil deeds under cover of night, the shadow-slayer chooses the day and\noften the noonday. Many a man has lost his shadow at noonday\u2014not so\ndifficult to understand if it be remembered that we are speaking of\nthe tropics, where, at certain seasons, the sun at noonday is directly\noverhead.\n\nThe people were so enraged at this murderer who was caught driving\nthe nail into a man\u2019s shadow\u2014was caught only after the deed was done,\nmaking death certain\u2014and who must have been the cause of all the recent\nunaccountable deaths in the town, that they carried him into the forest\nand bound him to the ground in the track of the driver ants, which\nimmediately covered his whole body and devoured him, leaving nothing but\nthe bones. But in the night-time his screams were still heard, even after\nhis death, and the people were sore afraid. His spirit haunted the town,\nuntil at length the people deserted it and built in another place. And\neven yet the belated traveller passing that way hears the screams of the\ndead man.\n\nBut the greatest fear in all Africa is the witch. The witch\u2019s soul is\n\u201cloose from her body,\u201d and at night she leaves her body and goes about\nthe town, an unseen enemy, doing mischief and wickedness. A young man by\nthe camp fire tells of a witch in his town who for some time had been\n\u201ceating\u201d the children of the town. It is not the body, but the spirit,\nthat she eats, after which the child sickens, and gradually becoming\nworse, at length dies.\n\nThe discovery of witchcraft was made in a peculiar way. A certain man\nwho was sick and lying awake at night with pain, thought one night that\nhe heard a sound in the street. He crawled close to the wall and peering\nthrough a crack he beheld in the street the phantom form of a woman\ncarrying the form of a child. She laid the child down in the street. Then\nshe drew the form of a knife with the evident intention of cutting the\nchild to pieces and eating it. But the knife was powerless to cut because\nof the bodily eyes of the man who was a spectator. Again and again the\nwoman tried to dissect the child and still the knife refused to cut. At\nlength it occurred to her that she was probably being watched. Then,\ntaking the child up quickly, she returned it to the house whence she had\nstolen it, restored it to its body, and fled, without being recognized by\nthe man who had seen her. In the morning he reported to the town all he\nhad seen. The wildest excitement ensued. The mothers of the town were in\nterror, not knowing who the witch was that was eating their children.\nBut one of the women was taken suddenly ill and they became suspicious,\nthough they said nothing. She grew rapidly worse until she was seized\nwith a convulsion and foam appeared at her mouth, a certain sign of\nwitchcraft and that her own witch inside had rebelled and was eating her.\nThen they all reviled and cursed her, gave her no food, threw cold water\non her, mocked her agony, and exulted in her pain until she died.\n\nA deep, resonant, hungry roar of a leopard arrests the attention of the\ncompany around the camp-fire. It is at a pretty safe distance, however,\nand the white man having given orders to keep the fire burning retires to\nhis hammock a little apart, but takes his rifle with him.\n\nThe effect of these last stories is sobering and saddening, especially\nto a mind not yet accustomed to such tales. A shadow lies across the\nwhite man\u2019s heart. And that same shadow lies across every charm in Africa\nand mars every beauty\u2014the reflection of the cruel ignorance and awful\nsufferings of its people. The observer who does not see the shadow must\nnever have entered into the mind-life and the heart-life of the people.\nThe vast forest darkness, and the weird night-sounds that befit the\ndarkness, deepen the impression of the camp-fire stories.\n\nThat piercing cry of the lemur, how it suggests the terror of the\nwretched man devoured by driver ants! And that other mournful note\nis surely the remorse of spirits in the other world for cruel deeds\ncommitted here.\n\nThere is now something awful in the darkness. One feels with the _Ancient\nMariner_\u2014\n\n    \u201cLike one that on a lonesome road\n      Doth walk in fear and dread,\n    And having once turned round walks on,\n      And turns no more his head;\n    Because he knows a fearful fiend\n      Doth close behind him tread.\u201d\n\nSleep does not come quickly to a mind depressed. As I lie awake and\nlisten, the noises of the night reverberating through the forest, with\nthe rush of the wind in the tree tops, blend together in one vast chorus,\nwhose music is a funeral march.\n\nThe materialistic modern mind calls the universe a machine. But the old\nNorsemen of the forest said that it is a tree, the tree _Igdrasil_,\nthat lured the mind of a great modern mystic. Often in the night-forest\nhave I recalled the Norse legend of the tree _Igdrasil_, the tree of\n_existence_. It is watered by three streams, the past, the present and\nthe future. The branches are human history, the leaves are the actions\nand the words of men; the wind sighing through it is the sobbing of men\u2019s\nsorrows.\n\nBut the forest is as variable in her moods as the mind of a man. Stern\nat times and sometimes awful, yet again she loves to soothe the mind and\nimpart a gentle cheer. If you would know the charm of the night-forest in\nher most intimate and communicative mood you must wait until some time,\nas if in response to an inaudible summons, you waken after several hours\nof deep, restful sleep that is one of the secrets of the forest. Under a\nroof and between close walls a wakeful hour is monotonous and miserable\nand the habit of wakefulness is a malady that were fit penance for mortal\nsins. But in the open forest, especially when there is a glimmer of stars\nshining through the screen of dark foliage, a wakeful hour passes easily.\nOne is never lonely in such an hour, for a mystic life pervades the\nnight-forest, and one realizes that it is something more and greater than\nthe definite forms which the eye sees by day. When these are dissolved in\ndarkness one is more sensible of the underlying, mysterious life, as of a\nspiritual presence. Forms, whether material or creedal, sometimes conceal\nthe reality which they represent. The noises of the night-forest, the\nmingled voices of innumerable crickets, tree-toads, frogs and croaking\nnight-birds, the chatter of the stream over the stones, the rushing\nof the wind above the trees, with many unfamiliar sounds, each almost\nindistinguishable in the thrilling volume, seem but the sights of the\nsilent day transformed into sound, and one feels that the interpretation\nof the sound would be also the interpretation of the forms and shapes, of\ncolours, of shadows and broken light-beams.\n\nThis illusion may be promotive of the native belief in animistic nature.\nFor the eye does not see those animate creatures in the day, and to the\nchild-mind it might easily seem that the myriad noises of the night issue\nfrom rock and hill and stream and tree.\n\nLying thus awake but restful, the blended noises of the resounding forest\nfall upon the passive ear like the confused echo of some world-orchestra,\nor a broken strain from the music of the planets and the stars as they\nsweep through vast orbits, on and on forever. For the night-forest,\nunlike the day, speaks always musically to the ear that is attuned to\nhear it.\n\nThe soft sound of the wind among the leaves of the highest branches again\nlulls the wakeful listener into sleep; and he enjoys it the more because\nof the brief disturbance.\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\nA HOME IN THE BUSH\n\n\nEfulen, my first African home, I saw for the first time in July 1893.\nIt is in Cameroon, among the Bulu people, directly behind Batanga, less\nthan sixty miles from the coast, and about two hundred miles north of the\nequator.\n\nEfulen is situated upon a hill two hundred and fifty feet high and\nnearly two thousand feet above the sea-level, and is surrounded by\nmountains. The scenery is beautiful and magnificent and resembles the\nmountainous parts of Pennsylvania; but in that tropical climate there are\natmospheric effects seldom seen in the colder latitudes. Mountain and\nvalley are covered with a forest of green with here and there a tree of\nred or scarlet, and so dense that one might think he could walk on it.\nFrom the top of Efulen hill one looks out on a rolling plain of foliage\nthat stretches away over valley and hill, until it becomes extinct in\nthe dim distance of the empurpled hills. Often in the morning, when the\natmosphere of the valleys is clear, an overhanging mist cuts off the tops\nof the mountains, which appear as elevated table-lands, all of the same\nheight, and precisely level. A few minutes later the scene is magically\ntransformed. The mist has descended and filled the valleys as if all the\nclouds of the heavens had fallen down, while the mountain-peaks, radiant\nwith the sunlight, rise out of the mist like islands out of a deep sea.\n\nI have said that Dr. Good had already made one journey into this\ninterior. He chose Efulen for the site of the new mission station, and\nset natives to work cutting down trees and clearing the top of the hill.\nThe name _Efulen_, which we afterwards gave it, was first used by the\nnatives themselves. It is from a Bulu word, _fula_, which means to mix;\nfor they never had seen such a mingling of people, of different towns and\neven hostile tribes, as they saw daily on our hill, where all could come\nwith safety.\n\nIt was but few trees that the several workmen had cut when we arrived.\nFor the native, especially when working for the white man, requires a\nlarge amount of intellectual stimulus. We found a bare spot of sufficient\nsize for our tent, and there we pitched it and began felling the trees\naround us, letting the sun down upon ground that it had perhaps not\nreached for centuries. The wet season was upon us; the rains were heavier\nand more frequent each day. Our tent did not turn the heaviest rains,\nwhich sometimes came in on us in the night and saturated our beds; but it\ndid us no harm. Much more serious were the extreme and rapid alternations\nof temperature within the tent. After a thunder-storm it was often cold\nenough to make our teeth chatter, while between showers, if the sun\nshone upon the wet tent, it was impossible to endure the heat inside. At\nsuch times, however, all we had to do was to stay outside. We slept on\ncamp-beds, three of which filled the tent, leaving in the middle just\nroom enough for a table, and we sat on our beds while eating, side-dishes\nbeing placed on the beds. Our table, which Dr. Good and I made with a\ncross-cut saw, and which had no legs, was a solid cut out of a log three\nfeet in diameter. The first time we sawed it through our saw sloped\noff in a line at least thirty degrees from the vertical and with an\nincreasing curve, to Mr. Kerr\u2019s undisguised amusement. But having served\nour apprenticeship we got the next quite straight. And since the slope of\nthe hill was about thirty degrees, the log table, when properly placed,\nstood exactly upright, and Mr. Kerr\u2019s ridicule was changed to admiration\nof our skill and judgment.\n\nMost of our dishes were of tin, which we called our silver service.\nIndeed, there was no want of tin, for most of our food was imported\nin tins\u2014meats, milk and butter. Africa, as some one says, is a land\nflowing with milk and honey\u2014condensed milk and tinned honey. There are\nmany varieties of tinned meats, according to the labels, but they all\ntaste alike when one has become tired of them and dislikes them equally;\nsometimes, when one is feverish, the smell of them is as much as an\nordinary stomach can digest in that debilitating climate. During those\nfirst months our meats were chiefly Armour\u2019s sausage and some anomalous\nconcoction of strong meats and stale onions called _Irish Stew_. We\nbought from the natives bananas, plantains and sweet potatoes, and after\nsome time we were able to buy a chicken on rare occasions. As soon as\npossible we began raising our own chickens; but it was only after several\nmonths that we had them frequently. Our cook, a young man from the\ncoast, who spoke Kru English, would come to me and ask: \u201cMastah, what\nthing you go chop? Must I kill a chicken, or must I kill a tin?\u201d He much\npreferred to \u201ckill a tin,\u201d for in that case the cooking was very simple\nand consisted in punching a hole in the top of the tin and then placing\nit on an outside fire\u2014we had no stove. When we began to have chickens\noccasionally the cook informed us that he must have an assistant, because\n\u201cone man he no be fit for do all them work.\u201d Thus we lived for two months\nand a half, until our house was built. We bore the rudeness of our\ncircumstances by making them a constant source of mutual amusement. And\noften we conquered defeat itself by laughing at it.\n\nThe hill was crowded from dawn until dark with a pandemonium of naked\nand astonished natives, who had never seen white men before. They think\naloud. Every impression utters itself in a yell. The habit of talking\naloud to themselves is so common that some white men have accounted for\nit by supposing that they are talking to the spirits of their ancestors.\nI can only say that if this be so they evidently conceive of the other\nworld as being very far away.\n\nEach separate act or movement of us white strangers produced a shout of\nastonishment.\n\n\u201cHe walks!\u201d they shout, when he takes a step forward; or: \u201cHe sits down!\u201d\nas they jostle each other for a front place to see the animal perform.\n\nThe animal, meanwhile, rises to his feet, sits down, then rises again,\nturns round slowly, lifts one leg, then the other, lifts his arms and\nturns round again. If he has a hat on he will take it off several times.\nIf by any chance he should have a coat on he will take the coat off too.\nNo matter how much he may take off they will still desire him to take\noff more and complete the vaudeville. He turns round once or twice more,\nmoves each of his several limbs again, turns round again as an encore,\nand then sits down, while the crowd yells appreciation and delight.\nThen follows a lively discussion as to his appearance and proportions.\nSome of them think he would be good-looking if he only had some colour,\nbut such a complexion would make anybody ugly. Others think that he is\ngood-looking even as he is. An interesting query, however, is whether his\nwhole body is white, or only his hands and face, the rest of him being\nblack like themselves. In order to settle this urgent question they beg\nhim to take off his trousers.\n\n[Illustration: A GROUP OF ADMIRING NATIVES.\n\n_They admire the white man\u2019s hat as much as himself, and regard a suit of\nblue denim as a nobler work than an honest man._]\n\nThe white man\u2019s feelings are not seriously affected by the fact that they\nevidently consider his hat quite as wonderful as himself, and a suit of\nblue denim a nobler work than an honest man. Of course the first novelty\nwill soon wear off, but a white man, as long as he lives away from the\ncoast and the older settlements, will always be an object of wonder and\nexcitement, and will be expected to maintain his position by wonderful\nand exciting performances. There is danger that the missionary will never\nget used to it, but will lose his whole stock of patience and perhaps his\nreason in the effort; and there is danger also that he will become so\nwell used to this inordinate attention that he will miss it dreadfully\nwhen he comes home, and is relegated to his proper obscurity in American\nsociety.\n\nAfrica is not a great solitude in which one of an ascetic temper might\nenjoy silence and meditation. There is no quiet except during the night\nand no solitude but the solitude of a strange city where one passes\nthrough a multitude unrecognized and unknown. For these Africans will\nprobably never know us. Nor had we three white men any privacy in our\nrelations with each other, either in our tent or in the house that\ndisplaced it; and for my own part, this was the most trying of all our\nprivations. Under the circumstances I think we three men deserved great\ncredit for not hating each other. But after supper, when it was dark I\nused to go out to a little walk about ten yards long in front of the\nhouse and removed a short distance from it, the only smooth walk on the\nentire hill, and there I enjoyed a few minutes of delightful respite\nfrom noise and publicity, while my thoughts of home and friends were\nunrestrained. The life in the homeland seemed already painfully distant,\nand almost vague and unreal. Like Silas Marner, when he removed from his\nold home to Raveloe where he was surrounded by people who knew nothing\nof his history, so to me sometimes the past seemed like a dream because\nrelated to nothing in my present life, and the present, too, a dream,\nbecause linked with no memories of the past.\n\nEven at night the noise does not cease, but only removes to a distance\nwhere it no longer disturbs. The people stay in their towns at night, but\nthey usually make more noise than in the day. From a village at the foot\nof the hill rises the weird and incessant wail of their mourning for the\ndead, an appalling dirge that chills the blood; from another village near\nby, a savage noise of war drums and shouting by which they are warning\nan expected enemy that they are on the watch; from another, the uncouth\nmusic of their dissolute dance; from another the cries of men who profess\nto be transformed into gorillas or leopards:\u2014on all sides the noise\nascending throughout the night like the smoke of their torment.\n\nHow eagerly we welcomed the mail! It arrived once a month, and was six\nweeks old. Even Dr. Good, indefatigable worker, and the opposite of\nemotional, was unable to pursue the usual routine of work when we were\nexpecting the carriers with mail. They usually came in the evening, and\nall that day we were under a noticeable strain of expectancy. We were\nalso exceedingly talkative and communicative for a day or two after its\narrival. Years afterwards I once visited one of our missionaries, Miss\nChristensen, when for some months she had been staying alone at Benito,\none of our old coast stations. I remarked that the arrival of her mail\nmust be a great relief to the extreme loneliness of her situation. She\nreplied that, on the contrary, the mail day was the loneliest of all,\nfor want of some appreciative friend to whom she could tell the news\ncontained in her letters and talk about it. There were educated natives\naround her whose friendship was almost sufficient for other days, but not\nfor mail day. Her home interests were unintelligible to them.\n\nMy first letters from Efulen were written on an immense log that lay\nnear the tent. I stood and leaned over upon it as I wrote. When I\nfinished my first letter I found that I had been leaning against a stream\nof pitch all the while, with the sleeve of a woollen sweater lying in\nit. But the difficulties of letter-writing were not merely physical.\nEach correspondent in the homeland naturally expected me to tell him all\nabout the natives and our life in Africa. To describe adequately any one\nphase of our life would require a length of letter that would have made\nmy correspondence unmanageable, and to refer to our strange surroundings\nwithout adequate description would have left my letters unintelligible. I\nthought to meet the difficulty by dividing my friends into groups, asking\nfriends of a feather to flock together, and writing occasionally a long\nand elaborate letter to each flock. I have never succeeded in killing two\nbirds with one stone, but I killed a number of valued correspondents with\neach of those letters. No one replied to them but the person to whom the\nenvelope was directed.\n\nAfter one month in Africa, while we were still in the tent, I had my\nfirst and worst experience of the dreaded African fever, although in\nthis instance it was probably malarial-typhoid. It lasted several weeks.\nWhen we had been at Efulen nearly a month Dr. Good was suddenly called\nto the coast by the severe illness of his wife, who was at Batanga\nexpecting soon to leave for home. Dr. Good was not a physician, but with\nyears of experience and an aptitude for medicine he had acquired such\nskill in the treatment of African fever that he was almost equal to a\nphysician. As for myself, I summed up my experience in the statement that\nonce in my life I had had a severe headache. I do not remember whether\nMr. Kerr\u2019s experience had been as extensive as mine. We both had a\nvague consciousness when Dr. Good left for the coast that our situation\nwas precarious and fraught with some danger:\u2014in a country called the\n_Whiteman\u2019s Grave_, under conditions that even in America would have\ntaxed the constitution of the strongest. In the light of later knowledge\nwe could have greatly improved upon our pioneer methods, and they seemed\nto us quite amateurish though supported by the best intentions. In coping\nwith untried conditions and unknown factors of danger one must always\nexpect to go through a period of preliminary inexperience and make\npreliminary blunders before attaining the mastery. But in Africa the\npreliminary inexperience often costs the life of one and the blunders\ndisable another, while the triumph is reserved for those who come after.\nThe imperfection of our first policy was inevitable; the present method,\nwhich provides every procurable comfort for men so situated, is not only\nmore humane but immensely more economical. It is only in the last few\nyears that missions have become a science\u2014at least in Africa, and that\nthose who go to dangerous and unknown places may profit by the formulated\nexperience of those who have gone to such places before. Of course it was\nnever intended that two new arrivals, Mr. Kerr and myself, should be left\nalone at a new station. But the unexpected emergency which called Dr.\nGood to the coast is typical of the miscarriage of the surest plans that\nmen can make in Africa.\n\nOnly a few days after Dr. Good left Efulen I was stricken with the fever.\nThe approach of it is very peculiar, especially the first time. I mistook\nit for a spell of homesickness; for one becomes extremely depressed. I\nthought I had been brave, but all at once the very pith of my resolution\nwas gone. I felt that I had overrated my courage. The life which I had\nchosen seemed a doom from which there was now no honourable escape. My\nfeelings recoiled in an agony of revolt that was mentally prostrating. It\nwas the fever and I did not know. It was night and I was walking near\nthe house, but I was too tired to continue walking, and I lay down on\nthe ground in the dim starshine and wept for home,\u2014it was many years ago\nand I was very young. I was not surprised that I had a severe headache,\nfor I thought it was the result of my mental agitation. The next day\nI was worse, and the following night I was delirious the whole night,\nbut morning brought relief. I did not think it could be fever for the\nsymptoms were not what I had expected. We were pitiably helpless.\n\nAt last, a happy thought striking Mr. Kerr, he exclaimed: \u201cI have a\nthermometer: that will tell us.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt would tell us,\u201d said I, \u201cif we knew what normal temperature is; but\nfor my part I don\u2019t know, though I think it is 212\u00b0\u201d\u2014perhaps I was still\ndelirious.\n\nMr. Kerr suggested that it might be marked on the thermometer. And,\nif not, I said that he might take his own temperature first, and so\nascertain the normal.\n\nHowever, it was marked on the thermometer at ninety-eight and two-fifths\ndegrees, or thereabouts. Mr. Kerr then took my temperature and found that\nit was 105\u00b0. In the evening it was 106\u00b0. Next day it was the same, and\nso the fever raged for several days. We dispatched a messenger to Dr.\nGood, reporting to him also my temperature for two days. It was the tenth\nday of the fever before he reached me, though he started immediately;\nfor the roads were at the worst. He had no expectation that I would be\nalive. Meantime I had begun to take quinine. The wet season was now at\nthe worst. The tent was not sufficient to turn the heaviest rains, which\nsometimes came through and saturated the bed. Between showers the sun\ncame out so strong that I was compelled to leave bed and rush outside for\nfresh air. After several days of this, Mr. Kerr suggested that my bed be\nmoved into the house of the workmen, which had only an earthen floor\nwith a considerable slant to it. But it had at least a thatch roof that\nwould turn rain and would afford a better protection against the sun.\nThere was a square opening for a window over which we hung a salt-bag.\nThen followed a long fight for life, through several weeks, and a slow\nvictory due chiefly to the kindness and untiring care of my associates.\nDr. Good after his arrival nursed me day and night. What is usually known\nas African fever ends fatally or otherwise in a few days. I therefore\nconcluded long afterwards that it must have been malarial-typhoid.\n\nWe each have our foibles and whims which sickness sometimes brings into\nstrong relief. One of my own I cannot forbear relating. After several\ndays of sickness, when I knew that it was fever, and recovery seemed\nhopeless, my mind turned to the meagre and unique undertaking formalities\nin such a place as Efulen. The fact that no boards were procurable did\nnot trouble me in the least; I felt that I could be comfortable in a\ncotton blanket or a rubber sheet. But I had a great longing for a genuine\nwhite shirt laundered in America. Through all the successive changes\nof clothing by which I had gradually discarded the total apparel of\ncivilization I had maintained a serene attitude. But, for that final\nceremony, after which there should be no more changes, I had a childish\ndesire for something that would separate me from the rude and savage\nsurroundings of Africa and that would serve to designate the civilization\nto which I really belonged; and the most civilized article I could think\nof was a white shirt such as those I had packed away in the bottom of a\ntrunk at Batanga.\n\nA little incident of that period will further illustrate the helplessness\nof bachelor white men in such an emergency. One day, when I had been\nill a week, I became hungry for the first time; but not so hungry that\nI could eat corned beef, sardines, or Irish stew; and we had not yet\nbeen able to procure a chicken or even an egg from the natives. Mr.\nKerr looking hopelessly over the pile of tins suddenly discovered one\nlittle tin of oysters, which had gotten into our supplies by some happy\nmischance. He shouted for joy and came running to show it to me. Nothing\ncould have been better; and when he asked me how I would like to have\nthem prepared, I said I would like them stewed in milk. He soon brought\nthem to me steaming, and even the odour seemed to invigorate me. I took a\nspoonful\u2014and with a nauseous exclamation I spewed it into the middle of\nthe room. Dear reader, _condensed milk is forty per cent. sugar_.\n\nTwo other incidents of those days will serve to exhibit certain native\ncharacteristics that I may not have occasion to notice again. A party\nof natives were going to the coast and on the way they stopped at\nEfulen. Hearing how very ill I was, and consulting with the workmen,\nthey concluded that I might live one more day, or two days at the most.\nAccordingly when they reached the coast, the two days having expired,\nthey reported to my friends that I was dead. The report was credited for\nseveral days, although in the mind of some there was a doubt. It was\nonly when these messengers appeared again and they asked them about the\ndetails of the funeral that the story broke down notwithstanding the fine\nimagination of the natives; for they had never seen a white man buried,\nand their own customs were very different. They evidently made me so\nmisconduct myself at my own funeral that my friends concluded that I was\nalive. But that was the nearest I ever came to an untimely end. I would\nnot by any means call those natives unmitigated liars. Not every white\nman can maintain the distinction between fact and conviction.\n\nAgain, one night when the fever was at the worst, a small boy, Lolo, who\nwas sitting by my bed keeping cold water on my head, told me that there\nwas no more water. This was the fault of the cook, a man of Batanga. Mr.\nKerr was asleep in the other end of the house, and he needed sleep. I\nsent for the cook and told him to go quickly and bring water. There was\na good spring part way down the hill a short distance behind the house.\nThe man refused to go, though he had never been disobedient before. He\nwas afraid of the darkness. It was useless to threaten him or quarrel\nwith him, and worse than useless for a sick man. No power under heaven\ncould have compelled him to go to that spring alone; nor was there any\none on the premises who would go with him. Not all are so cowardly in the\nnight; but there are many strong men in Africa who would fight bravely to\ndeath with any visible or natural foe, but are arrant cowards before the\ncreatures of their own imagination; invisible and supernatural enemies\nwith which they fill the darkness of the night.\n\nIt was a great day for us when our new house was finished. It was made\nentirely of native material and was much like a native house except that\nit had a floor and was elevated from the ground and had swinging doors\nand windows. Like all houses of white men in Africa it was set on posts\nabout six feet from the ground. The walls were of bark, in pieces six\nfeet long and from a foot to two feet in width. The bark is held by split\nbamboo the size of laths, placed horizontally, six inches apart and tied\nwith bush-rope made of the abundant vine, which is split and shaved down\nwith a knife. The roof, which was supported by rafters of bamboo, was of\npalm thatch. This roof turns the rain perfectly and is much cooler than\nany other kind. There was no ceiling in the house.\n\n[Illustration: AN IMPROVED MISSION HOUSE AT EFULEN.\n\n_The first house was similar but much smaller._]\n\nThe changes of temperature at Efulen being very sudden, and immediately\nfelt within the thin walls of our house, we had need of fire, and we\nmade a fireplace by a simple device for which we claimed joint credit.\nWe cut a hole in the floor and built the ground up from below to the\nlevel of the floor. There was no chimney, not even a hole for the smoke\nto escape; but it got out easily enough through the opening (the width\nof the rafters) between the walls and the roof. Usually we found it very\npleasant to sit around a good fire in such a fireplace, and the smoke\ntroubled us but very little. Often however by reason of some sudden\nchange of wind, or passing whirlwind, the smoke was seized with panic\nand spread in a black cloud through the room, so enveloping us and\nsuffocating our senses that the fire itself was wholly inferential, on\nthe principle that where there was so much smoke there must be some fire.\nMany a thought of siderial sublimity, in the moment of its utterance, was\nthus strangled in a mouthful of smoke and ashes.\n\nThe whole house was twenty-four feet long and sixteen feet wide. There\nwere five rooms in all. The partitions were of bark and did not reach to\nthe roof but were eight feet high. We had greatly improved our furniture.\nThose who admire _mission_ furniture ought to have seen ours. Instead of\nthe first table, which was a solid piece of log turned on end, Dr. Good\nand I sawed a cut six inches wide out of that same log, and Mr. Kerr put\nrustic legs into it. The chairs were made exactly the same way but cut\nfrom smaller logs.\n\nIn such a house, seated upon such chairs and around such a table we sat\neach evening after supper, indulging in a social hour. And while the\nvotaries of the _simple life_ in the far-away homeland were absorbed in\nthe discussion of such questions as How to Avoid Luxuries, the subject of\nour discussion was frequently How to Obtain Comforts.\n\nWe were not always idle as we talked; for the evening brought its own\nduties, often of a strictly domestic nature Sometimes, as we sat around\nthe table, Dr. Good was engaged in darning his socks, Mr. Kerr was\nmending his shoes, while in a state of despair I was trying to put a neat\npatch on a pair of trousers.\n\nThis magnificent house was regarded by the Bulu, not as a private\nhouse, but as a public place, equivalent to their palaver-houses. They\nsometimes showed resentment when we insisted upon the personal view of\nit and required them to ask admission before coming in, which they were\ndisposed to do in crowds and at all times, even when we were eating.\nWe were always willing to show them through it in groups, though it\ntook considerable time. Some of them expressed their astonishment in\nvociferous yells, but others, deeply impressed, looked around them with\na reverential air, like people in church. They came up the steps of the\nporch on their hands and knees, as Africans always do at first. The women\nand children seemed afraid of the height of it and it would not have\nbeen possible to get them to stand near the edge and look down from the\ndizzy height of nearly six feet. This timidity which at first I could not\nunderstand and which later disappeared, I imagine was not due so much to\nthe height of the house above the ground but to their doubt regarding the\nsafety of the floor. They had never walked on any floor but the solid\nground, and they stepped upon ours as if they fully expected that it\nwould break and let them through.\n\nWe had hoped that the climate of Efulen would be more healthful than that\nof the coast; but the health record since the station was established in\n1893, has not been better than that of some other stations. Personally I\nbelieve that without doubt Efulen is more healthful than the immediate\ncoast at Batanga; but I do not regard it as more healthful than Gaboon.\nIt is certainly cooler and owing to its elevation of two thousand feet\nthe air is not so humid and is more exhilarating. But the changes of\ntemperature are very sudden and one becomes sensitive even to slight\nchanges after being in the tropics a few years. In the light of similar\nexperiments made elsewhere in West Africa it seems likely that less\nfever but more dysentery will prevail in those localities that have the\nhigher altitudes, and less dysentery and more fever at the coast. To some\npersons fever is more dangerous; to others, dysentery; one may take his\nchoice. At Efulen the sand-flies are very bad, morning and evening; but\nthey cease their activity in the bright sunshine and also in the darkness\nof night.\n\nThere was a marked improvement in our food after some months, owing to\nour obtaining a better cook from the coast. The coast men were at first\nin doubt about their safety among the Bulu, and none of those would go\nwith us who could get a position at the coast. But when a number of their\nmen had come back alive their fear was removed and we obtained better\nhelp. Our first cook was a common workman who had never cooked before. It\nwas part of my duty to instruct him. To the objection that I had never\ncooked anything in my life there was the compensating consideration that\nthe best way in the world to learn anything is to be obliged to teach\nit to somebody else. The moment that I dreaded most in they course of\nthe day was that in which the cook appeared coming towards me to get\nthe order for dinner. For, with Irish stew, salmon and sausage, what\nopportunity is there for the exercise of a fine gastronomic imagination?\nIt was the same thing from day to day; and if I derived no other good\nfrom the experience, I at least learned for all time to sympathize with\nhousekeepers in the monotonous circularity of the domestic routine. Under\nmy painstaking instructions the cook learned to wash his hands instead\nof simply wiping them on his hair or his legs, to place a tin of meat\non the fire (after punching a hole in the top) and to take it off when\nI told him to do so; he learned to put plantains into the fire to roast\nand to take them out any time he happened to think about it. But he had\nnot yet learned the difference between warm water and hot water when he\ntired of his work and returned to his beloved home, while I began on\nanother candidate for kitchen honours. About the time I had taught him\nto boil water he also wearied of work and went home. Then I hired a Bulu\nboy and began to instruct him even with more assurance, for I was now\nan experienced teacher. The Bulu boy learned fast, though he evinced an\nincorrigible disposition to carry his dish towel on his head, or tied\nround his neck. Finally after an experience of trials and tribulations in\nmany chapters I appealed to Mrs. Godduhm of Batanga who trained a cook\nspecially for us; and he proved a saint of the frying-pan. It was this\ncook Eyambe, who afterwards, as I have told in writing on bush travel,\nwhen we were overtaken by night in the forest, insisted that I should\ntake his shirt, and said: \u201cYou must take him and wear him please. This\nbush he no be too bad for we black man; but my heart cry for white man.\u201d\n\nIt was several months before we had flour. Meantime, during my long\nfever, I conceived a desire for bread that became a craving like the\nhunger of famine as I grew weaker. Dr. Good sent word to Mrs. Good at the\ncoast to send some bread as the carriers were returning immediately. He\ndid not tell me that he had sent for it, lest by some mischance it might\nnot come. But when it arrived and before he opened the package he told\nme it had come. Then they opened it; there were two loaves\u2014all blue with\nmould and looking like poison; for it was the wet season and the carriers\nhad been long on the way. The disappointment was too great. I told Dr.\nGood to cut off the worst part, on the outside, and burn the rest to a\nblack crisp, and I ate the burned bread.\n\nFlour arrived some weeks later when I was again on my feet; and then it\noccurred to us that none of us knew just what to do with it. For our cook\nhad not yet arrived. One of us modestly confessed that he knew something\nabout making biscuits. It was immediately voted that he take half a day\noff and exercise his culinary talent. The biscuits were made and appeared\nthat evening on the table. When I surveyed them I suggested that it would\nbe fitting that we should keep them as happy memorials of this first\ntriumph. So saying I took the two that were coming to me and put them in\nmy box of curios under the bed. I have them after all these years. Time\nworks no change upon them.\n\nSome months later I had a severe attack of dysentery and for three days\nhad been allowed no food but the white of an egg. The physician, who\nhappened to be visiting at Efulen at the time, told me one morning, in\nresponse to my eager inquiry, that he would allow me something a little\nheavier than the white of an egg. I immediately applied for a mince pie;\nfor we had minced meat in tins. The proposition was promptly vetoed by\nthe doctor. But a week later, when I was again on my feet, the request\nwas granted. This mince pie was the most pretentious achievement that\nwe had yet undertaken, and the most stupendous failure. If too many\ncooks spoil a pie, as it is said of some other things, I think that the\nwhole community of Efulen, white and black, must have had a hand in that\nill-fated pie, for a few persons could never have made so many mistakes.\nThe oven was a pot set on an outside fire, with another pot turned upside\ndown to cover it. An explosion occurred during the process of cooking. I\ndo not know what caused it\u2014possibly a stone bursting or the overheated\npot cracking. At any rate it was a good opportunity for Dr. Good\u2019s wit,\nwho contended that the pie had exploded through the neglect to put\nair-holes in the top of it. And that night he presented a resolution that\nhereafter cooks should be obliged to punch air-holes in the top of every\npie, lest they should explode, thereby endangering our property and our\nlives and entailing the loss of the pie itself. I suggested an amendment,\nthat in no case should a cook be allowed to make such pies upon tin\nplates, lest the plates, not being observed, might be cut up and eaten\nwith the pie. Efulen has now passed the experimental stage. One can get\nas good cooks and better food there than at the coast.\n\nIn the work of the station, though formally we were equal, yet as a\nmatter of fact, we recognized Dr. Good as head, owing to his years\nof experience and his competence. Dr. Good spent most of his time\nitinerating\u2014preaching in the streets of the villages near and far. He\nalso made several long tours of two or three weeks for the purpose\nof exploring the further interior. While at the station he studied\nthe language, translated, and did a large amount of medical work. Mr.\nKerr had charge of the work of building, and most of the material work\nnecessary in establishing the station. I studied the language, did all\nthe buying from natives and went to the coast when it was necessary that\na white man should conduct the caravan. Later in the year I did what I\ncould of Dr. Good\u2019s medical work in his absence, the chief result being\ninvaluable experience on my part, and no fatalities that could be proved\nto be the direct result of my treatment.\n\nI am sure that those who have never been among uncivilized people, or\nat least those who have not a vivid realization of their ignorance\nwill not know what a layman with experience may accomplish in healing\nthe sick and instructing the mind through healing. When I went to\nAfrica I was as ignorant of medicine as an educated man could be, and\nI had neither Dr. Good\u2019s liking nor aptitude for it. But, in the first\nplace, like other white men in that climate, I was soon compelled to\nbecome my own physician. For even if there is a professional physician\nat the same station, he cannot be there always; but self-care must be\nconstant, and so one accumulates a considerable experience. And what\nhe does for himself he can do for the natives. For however ignorant he\nmay be of medicine he is wiser than they. When I saw a woman writhing\nin a convulsion I at least suspected poisoning; but they suspected\nwitchcraft and beat drums around her to drive out the bad spirit. When\nI saw a poor boy delirious with fever and instead of administering some\nremedy the distracted parents were only trying to discover who had\nbewitched him, the difference between my knowledge and their ignorance\nseemed immeasurable, and I could advise them and help them, for already\nI had learned considerable about malarial fever. When a poor child was\nsuffering with worms, that frightful scourge of Africa, incredible to us\nin the extent of its prevalence, and the parents, though they knew and\ncould tell me what was the matter, yet knew of no remedy but to change\nthe child\u2019s fetishes, I knew, even if I had been in Africa only a few\nmonths, that santonine is far more effective than any change of fetishes.\nAnd no man ever lands in Africa before he knows that sulphur is excellent\nfor itch. Ulcers also are exceedingly common. Cuts, scratches and wounds\nare always neglected and may become bad ulcers; and sometimes the blood\nis so tainted by the diseases of vice that ulcers will not heal without\ninternal remedies such as potassium iodide. There is abundant need of\nall the skill of the best equipped physician. But the majority of cases\nneeding medical treatment are simple in the diagnosis and the treatment;\nfor the weak and the sickly are bound to die young. Fevers, ulcers,\nworms, and itch are very common and cause more suffering than everything\nelse. But any layman can do something for these. And if he is associated\nwith a physician for a time, he can learn to do much for the relief of\nsuffering. He can do as much as he has time to do; and knowledge grows\nwith experience. So it was that even I, despite unusual ignorance of\nmedicine and original ineptitude, after some years, when I was in charge\nof a boys\u2019 boarding-school, treated from fifteen to twenty boys a day;\nfor the parents were especially willing to send their sick boys; and at\nthe end of the term there was very little sickness among them.\n\nThere is much less sickness among the tribes of the interior than those\nat the coast. If we knew all the reasons for this we might also know\nwhy the coast tribes everywhere are dying out, many of them being now\nbut small remnants of formerly great and powerful tribes. The coast\ntribes have all come from the interior, and the interior tribes to-day\nare all moving towards the coast. The change of climate may have been\nfor the worse; for the strong sea-breeze alternating with the stronger\nland-breeze is hard on those who are not protected by clothing. The slave\ntraffic greatly reduced the coast tribes and threatened the extinction of\nsome of them; but it is not a reason why they should still continue to\ndecrease. The excessive use of the white man\u2019s rum without doubt reduces\nthe birth-rate among coast tribes. Besides, certain diseases have been\nimported with the white man\u2019s vices. And it is also possible that the\ngreater amount of sickness and disease among coast tribes may be in part\ndue to the better care of children among the semi-civilized people of the\ncoast, with the result that a greater number of weak and sickly children\nlive to maturity than in the savage life of the interior, where none but\nthe robust are likely to survive.\n\nMany sick people came to Efulen, most of them with very bad ulcers. They\nrealized the benefit, and it won their good-will and their desire to\nhave us stay among them; but I cannot say that it won their gratitude.\nEven when they paid nothing for medicines or for bandages, they took for\ngranted that we were in some way serving our interest by healing them.\nTheir psychology allowed no place for any altruistic motive. The outer\nbandage with which Dr. Good bound their ulcerated limbs, he used several\ntimes, in fact as long as he could, for bandages were not easy to supply\nand many were required. But his patients, especially the women, liked to\nhave new white bandages each day, for they regarded them as ornamental.\nSo they would take off the bandage before coming to him and would declare\nthat they had lost it, or that it had been stolen. But frequently when\nhe would tell a woman that he would not dress the ulcer until she should\nfind the bandage she would deliberately take it out of her basket before\nhis eyes and hand it to him half laughing and half scolding. Shortly\nafter our arrival at Efulen a chief came from a distant town bringing\nhis sick wife. He left her, however, in the village at the foot of the\nhill and first came up alone to talk the palaver with Dr. Good and see\nwhat the white man would give him if he would bring his sick wife to\nhim to be healed. Very frequently they asked for pay for being treated\nand for taking our medicine. The medical work therefore did not serve\nour missionary purpose as greatly as I had anticipated. But that is no\nargument against it. Duty is duty; and to relieve pain and suffering\nas far as we are able is a duty quite apart from any consideration of\ngratitude or reward.\n\nNo more notable event occurred during the entire year than the visit of\nMrs. Laffin, one of our missionaries at Batanga, who had only been in\nAfrica a short time, and was destined soon to find a grave there. Dr. and\nMrs. Laffin came in the dry season, when the roads were at the best, and\nMrs. Laffin was carried in a hammock much of the time. Mrs. Laffin was a\nsaintly woman, an ideal missionary and a very charming lady. She was the\nfirst white woman who ever visited the Bulu country, and it required a\nsuperb courage. She greatly desired to see the Bulu people; and besides,\nwith the true woman\u2019s sympathy, she wished to know how we were really\nliving at Efulen and to offer suggestions for our comfort. Our new house,\nfor the first time, seemed very bare and quite unfit for such a visitor.\nAs soon as we heard of her coming I sent to the coast for a number of\nthings that I felt we must have for her reception. Among other things I\nasked Mr. Gault to send me some table-cloths, out of one of my boxes;\nthough we had never felt any need of them before. He sent me bed-sheets\ninstead; but they served the purpose admirably; and we had towels for\nnapkins.\n\nOne day, when I was apologizing to Mrs. Laffin for our having only the\ncomforts and none of the luxuries of life, she replied about as follows:\n\u201cIf I had loved a fine house and housekeeping more than anything else I\nwould have stayed in America where both are possible. But I have chosen\nmissionary work in preference, and housekeeping therefore is only a\nhindrance. Now, if you had carpets, upholstered furniture, and pictures\non the walls, I, having a woman\u2019s domestic conscience, would feel that,\ninstead of giving my time to the people, I ought first of all to oversee\nyour house and order the housekeeping. But, as it is, this house gives me\nno more concern than if it were a wood-shed or a stable, and I can go to\nthe towns without restraint or any conscientious scruple. I believe that\nin Africa we ought to have as good food as possible, comfortable beds\nand chairs, and plenty of room, and I hope that you will soon have all\nthese; but for the brief period of my visit here your house just suits\nme.\u201d I may say that I made no more apology.\n\nOne day while Mrs. Laffin was there she was buying some food from a\nnative for which she paid him in salt. She gave him the right amount,\nbut he as usual thought it was not sufficient and told her to go and\nbring some more. When she did not do as he said, he ordered her in the\nthreatening tone that he would use to a Bulu woman. I immediately came\nforward and taking up his cassava threw it down the hill and told him to\nfollow it \u201cquickly, quickly.\u201d He looked at me in surprise and hastened\nto explain that it was not I whom he was addressing, but only the woman,\nand that he would never address a _man_ in that manner. I told him that\nI would far rather he would address me in that way than the white woman.\nBut he still repeated: \u201cIt was not you, white man; it was not you, but\nonly a woman that I spoke to.\u201d\n\nAt length, however, he understood my meaning, but was only more surprised\nthan ever and calling out to his friends told them, to their great\namusement, that in the white man\u2019s country the men obey the women,\u2014which\nwas not exactly the idea that I had intended to convey. I then told him\nthat if he would tell the white woman that he was sorry for his rudeness\nshe would still buy his cassava.\n\nIt was strange how Mrs. Laffin without knowing a word of Bulu, and making\nbut little use of an interpreter, yet, by the language of a sympathetic\nheart expressed in manner and in actions, reached the hearts of those\npoor Bulu women, and discovered some womanly quality in them. They all\nfollowed her through the village, and they were almost gentle in her\npresence. I heard them telling afterwards how that in passing through a\ncertain village she saw a child who had cut its finger and was crying. It\nwas a cut that his mother would not even have noticed, but Mrs. Laffin\ninstantly drawing a pretty handkerchief from her pocket tore it in two\nto bind the bleeding finger. In another matter they showed surprising\nmodesty, which Mrs. Laffin evidently thought was natural to them; but,\nindeed, it was natural to them only in her presence. One cannot describe,\nnor even understand, the powerful influence of such a woman upon the\ndegraded and fallen of her own sex; but even all good women have not\nMrs. Laffin\u2019s influence. When she was leaving Efulen after two weeks, to\nreturn to Batanga, the Bulu women as she passed through their villages\nleft their work and their palavers to follow her far along the way in\nsilence, only asking that she might some time come back again.\n\nIt was not many months afterwards that she was stricken with the dreaded\nfever, that came suddenly and unawares, like some stealthy beast creeping\nout of the jungle in the darkness. The third day she died. She had been\nin Africa a little more than a year. Such is the price of Africa\u2019s\nredemption. But we may not say that her life was wasted. Such a life and\nsuch an influence cannot be in vain.\n\n[Illustration: THE PASSION FOR CLOTHES.\n\n_They soon begin to wear clothes which they regard as mere ornamentation;\nnor do they always distinguish the \u201cgender\u201d of the garments sold them by\nthe white man._]\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE BUSH PEOPLE\n\n\nThe natives of Efulen, the Bulu tribe, are a branch of the great Fang\ntribe. They are brown\u2014not black, in colour, and are several shades\nlighter than most of the coast tribes. They need not be commiserated for\ntheir colour. It is quite to their liking; and they think they are far\nbetter-looking than white people.\n\nThe Bulu go almost entirely naked. The men wear a strip of cloth a few\ninches wide, suspended from a string around the hips, one end of the\ncloth being fastened in front and the other behind. They wore only\nbark-cloth when we first went among them, made from the bark of a tree,\nthe pulp being hammered out of it and the coarse fiber remaining. The\nwomen wore less than the men, their entire dress consisting of a few\nleaves suspended from a similar string around the hips and a square-cut\nbobtail of coloured grass. Children wear nothing but the string around\nthe waist, which is put on immediately after birth and has a fetish\nsignificance. An occasional rub with oil and then with red powder, made\nof camwood, completes the toilet of the adults. Before our first year\nhad passed some of the men in the villages near by were wearing imported\ncloth, and in larger pieces. By this time both men and women are wearing\nit. Superficial changes follow rapidly in the wake of the white man. But\nfurther back in the interior the conditions are still unchanged.\n\nIf they have but little use for clothing, they are excessively fond\nof ornamentation, and the women are slaves of fashion. Most of their\nornaments are imported trinkets from the white man\u2019s country, which have\ntravelled far in advance of the white man himself. Both men and women\nhave a peculiar and striking way of dressing the hair. Crossing it back\nand forth over strips of bamboo, they build it into three or four ridges,\nseveral inches high, running from the front to the back of the head.\nEach ridge is mounted with a close row of common white shirt-buttons.\nWhen shirt-buttons cannot be procured, a certain small shell is used.\nSometimes the ridges are circular, one within another like a story cake,\niced with shirt-buttons. In addition to this the women often sew on\nabove each ear a card containing as many as six dozen buttons. Sometimes\nthey also build a kind of splash-board behind the head, from ear to ear,\nto hold more buttons. The hair thus arranged remains undisturbed for\nseveral months. It forms a convenient place for wiping their hands or\nthe bread-knife (which is also every other kind of knife) or anything\nelse that may be particularly dirty. After dressing the hair grease is\nsmeared over it, from time to time, which in the sun melts into the hair,\ngiving it a rich gloss; and some of the grease passing through issues in\na very black stream down the back. This enables it to support an amazing\nabundance of small animal life. They are very generous in helping one\nanother to remove these, and in passing through a village one may often\nsee some one reclining with his or her head in the lap of a friend who is\nperforming this kindly office. It is especially appropriate that a host\nshould thus accommodate a guest. It is done in the street, of course,\nwhere everything else is done. For if they should retire to the house any\nlength of time something might happen and they not be there to see; or,\nsome bit of particularly spicy scandal might be detailed and they not\nhear it, and life even at the best is dull enough.\n\nBut we have not completed the decorating of these women; for they would\nbe ashamed to be seen in this paucity of ornamentation. Across the middle\nof the forehead they wear several strings of beads, or sometimes a strip\nof monkey-skin, an inch wide, edged with shirt-buttons, and fastened\nbehind the head. They also have bangles three inches to a foot long,\nall around the head, consisting of loose hair strung with beads of all\ncolours. But there is still room for more, and they wear around the neck\ncountless strings of a small blue-black bead, piled up sometimes several\ninches high on the shoulders. Occasionally they pierce the septum of\nthe nose and insert a string of beads or a brass ring; and the ears are\ntreated in the same manner. A black tattooed marking between the eyes,\nand two broad artistically designed lines of the same upon the cheeks\nrunning from the direction of the ear towards the mouth, complete the\nhead-ornamentation of a fashionable Bulu woman.\n\nUpon one arm, or both, she wears an enormous cuff, made of heavy brass\nwire, an eighth of an inch in diameter, coiled into a solid gauntlet,\nlarge at the elbow, tapering down to the wrist and spreading again\ntowards the hand. It is made on the arm and is not supposed to be\nremoved. Sometimes it is worn on the upper arm, in which case it chafes\nthe arm, and after a while causes an ulcer. These are also frequently\nworn on the lower leg. But for this latter purpose they prefer a large\nbrass ring, several of which they wear on each leg, and which they keep\nbrightly polished. A woman if she can afford it, wears as many of these\nbrass rings as she can walk with.\n\nIt is strange that they have no love of flowers, and still more strange\nwhen one considers their instinctive love of music. Passing through a\nvillage and seeing a woman performing her semi-annual duty of combing her\nhair, I have suggested the decorative possibilities of flowers rather\nthan shirt-buttons. I have even gathered them for her and have put them\nin her hair, and I am sure they were becoming. But to her they were\nridiculous; nor was she moved when I told her that white women in my\ncountry infinitely preferred flowers to shirt-buttons.\n\nThe men are tattooed on their faces and their breasts; but the markings\nare light and scarcely disfigure the face. Every man carries at his left\nside a long, two-edged, sword-like knife. It is a splendid article, which\nthey themselves manufacture. It is carried in a sheath of python-skin,\nsuspended from a shoulder-strap of leopard-skin, though sometimes\nmonkey-skin or goat-skin is substituted. The flint-lock gun had reached\nthere long before our time; and every man had a gun which he carried all\nthe time.\n\nThe men are usually tall, athletic and remarkably well-formed, though not\nas full in the chest as a perfect physique would require. Most of the\nyounger men are good-looking. Many of the younger women have decidedly\npretty faces, but they are not as intelligent-looking as the men. Most\nof the children are beautiful, with sweet, good-natured faces and\nlovely eyes. Indeed, all of those whom one would call good-looking have\nbeautiful, large and expressive eyes, that can look brimful either of\nlaughter or affection; and the boys, to the age of fourteen or fifteen,\nhave the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.\n\nThe Bulu people were unmistakably friendly and fluently sociable. It\ndid not seem to matter much that during those first days we did not\nunderstand a word they said. The women were more sociable than the men,\nbut the men were more dignified and self-respecting. Most sociable of\nall was the head-wife of the principal chief. In the usual traveller\u2019s\nbook he would be called a king and she a queen, but these titles are\nmisleading without explanation. This \u201cqueen\u201d often used to come to Efulen\nselling potatoes, half a bucketful at a time, for which she bought more\nbeads. She was getting along in years, but still maintained an air of\nsuperannuated gaiety. Upon her back were several ugly scars where his\nlordship, her husband, had struck her with a cutlass\u2014an unpleasant habit\nquite characteristic of African husbands. One day, wishing to strengthen\nthe bond of friendship, she presented us with a coil of snake for our\ndinner, which we declined with profuse thanks. On another occasion,\nafter our house was built, she came with five junior wives of the same\nchief, and asked that they be shown through our house. I escorted them\nthrough the house, as one might escort a party through the White-house\nin Washington. Shrieks of wonder accompanied their inspection of every\narticle. Finally this head-wife, in lively gratitude, insisted upon\ndancing in the dining-room for our entertainment. The feet are the least\nactive members in this singular dance. Most of the time she stands\nin one place; nor does she pirouette like the dervish of Egypt. The\ndance has not the gladsome hop of the Bohemian dances, nor the swift\nglide of the tarantella; and of course it is altogether unlike any\nof our conventional dances. It is an amazing and rapid succession of\nextravagant gestures, grotesque poses and outrageous contortions. The\nshoulders and stomach and all the muscles of her seeming boneless body\nare set in violent motion. If dancing is \u201cthe poetry of motion,\u201d this\nis downright doggerel. She accompanies it with a vocal imitation of\ntheir several wooden instruments, as incongruous as the dance itself.\nShe seems to be imitating half a dozen instruments at once, while deaf\nto either applause or remonstrance on our part she dances on heedless\nof perspiration and decorum. Finally this lady came to me one day and,\noffering to leave her husband, made me a proposal of marriage, to the\ndelight of Dr. Good and Mr. Kerr. Shortly after this she went crazy.\n\nWe came in contact with a belief regarding the white man\u2019s origin which\nis widely prevalent, namely, that their dead ancestors have gone over the\nsea and have become white men. We, therefore, are their ancestors. Dr.\nGood and I once entered a town where the white man had never been seen.\nWhile the people were still standing back, afraid of us, a woman looking\nintently in my face uttered a cry of recognition, mistaking me for her\ndead grandfather, or grand-uncle, or something of that sort.\n\n\u201cAre you not so-and-so, of my family?\u201d she asked.\n\nNot being eager to claim relationship, I hastily assured her that I was\nnot.\n\n\u201cAre you a spirit, or are you flesh?\u201d she asked.\n\nI told her I was no spirit, but flesh and bones and as solid as herself;\nand I invited her to come and put her hand on me.\n\n\u201cWill my hand not go through?\u201d she asked; and I assured her that it would\nnot.\n\nThen coming towards me gradually, taking a short step, then a fearful\nbreath, then another step, she at last put her hand upon my arm and then\nnot knowing what would happen to her she turned and ran down the street.\nBut soon recovering herself she cried out: \u201cHe is solid just like us. My\nhand didn\u2019t go through.\u201d Then they all came, men, women and children, to\ninvestigate for themselves. Some pinched me, some pushed, and some pulled\nmy hair, to the infinite amusement of Dr. Good. I made no protest against\nthe more delicate experiments of the women and children; but the sense\nof touch on the part of the men was so obtuse that I turned on one of\nthem and by the vigorous use of my fists undertook to convince him that\nmy quality was more substantial than spirit, while the town shrieked with\nlaughter. The rest were willing to take that man\u2019s word that I was solid.\n\u201cYou\u2019re flesh and bones,\u201d they cried in a chorus.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said I, \u201cI am flesh and bones and fists.\u201d\n\nWhen we first went among them our safety was in their fetishism and this\nwe had counted upon. However kindly they may have felt, yet to them our\npoor bundles of goods were fabulous wealth; and it was our opinion then\nand afterwards that greed would have completely mastered them and they\nwould have killed us for our goods if they had dared. Dr. Good, as I\nhave said, had lived for years among the Fang, whose language is so much\nlike the Bulu that he could understand the Bulu from the first, although\nhe did not always let them know this. In the first Bulu town where we\nstayed over night Dr. Good heard them discussing us. The younger men were\ngreatly excited and might have proved dangerous but for the counsel of\nthe older men, who are always held in high respect. These elders argued\nthat since we three strangers, with a few unarmed followers, had left\nour own tribe and had come boldly among them we must surely have very\npowerful fetishes\u2014powerful enough to overcome theirs and inflict death on\nour enemies. Our very goods which they coveted was evidence of this; for\nit is only by fetishes that people acquire riches. Further evidence was\nafforded by the fact that we had meat in tins which our boys told them\nhad been there for two years and it was not rotten. They had seen it, and\nit smelled delicious. But the convincing proof was Mr. Kerr\u2019s gun, the\nmost beautiful thing that ever had been seen, and which, according to the\nreport of the boys, was never known to miss aim (which indeed was a fact\nwhen Mr. Kerr held it) and everybody knows that this depends entirely\nupon a man\u2019s fetishes. These sage counsels prevailed. And before this\nbelief in our fetishes and the fear of them was dissipated we had gained\ntheir friendship, and were safe on that basis.\n\nA month after our arrival at Efulen, Dr. Good, having occasion to go to\nthe coast, on the way bought something from a native to whom he gave a\nnote addressed to me in which he requested me to give the bearer a red\ncap\u2014a thing of yarn worth about five cents, much appreciated by the\nnative, but more becoming to a monkey than a man. Dr. Good explained to\nhim, as his eyes dilated with astonishment, that he would only need to\ngo to Efulen and hand the note to me without saying a word, whereupon I\nwould fetch out a red cap and give it to him. It was almost too great a\nstrain upon his credulity, but he agreed. His entire town accompanied\nhim to see this unheard-of miracle. It was a walk of half a day and\nthey passed through several towns on the way, in which they told what\nwas going to happen at Efulen. The population of each town, jerking\nthe dinner off the fire, snatching up the baby and leaving the dead\nto bury their dead, joined in the procession. A great crowd presented\nthemselves before the house. They had agreed not to invalidate the\nevidence of the miracle by letting me know what Dr. Good had said. The\nnote was the fetish that must effect the result. They stood with their\nhands over their mouths for fear the secret would fly out. Despite\ntheir extraordinary efforts to keep silence for a minute they were only\nmoderately successful. The leader handed me the note: I looked at it\nand without a word went into the house and immediately returned with\nthe cap. They vented their astonishment in a great shout. Then each of\nthem, yelling as loud as possible, began to repeat the entire incident\nfrom the beginning. They must have been telling the story to their dead\nancestors in Europe and America, if one might judge by their evident\ndistance, and by the fact that no one seemed to expect anybody else to\nlisten to him. This incident increased our prestige.\n\nIn a certain trading-house a similar incident once occurred. A native\npresented a note to the trader who gave him a knife. Then all the young\nenterprising natives appropriated paper wherever they could find it, and\ncutting it into similar pieces presented it to the trader supposing that\nhe would automatically produce a knife and give it to them; but when\nthey witnessed his dumb ignorance they concluded that there were serious\nlimitations to the white man\u2019s magic.\n\nI have said that they regarded our meagre stock of goods as fabulous\nwealth. They regarded us as we might regard a multi-millionaire. And,\nstrange enough, we gradually fell into their way of thinking, and\nregarded their attitude as consonant with the facts. And why not? For,\nto be rich is to have a little more than your neighbours, and to be poor\nis to have less. There is no sense of privation in being compelled to\ndo without those things which nobody else has; but however much we may\nhave, we feel the pinch of poverty when there are additional comforts and\nenjoyments immediately around us which we cannot procure. Our privations\nwere many and great, but they were for the most part inevitable. After\nthe first few months we had the best procurable in our situation, and far\nmore than those around us. So, every man in such a place will learn that\nwealth, after all, is a sentiment more than a condition, a feeling rather\nthan a fact. But the return to civilization is like a sudden reversal\nof fortune, and in dire contrast a man experiences a very painful and\noppressive sense of poverty when confronted with wealth so far beyond his\nown.\n\nWe gave out various goods in pay to workmen engaged upon our premises. We\nbought food for the workmen and some for ourselves. The staple article\nof exchange was salt: one might almost call it the currency. There is\nso little of it that there is a chronic hunger for it. Children like it\nbetter than sugar. A teaspoonful of salt is the price of an egg. We also\ngave in exchange beads, shirt-buttons, brass rods, red-caps, knives,\ngun-flints, and later in the year we began to sell a little cloth. We\nbought bananas, plantains, cassava (that which Stanley calls \u201cmanioc,\u201d\nwhich is their principal food) and building-material. All exchange is\nby barter, and it is a very tedious and trying process, a long palaver\nbeing regarded as almost essential to propriety even in the purchase of\nthe smallest article. In trading among themselves the man who can talk\nlongest and loudest usually gets the best of the bargain. The maintaining\nof a fixed price is new to the African and is hateful to him, even if the\nprice be good, for it tends to deprive him of the palaver, which is the\njoy of his life. He makes the best of the fixed price however and even\ndiscovers that it still has some dramatic and histrionic possibilities.\nHe lays down his bamboo, or his thatch, before me, telling me in a\nneighbourly manner how far he has had to go for it and how exceedingly\nscarce it is becoming, how unusually good this particular material is and\nwhat lavish offers he received for it along the way, and how friendship\nfor the white man prevailed over baser considerations. For, what were he\nand his people before the white man came? But now, as for himself, he\nhas left behind all his vices, and that very morning has decided to be a\nChristian.\n\nI interrupt this fine flow of sentiment by asking him what he wants in\nexchange for his thatch. He thinks he will take a little salt. I measure\nout with a spoon the exact amount\u2014which he knew before he left his town.\nThe dramatic moment is when I put away the spoon. He glances from the\nsalt to myself several times with a fine simulation of disappointment and\ncontempt, calculated to reduce me to pulp. He is no child in his art,\nbut such an adept that my moral fortitude almost surrenders before that\nlook. I seek to relieve the strain by saying with affected carelessness:\n\u201cThat\u2019s all. Take your salt and get out.\u201d\n\nThe reply to this delicate suggestion is a prolonged yell of many mingled\nemotions: and then he grabs,\u2014not the salt, but his thatch and starts down\nthe hill cursing the white man. I have not so much affronted his judgment\nas I have wounded his feelings, and perhaps have put a stumbling-block\nin the way of his salvation. He thinks better of it, however, and comes\nback, takes the salt and goes away blessing me.\n\nIt was hard to procure eggs. The natives do not eat eggs but always set\nthem. At first they asked the price of a chicken for an egg, because,\nthey said, the egg would become a chicken, with proper treatment. The\ntime element is always eliminated in every consideration. But most of\nthe eggs that they brought us would never have become chickens under any\ncircumstances; and this they knew, for they had given them a thorough\ntrial. When I pronounce an egg to be bad a man always wants it back; for\nhe or his friend will try to sell it to me again, watching an opportunity\nwhen I am very busy and have not time to examine it closely. I have\nprobably refused the same egg half a dozen times in one morning, and then\nperhaps have bought it, and the successful vender has amused the people\nof his town by relating the transaction at my expense.\n\nThe women bring their garden produce in heavy loads carried on their\nbacks in large baskets. I stand on the porch as I buy and they on the\nground, their produce lying on the porch at my feet. They always rise\nvery early, and they usually reach the hill about daylight. We cannot buy\nmore than half of the food they bring; so there is a noisy and animated\nscramble for first place. They are there before we are up in the morning\nand they wait in a shed occupied by our men a little way down the hill\nand in front of our house. There they indulge in chatter and laughter,\nand one might think they had forgotten their errand. But the moment I\nopen the door and step outside (for it fell to me to do the buying) every\nwoman, with a yell, snatches her basket and pitches it on her back, or\nperhaps comes dragging it along the ground, thinking in this way to gain\na moment over her sisters, and pushing and pulling each other, some of\nthem laughing, more of them cursing, and all of them yelling, the whole\nfanfare sweeps up to the door. Not having been accustomed to rise so\nearly, my sense of humour is still dormant at that hour; life is always a\nserious matter to me and a doubtful boon until after breakfast. I yawn,\nand yawn again, and heave a weary sigh, as I reflect that the clamorous\nnoise which has thus ushered in the day will continue through the long\nhours until its close.\n\nSoon after our arrival at Efulen Dr. Good and I visited the town of an\nold chief of some fame, named Abesula. Abesula\u2019s claim to greatness was\nbased upon the possession of thirty-five wives and any man who could\nendure life with thirty-five African wives must be made of uncommon\nstuff. He was old and most of them were young and unruly, and each one\nseemed disposed to do her full duty in reconciling him to death by\nmaking his present life intolerable. As we entered the town an old woman\nwho knew Dr. Good and was very glad to see him came forward to salute\nhim, calling him his usual name, _Ngoot_. She was covered thick with\nredwood powder, like red oxide, from head to feet, and he was dressed\nin light-coloured clothes and was quite trim, for we had travelled by\na good road. In a salutation of \u201clinked sweetness long drawn out\u201d\u2014\u201cAy!\nNgoo-t, Ngoo-t, Ngoo-t,\u201d she threw her arms around him and embraced him\naffectionately, leaving him covered with redwood powder. Other women,\nevidently thinking that this was the proper way to receive a white\nman, followed her example. Now, one of Dr. Good\u2019s peculiarities was an\ninsuperable aversion to effusions of emotion. But he always considered\nthe effect of his actions upon the mind or the feelings of the natives;\nso he submitted to this tender ceremony, but he looked as miserable as\never Abesula did with his thirty-five wives all calling him names at\nonce. Then the old woman, not wishing to show partiality, approached me\nwith an amiable, toothless smile and all the redwood that was not on Dr.\nGood\u2019s clothes; but regardless of consequences I took to my heels and\nbestowed myself at a safe distance down the street, feeling that I had\nmade sacrifices enough for the black race to be morally excusable for\ndeclining this unsavoury embrace.\n\nIn the evening we sang several hymns to draw the people together. They\nall came and Abesula sat in the midst. Then Dr. Good preached to them,\nand some paid close attention. But after a while Abesula, interrupting,\nsaid: \u201cNgoot, won\u2019t you soon be through preaching? For I wish that you\ntwo white men would sing and dance for the people; I don\u2019t care for\nsinging without dancing, and I don\u2019t like preaching at all.\u201d But we did\nnot resort to this sensational method of holding a congregation.\n\nThat same evening a score of Abesula\u2019s wives engaged in a general quarrel\nwith each other. An African family has no skeletons in the closet. They\nall hang outside the front door. The quarrel began with two of them,\nwho, earlier in the evening, sat each within the door of her own house,\non opposite sides of the street, reviling each other in language of\nloathsome indecency, until at last, when their intellectual resources of\nwarfare were exhausted, the other women told them to come out into the\nstreet and fight it out. Whereupon the two women came out into the street\nand throwing off even their scant apparel of leaves, began to fight.\nTo our surprise they did not scratch nor pull each other\u2019s hair, as we\nhad heard that women do when they fight. It was more like wrestling,\nalthough blows were delivered according to opportunity. They were fairly\nmatched; but at last one was thrown to the ground, the other falling\non top, and then clasping each other and fighting they rolled over and\nover in the street. When one of them was beaten the other women began\nto take sides and a large number became involved. Then the indiscreet\nAbesula interfered and they all joined together against him. To say that\nthis large and unhappy family washed the dirty linen of their domestic\ninfelicity in the street is putting it too mildly. The linen was foul and\nfit only for the fire. The women sought to shame the old savage out of\ncountenance by the revelation of filthy secrets\u2014but there are no secrets\nin Africa. Abesula replied with a shocking history of their immoralities\nwhich I fear was too true. He raged like an infuriated beast. He asked\nfor a stick. Some one brought him one about ten feet long. As he talked\nhe beat the ground with the stick and when it broke in his hands he\ncalled for another. He cursed them and threatened them with the hostility\nof supernatural powers by which they would die various sudden deaths\nin surprising forms, and suffer frightful penalties in another world.\nAll this while he was pounding the ground, in which performance it was\nsupposed that his wives were beaten by proxy. It was a very forcible\nway of expressing his opinion of them, and of showing them what their\nconduct deserved, while it was safer for himself and more conducive to\ngood health and a long life, than a personal attack upon them, seeing\nthat it was one against thirty-five.\n\nBut finding at length that this bloodless flogging even when accompanied\nwith awful language produced no other result than self-exhaustion and\nviolent perspiration, he resolved to kill himself without actually\ndying\u2014a simple paradox to the African mind. He brought out of his house\na long knife and a lighted torch, and carefully arranging a seat in\nthe middle of the street where all could witness the shedding of his\nblood, he sharpened the knife, made his last speech, in which he told\nhis wives how he would haunt them after death, then raised the knife\nabove him, threw back his head, and pointed the knife towards his\nbreast. This tragical performance requires that at this interesting\nmoment some one, preferably a wife, should rush towards him in terrible\nalarm and excitement and wrench the knife from his hand just in time to\nsave his life. This touching evidence of regard is a first measure of\nreconciliation and is usually followed by a truce of hostilities. But\nAbesula had made life so bitter for these women that their contempt was\nunbounded and they desired no armistice. Not one of them moved to save\nhis life. He still held the knife above him, as if to say: \u201cIs no one\ngoing to interfere? Is it possible that you would allow a great man like\nme to take his own life when you could so easily prevent it? At least\nthink of the trouble it will entail, the grave-digging, the burial, a\nmonth of mourning, and perhaps charges of witchcraft.\u201d Still no one\nmoved. Abesula suddenly resolved to sharpen his knife again so as to make\ndeath quite certain. This being done he again raised it and pointed it\ntowards his heart. A native man said to Dr. Good: \u201cStop him! white man,\nstop him! Take the knife from him!\u201d And it may be that the women had\nbeen expecting a white man to perform this obliging duty. But neither of\nus moved. At last the knife descended, and with such terrible force that\nit would have been driven into his heart and clean through his back if it\nhad not been that his arm was trembling with excessive determination, and\nthe descending knife, missing aim, struck the ground, penetrating nearly\nto the hilt. Poor Abesula, inconsolable at finding himself still alive,\nand feeling that his dignity, if not his life, was gone forever, rose\nfrom the ground and sneaked away. But he cast a baleful look backward, as\nif to say, \u201cFor two beads I\u2019d destroy this world and make another where\ngreat men could be appreciated. As for you black creatures, you don\u2019t\nknow a great man when you see him.\u201d\n\nLater that night when all had retired to sleep, Dr. Good and I were still\ndiscussing polygamy, that some white people assert is right and necessary\nfor Africa.\n\nMr. E. D. Morel points to the triumphs of Mohammedanism in Africa as\na proof of its better adaptation to the moral and material welfare of\nthe people than Christianity, attributing its success to its allowance\nof polygamy. But Mr. Morel\u2019s friend, Sir Harry Johnston, than whom\nperhaps no man living knows more about Central Africa and its people,\naccounts for the rapid spread of Mohammedanism in a very simple and\nobvious manner, when he says: \u201cMohammedanism, as taught to the negro,\ndemands no sacrifice of his bodily lusts.\u201d Mohammedanism does improve\nthe African\u2014there is nothing gained by denying it. But, at best, it only\n\u201cmoves the masses to a cleaner stye,\u201d which, though cleaner, is still a\n\u201cstye\u201d; while the aim of Christianity is a _household_, in which the law\nis _love_, not lust. It is natural that it should take the negro longer\nto learn this lesson and that he should be slow in making the sacrifices\nthat it demands.\n\nIn the morning Abesula seemed to have forgotten all about the palaver,\nas if it were a very ordinary occurrence, as I presume it really was. We\nrewarded him for the house that we had occupied by a gift of a red-cap\n(cost, five cents), the remains of our tallow candle and six lumps of\nwhite sugar.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nAFTER A YEAR\n\n\nMy progress in acquiring the language was greatly retarded by my long\nsickness, and by more than one prolonged stay at the coast. But the\nlanguage is easy. At the end of a year I was conducting Sabbath services\nin Dr. Good\u2019s absence and preaching in a stammering way. Mr. Kerr was\nspeaking the language much better than I; and Dr. Good had actually\ntranslated the Gospels, though it was a tentative translation that he\nknew would soon need revision. We were also penetrating a little beneath\nthe surface of native life, seeing with other eyes and beginning to\nrealize its degradation and to feel deeply its misery and sadness.\n\nWhen we three white men, on our way to Efulen, entered the first Bulu\ntown, the old chief asked Dr. Good whether we were brothers. When Dr.\nGood replied that we were not, the old man, turning slowly towards his\npeople, with an incredulous laugh exclaimed: \u201cWhat a lie!\u201d It seemed\nimpossible that three men who were not brothers could travel together in\nthe forest and not kill each other.\n\nOne day I heard a sudden outcry of great alarm from a village at the\nfoot of our hill. Several men of that village were at our station at the\ntime, and with a shout they started for home. I quickly followed them and\nsaw as I entered the village that a tragedy had occurred. I afterwards\nlearned that four of their prominent men had been shot. They were hunting\nin the forest and not suspecting danger, when another party, who were\nreally friendly, mistook them for enemies in the dark forest, and shot\nall four. This is a kind of mistake that occurs frequently. The native\nwould rather kill ten friends than let one enemy escape; so they often\nkill first and investigate afterwards. The village was very small and\nthe loss of four stalwart men left them insufficiently protected against\ntheir enemies. This day the four bodies had been found in the forest and\nthe news had just reached the village. Instantly, all the wives of those\nmen stripped off their scant clothing of leaves, smeared their bodies\nwith clay and running into the garden of bananas threw themselves on the\nground tearing their hair and screaming, while the other women of the\nvillage gathered around and tried to comfort them. There was more than\none reason for this demonstration. In part it was probably genuine grief;\nbut there was also a strong element of fear, the fear of every wife whose\nhusband dies from any cause whatsoever, that she will be charged with\nhaving bewitched him and suffer the penalty of death, perhaps by being\nburied alive with the dead body of her husband. For in this instance of\nthe four men, it would be said, that they wore upon their necks certain\nfetishes that would have made them invisible to any one attempting to\ndo them harm, and that evidently the spell of witchcraft had broken\nthe power of the fetish. The fact that a man\u2019s wife, or wives, are the\nfirst to be charged with his death, implying that they would be more\nlikely than others to desire it, throws a lurid light upon their social\nrelations and incidentally upon polygamy. The African wife everywhere is\nan artist in the use of poison.\n\nIn that entire year at Efulen I do not remember that there was one\nnatural death, though we never ceased to hear their mourning for the\ndead. In those tribes where no degree of civilization is yet established\nit is estimated that nineteen out of twenty Africans die by violence.\nAnd when one comes to know the people individually and by name, instead\nof by impersonal figures, one realizes something of the enormity of wrong\nand suffering covered by this record.\n\nOne of the friendliest of the natives who had been coming to see us\nalmost every day, a young man of splendid physique, was dragged up the\nhill to our door, unconscious, a bullet from an enemy\u2019s gun having\npenetrated his forehead, breaking the skull and laying bare the brain.\nWith their coarse knives they had tried to dig the pieces of broken\nbone out of the wound. That war began with the stealing of a woman, or\nrather her elopement with a man of another town. The reason she gave\nwas that her husband was so homely she could not live with him. The man\nprobably had no wife and had no possible means of procuring the very\nlarge dowry necessary for her purchase. The town from which the woman was\nstolen, according to native custom, at the very first opportunity killed\na person belonging to the town to which the woman was taken. Then the\nother town killed several of their people. During this war the people of\nthe more distant town could not reach Efulen, and those of the nearer\ntown brought their guns when they attended our service on Sunday and sat\nwith them in their hands, ready for instant action. The war between the\ntwo towns continued until twelve persons had been killed, eight on one\nside and four on the other. Then another woman was stolen, and another\nwar began and this first one was settled in a great palaver, which was\ncalled in a neutral town, the people of the two opposing towns being\ngathered together and sitting on opposite sides of the street. After\nendless oratory, some of it weak enough and some of it eloquent, it was\nagreed that one side, having killed four more than the enemy, should pay\nover to them four women, and the town to which the man belonged who had\nfirst stolen the woman should collectively pay a proper dowry. Having\nthus agreed they returned to their respective towns and it remained only\nto name the four women who should be given over to the other town. Dr.\nGood and I were present when the old chief, after taking counsel with\nthe elders, named the four women. The whole town was assembled. As he\npronounced each name there was a shriek and a woman fled to the bush;\nbut a number of men knowing the name beforehand, caught her, dragged her\nback into the street, while she struggled and threw herself on the ground\nas if she were trying to kill herself. But it was useless. They bound\nthem with bush-rope and they were taken away. Upon reaching the other\ntown, they would become the wives of the chief, or others upon whom he\nmight magnanimously bestow them. My impression is that at first they are\nusually regarded with ill-will. Sometimes, when a woman seems not to be\nreconciled to her lot, her feet are put in stocks until she is brought\ninto subjection; but in time she submits to the inevitable and makes the\nbest of it. I have known instances among the Fang where such women were\nregarded as slaves.\n\nYet in all their degradation there was still something childlike about\nthem. We found them always interesting and even lovable; and though so\nfar below our own moral level, our sympathy was not repelled by their\ndegradation. One upon the mountain top may seem far above his fellows;\nbut, when he looks up, the infinite stars are equally above them all. The\nhigher our ideals the more lowly our hearts, the more sane and broad our\nsympathies.\n\nIt ought not to be expected that we would accomplish any individual or\nsocial transformation in a brief year. Only with length of time can\neven a divine religion, so long as it leaves men free, transform the\ncustoms of ages, and in minds knowing only animal desires, create new and\nnoble ideals. Without doubt the new truth that we taught had become more\nintelligible and above all, they grasped its practical import. We not\nonly preached but practiced justice, honesty, truthfulness, and kindness\n(to their amazement), and they interpreted our creed by our practice. For\nthey themselves were preachers of righteousness before they ever heard of\nthe white man; but it was in _doing_ that they lacked. We felt at the end\nof the year that they understood us, and recognized our moral principles\nas right: and this was a great advance.\n\nBut the actual reforms among them were for the most part merely\nsuperficial and scarcely moral. Some of them developed a passion for\nclothes, which they regarded as mere ornamentation. It is sometimes\nsaid that we missionaries preach a \u201cGospel of cloth\u201d mistaking clothes\nfor morality. And a superficial observer at Efulen would probably have\nsupposed that the ludicrous effort of the people to clothe themselves\nwas the result of our teaching and advice. But it was due only to their\nready habit of imitation; and as a matter of fact we were disposed to\ndiscourage it. For one of the first lessons that the white man learns in\nAfrica is that clothes and morality are not so nearly related as he had\nsupposed. It is preferable in this as in everything else that knowledge\nshould precede practice: otherwise, the results will be at least\ngrotesque and often injurious to health. One man is dressed in the crown\nor the brim of a hat; another wears a pair of cast-off shoes, or perhaps\none shoe, while his friend wears the other; and even when they are new he\nis indifferent about shoe-strings. One man will wear as his entire outfit\na ragged coat of inhuman proportions; another wears a pair of trousers\nthat have outworn all the buttons, while his whole time and attention are\noccupied in keeping them on, and with indifferent success. Such rags of\nclothing turn these fine and manly-looking fellows into low-down rowdies\nor even into the semblance of apes. Nor do they always know the _gender_\nof the garments shown them in the trading-houses, and not all the traders\nwill assist their taste. One may sometimes see a tall chief dressed\nin a pink or blue Mother Hubbard. At the coast I once saw a stalwart\nbushman, who had just disposed of an ivory, \u201cdressed to kill\u201d in a lady\u2019s\nunder-garment, fresh from the box, snow-white and trimmed with delicate\nembroidery. He was so proud as he strutted along that he could scarcely\nspeak.\n\nBut clothes, until they have learned to take proper care of them, are\noften injurious to their health. They will keep these garments on night\nand day, wet or dry, and may not take them off till they fall off.\nIt is worse with shoes. The feet of the native are shod with natural\nsole-leather; and if they were not, the bush-paths would be impassable\nfor him. But he wears his shoes through mud and water, and keeps them on\nat night. The result is that they make his feet tender, besides injuring\nhis health.\n\nShortly after we went to Efulen, such was the passion for clothes that if\none should throw away an old pair of socks instead of burning them, no\nmatter where they might be thrown, one might count on it that somebody,\nprobably a boy, would soon appear in the yard wearing those socks,\nsometimes on his hands instead of his feet, thinking that they would\nlast longer. One day when I decided that a certain pair of shoes were\nno longer fit to wear, I took them out into the yard and placing them\non a block, took an axe, and proceeded to chop them into small pieces.\nAll the natives in the yard, visitors and workmen, came running to me\nand loudly begged for the shoes with outstretched hands. But oblivious\nto their clamorous entreaties, I kept swinging the axe and compelling\nthem to stand back. When I had finished I asked them what they wanted,\nexplaining that I could not swing an axe and listen to them at the same\ntime, especially when they were all talking at once. They turned away\nwith looks of disgust.\n\nA certain chief at Efulen succeeded in procuring a suit of bright blue\ndenim. The following Sunday the family came to our service with the suit\ndivided between them, the women having divested themselves of the native\nattire. The old man wore the coat, his wife followed with the trousers,\nand a grown daughter brought up the rear with the vest. Of course they\ncame late, and walked to a front seat. The missionaries were supposed to\nmaintain their gravity. I was not there myself and am indebted to Mr.\nKerr for the incident.\n\nMy visits to the coast were like coming back to civilization; such was\nthe contrast of Batanga and Efulen. And, besides, there was a white\nchild at the coast, little Frances, a dear little girl about a year old,\nwhom I carried in my arms much of the time that I was there. For I have\nalready told how one longs for the sight of a white child. During those\nvisits to the coast I often preached in the Batanga Church and I became\nwell acquainted with that congregation. By their progress of a few years\nand by the Christian character of many individuals known to me, I was\naccustomed to measure the possibilities of the Bulu and the prospect of\nour work.\n\n[Illustration: THE OLD CHURCH AT BATANGA.\n\n_The walls are of split bamboo and the roof of palm thatch. The\ntriangular openings serve both for ventilation and expectoration._]\n\nThe first Sunday after my arrival in Africa I preached in the church at\nBatanga. I had carefully packed away every article of better clothing,\nincluding all starched linen, and all my shirts, and was wearing a suit\nwhich I had purchased at a trading-house for two dollars. I have reason\nto remember this from what Dr. Good said afterwards. He told me that when\nI landed from the steamer he surveyed me with eager curiosity, and that\nI had somehow impressed him with a doubt as to whether I would be able to\nadapt myself to our bush-life. But when he entered the Batanga Church the\nfollowing Sunday and saw me standing in the pulpit divested of collar,\ncuffs and shirt, and dressed in a suit that everybody knew had cost\nexactly two dollars, doubt was banished, and to a fellow missionary he\nexpressed his changed mind in the emphatic words: \u201cHe\u2019ll do.\u201d But surely\nin Africa and everywhere else our dress should be that which is proper to\nour work and our surroundings.\n\nThe Batanga Church had a membership of four hundred, and the attendance\nwas very large. The present edifice is a hideous and expensive structure\nof foreign material, altogether inappropriate to native conditions and\na disfigurement in the landscape. But the old church of those days,\nwhile not sufficient in size, was admirable in other respects and\npicturesque\u2014elevated on posts and with a board floor, bamboo walls, and\nroof of palm thatch. Along the base of the walls, at regular intervals,\nwere large triangular openings for ventilation. But the people being\naccustomed to leave all matters of ventilation and sanitation to\nprovidence, evidently supposed that these openings were intended for\ntheir accommodation in expectorating. For the habit of expectoration is\nfixed and constant, and is as characteristic of Africa as noise. One does\nnot object to it so much among bush people, who usually assemble outside,\nand in whose houses there are only ground floors. But when they begin to\nbe civilized it is more noticeable and becomes offensive. The majority of\nthe Batanga people, with the native instinct of good manners, were just\nsufficiently civilized to know that it is bad form to spit on the floor,\nbut _not_ sufficiently civilized to break off the habit entirely. During\nthe service they continually expectorated through the openings in the\nwalls, and especially the women. It seemed that the more interested they\nbecame in the sermon the more fluently they expectorated. My attention\nwas arrested and almost diverted by the uncertainty and suspense whenever\nI saw an old woman on the inside end of a pew, lean forward, twist her\nhead to one side, take deliberate aim, and fire past six persons. She\nnever missed the hole\u2014unless some one of those between her and the wall\nshould happen to move or lean forward just at the wrong moment, which\nof course was not her fault. The appearance which this habit presented\noutside the church always recalled what Dickens said of this same habit\nin America\u2014that the appearance outside the windows of a railway coach was\nas if some one inside were ripping open a feather tick.\n\nThe men and women sit on different sides of the church and I believe\nthat in their stage of civilization it is best that they should thus\nbe separated, though sometimes it is attended with inconvenience. For\ninstance, a father may have charge of a baby that wants its mother; and\nif so it may be passed from one to another across the entire church, as\nI have seen, dangling by one little arm, and with no covering but that\nwhich nature has provided in its black skin. The large majority are\ndressed and there is nothing grotesque or foolish in their costumes. Most\nof the men wear a white undershirt and a large square robe of cotton,\nusually of bright colours, bound around the waist and falling almost to\nthe feet. This is the most becoming male dress in Africa; and the black\nman in his own climate always looks best in bright colours. A few of the\nmen, in too great haste to be civilized, wear shirts and trousers, the\ntrousers a manifest misfit and the shirt outside the trousers. This mode\nof wearing the shirt, however, I would not criticise; it is charmingly\nnaive, and rather sensible when one becomes accustomed to it. The women\nwear a similar square robe of bright cotton, or better material, bound\naround immediately below the arms, leaving the shoulders bare, and\nfalling to their feet. But among them are many, both men and women, who\nwear a smaller cloth, bound around the waist and falling to the knees,\nwith nothing on the upper body. Individuals have different costumes but\nthese are the types; and the types are so established that anything\neccentric or much out of style would occasion a smile. People of the\nbush sometimes straggle into the service so absurdly dressed that the\ngravity of the entire congregation is upset. It was so one Sunday when\nthe following incident occurred.\n\nWhile I had fever at Efulen, being obliged to change clothing frequently,\nI discarded pajamas for nightshirts. They were long ones that reached to\nmy feet. These when taken off were usually hung near the fire to dry,\nwhere the smoke stained and discoloured them. When I was well I discarded\nthem. Mr. Kerr, for some reason, presented one to a Bulu man. Soon\nafterwards the man visited the coast and of course took this wonderful\ngarment with him. What is the use of having fine clothes if one is not to\nshow them off? The Bulu man, looking very grand in my stained nightshirt,\nattended the service in the Batanga Church, came late, of course, and\nwalked up the long aisle to a front seat, while the large congregation\nmade an agonizing effort to \u201cremember the Sabbath day to keep it holy.\u201d\nBut there were a number of missionaries present and they had heard me\nspeak of those garments and their extreme discolouration by the smoke;\nand when they saw the Bulu enter they immediately recognized the garment.\n\nSome of the Batanga people had begun to wear shoes, though there is no\nneed of them and they look better without them. They have a preference\nfor heavy shoes that will make a noise as they walk up the aisle,\notherwise people might not know that they had them. But above all,\nthey must have shoes with \u201csqueaking\u201d soles,\u2014or, as the natives say,\nshoes that \u201ctalk\u201d; and the first question a native asks when he would\nbuy a pair of shoes is: \u201cDo they talk proper loud?\u201d They wear black\nshoe-strings when they cannot get pink or white. Some of them are so\nuncomfortable that they remove their shoes during the service.\n\nThe collection at the Batanga service was gathered only occasionally and\nwas unique in quality and quantity\u2014chickens, bananas, cassava, sweet\npotatoes, dried fish, pieces of cloth, shirts, hats, knives, boards, etc.\n\nBut I had occasion frequently to review the records of the session of\nthe church, and of realizing the undercurrents of the lives of those\npeople; and there I found nothing amusing. It was a sad, sad story of\npathos and dire tragedy. There were confessions of weak failure; but\nthere were other confessions of defeat only after long and brave fighting\nagainst temptations which those in Christian lands cannot conceive\nand which I cannot relate. There were stories of domestic sorrow. A\nChristian man tells the session that he did not partake of the communion\nbecause his heart was full of bitterness against his heathen wife for\nher unfaithfulness and immorality. A Christian woman declares that she\nrefused to marry a man who had other wives. She was tied hands and feet\nand carried to his house. Another woman tells the wrongs she endured\nfrom a heathen husband. A broken-hearted father tells that he had not\nlately attended the services because the death of his only son had filled\nhim with doubt of God\u2019s goodness. A widowed mother also confesses doubt\nbecause God had taken away her only son. These are the _weak_ Christians\nwho have been called before the session; and these are the men and women\nat whose weaknesses travellers and other critics would laugh and point\nthe finger of scorn, and because of them condemn the entire congregation\nof those who profess to be Christians. The majority of white men in\nAfrica judge the native Christians without mercy, and they judge the\nwhole native church by its weakest member. At Las Palmas, on Grand Canary\nIsland, I tasted a fresh fig for the first time in my life and pronounced\nit \u201cdisgusting,\u201d whereupon a native Spaniard, a judge of figs, looking at\nme, said: \u201cO, sir, you are eating a bad one!\u201d He was right. I was eating\na bad fig and judging the whole species by that one. It is thus that many\nwhite men judge the native Christians of Africa.\n\nProminent in the Batanga Church, and always present at the service, was\na woman, Bekalida, noted in her tribe for her good looks, but in these\nlatter years smitten with a disease that had horribly disfigured her,\nand had eaten away her entire nose. When this calamity befell her she\nwas so overwhelmed with grief and shame that for a long time she could\nnot bear to be seen in public. But at last, with her face covered, she\nappeared in the little prayer-meeting of women conducted by her great\nfriend, Miss Nassau, and there, in pathetic and eloquent words, she\npoured out her heart while they wept, and told them how that she had\nbeen vain and proud until the Lord in His love had smitten her; how that\nduring the long weeks of her affliction faith forsook her. Her heart was\nhard and rebellious and she felt that she could not bear her shame; but\nshe yearned for that comfort that only God could give; she came to Jesus\nagain in penitence and He received her and her heart was filled with the\npeace of God; for it was better to be disfigured than to be vain and\nproud.\n\nIn that same congregation there was one Mbula, who afterwards became a\nminister; a young man of simple manners and godly life. Growing up in\nthe midst of African degradation, he was yet pure, strong and manly. He\ndeveloped unusual gifts as a preacher, simplicity and force, fluency of\nspeech and a charming grace of manner that many white ministers might\nenvy. There was another young man, Eduma, who also became a minister and\nis to-day an influential leader among those who are striving to live\nin a higher and better way than they have hitherto known. Already from\nthat congregation missionaries have gone to the Bulu, whom they formerly\ndespised. At least one of those missionaries, Ndenga, has lived a life,\nand done a work, of faith and devotion that is fitted to surprise and\nto convince all those who have seriously doubted whether the African is\ncapable of a high ideal and of patient performance.\n\nTowards the end of our first year among the Bulu it was very plain that\na change had taken place in our relations to them. They had become\nconvinced that our persons were not inviolable as they had first thought\nand that we had no fetishes to serve us as a potent protection; while, on\nthe other hand, though we had steadily gained their regard, it might be\ndoubted whether their friendship was yet sufficient for our security. If\nthere is ever any danger of violence it is in this period of transition.\nOne or two incidents will illustrate the change of feeling.\n\nIn a certain town which Dr. Good and I once visited, much farther in the\ninterior and where no white man had ever been before, a young Bulu man\ncame to us at the close of the service and addressing us in English said:\n\u201cI sabey English mouf.\u201d Imagine our surprise! He gave us some account of\nhimself.\n\n[Illustration: PASTOR AND ELDERS OF THE BATANGA CHURCH.]\n\nHis name was Keli. When a child he had been taken by his father on\na visit to a neighbouring tribe. While there he was stolen from his\nfather and taken to a distant village where he became a slave. Some time\nafterwards he was taken to the coast and sold to a chief of the coast\ntribe. Finally the chief sold him to a white man, who in turn gave him to\nanother white man and he was taken to Gaboon. His master was a Frenchman,\nand Keli was his personal attendant. The boy made himself so useful that\nwhen the Frenchman went on furlough to France he took him along. After\nliving in Paris a considerable time the Frenchman concluded not to return\nto Africa; whereupon he sent Keli to England and gave him into the charge\nof an English trader who was expecting soon to sail for Africa. With this\ntrader Keli returned to Africa. Not long after this the trader having\noccasion to visit Batanga took Keli with him. This was his opportunity.\nIn the night he fled to the forest. Finally he fell in with a caravan\ngoing to the Bulu country, and at last reached his town, after an absence\nof seven years, during which his father and mother had died, and he had\nbeen long-forgotten. Keli had not been trained by his various masters\nin wisdom and judgment, and he made the mistake of telling the people\nall that he had seen in Paris and London\u2014all about the big buildings\nand multitudes of people, all about the clothes they wore and the very\ncold season of snow and ice, all about horses and carriages and railway\ntrains\u2014quite overtaxing their credulity, and earning the reputation of\na notorious liar and incorrigible fool. Missionaries sometimes make the\nsame mistake and pay the same penalty.\n\nMeantime Keli had become accomplished to the extent of knowing French\nand English and five native dialects. But, alas! how destitute of moral\npower is civilization alone! Keli did not seem to have any moral ideas.\nThe restraining fear of his former fetishism had been expelled, and no\nmoral motive implanted. His morality was much below that of the average\nBulu, except in the shedding of blood. Nothing but long familiarity can\nmake that an indifferent matter to any man however degraded; and Keli\nhad a horror of blood. We took him home with us to Efulen and made him\ncook and houseboy, for we were in our usual strait at the time. He knew\nhis work well and was unapproached in service for the short time that he\nbehaved. But at the first opportunity, one Sunday during the service,\nKeli captured and stole a chicken, the mother of a young brood. He\nstrewed feathers along a bush-path to make believe that a wild animal\nhad taken it. Of course it will be remembered that among a people who\nhave so little, a chicken is one of the high values. The theft was not\ninsignificant in the mind of the Bulu. But for us the really serious\nimport of the matter was that it raised the question as to whether\nthey could steal from us with impunity, or with any possibility of not\nbeing detected. They had never attempted it before, being restrained by\nthe dread of our supposed fetishes, which Keli knew to be a delusion.\nI need not say that we had never fostered the delusion, yet it had\nserved a providential use. It was now likely to be dispelled and we\nwere not certain as to the consequences. Keli immediately killed the\nchicken and gave it to a Bulu man, his accomplice, who wrapped it in\na loin-cloth and took it to his town while Keli himself came running\nto me in great distress, as soon as the service was concluded, telling\na most interesting story of a bushcat that he had seen just as it was\ndisappearing with the chicken, and how he had given chase and had tried\nto rescue it. Of course I suspected himself, but I said nothing until, by\na chain of evidence that I have forgotten, I traced it to him. We made\nhim a prisoner, and Dr. Good soon wrung a confession from him. He said he\nwould find the chicken\u2014which, however, having lost its head, could never\nbe the same chicken again. I took him to town still a prisoner, a workman\nwalking behind him with a rope around his waist. He led me through the\ntown to the house of his accomplice. Entering the house he proceeded\ndirectly to the bed and from underneath it produced the chicken, wrapped\nin the cloth of the other thief.\n\nI took the chicken and the cloth and started back to the station, still\naccompanied by Keli, and a long procession of natives. I had gone but\na short distance when the owner of the cloth with a number of men\nfollowing, came running from behind, and dashing past me with a shout,\nimmediately turned about, placed himself in the narrow path before me,\nand with his long knife in his raised arm demanded his cloth. It may have\nbeen mere bluff on his part, one cannot tell. The chief danger, if there\nwas any, was not their natural brutality so much as their excitement.\nOf course I could not yield to a demand that was really a threat and\nso bring us into contempt. But I was far from comfortable and I would\ngladly have made a present of the entire incident to my worst enemy. My\nresources were, in the first place, straight bluff, and second, the moral\nprestige of the white man. Keeping my eye fixed upon him I ordered him\nout of the path, and as he did not obey, I suddenly struck him as heavy a\nblow as I could,\u2014so suddenly that he was taken completely off his guard\nand was thrown headlong into the thicket, while I passed on. Surprised\nmore than hurt, it took him some time to recover himself and to take\ncounsel with his fellows. Meantime, wishing to avoid an ugly palaver,\nand still to retain personal authority, I unfolded the cloth, discovered\nbefore the eyes of the people that it was very dirty and full of holes,\nlaughed at it and got them to laugh, and finally threw it aside, saying:\n\u201cTell him that this cloth is not fit for a white man to take.\u201d As I moved\non I heard the man and his friends coming again, running and yelling; but\nas he came up the people shouted that they had his cloth, and the sight\nof it appeased his anger.\n\nThat night we kept Keli a prisoner in our house. Dr. Good thought that\nin our peculiar situation we could not afford to let him go unpunished.\nWith great reluctance he advised that he ought to be flogged in the\npresence of the people. He was always kind and considerate towards the\nnatives, but he was not a man who would shirk a duty because it was\ndisagreeable. For myself, my mind was not quite clear that flogging was a\nmoral necessity. But I knew Dr. Good well and had learned to trust him,\nso I consented that he should do as he thought best. The next morning,\ntherefore, he and I took Keli down to the principal town, and having\ncalled all the people together, Dr. Good told them, in native fashion,\nthe story of Keli\u2019s wrong. And he added that in view of Keli\u2019s youth and\nthe hard circumstances of his life he had decided that he would only flog\nhim and dismiss him. Thereupon, with a rod prepared for the purpose, he\nbegan to administer the flogging.\n\nNow, if I were relating fiction and not reality, I should certainly\nproceed to have Keli properly flogged and the mind of the community\ndeeply impressed in consequence. But as reality never quite attains the\nideal, and as I may not substitute imagination for history in this sober\nnarrative, I must tell of \u201cthe slip twixt the cup and the lip.\u201d Prominent\namong Keli\u2019s moral discrepancies was cowardice; and even before the rod\ndescended for the first time he uttered a scream that evidently startled\nDr. Good, for he let go his hold and Keli bounded from him. Dr. Good\nchased him and could easily have caught him but it had been raining and\nthe clay surface of the street was smooth and slippery, giving Keli\u2019s\nbare feet a decided advantage. They both resembled amateur performers on\nroller skates. The chase that followed seemed to appeal peculiarly to\nthe humour of the natives, which was the more excessive because of the\nstrong reaction from fear and apprehension. They laughed wildly. Keli led\nthe way around the palaver-house once or twice, then down the street, Dr.\nGood following him close and reaching after him, while he administered\nwhat would have been a severe flogging but that the strokes persistently\nfell about twelve inches behind Keli\u2019s shoulders, affording him, I\nimagine, an acute realization of the old adage, \u201cA miss is as good as a\nmile.\u201d Soon they reached a steep slope in the street, and Keli, steadily\ngaining, at last made his escape. I, looking on, maintained an exterior\nof stern gravity that was the very antithesis of my feeling. But deeper\nthan outward gravity and inward laughter I was praying that nothing might\nhappen to impede Keli\u2019s steady progress; for this flogging in pantomime\nserved to impress a moral lesson, while it left no marks on poor Keli\u2019s\nskin, whom seven tribes and nations had helped to degrade. I should not\nwonder if Dr. Good himself felt somewhat as I did.\n\nOn our way home Dr. Good intimated to me the moral propriety of not\nmentioning the incident to Mr. Kerr or any of the missionaries at the\ncoast, for I was soon going to the coast.\n\n\u201cIndeed,\u201d said I, \u201cyou could not possibly bribe me to silence regarding\nthe episode of this morning. It would be a great wrong, in this weary\nland, to deprive my fellow missionaries of such an entertainment, and\nI am really thinking of going to the coast a day earlier than I had\nexpected.\u201d\n\nNo man could yield to the inevitable with better grace than Dr. Good.\nBefore we reached home he was laughing; and he was even disposed to\nanticipate me in telling the story, which he did with dramatic effects\nand graphic touches inimitable.\n\nIt was not long after this that the Bulu conceived the idea of wresting\nfrom us a higher price for all articles of native food. When we refused\ntheir demand they all joined together in a boycott. Our position was\nserious enough; for we had a number of workmen from the coast whose\nentire food we purchased from the Bulu. We happened to have rice on hand\nwhich for the time we gave the men and which was sufficient to last\nseveral days. Meantime, it happened that there was more sickness than\nusual. Some of the principal chief\u2019s wives had bad ulcers and were coming\ndaily for treatment. But one day when our rice was nearly exhausted,\nDr. Good turned them all away, saying that he would treat them when the\npeople would bring food. This was a possibility that had never occurred\nto them. A few days later they decided to bring food and end the boycott.\nBut now that they had once attempted it there was need that we should\nalways be prepared by having on hand a supply of rice.\n\nAbout this time I went to the coast expecting to remain only a few days\nand return with a large caravan; for we were in need of many things. It\nwas on this journey that the incident occurred which I have related,\nwhen my carriers lost their way with my bed and clothing and I suffered\nextreme exposure. The result was a fever immediately upon reaching the\ncoast, and a second fever before I had sufficiently recovered from the\nfirst to set out for the interior, and then a third fever, the worst\nthat I had had. If I could have reached Efulen I would probably have\nrecovered; for the climate of Batanga is dreadful. But the wet season,\nwhich had been coming on gradually was now at its worst, and cut off the\npossibility of a retreat to the interior, in my greatly reduced health.\nThe last fever had been so serious that I could not risk another. There\nwas only one thing to do. So, with the advice of all the missionaries at\nBatanga, I took the first steamer that came, and fled from the coast,\nhaving been in Africa a year and a half. Nor did my health permit of my\nreturn to Africa for four full years. As I put out from the Batanga beach\nin a surf-boat and stood looking back at the receding shore while we rose\nand fell with the heavy waves of the evening sea, the last one that I saw\nwas Mrs. Laffin, who again came out and waved her handkerchief. She was\nvery well then; but only a few weeks later she died.\n\nA month after Mrs. Laffin\u2019s death came the dreadful news that Dr. Good\nhad died. He was a man of iron constitution and such amazing vitality of\nbody and mind that it seemed impossible to associate death with him. The\nunnaturalness of his death impressed me as might some great convulsion in\nnature; as if a mountain had been uprooted and cast into the depths of\nthe sea.\n\nMr. Kerr was at Efulen when Dr. Good died and several other missionaries\nhad arrived.\n\nWhile I was still there Dr. Good had planned a trip of three weeks into\nthe interior further than he had yet gone with a view to choosing a site\nfor another mission station; but circumstances at Efulen led him to\npostpone the journey. At that time he received a message from a notorious\nand dreaded chief of the interior near the present Elat, warning him not\nto dare to come into his country, for that he would surely kill him. Dr.\nGood, however, continued his preparations for the journey. In the course\nof a long and serious conversation as to what it would be best to do in\ncase that interior chief or any other should do him violence or should\ncapture and detain him, he urged and exacted from me a promise that in\nany event the German government should not be called to his assistance,\neven to save his life. Not that he denied his right to protection but he\nknew the severity of the government, having recently witnessed it in a\nwar upon a neighbouring tribe. And indeed I myself had arrived in Africa\nin time to see something of the desolation of that war in the silent\nand smoking remains of towns from which the people (all who had escaped\nfrom the sword) had fled into the depths of the forest. For instance,\ntwo little boys who had just been taken into our school at Batanga had\nbeen found alone in the forest, and crying beside the dead body of their\nmother. I yielded to Dr. Good a reluctant promise as he desired; for I\ncould not controvert the moral principle which actuated this strong,\nbrave-hearted man.\n\nFor other reasons he did not go at that time; but not long after I\nleft Africa, and upon the arrival of others, he set out upon this hard\nand uncertain journey. Perhaps he erred on the side of economy and\nindifference to comfort, not providing himself with everything procurable\nthat could conserve his strength and vitality. He made extensive\nexplorations of the interior, chose the site for a new station, returned\nto Efulen exhausted, and the next day was stricken with fever. The third\nday afterwards he died, having been delirious most of the time. He was\nonly thirty-seven years old. His last conscious words were a message to\nthe church at home, \u201cSee that I have not laboured in vain.\u201d\n\nGreat man and great missionary! There was something about Dr. Good that\nalways reminded one of Livingstone. Six years later, standing at his\ngrave on Efulen hill, where every tree and every foot of ground were\nassociated with his memory, I recalled the inscription in the crypt of\nSt. Paul\u2019s Cathedral, over the tomb of Sir Christopher Wren, its great\narchitect. \u201cIf you ask a monument look around you.\u201d The Church of Efulen,\nthe growth of which has since been marvellous, no costly pile of stone or\nmarble, but of more precious human souls upon whose darkness the light of\nheaven has dawned, the large congregation that gathers there to worship\nthe true God, and the many changes in the community near and far\u2014these\nare the lasting monuments of Dr. Good.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\nTHE KRUBOYS\n\n\nIt was not on the voyage to Batanga, but on subsequent voyages along the\nlower coast, to the Congo, to St. Paul de Loanda and Benguela, that I\nwas fully impressed with the service of the black man to the white and\nthe disposition to cruelty on the part of the latter. For it is south\nof Batanga that the natives employed on the steamer do their hardest\nwork. What I saw and heard on those several voyages gave ample food\nfor reflection upon the moral danger of unrestrained authority and the\nunfitness of most men to govern their fellows of lower degree. I was\nallowed to remain absorbed in my own thoughts as there were but few\npassengers on board; on one such journey I was the only passenger for\nthree weeks out of five.\n\nAfter leaving Sierra Leone on the outward voyage the course changes\neastward. A few days later we sighted the coast of Liberia and nearly\nopposite Monrovia we anchored and waited for eighty black men who were\nshipped as workmen for the rest of the voyage. We anchored far out at\nsea; for the Liberian coast is very rough and dangerous, and for most of\nthe entire coast the latest charts are more than fifty years old.\n\nThese workmen belong to the Kru tribe. They do all the work of\ndischarging and taking on cargo for the entire voyage, remaining on\nboard for the round trip\u2014usually three or four months\u2014and receiving in\npayment an average of a shilling a day. We do not call them \u201cKrumen,\u201d\nbut \u201cKruboys,\u201d for in Africa they are boys till they die.\n\nThe Kruboys are the \u201creal thing,\u201d the Africans that you have pictured in\nyour imagination and have read about, and at the sight of them coming\noff in a fleet of large canoes, accompanied by the whole population,\nalmost stark naked\u2014the majority wearing a bit of calico the size of a\npocket-handkerchief\u2014black and savage, and each of them yelling like ten\nsavages, the ladies on board usually hurry down to their cabins and\nremain for a while in obscurity. Ropes are thrown over to the Kruboys\nand they climb the side of the ship like monkeys. At closer view they\ndo not appear savage at all. Every face reveals laughing good-nature,\nand each man looking after his simple necessities in a businesslike way\nmakes himself as comfortable as possible, and yells as loud as possible,\nwhile he asks for what he wants and declares to all on board what he\nis going to do, though he does not seem to expect anybody to listen to\nhim or to pay any attention to him. There is considerable disputation,\nsome quarrelling, and an occasional fight. They have a remarkable way of\npassing from laughter to quarrel and from fight to song by the easiest\nsort of transition: passion does not linger.\n\nOne soon becomes accustomed to their nakedness, and even the ladies\nseem to forget it. In this they are helped by the native\u2019s childlike\nunconsciousness of any breach of etiquette. Then sometimes one goes\nto the other extreme and thinks that there is nothing of the savage\nabout them at all\u2014barring the yell and a soon-discovered incorrigible\nindifference to the categories of \u201cmine\u201d and \u201cthine\u201d with consequent\ninsecurity of all portable property. In this stage of developing opinion\nI have heard ladies pronounce them \u201cperfectly lovely.\u201d And the Old\nCoaster blandly informs them that they are \u201cas innocent as lambs.\u201d\n\nThe Kruboy is of real negro stock, and is not so graceful, not so\nintellectual, not so gentle in manners, as the natives further south of\nthe Calabar, the Bantu tribes, who are not classified as negroes. But the\nKruboy\u2019s physique is magnificent, in size, development, and strength.\nThey prefer to sleep in the companionway or some other sheltered place;\nbut, as there is not room for all, most of them lie in their nakedness\non the open deck, exposed to all kinds of weather. Their food is rice,\nsalt pork, and sea biscuits. Their degradation is manifest not so much in\nthe indecency that most people expect, as in their unappeasable hunger\nand greedy appetite. All food is \u201cchop\u201d to the Kruboy, and when he eats\nhe \u201cchops.\u201d You may not like this word\u2014you may hate it; but you will be\nobliged to use it continually on the coast; and the Kruboy would not\nunderstand any substitute. One day the Kruboys were landing some salt at\nBatanga for our missionary, Mr. Gault, when the boat capsized in the surf\nand before they could recover it the salt had all dissolved in the sea.\nThey came to Mr. Gault carrying the empty, dripping sacks, but absolutely\nindifferent to the loss, and said: \u201cMassa, the sea done chop all them\nsalt.\u201d\n\nThe English names of the Kruboys are interesting, and need some\nexplanation. In the African languages there is no distinct vocabulary of\n\u201cproper names.\u201d As it was with the Jews, and some other nations ancient\nand modern, so in Africa names are usually descriptive or commemorative\nof some incident, notable or otherwise, and any word, phrase, or\nsentence, may be so used. For instance on the Gaboon River there is a\nvery small village, which, as I was entering it for the first time, one\nof my boat-boys described as consisting of four men, four women, four\nhouses, four goats, and four chickens; but the name of it was _Bi Biana\nMilam_\u2014_We Despise Big Towns_. I thought it was rather pathetic; for I\nknow how the big towns vex the little towns. Childlessness is a reproach\nand a great sorrow among African women; and a certain woman in Gaboon who\nwas advanced in years when she bore her first child gave him a name which\nmeans, \u201cIt-is-no-disgrace-to-be-childless.\u201d These names sound far better\nin their own language.\n\nBut the Kruboys of the steamers take English names which, to say the\nleast, are not dignified, and are more absurd when the ship\u2019s officers\ncall them out in anger\u2014and the ship\u2019s officers are always angry when they\ntalk to the Kruboys. Frying-Pan, Black Kettle, Crowbar, Ham and Eggs,\nLiver and Bacon, Bottle of Beer, Whisky, Bag of Rice, Weariness, Three\nO\u2019clock, Daybreak, Half a Dinner, Castor Oil, Every Day, To-morrow, Never\nTire, Sea Breeze, Jim Crow, Two Pounds Six, Smiles, Silence, My Friend,\nGunpowder, Bayonet, Cartridge, Crocodile, Misery, Get-your-hair-cut, Tom\nTom, Pagan and Shoo Fly are names I have heard.\n\nWhile we are on this subject we may as well get acquainted with the Kru\nEnglish, which is the \u201cPigeon English\u201d of the coast. All Kruboys \u201cspeak\nEnglish Mouth\u201d in this peculiar dialect. To people of intelligence\nand cultivation it is always very offensive at first. They especially\ncannot bear to hear white people use it; nor does it seem to them in\nthe least degree necessary. Good English is as simple and they think\nwould be quite as easily understood by the black man. I remember well\nhow it first affected me. I was disgusted when I was told that I would\nsoon be speaking it myself. The first change in my feelings took place\nwhen I found that it had its method and its idiom. It is not \u201cany old\nEnglish.\u201d There is correct and incorrect Kru English. It may properly\nbe regarded as a dialect. The African languages, however they may differ\nin vocabulary, have a common idiom. Kru English is simply the idiom\nof the African languages with an English vocabulary. There are some\nirregularities and a small number of importations from other tongues, the\nprincipal foreign word being \u201csabey\u201d for \u201cknow,\u201d from the French \u201csavez.\u201d\nOne of its principal features is the use of the verb \u201clive\u201d for the verb\n\u201cto be.\u201d\n\nI stand in the doorway and call: \u201cHalf a Dinner!\u201d and the answer comes\nback faintly: \u201cI live for come.\u201d\n\nIf I want to ask a boy whether Shoo Fly has arrived, I say: \u201cShoo Fly\nlive?\u201d And as Shoo Fly never arrives when he is expected I probably get\nthe answer: \u201cShoo Fly no live;\u201d or, \u201cShoo Fly no lib;\u201d or possibly, \u201cHe\nlib for chop, massa.\u201d\n\nTo \u201cfind\u201d a thing is to search for it, though one may not find it at all;\nand a man will say: \u201cI find him, find him, long time and never look him.\u201d\n\nThere is a great dearth of prepositions in the African languages; and in\nKru language the word \u201cfor\u201d serves all prepositional uses. It seldom uses\nmore than one demonstrative, and the word \u201cthem\u201d is forced to do this\nreluctant service.\n\nI ask: \u201cWhat for them man Weariness he no work to-day?\u201d and perhaps get\nthe answer: \u201cHe live for sick. He live close for die.\u201d\n\nThere are certain stock phrases that one hears all the time: \u201cYou\nsabey Englis mouf?\u201d \u201cI hear him small, small.\u201d \u201cMassa, I no sabey them\npalaver.\u201d \u201cThem man he make me trouble too much.\u201d \u201cI go one time\u201d (\u201cone\ntime\u201d is \u201cat once\u201d), or \u201cI go come one time.\u201d\n\nKruboys are not the only Africans who speak Kru English. It is spoken by\nthousands along the coast who have no knowledge of any other European\nlanguage. Even Frenchmen, and especially Germans, in their own colonies,\nsometimes have to learn Kru English in order to converse with their\nboat-boys. White men are often proud of speaking it well, and I have\nsometimes seen men standing at the head of the gangway and shouting down\nto the boys in a boat below, apparently for no other reason than to\ndisplay their linguistic talent, as one might be vain of a knowledge of\nFrench or German. I have not used it as much as some; for, in the Congo\nFran\u00e7ais where I spent most of my time, very little English, good or bad,\nis spoken; and in the interior one does not hear it at all. But I am very\nfamiliar with it. I have preached in it and have even prayed in it. This\nwould have been impossible if any person had been present who could speak\ngood English. Humour is peculiarly a social enjoyment. It takes at least\ntwo persons to enjoy a joke. Often in the native towns I have witnessed\nthe most amusing incongruities without being in the least amused, until\nI thought of it afterwards, sometimes long afterwards, when talking with\nsome one else who would appreciate the humour and see the incongruity\nwith me. So, I say, I have preached in the Kru English, and, reverently,\nI believe\u2014at least without any consciousness of incongruity; but if an\nEnglish-speaking person had entered the church I could scarcely have\nproceeded to the end of the sentence.\n\nShortly before leaving Africa I was visiting a coast town in a tribe\nwhose own language I did not know. But they understood Kru English, and\nI preached to them in that dialect, on the parable of the Lost Sheep.\nIt will not be fully appreciated without the African accent, tone, and\ngesture. I related the parable to them about as follows:\n\nS\u2019pose one man he have hunderd sheep and one sheep go loss for bush,\nwhat you think them man he go do? Well he go lef\u2019 all them other sheep\nand he go find them sheep he live for bush. He go find him, find him,\nand no tire till he look him. S\u2019pose he find him four or three days and\nnever look him, well, he no tire; and s\u2019pose he find him seven or six\ndays and never look him he no tire; ten or nine days and never look him,\nhe no tire; he go find him, find him, find him, all time till he look\nhim. And s\u2019pose he look him, well, he take them sheep on him shoulder,\nso\u2e3a He carry him for house and give him plenty chop, and he be glad too\nmuch. Then he go call all him friends, plenty man, plenty wife, and\nsmall piccaninny, and he say to them: \u201cSay, you sabey them sheep that\ndone loss for bush? Well, this day I look him. Then all people they make\npalaver and be happy too much. So, s\u2019pose man go lef\u2019 all him sins and\ndo God-fashion; well, all them people, what live for top, they make fine\npalaver, and be happy too much.\u201d\n\nThere may be inaccuracies in this, but it is tolerably correct; and I am\nsure that my African audience understood it. There is Kru English and\nKru-er English, and Kru-est English. In the latter, \u201cthat\u201d and \u201cthem\u201d\nbecome \u201cdat\u201d and \u201cdem.\u201d But even if many natives use this form they\nperfectly understand the white man when he uses the correct form; and\nit is execrably bad taste to exaggerate either the pronunciation or the\nidiom, and to outdo the native himself in departing from the correct\nform. It also seems to me to be bad taste for white people to use Kru\nEnglish when it is not necessary, as some do. And when a white woman\ndeliberately adopts in her own household the word \u201cchop,\u201d and other such\nwords, she puts a strain upon my respect.\n\nOnce when I was living at Gaboon, a north-coast man from Accra called\non me, with whom I conversed in Kru English. That evening I received a\nletter from him which I kept for a long time as one of my souvenirs of\nGaboon. I venture to reproduce it from memory:\n\n    _Right Reverend Father in God_:\n\n    This day I done look gold toof what live for your mouf. All my\n    life I never look so fine toof. Berra well. I like toof for my\n    own mouf all same as them toof. I no like white toof again.\n    S\u2019pose you go buy me one toof all same as yours; s\u2019pose you buy\n    him for your country; berra well; I be fit for pay you cash and\n    I be your fren all time. Please, Mister Milgan, do this for\n    God\u2019s sake.\n\n                               Your fren,\n\n                                              (Signed) JOSEPH ACCRA.\n\nFor trade and commerce between Africa and the civilized nations the\nKruboy is at present more important than any other African, and is almost\nindispensable. For, owing to the heavy surf the open coast is nearly\ninaccessible for the landing of cargo and can only be worked by the\nmost skillful and daring boatmen, and the Kruboy excels all Africans in\nthese qualities. They received their first training from the slavers of\nearly days, in whose service they learned both beach work and ship work.\nThe slavers finding them useful allies and wishing to maintain friendly\nrelations with them persuaded them to put a distinguishing mark upon\nthemselves so that none of them might be taken and enslaved by mistake.\nThis mark is a tattooed band, with an open pattern, running down the\nmiddle of the forehead and to the tip of the nose. The fashion, when once\nestablished, remained, and they are all tattooed in this way. The Kruboy\nalso until late years hired with traders all along the coast to do beach\nwork, that is, handle boats and cargo, sample rubber and oil, prepare\ncopra, and do the variety of work of a trading-house. He is willing to\nserve an apprenticeship almost for nothing, during which time, he says,\nhe \u201clive for learn sense.\u201d He is paid largely in goods.\n\nOn his return to his country (and he will not stay away longer than a\nyear) the Liberian government exacts a portion of his goods. A large\npart of the remainder goes to the elders of his tribe who have protected\nhis wives in his absence. If he refuses this demand, which is usually\nexorbitant, or if he stays away too long from his country, the wives\nthemselves are confiscated. Goods, however, that are made up into\nclothing are never demanded; and this accounts for a habit of the Kruboy\nwhich sometimes amazes ship-passengers. On his return as a deck-passenger\nafter serving a year down the coast he turns tailor and employs all his\ntime in making clothes, cutting them out and sewing them, on the deck. If\nthere are many Kruboys thus travelling the lower deck presents an aspect\nof fantastic activity. In late years they have not gone far down the\ncoast except as ship-hands.\n\nThe Kru people are peculiarly inaccessible to Christian influence. This\nis in part owing to the fact that they are away so much of the time. The\nlife that they live when thus separated from their people and the nature\nof their contact with white men are not conducive to their moral welfare.\nBut, as a matter of fact, very little missionary work has been done among\nthem. They are extremely superstitious. The surf, with which the Kruboy\nfights desperate battles for his life, is full of malignant spirits; and\nso of everything that opposes or hurts him. His soul leaves him when he\nsleeps, and often some witch catches it in a trap; whereupon he takes\nsick and soon dies. Sometimes the witch inflicts a fatal wound upon the\nsoul; and sometimes he hangs the trap over the fire and the soul shrinks\nand dies, himself failing and dying at the same time. Occasionally,\nhowever, the wandering soul stays away of its own accord. A witch-doctor\nmay catch it and put it back into him for a consideration. Sometimes when\nthe soul of the sleeper would return in the morning it finds its place\ntaken by some malicious spirit which inflicts sickness. The witch-doctor\nmust first expel this spirit before restoring the man\u2019s soul.\n\nWhen a person of any importance dies the Kru custom is to kill a number\nof others to accompany him to the underworld. The underworld is somewhat\nlike this, and the inhabitants there pass their time somewhat as we do\nhere; much of it is therefore spent in talking palavers. Sometimes they\neven talk palavers which began in this life and were not settled or were\ndecided unjustly. For this purpose they often need the testimony of\npersons still living, and such persons immediately die in order to go to\nthe underworld and give testimony. This is a common explanation when a\nnumber of persons die about the same time.\n\nI like the Kruboy so well and I admire his bravery so much that I am\nreluctant to admit his glaring deficiency of morals,\u2014that he lies,\nsteals, commits adultery, and kills his neighbours with a good-natured or\nperhaps stupid indifference to right and wrong scarcely paralleled even\nin Africa.\n\nThe treatment that the natives receive at the hands of the ship\u2019s\nofficers is often the very opposite of brave. Many of these officers are\npleasant gentlemen. Some of them will later be captains, and as a rule\nnone but the best ever reach that position. The captains of the coast\nsteamers are a fine class of men and delightful to travel with. I have\nnever witnessed cruelty on their part towards the natives; though I have\nsometimes wondered that they did not interfere and restrain the angry\npassions of their officers. Yet, it must be added that the officers have\nnot so much need of restraint when the captain is standing by.\n\nNot to touch upon the doubtful propriety of swearing under any\ncircumstances; no one but a fool will habitually swear at a Kruboy.\nFor the Kruboy is as indifferent to a curse as to a blessing, and\nthus it reacts upon the man himself, exasperating him and putting him\ninto such a rage as to threaten him with a fit of apoplexy or at least\na _brain-storm_. The cursing of one or another of the officers at the\nKruboys is both loud and continuous, and if it should suddenly cease one\nmight be justified in supposing that the ship had sprung a leak and was\nabout to go to the bottom and the officers to certain death.\n\nOn the homeward voyage there are always, among the deck-passengers, a\nnumber of Accra or Lagos men who have been working on the south coast and\nare returning home with their pay, a large portion of which is in the\nshape of various goods. There is no harbour in either of these places and\nthe steamer anchors far out, in rough water, the passengers going ashore\nin boats. Some officers when in charge of native passengers are careful\nof their baggage; but occasionally\u2014and not seldom\u2014it is flung down into\nthe boat below without the slightest care and even with the apparent\nintention of causing as much breakage and other damage as possible. The\nofficer casts an occasional glance towards the upper deck, quite sure\nthat the white passengers are enjoying the joke. But he is mistaken:\nboth the missionary and the trader are indignant. For they both know the\nnative better than he does, and they also know that those goods were\nearned by the hard labour of at least a year, and perhaps three years,\nduring which time he has not seen his home or his friends. And only those\nwho know them intimately can understand this sacrifice; for the African\ncan die of homesickness.\n\n[Illustration: THE DEBARKATION OF A DECK PASSENGER.]\n\nIt is in accord with native etiquette that these men coming home should\narrive very much dressed, in new clothes, starched linen and infinite\njewelry. This dressing is done on the open deck and occupies sometimes\nthe entire day before the arrival, to the delight of the white\npassengers, who also give much kindly and gratuitous advice, which the\nnative takes in good part. But in spite of their assistance there is\nnearly always something a little \u201coff\u201d in the completed toilet. One\nindividual, grandly dressed, had his new shoes on the wrong feet. They\nhad been made on a very crooked last and the effect was more grotesque\nthan one would suppose. He looked as if he expected to walk with his\nlegs crossed. Well, we may enjoy all this with very kindly feelings\ntowards the native. But the fun is all spoiled when the ship\u2019s officer\nperpetrates a practical joke apparently for our amusement. These\npassengers, men and women, in places where the sea is rough, are lowered\ninto the boat by a chair, which is fastened to the end of a long rope\nsuspended from a crane. The chair looks perfectly safe and comfortable\nas it sits on the deck. The native gets into it without hesitation. The\nrope is then drawn up by the crane till the chair is raised from the\ndeck and goes swinging out over the bounding main. Its occupant, if it\nbe a woman with a baby, for instance, screams with fright, and perhaps\nas the chair moves off flings her baby back on the deck, trusting to\nProvidence for its landing; but the African baby leads a charmed life.\nMeanwhile the woman shuts her eyes and resigns herself to her fate. The\nchair is lowered to the boat below, and if the sea be rough and the boat\nheaving and tossing there is a very dangerous moment as the chair first\ncomes in contact with it. The women are always lowered with care. But\nin lowering these much-dressed men\u2014usually several at once\u2014the officer\nin charge frequently makes it a point to \u201ccapsize\u201d them, by letting the\nchair come down on the gunwale of the surf-boat, or on a thwart, so as to\nspill the occupants into the boat and into the six inches of very dirty\nwater in the bottom of it, head first, or on their backs. Not to speak\nof the bruised and bleeding condition which sometimes results from this\ntreatment, the native\u2019s toilet is deranged, his clothes perhaps torn,\nand he goes ashore in woeful dishabille. No one enjoys this joke but the\nofficer himself.\n\nAt Lagos, on the homeward voyage, in these late years natives come on\nboard with large basket-coops of chickens which they take to Sekondi\nand sell to the white men connected with the mines. In each of these\nbaskets there are three or four dozen chickens, which will sell for three\nshillings each; and surely this is an industry that ought to receive\nevery encouragement. It is good for the natives and good for the miners.\nYet, on certain steamers, such is the carelessness in loading them that\nsometimes not half the chickens reach Sekondi alive. There is not the\nleast necessity for this large loss, nor for any loss. One day a trader\nof Fernando Po and I standing together watched a native, who had just\ncome on board with his chickens, while he took out of one basket sixteen\ndead ones, exactly a third of the whole number, and he probably lost as\nmany in landing them. We both thought that if the owner had been a white\nman in all probability not a chicken would have been lost.\n\nThe Kruboys are divided into deck-boys and boat-boys. The more\nintelligent and experienced of the deck-boys run the steam-winches and\ncranes, used in raising cargo from the hold, and in loading and stowing.\nAbove the unceasing and relentless creaking of these three or four\nmachines is heard the loud voice of one or several natives who stand at\nthe open hatches and transmit orders from those in the hold below to\nthose at the machines, the orders being always accompanied by appropriate\ngestures, which are also signals, so well understood that words would\nnot be necessary for the common orders. Those at the hatches repeat\nfrom early morning till late at night the following calls: \u201cHeave a\nlink\u2014half a link\u2014half a link\u2014lower away. Lower a link\u2014half a link\u2014lower\na link\u2014heave away.\u201d Except between ports this goes on incessantly above\nthe noise of the several winches. On one occasion when I had been feeling\nmiserable for several days I said to the captain: \u201cIf ever I go mad I\nam sure I shall go on saying as long as I live: \u2018Half a link\u2014half a\nlink\u2014heave away.\u2019\u201d The captain replied: \u201cThat is precisely the end to\nwhich I myself am looking forward.\u201d But when I am well I never weary of\nwatching them at work.\n\nA great variety of cargo is discharged, but more salt and gin than\nanything else. We take on rubber, ivory, mahogany, ebony, camwood,\npalm-oil and kernels. The palm-oil and kernels are used for the\nmanufacture of soap and candles. The camwood, also called _barwood_,\nwas more in demand before the use of analine dyes, but is still used in\ndyeing bandannas.\n\nBut the work of loading mahogany is of greatest interest to the\npassengers. At Gaboon many hundreds of these logs are always lying on the\nbeach (or \u201cin\u201d the beach, as the disgusted captain frequently reports)\nawaiting shipment. African mahogany in these days is being shipped even\nto America where it is used for furniture. It is not nearly so valuable\nas the mahogany of Cuba and South America. But when it is figured with\nthe \u201croe\u201d it brings an enormous price. The roe of the mahogany is\nformed in the grain by one ring overlapping the other, making mottled\nringlets of light and shade, sometimes very pronounced and exquisitely\nbeautiful. Only those trees are cut which are close to the river, for\nthe native has no mechanical means of transporting it and no mechanical\naptitude to invent such means. They cut it into logs about twenty feet\nlong, the average diameter being three feet. Such a log weighs about a\nton and sometimes much more. They slide the logs down into the river\non improvised rollers. Then in one or several canoes they tow from two\nto eight logs at a time to the coast where they are sold to the white\ntrader for about five dollars each, in goods. This is the average value\nat Gaboon. The trader puts the house-mark on them and then leaves them on\nthe beach until they are shipped. At high tide most of them are afloat\nbut they cannot drift away, as the waves are stronger than the current\nand drive them back on the beach. The German traders usually have their\nlogs squared before shipping whereby much is saved on the freight to\nEurope. But others say that it costs more to have them squared by the\nnative using an adz than to pay the extra freight and have them squared\nin the mills of Europe.\n\nThe Kruboys are sent ashore from the ship to raft the logs, having first\nrolled them down the beach or dug them out of it. A spike with a ring\nattached, called a _dog_, is driven into an end of each log, through\nwhich a rope is passed. Then they are towed, ten or twelve at a time, to\nthe steamer, usually anchored half a mile, or even a mile from the shore.\nThe Kruboys with surf-boats and paddles tow them well away from the shore\nand then they are taken by the steam launch, if the launch happens to be\nin order, which is once in a while. It is only in late years that the\nEnglish steamers have carried launches. The first of these were evidently\nsuch as had been discarded by more favoured lines. They had ways past\nfinding out. One of these, from its characteristic habit, a trader named\nthe _Sudden Jerk_, following native custom. Another which was _sound_\nonly in the whistle I named the _Piercing Scream_.\n\nThe work of unbeaching the logs and towing them to the steamer is very\nhard, but the danger and the excitement is in getting them loaded and\nstowed. They are made fast at the ship\u2019s side. Several of the Kruboys\nremain in the water. They first knock the \u201cdog\u201d out of the last log;\nthen they pass a chain around it which is made fast to the steel cable\nof the deck-winch. A signal, always accompanied by a shout, is passed\nup to one on deck who transmits it to the man at the winch and the log\nis lifted out of the water. The Kruboy rises with it a part of the\nway, then leaps into the water and prepares the next log. This may not\nseem so very difficult to men who are as much at home in the water as\non shore. But these logs weighing a ton each are all the while dashing\nagainst each other or against the ship\u2019s side with a deep boom that\nechoes through the ship. They are pitching and tossing and spinning,\nwhile the Kruboy tries to balance himself on top, keeps his eye on every\nlog that is near, and at the same time does his work. But however it\npitches and plunges he rides it as easily as a cowboy rides a pitching\nbroncho. At first I looked on not only with interest, as always, but\nwith a horrible fascination that I had never before experienced. All the\npassengers, from the upper deck, are watching the Kruboy lying across a\nlog that heaves and rolls while he passes the chain beneath it, and at\nthat moment another log is driven towards it with its full ton weight,\nthe two colliding broadside. The passengers shout; if there is a lady\naboard she screams. But somehow, when those logs meet, the Kruboy is not\nbetween them. He is underneath, and quite out of sight. At last he comes\nup somewhere, and shaking the water from his woolly head, looks up with a\nsmile full of white teeth and says: \u201cHe nebber catch me.\u201d And this goes\non all day long, whenever logs are loaded. Occasionally an arm is broken,\nmore often a leg, and sometimes a life is lost.\n\nWhen the log is raised to the height of the lower deck it is passed from\none spar to another which is over the hatch, and sweeps across the deck,\nall the Kruboys at the same moment shouting for everybody to get out of\nthe way; but no time is lost in waiting for them to obey the order. They\ndodge skillfully, however; for one is always dodging something in Africa,\nand there is seldom any accident. But terrible accidents have sometimes\noccurred down in the hold, during the hard work of stowing the logs so\nthat every cubic foot of space may be occupied. I have also seen the\nsteel cable break when a log weighing nearly two tons was suspended over\nthe hatch. One thinks, of course, that all the Kruboys down in that dark\nhold are directly under the falling log, which is never the case, and the\nvolume of vocal noise which ascends immediately afterwards is a great\nrelief to the blood-curdled feelings of the spectator, for it indicates\nthat nobody is missing. But the fright extends beyond one\u2019s solicitude\nfor the Kruboys. For it looks as if that log would plunge right through\nthe bottom of the ship. One will discover, however, that it fell upon a\nbed of several logs carefully placed there against such an accident.\n\nBut I have not yet told of the hardest and the bravest work of the\nKruboy, a work for which few men anywhere in the world would have\nsufficient daring, namely, his landing of cargo through the surf in the\nseason of the \u201ccalemma,\u201d or great wave of the southwest coast. Twice I\nhave gone far south of Gaboon when the sea was at the worst. Once I went\nas far as Benguela, in Angola, and again I visited the Congo. On the\nlatter journey I was nearly five weeks on shipboard.\n\nThe boat-boys are divided into crews according to the number of\nsurf-boats in use. In a good sea a crew usually consists of seven men,\nsix of whom use paddles, while the seventh, the headman, stands erect in\nthe stern of the boat and steers with an oar attached to the stern. In a\nrough sea fewer boats are lowered and the crew is increased to as many\nas thirteen men. However long the day\u2019s work or hard the battle with the\nsea, they sing to the last stroke, keeping time with their paddles to one\nof their strange, wild boat-songs. Sometimes the song has only rhythm\nand no melody, being a monotonous repetition of several notes: \u201cSo sah,\nso sooh, so sah, so sooh, so sah, so sooh, ad\u2014zh! So sah, so sooh,\u201d etc.\nThe man who sings at his work will do more work in a given time and do it\nbetter. Not that the African is always a great worker. He is seldom that;\nbut he does more work singing than he would do not singing. And he sings\nbecause, however wronged and oppressed, there is a freedom within him\nwhich the white man can never take away; a lightness of heart, a buoyancy\nof spirit intractable to tyranny.\n\nWest Africa is notorious in all the world for its paucity of harbours,\nand its heavy surf, which at certain seasons rages like a battle, the\nroar of it like many voices defying the white man that would approach\nits shores. The surf at one place where we called was so bad that we\nwere seven days discharging one day\u2019s cargo. The sea rolled in with a\ntremendous swell\u2014the calemma\u2014like a wall of water that looked three\nstories high, which, as it approached the land, burst into a succession\nof breakers that raced towards the shore, and striking with the boom\nof cannon, tossed the white surf high into the air. One always feels,\nin going through it, that he is fighting a personal foe; there is even\nsomething human in the sound of it. The Kruboy says it is full of\nspirits. Savage spirits, they must be, and drunken, which leap and tumble\nand shout in mad carousal.\n\nAt each place the first venture in the surf-boats was watched eagerly\nfrom the ship. Three or four boats set out together with a light cargo.\nNear the surf they stop, landing one at a time, and waiting for the right\nmoment. They wait perhaps as long as half an hour. Then, in the first\nboat, at the word of the headman, they throw their weight on the paddles\nand pull for their lives, not looking to either side, nor speaking a\nword. Now they are in the breakers, borne forward upon the racing waves\nwith violent speed, a roaring monster before them and another more\nferocious one pursuing. At this moment the safety of all depends upon the\nskill of the headman in keeping the boat placed right to the wave. And\nin any case, if the boat, upon reaching the beach, strike the ground at\na moment when the water has receded, the breaker following will be upon\nit before they can drag it up the beach, and catching it up will perhaps\nstand it straight on end, and hurl it backward upon the beach; or, if it\nbe not straight to the wave, it will be whirled about and flung up the\nbeach, rolling over and over, with all its freight of boxes and barrels,\nthe boys escaping I know not how\u2014but not always escaping.\n\nOne day when the beach seemed much better than usual, the captain and\nthe ship\u2019s surgeon ventured ashore. The purpose of the captain was\nprobably to visit the shippers with the object of drumming up trade, as\ncaptains are obliged to do on the coast. For this purpose he makes a\nvery friendly call on each trader, listens to his graphaphone, and even\npraises it. He was brave to risk the surf, but he took the doctor. The\ncaptain afterwards narrated the adventure of their landing to a small but\nenthusiastic audience. He said that after waiting outside the surf half\nan hour, the headman suddenly gave the order, and in a moment they were\nin the breakers, riding on the top of one of them, and speeding towards\nthe shore at the rate of \u201cseventy miles an hour,\u201d which calculation was\nmerely his sensation expressed in terms of linear measure. The captain\nwas in the bow of the boat well braced and cushioned. But when the boat\nstruck the beach with the force of a railway collision, the doctor was\nthrown violently over two thwarts into the captain\u2019s bosom, whom he\nclasped about the neck with a steel-like grip. The next moment another\nbreaker picked the boat up and hurled it upon the beach, throwing both\ncaptain and doctor to a perfectly safe distance where they sprawled upon\nthe sand. The doctor, still hugging the captain\u2019s neck, and very much\nfrightened, exclaimed: \u201cO Captain, dear Captain, is there anybody killed\nbut you and me?\u201d\n\nBut now it is evening, at the close of a bad day. No white man has\nventured ashore these ten days. But the Kruboys have gone, and there on\nthe beach is a boat making a last attempt to come off. The sea has been\ngetting worse all day, and it is now like a boiling caldron. They have\nbeen there for hours, and have tried again and again to get off, but have\nfailed, though they have no cargo, and they are the best crew and have\nthe best headman of all. Several times they have been thrown back on the\nbeach, and once the boat was capsized when nearly through the breakers;\nnow they are making a last effort.\n\nThey stand around the boat, their weight against it, alert, and waiting\nin eager attention for the word of command. A shout from the headman, and\nin a moment they have pushed the big boat out into the water, have leaped\ninto it, grasped the paddles, and are pulling like mad. The first breaker\nstrikes the boat a blow that staggers it: the spirits must have been very\nangry. They are through it; but the boat is nearly half full of water\nand is not straight. The headman throws himself upon the oar, but alas!\nwith such force that the becket attaching it to the stern is wrenched\noff. They are now at the mercy of the next breaker, a fearful one, which\nsweeps them ashore with violence, whirling the boat round, and then\nrolling it over and over upon the beach. As the water recedes we see them\nlying scattered at random upon the sand. They get up slowly as if half\ndazed; and one of them lies unconscious as the next wave washes over him,\nmatting his hair with the wet sand. And there lies the brave headman\nbadly bruised, the flesh torn from his leg, exposing the bone from the\nknee down. But one poor boy has fought his last fight with the wild sea.\nMany fights he has won, but the spirits have beaten him this time. \u201cOh,\nboys,\u201d he says, \u201cI\u2019m hurt. I can\u2019t get up. I can\u2019t even move. I\u2019m afraid\nmy back is broken.\u201d\n\nSo it was indeed: his back was broken. Late in the night he died, the\nother boys sobbing like children as they stood around him. Next day\nthey buried him; and that evening they got off to the ship. As they\napproached, the wind wafted to us the sound of a native dirge, weird and\nplaintive, which they were chanting for their dead brother.\n\nI feel bound to tell the sequel of this incident. The next day the sea\nwas so bad that it seemed useless and foolish to attempt to land. The\nboys presented themselves in a body before a certain one of the officers\nand said: \u201cMastah, them sea he be bad too much. We no be fit for land\ncargo. S\u2019pose we try, we go loss all cargo, and plenty man\u2019s life. So\nplease excuse to-day, Mastah; for we think to-morrow go be fine.\u201d\n\nThe answer they received was a volley of profanity and curses. \u201cJust\nbecause one of them was killed they all turn cowards,\u201d said one.\n\u201cAlways thinking of themselves!\u201d said another. With many such shrewd\nobservations, and sundry moral exhortations to bravery, the boats were\nlowered and they were ordered into them.\n\nBut on these same steamers there are brave men and kind-hearted. On this\nparticular morning the purser boldly protested. \u201cIf they are cowards,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cwhat are we? For notwithstanding the demands of business, not\none of us has ventured ashore for many days. I\u2019m no coward myself,\u201d he\ncontinued, \u201cbut I confess that those boys put my bravery to shame. They\nare the bravest boys in the world. Neither do I believe that they are\nbound to risk their lives in such a sea as this for a shilling a day.\u201d\n\nWhile he was speaking some one shouted: \u201cThere goes the first boat.\u201d\n\nWe ran to the side just in time to see the boat borne down by the first\nbreaker, whirled around and capsized, the boys struggling for their\nlives, not only with a furious sea, but with heavy boxes and casks and\nthe boat itself, all tossed to and fro in the surging waters. They\nescaped without serious injury; but no white man could have escaped.\nAbout the same time, a few miles up the coast, a steamer had one of its\nstrong surf-boats flung upon the beach with such violence that it was\nbroken in two across the middle. Another steamer had two boys killed.\n\nOne day our boys went ashore early in the morning, leaving the ship\nat half-past five. They were expecting to make the first trip before\nbreakfast, as usual, and therefore had nothing to eat before starting.\nThey had landed the cargo safely at the trading-house; but the sea was\nso bad that they could not get off to the ship all that day. They made\nseveral unsuccessful attempts, and it was almost night when at last they\nsucceeded. Meanwhile, the swell had become so heavy that we had steamed\nfar out for safety, and were anchored seven miles from the shore. The\nboys reached the ship after dark, and we then learned that the white\ntrader ashore had given them nothing to eat; although the ship would have\nrepaid him. Those boys had battled with the sea weak with hunger, not\nhaving had a taste of food all that day. It is only fair to say that on\nthe steamers they are well fed. There are but very few English traders\nwho would do as that man did; though there are many such men of other\nnationalities.\n\nOnly a short time afterwards, one evening at the table, an officer who\nhad been ashore told us a story that was intended to prove the cruelty\nof the native. A white trader, he said, had caught a young elephant. He\nwent away on a journey to the bush, leaving the care of it to his native\nworkmen. Upon his return, after several months, he found the elephant\nin very poor health; and a few weeks later it died. There was no doubt\nthat the natives had neglected to feed it in his absence, and this was\nthe cause of its death. Horrible cruelty of the beastly native! Pungent\nremarks, appropriate to the occasion, were contributed all around the\ntable. For myself\u2014I was thinking of those starved and tired boys battling\nwith a raging sea. But I said not a word. What would be the use?\n\nWe need not be sentimental about the native\u2019s wrongs. Though a victim, he\nis not necessarily innocent. He would do unto others as others do unto\nhim; and his life is perhaps not rendered more miserable by the white man\nthan it was before. But, then, they are _savages_ and we are supposed to\nbe civilized; and the most wretched excuse that the white man can give\nfor his cruelty is that he is only imitating the natives themselves. The\nwhite man is always calling the native a devil, and always expecting him\nto act like an angel, while he himself, so far from being angelic, sets\nan infernal example.\n\nThe truth is that the white man in the tropics is out of his element as\nmuch as the diver who works in the deep sea. The atmosphere in which\nhe was produced and in which he developed\u2014the mental, moral, social\nand physical conditions\u2014are also necessary to his moral and physical\nmaintenance. The climate weakens and depresses him, while at the same\ntime he is not sustained by domestic cheer and the society of equals\nto which he has been accustomed. He is invariably nervous and as a\nconsequence impatient, while at the same time the circumstances that\nconfront him in the discharge of his daily duties are such as would try\nthe temper of a saint. If he remain long in a climate so unnatural to him\nand in a strange and uncivilized society the likelihood is that there\nwill be an imperceptible and unconscious lowering of moral standards and\naccommodation to the standards of the society around him. Cruelty which\nat first shocked him gradually ceases to shock and at length he becomes\nindifferent, or perhaps himself capable of barbarous deeds from which he\nwould at first have recoiled with horror.\n\nFor the men of whom I have been speaking are not inferior to the average\nman at home. Your virtues, and the graces of mind and character upon\nwhich you pride yourself\u2014your strength and composure, your patience and\ndevotion to duty, your honesty, your justice, your purity\u2014all these\nbelong not only to yourself but to the society which has produced you\nand of which you are a part. The moral standards which it has erected\nin the course of its social evolution, the safety with which it has\nsurrounded you, the comforts which this safety has made procurable,\nthe disapprobation by which it punishes any infraction of its laws\u2014to\nthese, not to yourself alone, you owe your moral attainments. None but\nthe highest and most fixed moral standards will bear transportation to\na tropical climate and tropical society. Until this fact is clearly\nrecognized the relation of civilization to the uncivilized tropics\nis likely to be productive of misery and shame. If I did not hate\nsensationalism I could easily fill this chapter with a record of the\nmisdeeds and barbarities in Africa of men, many of whom belonged to\nrespectable families and to good society and were well-behaved at home.\n\nNeither does the white man become acclimated in the tropics\u2014no more than\nthe diver in the deep sea. The longer he remains, his physical and moral\nresources become the more exhausted. Let us keep these facts in mind in\njudging those of whom we have spoken, and those of whom we have yet to\nspeak in the next chapter.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\nWHITE AND BLACK\n\n    \u201cOur only program, I am anxious to repeat, is the work of moral\n    and material regeneration.\u201d\u2014_King Leopold II._\n\n    \u201cThe work of civilization, as you call it, is an enormous and\n    continual butchery.\u201d\u2014_M. Lorand, in the Belgian Parliament._\n\n\nSt. Paul de Loanda, in the Portuguese colony of Angola, is the only place\non the entire west coast of Africa that looks like a real city. It is\nseveral centuries old, and from the sea the appearance is not unlike the\nMediterranean cities of North Africa. But as soon as one goes ashore this\nillusion is dissolved. What makes it unlike any other settlement on the\nwest coast is chiefly its roofs of red tile instead of corrugated iron,\nwith its superheated appearance, that is used in all places recently\nbuilt. The city is also lighted by oil lamps. The harbour being one of\nthe best, I went ashore with the captain and after a walk about the town\nwe played a few games of billiards with the British consul. I had then\nbeen several years on the coast and this seemed like a brief return to\ncivilization. The night coming on brought with it more civilization.\nA native band played, by ear, two or three tunes, and played them\nwell\u2014considering. It is said that they have played those same tunes since\nthe band was organized, and no one now living remembers when that was.\n\nA mouldering church, _Our Lady of Salvation_, which stands on the beach,\nis two and a half centuries old, and is a work of art, containing\ninteresting and historical scenes in blue and white tiles. From this\nplace in the dark age of slavery thousands of slaves were shipped across\nthe Atlantic; and the Roman Catholic bishop sat on the wharf and baptized\nthem, not individually, but in shiploads. Surely _Our Lady of Salvation_\nmight have been called _Our Lady of Sorrows_.\n\nThere were very few passengers on board, but there were a number of\ndogs. The captain had a weakness for dogs. The breed of the dog made\nno difference. Whether they were useful or useless, whether sound and\nhealthy or dreadfully diseased and scarcely able to walk, he loved them\nall without partiality or discrimination. Men further up the coast who\nhad European dogs that were particularly mangy or threatened with rabies\nwould give them into the captain\u2019s care and he would take them for a\nhealth-change down the coast. At one time there were nine dogs living on\nboard. He never seemed to realize that in this, as in all other things,\ntastes differ; and that a certain dog, an English mastiff, as ugly as the\nrest of its kind, might not be entirely welcome to share my soup at the\ntable just because it was welcome to his.\n\nThere were two fox-terriers tied together with five or six feet of small\nrope between them. As their health improved these two terriers became\nanimated beyond all control. They amused themselves by pulling down\ncages full of parrots for the delight of hearing them remonstrate in\na prolonged concert of harsh squawking. But their chief exercise was\nstraight running at breakneck speed from one end of the promenade deck\nto the other, with six feet of rope stretched taut between them, to\nthe terror of the passengers, who were so few in number that they were\nregarded as a negligible quantity. There was a lady on board with whom\nI occasionally walked until the terriers made it impossible to do so\nwithout sacrificing either comfort or gallantry. At the sight of them\ncoming towards her, like a whirlwind sweeping down the deck and the\nrope threatening to trip her up, the lady\u2019s energy all went to her hands\ninstead of her feet; for she invariably lost her presence of mind and\nstood still wringing her hands instead of hastily retreating into some\nsafe corner. But I could not understand why she should think that I also\nought to lose my presence of mind and stand still and be tripped when I\nhad youth and fleetness of limb to accomplish an escape.\n\nWe were three days at Benguela during which we witnessed the Mardi Gras\ncelebration. Men, women, and children filled the streets with merrymaking\nand presented a spectacle of fantastic colours, grotesque costumes, and\nuncouth masks, such as I had never before seen. Our errand to Benguela\nwas the delivery of a large consignment of supplies for the newly\nprojected railway which, it is expected, shall ultimately extend far\ninland to the region of Lake Tanganyika, thus connecting with the traffic\nof the east coast. The bit of this railway already built represents what\nPortugal has done towards the development of Africa in the course of\nseveral centuries.\n\nThe trading-houses of Benguela are surrounded by walled enclosures, or\ncompounds, in former days used for the confinement of slaves awaiting\nshipment. This is not like the bush country further north, but is more\nopen and its main slave-trail extends a thousand miles into the interior.\nThis is the end of the trail that Livingstone followed in his first\ntragic journey across Africa.\n\nBut that which ought to be fully known to the civilized world is that\nslavery still exists in the whole territory of Angola and in the\nadjoining Portuguese islands, and with all its attendant horrors. Most of\nthe house-servants and factory-servants of Benguela are slaves purchased\nwith money and frequently resold. Young women are sold and resold by\nwhite men to white men as mistresses. Any white man in Benguela will\ntell one that the average price is twenty pounds. She may be resold from\ntime to time at a decreasing price. The work on the large plantations is\ndone by slaves who serve under the lash, and it is estimated that half\nthe population of Angola are in slavery; some would say more than this.\nThis includes domestic as well as foreign slavery. But the traffic by\nthe Portuguese has made domestic slavery more severe. They were also\nbeing shipped from Benguela at that time, to the islands of San Thom\u00e9\nand Principe, at the rate of three or four thousand a year, and in all\nprobability the number has since increased. I have visited Principe, and\nI know something of the actual conditions in that island.\n\nThe ways of Portugal have not changed in these four centuries of her\nAfrican history. In the year 1509 a Portuguese officer landing in South\nAfrica became embroiled with the Hottentots and he and twenty of his men\nwere killed. Three years afterwards a Portuguese captain landed a cannon\nloaded with grapeshot as a pretended present to the Hottentots. Men,\nwomen and children gathered around in wonder. While they were admiring\nit the Portuguese captain fired it off and looked on with delight as the\nwretched people fell in heaps. And Portugal has not changed. The ally\nof England from time immemorial, and possessing a remarkable collection\nof souvenirs in the form of anti-slavery treaties, some of them recent\nand one of them as late as 1885, she still prosecutes her slave-trade\nwith vigour, albeit with circumspection to her reputation as well as her\nprofit.\n\nThe Bailundu rebellion, in the interior of Angola, in 1902, was still\nan occasional topic of conversation. The Portuguese claimed that it was\ncaused by the few American missionaries of that interior district\u2014as if\ntheir own rapacity and lust were not sufficient explanation. If that be\ntrue, and if it be true that the missionaries are responsible for all\nsimilar wars from Angola to China, as their detractors allege, it is\nsurely evident that the missionary influence is not to be derided after\nall, but is a tremendous force to be reckoned with in national economy.\nThe Bailundu rebellion was a complete failure. The unorganized native\nforces were unable to stand before an army disciplined by white officers,\nand it soon developed into a wholesale massacre of natives.\n\nShortly afterwards a missionary from that part spent a day with me at\nGaboon and recounted many incidents of the war. Portuguese planters\nexacted enormous indemnity which reduced many to slavery. Such incidents\nas the following occurred: A certain man, in order to pay his portion\nof the indemnity exacted by a certain planter, at last was compelled to\nsell his two children as slaves. He returned to his village with desolate\nheart and tearless eyes, went into his house, came out again, and walked\naround it, went into it again and came out with his sword, uttered one\nheart-broken cry, and plunging the sword into his breast, killed himself.\n\nAs a consequence of the war, however, the Angola secret became known\nand there was considerable feeling aroused among the better class in\nPortugal. To their righteous remonstrance the government responded by\nabolishing the name of slavery and prosecuting the traffic as vigorously\nas ever under an ingenious and particularly diabolical form of law called\n\u201clabour contract.\u201d The only difference to the native is that while\nformerly his servitude was a direct violation of law it is now perfectly\nlegal; but he is still seized and transported and labours under the lash\nuntil he dies.\n\nIn 1905, Mr. Henry W. Nevinson went to Angola for the express purpose\nof investigating the reported slavery. Mr. Nevinson upon a careful and\nintelligent investigation found the conditions such as I have stated,\nand he gave an accurate report in a series of articles in _Harper\u2019s\nMagazine_.\n\nThe slave-merchant, or \u201clabour-merchant,\u201d as we must now call him,\nprocures his labourers in the interior, sometimes six hundred or eight\nhundred miles from the coast. He pays for them in rifles and other goods.\nThe price that he offers, while very small, considering the value of a\nslave to a planter, is yet sufficient to excite the cupidity of a class\nof natives beyond the possibility of control. They first sell their\ndomestic slaves to the white men, then they sell anybody whom they can\nget into their power. In the old slave days it was not safe for three\nmen to go together to the slave-market lest two of them should combine\nto sell the third, and such is always the brutalizing effect of the\nslave-trade on many of the natives. Those slaves that are not used on the\nplantations of Angola are marched in caravans to the coast. They march in\nshackles, or chained together, and under an armed guard. Many die on the\nway, sometimes half the caravan.\n\nArriving at the coast, they are sold, or contracted, to an employer,\nusually a planter of San Thom\u00e9 or Principe, at a large advance on the\ninterior price. They are then brought by the employer before a magistrate\nwho draws up a contract in proper legal form. It makes not the slightest\ndifference what the native answers to the questions asked him or whether\nhe answers at all, a contract is drawn up in which he declares that he\nhas come of his own free will to contract for his services at so much\nlabour for so much pay, and that the contract holds good for five years.\nThe contractor on his part agrees to pay a certain monthly wage and to\nprovide food and clothing. The native is given a copy of the contract and\na little tin cylinder in which to keep it, the sign and declaration of\nhis freedom and protection by law. But hypocrisy can go even further;\nfor these Portuguese, merchants and government officials, actually pose\nas _Philanthropists_. \u201cSee,\u201d they say, \u201cwhat we have done for these men\nand women. They were all slaves to black men, and we have redeemed them.\u201d\nPhilanthropy is usually unlucrative, but the genius of the Portuguese has\nmade it pay.\n\nDespite the expiration of the contract at the end of five years and the\npromise of a free passage home, the native thus transported is never\nknown to return. Henceforth he is one of a long line of men and women\nthat labour on the cocoa fields all the day long, some of the women\ncarrying babies on their backs\u2014that labour in stolid silence under the\nlash or the prod of a sharpened stick from early morning till the sound\nof the evening bell. That they become debased and immoral is only what\nwe should expect; and therefore the traffic in men\u2019s bodies is also a\ntraffic in men\u2019s souls. So they live and toil, each day like all the\nothers until the last short journey, when, as Mr. Nevinson describes,\n\u201ctheir dead bodies are lashed to poles to be carried out and flung away\nin the forest.\u201d\n\nBut is there no relief to the dark picture? No compensation? Yes, there\nis some compensation. We get cheaper cocoa and plenty of chocolate.\n\nThe people of the United States have a deep and practical interest in the\nquestion of the principles that ought to regulate the relations of the\ngoverning and the governed in those tropical countries that are under the\ndominion of the various civilized powers. Having come into possession\nof the Philippine Islands, with their vast and undeveloped resources,\nthe problem is their own and waits for solution. Upon the people of\nthe United States, because of the serious and responsible situation\nwith which they are confronted, may devolve the task of devising and\nadministering a form of government in accord with the higher modern\nstandard of English-speaking people in regard to the national duty\ninvolved in the relation of a civilized power to a subject and savage\npeople. No graver problem is likely to arise in the course of the entire\ncentury of which we are still on the threshold. And the United States is\nthe better prepared for her task by the fact that she is uncontrolled by\nprecedent and unbiased by tradition.\n\nThe Portuguese theory of tropical control is evident enough. The acquired\npossession is an estate to be worked for the benefit of those in control,\nwhose right is simply \u201cmight.\u201d Its native inhabitants, who have the moral\nright to its possession, are counted among the various resources of\nthe acquired property, and may be exploited accordingly. The practical\nsequences of this theory are slavery and plunder.\n\nThe theory that surrounds the colony with high tariffs for the exclusive\nbenefit of the governing power and which concedes foreign monopolies to\nthe disregard of native interests, is not essentially different from that\nof Portugal. This latter is the theory that is being worked out in the\nCongo Fran\u00e7ais as a result of the example and influence of the Belgian\ntrusts, and the intrigues of King Leopold\u2019s agents in France. We believe\nthat it cannot be permanent as a form of French colonial government\nbecause of the humane and generous instincts of the French people. And\nit is certain that such a policy could not long endure in any territory\nunder the control of the United States. For a policy in order to be\npermanent must have the support of the moral sentiment of the nation, and\nsuch a policy traverses our basal doctrine of the native equality of men.\n\nBut there is in the United States a tendency to the other extreme,\nnamely, to insist upon the native right of self-government, holding\nthat the sum of our duty is to set up a civilized form of government\nand then withdraw from control, leaving the native nation to maintain\nit. The advocates of such a policy are guilty of a serious oversight in\nforgetting that \u201cdemocracy is not simply a form of government, but a\nstate of human evolution.\u201d The native form of government cannot advance\nfar beyond the social life of the people, for they are sustained by\nthe same moral forces. As a matter of fact there is not in the world a\nsingle example of a successful native government of a tropical country.\nFailures are conspicuous on both sides of the Atlantic; for instance,\nHayti in the West Indies and Liberia in Africa. The tropical governments\nof Central and South America are not in any sense native governments, but\nare administered by a permanently resident foreign community, in their\nown interest, whose moral standards tend to lower more and more as they\nmingle with the native populations. A form of native government that\nwould compare with those of civilized nations is by no means possible\nuntil the moral forces that have contributed to the highest civilization\nare operative in their social life.\n\nIt is evident that the tropical nations if left to themselves will not\ndevelop the resources of their country. But it is equally evident that\nthe civilized world will not, and ought not, to leave these resources\nundeveloped. For civilization depends upon the tropics for many trade\nproducts, including india-rubber, and the dependence increases at such a\nrate that it is predicted that the main lines of commerce in the future\nwill run north and south instead of east and west, and the prediction is\nnot fanciful.\n\nIt would seem therefore that the development of the resources of the\ntropics will be by the native under the supervision of the white man.\nThe ideal government will be based upon the clear recognition of mutual\nneed and mutual benefit; and the principle that will mould the form of\ngovernment and be constantly operative in its administration will be\nthe duty of the civilized nation to bring to the uncivilized its best\nbenefits, to their mutual advantage. The interest of the native himself\nwill be always the first consideration; for he has the first right to\nthe resources of his country and to the reward of his labour; and the\ninterest of the foreign nation second, in the greater sources of supply\nand the enlarged market for her merchandise.\n\nTo give actuality and force to such a government three things will be\nrequired in its administration, as suggested by Mr. Benjamin Kidd in his\nbook, \u201cThe Control of the Tropics\u201d: first, its officers must be only\nthose who represent the highest moral ideals of civilization; second,\nthe most intimate contact must be maintained with the home government;\nthird, the policy and its administration must be constantly subject to\nthe severe scrutiny of public opinion. Public apathy, inconsiderate\nconfidence in our agents in the tropics\u2014the conceit that they cannot go\nfar wrong because they are Americans, will lead to shame and degradation.\n\nSuch a moral motive and the conscientious discharge of the duty involved\nconstitute the white man\u2019s right, and his _only_ right, to occupy the\nblack man\u2019s country.\n\nIt was with Captain Button of the _Volta_ that I went up the Congo\nto Boma and Matadi. I owe to several of the captains, and to Captain\nHarrison in particular, a debt of gratitude for many kindnesses; but I\ntravelled most with Captain Button and from no other did I receive so\nmany kind, and often costly favours. More than once, upon finding me in\nvery bad health when his ship called at Gaboon, he fairly forced me to\ngo for a health-change; and on the occasion of my visit to the Congo I\nwas in such a miserable condition of health that a single attack of fever\nwould probably have been my last, when Captain Button swooped down upon\nme and carried me off.\n\nI had been troubled with abscesses, common enough on the coast, and when\nI went aboard I had a very severe one on my left forearm. One night, near\nthe Congo, when I was suffering with the pain and had been awake several\nnights, the captain had a stretcher placed on deck for me and advised\nthat I lay my arm in a basin of warm water which was placed beside me. He\nthen told the ship\u2019s surgeon to examine my arm and see whether it ought\nnot to be lanced. But he told him not to mention the matter of lancing it\nto me. I was weak and nervous with loss of sleep and he wished to save me\nthe additional pain of thinking about the lancing of it and consenting\nto it. The doctor examined the arm and then having consulted with the\ncaptain went below and got his lance. When he returned the captain was\nsitting beside me ready to assist. The doctor a second time bent over the\narm as it was extended over the basin. Then I saw the gleam of a knife\nwhich was instantly plunged into my arm. Ten minutes of agony during\nwhich the captain poured on warm water,\u2014and then _rest_; the first I had\nhad for many days, and a few minutes later I was asleep. That was the\nlast of the abscesses and from that time I gained perceptibly each day.\n\nAt Boma, the capital of the Congo Free State, sixty miles from the\nmouth of the river, we lay in against the bank and moored the ship to\nthe shore. Close beside us was a sight upon which I gazed with gruesome\ninterest, the wreck of the steamship _Matadi_. My first voyage to Africa\nwas on the _Matadi_. I think it was on her next voyage that she was\nwrecked. Like all the ships of her class she was called a palm-oil tub.\nThe steamers of the present service are incomparably better. The _Matadi_\nwas blown up by a fearful explosion of gunpowder that had been carelessly\nstored. All the crew except one were drowned. There were also on board\ntwo American missionaries, Mr. and Mrs. Harvey, who went down with the\nship. They were in their cabin when the explosion occurred. The door\njammed and could never afterwards be opened, so that the bodies remain\nthere to this day. A smoke-stack protruding out of the water, a part of\na poop-deck, overgrown with grass, and an enormous side-piece flung upon\nthe shore\u2014such were the innuendo of the scene.\n\nBoma is built on the side of a long, sloping hill. Its buildings, many\nof them made of sheets of corrugated iron, are scattered in disorder.\nBehind them on higher ground is the attractive, pale-coloured residence\nof the governor. There is a good road and several avenues of palms and\na number of flower-gardens surrounding the residences. A well-ordered\nhospital, a state school, a palace of justice, a prison for white men, a\nfort and barracks are the more conspicuous buildings. Three street-lamps\nand a native band that plays twice a week, probably by ear, make life\ndelightful and bring the city up to date. Boma looks well from the\nriver\u2014as looks go in Africa. But when one remembers that for more than\ntwenty years it has been the capital of the Congo Free State, a territory\nfour times the size of Germany, from which also vast wealth has been\ndrawn and that Belgium\u2019s civilizing agencies have been concentrated here,\none is not greatly impressed. At least it does not compare with the other\ncapitals of West Africa, the French Libreville, the German Dualla or the\nEnglish Calabar.\n\nIn the hospital at Boma one may see cases of the strange \u201csleeping\nsickness,\u201d that awful scourge that has in late years passed across Africa\nfrom the east to the west decimating the population and often in the\nfarther east destroying entire towns. Until very recently there has been\nno recovery. The patient sleeps without waking, except for food\u2014sleeps\nand wastes away for eight or ten months until he dies. The germ is now\nsupposed to be carried by the tsetse fly.\n\nI of course witnessed no Belgian atrocities at Boma, and it would surely\nhave been a matter of amazement if I had. But still more amazing is\nthe report of certain casual travellers, who had no more opportunity\nthan myself for direct observation, to the effect that there are no\natrocities, because they did not witness them. If I had gone to King\nLeopold\u2019s representative, the governor at Boma, and had told him, in the\ncourse of a neighbourly conversation, that I had heard about the Belgian\natrocities and had come to witness them that I might exploit them to the\nhorrified nations, and then had asked him to accommodate my purpose by\nhaving at least a few atrocities performed in the front yard, including\nthe different varieties of murder, mutilation and torture, it would have\nbeen parallel to the methods pursued by certain persons, who actually\nheralded their arrival and their purpose all along the way, notified\nLeopold\u2019s agents in particular, perfected their investigations by asking\nquestions of these same agents, and then proclaimed that these cruel\nreports of atrocities and atrocities represent an unparalleled conspiracy\non the part of several hundred men from half a score of nations, who\nhaving lived many long years in the Congo have become prejudiced and have\naccumulated a number of personal grievances against the Belgian officials\nand are now seeking by the invention of innumerable charges of unheard-of\ncrimes to ruin the reputation of Good King Leopold and deprive him of his\nrights. The administration of the Congo government is not a melodrama;\nit is anything but that. Leopold\u2019s atrocities are not placed on free\nexhibition at Boma for the entertainment of travellers, some of whom are\nimmorally unconcerned in regard to the real suffering of the natives.\nThey are performed only for money and plenty of it. The motive is money\nand the argument is that they pay. Though I was only a traveller, and not\na resident, in the Congo Free State, yet I can speak with some authority\non the question of the Belgian r\u00e9gime; for I lived several years in\nthe adjoining territory, the Congo Fran\u00e7ais, a large part of which was\nfarmed out in concessions to Belgian companies, whose policy and methods\nwere precisely those of the Congo Free State. Such a system, however, is\ncontrary to the spirit of the French, and one cannot think that it will\nlong endure.\n\nConsider for a moment the various sources of the evidence against Leopold\nand his agents. There are about two hundred Protestant missionaries in\nthe Congo Free State, representing the United States, Canada, Great\nBritain, Germany, Norway, Sweden and Denmark. These missionaries, men\nand women, have lived for years in the Congo, many of them twenty, and\neven twenty-five years, and are scattered over the entire territory. They\nspeak the language of the people and therefore have the most intimate\nknowledge of conditions. Their motive is only the good of the native, and\nevery influence that makes for the betterment of the native\u2019s condition\ncontributes to their success. That they should not know the truth in\nregard to the alleged atrocities of the Belgians is impossible; that they\nshould unite to falsify the truth is unthinkable. But their testimony is\nall of one kind, and against Belgium, and constitutes probably the most\nterrible indictment of a civilized government in the last two thousand\nyears, if not in the history of the world.\n\nBut there are other witnesses besides missionaries. In 1903 the British\ngovernment, in response to the entreaty and remonstrance of missionaries\nand traders and English Chambers of Commerce, appointed Mr. Roger\nCasement, British Consul to the Congo, to make a thorough investigation\nof conditions in the Congo Free State. Mr. Casement, whom I had the\npleasure of meeting at Matadi, was peculiarly fitted for the task\nassigned to him. He had spent twelve years in the consular service in\nAfrica. He had the unqualified confidence of the British government and\nwas held in the highest esteem and admiration by all classes of men in\nthe Congo. Mr. Poultney Bigelow says of him: \u201cRoger Casement is the sort\nof man depicted in Jules Verne\u2019s novels, the man who is everlastingly\nexploring and extricating himself from every imaginable difficulty by\nsuperhuman tact, wit and strength.\u201d\n\nMr. Casement\u2019s report of the results of his investigation is a revealing\ndocument. It confirms the worst charges that had been made. It abounds in\nsuch incidents as the following: \u201cThis man himself, when I visited him\nin Boma gaol, in March, 1901, said that more than a hundred women and\nchildren had died of starvation at his hands, but that the responsibility\nwas due to his superior\u2019s orders and neglect.\u201d\n\nBut even Belgians have been, and are to-day, among those who denounce the\nBelgian king. For instance, a Belgian agent, named Lecroix, confessed\nthat he had been instructed by his chief to massacre all the natives of a\ncertain village, including women and children, for not bringing in enough\nrubber. He also told how that on one occasion his chief had put sixty\nwomen in chains, all but five of whom died of starvation.\n\nAt last the feeling became so strong in Europe that in September, 1904,\nKing Leopold appointed a Commission of Inquiry consisting of three\npersons, two of whom were his own subjects; the third was an eminent\nSwiss jurist. This was somewhat like King Leopold investigating himself.\nBut the Commission seems to have listened impartially to the testimony.\nWith the eyes of Europe upon them they proceeded to the Congo and spent\nfour and a half months in taking the sworn testimony of \u201chundreds of\nwitnesses.\u201d The contrast between what the Commission _expected_ to find,\nand what they actually found, may be best expressed in the words that\nM. Janssens, president of the Commission, is reported to have spoken\npublicly before leaving Boma: \u201cI came here with a feeling of confidence,\nexpecting to find everything in order. I did not think I was about to\ncome into contact with such putridity as I have found.\u201d\n\nIn general the report of King Leopold\u2019s Commission confirms all the\ncharges, including the very worst, that had ever been made against the\nCongo government.\n\nTo such an extent is this true that those who are working against the\ncontinuance of King Leopold\u2019s rule in the Congo would be willing to base\ntheir appeal on the report of the Commission alone. It is a lengthy and\nexhaustive document, but a few brief extracts will convey a fair idea of\nthe whole; for instance the following:\n\n\u201cIn the majority of cases the native must go one or two days\u2019 march\nevery fortnight, until he arrives at that part of the forest where the\nrubber vines can be met with in a certain degree of abundance. There the\ncollector passes a number of days in a miserable existence. He has to\nbuild himself an improvised shelter which obviously cannot replace his\nhut. He has not the food to which he is accustomed. He is deprived of his\nwife, exposed to the inclemencies of the weather and the attacks of wild\nbeasts. When once he has collected the rubber he must bring it to the\nState station, or to that of the Company, and only then can he return to\nhis village, where he can sojourn for barely more than two or three days,\nbecause the next demand is upon him.\n\n\u201cThey brought before the Commission a multitude of native witnesses,\nwho revealed a great number of crimes and excesses alleged to have been\ncommitted by the sentries.... The truth of the charges is borne out by\na mass of evidence and official reports.... The agents examined by the\nCommission did not even attempt to refute them.\n\n\u201cAccording to the witnesses, these auxiliaries convert themselves into\ndespots, demanding women and food, not only for themselves, but for a\nretinue of parasites which a love of rapine causes to become associated\nwith them. They kill without pity all those who attempt to resist.\n\n\u201cIf we accept Stanley\u2019s figures it is incontestable that a large part of\nthe population must have disappeared; for, from Stanley Pool to Nouvelle\nAnvers, the banks of the river are almost deserted.\u201d\n\nThus much from the report of King Leopold\u2019s Commission. What is called\nthe \u201csentry system\u201d is the most atrocious factor in this policy. As a\nmatter of course coercion must be used in the enforcement of a continuous\nlabour-tax. An army of thirty thousand native soldiers is maintained\nfor the suppression and exploitation of the people, who are unarmed and\ndefenseless. Thus can a king do when he becomes a trader. This army\nis raised by conscription, and is practically an army of slaves. The\nconscripts are removed from their own people and are made to serve among\nstrangers. Despair is never a sanctifying grace; and these desperate\nmen are armed and compelled to a life of continual cruelty and shocking\ncrime, whereby they are in course of time transformed into foulest\nfiends. To them is committed the oversight of those who collect rubber\nand the punishment of those who come short. This is the \u201csentry system.\u201d\n\nWhen I visited Boma and Matadi the commonest subject of conversation,\nboth by traders and missionaries, was the Belgian atrocities.\n\nMatadi is one hundred and ten miles from the sea. Between Boma and\nMatadi, at a bend in the river, there is a fearful whirlpool called the\nDevil\u2019s Caldron, at least it is \u201cfearful\u201d in the wet season when the\nriver is highest and the current swiftest. This vortex is the shape of a\nfunnel. As we left it on our right and passed across the outer rim, the\nbig ocean steamer listed to starboard. A short time before, a lighter\nloaded with cargo and manned by Kruboys had been drawn into it. Several\npersons watched it as it swept around in a narrowing circle until at last\nnear the centre it suddenly took a header and plunged into the abyss with\nits human freight.\n\nMatadi is built on the side of a perpendicular rock, which Richard\nHarding Davis says is \u201cnot so large as Gibraltar, nor so high as the\nFlatiron Building, but it is a little more steep than either. Three\nnarrow streets lead to its top. They are of flat stones, with cement\ngutters. The stones radiate the heat of stove-lids. They are worn to a\nmirror-like smoothness, and from their surface the sun strikes between\nyour eyes, at the pit of your stomach, and blisters the soles of your\nmosquito boots.\u201d\n\nMatadi is not much more than a railroad terminus. Between the Lower\nand Upper Congo, that is, between Matadi and Leopoldville, on Stanley\nPool, the river is not navigable, owing to the rapids. A railroad two\nhundred and fifty miles long unites these two places. It was built at a\ntremendous cost both of money and of life. Out of four hundred Chinese\nimported at one time, for work on the railroad, two hundred and fifty\ndied within three years. Kruboys and others were brought from the north\nand engaged to work according to a certain definite contract; but in most\ncases the contract was disregarded and they were practically enslaved,\nworking until they died. The railroad, the _Chemin de Fer du Congo_, is\nexceedingly useful and has also proved a paying investment. The fare from\nMatadi to Leopoldville, two hundred and fifty miles, was fifty dollars,\nwhen I was at Matadi, that is, twenty cents a mile. But I imagine that\nthose who had made the journey on foot over that rough country, did not\nbegrudge the exorbitant fare.\n\nHenry M. Stanley, starting from Matadi, blasted the rocks in order to\nmake a road by which the sections of his boat could be dragged along _en\nroute_ to the Upper Congo. Until I visited Matadi I did not know the\nmeaning of the name which the natives gave to Stanley, _Bula Matadi_.\nIt means _Breaker of Rocks_\u2014a name to be proud of, surely; and one\nwhich Stanley deserved. His authority was superseded by that of the\ngovernment of the Congo, which to this day is called by the natives\n_Bula Matadi\u2014Breaker of Rocks_ and incidentally of _men_. It happened\nthat Consul Casement was at Matadi; and the captain and I were invited\nto a picnic which was given in his honour. It was a novel experience for\nAfrica. We rowed down the river and landed for our lunch in a peculiar\nand pleasant place on piles of rock, of historic and even legendary\ninterest.\n\nDuring those days there was a representative missionary gathering\nat Matadi and I had the opportunity of meeting and conversing with\nmissionaries from all over the Congo Free State. Some of them I had\nknown before. All whom I met had but one story to tell in regard to the\n\u201cBelgian atrocities,\u201d a story that might have been a chapter from the\nhistory of Hell.\n\nThey told of seeing more than fifty severed hands at a time, including\nhands of children, which the soldiers were taking to the white men to\nprove that they had killed people according to their orders. The black\nsoldiers had also eaten the flesh of their victims. Sometimes the agents\ndemanded an amount of food from the natives for themselves and the\nentire post which the natives could only continue to furnish by buying\nfrom other natives; and they were expecting that when they could buy\nno more they would be killed. In some villages when the impost of food\nwas delivered the people had nothing left for themselves, and fed on\nleaves. When the rubber in certain districts was becoming exhausted\nand the tax was not reduced the people mixed the latex (juice of the\nrubber vine) with an inferior latex, and when they did so the agent,\nif it was discovered, made them eat it. The work about the posts was\ndone by slaves, mostly women, and at night these women were obliged to\nbe at the disposal of the native soldiers. Missionaries themselves had\nmet soldiers driving to the post women tied together with ropes, to be\nheld as hostages until their husbands could bring a certain amount of\nrubber. This was the usual means of compelling men to bring rubber. They\noften tortured the women in order to intimidate the men. But many of\nthe hostages could not be redeemed and were starved to death. They told\nof the mutilations of the living, of hands and feet chopped off, and of\nmen unsexed. They told of four or five men placed in a row one behind\nanother and shot with one bullet, and of women and children crucified.\nThey told of the population of certain districts reduced from thousands\nto hundreds, and in other districts wiped out entirely. It is estimated\nby some that since the ascendency of King Leopold in the Congo the total\npopulation has decreased from twenty-five millions to fifteen millions,\nthere being ten million murders set down to the account of the king.\n\nReturning from Matadi to the steamer in the sultry tropical night, it\nseemed as if the very atmosphere were drenched with blood, that we\nbreathed its vapours, and that the great swift-rolling tide beneath us\nwas the blood of the slain millions, hurrying out to incarnadine the sea\nthat boats against the shores of all the civilized world.\n\nThe greed of Leopold and the apathy of the nations are together\nresponsible for the existence of present conditions in the Congo. It is\nirrelevant to answer that there are also atrocities in Portuguese and\nother possessions of Africa. There is more oppression and cruelty in the\nCongo Free State than in all the rest of Africa. Moreover, we have no\nauthority over Portugal and can exercise only the right of appeal and its\nmoral influence. But the Powers signatory to the Brussels Act, with the\nUnited States in the lead, created the Congo Free State, and are still\nthe formal guardians of its people. A conference of those Powers would\nwithout doubt deal with other evils in Africa besides those of the Congo\nFree State. To the average man, unversed in the forms of international\nusage, it would seem within the competence of any one of the Powers\nwhich committed to King Leopold a sacred trust upon certain definite\nconditions, to urge upon the other responsible powers the duty of meeting\nagain to inquire whether those conditions have been fulfilled and to\nadjudicate the issues relating to their non-fulfillment.\n\nMeanwhile, the Congo State lies bleeding at every pore, and those who are\nhoping and praying in all the world for a people who have ceased to hope\nand have never learned to pray, have their eyes turned towards the United\nStates.\n\nA missionary writing from Baringa in the Congo said: \u201cAn old chief came\nup to where we were standing. \u2018Oh, white man,\u2019 he pleaded, \u2018do have our\nwork changed. We do not want to shirk it, but there is no longer any\nrubber in our district and my people are being killed for nothing. What\nam I to do?\u2019 I suggested that the inspector appointed by the king would\nno doubt come to Baringa and he could appeal to him. He asked how long it\nwould be before the inspector would come. I said perhaps two months; upon\nwhich he cried out, \u2018Two months! It will be too late then. We shall all\nbe killed before that time.\u2019 And after we had left him we could hear him\ncrying after us, \u2018We shall all be killed! We shall all be killed!\u2019\u201d\n\nFour years have passed, and in all likelihood the chief with his family\nhas been killed long ago, leaving not even a name behind him, but only\nthis haunting cry, that keeps ringing in one\u2019s heart.\n\nSo they all are crying to us with outstretched hands; a people who call\nthe white man, _Father_, and trust him with pathetic confidence until he\nbetrays their trust and smites them with the rod of tyranny. I think I\ncan hear their piteous cry wafted on the winds that wander over the great\nforest: \u201cWe shall all be killed! We shall all be killed!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\nTHE FANG\n\n\nDuring my second and much longer term in Africa I lived at Baraka, a\nmission station two miles south of Libreville, in the Congo Fran\u00e7ais, on\nthe great estuary of the Gaboon River, or, the _bay_, as I always called\nit. The coast tribe of the Gaboon is called the _Mpongwe_. But my work\nwas almost entirely with the interior tribe\u2014the _Fang_.\n\nThe Fang is probably the largest of all the tribes of West Africa.\nThe Bulu of the Cameroon interior are a branch of the Fang, and there\nare several other branches. They occupy the interior of Cameroon and\nthe Congo Fran\u00e7ais, extending north and south behind at least twelve\ncoast tribes occupying three hundred miles of coast. M. de Brazza after\nextended travel among the Fang estimated that there were more than ten\nmillions, and perhaps fifteen millions of them; but I think it unlikely\nthat further knowledge will confirm this calculation. M. de Brazza is\nusually a most reliable authority; but he probably travelled through the\nmore densely populated parts of the Fang territory.\n\nSince most of my work was done among the Fang, along the Gaboon River,\nthey are the tribe that I know best. I am very partial to them, and\ntherefore, before going further I must say a word in regard to the\npronunciation of this word, \u201cFang,\u201d and beg the reader not to speak of\nthem as if they were a generation of vipers. The name is not pronounced\nin the least like our word \u201cfang,\u201d and indeed the vowel sound in the\nlatter word is unknown in the African dialects; the sound of the letter\n\u201ca\u201d is like that in the word \u201cfather.\u201d\n\nThe whole Fang tribe has been moving towards the coast for many years,\nand they have already emerged at several points, notably Gaboon. Dr.\nLeighton Wilson, writing about 1860, speaks of them as having just\nappeared west of the Sierra del Crystal Mountains, one hundred miles\neast of the Gaboon Coast. Dr. Wilson, who had a more extended knowledge\nof the coast than any man of his time, speaks of the Fang as the most\nremarkable and most forceful people he had met in West Africa. They now\nhave villages among the Mpongwe, and along the entire length of the\nGaboon River and the tributaries of the river and estuary. This for\nyears was my mission field, a territory one hundred and twenty miles\neast and west, and fifty miles north and south. The entire area is a\nnetwork of waterways, which are also the highways; for there are very few\nbush-roads, and they are of the worst kind. I know of no more attractive\nfield in West Africa. It combines the far more comfortable home of the\ncoast, and the more hopeful work of the interior. By the use of a launch,\nor even a sailboat, the towns on the watercourses are easily and quickly\naccessible.\n\nThus, also, it allows for expansion and concentration of influence in\ntheir proper relation. Instead of the influence of the missionary being\nconcentrated in an immediate community where he becomes practically a\npastor, in such a field as that of the Gaboon watercourses he is rather\nas a bishop among native pastors, and influential in many communities.\nFor the native, however meagre his education, if he be otherwise worthy,\nis always a better pastor than the foreigner, and needs only counsel. The\nchurch also is likely to be more independent in spirit, and resourceful.\nIn a single community where the white missionary is ever present,\nChristianity shares his prestige, and a few leaders being converted, the\nmovement becomes popular, and many follow without deep convictions or\nearnest purpose. But in a community with which no white man is identified\nChristianity cannot acquire an artificial popularity; converts are\nearnest,\u2014are leaders, not followers, and each group becomes the centre\nof a strong influence, exerted in service from the beginning, and the\nnucleus of a native church.\n\nAt the same time there may be a proper concentration of influence in\nboarding-schools and classes for religious training, and especially in\na seminary for the training of catechists and ministers. This withal\napproaches most nearly to the method of our Master, who preached to\nmultitudes in various places widely separated, the while He concentrated\nHis influence in the training of the twelve. He who of all men might have\ndispensed with methods, was really a master of methods.\n\nBefore my time the only work of our mission among the Fang was at Angom\nStation, on the upper river, seventy miles above Baraka; but the work\nthough faithfully done had been restricted to one town, which was a small\nfactor in the great field that I have described, which larger field\nhad never been opened to missionary work. When our missionary at Angom\ndied, and his successor after a short period withdrew, the station was\nabandoned; and the little church not yet established in the faith, unable\nto stand alone, soon collapsed. A few years later, in 1902, when little\nremained but the name, the Angom church was formally dissolved by the\nCorisco Presbytery.\n\nI have written at some length of the Bulu of the interior. The Fang of\nthe interior, at the head waters of the Gaboon, are like the Bulu, while\nsome of those at the coast are quite civilized.\n\nThe Fang village in this territory is built close to the river or stream.\nThe population of a village varies from fifty to three hundred; the\naverage population is probably not more than a hundred persons. Those of\nthe same village are closely related, usually brothers or first cousins,\nand their wives and children, with the elders, or grandfathers. They\nregard themselves as one family, and all the children of the village as\nbrothers and sisters. Under no circumstances would they intermarry. The\nchild addresses ever so many men as \u201cFather,\u201d and ever so many women as\n\u201cMother.\u201d Parental authority is not exclusive; the whole town has more\nor less to say in the control and discipline of each child. The result\nis that while a score of parents are adding zest to existence in a fine\nsquabble as to whether the child shall sit here, or there, shall do this,\nor that, the child, heedless of conflicting orders, does as he likes and\ngoes where he pleases. Yet, one finds, as he knows them better, that the\nreal parents are always distinguished and exercise the final authority.\n\nThe village consists of a single street running away from the river,\nthough sometimes there is a second street, at right angles with the\nfirst, and occasionally even a third. On either side of the street the\nhouses are built in straight rows, close together, and almost exactly\nthe same. Among the Bulu the houses are detached; but among the Fang\nthey are under one continuous roof. This arrangement is convenient for\nan enemy in time of war. For, to set fire to the first house is to burn\nthe whole town; and nothing could burn more rapidly than dry thatch.\nNearer the coast the enemy will often saturate the end of the first roof\nwith kerosene\u2014it is the only use they make of kerosene. Across each end\nof the street is a \u201cpalaver-house,\u201d which is the public place, where the\nmen spend most of the day in talking, eating, sleeping and quarrelling.\nThis is the _club-house_ of the men, and the women enter it only on\nprivilege. A missionary entering a town will nearly always be sure of an\naudience in the palaver-house.\n\nThe houses have bark walls held by horizontal strips of bamboo tied\nwith rope of vine, and supported by upright poles two feet apart, which\nare sharpened at the lower end and stuck in the ground. The roof is of\npalm thatch, and there is no floor. Not a nail is used in the entire\nconstruction of the house. Nearer the coast, bark is not used for walls.\nThey are made of split bamboo, attached horizontally to upright poles.\n\nThe interior is a single room with beds around the walls. The bed\nconsists of straight round poles laid lengthwise upon two cross-poles,\nthe head being supported by a wooden pillow. Upon these beds the natives\nsleep with nothing under them and nothing over them. But they usually\nkeep a fire at night, which is made on the earth floor. There is no\noutlet for the smoke, but it escapes through a narrow open space between\nthe walls and the roof. The door is tight closed at night, and often a\nfamily will enjoy themselves around a smouldering fire in smoke so dense\nthat a white man could scarcely enter.\n\nTheir houses are kept as clean inside as their construction allows.\nBut they are always in a state of disorder. The native mind has no\ncategories. The native\u2019s knowledge consists of isolated facts which\nhe feels no mental compulsion to classify; neither do the women take\npleasure in household order; and the notion of each article having a\nregular and proper place is foreign to their minds. However civilized\nthey may become in the future, I can hardly think that the teapot under\nthe bed or the pig in the parlour would ever offend their sense of\npropriety.\n\nIn the middle of the front wall is a rectangular hole, that looks like a\nwindow, but it is both door and window. At night it is closed by propping\na piece of bark against it. The successful entrance of this door is a\ngymnastic feat requiring long practice for its performance, and we can\nafford to watch the white man\u2019s first attempt. He has seen the black\nman pass through it so easily that he does not suspect any difficulty.\nApproaching with assurance he lifts one leg quite high and passes it\nover the sill, only to find that he cannot get his head in; for not only\nis the door very low but the ragged thatch eaves of the roof project\nimmediately in front of it. In the attempt his helmet, striking the\neaves, rolls into the street. He goes after the helmet, brushes off some\nof the dirt, and approaching a second time, though with less assurance,\nhe puts the other leg through the door, which is no improvement whatever\nupon the first effort, and he loses his helmet again. A third time he\nessays to enter, but with a step that indicates a rise of temperature.\nHe thrusts his head and shoulders through the door, then tries to bring\na foot in after him; but, invariably failing to get his foot nearly high\nenough to pass the sill he trips, falls forward, and goes plunging into\nthe house sprawling on all fours, and only by extraordinary exertion\nescapes the fire in the middle of the room. The children, if they are\nnot accustomed to the white man, scream with fright, and the grown\npeople laugh without restraint. Those in the street laugh still louder\nand afford every evidence that the rear view of the performance\u2014the\nunintelligible exertions, the sudden disappearance and the feet lingering\non the door-sill\u2014was an entertainment which they would greatly enjoy a\nsecond time. The white man gets up out of the dust and the ashes, glares\nfiercely around and asks if anybody knows where his helmet is. Some time\nin the future, after an extended and distressing experience he may chance\nto observe exactly how the black man enters his small door. He neither\nhalts nor hesitates; but throwing up one leg, he throws his head down at\nthe same time, probably extending an arm in front of him, and thrusting\nboth head and leg through together, he bolts into the house. Near the\ncoast the houses are better. There are often several rooms in a house.\nThey have doors that swing on hinges, and windows the same, but unglazed.\nThey have grass mats upon the beds. But all this is the result of the\nimported civilization.\n\nThe idle life of the Fang, especially in the interior, and his freedom\nfrom responsibility, seem to the impatient white man to have obliterated\nfrom his mind the idea of time. The more prosperous people near the\ncoast have a passion for clocks, but it is because they like to hear\nthem tick and strike. A Fang cannot conceive that he has wronged you if\nhe comes several days late to keep an engagement. This unreliableness in\neverything where time is a factor is one of the chief trials of the white\nman in Africa. But he ought to regard the native\u2019s viewpoint and consider\nhow very irritating and really discouraging to the native must be the\nwhite man\u2019s incessant hurry. \u201cWe are not in a hurry,\u201d says the black man.\n\u201cWhy should you come to Africa to set us all hurrying? Has it made your\nown people so very happy that you want to share with us the blessing of\nhaste?\u201d\n\nThe African is the most sociable man in the world. He could not easily\nbe killed with work even the hardest: he is not much afraid of it. But\nisolate him, take him away from his people, and he could easily die of\nhomesickness. He is strongly emotional and warmly affectionate by nature.\nHe loves his children, and sometimes embraces them tenderly, but he never\nkisses them. The kiss is meaningless to the African. They have never\nseen any such thing except between white people. I am almost ashamed to\ntell their interpretation of it as some of them have seen it executed\nand have reported to their people; but I presume it will do no harm.\nThey think that white people, in kissing, expectorate into each other\u2019s\nmouths. The word by which they designate the kiss is a compound which\nmeans \u201cto exchange saliva.\u201d\u2014No wonder it is not popular! When those at\nthe coast begin the practice of this fine art, it is usually accompanied\nby a sound loud enough to start a team of horses.\n\nAll their spare time they sit in the palaver-house and talk, stopping\nfor an occasional nap. The old men as they sit scratching themselves\nwith the itch relate wonderful tales and tell infinite lies about their\nachievements when young, how many women eloped with them, how many\nenemies they had killed in war, and how they had fought wild animals with\nunheard-of bravery. But they turn out interesting tales and are always\nlistened to respectfully because of their years.\n\nThe chief factor in the social life is the marriage customs and the\nrelations of husband and wife. The woman is regarded as inferior in every\nway to the man. It would be disgraceful to a man to be caught eating with\nhis wife. Her duty is to work for him and to provide for him. She is\nbought with a price and is a part of his wealth; indeed, a man\u2019s wealth\nand influence are measured by the number of his wives. The son inherits\nthe father\u2019s wives, all but his own mother. Frequently in the forest one\nmay see a woman staggering along the rough bush-path under a load of\nforty or fifty pounds, and perhaps carrying her poor babe in a strap hung\nat her side, while her lordly husband walks before her with only his gun\nor a knife. In some tribes a wife must keep a certain distance behind\nher husband as they walk. If he should fall she must also fall, lest she\nlaugh at him.\n\n[Illustration: MAN AND WIFE.\n\n_The woman always carries the load._]\n\n[Illustration: TWO MEN DANCING.\n\n_The music, supplied by various drums, may have charms to soothe the\nsavage breasts; it certainly would soothe no other kind._]\n\nA man and his wife once came to me from a distant town, the woman\ncarrying a load of food which they wished to sell, the man carrying\nnothing. I told them that I had no use for the food and could not buy it;\nwhereupon the man appealed to my pity and urged that the poor woman, who\nwas exhausted, and who was suffering with an ulcer on her foot, was not\nable to carry the load back home. I replied that I knew how to relieve\nher, and I asked them both to turn their backs and close their eyes. They\ndid as I asked, probably expecting that I would perform some miracle that\nwould make the burden light. But, taking the burden from the woman\u2019s\nback, I suddenly put it upon the man, and threw the strap over his\nshoulder. He flung it upon the ground with an angry protest at the great\nindignity I had put upon him in the presence of his wife.\n\nInconsistent with this is his love of his mother, of which I have spoken\nbefore; but it may be mentioned again, for it is the strongest sentiment\nand the deepest emotion in the mind and heart of the African. He always\nloves his mother more than his wife. The wife is also expected to love\nthe members of her own family more than her husband; but the love of\nmother is strongest in the men. She is the one who will defend him\nagainst the machinations of his wives and be true to him when all others\ncombine to denounce or to injure him. One day on an English steamer a\ntraveller who was standing on deck and teasing some Kruboys in a boat\nbelow remarked to an Old Coaster how very good-natured they were. The\nOld Coaster told him something to say to one of them that involved a\nreflection on his mother. The traveller made the remark and was startled\nand somewhat frightened when the \u201cgood-natured\u201d Kruboy turned upon him in\na rage, cursed him and threatened to kill him. If he had been ashore he\nmight have paid the penalty with his life. The African, old and young,\nthinks he has fully justified any violent assault upon another when he\nsays: \u201cHe cursed my mother.\u201d Any reflection whether it be more or less\nserious is called a \u201ccurse.\u201d\n\nA man also loves his children more than his wife. Often the head-wife is\nthe one who bears the most children. Children are not weaned until the\nage of three years or thereabouts. During all this period of lactation\nthe husband and wife observe absolute continence in regard to each other,\nthough not necessarily in regard to others.\n\nA man has as many wives as he can afford to buy. The idea of marrying\n\u201cjust for love\u201d is laughable. Such an act is sometimes cited as\nindicating weakness of character. Marriages of \u201cstrong-minded\u201d men\nare controlled by expediency and convenience. In the territory of the\nGaboon I know of no man that has more than ten wives; but in the farther\ninterior some chiefs have half a hundred. Yet, though the possession of\nmany wives is the ambition of every man, most of them never possess more\nthan one. The dowry which a man pays for a wife is enormous; and none but\nthe most successful traders are able to earn the amount. A dowry is often\nkept intact and passed from father to son, doing repeated service. A man\nmay also procure a dowry by the sale of a sister. I have heard Fang boys\nboasting that they were rich because they had several sisters.\n\nFor those who are not so fortunate as to inherit a dowry or to have a\nsister, there are two alternatives; first they may remain unmarried, with\nthe result that they will be regarded as contemptibly poor, and will be\nengaged in endless palavers with all the husbands of the town; or, they\nmay boldly steal a woman of some other town, which will cause war between\nthe two towns, and in the end, after several or many persons have been\nkilled, the whole town will have to pay the dowry. Sometimes a man may\nhave an incomplete dowry and may by working earn sufficient to complete\nit. The following would be an ordinary dowry among the Fang living\nnear the coast: Ten goats, five sheep, five guns, twenty trade-boxes\n(plain wooden chests), one hundred heads of tobacco, ten hats, ten\nlooking-glasses, five blankets, five pairs of trousers, two dozen plates,\nfifty dollars\u2019 worth of calico, fifty dollars\u2019 worth of rum, one chair\nand one cat. In addition to the above he must make frequent presents to\nhis wife\u2019s relations, who may be expected to arrive at any time and in\nany number for an indefinite visit. If there is any hatred in the heart\nof the African man it is usually directed towards his wife\u2019s relations. A\nman is all his lifetime subject to bondage by reason of his wife.\n\nA certain fellow missionary was married to another missionary. Some of\nthe African boys, knowing that the white man had paid no dowry, expressed\nenvious regrets at the ease with which a white man marries a wife. \u201cAll\nyou white men have to do,\u201d they said, \u201cis simply to ask a woman; and\nthe whole palaver is finished.\u201d This also made my celibacy the more\nincomprehensible.\n\nWhen a wife dies without having borne children the husband has the right\nto insist that the dowry be returned. A part of it and sometimes all of\nit will have been spent, and the people are reluctant to make up the\nloss; so the request that the dowry be returned after the death of a\nwife nearly always leads to war, though they do not question the right\nof the custom. If the wife runs away either to her own or another town,\nthe dowry paid for her must be returned, if the woman is not sent back.\nIn nearly every case her people will find it more convenient to send\nher back than to restore the dowry; so their bad passions of greed and\nimmorality are balanced the one against the other, and the large dowry\nserves the purpose of keeping husband and wife together. But if the woman\nruns away not to her own town, but to some other town, eloping with\nanother man, her people will often prevent war between the two towns by\ninducing her to return. Otherwise they themselves will become involved in\nthe war. Nearly all the wars between different communities of the same\ntribe begin with a \u201cwoman-palaver.\u201d\n\nA woman after an attempt to run away, or upon being brought back, is\nusually put in stocks until she becomes submissive. Her foot is passed\nthrough a hole in a heavy block of wood about four feet long, the\nhole then being closed by a bolt. She is kept thus night and day. The\nirritation of the rough wood often produces a very bad ulcer. A woman\nin stocks is a common sight in the Fang towns. One day while I was in a\nFang town on the river, I heard a woman crying in the next town as if in\ngreat pain. I asked an explanation and said I must go and see what was\nthe matter. Some men of her town being present tried to persuade me not\nto go by telling a variety of conflicting lies that made me suspicious.\nI went to the town, and found in the palaver-house a withered old savage\npunishing his young wife by putting her hand in a large and heavy block,\nwith the help of his younger brothers. He had made a small hole in the\nblock and was dragging her hand through it. The hole was so small that\nhe thought she would not be able to get her hand out, and it would not\nrequire the usual bolt. The hand was about one-third of the way through\nthe hole and was already badly bruised. I knew the Fang towns, and just\nhow far I could safely venture to use force in each, for they differ\nwidely. The individual counts for nothing; everything depends upon the\nfeeling or attitude of the whole town towards the white man. The sight\nof the woman and her crying were unbearable; I ordered the old chief to\nwithdraw her hand immediately. He knew just how to do it and I did not.\nHe began to argue, but I said: \u201cArgument afterwards: remove her hand\ninstantly.\u201d Still he talked, and the woman cried. But a moment later\nmy hand clutched his throat and he found himself pinioned against the\nopposite wall. Thereupon he indicated his readiness to comply with my\nrequest. He dragged her hand out of the block; the women of the town,\nall assembled, led her away as they moaned pathetically in sympathy, the\nwoman herself still crying. A little later I followed them into the house\nand found them pouring warm water over the bruised hand to soothe the\npain; but the woman still cried.\n\nMeantime, the old man told me the story. It was typical of the extreme\ninjustice often committed against the African woman: A young woman\nmarried against her will to a very old man, with the inevitable\nconsequence that she despised him and cared too much for somebody else. I\nmade the incident the text of my sermon and preached an up-to-date sermon\non _Woman\u2019s Rights_.\n\nThe old man\u2019s cupidity, always alert, suggested a happy expedient. In\na suave manner he deliberately proposed that since I knew so well how\nto treat a woman, he would as a favour accept a proper dowry from me,\nrenounce his claim upon her and let me marry her. But I exclaimed, at\nleast to myself: \u201cThis is so sudden!\u201d\n\nBut would not the old man immediately carry out his purpose when I had\nleft the town? No, he would not. An unexpected interruption in the\nperformance of such an act he would regard as a sign that the act would\nbe attended by misfortune to himself, and he would not repeat it. And\nthat particular act, if he had repeated it, would certainly have been\nattended by misfortune; inflicted not by any invisible power, but by\na white man. For, having undertaken to prevent the wrong, if I should\nafterwards allow it, I would lose influence and be despised in that town.\nBut lest the reader should think of me as a very warlike individual, with\na Bible in one hand and a big stick in the other, I hasten to say that,\nexcept in self-defense, I have only three times, in more than twice so\nmany years, laid violent hands upon a native; and all three times the\noutrageous treatment of a woman was the occasion.\n\nLess dowry is paid for a child than for \u201ca whole woman,\u201d as the Fang\nwould say. A man frequently pays the dowry for a very young girl, who\nis then taken to his town and given in charge to his mother to raise,\nand the mother will probably \u201craise\u201d her very early in the morning. She\ntrains the girl for her son, and at a proper age delivers his wife to\nhim. Children are often betrothed to each other, the boy\u2019s father paying\nthe dowry to the girl\u2019s father, the children of course having nothing\nto say in the matter. I am inclined to think that these latter are the\nhappiest marriages in Africa. A man once came to Efulen in great distress\nsaying that his little daughter, a mere baby, was very ill and that if\nwe did not help her she would surely die and, he added, the worst of it\nwas that she was betrothed and he had received a portion of the dowry\nwhich he would be obliged to return if she should die. His grief was\ntruly pitiable. I have known instances where a child was betrothed before\nit was born, the dowry to be kept intact and returned in case the child\nshould not be a girl.\n\nOne Sunday I walked to an inland town two hours behind Baraka, where I\nfound the people engaged in talking a dowry-palaver. I had to wait until\nthis was finished before I could get a hearing. The occasion of the\npalaver was briefly this: Some years ago, in another town, there were two\nbrothers whose father died leaving them their sister as an inheritance.\nA husband was found for this sister who paid a handsome dowry. The elder\nbrother appropriated the dowry and took to himself a wife. Several years\npassed; the younger brother was grown to manhood, and he too desired a\nwife but had no dowry with which to procure her. He demanded from his\nbrother his rightful share of his sister\u2019s dowry. The dowry of course was\ngone; but the elder brother now had a daughter five years old, and it was\nproposed that he should find a husband for this child, thus procuring a\ndowry with which to settle with his younger brother. The trouble between\nthe brothers became serious; and the people, wishing to avoid war,\ninduced them to ask a certain neighbouring chief, who had a reputation\nfor wisdom and diplomacy, to arbitrate between them and decide the matter.\n\nThis was the palaver that was in progress when I entered the town on\nSunday, and I heard the closing speeches and the decision of the judge,\nwhich was as follows: \u201cI will cut the palaver thus: The elder brother\nmust dispose of his daughter as speedily as possible, and pay to his\nyounger brother the sum of the dowry. Meanwhile, to procure obedience to\nthis, the elder brother\u2019s wife will remain in this town as my wife until\nthe dowry is paid.\u201d\n\nThis amicable arrangement was agreed to by all the parties concerned.\n\nThis chief deserved his reputation for cleverness. A few weeks later I\nwas passing through his town when he called after me and asked if I were\ngoing to pass by without making him a little present of some tobacco in\nrecognition of our intimate friendship.\n\nIn reply I asked: \u201cWhy do you not rather complain that I pass your town\nwithout stopping to tell you God\u2019s Word? Is tobacco more important?\u201d\n\nHis sprightly answer, delivered with perfect simplicity, was, \u201cNo doubt\nGod\u2019s Word is more important; but tobacco also is God\u2019s gift, and I am\nvery grateful to Him for it.\u201d\n\nSome of their immoral customs one can only mention with reserve even in\nwriting. It is always regarded as amiable, and is sometimes required,\nthat a host should give his wife to a guest. The wife is not consulted.\nYet, if the guest, being a Christian, should refuse to comply with this\ncustom, the woman, regarding herself as repulsed, will become enraged and\nvow vengeance upon the visitor; it will be positively dangerous for him\nto eat food in that town lest she poison him. It is common also for a\nman afflicted with a long illness to ask a friend to assume his marital\nrelations until his recovery.\n\nIn one instance this request was made of a Christian man by an intimate\nfriend, and at the woman\u2019s suggestion. The man in his distress appealed\nto me to talk the palaver with the sick man. If a man has many wives, it\nis regarded as magnanimous for him to take but little notice of social\nwrong-doing; and the result is boundless immorality.\n\nCharges of adultery are often made for the purpose of extortion. For this\nsame purpose husbands and wives together often conspire against another\nperson.\n\nPolygamy is the greatest obstacle to the introduction of Christianity. It\nis not identical with the question of African sensuality; but involves\na man\u2019s wealth, influence and reputation, all of which depend upon the\nnumber of his wives. It is the very foundation of the whole structure of\nAfrican society and is as firmly rooted as their Cameroon Mountain in the\nAfrican soil. Critics of missions say that the obstacle is insuperable.\nBut we believe in a Power that can say to the mountain: \u201cBe thou removed;\nand be thou cast into the sea.\u201d And that same Power is actually removing\npolygamy to-day. Moreover, the critics do not seem to see or do not\nunderstand that if polygamy be an insuperable obstacle to Christianity it\nis also an insuperable obstacle to civilization, which they advocate.\nThe renouncing of polygamy and putting away his wives with all the loss\nthat it involves serves as a final test of the African\u2019s sincerity in\nprofessing the Christian faith. The man of the parable said: \u201cI have\nmarried a wife, and therefore I cannot come.\u201d When at the close of a\nservice in a native town I gave a similar invitation a man replied with\na sorrowful shake of his head: \u201cI have married _five_ wives, and cannot\ncome.\u201d\n\nIn the later chapters of this book I shall tell of men who,\nnotwithstanding the jeers and contempt of the people, have put away many\nwives and have come.\n\nAmong the real negro tribes of the Soudan (for the tribes of Central\nand Southern Africa are not pure negroes) there is a central government\nand a general organization. But there is no tribal organization among\nthe Fang or any other tribe south of the Calabar River. The village,\nor a group of villages close together and immediately related, is the\nunit and the entirety of organization; although a common language is a\nbond of sympathy and they might freely unite against a common foe. Their\ngovernment is nearly patriarchal in form. There is a headman in each\nvillage who is usually advanced in years. But unless he has many more\nwives than any other man he takes counsel in all matters with the elders\nof the town; and there are many public discussions in which all the men\nhave a right to advise. There is no despotism, except the despotism of\ncustom which no chief would challenge.\n\nThe right hand of the government is a secret society of the men, usually\ncalled _The Gorilla Society_, or sometimes _The Leopard Society_. This\nor some corresponding society is found in all the tribes of West Africa,\nthough there are details of difference even between the communities of\nthe same tribe. The head of the society is not supposed to be a man, but\na gorilla. They all know that this is not true but they have agreed to\nimpose this lie upon each other and no one would dare say that the head\nof the society is a man. This man, or gorilla, is a witch-doctor and has\ngreat knowledge of witchcraft and all the occult arts. When a person dies\nthe gorilla can tell whether he has been a victim of witchcraft, and he\nhas means of discovering the witch. In order to realize the power of this\nman and the society one need only remember that nearly every death in\nAfrica is imputed to witchcraft. His knowledge, however, is not regarded\nas absolute. He designates certain persons whom he professes to see in a\nvision, and they are then tried by ordeal.\n\nIt would be impossible to exaggerate the African terror of witchcraft.\nWhen it is announced that a certain deceased person has died of\nwitchcraft, a panic ensues. They run back and forth in the street with\nwild, staring eyes, uttering imprecations and demanding blood.\n\nThe common ordeal is to drink some poisonous concoction and if it does\nnot produce vertigo the accused is adjudged innocent; but if he staggers\nor falls he is guilty, and the people, all standing around and looking on\nwith spears and swords in their hands, immediately rush upon him and kill\nhim, usually cutting the body to pieces. Far more women than men die this\ndeath.\n\nAmong the Fang this society represents the worship of ancestors. The\nmotive of the worship is not devotion to their ancestors but rather\nthat they may procure their help in every undertaking, good and bad.\nEach man as directed by the head of the society secures the skull of a\nfather or uncle recently deceased and after various ceremonies, of which\nI shall speak when I describe the native religion, he puts the skull in\na box made for the purpose. No woman may see the contents of the box,\nnor is she supposed to know what it contains. If she should see the\nskull she will die. And she really does die, if it be known that she\nhas seen it. She is doubtless poisoned by the society. The spirit of\nthe ancestor, if the skull is well treated, will punish with sickness\nor death a disobedient or false wife, or any other enemy. This it is\nsupposed will in some degree restrain disobedience on the part of wives\nand secure justice and honesty between men. Thus it serves the purpose\nof government. Where the power of the ancestor is the efficient agent\nrather than the supernatural power of the head of the society, the latter\nhas less prominence and often does not profess to be more than a man.\nBut where he is regarded as a gorilla, or spirit, no woman or child or\nuninitiated man may see him and live. Therefore as he approaches a town\nhe gives warning by roaring like a gorilla. The women and children flee\nfor their lives. Or, if unable to escape, they fall upon the ground and\nshut their eyes, mothers also putting their hands over their babies\u2019\neyes, until the gorilla passes out of the town, after having helped\nhimself to chickens, bananas or anything that he desires.\n\nThe African, it is said, loves idleness, amusement and war; of these\nthree he probably loves war most.\n\nExcept in the vicinity of the foreign governments or the missions, war is\nthe usual condition; not only between tribe and tribe but between village\nand village. Beyond the range of civilization there is no salutation\nbetween persons casually meeting and no need of it; a man hearing another\napproaching in the forest would hide.\n\n_Nsama_, which means a crowd, is also the word for chance, or\nopportunity; because a man does not go anywhere alone and a crowd is his\nopportunity. Of course villages are often on friendly terms and some may\nmanage to remain so; but in such cases there are usually strong reasons\nof expediency.\n\nThe usual beginning of a war is the stealing of a woman, as I have said;\nbut this does not always lead to war and the shedding of blood. Nearer\nthe coast milder measures of retaliation are often preferred, and when\na woman is stolen the offended town will capture one of the other side\nand keep him prisoner until the woman is returned. The solidarity of the\nvillage in the native mind is impressed upon one continually. They also\ncapture persons of a village in which some one owes them a dowry which\nhe is reluctant to pay. In all such matters the whole village is held\nresponsible for each one of its inhabitants. Many a time, travelling on\nthe river, I have been about to call at a town when one of my crew in\nalarm has told me that there was a palaver between that town and his town\nand he dare not enter there. At the next town another one of the crew may\nraise the same objection; and another at the next. After a thorough trial\nI had to depend almost entirely on men of the coast rather than the Fang,\nfor at least the first two years. It was not a cowardly imagination on\nthe part of my Fang crew; they were in real danger.\n\nOn one occasion one of my Fang boys, Ndong Koni, my best helper and most\ndevoted friend, accompanied me to a certain Fang town with which his\npeople had a palaver. He had not a vestige of fear in him and he told me\nnothing about it, but depended upon my presence for his safety. When I\nwas about to hold a service in the street I observed that the people were\nmuttering in anger, and at last there was an outburst of wrath which, as\nI saw in a moment, was directed against Ndong Koni. A \u201csister\u201d of Ndong\nKoni, who as a matter of fact was not nearer than a second cousin, having\nmarried a man in this town, had recently run away from a brutal husband,\nand her people had not yet made her return, or, unwilling to send her\nback, had not yet returned the dowry. The proposition was to seize Ndong\nKoni and put him in stocks until the palaver should be settled. Once\nthey should lay hands upon him nothing could be done to restrain them;\nfor when degraded and ignorant people have committed one hostile act\nthey become excited and violent; they are then a mob. I hurried to Ndong\nKoni\u2019s side and with him I stepped back from the crowd while I addressed\nthem and presented various arguments.\n\n[Illustration: NDONG KONI.\n\n_The first, the most faithful and the bravest of all my African\nfriends._]\n\nI said first: \u201cNdong Koni while in my service does not belong to his\ntown, but to me; he is my son, and you have no palaver with me. Now\nsuppose that one of your own young men should work for me\u2014and I see\nseveral fine-looking young men here with strong arms to pull an oar.\nSuppose that a young man of your town should go with me to Alum, where\nyou have a palaver, and that the people of Alum should attempt to seize\nhim, what would you like to have me do? Shall I say: \u2018He is only a black\nboy and I am a white man; I don\u2019t care what you do with him.\u2019 Or shall I\nsay: \u2018The colour of the skin makes no difference, so long as the blood\nis red. This boy while he works for me is my son; and if you should harm\na white man\u2019s son you will have a palaver with me and with the white\ngovernor at Libreville who owns the gunboat.\u2019 Now what would you like me\nto say if one of these young men should go with me to Alum and the people\nshould want to put him in stocks?\u201d\n\nThey shouted in reply: \u201cWe would want you to say he was your son. Those\nare good words. You are the father of us all.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said I, \u201cI have many, many children; but my life is full of\ntrouble, for they do not obey me.\u201d\n\nThe chief and a few others were as hostile as ever, but there was a\nmarked change in the attitude of the people; and in order to force an\nassertion of their friendliness I attempted a grand bluff, while I was\ninwardly quaking.\n\nApproaching the threatening chief I laid my hand upon his arm and said:\n\u201cCome and seize this boy if you dare. Come with me and before my face put\nyour hand upon my son.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d cried the people; and they crowded between the chief and Ndong\nKoni. The palaver was finished; but I thought it well to pass on to the\nnext town and not wait to hold a service. Before I got away however they\ncrowded around me, saying: \u201cSince you are the father of the Fang surely\nyou ought to give us some tobacco. A father gives tobacco to his sons.\u201d\n\nIt is thus frequently in Africa; the serious ends in burlesque; and,\nperhaps as frequently, comedy ends in tragedy.\n\nThe chief himself, coming forward just before my departure, assured\nme of his good will by solemnly taking my hand in his and spitting in\nit. I know the theory of some regarding this touching demonstration\nof affection,\u2014that the native means only to blow with his breath,\nsymbolic of imparting a blessing, and that the spitting is incidental,\na \u201cby-product\u201d\u2014so to speak\u2014of the blessing. But as I looked at my hand\nI realized that it was not a theory, but a condition, that confronted\nme, a condition that called loudly for soap and water\u2014_warm_ water and\nplenty of soap. I have before this acknowledged the receipt of blessings\nin disguise; but I would cheerfully renounce any possible benefits that\nmight accrue from a blessing coming in such a disguise as this. And\nif the old chief had approached me a second time with the offer of a\nblessing on the other hand, I would have said: \u201cPlease give me a curse\ninstead, by way of variety.\u201d\n\nThe form of \u201csocialism,\u201d by which any one of a village may be seized and\nkilled by the enemy for the wrong of any other of that same village, is\neven carried further, and to the extent that one person may be given over\nto the enemy for the wrong done by another person. I have already said,\nin reference to the Bulu, that at the end of a war the ordinary way of\nsettling the palaver is that the side that has done the most killing will\npay over to the other side a corresponding number of women, who become\nwives or sometimes slaves in the enemy\u2019s town.\n\nIn war they are not careful to kill only the enemy, but often shoot\nrecklessly at any one in sight who might possibly belong to the other\nside, not waiting to be sure about it. In the dark forest they often\nmistake a friend for a foe, with dreadful consequences. On the river it\nis not so frequent.\n\nOne evening one of my boys, Amvama, who afterwards became a catechist,\nan honest and lovable boy, was in a canoe on the river, fishing with a\nnet. It was evening and he was in the shade of overhanging trees. Several\ncanoes approached and the people mistaking Amvama fired upon him. He\nhastened to the bank and leaving the canoe and net fled into the forest,\nwhile they seized all that he had left. They afterwards learned who it\nwas that they had so nearly killed. Amvama\u2019s people demanded his canoe\nand net, which were surrendered. But the civilized Amvama cared less for\nthe loss of these things than for the personal outrage done him in their\nattempt to kill him. He indignantly put the question: \u201cWhy did you fire\nupon me?\u201d\n\nThey only replied: \u201cHow did we know it was you?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow did you know it was _not_ I?\u201d responded Amvama. But it is not likely\nthat the discussion contributed greatly to the science of ethics among\nthe Fang.\n\nThere is a strange war-custom in all the tribes of West Africa unlike\nanything that I have known or heard of elsewhere. Often when a woman is\nstolen from a small and poorly defended town, the people, desiring to\nmake a desperate protest, or being unusually resentful and fierce, will\nkill some person of a third town that has nothing whatever to do with\nthe palaver, by way of drawing attention to the fact that a crime has\nbeen committed and of impressing the community with its enormity. But it\nseems hard that a man should be punished for a crime without having the\npleasure of committing it. Sometimes, however, this is done to enlist\nthe help of the third town. For, this third town according to custom is\nnot supposed to retaliate directly but will unite with the town which\nhas killed one of their people in wreaking vengeance upon the first\ntown, which was the original offender and therefore the cause of all the\ntrouble.\n\nImagine A, B and C to be three schoolboys; the principle of the custom\nthen is this (if the colloquial language may be pardoned): A licks B; B,\nnot being able to lick A, lies in wait for C and licks him; then C joins\nwith B and they together lick A. The moral beauty of this principle is\nevident: A, B and C each get licked.\n\nOn one occasion when holding a service in a town we heard two shots fired\nin rapid succession in another town close by. Each shot killed a man;\none of them was a chief. They were unarmed and suspecting no harm; for\nneither they nor their people had anything to do with the palaver which\nwas the occasion of the killing; nor had they even heard of it. A man of\nthe town that I was visiting and who was then sitting in the audience had\njust stolen a woman from another town, which latter town was small and\npoorly defended. Being desperate, and in order that they might not be a\nprey to stronger towns, they resorted to this peculiar mode of justice\nthat they might form a strong coalition against the enemy. In this they\nsucceeded and fourteen persons were killed before that palaver was ended.\n\nAmong the Mpongwe, in the old days before the foreign power was\nestablished, and among the closely related tribes south of them, this\ncustom prevailed in an extreme form. A woman being stolen, the people of\nthe offended town would hurry to another town near by before the news had\nreached them and would kill somebody. This town would then hurry to the\nnext and kill somebody there, each town doing likewise until perhaps five\nor six persons of as many different towns would be killed in one night.\nThe last town would then, with the help of the others, demand justice\nfrom the first. It may be that the object of this frightful custom was to\nrestrain men from committing the initial crime, that might be attended\nwith such widespread death, bringing upon themselves the curses of many\npeople. For above all things the African cannot bear to be disliked and\ncannot endure execration.\n\nThe chief amusements of the Fang and other tribes of West Africa are\nmusic, dancing and story-telling. In these, and at all times, they\nexhibit a strong sense of humour, truly surprising in an uncivilized\npeople. In this faculty they are next to our own race and quite\nunequalled by others. In their survival of suffering and oppression, in\ntheir easy forgetfulness of injury, and their constant buoyancy of mind,\nwho can tell how much they owe to their keen sense of humour? The pain\nof suffering and the weight of heavy burdens are mitigated by frequent\nlaughter. They are fond of incongruous comparisons. On one occasion when\nwe were travelling on the river there was on board a white man who was\nvery bald, and who attracted considerable attention from the crew because\nthey had never seen a bald white man before. One of their number cheered\nup a lot of tired boys by remarking that the head of that white man was\nlike a fresh-laid egg.\n\nThey are passionately fond of music; but their sense of rhythm is far\nmore keen than their sense of melody. Accordingly the drum in various\nforms is the favourite instrument. There are two principal kinds of\ndrum, both made from the trunk of a tree hollowed out, and about four\nfeet long. One of these stands upright and the open end is covered with\ndeerskin. It is beaten with the palms of the hand. They play remarkably\nwell upon this drum. With great variety in the beat they maintain a\nconstant and perfect rhythm.\n\nThe other drum, which is larger, lies on its side, has closed ends, and\na long narrow opening in the side. It is beaten with two heavy sticks.\nThe wood of the drum is very resonant and it can be heard at a distance\nof many miles. It is used as a kind of telegraph between towns, and\nmessages are sent upon it. This is done by means of a secret language\nof inarticulate sounds which they are able to imitate upon the drum,\naccording to the part of it which they strike and the regularity of\nthe stroke. The women do not understand it, except a few common calls.\nNeither would any one be allowed to teach it to a white man. This\ntelegraphic use of the drum is extraordinary; messages of startling\ndefiniteness are sometimes sent ahead of a caravan over a great distance\nbeing repeated in town after town. This drum, therefore, bulky and\nunlikely as it appears, is very skillfully made, being precise in form\nand with varying shades of thickness in different parts. As to its\nmusical qualities, it may have charms to soothe the savage breast; I am\nvery sure that it could soothe no others; and among white people it would\nmake more savages than it would soothe.\n\nBesides the drums there are several other instruments, but of less\nimportance. The most common of these is a wooden harp with strings made\nof a vegetable fibre, which respond to the fingers with tinkling notes.\nThere is also a xylophone consisting of a row of parallel wooden bars,\ngraduated in length, and placed upon a base of two parallel banana\nstocks, which lie upon the ground. Banana stocks are used because\nthey are non-conducting. The wooden bars are hammered with sticks. The\nnotes are pleasant; but the Fang do not make much of it, as it is not\nsufficiently noisy to impress them. There is still another in common use;\na harp with a single string, the sound of which is like the magnified\nmusic of a Jew\u2019s-harp.\n\nTheir singing, like their instrumental music, has not much \u201ctune\u201d to\nit, but there is always a stirring rhythm and a certain weird and\ntouching quality, which impressed me the more because I could never quite\nunderstand it,\u2014the same elusive charm that characterizes the singing of\nthe negroes of the Southern States. I do not refer to the negro songs\ncomposed by white men, which are entirely different, but the melodies\nthat the negro sings at his work. The native songs are of the nature of\nchants, and turn upon several notes of a minor scale. But it is not quite\nour minor scale. There is one prominent and characteristic note, which I\nconfess defied me, though it may have been a minor third slightly flat. I\nfound it very difficult to reduce their songs to musical notation.\n\nThe words of most of the songs are improvised by the leading voice, and\nhave a regular refrain in which all join. But if they wish to sing in\nchorus, as in their dance-songs, any words will serve the purpose and the\nsame sentence may be repeated for an hour. \u201cOur old cow she crossed the\nroad\u201d were luminous with propriety and sentiment in comparison with the\nwords that they will sometimes sing in endless repetition. \u201cThe leopard\ncaught the monkey\u2019s tail,\u201d \u201cThe roots grow underneath the ground,\u201d are\nsamples of their songs. Their canoe-songs I like best of all. The rhythm\nis appropriate and one almost hears the sound of the paddles. They sing\nnearly all the time as they use the paddle or the oar, and on a long\njourney they say it makes the hard work easier. If they should take a\nwhite man on a journey and, not being his regular workmen, should expect\na \u201cdash\u201d\u2014a fee, or present, in African vernacular\u2014the leading voice will\nsing the white man\u2019s praises on the journey, alluding in particular to\nhis benevolence, while the others all respond, seeking thus by barefaced\nflattery and good-natured importunity to shame the meanness out of him.\n\nDancing, both with old and young, takes the place in general of our games\nand sports, except that the men also hunt. The music used is that of\nthe two drums already described, especially the upright one, and they\nusually sing as they dance. They can scarcely listen to the music without\nindulging the movements of the dance.\n\nMen and women never dance together; and they have nothing like our\nconventional dances. There is something of the freedom and unrestrained\nmovements of the Italian and Hungarian peasant-dances; yet in comparison\nwith these latter the African dance is a very uncouth performance,\nthough frequently difficult, and extremely grotesque. Its peculiar\ncharacteristic is that the feet are no more active than any other part of\nthe body; arms, shoulders, abdomen, head\u2014all the parts and every muscle\nare set in motion, sometimes including even the eyes and the tongue.\nTheir champions we would call contortionists rather than dancers.\n\nSometimes famous dancers from different towns, in fantastic and absurd\ndecorations and dress, will contend for the championship in a contest of\nseveral days. They dance in the middle of the street before an audience\nof almost the entire population of the different towns seated on the\nground on either side of the street. The music is not adapted to the\ndance, but the dance to the changing music. The musicians have hard work,\nand they make it harder. Streaming with perspiration they beat the drums\nwith changing time and increasing rapidity until they are almost as\nnearly exhausted as the dancers, and one might think that the music had\ngone mad. Without doubt the native dance is a fine bodily exercise; and\nthey dance so much that the exercise is perhaps the chief factor in the\ndevelopment of the strength and athletic form of the native.\n\nThe women dance on the moonlight nights, and often through the entire\nnight. They all sing as they dance, most of them standing in a circle\nwhile individuals one after another step into the middle of the circle\nand lead the performance. The men are standing around looking on and when\na leader finishes her part one or several of her gentlemen friends will\nstep into the circle and embrace her. These dances have always appeared\ninnocent enough to me. But the native Christians, who know better than I,\nand who also know the side-scenes that invariably attend the dance though\nnot a part of it, uniformly condemn the dance, and say that no Christian\nought to take part in it.\n\nThey dance on all festive occasions\u2014a betrothal, a marriage, a victory\nin war, the end of a war, or the end of a term of mourning for the dead.\nThe men decorate themselves with paint and feathers, and often they wear\naround their ankles strings of native bells, consisting of the dried hull\nof a certain nut, into which while still green they insert small stones,\nwhich make a peculiarly metallic and pleasant noise.\n\nThey usually form in two long lines in the street, with the drums\nacross one end. Some great dancer will perform in the middle, down\nthe lines and back, sometimes in graceful movements, and sometimes in\ncontortions almost fiendish until his body seems to have no shape at all\n\u201cdistinguishable in member, joint or limb.\u201d Sometimes they all move\nwith him down the street and back. They sing and shout as they dance,\nshaking the bells on their ankles, and occasionally all together suddenly\nstamping upon the ground. They mark the time to perfection, and the\neffect of so many men keeping the time perfectly while their movements\ndiffer, together with the volume of wild song and shouting is quite\nfascinating.\n\nThe chief dance of the men is that of their Secret Society, which is\nperformed only on very dark nights, the women being compelled to retire\nto their houses and close the door lest they see it and die. In this\ndance they deliberately try to be unhuman and hideous in their movements.\nI once witnessed this dance when I had been but a short time in Africa\nand did not know the serious nature of my intrusion; and I suppose I came\nmuch nearer suffering violence at their hands than I knew at the time.\nIt is the height of indiscretion to show unnecessary contempt for native\ncustoms, or to disregard their feelings for the sake of satisfying mere\ncuriosity. But I was not aware of their feelings until it was too late to\nretreat.\n\nHearing the drumming and the roar of the gorilla-man I knew they were\nhaving a characteristic dance and with a lantern in my hand I started\nalong the bush-path to see it and entered the town before they were aware\nof my approach. The offense was double. I had turned the light upon the\nperformance, possibly allowing women to see the gorilla-man through the\nchinks of the houses; and I myself had defied him by looking upon him\nwith uninitiated eyes, for which according to custom I ought to die. He\napproached me whirling about and contorting his body, roaring the while\nlike a gorilla, and brandished his sword very close to my face, to one\nside and then the other. But I was not intimidated for the sufficient\nreason that I did not believe he would touch me. Then, as I stood my\nground, he thought to terrorize me by his supernatural powers, which the\nnative would fear far more than a sword. He brought out a number of human\nbones and laying them on the ground before me he performed a ceremony\nwhich was supposed to bring down upon me the wrath of his ancestors.\nBut of the two dangers I was rather more afraid of the sword than the\nancestors. They all saw my indifference and concluded that I had with me\nsome fetish stronger than theirs and powerful for my protection; and they\nresumed the dance while I looked on, having first accommodated them by\nturning down the light. It was a strange sight, these black phantom-forms\ndarting to and fro in the dark, like flitting shadows often with a\nwriggling, reptile motion, and shrieking the while like hobgoblins.\n\nI have already spoken at length of the African\u2019s love of story-telling,\nand have given many examples. The following two stories are types of a\nlarge class.\n\nThe elephant and the gorilla hate each other, for each thinks himself\nking of the forest. Meeting one day in the bush-path, each refused to\nstep aside to let the other pass.\n\n\u201cLet me pass,\u201d said the elephant; \u201cfor these woods belong to me.\u201d\n\nThe gorilla beat his breast and made a noise like the sound of a drum.\nThen he replied: \u201cOh, Oh, Oh, Oh! These woods do not belong to you. I am\nmaster here.\u201d\n\nThe elephant would not move aside; so the gorilla broke down a tree and\nbeat the elephant to death. And the proof of it is that the prostrate\ntree was found beside the body of the dead elephant.\n\nThe sun and moon are great enemies. They are the same age but each\nclaims to be older than the other. The sun is the friend of the people\nand brings daylight and gladness. The moon hates people and devours them\nlike insects; she brings darkness, witchcraft and death. One day the sun\nand the moon had a palaver and got very angry at each other. The palaver,\nas usual, began by each one claiming to be older than the other.\n\nThe moon said: \u201cWho are you? You are nobody, for you are alone and have\nno family. My equal? Indeed! Look at these countless stars. They are all\nmy people; but you are alone.\u201d\n\nThe sun replied: \u201cOh, Moon, mother of darkness and of witchcraft! I would\nhave as many people as you if you had not killed them all. But now I have\ntaken the people of the world, men, women and children, to be my family;\nand I love them all.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\nFETISHES\n\n\nThe Fang, like other tribes of West Africa, have a name for God and they\nconceive that He is a personal being, who made the heavens and the earth,\nand created man. The one thing that they will say of God and the only\nfixed idea regarding Him is that He made everything. The world, even in\nthe mind of the African, is an effect which demands a cause; and that\ncause is God. But since they have no conception of God\u2019s eternity, by the\nsame principle of causality they must account for God Himself. So God has\na father and a grandfather. This notion of a divine ancestry is evidently\nan effort of the mind to grope its way back to a First Cause.\n\nThey do not fear God, and they certainly do not love or reverence Him.\nNor do I know that they ever worship Him. The transient observer among\nthem sees wooden images, evidently objects of worship, and supposes that\nthey are images of God; but in most cases, if not in all, these are\nimages of ancestors or imaginary personages. He figures in some of their\nfables; but His deeds are usually wanton, wicked, or immoral. Most of\nthese fables would not bear repetition. God is simply a magnified African\nchief with a great number of wives, most of whom have been stolen in the\nfirst instance. God takes no interest in the world that He has made. He\nlooks down with indifference upon all its cruelty, its sorrow, and its\nsin. If He interferes in human affairs it is perhaps to make mischief,\nor to confuse and distress men and women for His amusement. The most that\nthe natives desire of God is that He will let them alone, and to this end\nthey let Him alone.\n\nOur teaching at this point is radical. They are surprised to learn that\nGod always does right; that He loves right and hates wrong; that He loves\nthem as a father loves his children; that their sins grieve Him and that\nHe will punish their cruelties. We divest the character of God of all\nthat is filthy and wicked, and teach them that God is such a one as Jesus\nwas while on earth, even as He said to Philip: \u201cHe that hath seen Me hath\nseen the Father.\u201d To them it is an entirely new conception.\n\nTheir belief in a future life is very clear, although there are\nindividuals who will deny it. Their belief finds strong support in\ndreams. The African believes in dreams as actual occurrences, and they\nrelate them one to another with great earnestness, which perhaps tends to\nmake them more vivid and possibly more frequent. But no dreams are more\ncommon and none more vivid than those in which friends and loved ones\nappear who have recently died. Those who hold to the evolution of all our\nideas from natural antecedents have in the dream as regarded by primitive\npeople a plausible origin for the belief in a future life.\n\nThere were two Mpongwe women of Gaboon, Tito and Lucy, whom I used to\ninvite regularly every Saturday to come to my Bible-class on Sunday\nmorning. They were as regular in not coming as I was in inviting them,\nalthough they invariably promised to come and their parting salutation\nwas usually: \u201cWell, good-bye, till to-morrow morning.\u201d The truth is that\nTito and Lucy were not Bible-class women. They had been taught in our\nmission school in the early days before the French government forbade\nthe use of English; so they both spoke English fairly well. Lucy was\nsometimes called the Mpongwe queen, for she was head of the family that\nhad ruled the entire tribe in former days. She became a victim of rum,\nwhich sent her to an untimely grave. Her family told me that during the\nlast two years of her life it was doubtful whether she was ever sober.\nTito had been the mistress of several white men in succession, who had\neither died or had gone home never to return, and as a result of her\ncareer had acquired heaps of clothes, a miscellaneous assortment of\njewelry from glass to gold, and an awful temper.\n\nAt length one Sunday morning who should come to my Bible-class but Tito\nand Lucy!\u2014half an hour before the time. I felt something must have\nhappened, and probably something wrong. For I knew that my invitation had\nnot brought them; still less their promise. That same afternoon I was\npassing through their town and I stopped to ask them why in the world\nthey had come to Bible-class. Then Tito explained that she had not had\nany intention of coming and that she had promised me just because \u201cit be\nproper fashion to say Yes, more than No,\u201d but on Saturday night she had a\ndream in which an angel had appeared to her or at least had spoken to her\nfrom the next room and had told her that she and Lucy \u201cmust go to-morrow\nto Mr. Milligan\u2019s Bible-class.\u201d In the morning she told Lucy the dream\nand they both decided at once that they would come to the class. Without\nscruple they could disobey from week to week the mandate of normal\nconscience, and the moral law of truth, but they rendered absolute\nobedience to the invalid experience of a dream. Afterwards, however, Tito\nbecame a regular attendant and finally she was received into the Gaboon\nChurch and became a faithful Christian. She was by nature generous and\nshe was especially skillful and kind in caring for the sick.\n\nAnother woman, Ayenwa, lived in Tito\u2019s town, who had been educated in\nthe mission school but was now living as the mistress of a white man.\nAyenwa was a good-looking woman and she had the soft, pleasant voice that\nis characteristic of the cultivated Mpongwe woman and distinguishes her\nfrom other African women. I had talked to Ayenwa more than once and had\nremonstrated with her in regard to the life she was living. But although\nshe was troubled about it, she had made no change. At length a brother of\nhers died, and she was greatly afflicted by his death. He was a devout\nChristian, and before he died he had pleaded with Ayenwa to abandon her\npresent way of living. Much as she loved him she did not yield to his\ndesire and counsel. But not long after his death she came to me and said\nthat she had left the white man and had renounced forever that kind of\nlife; although she was friendless since her brother\u2019s death and did not\nknow how she would get a living. It was owing to a dream.\n\nShe told me very earnestly and in beautiful language how that she had\nseen her brother in a dream. She had seen him in a forest, but the forest\nwas very beautiful and it was like a great church. He smiled when he saw\nher and he called her by her name. She cried when she saw him and she\ntold him how she missed him. He told her not to weep for he was very\nhappy and was never sick any more. But he told her to remember his dying\nwords to her, and so to live that when she died she would come to him and\nthen they would never be separated any more. For several days the dream\nwas always in her mind. Then she resolved that at any cost she would\nforsake evil and do right. And surely God would take care of her.\n\nAncestor-worship is the highest form of African fetishism, and it is only\ncalled fetishism because the ancestor\u2019s skull or other part of the body\nis the medium of communication. In general it indicates reverence towards\nage; and this is a striking characteristic of the African. Yet I have\nknown of an instance where an old woman was afraid that her son would\nkill her in order to procure the help and favour which she could render\nhim after death. It is quite likely that such things really happen. At\nany rate love is not the apparent motive in ancestor-worship; it is\nsimply the hope of gain by obtaining their favour.\n\nThe usual fetish of ancestor-worship is the skull of the father, which\nthe son keeps in a box. The father occasionally speaks to the son in\ndreams and frequently communicates with him by omens. He helps him in\nall his enterprises, good and evil, and secures his success in love, in\nhunting and in war. All those who have these skulls are a secret society,\nwhich, as I have said, is powerful to rule and to tyrannize over others.\n\nYoung boys are initiated into this society by rites and ceremonies that\nare revolting. The initiation varies widely in different tribes and even\nin the same town there is no uniform ceremony. No white man could ever\nwitness the ceremony, and there are very few natives that would tell\nhim all about it. But a general idea he may get from some; and single\ndetails from others at different times. In the mild ceremony of the more\ncivilized Fang towns, the boy who is to be initiated is made very drunk\nand taken blindfolded to the bush, to a place set apart for the use of\nthe society. The ceremony continues several days. In one part of it the\nbandage is removed from his eyes at midnight, a low fire is burning which\ngives a feeble light, and he finds himself surrounded by the members\nof the society with faces and bodies frightfully distorted and all the\nskulls of their ancestors exposed to view, together with the heads of\npersons who have recently died. Some one asks him what he sees. He\nreplies that he sees only spirits and solemnly declares that these are\nnot men.\n\nBoys are often initiated against their will. One of my schoolboys, a\nhandsome lad of about fifteen, during a vacation was initiated and died\nbefore it was over. It is his initiation that I have just described\u2014at\nleast the very small part of it that I was able to find out. His death\nmade them more unwilling to tell me. His initiation lasted several\ndays during which he was compelled to remain in the bush. Further up\nthe river a boy, during the initiation, is usually placed for several\ndays in a house alone, after being made to look at the sun so long that\nsometimes he faints, and when he is taken into the house he cannot at\nfirst see anything. Meantime the door is closed and they all go away.\nGradually he sees things around him and at length discovers opposite him\na corpse, in an early stage of decomposition. He is kept there day and\nnight during the ceremony. The men visit him and subject him to all sorts\nof indignities in order to impress him with the necessity of absolute\nobedience to the society. They defile him with filth, and that the vilest\nof filth. But I presume that the reader will gladly excuse me from any\nfurther description of this disgusting practice. One cannot omit all\nreference to such things if he would describe the African as he really is.\n\nThey believe that the skull of the father or other ancestor when it\nhas been properly prepared becomes the residence of the ancestor, who,\nhowever, is not confined to it, but wanders about returning to it as to\nhis home. The son, in order to avoid the wrath of the departed father,\nand to obtain his help, will keep the skull comfortably warm and dry,\noccasionally rubbing it with oil and redwood powder, and will feed it\nbountifully. The process of feeding it is interesting. The son before\ngoing on a hunting expedition will open the box, and addressing his\nfather in audible words will ask his favour and will promise that in\nreturn for success he will give him a goodly portion of the game. If\nhe should neglect this duty for a length of time he may find when he\nmeets an animal in the forest that his gun will not fire, and he may\neven find himself helpless before his enemies. The white man knowing the\nkind of guns they use, does not think it necessary to go so far for an\nexplanation of the fact that they often fail in a critical moment. When\nthe son returns with game he will again open the box and place the meat\nbefore the skull. Then he will close the house against all possibility\nof intrusion and he himself will go away while the father eats. After a\nwhile he comes back, and although he finds the meat exactly as he left\nit, he supposes that in some mysterious way his father has eaten it\nand yet left it, that is, has eaten the spirit of it. He then eats it\nhimself, sharing it also with the men of the society. But since it has\nbeen offered to the dead father it is now sacred, and he cannot allow his\nwife or children to taste it under any circumstances. The men, being of a\nreligious turn of mind, offer to the father, all, or nearly all, the game\nthey procure, and if women and children are left hungry they can at least\nadmire the fervent piety of husbands and fathers.\n\nIt is only the skulls of men, not of women, that are used by the Secret\nSociety. But the spirits of women return after death, like those of men,\nand frequently become very troublesome. On Corisco Island there lives a\nman who has been in contact with civilization all his lifetime and is\nfairly educated though he is not a Christian. His wife died; and shortly\nafterwards she began playing pranks in his town and even in his house.\nShe broke nearly all his dishes. Then, one night, she struck him in the\nneck, and he instantly recognized her. His neck was stiff in the morning.\nThat proved it! Not being able to strike back in this unequal warfare and\npreferring an enemy whom he could kick (for this individual wore shoes\nand scarcely anything else) he lost spirit and finally pulled down the\nentire town and built in another place. Women and children never possess\nthe skulls of ancestors. The power of the ancestor is more often used\nagainst women than others. Among the Mpongwe and some other tribes a\nwoman may worship her ancestors; for which purpose she uses not skulls\nbut wooden images, which she never exhibits.\n\nThe African conception of nature may be inferred from what we have said\nof their view of God and their worship of ancestors. God having made the\nworld seems to take no more interest in it. Other spirits innumerable\ncontrol it and continually interfere with its normal operations.\nSince there is no single intelligence ever present and presiding it\nfollows that there is no uniformity in nature and no reign of law.\nThose phenomena which attract the African\u2019s attention he ascribes\nimmediately to a supernatural cause. He does not look for a natural\ncause. If a tree falls across his path, somebody threw it. The activity\nof spirits accounts for everything. There is no line between nature and\nthe supernatural; miracles are always happening. The causes of natural\nphenomena being supernatural are also inscrutable. The study of nature\nand the investigation of her laws is precluded by this conception.\n\nIf then we would understand the African, if we would distinguish between\nhis mentality and a state of imbecility, we must bear in mind that,\nsince according to his conception innumerable spirits at variance with\neach other preside over nature, uniformity, constancy and dependability\nare not to be expected. The rainbow, he says, is a serpent, which has\nthe power of making itself visible or invisible at will. If a mountain\ndisappear behind the clouds he has no difficulty in believing that a\nspirit who inhabits the mountain has removed it, and that he brings\nit back when the sun shines. The white man who does not accept this\nexplanation and demands a natural and knowable cause does not thereby\nmanifest a knowledge of nature but an ignorance of spirits. The canoe\nwhich carries him safely to-day may lose its buoyancy and sink beneath\nthe waves to-morrow. In some of their fables, at the utterance of a magic\nword a ship may sink, a house may fall, a man be reduced to physical and\nmental impotence; and such fables are scarcely distinguishable from fact\nin his conception. At their first contact with the white man they suppose\nthat the beads, cloth and other goods which he displays are made by\nhimself, by some magic process, as easy when known as the utterance of a\nword; and they suppose that we could without effort make them as rich as\nourselves. If a house or a town should burn down there is little use in\nlooking for the cause, as it may have been set on fire by some ancestor\nwho is angry at being neglected.\n\nWhen Du Chaillu visited a certain town in which the people had never\nbefore seen a white man, regarding him as a spirit, they all declared\nthat a great rock near the town had been moved by him and was not in the\nsame place it had been before. This inspired them with dread. But when\nthe smallpox broke out among them and the scourge followed him with the\npersistency of fate, there was no doubt in their minds but that he had\ncaused it; and meanwhile they made not the slightest effort to protect\nthemselves against the contagion. They regarded him with increasing fear\nand hostility until at last his journey came to a disastrous end. He\nand his party turned and fled while the natives pursued with poisoned\narrows. But they soon desisted from the pursuit; for, they declared,\ntheir arrows rebounded harmless from his body, and sometimes even passed\nthrough him and did him no injury. In all this let it not be supposed\nfor a moment that the native is a fool. He is true to his philosophy of\nnature: but his philosophy is wrong. He knows nothing of the doctrine of\nGod,\u2014of one Intelligence presiding over all nature, and that natural laws\nare therefore persistent and uniform.\n\nBut to the native chaotic conception of nature we must add another idea\nof fearful import. To the mind of the African nature presents a frowning\naspect, from which he naturally infers that the spirits which rule or\nreside within it are mostly hostile to him. It is only to the reflecting\nmind that nature seems beneficent. Her greatest forces, her constant\nministry, are not obvious. That which is normal and regular does not\nattract attention. A man thinks more of the one month of sickness than\nthe eleven months of health; he is more observant of the storm than\nof sunshine, more conscious of adversity than prosperity. The laws of\ngrowth, seed-time and harvest, rain and sunshine\u2014all the kindly ministry\nof nature is quiet and unobtrusive, while her cruelty thrusts itself upon\nthe attention because it is her unaccustomed mood. The conception of\nnature in the African mind is derived from the devastating tornado and\nthe storm upon the sea that threatens to engulf him, from the hard work\nnecessary to procure his food and the scarcity of meat, from sickness\nthat disables him and death that bereaves him of his friends. It is\ntherefore a part of his philosophy that the spirits are at enmity with\nhim. His own ancestors are among them and they may be placated and even\nrendered favourable, but a far greater number are hostile; and the motive\nof his worship is not devotion but fear. He worships the spirits of his\nancestors that he may obtain their help against all other spirits.\n\nContrary to all this Jesus teaches him to call God, Father; and God\u2019s\nFatherhood includes His care, which at once relates God to nature, for\nit is largely through nature that God\u2019s care is exercised. To believe in\nGod\u2019s care over us is to believe that nature\u2019s laws are the operation of\nHis will. The mind awakens to the beneficence of nature, and we learn\nthat even storm, disease and death are under the control of a sympathetic\nPower. The fear of the native is changed to confidence and trust.\n\nNext to the ancestral relic is a lower form of fetishism in which the\nexternal object is the vessel or residence of a spirit, which is under\nthe control of the possessor of the object. A still lower form of\nfetishism is pure animism, in which the various objects of nature have\neach a life analogous to that of man to which their phenomena are due.\nWitchcraft is a supernatural power obtained by a person through a compact\nwith an evil spirit. In Africa witchcraft is also fetishism inasmuch as\nit is usually, and perhaps always, supposed that there is within the\nwitch\u2019s body a physical object which is the residence of the evil spirit.\n\nThe skull or other relic of the ancestor differs from the common fetish\nin that the possessor of the former cannot compel the ancestor to do\nhis will; he can only persuade him, or induce his help and favour by\nofferings and kind treatment. But the possessor of the common fetish\ndoes not make offerings to it; the fetish is under his control and he\ncan compel the spirit within it to serve him. If it should disobey him\nhe will punish it. The usual punishment is to hang it in smoke. Fetishes\nhave a horror of smoke. I do not know that the native ever punishes his\nancestor for refusing a favour. If he should leave the skull in a cold or\nwet place, or should neglect offerings of food, the ancestor will suffer\ndiscomfort, but the discomfort is slight compared with the evil that he\nwill send upon his undutiful son as a punishment for such neglect.\n\nIn the proper fetish (if the word fetish be restricted in its meaning)\nthe spirit resides within the object but is not a part of it, and may\nleave it, the fetish being then of no more use. A still lower form of\nfetish, implying animism, is that in which the spirit of the fetish is\nits own life, and is related to it as the soul to the body. This latter\nfetish however is different from a mere amulet or charm; for the charm\noperates not by any intelligence within itself but by some sympathetic\ninfluence without. Such, for instance, is the horseshoe which the negro\nin our South hangs over his door for luck. The charm, the fetish, and the\nrelic represent ascending grades of belief. But they are all confused\nin the mind of the African, just as we confuse them under the one term\n_fetishism_.\n\nAs long as we live in Africa, however, we do not often speak of fetishes,\nbut of _medicines_: for this is in strict accord with native usage.\nThe native calls his fetishes medicines, and his medicines fetishes,\nand in his mind there is no difference. The remedial power of medicine\nis supernatural, due either to magic or to a spirit residing within\nit. Upon swallowing the medicine, the spirit of the medicine, like a\npoliceman, chases through the body after the spirit of the disease until\nit strangles it or drives it out. Of course the white man\u2019s medicines are\nfetishes also.\n\nThe following story (although I do not vouch for its truth) illustrates\nvery well the magical operation of medicine. A certain chief, it is said,\ninduced a German trader to order for him a chest of medicines prepared\nin Germany. The bottles of medicine are all numbered and the chest is\naccompanied by a book of directions, competent for the diagnosis of any\nparticular case. Every liable symptom and combination of symptoms is\nrecorded together with the prescription for each. The prescription refers\nto the bottles by their numbers. One day the chief fell sick. He found\nhis symptoms accurately described in the book, followed by the direction\nto take one spoonful of No. 15. The bottle of that particular number\nwas missing; so he took one spoonful of No. 7 and one of No. 8. But the\nresult was so alarming that as soon as he was sufficiently recovered from\nthe shock he consigned the chest to the spirit of the deep sea with the\nhope that it might do Neptune more good than it had done him; and to this\nend he was careful to send the book of directions with it.\n\nThere is a large class of fetishes in which the ancestor is the agent.\nIf a man is expecting to ask a favour of another he will be sure of a\ngenerous compliance if he scrape the skull of his ancestor and succeed in\nputting a little of the powder into the other man\u2019s food. Du Chaillu was\nhighly incensed when he found that this was the explanation of a certain\nchief\u2019s generosity who had been feeding him lavishly for several days.\n\nA man walking in the forest usually carries suspended from his neck a\nmedicine, contained in a goat\u2019s horn, the effect of which is to make\nhim invisible to an enemy if he should meet him in the path. He often\ncarries another, somewhat similar, which will turn the bullets of an\nenemy\u2019s gun into water if the enemy should see him and shoot at him; or\nsometimes the bullets will pass through his body and do him no harm. He\nwears a band, a \u201ckaga,\u201d about his neck, which tightens at the approach\nof danger. The explanation of the latter may be a physical fact, namely,\nthat fear distends the cords of the neck so that the band would really be\ntighter. He carries another medicine in a horn which, if danger overtake\nhim in the forest, or he should be in need of help, will whistle in his\ntown, however far away, and summon the people. It is obvious that several\nof these fetishes are quite superfluous if the others are to be relied\nupon. The native therefore does not fully trust his fetishes; and there\nis always the fear that some enemy may have a stronger fetish than his\nown. There are fetishes to protect a man against theft. One of these will\ncause a person who steals from its owner to \u201cswell up and burst.\u201d Indeed\nthere are a great many fetishes used for various purposes which have this\nsame effect of causing persons to swell up and burst. Another fetish is\nkept in the box containing the owner\u2019s cloth, tobacco and other goods.\nIf a thief should open the box this fetish will spring out and go right\nthrough him.\n\nBefore entering upon a war several days are sometimes spent in the\npreparation of war-medicine. The best fetish-doctors unite their skill\nin the preparation. It is medicine that makes the gun shoot straight;\nit is medicine that makes the bullets kill; it is medicine that makes a\nman fearless; it is medicine that makes cowards of the enemy. The French\ngovernment brought into the Congo Fran\u00e7ais native soldiers of Senegal,\narmed with first-rate guns and skilled in the use of them. The Fang were\nof course eager to know the secret of their powerful gun-medicine. Two of\nthe soldiers who were in personal contact with the Fang sold them little\ntin boxes filled with mud, which they said was their gun-medicine. The\ntwo enterprising soldiers were \u201cgetting rich quick\u201d when the government\nrequired their prompt attendance at the capital.\n\nSome of the war-medicines are repulsive. On extreme occasions they will\nsprinkle upon the forth-going warriors an admixture of the decomposing\nbrains of men recently deceased and the blood of fowls or of animals,\nwith other disgusting ingredients. With this medicine besides others\nwhich are suspended about his neck, the smell of such a hero would\ndetract somewhat from the glamour of his exploits; and one can imagine,\nupon his return from the war, the people holding their noses and singing,\n\u201cLo, the Conquering Hero Comes.\u201d\n\nThere are other fetishes which are used more commonly to avenge private\nwrongs.\n\nWhen a man cuts his hair or trims his beard, he carefully guards it and\nthen burns it, lest a single hair should fall into the hands of an enemy.\nSo he does with the cuttings of his nails. The possession of these would\ngive an enemy power over him; for they are the common ingredients of a\nfetish-medicine. A piece of his clothing may also be used in this way.\nSuch medicine, if buried before his doorway or placed beside the path\nwhere he will pass, even without coming in contact with him, will inflict\nsickness or disease, misfortune or death. Most of the evils that befall\nthe native he attributes to the power of these hostile fetishes. Only\nthe most devout and consecrated Christians are entirely freed from this\nsuperstition. Even in the Mpongwe Church of Gaboon, the oldest in the\nMission, there are many cases of discipline for such beliefs.\n\nThere was one particular case that came up in some form at nearly every\nmeeting of the session of the church for more than a year. A young\nwoman, named Anuriguli, was married and a short time afterwards was\nreceived into the church. It was said by certain of the heathen that an\nenvious woman of a town near by, who was also a member of the church,\nhad made medicine to prevent Anuriguli from having children. For this\nis a great affliction and reproach to an African woman. Some half dozen\nfamilies, men and women, became entangled in this quarrel, most of them\nhowever being heathen. The Christians among them were several times\nsummoned before the session of the church. Each told his story in his\nown way; the native way is to begin as far back towards the creation of\nthe world as their knowledge of history extends, and leave to the very\nlast all reference to the matter in hand. There is a notable absence of\nembarrassment in such a discussion, even on the part of the women; nor\nare they in the least forward; in fact they are not self-conscious at\nall; for no native ever hesitates for a word or experiences the slightest\ndifficulty in expressing himself in appropriate language. Anuriguli\ndeclared she had never accused the other woman of making medicine against\nher. She had heard it from others, but she did not fear such medicines\nsince she had become a Christian; although if the woman had done so\nit would indicate a feeling of extreme hostility towards her however\npowerless her efforts might be, and this enmity was making her heart\nsore. The other woman declared her innocence, and that for years she\nhad not believed in this superstition; nor had she any hostile feelings\nthat would prompt her to such a wicked action; but she had heard that\nAnuriguli accused her, and the accusation was hurting both her feelings\nand her reputation; and her heart was very sore, for the heathen had cast\nbitter reproaches upon her.\n\nHaving given much advice, but too little sympathy, I fear, I exacted a\npromise from each and all of them that they would stop talking about the\nmatter, and I dismissed them; for the session had endless work ahead of\nthem, some of it more serious than this. The result was that it broke\nout afresh, and three months later they were all before the session\nagain, when the matter was more complicated than at first. Three months\nlater it again came before the session for the third time. Anuriguli\u2019s\nposition had somewhat altered. She had heard that the other woman said\nthat she said that the other woman said that she said ... that the\nother woman had made medicine to injure her! And still there are those\nwho assert that the African is not intellectually competent! I did then\nwhat I wished I had done in the first place\u2014gave them all the time they\nwanted and took time myself to realize that fetishism is a terrible\nreality in Africa, that public opinion recognizes it and can inflict as\nheavy penalties as anywhere else upon those who fall into disrepute; for\nthe African, because his social instincts are strong, is very sensitive\nregarding his reputation. A patient and sympathetic hearing ended the\nwhole matter.\n\nThe ingredients of a fetish are usually objects associated with that\nwhich is desirable or that which is fearful\u2014the strong, the swift, the\ngruesome, the repulsive, the mysterious and objects associated with\ndeath. The eagle\u2019s talon is commonly used, the wing feathers of any bird,\nthe claw of the leopard, the teeth of all animals and their blood, dried\nbits of their flesh and their offal. When Shakespeare describes the\ncontents of the witches\u2019 caldron and their invocation of trouble, one\nmight think that he had been a missionary to the Fang.\n\n    \u201cFillet of a fenny snake,\n    In the caldron boil and bake;\n    Eye of newt and toe of frog,\n    Wool of bat and tongue of dog,\n    Adder\u2019s fork and blind-worm\u2019s sting,\n    Lizard\u2019s leg and howlet\u2019s wing,\n    For a charm of powerful trouble,\n    Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.\u201d\n\n    \u201cDouble, double toil and trouble;\n    Fire burn and caldron bubble.\u201d\n\nWhen the fetish is not merely for protection, but is intended to injure\na particular person, it must include such personal ingredients as the\ncuttings of the hair or nails of that person, or a shred of his clothing.\n\nFetishism and witchcraft inevitably go together. A witch is in league\nwith an evil spirit by which she can leave the body, and return to it,\nfor her spirit is \u201cloose from her body.\u201d She \u201ceats\u201d the spirit, or life,\nof her enemies, and all people are her enemies, innocent or guilty alike.\nShe is sold to evil. The African does not regard the spirit or soul of a\nperson as immaterial. It is a thin vaporous material which resembles the\nbody in form and appearance. This is perhaps everywhere the conception\nthat underlies the belief in ghosts. Primitive people generally associate\nthis spirit with the shadow, and sometimes with the breath. The African\nbelieves that a man may lose his shadow. Soon afterwards he will die.\nAn enemy may also injure it. Many an African has sought to kill another\nby driving a nail into his shadow. A man\u2019s shadow is big in the morning\nbecause it is fresh and strong. It shrivels up with the heat of the sun.\nIt is evident that the sun afflicts it for it always keeps on the cooler\nside, away from the sun.\n\nMany tribes\u2014whether all tribes I cannot say\u2014believe that a person has\nseveral spirits. It is always the spirit that gets sick, and any one of\na man\u2019s spirits may get sick, or may leave him. In the latter case a\nskillful doctor will be able to catch the spirit and put it back in the\nman. Madness is always imputed to a malignant spirit inhabiting a man\u2019s\nbody; such a spirit may be born with the man.\n\nTheir chief fetishes, however, are for protection against witches. In\nmany houses, immediately inside the door there hangs a fetish which at\nnight builds a fire around the sleeping inmate, a fire invisible to all\nothers but witches, and through which no witch can pass. Another has\nthe power to change the bamboo cabin into a house of stone, through\nwhich witches cannot pass. It retains the appearance of bamboo in every\nrespect, and one can see the light between the pieces, but in reality\nit is solid stone, with no openings at all, not even for the door. We\nare reminded of another miracle whereby bread is changed into something\nwhich is not bread, the change being non-apparent since it takes place\nnot in the accidents but in the essence of the material. So, the bamboo\nis transubstantiated into stone.\n\nOne is sometimes mentally staggered and feels that he is losing his hold\non reality by the stories of Africans recounting their own experiences\nand what their eyes have seen, stories told soberly and with every\nevidence of sincerity. A man tells how that while his wife\u2019s body was in\nher bed he looked out into the street and saw her spirit form, with that\nof others whom he recognized, armed with knives and cutting up the form\nof a person and eating it. The victim whose life they have eaten sickens\nsoon afterwards and dies a lingering death.\n\nOne day walking along the Batanga beach with a fellow missionary, we\npassed a large, flat rock almost submerged beneath the rising tide, which\nrecalled to my companion the following story. Some years ago at Batanga\nthere lived a man who had long suspected his wife of witchcraft. One\nnight he had occasion to speak to her, but she did not answer. He tried\nto rouse her from sleep, but could not. He concluded that she was away on\nsome witch errand leaving her body behind her, as witches do. He himself\nhad some knowledge of witchcraft though he employed this knowledge only\nin self-defense. He anointed her body with red pepper. Witches abhor red\npepper; and they cannot re\u00ebnter a body thus anointed. Towards morning the\nwoman returned to her body only to find that she was undone; groans and\nsighs told her distress to the ear of the husband who lay quiet as if\nasleep. She lingered until the day began to dawn. Now, witches are afraid\nof light even more than of pepper. She retired and hid herself near the\nhouse to await the next night. Meantime, the husband related the whole\nstory to the assembled people, and they accepted it nothing doubting.\nThey resolved to burn the body immediately. They dragged it through the\nstreet to the beach in the sight of her own family and her children,\namidst execrations and insults, and burned it on the rock while the tide\nwas low, and soon afterwards the rising waves swept the ashes into the\nsea.\n\nThe Africans do not say of a woman that she _is_ a witch, but that\nshe _has_ a witch. She commits witchcraft by means of the witch which\nshe possesses. And since everything has a material body of some kind,\nthe witch can be found within the woman. Often a witch rebels against\nits possessor and \u201ceats\u201d her. This is the frequent explanation of\nconvulsions, and a convulsion is enough to bring suspicion and a charge\nof witchcraft against a woman. A sure way to find out the truth of the\nmatter and relieve the strain of suspense is to kill the woman, open\nthe body and make a conscientious and impartial investigation. In this\nmanner, executing the sentence first and afterwards finding a verdict of\n\u201cguilty\u201d or \u201cnot guilty,\u201d the verdict is more likely to be just, while\nthey also avoid a prolonged and scandalous trial, and evince a delicate\nregard for the woman\u2019s reputation. Any old thing that they may find in\nthe body not consistent with their ideas of anatomical propriety is\nidentified as the witch.\n\nSometimes a hen is set on eggs and the accused person is pronounced\nguilty, or not guilty, according as the greater number of chickens\nhatched are male or female. But this kind of ordeal is more common in\ndeciding cases of adultery. More commonly in the case of witchcraft a\ncertain mild poison is administered to the accused in a drink. Sometimes\nshe vomits it, or it passes without any serious effect. But if she\nbecomes dizzy and staggers, they instantly leap upon her with knives and\nkill her. There seems to be no such thing in the African opinion as a\nnatural death. All deaths that we call natural are imputed to witchcraft.\nAs soon as the cry of witchcraft is raised, the people, panic stricken\nwith fear, are transformed to ferocious demons. With wild eyes they\nrush up and down the street in a body crying out for blood. This is the\nopportunity of the witch-doctor, either to levy blackmail, or to rid\nhimself of his enemies. When a woman is accused by him, no matter in what\nesteem she may have been held hitherto, and regardless of her family\nconnections, the people turn upon her in cruel rage and can scarce wait\nfor the ordeal. Such scenes, and the violent death following are very\ncommon among them; yet the white man rarely witnesses anything of the\nkind. They are altogether different when he is present.\n\nOne of our missionaries has told me how that, in the early days, on\nCorisco Island, he once saw a condemned woman, one whom he knew, taken\nout to sea in a boat. A short distance from the shore they cut her throat\nand flung her into the sea. Meanwhile, behind a rock which hid them from\nhis view, they burned at the stake the condemned woman\u2019s son, a young\nboy, lest growing up he should avenge his mother\u2019s death. Their motive\nin inflicting such a horrible death upon an innocent boy was probably to\ndisable his spirit and prevent it from returning to trouble them.\n\nA man\u2019s wives are the first to be suspected of having caused his death,\nas they are usually supposed to have a latent desire for it. As a matter\nof fact they are very skillful in the use of the deadly poisons which\nabound in Africa, and which they often administer in food. Much of the\nwitchcraft in Africa is straight poison. A native offering you drink\nor food always tastes it first himself in your presence to show that it\nis not poisoned. It is an unsavoury custom, but it is wise to observe\nit strictly. The use of poison is a peculiarly unpleasant habit on the\npart of a wife since she has a constant opportunity. Slaves also, and\nsometimes white men\u2019s servants, contract this same habit. Truly, life\nin Africa, in its every aspect, is a fight with death. It is possible,\nas some say, that the practice of killing wives at the death of their\nhusbands has this origin; in any case it serves to restrict the use of\npoison and to induce wives to try to keep their husbands alive.\n\nWives accused of having caused the death of a husband by witchcraft, are\noften buried alive with his dead body. A Bulu chief near Efulen died\nleaving seven wives. They were charged with having bewitched him and were\nabout to be buried alive with him when Dr. Good reached the town and\nsaved their lives. A very large grave was already dug in the street and\nthe body was laid in the middle. The women lay naked and trembling upon\nthe ground. But the people would not perform the atrocious deed in the\npresence of the white man. Dr. Good stayed in the town even against their\nprotest, and would not leave it until they had filled the grave, and\nhe knew that the women were safe. In one of the Bulu towns, ten women,\nwives of one husband, were buried alive with the body of the husband. In\nanother town twenty women were buried thus with the body of the husband.\nA large grave was dug and the body placed in the middle; the women\u2019s legs\nwere broken with clubs and then they were flung into the grave.\n\nThe belief in witchcraft has been more prolific of cruelty than any\nother in the history of the world. It dehumanizes men with fear. The\nstory of the power which a remnant belief in witchcraft has exercised\nin civilized and even Christian communities is the darkest page in\ntheir history, and we will need to remember that in Africa there is no\nrestraint of civilization and no light of Christianity. I am always\nafraid that the depiction of the diabolical cruelty incident to the\nbelief in witchcraft may cause the civilized to recoil from the African\nas if he were less than human, and hopelessly brutal. It is therefore\nwell that we should insistently remember the facts of history and the\nslow emancipation of civilization from this same belief with its horror\nof cruelty. Between the promulgation of the bull of Pope Innocent VIII\nagainst sorcery, in 1484, and the last judicial execution for witchcraft,\nin 1782, it is estimated that 300,000 women perished in Europe on this\ncharge. The last execution in England was that of Mrs. Hickes and her\nnine-year-old daughter, in 1716.\n\nSince a particular incident makes a more adequate impression than a\ngeneral statement, I quote entire a brief story told by Froude in one of\nhis historical essays, _The Influence of the Reformation on the Scottish\nCharacter_, which he takes from the official report of the proceedings in\nthe case:\n\n\u201cTowards the end of 1593 there was trouble in the family of the Earl\nof Orkney. His brother laid a plot to murder him, and was said to have\nsought the help of a \u2018notorious witch,\u2019 Alison Balfour. When Alison\nBalfour\u2019s life was looked into, no evidence could be found connecting her\neither with the particular offense or with witchcraft in general; but it\nwas enough in these matters to be accused. She swore she was innocent;\nbut her guilt was only held to be aggravated by perjury. She was tortured\nagain and again. Her legs were put in caschilaws\u2014an iron frame which was\ngradually heated till it burned into the flesh\u2014but no confession could\nbe wrung from her. The caschilaws failed utterly, and something else\nhad to be tried. She had a husband, a son, and a daughter, a child seven\nyears old. As her own sufferings did not work upon her, she might be\ntouched, perhaps, by the sufferings of those who were dear to her. They\nwere brought into court and placed at her side; and the husband first\nwas placed in the \u2018lang irons\u2019\u2014some accursed, I know not what. Still the\ndevil did not yield. She bore this; and her son was next operated on. The\nboy\u2019s legs were set in \u2018the boot\u2019\u2014the iron boot you may have heard of.\nThe wedges were driven in, which, when forced home, crushed the very bone\nand marrow. Fifty-seven mallet strokes were delivered upon the wedges.\nYet this, too, failed. There was no confession yet. So, last of all, the\nlittle daughter was taken. There was a machine called the piniwinkies,\u2014a\nkind of thumb-screw, which brought blood from under the finger-nails,\nwith a pain successfully terrible. These things were applied to the\npoor child\u2019s hands, and the mother\u2019s constancy broke down, and she said\nshe would admit anything they wished. She confessed her witchcraft\u2014so\ntried, she would have confessed to the seven deadly sins\u2014and then she was\nburned, recalling her confession, and with her last breath protesting her\ninnocence.\u201d\n\nWe civilized folk have a way of forgetting our own history, and the pit\nfrom which we have been digged.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nA BOAT CREW\n\n\nThe following is the beginning of a letter written to a circle of friends\nin America while I was in Africa.\n\n\u201cSeated within the open door of my study I look down the hillside,\nthrough a vista of gorgeous oleander and orange trees, of graceful,\nwaving palms and the soft cascade foliage of the bamboo tossing and\ntumbling in the breeze, to the blue expanse where the Gaboon rolls out\nto the boundless ocean. The early afternoon is quiet, and the hazy\natmosphere, peculiar to Africa, blends together in gentle harmony things\nmost diverse in form and colour. But there is one object to which the\nmind and eye turn back yet again, and which by associations variously\ntender, pathetic, or amusing, lead memory off for a while to wander\nin the dreamy mazes of the past. It is the mission boat _Evangeline_,\nwhich lies at anchor on the bay, rising and falling with the successive\nwaves. The _Evangeline_ came to Africa many years ago. Some of those\nwho commanded her are now infirm with age, and the voices of some\nare heard on earth no more. Her special work has always been that of\nitinerating,\u2014carrying the Gospel of light and peace to those who sit in\ndarkness and sorrow, by many waters. Like her namesake, the lonely maiden\nof Acadia, she has followed the rivers of a strange land and streams\nunknown that wind and wander through \u2018forests primeval.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe _Evangeline_ is a gig, twenty-two feet long, having four oars and\nrequiring four oarsmen. Her lines are perfect, and for her size she is\na remarkably fine sailing-boat, riding a rough sea with a steadiness\nand lightness that have drawn praise from old seamen. Before the strong\nsea-breeze she seems fairly animate and impelled by motive and purpose\nas she spreads her wings to the wind and speeds forward on her errand\nof mercy. I can think also of sultry days when her sails hung loose and\nheavy through the whole day while tired men pulled wearily at the oars,\nwhistling vainly for the wind, which ever \u2018bloweth where it listeth.\u2019 I\ncan think of toils long and hard when we wound wearily through mangrove\nswamps, by fetid banks, under the relentless heat of a tropical sun. But\nthese experiences belong to the past and I can forget them now. For it is\none of the touching frailties of human nature that as the past recedes\ninto the obscure distance we magnify its fond and pleasant memories and\nforget the evils that we no longer feel.\n\n\u201cMy long journeys in the _Evangeline_ are probably past; for a naphtha\nlaunch, the _Dorothy_, has arrived, dispensing with the toil of oars and\nthe aid of the fickle wind, perfectly protected from sun and rain and\nfitted with every comfort for day and night. But the _Evangeline_, though\nher name designates her as feminine, belongs to the ordained clergy of\nthe Presbyterian Church and has not yet passed the dead-line. We will\nfind for her some field in which a few years longer she may exercise her\ntalents.\n\n\u201cThis afternoon as I look at her I seem to see the faces of faithful\nboat-boys who journeyed with me by day and by night, and my mind is\nfilled with recollections of experiences and incidents by the way. There\nare none in Africa whom I know better than those boat-boys; and through\nthem I probably know all Africans better and love them more. For when\nsails are set before a good wind and the bow tosses the waves aside,\nthe music of the plashing water, the mutual dependence and isolation\nfrom others,\u2014the delight of it all makes social freedom and comradeship\npeculiar to such life; and again, when they toil at the oars hour after\nhour without complaint, sympathy breaks down all barriers. If you should\nlaugh at these boys let your laughter be sympathetic; they are worthy\nof sympathy. Life is so hard for the African, so bare and comfortless!\nAnd when he would fain seek the road to the Better Land so many forces\nconspire against him that, apart for our faith in God and the love of\nGod, one might think that the world around him was contrived for his\ndefeat. In this dark land one catches only an occasional glimpse of the\nall-ruling and kindly Providence in which we believe. It would seem\nrather that the fabled goddess of fortune, blind and turning her wheel in\nthe darkness, dispenses at random the destinies of men.\u201d\n\nThe captain of the _Evangeline_ was Makuba, a man of Benito, one hundred\nmiles north, one of the Kombi tribe, the remnant of a proud and capable\npeople who for many years have been in contact with the civilization of\nthe coast. The Kombi know the sea and are excellent boatmen, strong and\ndaring. In travelling in their own canoes even on the sea, they commonly\nstand up in the canoe, using long paddles. When there are five or six\nmen in the canoe, or the sea is rough, it is interesting to watch them.\nMakuba was a man of splendid physique and very strong, and as bold as a\nlion. Shortly after I went to Africa, when for a while I lived entirely\nalone, at Angom Station, seventy miles up the Gaboon River, a serious\npalaver occurred in which Makuba took a prominent part.\n\nThe Fang of the adjacent village stole some goods from him. He and\nseveral other workmen, being coast men, were regarded by the interior\nFang as natural enemies. I was morally responsible for the safety of\nthese coast men and I regarded myself as responsible also for the stolen\ngoods. Moreover there was a mission store at that station and the sight\nof our goods was a continual challenge to the passionate greed of the\nFang, who therefore must not be allowed to think that they could steal\nanything from the premises with impunity. Indeed, our very reputation and\nevangelistic success were involved; for it was plain that the Fang had\nbeen mistaking forbearance for cowardice, and in their esteem there is\nnothing so contemptible as a coward.\n\nOn this occasion I followed strictly the native mode of obtaining\njustice, and that which the native, with his idea of the solidarity of a\ncommunity, recognizes as fair. A few minutes after the theft a man from\nthe same town to which the thief belonged passed through the mission\npremises. I gave the order to the workmen to capture him and take his\ngun. Makuba, without assistance, executed the order. The man fought him\nviolently, but being overcome was at length reduced to cursing him and\npredicting the various horrible deaths by which he would die, not to\nspeak of everlasting torment that would be sure to follow. The indignant\nMakuba in reply tore open the front of his shirt and exposed an ugly scar\nupon his breast.\n\n\u201cAm I afraid of the Fang?\u201d he cried. \u201cDo you see that scar? A Fang knife\ndid that in an attack upon my tribe, and I alone killed the man who\ncarried it and two of his friends.\u201d\n\nI then took charge of the gun and told the man that I would return it as\nsoon as his people would bring me the stolen goods, and then I released\nhim.\n\n[Illustration: MAKUBA, CAPTAIN OF THE BOAT-CREW.\n\n_In a tornado his chief anxiety was always for the white man, that\nhe might not get wet, and it was a part of politeness not to protect\nhimself._]\n\nAn hour later some thirty or forty very angry men, armed with knives and\nguns, and shouting their war-cry, rushed into the yard. They did not yet\nrealize that I was going to take up the palaver, but thought they had\nonly to deal with the workmen, who were unarmed. Their intention was to\nkill Makuba and take the gun, which they supposed was in his possession.\nThey ran past the end of my house towards the workmen\u2019s house shouting\nthe name of Makuba. But it chanced that he was at the other end of my\nhouse, so they missed him. Immediately returning they saw him but before\nthey reached him I pushed him into the house and closing the door myself\nconfronted them and addressed them from the porch, explaining that since\nMakuba was in my employ I was bound to protect him; that the palaver\nwas therefore mine, and they would have to fight me first. They first\ndemanded that Makuba be delivered to them, but at length proposed to\naccept the gun as a compromise. I of course declined the compromise and\ndemanded the stolen goods for the gun.\n\nFinally one of them raised the cry: \u201cLet us kill the white man and take\nthe store.\u201d\n\nThis may have been a mere bluff. I am disposed to think that it was;\nbut I did not think so that day, and one cannot be sure. It was in a\nFang town much nearer to the coast and to the French government that Mr.\nMarling was once robbed of his very clothing and left naked in the street\nof the village.\n\nThe idea of killing the white man for the goods in the store became\nuncomfortably popular. They recounted all the grievous wrongs they had\nsuffered at the hands of white men, and missionaries in particular, from\nthe discovery of Africa down to the present moment. They had at various\ntimes respectfully advised that the church be closed and the store kept\nopen all the time, and had been told in reply that the church was more\nimportant than the store, and that preaching the Gospel was our chief\nwork. They had come to buy goods and had found the store closed and the\nmissionaries holding prayers with the people. They had advised that we\nmust sell goods only to them and not to their enemies and had been told\nthat we loved their enemies. They had advised that we lower our prices on\nall articles except those that they did not want and we had seen fit to\nfix our own prices regardless of their feelings. They had frequently come\nto the station to beg a little present and the missionaries had affronted\nthem by offering them work. They had requested tobacco of this present\nwhite man and in reply he had invited them to Sunday-school.\n\nThe situation had become intolerable and they proposed to recompense\nfull vengeance upon the aforesaid white man. The older men, however,\nadvised that if they should attack the white man and the mission it ought\nnot to be done by one town, but that all the adjacent towns ought to be\nengaged in it so as to spread the responsibility. This advice prevailed\nand they decided upon an attack that night, and sent messengers to two\nlarge towns some distance in the forest, telling them to come armed for\nan attack on the mission. I did not suppose at the time that we had a\nsingle weapon of defense except the old gun that we had captured. It was\nalready loaded, but as far as I knew we had no ammunition. I immediately\nset out to search the premises, and to my great joy found a rifle, which\nhad accidentally been left there. We found plenty of ammunition both for\nthe rifle and the gun which we had seized. I also ordered the men to\ncatch any native that might come near the premises and to take his gun.\nThey were greatly surprised when they heard the report of the rifle and\nimmediately recognized it as \u201ca white man\u2019s gun,\u201d of which they have a\nwholesome dread, believing also that the white man has medicine which\nwill make his gun shoot straight and absolutely sure. I was very careful\nto conceal the fact that I had only one rifle, and they were quite\ndeceived, supposing that I had a sufficient number for all of us. They\ndispatched messengers a second time to the forest towns to tell them of\nour preparations. They all came together that night armed for war, and\nshots were fired continually during the night, but no attack was made.\nWhen I afterwards learned how prone they are to experimentation with a\nnew comer, I realized that it might have been a mere bluff. No one can\ntell; but I had no such thought at the time. Neither did Makuba nor any\nof the workmen regard it as a bluff.\n\nAll the workmen excepting Makuba besought me to give back the captured\ngun and stop the palaver. I brought them into my house that night; but\nMakuba with the rifle in his hand insisted upon keeping watch, and walked\nbefore my door the whole night. The matter of his stolen goods and his\npersonal danger were quite forgotten in absorbing anxiety for the white\nman\u2019s safety. I may add that I cut off all communication with the people,\nrefusing to buy their supplies of food, or to open the store, until after\nseveral days they returned the stolen goods, and the palaver was finished.\n\nA short time after this I made Makuba the captain of the boat crew. He\nknew the sea, and everything about boats and was perfectly trustworthy.\nBut these qualifications are more common in Africa than the faculty\nof discipline and command which is by no means common. Makuba was not\naltogether wanting in talent for discipline, but when this proved\ninsufficient he procured obedience to his orders by diplomacy and\nargument; and for that matter, the greatest sea-captain dispenses with\nargument only because he is given authority to punish and to put in\nirons, which requires no talent at all.\n\nBut all Makuba\u2019s resources of discipline and diplomacy were taxed when I\nhired Obianga, a young man of the Fang, whose home was near Angom. Poor\nObianga is dead; and I would not make cheap jokes at his expense. He was\nlike a wild unbroken colt, full of life, willing to work, and not lazy,\nbut resentful of the bit and reins of authority. For any man, especially\none of another tribe, to give him an order was equivalent to calling him\na slave; and, representative of his tribe, he seemed ever to be saying:\n\u201cWe were never in bondage to any man.\u201d\n\nWhen Makuba would shout an order to him, however urgent, even if a\ntempest were approaching, Obianga would perhaps tell him to \u201cshut up.\u201d\nThen we usually improvised a little tempest on our own account, Makuba\u2019s\nindignation being the turbulent factor. But in milder weather he would\ntry persuasion and various expedients, old and new, always prevailing in\nthe end.\n\nI never interfered in these altercations, though I sometimes reckoned\nwith the offender when the journey was over. More than once Makuba asked\nme to dismiss Obianga, but I would not; for I liked him and felt that\nthere was in him the raw material for an excellent man. Then, too, I\nremembered that I once dismissed another man upon Makuba\u2019s urgent and\nrepeated request, and no sooner did Makuba hear of it than he came to\nme begging me to take the man on again, saying that he himself had been\ntoo impatient, reminding me also that the man had a wife and child, and\npromising that if I would take him back he would not complain of him\nagain. Of course I took him back; and Makuba kept his word.\n\nThe worst disputes between Obianga and Makuba took place when they\nsupposed that I was asleep. The native when he lies down anywhere sleeps\nimmediately. Whenever I was lying in the bottom of the boat they always\nsupposed that I was asleep and that no conceivable noise could waken me.\nDuring one of their quarrels Makuba, with a voice like a thunderbolt,\nroars: \u201cIf you don\u2019t do what I say I will tell Mr. Milligan that you\nhave two wives.\u201d\n\n\u201cSh\u2014sh! Makuba,\u201d says Obianga. \u201cWhat did you tell me to do?\u201d\n\nSuch altercations as the following were not uncommon: Captain Makuba\norders Obianga to \u201chaul away on the peak halliards\u201d; to which Obianga\npromptly replies:\n\n\u201cDo it yourself.\u201d\n\n\u201cI won\u2019t do it: you will do it,\u201d says Makuba in a threatening tone.\n\n\u201cAre you my father?\u201d says Obianga.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d answers Makuba with infinite scorn. \u201cHow could a Kombi man be the\nfather of an animal like you?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen stop giving me orders,\u201d says Obianga with rising wrath. \u201cIt is not\nthe first time you have tried it, and one of these days you will find out\nthat it won\u2019t do.\u201d\n\n\u201cOne of these days you will find out that I am the captain of this boat\nand that you will have to obey me,\u201d says Makuba.\n\n\u201cNot as long as I can carry a gun,\u201d answers Obianga.\n\nBy this time they are standing up and looking hard at each other. But\nMakuba would not think of striking a man in a mission boat. He therefore\nbecomes diplomatic. Suddenly in a tone altogether different he says:\n\n\u201cObianga, the trouble with you is that you are just a bush man; you don\u2019t\nknow anything about civilization. On every big ocean-steamer there is\na captain, and every man on board, no matter what tribe he belongs to,\nobeys the captain.\u201d\n\nObianga becomes instantly curious and asks: \u201cIs he rich!\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d says Makuba, \u201che gets big pay, and so do I get big pay.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow much do you get, Makuba?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow much do you think?\u201d\n\nObianga thinks, as well as he knows how, his countenance distorted with\nthe effort, and at length answers reflectively: \u201cTwo dollars a mouth.\u201d\u2014He\nhimself gets a dollar and a half.\n\nA broad smile engages Makuba\u2019s features as he slowly answers: \u201cFive\ndollars a month.\u201d\n\nObianga gives expression to his surprise in a long, low whistle. It is\nquite evident to him that no ordinary person could command such wages;\nand in a tone of utmost compliance he says: \u201cWhat was it you told me to\ndo, Makuba? I forget.\u201d\n\n\u201cI forget too,\u201d says Makuba. \u201cO, yes,\u201d he adds, \u201cI told you to haul on\nthe peak halliards.\u201d\n\nAgain, it is night, dark and stormy: a tornado seems to be approaching.\nCaptain Makuba shouts the order to Obianga, to \u201cmake fast the jib-sheet.\u201d\n\nObianga, who is no more afraid of a tornado than anything else, and whose\nhead is nodding with sleep, tells him to mind his own business.\n\nMakuba, losing his patience, of which he has not a large stock, calls him\na cannibal\u2014the worst insult he could offer him, and adds: \u201cYou especially\nlike to eat us Kombi people: you say our flesh is the best.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou lie,\u201d says Obianga (the current form of polite contradiction), \u201cwe\nlike the Bekeli people better than the Kombi; there is more salt in the\nBekeli.\u201d\n\nDo not conclude from this that Obianga himself is a cannibal. He probably\nnever tasted human flesh; but it is not so long since his fathers emerged\nfrom cannibalism but that tradition still distinguishes between the flesh\nof the surrounding tribes; nor was Obianga at this moment disposed to\nadmit that Makuba would make a more savoury dish than any of the rest of\nus.\n\nIn spite of Makuba\u2019s anger it strikes him as very funny that his\nintended insult should fall so wide of the mark, and he laughs \u201cin linked\nthunder long drawn out.\u201d There is nothing more contagious in Africa than\nlaughter, and Obianga joins in it; and then of course he obeys the order.\nSoon after this, the storm having passed, they are singing together \u201cI\nhave a Father in the Promised Land,\u201d singing it well, too; and while they\nsing I fall asleep.\n\nBut if a tornado should swoop down upon us, as it happens so often, or\na drenching rain should catch us, the half child nature in Makuba would\ndisappear immediately and reveal a whole man, strong, fearless and\nresourceful. In a tornado no man knew better than he just what to do for\nsafety; and in a rain-storm his only anxiety seemed to be for the health\nof the white man\u2014lest he should get wet, while at such times it was\nalmost a matter of politeness with him not to protect himself.\n\nOnce on a journey of three days on the open sea, from Benito to Gaboon,\nI was miserably sick the second day and could not eat. Neither would\nMakuba eat, because I did not. The wind was contrary, and he sat at the\nstroke oar pulling hard until two o\u2019clock in the afternoon without food.\nAt last almost in tears (speaking in Kru English in which he and I always\nconversed) he said: \u201cMr. Milligan, hunger no catch you? All this day I\nlook you and you never chop. Suppose you no chop you go die.\u201d\n\nObserving for the first time that his own food had not been touched, I\nsaid in surprise: \u201cWhat for all them chop live same as morning-time?\nYourself you never chop all this day?\u201d\n\nHe replied: \u201cSuppose you no be fit for chop then I no chop; I wait you,\nMr. Milligan.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Makuba,\u201d I said, \u201csuppose me and you, all two, be sick, then what\nman go take care of me? I no want other man; I want you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, Mr. Milligan,\u201d he replied with a smile, \u201cwhite man have plenty sense\nall same as God; black man be same as piccaninny.\u201d Thereupon he took food\nand ate heartily, for he was very hungry.\n\nI received Makuba into the church and baptized him. He was an honest man\nand a faithful Christian. He had a mind of his own too, and was quite\noriginal in some of his opinions. He detested every form of affectation\nand was fond of saying that the black man must adhere to his own habits,\ncustoms, and fashions, in so far as they were not sinful, instead of\nimitating the white man. Nor had he any respect for the white man,\nwhether missionary or trader, who would fall into the ways of the black\nman, in speech, or dress, or manners. I quite agree with him as to the\nprinciple, but I sometimes was at variance with him in the practice. For\ninstance, when Makuba used the boys\u2019 bread-knife to trim his toe-nails,\nand they objected, he invoked this favourite principle of loyalty to his\nrace and their customs, and wanted to know why they affected white man\u2019s\nways so long as they could not change their skins. Without violating the\ndelicate sentiment attaching to this custom I tried to convince Makuba\nthat there were many black people in the world who would not think of\ntrimming their toe-nails with the bread-knife. If I might judge by his\npolite but incredulous smile, he probably thought that I was mistaken on\nthis point. But if Makuba were preparing my dinner he would do it with\nscrupulous cleanliness, not forgetting that I am a white man.\n\nOne day we went in the _Evangeline_ to a town some thirty miles distant,\nwhere there was a Christian, Mba Obam (usually contracted to Mb\u2019Obam)\nwho was the uncle of one of my boat-boys, Ndong Koni. Shortly after our\narrival Ndong Koni advised that we should hold our service before night,\nas the town was preparing for a great celebration (that is to say, a\ngreat dance) that night, to which they had invited the people of an\nadjacent town. The occasion of all the revelry was the end of the term of\nmourning for a prominent man of the town, who having been dead a whole\nmonth had been sufficiently lamented. It remained only to give him a good\n\u201csend-off,\u201d and to release his friends from any further obligations.\nDuring the month of mourning the women wail every night, and there is no\ndancing.\n\nTowards evening the men of Ndong Koni\u2019s town began to adorn and decorate\nthemselves for the fancy un-dress ball, using paint and powder, and\nwearing round their ankles strings of native bells. The women take no\npart in these celebrations except to look on and to add to the noise.\nWhen they were all ready the men formed themselves into two long lines\nin the street, with the drums and other wooden instruments across one\nend. A certain famous dancer performed in the middle, down the lines and\nback, to the beating of the drums. He seemed to be all joints, and he\npassed from shape to shape so rapidly that at times he seemed to have\nno shape at all. At intervals all the men danced, keeping their places\nin the line, but at certain changes in the music whirling to the other\nend of the street, and back, adding also a wild song to the beating of\nthe drums, and furiously shaking the bells on their ankles, by which\nmeans together with a sudden stamp upon the ground they managed to mark\ntime, which they did to perfection, and to add rhythm, which was quite\nfascinating in such a volume of noise.\n\nAmong the tribes which have been longer at the coast such celebrations\nare attended with rum-drinking; they are also continued all night, and\nbefore morning the scene is a hideous debauch. But the Fang have not yet\nbecome victims of the white man\u2019s rum, and I know of no wrong attaching\nto these dances of the men except that they sometimes get excited almost\nto frenzy; when this occurs they are not unlikely to draw their knives on\neach other upon the slightest provocation, thus closing the celebration\nin a free-for-all fight and the spilling of blood.\n\n    \u201cWhere is the man who hath not tried\n    How mirth doth into folly glide,\n      And folly into sin?\u201d\n\nNdong Koni had joined in the frolic. In one particular dance they used\nfirebrands which they waved before them. Next to Ndong Koni stood a man\nof giant size who thought he had a grudge against one of the family. When\nthe excitement was at its height he suddenly threw fire in Ndong Koni\u2019s\nface. Ndong Koni was only a boy of about nineteen years and not large;\nbut quick as a flash he struck the fellow a blow in the face. The man,\ninstantly drawing his sword, sprang at him; but Ndong Koni had already\ndrawn his sword and was on his guard. In a minute, as it seemed, the men\nof the two towns separated and stood facing each other, a sword in every\nman\u2019s hand. Then, thrusting and parrying, they circled around and drifted\ndown the street towards the place where I was sitting. Before any serious\nwounds were inflicted, the chief, Mb\u2019Obam, hearing the clash of swords,\ncame from his house, and running between them at considerable risk to\nhimself begged them not to fight, especially, he added, when the white\nman was visiting their town. He soon succeeded in quieting them.\n\nMeantime I had been occupying a seat of honour, a real chair, or the\nvenerable remains of one (probably the only chair in the town), infirm\nand unstable, and with one leg missing. Here I was maintaining a feeble\nexistence against a fearful onslaught of mosquitoes. Another of my\nboat-boys, an old man of Liberia, named Benjamin, was near me when the\nquarrel occurred at the other end of the street. Benjamin did not\nunderstand the Fang language very well. He heard their angry voices\nand saw the flash of their swords as they were moving towards us.\nHearing them also call out the name of the white man, Benjamin reached\nthe extraordinary conclusion that they were going to kill me. Quite\nterrified, the old man rushed towards me with the cry, \u201cO my master,\nmy master!\u201d and flung his arms around me, probably with the benevolent\nintention of dragging me off into the thicket, or hiding me in some hole;\nbut the chair on which I was sitting, being a delicate piece of furniture\nand lacking a leg, as I have said, was overturned, and I went sprawling\non the ground all mixed up with Benjamin, and wondering whether the man\nhad gone mad. By the time I gathered myself up and got my parts together\nthe quarrel in the street was quieted and Benjamin saw his mistake. No\nfurther misadventures occurred during the remainder of this pleasant\nevening.\n\nPoor Benjamin! We shall not hear of him again, and we may dismiss him\nwith a word. That was the last journey he made in the _Evangeline_. He\nwas a capable, hard-working and kind-hearted old man, and we were all\nattached to him. But rum was his besetting sin and finally his ruin.\nAfter a long hard struggle against it he at last gave up the fight and\nbecame a helpless and hopeless victim. I had to dismiss him. When I left\nAfrica he was in a native town near by, drinking himself to death; nor\ncould he live long. But so great is the multitude hurrying down this same\nbroad road to destruction that one more old man would never be noticed in\nthe crowd.\n\nNdong Koni who figured in the fire-dance, was the one I have known most\nintimately of all Africans, and the one who made the strongest appeal to\nmy affections. He was a handsome boy, as light in colour as a mulatto,\nof gentle manners and affectionate disposition. He came to me and engaged\nas a boat-boy shortly after I began work among the Fang. I taught him\nconstantly. He served in many capacities varying from boat-boy to\ncatechist.\n\nSoon after Ndong Koni began to work for me, I visited a group of towns in\nthe interior accompanied by him and several other natives. We walked nine\nmiles by a good forest path and then travelled twelve hours by canoe.\nI recall that on that journey I was preaching in a certain town to a\ngood-sized audience who were gathered in the palaver-house, when an old\nman, seated directly in front of me and beside an anvil upon which he had\nbeen hammering, became tired of my sermon and deliberately took up his\nheavy hammer and resumed his work, pounding the anvil with a deafening\nnoise against which I could not proceed. The joke was plainly on me.\nAddressing a young man, I asked him if he would help me to carry the\nanvil outside, which we proceeded to do, before the old fellow realized\nwhat we were about, taking it to a safe distance, and leaving him\nsitting there with his work all around him. Thereupon I proceeded with\n\u201csecondly,\u201d and \u201cthirdly.\u201d\n\nIn returning, two days later, we started in the canoe at five o\u2019clock\nin the morning and the boys paddled until seven at night, when we again\ntook the forest path. We had expected upon leaving the canoe to stay all\nnight in a native town at that place; but sure symptoms of approaching\nfever warned me that I had best get home as soon as possible, which\nnecessitated a walk of nine miles by night through the forest. The road\nwas somewhat open, however, and the path well cleared, so that the\njourney was quite possible. The men were worn out after their long day\u2019s\nwork. When I told them that I wished to go home that night their first\nexclamations of surprise were followed by profound silence. I said: \u201cI\nknow you are tired and it is not necessary that you should go on with me;\nbut I ought to have one boy, for I am not sure of the road.\u201d\n\nBefore I had finished, Ndong Koni, although the youngest of the party,\nhad my food-chest on his head, and starting off said: \u201cMr. Milligan, I\ntoo, I go with you.\u201d\n\nIn all my journeying in the _Evangeline_ Ndong Koni was with me. He was\nmy best helper in the religious services in the towns. He was boat-boy\nand preacher and often cooked my meals besides, for he was always willing\nto be called upon for extra service. Upon reaching a town he would take\nthe organ on his head and carry it into the town, where he would find the\nbest place to hold a service, and he and I would go through the town and\ncall the people. After singing a few hymns, in which all the boat-boys\njoined, I would speak to the people a while and then ask Ndong Koni to\nspeak. I have learned my best lessons from him. Not only was he fluent in\nspeech, but with lively intelligence and unfailing sympathy he adapted\nhis subjects and his words perfectly to his hearers. A more kind-hearted\nboy I have seldom known in any land, although cruelty was the most\nprominent characteristic of the heathen around him, of whom were his own\npeople. The only reason I can give for this contrast is simply that Ndong\nKoni was a Christian.\n\nHe had faults, I well know. But I am not the one to mention them, so much\ndo I still feel my indebtedness to him for innumerable kindnesses through\nall those years, in which he journeyed with me sharing exposure and\nhardship, sharing also the joy of preaching the Gospel.\n\nOn one occasion Ndong Koni went into a French trading-house and asked for\nsomething which he wanted to buy. The white man behind the counter told\nhim that he did not have the article. Ndong Koni turned to go out, but\nthe white man called to him and said: \u201cWhy don\u2019t you buy rum instead?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I am a Christian,\u201d answered Ndong Koni.\n\nThe white man railed at his belief and told him his own anti-Christian\nbeliefs.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Ndong Koni, \u201cif I believed as you do I would drink rum and\ndo a great many other things that I do not do. But as long as I am a\nChristian I shall not do those things.\u201d\n\nOnce at the close of a school term when I was taking the schoolboys home,\nI had seventeen boys in the _Evangeline_, which I was towing behind\nthe _Dorothy_. We had gone about twenty miles when the engine of the\n_Dorothy_ suddenly stopped and refused to go in spite of all my efforts.\nI found afterwards that the benzine which had been sent me from Germany\nwas not the quality which the engine required. I had this same experience\nfrequently during the next several months, and after starting out with\nthe _Dorothy_ towing the _Evangeline_ we would return to port a few days\nlater with the little _Evangeline_ towing the _Dorothy_. But this time\nI had first to take the boys to their homes leaving the _Dorothy_ at\nanchor. The _Evangeline_ with seventeen boys in it was already crowded,\nbut myself and the crew of five men squeezed into it, and room was also\nmade for the men to use the oars. There was a good wind but we had no\nsails. The tide had just turned and was against us, the current was\nstrong, and we sat in that cramped position for ten hours, while those\nfaithful boys pulled hard at the oars without relief. At midnight we\nreached the first town, twenty miles beyond where the _Dorothy_ had\nstopped. Here we remained until morning. Three of the schoolboys lived\nin this town. The other fourteen lived in several different towns on\nother rivers. Morning found me with fever, due to the long exposure to\nthe sun, for which I was not prepared, not having expected it. It was\nnecessary that I should start for home immediately in the _Evangeline_.\nBut what was I to do with the schoolboys?\n\nIn the emergency I called Ndong Koni, who looked tired enough from the\nlong pull at the oar; but he said that he would take them through the\nbush to their homes. Of all the boys who have worked for me in Africa\nthere was none excepting Ndong Koni and perhaps Makuba to whom I would\nhave committed the care of so many boys in such a situation. The roads\nwhich are but poorly beaten paths lay through swamp and jungle all the\nway, and at the close of the wet season they were at the worst. The\nFang of this region seldom use the bush-path, their towns being all on\nthe watercourses. But the chief difficulty was the danger of meeting\nenemies on the way, and the fact that certain boys must avoid certain\ntowns. Ndong Koni got them all safely to their homes. But immediately\nafter starting he found that the smallest boy had a sore foot and walked\nwith difficulty. I too recalled this after they had gone and I was very\nanxious about the boy. Ndong Koni, however, instead of letting him walk,\nor of sending him back to me, carried him on his shoulders all the way to\nhis town, more than ten miles distant.\n\nThe sequel may be of interest to my readers. Before Ndong Koni left me\nI had engaged a man to take his place at the oar. Knowing from dire\nexperience the unreliability of the native and the ease with which he\nabsolves himself from the solemnest engagements, I told this man that\nhe might change his mind and cancel the engagement if he chose to do so\nbefore Ndong Koni should leave me, but that after Ndong Koni had gone\nhe would not be at liberty to change his mind, but would be obliged to\naccompany me even if it should require a flogging to persuade him. He\nprotested that his feelings were badly hurt at the suggestion that he\nwould be capable of breaking his promise and of leaving the white man in\nsuch a distressing predicament, especially this particular white man, to\nwhom he owed every virtue that he possessed, and any of his neighbours\nwould be glad to testify to his stainless reputation and the purity of\nhis life.\n\nNevertheless, half an hour after Ndong Koni had gone, when I was ready to\nstart, this saint among savages was missing. I called him and hunted for\nhim in vain; nor could I get a man to take his place. The people told me\nthat he had gone ahead of me in a canoe and was waiting for me at their\nfishing-camp a short distance down the river\u2014which I knew to be false for\nthe simple reason that they said it was true. I asked them to show me the\nman\u2019s house, but no one seemed to know in which house he lived. His own\nbrothers could not tell me. A bribe of a dose of salts was sufficient to\ninduce the chief to lead the way to the man\u2019s house. The door was a large\npiece of bark propped from the inside. It yielded to a vigorous push so\neasily that I was precipitated into the house headlong, my feet catching\nas I passed through the door and my helmet as usual rolling into the\nashes. The man, I believe, was hidden within, but I did not search for\nhim. I seized a large earthen jug, used by the women for carrying water\nand counted a valuable possession, and started off for the river, the\nwhole town at my heels, making a deafening uproar. Many were in violent\nremonstrance and others were laughing. I took the jug aboard the boat and\nordered the boys to push off.\n\nWe were getting under weigh when the missing man appeared upon the bank.\nBut the saint had reverted to the savage, and was nothing but an ordinary\ncannibal threatening to cut me into small pieces and eat me. While the\nboat moved slowly towards the middle of the river I talked with him and\ntold him that if he wanted the jug he would have to keep his agreement.\nHe at length offered to go on condition that I would send the jug ashore\nas soon as he came aboard and not take it to Gaboon, for it belonged\nto his wife. I agreed to this proposition. He probably intended, when\nthe jug was at a safe distance, to leap overboard and swim ashore. But\nonce I had him in my grip I decided to take no chances lest his noble\ncharacter might suffer another relapse. I made him lie down on his back\nin the bottom of the boat beneath the thwarts, and I seated myself on his\nstomach. The whole population of the town was on the bank, and rending\nthe air with laughter, in which even the man\u2019s wives joined. So we put\noff down the river.\n\nAfter a while he respectfully advised that it was no longer necessary for\nme to sit on him; that he could not possibly swim back to his town, nor\nwalk through the mangrove swamp on either side of the river, and besides\nhe was needed at the oar for he knew that the white man was in a hurry to\nreach Gaboon. As to the proposal that I change my seat I told him that\nwhat was at first a matter of necessity was now a matter of choice and\nthat I could not be as comfortable sitting on a thwart. But one oar was\nidle; and besides I was deeply moved by his anxiety to get me to Gaboon\nas quickly as possible. So I relented and changed my seat, while he\ncrawled out and took the oar. I had a few choice bananas, which I asked\nhim to eat with me, and before he had finished eating we were the best of\nfriends; and so we were ever afterwards.\n\nThe launch _Dorothy_ (which succeeded the _Evangeline_) I usually kept\nanchored well out on the bay, giving her plenty of cable. It was always\nhard to get out to her in the evening and I preferred to start up the\nriver in the quiet of the morning but that was not always possible. One\nevening we were going out to her in a canoe, preparatory to a journey,\nwhen the sea was rougher than usual, and we had a misadventure that was\nno joke at the time. In the canoe were eight natives and several trunks\nand other baggage. Ndong Koni was in the stern. We soon saw that we were\noverloaded but we went on, the canoe taking water more and more rapidly.\n\n\u201cWe can\u2019t make it,\u201d said some one; \u201clet us turn back.\u201d\n\nBut to attempt to turn in such a sea would surely have swamped us;\nbesides, we were more than half-way to the launch.\n\nI gave the order to go on, and every man to pull for his life. I stood up\nand urged the men to their best. But it was in vain. The canoe settled\ndeeper in the water, which soon came almost to my knees. At last it went\nunder, in eighteen feet of water, and a rough sea that no white man\ncould swim in. Dear reader, if you should ever find yourself in such a\nsituation, a hopeless distance from the shore and the craft sinking into\nthe depths beneath your feet, let me advise you above all things to be\nperfectly calm. Don\u2019t worry. Worry will not help in the least.\n\nI turned to Ndong Koni and said: \u201cNdong, if my life is to be saved I\nguess it is up to you to do it.\u201d\n\nThere was no need to speak to him. He sprang over the heads of several\nboys and into the water after me, and catching me by the shoulder, fought\nthe sea with the other arm. The canoe came to the surface bottom upwards.\nThe natives old and young swim marvellously, and are at home in the\nroughest water. We tried to get to the canoe but a wave swept it away;\nthen another dashed it towards us and against us. We clung to it as best\nwe could but again and again we were separated from it, and again dashed\nagainst it. There was a canoe with several natives in the distance; but\nthey either did not see us, or they were disposed to let nature take its\ncourse. We might have been devoured by sharks but for the fact that there\nwere a number of us, and we were making plenty of noise. But some men on\nthe shore saw us, and calling loudly for help they at last pushed off a\nlarge canoe and came towards us, the captain yelling at the men to pull\nand pull harder. When they reached us we had been twenty minutes in the\nwater, and were taken out not so much the worse except Ndong Koni, who\nwas exhausted and bruised by the canoe striking him, from which he had\neach time saved me.\n\nWhen we reached the beach I am sure no one will wonder that I said to\nhim: \u201cNdong Koni, if I had a son of my own I could only wish that he were\nas brave and unselfish as you are.\u201d\n\nI asked him what he would have as salvage for saving my life.\n\nHe replied: \u201cA tin of corned beef for supper.\u201d He seemed to think that\nwas enough.\n\nWhile we were struggling in the sea fifty schoolboys had reached the\nbeach in a state of panic. The crying of the smaller boys was hysterical\nand they could not stop even when I was safe on land. They continued to\ncry, saying the while, \u201cO Mr. Milligan, what would we have done? For you\nare our father.\u201d\n\nAt last I dried their tears by saying: \u201cLook here, boys, I know what you\nare crying for: you are sorry that I was not drowned.\u201d Every face was for\na moment transfixed with amazement, as they stared at one another. Then\nthey all laughed.\n\nNext day they dragged for my trunk which contained most of the useful\nthings that I had in Africa. At last when the tide was at the ebb they\nfound it. Among other things which lay in the sea over night was a\nFrench Testament that I used to carry with me. I still have this relic.\n\nThe kindness of such a boy as Ndong Koni is only appreciated when\ncontrasted with the awful cruelty which is the outstanding feature of\nall heathenism. And the cruelty of anger or fear is not so revolting\nas that of their deliberate practice and ordinary customs, dissociated\nfrom passion. In a certain town at which we anchored the _Evangeline_\none day while we waited for the turn of the tide, we found a woman sick\nand evidently dying, whose wasted form suggested long suffering. Ndong\nKoni knew her history and repeated it to me. She did not belong to the\ntown, but had been a prisoner there for five years. A petty war had taken\nplace between this town and the one to which she had belonged. A woman,\nI believe, had been stolen, and then some killing followed. At the close\nof the war the people of her town had to pay a dowry and they agreed to\nsend a woman as hostage until it should be paid. This poor woman who had\nnothing whatever to do with the palaver, was taken from her family and\ngiven as a prisoner to the other town, while the guilty man and woman\nenjoyed themselves and paid no penalty. Her husband had probably married\nother wives and had ceased to care for her, and he was willing that she\nshould be sent. They never ransomed her, but left her there, a prisoner\nand slave in the town, with no protection and no rights, until at the end\nof five years she died. To many such have I tried to tell the story of\nthe Son of Man, who came to give His life \u201ca ransom for many.\u201d\n\nOne day we visited a certain town which was not far away. Expecting that\nwe would return that evening I took no extra clothing. On the way we\nwere caught in a storm and my clothes were drenched with rain. I could\nhot spend the afternoon in these wet clothes, and the town possessed no\nclothes that I could wear. But the chief had a table and a table-cloth.\nHe kindly loaned me the latter and a pair of shoes that had perhaps been\ndiscarded by some white man. I did not preach in a table-cloth and a pair\nof shoes, but I sat and visited with the people.\n\nMb\u2019Obam, Ndong Koni\u2019s uncle, died not long after the visit to his town,\nthe incidents of which I have recounted. He and his wife, Sara, had for\na long time lived a pure and exemplary life in the midst of the darkest\nheathenism. When he died the people accused Sara of having made medicine\nto kill him. This medicine is a fetish and acts supernaturally: it is\nnot necessary that it should come in physical contact with the victim.\nMb\u2019Obam had died of a lingering disease well known to them. But such is\nthe mental degradation incident to the belief in magic and witchcraft\nthat effects are referred to a supernatural cause even when the natural\nand physical cause is before their eyes. Every death is attributed to\nmagic or witchcraft, and if they are not forward in avenging it the\nspirit of the dead one will inflict misfortune and even death upon them.\nMb\u2019Obam had completely broken with fetishism and had discarded all these\nbeliefs and had bravely defended the victims of native cruelty. At his\napproaching death he charged the people not to touch Sara nor to charge\nher with witchcraft, reminding them what a faithful wife she had been and\nhow differently they both had lived since they became Christians. But\nthough they had regarded him with respect and reverence during his life,\nyet at his death old customs and beliefs asserted tyrannous authority,\nand they charged Sara with having killed him. It fell to Esona, the\nsucceeding chief, to decree the punishment of Sara. In the vicinity of\nthe French government he would not dare to kill her. So he led her into\nthe middle of the street before all the people, placed her on her hands\nand knees, and bound upon her back a heavy load of plantain-stocks. Then\ntwo men sat upon the load, on her back, and all the men of the town\ndrove her thus up and down the street on her hands and knees until they\nnearly killed her. As soon as she had sufficiently recovered from the\neffect of the awful ordeal they repeated the performance, and repeated it\nagain, until Sara managed through a Christian boy to get a message to me.\nLeaving the school I made ready the _Evangeline_ and went with all haste\nto the town, thirty miles distant, where I arrived just in time to stop\nanother repetition of the outrage. The sight was too much for me. Mb\u2019Obam\nand Sara had been the very first of my Fang friends. Whether the impulse\nwas noble indignation or a very mortal temper, the reader may decide.\nWith a stick which I carried I flogged Esona the chief before all the\npeople, and there was blood on the stick when I got through.\n\nOne may wonder how a white man could do this in a town of savages without\nsacrificing his own life. I may say that there was perhaps not another\ntown on the river in which I could have done any such thing and have\nescaped with my life. Safety in such a situation depends upon the extent\nof a man\u2019s influence and personal authority in the particular town. It is\nthe part of wisdom for him to know the extent of his influence in each\ntown and the part of discretion never to overreach it. In this instance\nEsona, breaking away from me like an animal frantic with rage, shouted\nfor his gun and ran towards his house to get it. But a cry of alarm was\nraised, as I expected, and half a dozen men rushing upon him, held him\nfast. He broke loose from them and others joined him. For a moment it\nlooked as if my own life and that of the crew (except Ndong Koni, who was\nrelated in the town) were forfeited, and the fate of the _Evangeline_\nwere like that of the famous ship which was left\u2014\n\n    \u201cWith one man of her crew alive,\n    What put to sea with seventy-five.\u201d\n\nBut they caught Esona again and threw him to ground, shouting at me\nthe while to leave the town as quickly as possible. To their mingled\nentreaties and curses I yielded a tardy compliance, which however was not\nnearly as reluctant as it seemed.\n\nThere is a sequel to this story also, which I shall relate. This chief\nEsona, whom I flogged, announced a few days later that he was going\nto marry Sara. He already had seven wives, and the thought of such a\nmarriage was repugnant to Sara. But she had no choice in the matter and\nwas compelled to marry him. Polygamy is not always a happy institution,\neven in Africa. The seven wives were angry and jealous. Being powerless\nto injure Esona they avenged themselves upon Sara. One day shortly after\nthe marriage, as she was walking along the street, they suddenly came\nrunning from their houses with knives and attacked her. They wounded her\nand would have killed her but she was rescued by some men who happened to\nbe near. A woman costs money and her life may not be sacrificed wantonly.\n\nThen these wives tried another expedient. Four women in succession,\ncoming from different towns, visited Esona and solemnly told him that\nthey had had a dream concerning him\u2014all four of them in succession\nrelating the same dream. They had seen Mb\u2019Obam, Sara\u2019s dead husband, who\nwas very angry that Esona had married Sara, and threatened all kinds of\nplagues and finally death, if he would not put her away. A few days later\ntheir word was confirmed when five houses belonging to Esona were burned\nto the ground. They were perfectly aware that a certain young man of the\ntown had accidentally let some live coals fall upon some dried thatch\nand the fire had started forthwith. Nevertheless, with one voice the\npeople attributed the fire to Mb\u2019Obam, and Esona in great fear, believing\nthat his life might be the next forfeit, let Sara go. After a period of\nvarious trials and sorrows dire fortune at last relented and I was glad\nto learn that Sara was comfortably married to a Christian man.\n\nOne quiet day, as we were pulling up the river in the _Evangeline_,\nseventy miles from the coast, a man suddenly emerged from the forest and\ncame rapidly towards us in a canoe. When he came near I recognized a Fang\nfriend, a young man about twenty years old, named Ingwa, who had been one\nof my first boat-boys in the _Evangeline_, and who was a Christian. After\na hearty greeting I said: \u201cI am surprised to see you, Ingwa; I sent word\nto you long ago that I would like to have you again in the _Evangeline_,\nand I have not heard a word from you.\u201d But, observing that he looked worn\nand sick, I asked him what was the matter; and he told me the following\nstory: \u201cA year ago I was married to a woman whom I had loved for a long\ntime and who loved me. I paid the dowry and took my wife home. We both\nwere very happy, for I loved only her and she loved only me. After six\nmouths her father and brothers agreed with another man to take her from\nme and give her to him, wishing to make friendship with his town. Her\nfather invited her and me to visit him. During the night they suddenly\nrushed in upon us and made us prisoners. They tied my wife\u2019s hands and\nled her away. Then they bound me, hands and feet, and put me into a\ncanoe and pushed the canoe out into the current of the river. Far down\nthe river towards the sea I was picked up by some people who knew me and\nwere friendly. They set me free and I borrowed a paddle and reached my\nown town. But I could not stay there, it was so lonely; for my wife was\ngone and my heart was sick. They sent her to the other man\u2019s town, but I\nknew that she loved only me. I hid in the forest near that town, but I\ncould never see her. Six months I have been hiding in the forest, night\nand day, and I have been hungry, and sometimes sick. They know I am there\nand are trying to kill me. Her father sent word to me that he would pay\nme back the dowry; but I want only my wife. And surely God will help me;\nI will meet her again, and she will go with me. For I love only her, and\nshe loves only me.\u201d The story ended in a sob.\n\nWith a hasty good-bye he turned and sped towards the shore, while I sat,\nsilently and with aching heart, watching, till the dark form was merged\ninto the darkness of the forest and we saw him no more. But how changed\nwas nature\u2019s aspect! How different the impression of the hazy, languid\natmosphere, the torpid life of bird and beast, the deep mystic forest\nwith dark forms moving like phantoms to and fro, screened from the river\nby a heavy veil of vine and flower that hung from the tops of the trees\nand lay upon the water below; and behind the veil a real and tragic world\nof human suffering and breaking hearts!\n\nNot long after this Ingwa, still watching and waiting in the forest, met\nhis wife. They fled together, days and nights through the forest, until\nthey reached a town far away, which Ingwa had once visited in trading for\nrubber and ivory and where he had made friends. There they were still\nliving when I left Africa. A native trader afterwards visited that far\ndistant town of the forest, and returning, brought me a message from\nIngwa. The trader informed me also that he found the people of the town\nsinging Christian hymns and praying, and that through the influence of\nIngwa many had thrown away their fetishes and were followers of Christ.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nA SCHOOL\n\n\nThe schools of the Congo Fran\u00e7ais are under the inspection of the\ngovernment, and there is a law that the French language shall be the\nlanguage of the school. It has been very difficult for an American\nmission to comply with this law, and when it was first enforced some of\nour schools had to be closed. It was mainly because of this difficulty\nthat several stations on the Ogow\u00e9 River were transferred to a French\nProtestant missionary society. Our missionaries then enlarged their work\nat Batanga, which is in German territory, and opened the several stations\namong the Bulu of the interior, a work that has greatly prospered. It was\nonly a few years, however, until they were required to teach the German\nlanguage in the schools; and the German law was as rigidly enforced as\nthe French. There was also a similar law in the English colonies. This\nrequirement had been regarded as unjust and as a great hindrance to the\nsuccess of missionary work. Personally I have no quarrel with it in\neither respect, and I think that the mind of the whole mission in late\nyears has undergone a change on that subject. Even if there were no such\nlaw, I believe that the ultimate success of the work would necessitate a\nEuropean language; and that language must be and ought to be that of the\ngoverning power.\n\nOf course the people of the various tribes must hear the Gospel preached\nin their own native tongue; as it was on the day of Pentecost, when every\nman heard the word in the language in which he was born. The itinerating\nmissionary must use the native dialects. But when the native becomes a\nstudent, seeking more extensive and more accurate knowledge, the native\ndialect is beggarly and wholly inadequate. If ideas require words for\ntheir conception, then the paucity of words and the poverty of expression\nmake it impossible for the student using the native language to think as\nit would be required of him in the class-room. The acquisition of French\nis a cultural factor to the African in a sense that it is not to the\nAmerican. For most of the French words have no exact equivalent in his\nown language, and such words present new thoughts. Moreover, education\nintroduces him to the world of books, and without the foreign language he\nis confined to the very few and meagre translations that missionaries may\nmake into an obscure dialect of a small tribe.\n\nThe future of the boys also, their material welfare, depends largely\nupon the knowledge of a European language. It is not to be expected, and\nis no way desirable, that the boys of the schools should return home\nonly to \u201csit for town\u201d all their lives according to native fashion.\nIdleness is the devil\u2019s opportunity; and those who have been in the\nschools invariably desire to work. For most of those in the French Congo\nwork means employment with white men\u2014the government officials or the\ntraders\u2014and in either case the knowledge of French is necessary. But\nothers of these boys become catechists and ministers in after years and,\nas I have said, if these are to be educated they must know French. It\nis fortunate for the missionary teacher that the Africans are very apt\nlinguists. They have but small talent for some studies; in mathematics\nthey are usually stupid, but in the acquisition of languages they are\nscarcely surpassed.\n\nDuring my second year in the French Congo I opened a school at Baraka\nwith a small class of boys, and gradually enlarged it until in my\nlast year there were seventy-five boys. The whole plan as projected\nin my mind, which it took several years to establish, was to have one\ncentral boarding-school at Baraka, with primary day-schools in many of\nthe towns. In these latter the people, old and young, boys and girls,\nas many as wished, were taught to read in their own language. Boys\nwere required to be able to read in their own language before being\nadmitted to the boarding-school. Religious teaching was an important\npart of the curriculum. Some of the most advanced Christian boys of the\nboarding-school became catechists and were sent to those towns where\nthere were groups of professing Christians (catechumens) awaiting a\ncourse of instruction before being received into the church. For no\nconverts were baptized inside of two years, during which time they\nreceived a careful course of instruction as nearly continuous as\npossible. Ultimately some of these catechists, I hoped, would become\nministers.\n\nThe government inspection of the mission schools and the strictness of\nthe law\u2019s enforcement in regard to the language, depended, as I found,\nnot much upon the amount of French taught in the school, but upon the\ngood or ill will of the inspector. Shortly after I went to the French\nCongo the missionaries withdrew from the interior station, Angom, but\na day-school in charge of a native teacher was kept open for some time\nafterwards, which was quite outside the theory of the plan I have\noutlined for the town schools. It was a regular primary school in hours\nand curriculum and was not taught by a catechist as a mere adjunct to\nhis religious work. This school therefore came under the government\ninspection. It had been exceedingly difficult to keep a competent teacher\nin charge of it, as the government required. Those who knew sufficient\nFrench to teach were few and in great demand for the government service,\nin which they received higher wages than we could afford to pay.\n\nA certain Mpongwe man, Remondo, was left in charge of the school when\nthe missionaries withdrew, but only as a temporary expedient, that\nthe pupils might be kept together until a competent teacher could be\nprocured. Remondo was a Roman Catholic, but he was quite willing to lay\naside his scapulary, and his conscience for that matter, for the slight\nremuneration incident to the position. Remondo nearly always had a rag\non his toe. Some of his pupils had not even that much clothing. He wrote\nhis name without a capital letter, and in a line as nearly vertical as\nhorizontal; and the obliquity of his writing was equalled by the iniquity\nof his French; while there was such an uncertainty about his addition\nthat I used to say that mathematics was not an exact science in Remondo\u2019s\nhands. Finally, not being able to procure a competent teacher, I decided\nto close the school. Remondo was amazed and he firmly protested. The fact\nthat he was not doing the work made the position all the more congenial\nto his temperament, and made it also, in his opinion, the more ungenerous\nto disturb him. Why close the school? Was not the attendance good? Was\nnot the discipline perfect? I admitted that he had all the accessories of\na good teacher and lacked nothing but the essentials. Nevertheless, my\nmind being set upon it, I closed the school.\n\nDuring this interval while Remondo was in charge, I was in constant dread\nof an official visit from the _chef de poste_ of the district, who would\nnaturally be the government inspector for that school. This dread had\nbecome chronic when one day I was amazed at the receipt of a very kind\nletter from the governor himself, informing me that the _chef de poste_,\nwhom he had directed to visit the school at Angom, had reported that he\nhad examined the pupils and conversed with the teacher and that the\nschool was highly satisfactory in every way and a credit to the mission.\nThe governor hoped that we might open other schools of the same kind!\nGoodness gracious! I lost no time in making inquiry of a certain official\nas to who was the _chef de poste_ of that district\u2014for I knew there had\nbeen a change lately. He replied: \u201cM. de la R\u2e3a.\u201d Then I understood it all.\n\nThe late M. de la R\u2e3a had already been in the service of the Congo\nFran\u00e7ais for thirteen years when I first met him. He endured the climate\nremarkably well and only at long intervals returned to France on\nfurlough. He belonged to a good family. He also had a wife and children\nin France. His wife once went to Africa with him but she soon returned\nhome; I was told that she was a fine woman; he himself when I met him was\nthe pitiful remains of a gentleman who had been ruined by the two vices\nwhich have made West Africa in many minds a synonym for perdition. During\nhis first years he was faithful in his official duties and he rose in\nthe service. He was at one time administrator at Bata, not far from our\nmission station, Benito. It was under the administration of this very man\nthat our long-established schools at Benito were closed by the government\non the ground that the law in regard to the French language was not being\nstrictly observed. But our missionaries of that station believed that the\naction of M. de la R\u2e3a was due to the influence of the French priests.\n\nAfter many years of increasing dissipation he was dismissed from the\nservice for various discrepancies. His health was not good, and he was\nprematurely old. He had not been in France for many years, and he said\nthat he would never go there again. Thus he was an outcast and without\nmeans of support in a foreign and hostile climate. At length a certain\ntrader of Libreville took pity on him. Eight miles back in the bush,\nthe trader had a coffee-farm that had about petered out; and there he\nsent the ex-administrator, and gave him employment for which he paid him\nenough to keep him alive. He lived alone there for more than a year,\nseparate from all white men, a black mistress his only companion.\n\nOne day visiting some interior towns, I followed a road that passed\nthrough the farm. I was greatly surprised at seeing a white man there,\nbut not at all surprised that in such a place he was dressed only in\npajamas. Leaving the road I went to the house to salute him. He told me\nwho he was and urged me not to hurry on but to stay with him awhile; it\nwas so good to see a white man. I felt so sorry for him that I thought\nI could do no better missionary work for that day than to visit with\nhim; so I changed my plans accordingly, remained with him all morning\nand ate dinner with him, the table being served by his black mistress. I\nthought he would probably live but a short time and I felt as if I were\nperforming his obsequies. It is strange how a man whose dignity resides\nnot within himself, but wholly in outward circumstances, in social\nposition, in pecuniary abundance, or the tawdry pomp of authority,\u2014it is\nstrange how such a man, when these all fail, sinks in his self-respect\nto the level of abject prostration. M. de la R\u2e3a had been fastidiously\nregardful of his dress and his personal appearance; but now he spent his\ndays in shabby pajamas and even shunned the acquaintance of soap and\nwater.\n\nHe spent the whole time of my visit in telling me of the wrongs done\nhim by fellow officials, that had culminated in his dismissal from the\ngovernment service. He shed some tears and I fancied that they made clean\nstreaks down his face. He told me what a respectable life he had lived;\nand I declare that I should never have suspected it. But when he also\nclaimed sobriety as one of his chief virtues, nothing but the odour of\nhis breath kept me from becoming an anti-temperance fanatic on the spot.\nSeveral of the men who had informed against him had since died, and\nin this he saw the finger of God; for of course they would never have\ndied if they had not been his enemies. He, the animated remains of M.\nde la R\u2e3a, was still the centre and explanation of the government of the\nuniverse, and God was simply a convenient instrument of vengeance. To\nthat extent he was quite religious. And I ought to add that he believed\nin forgiving his enemies\u2014but only after they were dead. But I pitied him\ngreatly, and stayed with him most of the day. When I left him I had not\nthe least expectation that I would ever see him again.\n\nA year after this, by a strange turn of the wheel of fortune, this man\nwas reinstated, and was appointed a _chef de poste_. He easily resumed\nhis former dignity of manner and care of dress. But he lived only a few\nmonths to enjoy his recovered prestige. During those months, however, he\nwas appointed to inspect the school at Angom and his enthusiastic report\n(for which I hope he may have been forgiven) was the expression of his\ngratitude for the visit I had made him when he was without position,\nwithout money and without friends. Thus the bread of a little kindness\ncast upon the waters returned after many days multiplied into loaves.\nAnd he was the man who, years before, had closed our splendid school at\nBenito, because, forsooth, the missionaries were not diligent enough in\nteaching the French language. I also learned from Remondo that at the\nclose of his inspection of the school at Angom he gave each of the little\nboys and girls a present of some tobacco.\n\nWhen I opened the school at Baraka I found it very difficult to procure\nboys. There were many boys who desired to come, but their parents would\nnot consent. At the beginning of the term I gathered the boys with the\nlaunch, _Dorothy_. The red-hot contentions between me and the fathers\nand mothers made this work of opening the school the most exhausting\nand trying of the whole year. Often I was constrained to regard the\nparental institution as an intolerable nuisance and the orphan estate as\na consummation that the African child might devoutly wish for.\n\nIn one town a handsome boy was determined to come with me, and by\nprolonged talking I had subdued his father and was hurrying away when\nsuddenly the mother appeared upon the scene, cursing me, and threatening\nto take the boy\u2019s life. Another contention followed, which I won by many\nwords and a small piece of laundry soap. The victory seemed complete;\nthe father and mother were sending the boy away with their blessing, and\nspeaking kind words to me; we were about to get into the canoe to go to\nthe launch, which was in the middle of the river, when an old and very\nugly woman, grand-aunt or something of that sort, came rushing towards\nus, shrieking and flinging her arms about her, cursing me, and altogether\npresenting such a spectacle as might suggest that one of Macbeth\u2019s\nwitches had escaped from the underworld. Quickly, and in great alarm, we\nsprang into the canoe and pushed off; for I would rather fight with ten\nmen than one woman. But there were many of us, we were standing up in\nthe canoe, and before we had sufficient way on she had waded after us up\nto her neck in water, and laying hold of the canoe with both hands, she\ntried to capsize it\u2014which would be easily done. The state of my health\nmade it advisable that I should try to avoid being thrown into the river.\nBesides, the whole town was now gathered on the bank, rending the air\nwith laughter, and if I failed they would continue to laugh for a year or\ntwo. I caught her hands and tried to wrench them from the side of the\ncanoe; but I did not wish to use all my strength against an old woman,\nand moreover she had the advantage of standing on the ground, while I had\nto balance the canoe; so I failed in the effort. A second more and we\nwould have been in the river, when I caught her by the back of the neck,\nand, ducking her head under the water, I held her there as solemnly as I\ncould until she so far weakened as to let go her hold on the canoe, and\nwe moved on, while the audience on the bank cheered. But I had a most\nunheroic feeling all the rest of that day.\n\nIn another town, a father who refused to let his boy go, said: \u201cI don\u2019t\nwant my boy coming back here knowing more than his father, his skin all\nclean, while his old father sits around with the itch scratching himself.\nWhy, the boy would despise me! I won\u2019t let him go.\u201d\n\nFor more than a year I taught the school daily without any assistance\nexcept that one or two of the advanced boys sometimes taught the junior\nclasses. Then I engaged, as an assistant, a Mpongwe, named Nduna, a boy\nof seventeen years, whose father, Rekwangi, was quite civilized and\nan old friend of our mission. Poor Nduna\u2019s life ended very tragically\nless than two years later. He was a handsome boy, of quiet disposition\nand kind-hearted. He was with me so much in the schoolroom and was so\nfaithful in his work that I came to know him well and to like him. At\nthe end of the year he told me that he had the offer of a better-paying\nposition in one of the bureaus of the government at Libreville and I\nadvised him to accept it. I understood that he gave good satisfaction to\nhis employer. After several months a sum of money was stolen from a safe\nthat had accidentally been left open. There were French clerks in the\nsame office, but Nduna was the only native. He was immediately arrested.\nThere was not a shred of evidence against him except that the money had\nbeen stolen from that particular office and that he was the only native\nthere. It was hard for me to believe that he was guilty even before I had\nheard the evidence, and when I supposed that it must be strongly against\nhim. But when upon inquiry I learned all that was known, I concluded with\na great many others that he was innocent. And the others did not know him\npersonally as I did.\n\nA native may be capable of committing a very clever theft, but I never\nknew a native who could cleverly conceal it. A certain workman, Ndinga,\nstole a coat from me, and a few days later walked into the yard with it\non. Ndinga was not intelligent like Nduna. But I knew another boy who\nabout the same time stole a considerable amount of cash from a white man.\nHe was a very clever rascal, and proved himself so in the procuring of\nthe money. Yet he carried it in his pocket as long as it lasted (which\nwas only a few days) and treated all his friends with lavish generosity.\nAmong themselves the detective faculty is dull. And this is probably\nbecause they so readily resort to supernatural means of discovering a\ncriminal, instead of following a natural clue, or weighing the evidence\nof circumstances against a suspected person. While the white man racks\nhis brains with mere probabilities, the native goes to the witch-doctor,\nwho promises him certainty. The witch-doctor names several persons, often\npersonal enemies to himself, and they are forced to undergo some ordeal,\nsuch as dipping their hands in boiling oil, which will burn only the\nguilty. It is an easy and expeditious method, and especially remunerative\nfor the witch-doctor. But it involves none of those mental operations\nwhereby facts are weighed, comparisons made and conclusions reached. The\njudgmatical faculty lies dormant. It would not therefore be expected that\nthe thief would be as careful of his tracks as if he lived in the land\nof Sherlock Holmes.\n\nIn the case of Nduna no money was found either with him or his relations.\nNeither had he spent an extra centime. The natives themselves never\nbelieved Nduna guilty, and there were others also who thought him a\nvictim of foul play. The natives of Libreville and the immediate vicinity\nare treated with humanity and justice, as a rule; but there have been\nexceptions to the rule. Nduna was tried and sentenced to imprisonment.\nI have forgotten the term of his sentence. He was not strong; his lungs\nwere weak, and after several months in the noisome prison he developed\ntuberculosis. He failed rapidly, and when several more months had passed\nit was very plain that he had not long to live. His father, Rekwangi, and\nhis mother, Aruwi, pleaded piteously for his release, but the request was\nsternly refused. I shall never forget the grief of those unhappy parents,\ngrief mingled inevitably with bitterness against the white man; for they\nhad no doubt that their boy was innocent. The weeks passed and still the\nsame message came: \u201cA little worse to-day.\u201d\n\nAt length one night some one brought word to Rekwangi that Nduna was\ndying. The father hurried to the prison, two miles away. But the guard\ntold him that the white man would not admit him. If I had only known it\nin time I could probably have procured his admission. Or if not, I at\nleast might have afforded the parents some relief by going in myself and\nstaying with Nduna. For many of the officials who are bold in dealing\nwith defenseless black people are abjectly compliant when they confront\na white man. For hours that night the father walked outside the prison\nwall crying aloud: \u201cO Nduna, Nduna, my only son, how can I give you up!\nIt is not God, but the white man who has taken you from me. Is he still\nliving? Tell him that his poor old father is close to him, standing just\noutside the prison wall. O Nduna, my son, my son!\u201d\n\nAt last, towards morning, the guard cried out: \u201cYour son is dead.\u201d\n\nThen the wretched man, overwhelmed with grief and frenzied with\nbitterness, gave way to doubt of the Christian\u2019s God, and running to the\nhouse of a friend near by asked for rum. \u201cGive me rum,\u201d he cried, \u201clest I\nkill myself.\u201d The rum was given him and he drank till he was drunk.\n\nThat morning Nduna\u2019s body was carried home. All the family and many\nfriends were gathered together. They laid him on a pile of mats on the\nfloor of the room, with his feet towards the door, and covered him\ncompletely with a coloured robe. As soon as I heard that the body had\ncome I went to the house. While I was yet a great way from the town I\nheard the wail of their mourning dirge; that weird, unceasing cry of\nhopeless grief, which I had heard so often, but never before under such\nharrowing circumstances, and it smote upon my heart. As many as could\nenter the house were sitting on the floor and many on the ground outside.\nAll the women who were in civilized dress had turned their clothes inside\nout as a sign of grief. Aruwi sat on the floor at Nduna\u2019s head, piteously\nsobbing. As I entered the door they all stopped mourning and there was\na deep silence. For once, in Africa, I felt that I could not speak. No\nwords could do justice to that heartrending scene. I stood a long time\nbefore the covered body, as silent as themselves. At last I said: \u201cAruwi,\nI want to see Nduna\u2019s face.\u201d\n\nShe turned down the covering and when I had looked at him a while I said:\n\u201cIt is a good face, Aruwi,\u2014a beautiful face. Nduna was a good boy. You\nwill not forget, Aruwi, that there was one white man who knew him and\nwho loved him.\u201d\n\nThey remained silent as I withdrew, until I reached the end of the\nvillage street, and then again, they all began to chant the mourning\ndirge.\n\nWhen the members of the Gaboon Church die they are buried in the mission\ngraveyard on Baraka hill. The reason of this concession on the part of\nthe mission was probably to enable them to control the burial service\nof Christians that it might be a Christian and not a heathen ceremony.\nThey regard it as a sacred privilege. Nduna was not a member in the\nchurch, and none but members had ever been buried at Baraka. But I broke\nthe rule, and told Aruwi that, if she wished, Nduna would be buried at\nBaraka. And there we buried him that evening. The civilized Mpongwe have\na funeral custom that I like. When the casket is lowered and immediately\nafter the benediction, coming forward, they drop a handful of earth into\nthe grave. It is a simple and affecting ceremony and has no superstitious\nsignificance. But during all my years at Gaboon there was no other\nfuneral at which so many came forward in silence and dropped a handful\nof earth into the grave as they seemed to say: \u201cGood-bye, Nduna; you\nsuffered greatly; may you rest in peace.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: BOJEDI, TEACHER OF FANG SCHOOL.\n\n_He frankly admits the superiority of the white man, but thinks that the\nblack man is far better-looking._]\n\nBut by far the best teacher I ever had in the school, and without doubt\nthe best native teacher in the entire mission, was Bojedi, a Kombi of\nBenito, to which tribe Makuba also belonged. Bojedi was twenty years old\nwhen I engaged him as a teacher and he stayed with me two years, until I\nleft Africa. He was so well qualified by education and so competent in\nmind and disposition that I gradually put the whole work of the school\nupon him, except the religious teaching, which left me more time for\nitinerating and the oversight and care of the Christians scattered in\nmany towns. Bojedi had faults that I do not mean to pass by, but without\nhim the greatly enlarged work of those last two years could never have\nbeen done; and there was probably not in West Africa a native who could\nhave taken his place. Of all the natives who taught or assisted in the\nschool he was the only one whom the schoolboys respected and obeyed as\nthey would a white man. His interest and his efforts far exceeded his\nprescribed duties. He had charge of the seventy-five boys, both in the\nschoolroom and out of it, twenty-four hours a day. He was there when they\nrose and when they went to bed. He insisted upon cleanliness as to their\npersons, their beds, their food and the manner of eating it. He oversaw\ntheir work in the yard, chiefly that of cutting grass, and would not\nallow any boy to shirk his work. Their most serious disputes he referred\nto me, but most of them he settled himself, to my immense relief, and\nthey all recognized him as fair. Under his constant supervision these\nboys, fresh from the worst heathenism, were compelled to live a civilized\nlife. And this he accomplished without force. I never knew him to strike\na boy, nor ever did I know him to lose his temper. If he kept a boy in\nschool after hours for not knowing his lesson he stayed with him himself\nand helped him with his study. Without my asking it he gathered them into\nthe school in the evening for an hour\u2019s study, himself helping the duller\nboys. He had faults, as I have said, but there were none in his teaching\nor his discipline of the boys.\n\nBojedi was educated in our mission school at Benito. Among the\nmissionaries of that station there was a French teacher, Mr. Presset,\nfrom whom Bojedi received much of his education. Unlike most Africans he\nwas a student by nature, and afterwards while he was so busy teaching in\nmy school he was also pursuing his studies in mathematics and astronomy.\nThe most that he got from me was music, which was always his pastime.\nHe had received some instruction in music from Mr. Presset, who gave\nhim access to his organ. When he came to Gaboon I placed in his house a\nbaby-organ of my own, and finding that he had unusual musical talent I\nbegan to give him occasional lessons. He made much progress and played\nso well that when I was leaving Africa I left the organ and most of my\norgan music with him. He played for the singing in school and also in the\nMpongwe Sunday-school.\n\nWhile Bojedi was still in the school at Benito he was brought into undue\nprominence with the French government in a way that reflected credit\nupon his scholarship and incidentally landed him in jail with hard\nlabour. France, it is said, rules for revenue, and this would seem to\nbe her policy in the Congo Fran\u00e7ais. A heavy duty is levied on imports\nand exports for the purpose of revenue, resulting soon in commercial\nstagnation\u2014and no revenue. The Congo Fran\u00e7ais is a large and increasing\nexpense to France. The natives pay taxes upon their houses according to\nthe size and improvements. Each door and each window is taxed. A certain\nnative of Gaboon, an enterprising young man, who wished to live in\ncivilized fashion, put a floor in his house. But he was taxed so much for\nit that he took it out and went back to the earth floor.\n\nThe taxes at Benito were heavy enough, but the local _chef de poste_ had\nbeen collecting far more than was required. The man was probably full\nof malaria and had become very irritable; like many of the government\nofficials he was in need of a long furlough home. Burning native towns\nwas a favourite pastime. If the people did not pay their taxes promptly\nhe burned their towns, leaving men, women and children without shelter.\nIf they paid promptly he required more and when it was not immediately\nforthcoming he burned their towns. If he called them to him, and they\nwere afraid to come, he burned their towns. If for any reason, or no\nreason, he doubted that they loved him dearly, he burned their towns. The\nillumination was a superb entertainment for his friends. He burned towns\nnot in the execution of law, but of his own degenerate will, governed\nonly by a malarious temper.\n\nAt last a number of local chiefs addressed a complaint to the\nadministrator at Bata, who was superior to the _chef de poste_. Bojedi,\nat the request of the chiefs, composed and wrote the letter, which I\nbelieve they signed. The administrator sent the letter to the _chef de\nposte_ who upon reading it did not think for a moment that any native\ncould have written it. There was only one white man in the region of\nBenito to whom it could possibly be attributed; and that was Mr. Presset\nof our mission at Benito. To make sure of the matter he compared the\nwriting with that of Mr. Presset, from whom he had received letters, and\nfound that it was the same. The result was that our mission at Benito\nsuffered considerable ill-treatment at his hands. At length, one day, he\nreferred to the letter in speaking to Mr. Presset, and was surprised and\nalmost affronted when the latter denied all knowledge of it. Mr. Presset\nasked to see it, and upon looking at it immediately recognized Bojedi\u2019s\nwriting. Bojedi was arrested and sent to jail, although he was only a boy\nwho had done what the chiefs had required of him; the letter was theirs,\nnot his. For months (or perhaps only one\u2014I have forgotten the length of\ntime) he remained in jail and worked at hard labour carrying stone. When\nat last one morning he was released he had scarcely a stitch of clothing\non him and he hid in a bush all day, and walked home to Benito, twenty\nmiles, during the night.\n\nThis latter story also has a sequel. While Bojedi was teaching school in\nGaboon, this same _chef de poste_ who had put him in jail, was there in\nGaboon a few days before sailing for France. Bojedi went to see him, and\ndid him several kindly services. The day he sailed (it happened to be\nSaturday); Bojedi took charge of all his baggage and saw it safely placed\non the steamer, which took the whole afternoon. Thus easily does the\nnative forgive and forget.\n\nBojedi was very simple in manners and direct in speech. It never occurred\nto him that the purpose of language was \u201cto conceal thought.\u201d One day\nshortly before I left Gaboon he remarked that the schoolboys would miss\nme greatly. I expressed a doubt on that subject. \u201cO yes, Mr. Milligan,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cthey will feel badly; for I remember that when I was a\nschoolboy and Mr. X. left us, we all felt sorry and some of us cried,\nalthough we had called him a beast every day.\u201d\n\nI have said that to commiserate the African for his colour is a waste of\nsympathy. One day when I was talking to Bojedi something in the course\nof the conversation prompted me to ask him whether he would like to be a\nwhite man. He replied respectfully but emphatically in the negative. I\nwished to know his reason; for he acknowledged and fully appreciated the\nwhite man\u2019s superiority. He hesitated to tell me; but I was insistent,\nand at length he replied: \u201cWell, we think that we are better-looking.\u201d\n\nI gasped when I thought of some of the vastly ill-looking faces I had\nseen in the jungles, and in apology for myself (and for my race, by\nimplication) I said: \u201cBut you have not seen us in our own country, where\nthere is no malaria, and where we are not yellow and green.\u201d\n\nHe quietly asked what colour we were in our own country; to which I\npromptly replied: \u201cPink and white.\u201d\n\nLooking at me steadily for a moment he remarked: \u201cMr. Milligan, if I\nshould see you in your own country I am doubtful whether I should know\nyou.\u201d\n\nThe moral weaknesses of the black race are salient and uniform and Bojedi\nwas far from being an exception to the rule. An imperious sexual impulse\nis the racial characteristic; and their surroundings are such that they\ncannot escape the temptation. One might think that African society, with\nall its tyranny of social law and custom, were contrived with the sole\npurpose of immoral indulgence. Many wives is much wealth. Courage, which\nis held in highest esteem, is displayed chiefly in stealing other men\u2019s\nwives. And under certain circumstances this immorality is even a part of\nhospitality. The women are more licentious than the men. A woman boasts\nof her elopements. To become the mistress of a white man is a matter of\nhonour and gives social prestige. The wife of an elder in the Gaboon\nChurch, speaking of a certain young woman, the daughter of a friend,\nsaid: \u201cIga is so \u2018stuck up\u2019 that she scarcely speaks to me now because\nshe is living with a white man.\u201d The more glory therefore to missions,\nthat it is able to establish purity and honour in all the social and\ndomestic relations of native converts! Even in half-Christian communities\nthose heathen standards do not entirely prevail.\n\nThe Mpongwe women of Gaboon who have long been in contact with the\nFrench are without comparison the most cultivated, best-looking, most\nartful, and most dissolute women of the entire coast. The story of their\nlicentiousness, as Tertullian once said of the women of the ancient\nstage, had best remain hid in its own darkness lest it pollute the day.\nMost young men of other tribes coming among them as Bojedi did are\nlike country boys arriving in the city, and are easy quarry. He was\nespecially an object of pursuit because, having a good position, he had\nmoney; and their need of money is equal to their love of it.\n\nIt was during Bojedi\u2019s second year as teacher that I found that he was\nliving in illicit relations with a certain woman. It was a grief to\nme. He was a lovable boy; excepting Ndong Koni and Amvama, none were\nnearer to me than Bojedi. I had come to expect almost as much of him\nas a white man. Moreover the matter was fraught not only with possible\nruin to himself but also with evil influence for the school. For\nalthough it was only lately that he had made any profession of being a\nChristian, he stood before the boys as a Christian in a marked way; had\noffered a prayer each morning in opening the school; had talked with\nthem personally; and had exercised an influence for good that was the\nmore profound because of their love of him. I wailed until night, after\nhearing this report, and then called him into the schoolhouse, where we\nwould not be disturbed, and there we talked for hours.\n\nI said: \u201cBojedi, is it true that you are living with Antyandi?\u201d\n\nHe replied: \u201cIt is true that I am _married_ to Antyandi.\u201d\u2014So he had tried\nto make himself believe.\n\nAntyandi would be regarded by any native as a very attractive woman.\nAlthough she looked younger than Bojedi she was really several years\nolder and was artful according to her years. She had some education and\nspoke and wrote French. She could boast of having lived with several\nwhite men, one of them at least of high rank in the government, and from\nthese associations she had acquired a manner that was decidedly smart\nand foreign, not to speak of trunks filled with fine clothes. She was\ngirlish in form and light in motion and had the reputation of being a\ngreat dancer. It happened once that she danced before King Adandi; not\nhowever for the head of a missionary on a charger, although afterwards\nshe would doubtless have been glad to have had my head thus presented\nto her. A bottle of champagne was all she asked. Adandi was head of the\nwhole Mpongwe tribe. He was dressed when I saw him last in white shoes,\nwhite flannel trousers and shirt, black velvet coat with a heavy gold\nchain suspended from his neck, and a white hat. He had received part\nof his education in France. He claimed the dignified distinction of\nmartyrdom, having been twice imprisoned by the French and once exiled. He\nwas a convert of the Jesuits and was profoundly religious\u2014barring such\ndiscrepancies as drunkenness, gambling and adultery. King Adandi saw\nAntyandi dance and he declared that he would die if he could not add her\nto the number of his wives. She refused him however on the ground that\nAdandi being a king the relation would involve a degree of constancy on\nher part to which she was not accustomed. Then he organized a band of\nyoung men to seize the lady and carry her off, as they do in books. This\nhad a fine flavour of romance about it. But the chocolate heroine had two\ninvisible leopards, according to her claim, which attended her day and\nnight, and with these she dispersed the brigands.\n\nBut Bojedi is still in the schoolhouse making a passionate but sorry\ndefense. He really loved the woman with a fatuous regard, and I believe\nshe was in love with him. He had first asked her uncle if he could marry\nher, and the uncle, the head of her family, although he was supposed to\nhave absolute authority over her, replied that he had nothing to say in\nthe matter, for Antyandi would do as she pleased anyway. Others of her\nrelations had said that no Mpongwe woman would ever be allowed to marry\na Kombi (to which tribe Bojedi belonged) and that the whole Mpongwe tribe\nwould rise to prevent it. An open marriage was therefore impossible. And,\non the other hand, mere publicity is the only marriage ceremony there is\namong Christians of Gaboon, and to forego publicity was to dispense with\nall ceremony. But how could a public announcement be called a ceremony?\nAnd how could mere publicity constitute a marriage bond?\n\nThis latter is in need of some explanation. Everybody knows that in\nFrance only those marriages are legal which are made by the state. The\nRoman Catholic Church insists upon a church marriage also, but it must\nfollow that of the state, and cannot precede it, the one being a legal\nand the other a religious ceremony. In the colonies this same law is\nenforced, and the church is not allowed to perform a marriage ceremony\nuntil after the legal ceremony of the state. It happens also that there\nare serious impediments to the legal ceremony and sometimes deplorable\nconsequences. The contracting parties must know their ages\u2014which the\nAfrican never knows; must know where they were born\u2014which they have never\nthought of asking and everybody has forgotten; must know their parents,\nboth father and mother. The African knows his mother; but as for his\nfather, he may never have asked his mother that personal question. They\ncould easily have recourse to lies and invent a father, but unfortunately\nthey are required to produce the parents that their verbal consent to the\nmarriage may be obtained. If the parents are not in the country a written\nconsent is required; and if they are dead the proofs of their death must\nbe produced in the form of a burial certificate.\n\nThese and other requirements may be good for France, but in Africa they\nare puerile nonsense. Moreover, these legal bonds are very hard to break;\nand that were well enough if only the moral bonds were strengthened\nthereby, but they are not, and in the case of marital infidelity the\nlaw binds only the innocent. For instance two of the very best women in\nGaboon, or in West Africa for that matter, were thus bound to husbands\nwho deserted them. One of those men took six other wives in utter\ndisregard of the legal marriage, but that outraged woman could not get a\ndivorce from him without a difficult and expensive process of law; nor,\nbeing a Christian, was she willing to marry without a divorce. We could\nnot therefore advise, still less insist, that the Christians be married\nby the state, though of course we did not advise to the contrary. And\nwithout the legal marriage we were not allowed to perform the religious\nceremony.\n\nI performed a few such ceremonies for those who had already been married\nby the state official. On one occasion the young couple had decided to\nbe married with a ring. But I knew nothing of their intention, and I was\nsurprised when the groom, after the ceremony was entirely ended, produced\nthe ring and asked me what he was supposed to do with it. The bride on\nthat occasion was dressed in a Mother Hubbard of bright blue calico\ndecorated with white lobsters. But I officiated at another marriage in\nwhich the bride was beautifully attired, and in good taste that would\nhave done credit to any white woman.\n\nAs the natives objected to the legal form of marriage, and we could\nnot conscientiously urge it upon them, there was no recognized or\nsatisfactory form. Of course there are heathen ceremonies, but some of\nthem are drunken orgies which the Christian conscience cannot allow;\nand others are so silly that the civilized natives would regard with\nabhorrence any suggestion of their observance. It is said that in some of\nthe tribes far east of us the bride and groom are required to climb two\nyoung saplings, which are then swayed back and forth until their heads\nknock together, whereby the marriage is constituted. One wonders what the\nform for divorce would be like!\n\nThe want of a fixed form is very unfortunate. For it is only in such a\nchaotic period of social transition that we learn the moral value of the\nso much derided forms and ceremonies, and that without them the marriage\ntie becomes so loose that it is practically abandoned by many. Gradually\nit came to be recognized that the payment of the dowry constituted the\nmarriage. For there must be something to differentiate marriage from\nunlawful relations. This served, though poorly, until the enlightened\nChristian conscience pronounced against the dowry, and the best people\nvoluntarily refused to accept it and abandoned the custom. Since that\ntime there is no distinct ceremony among the Christian natives at Gaboon,\nwhich is deplorable.\n\nIn lieu of a ceremony a useful custom has been introduced into the\nchurch, namely, that shortly after marriage the man and woman shall\nrise in their places in the weekly prayer-meeting, voluntarily, and\nwithout the minister saying a word shall announce their marriage, the\nman saying that he has taken this woman to be his wife and promising to\nbe faithful to her; likewise the woman. Well do I remember one night in\nthe Mpongwe Church when Barro and Anuroguli came to the prayer-meeting\nwhich I was conducting, expecting to announce their recent marriage.\nBarro rose at the end of the service and without the least embarrassment\nannounced his marriage and made his vows in most appropriate words. But\nAnuroguli, sitting on the other side of the house, was seized with panic\nand sat motionless with her finger in her mouth. Barro stood waiting\nfor her response while the women near her motioned to her, pulled her\ndress, punched her in the ribs, until gradually the whole congregation\nwas remonstrating in loud whispers, which only increased the poor\nlittle woman\u2019s embarrassment, until, seeing that it would be a physical\nimpossibility for her to make her announcement, I took the risk of\nthe law, and rose and said: \u201cAnuroguli wishes to announce,\u201d etc.; and\nhaving made her announcement for her, I closed the meeting. But, while\nall recognize the propriety of this custom, it does not constitute the\nmarriage; for it takes place after marriage, sometimes long afterwards,\nand it is not possible unless both parties are Christians.\n\nBojedi\u2019s argument therefore was not without plausibility, and all these\nfacts that I have related he marshalled to his defense very ably and\nwith intense feeling, as we sat there in the dark schoolhouse. It was\nplain that he had thought of all this before, and that before entering\non this relationship he had argued long with his conscience as he now\nargued with me. But it was also plain that he argued in his defense and\nnot his justification, and that he had allowed his reason to coerce his\nconscience. I replied that where there was nothing outward except a\npublic announcement to distinguish marriage from an illicit relation,\nthen the announcement became a duty binding on the conscience quite as\nmuch as a ceremony; and that if marriage be not so distinguished we have\na society of \u201cfree love.\u201d And again, as to the inwardness of the marriage\nrelation, upon which he dwelt, that it implied always, whether with or\nwithout a ceremony, a sincere intention of _permanency_. I added: \u201cFrom\nthe regard that you have expressed for Antyandi you would probably desire\nthat your present relation be permanent. But desire is not sufficient\nwithout expectation also; and you know as well as I do that when you\nleave Gaboon to return to your own people Antyandi will never go with\nyou, and even if she should remain here she would not be true to you.\nYou have therefore, with full knowledge, entered into a temporary\nrelationship; which is no marriage in any sense that a Christian can\nadmit.\u201d\n\nAs repentance is the chief act of man, so it is also the hardest. To make\nthe admission of wrong to me was not so hard as to admit it to himself,\nwith all its consequences. But at last the admission came: a moment later\nhe was on his knees, in tears and sobs. He said: \u201cIt is not that I cannot\ngive up Antyandi; it will be hard enough, but I\u2019ll do it. But it is the\nwrong I have already done and the loss to myself that I feel. These two\nyears while I have been teaching your school I have lived differently\nfrom all the other years of my life. Many things that I used to do I had\nstopped doing. I was happy because my heart was clean, and because the\nschoolboys all loved me and believed in me. And now all that I have built\nup in these two years is pulled down. And what will the boys think of me?\u201d\n\nIt would be cruel to repeat all that was said in that conversation. He\nwept until I felt that tears could do no more, and then I tried to quiet\nand comfort him. It was midnight when I left him.\n\nNext day he sent a brief letter to Antyandi telling her that he had done\nwrong, that he was very much ashamed, and that she must not expect him\never to enter her house again. He fully realized that there was a hard\nfight ahead of him and he thought best not to see her at all. She made\nmany attempts and plied her arts to get him again in her power. She wrote\nhim letters in which she professed to be dying for love of him. I went\nto her and ordered her not to set her foot on the mission premises. She\nregarded the order by day, but she came at night. She came to his window\nwaking him suddenly out of his sleep. She tried his door. She came at all\nhours of the night. One night he found that he could not lock his door.\nShe had probably tampered with it; but he did not think of that, for\nshe had not been there for several nights. That night at midnight she\ncame. He broke loose from her and ran straight for my room, where I was\nin bed asleep. He knocked and entered; then told me what had happened and\nbegged me to protect him. I told him he must stay in my room the rest of\nthat night; which he did, and slept on the floor. I kept him there every\nnight for a week; for more than once he had wavered though he had not\nfallen. Thus she continued to do for two months; but the subject is not\na pleasant one, and we need not follow the course of events during that\nperiod.\n\nAfter two months we heard that she was in Libreville, the mistress of a\ndignitary of the government, and Bojedi supposed that that would be the\nlast of her; but it was not. A month later the white man suddenly left\nLibreville or died\u2014I have forgotten which\u2014and Antyandi returned home. A\nfew days afterwards, returning from the beach one morning, I observed\nthat in my absence some one had closed the door of my study which I had\nleft open; the windows also were closed and the blinds down. I hurried\nin with a vague apprehension of something wrong. There sat Bojedi in the\ndarkened room, his face buried in his hands and sobbing as if his heart\nwould break. I knew instantly what had happened.\n\n\u201cHow can I tell you!\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is no need to tell me,\u201d I replied; \u201cgo to your own house, Bojedi,\nand I shall follow you in a little while.\u201d\n\nI went to his house and he told me the whole story of his temptation and\nfall, a story that I cannot repeat here. He told it with a broken voice\nand crying all the time. The school had been closed two weeks before, the\nboys were all gone and nobody around. Bojedi was waiting for the English\nsteamer, on which he was going home. This complete idleness after his\nresponsible and constant work was perhaps the devil\u2019s opportunity. Still\ncrying he rose at length and opening a box took out all sorts of native\nriches, presents from Antyandi, native robes which must have been paid\nfor by white men, a fancy bed-quilt and embroidered pillow-covers.\nWithout saying a word, but still sobbing, he made a pile of these things\njust outside his door, while I looked on not knowing what he was going\nto do, until he struck a match and set fire to them. Then he remarked:\n\u201cI should have done that long ago;\u201d which I fully admitted; or else he\nshould have returned them, which would have been better. The next day he\nleft for home.\n\nI felt that this moral fall was peculiarly serious, much more so than\nsome sin of sudden impulse. It was no doubt the very crisis of his life,\na long deliberate battle in which all his moral resources were called\nout and all his moral energy engaged. Victory in such a fight transforms\ntemptation into a purifying alembic; but to fall in such a fight means\nusually to be maimed for life.\n\nVery soon after this I left Africa. Bojedi remained at home the following\nyear. He was married during the year. The last letter that I received\nfrom him was dated at Brazzaville, in the very heart of Africa, on the\nUpper Congo, where he had a good position with the _Commissaire G\u00e9n\u00e9ral_.\nHe says: \u201cYour letter dated at Lebanon, Indiana, August 21, 1906, was\nreceived March 20, 1907,\u201d after which he tells me that just before he\nleft his home in Benito a son was born to him, whom he has named Robert\nMilligan! May his tribe increase!\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\nA LITTLE SCHOLAR\n\n\nThe following letter, with some slight omissions and alterations, was\nwritten on board the English steamer _Volta_ to a little circle of\nfriends in America:\n\n                                            _S. S. \u201cVolta,\u201d Aug. 7, 1900._\n\nIt is three months since I left Gaboon for a health-change on the sea,\nand I am just now returning. I had supposed that I would be away only a\nfew weeks; but the time was prolonged by the sickness and death of an\nAfrican boy whom I called my little scholar, of whom it is the purpose of\nthis letter to give you some account.\n\nSince the regretted resignation of Mr. Boppell on account of ill-health,\nI have had charge of the Gaboon Church at Baraka, with the work among\nthe Mpongwe, besides my work among the Fang. You will remember that the\nMpongwe is a coast tribe, among whom our church has had a mission-work\nfor many years, while the Fang is the interior tribe (now, however,\nextending to the coast), among whom the work is quite new. The strain of\nso much additional work in such a climate greatly overtaxed me, and after\nfour months it became necessary either to take a furlough home, or a\nhealth-change on the sea. The furlough was out of the question, for there\nwas no one to take my place. Accordingly on the 16th of May I left Gaboon\non this steamer expecting to go north as far as Fernando Po and return on\nthe next south-bound steamer, which would give me a vacation of a month.\n\nBeing in miserable health, I took along with me one of my Fang\nschoolboys, Ndong Mba, the smallest and brightest of his class. I thought\nI needed him to wait on me. And besides I intended to improve the idle\nhours in talking Fang with him. But a week after we had left Gaboon Ndong\nMba was the patient and I was the nurse. The weeks and months that have\nintervened, instead of being a period of rest and pleasure, have been the\nmost trying in all my African experience.\n\nNdong Mba was born in a town not far from Angom. While he was yet a\nmere baby his father and mother died leaving him to the care of their\nrelations. However willing such relations may be to assume parental\nauthority over a child, they are not so willing to assume responsibility\nfor his care, for the parental love is absent. Moreover, Ndong was\nvery frail; and such a child is not attractive to the African woman,\nexcept his own mother. He was therefore heartlessly neglected, until\nmy predecessor, Rev. Arthur W. Marling, finding him hungry and crying,\nand knowing his miserable plight, took pity on him and carried him in\nhis arms to the mission. Ndong often told me about the kindness of the\nmissionaries. But there was a long interval when Mr. Marling was away\non furlough; and then he was dependent upon distant relations who made\nhim thoroughly acquainted with hunger and hard work. He continued frail\nand was very small, appearing, when I afterwards knew him, several years\nyounger than he was really was.\n\nHe attended the school at Angom which was well kept and well taught\nunder Mr. Marling\u2019s administration; and at an age when most children do\nnot know their letters he could read. I, who did not know him until the\nbeginning of this present year, have regarded him as an intellectual\nprodigy. His knowledge of the Scripture and his understanding of it was\nastonishing in one so young. The whole Gospel of Matthew, the only one\nwhich has been translated into the Fang, he knew almost by heart, besides\na considerable acquaintance with the other Scriptures through the Mpongwe\ntranslations; for he knew Mpongwe almost as well as Fang. He was baptized\nand received into the church at a younger age perhaps than any other\nchild has ever been received in our mission; and through the years that\nhave since passed, amidst degrading surroundings of which you in the\nhomeland can scarcely conceive, this little boy kept the faith which he\nthen professed, and grew up pure, truthful, unselfish and affectionate.\n\nMr. Marling died in the fall of 1896, Ndong Mba being then, probably,\nseven or eight years old. Long before this, however, the people of his\ntown had moved far away, leaving him behind, and were quite lost sight\nof. He was now without friends, white or black, at the age of eight. In\na distant bush-town there was a woman who had formerly lived in Ndong\u2019s\ntown: he made his way to her and begged her to take him in. There, in a\ntown remote from missionary influence, in which there was not one person\nrelated to him, the poor little stranger lived for three years, during\nwhich no missionary either saw him or heard of him. His position in the\ntown was not much better than that of everybody\u2019s slave. His frailty,\ninstead of insuring greater kindness, only made him contemptible.\nWhenever he spoke of those three years it was always of his sufferings\nthere, and his back was injured by the heavy loads that had been put upon\nhim. He was the only Christian in the town; but there is no doubt that\nthrough those hard and lonely years the little Christian was constant and\nfaithful in profession and practice;\u2014as strange, upon its human side, as\nthat a lighted candle should withstand a winter\u2019s storm.\n\nAt the end of this time a long-wished-for opportunity came; he joined\na company of travellers and again reached Angom, hoping to find a\nmissionary there. There was no missionary there at the time and he found\nthe station closed; but, in a town close by, a woman was visiting who\nyears before had lived in Ndong\u2019s town. She was probably a Christian\nwoman, for she was compassionate. Her heart was touched and she took him\nwith her to her home near the coast. It was only a few weeks after this\nthat I met him, at the beginning of this year.\n\nI was gathering a class of Fang boys who had already received a primary\neducation in the school at Angom, hoping that with time and training they\nmight become teachers, and later on, in the providence of God, perhaps\npreachers. I heard of this boy, and immediately I visited the town where\nhe was staying. The name of the town was typical, _Ebol Nzok_: _Rotten\nElephant_. It seems that when the people of this town still lived in\nthe interior bush they sent a delegation down the river to choose a\nsite for a new town near the coast. The delegation selected a beautiful\nsite, where the river broadens out into the great estuary. They returned\nand reported their success, and the whole large town at once prepared\nto move. As they approached the chosen site, and while they were still\nat a distance, they found the atmosphere of the new country pervaded\nwith a most disagreeable smell which grew worse and worse,\u2014a horrible\nstench which made them hold their noses, a breath from Gehenna, almost\npalpable. They forced a passage through it and went on until they reached\nthe middle of the chosen site, where they found the huge carcass of an\nelephant in an acute stage of decomposition. They thought it proper to\ncommemorate this historical incident in the name of their town, which\nthey called _Rotten Elephant_: _Ebol Nzok_.\n\nWhen I visited Ebol Nzok and asked for Ndong Mba they told me he was\naway in the distant gardens at work; so I left word that I would like to\nsee him at Baraka as soon as he could come. One morning, not long after,\na tiny little boy came into my study and stood before me, his body thin\nand frail, but unusually clean, and with extraordinary eyes, dark and\nsparkling beneath long black lashes. Looking up eagerly into my face and\nvery much excited, he said: \u201cI\u2019m Ndong Mba; I\u2019ve come; and I\u2019m so glad\nyou sent for me. I have not seen a missionary since Mr. Marling died; and\nI\u2019ve not been to church, and I\u2019ve not been to school, and I thought the\nmissionaries had thrown me away. And there were no Christians where I\nlive. I was alone; and I prayed and prayed all the time to come back to\nthe mission; and now I\u2019m here; and I\u2019m so glad; and I will do anything\nyou ask if you let me stay here; for I can work, and you won\u2019t be sorry\nif you let me be your boy.\u201d Thus he went on with his pathetic appeal. And\nthis was really Ndong Mba, of whom I had so often heard!\n\nThe unusual intelligence of the eyes that looked into mine, eyes in which\nthe tears were now quivering, the faded rag\u2014but very clean\u2014which was the\nsum of his clothing, and other marks of neglect and suffering, moved me\ndeeply. Drawing the poor little waif close to me I said: \u201cI am glad to\nsee you, Ndong Mba,\u201d which he accepted as a sufficient answer.\n\nI took him into my class and also assigned him certain work for which I\nsaid I would pay him, so that he could buy the little clothing and other\nthings that he needed. He replied: \u201cLittle boys don\u2019t need money; I only\nwant a father to take care of me, and I\u2019ll work for him all the time.\u201d I\nthought best, however, to insist upon paying him, but at the same time I\ntold him that I would take care of him as long as we were together. All\nthat day, throughout its duties and its noise, those wonderful appealing\neyes seemed still to be looking up into mine. I felt that God had given\ninto my charge one of His little ones, that I might help to fit him for a\ngreat service to his people in years to come. Through all the weeks and\nmonths that followed, during which he was continually with me, he fully\njustified my first impression of him.\n\nThis is the little boy that I took with me from Gaboon in May. The second\nday he had what seemed to be a light attack of malarial fever. The ship\u2019s\ndoctor said that he had only caught cold, and assured me that he would\nbe better next day. But the next day he was worse, and the next still\nworse. One of our missionary physicians came on board at Batanga, going\nhome on furlough. He found Ndong Mba very sick indeed. He had pneumonia\u2014a\nvery severe attack\u2014and pleurisy with it, causing him great pain; this,\ntogether with a hard fever. The situation was distressing. I was sick\nmyself and scarcely able to be out of bed, and had brought Ndong along to\nwait on me. But now he was worse than myself and I was waiting on him.\n\nWhen we reached Fernando Po, where I had expected to land and to wait for\nthe south-bound steamer, there was scarcely a hope that he would live;\nand whatever small hope there was would have been cut off by moving him\nand taking him away from the doctor\u2019s care. I had therefore no choice\nbut to remain on board; and I went on to Teneriffe, where I waited three\nweeks, until the return of this same steamer from England. Indeed, on my\nown account it would not have been advisible to land at Fernando Po. For\nI had been attending Ndong almost day and night, and my health-change\nhad thus far been only a change for the worse. Others on board, fellow\nmissionaries, had been kind in trying to relieve me; but as Ndong\nsuffered more, and the fever raged, they could not control him; and after\na few minutes they would be obliged to call me. But they remarked that\nwhen I came I had only to speak his name, and he was quiet; and the brave\nlittle man even tried not to let me see how sick he was.\n\nI greatly regretted the necessity of going on to Teneriffe; for I had\nexpected to be away from my work only one month and had arranged it\naccordingly, and this extension of my trip would keep me away three\nmonths and the consequences to the work distressed me. I no more enjoyed\nthe trip than if I had been a prisoner in irons. Besides, there was\ndifficulty in regard to my accommodations on board, a difficulty that\nwas increasing at each port as we took on more passengers. I had engaged\nonly a deck-passage for Ndong; but Captain Button whose kindness I\ncan never forget, had told me to take him into my cabin. Thus far I\nhad occupied the cabin alone, but I could not expect that favour to\ncontinue longer, as other passengers were coming onboard, and already\nthere were two persons in each of the other cabins. The full price of\nthe cabin for myself and Ndong to Teneriffe and return would have been\nabout five hundred dollars. It was therefore a considerable favour that\nI was accepting from the captain, and it was now at the cost of possible\ndiscomfort to others. But this difficulty, I thought, would not last\nlong, for it did not seem that Ndong would live more than a few days.\nThe captain told me not to think of the matter of accommodations at all;\nthat he would leave me that cabin as long as he possibly could, and if it\nshould become impossible, he actually said that I should bring Ndong up\nto his own cabin and occupy it. One would need to have been on the coast\nto have any just appreciation of such extraordinary kindness towards a\nlittle black boy. Moreover, almost every morning the captain came to my\ncabin door and asked for the boy.\n\nAgain the unexpected happened. Ndong, one might almost say, neither died\nnor lived. He simply lingered, and lingered on, through weary weeks.\nAfter a while the worst of his suffering was past, but in his extreme\nweakness he required almost as much attention as ever. He was quite\nunable to walk and could only leave his bed as some one carried him, but\nit was no difficult matter to carry him for he had rapidly wasted away\nuntil he was no heavier than a baby. I need not relate the history of\nthose weeks; there were few incidents to recount; but I wish that you\nmight have witnessed the patience of the poor little sufferer.\n\nHe had his moments of doubt too. One day when he was talking to me, as I\nlay in the adjoining berth, I told him that we must try to sleep because\nthat we both were sick. \u201cYou sick?\u201d he asked. \u201cYou sick, too?\u201d\n\nHe partly rose in his bed, and leaning his head on his hand, looked long\nand wistfully at me. After a while I asked him what he was thinking of.\n\n\u201cI am wondering,\u201d he replied slowly, \u201cwhy we two should be sick. We are\nboth Christians and you are a minister, and there are so many on board\nwho do not try to do right. I hear them cursing God all the time as they\npass up and down the gangway. And they are all well. I have often thought\nof it; but I do not understand.\u201d A little boy from the depths of the\nAfrican jungle struggles with the same question which sorely tried an\nancient sufferer, and to which his friends gave but vain answers.\n\nThere was among the deck-passengers a woman whose language Ndong knew,\nalthough it was not his own. Before his sickness reached the worst I\nsometimes asked this woman to sit with him while I sat on deck. One day\nhe said to me: \u201cMr. Milligan, we must pray for that woman. She is in\ngreat darkness. She talked about things she ought not to mention; and I\ntold her about Jesus.\u201d\n\nWe called at many ports along the way; but I did not leave the ship. On\nthe fourth Sunday we reached Sierra Leone, usually the last African port\nfor these ships of the southwest coast. In this splendid and beautiful\nharbour with its amphitheatre of hills, there were more vessels together\nthan I had seen in years. But the most interesting of all was a British\nman-of-war. I heard the singing at the \u201cdivine service\u201d which is held\nevery Sunday morning on all British war-ships. All the passengers\nexcepting myself had gone ashore, and I was alone on the deck, and not\nonly alone, but lonely and tired. Ndong was sleeping in a chair beside\nme. It was then that the first hymn from the war-ship rang clear across\nthe still water, sung in perfect time by that large chorus of strong\nmen\u2019s voices, the harbour forming a perfect acoustic chamber. The tune\nwas the old classic, \u201cSt. Anne.\u201d The words were those usually sung to\nthis tune in our own churches, \u201cOur God, our help in the ages past!\u201d\nI have never heard anything more beautiful and impressive; and after\nmy long exile in the jungle my mind was susceptive to the influence of\nits power and beauty. The hymn, both words and music, had always been a\nfavourite, answering, as it seemed to me, to something fundamental in\nour nature; but from this time it became _the_ favourite. And since that\ntime, whenever I ask choirs and congregations to sing it I am always\nhearing within and beyond their voices, the music of that chorus of men\nin the far off African harbour. I cannot forbear to quote the words.\n\n    \u201cOur God, our help in ages past,\n    Our hope for years to come;\n    Our shelter from the stormy blast,\n    And our eternal home!\n\n    \u201cUnder the shadow of Thy throne,\n    Thy saints have dwelt secure;\n    Sufficient is Thine arm alone,\n    And our defense is sure.\n\n    \u201cBefore the hills in order stood,\n    Or earth received her frame,\n    From everlasting Thou art God,\n    To endless years the same.\n\n    \u201cTime, like an ever-rolling stream,\n    Bears all its sons away;\n    They fly, forgotten, as a dream\n    Dies at the opening day.\n\n    \u201cOur God, our help in ages past,\n    Our hope for years to come,\n    Be Thou our Guard while troubles last,\n    And our eternal home.\u201d\n\nAt the end of five weeks we reached Teneriffe Island, where I waited\nthree weeks for the return of the _Volta_ from Liverpool. As we\napproached the harbour of Santa Cruz the captain called me to the bridge\nto see an American flag which waved from a mast among the flags of all\nnations. \u201cCome,\u201d said he, \u201cand feast your eyes on your American gridiron.\u201d\n\nIt did not take me long to get to the bridge. \u201cDon\u2019t point it out,\u201d said\nI, \u201clet me find it myself.\u201d\n\nThose who have wandered much in foreign lands are more deeply imbued with\nthe sentiment of the flag. But to feel it to the full one must have lived\nfor years in an uncivilized land, where liberty is not yet born. The\nsight of the flag to me that day was like hearing Madam Patti sing _Home\nSweet Home_.\n\nI landed at Santa Cruz and remained there four days\u2014days of unpleasant\nrecollection. It was thought best to keep Ndong as much as possible\nin the open air. Though very weak he could walk, and I led him by the\nhand. One would think that these Spaniards of Santa Cruz had never seen\na black skin before; the poor emaciated form added greatly to their\ncuriosity; and above all, the novelty of a white man caring for one who\nto them was only a \u201clittle black nigger.\u201d I no sooner appeared with the\nchild than a crowd gathered around me, and I found myself the centre of\na dirty procession of all ages and genders, that followed me round and\nround the block in increasing numbers; large girls walking backwards in\nfront of me; women with baskets of clothes on their heads going out of\ntheir way to walk by my side and staring with open mouth,\u2014all of them\nstaring. The slightest betrayal of irritation on my part would have\nserved only to increase the crowd, and I tried to look perfectly composed\nand good-natured. But now and then there was an inward rise of unsaintly\nfeeling that resembled that of the two she-bears of Holy Scripture that\nrudely scattered a crowd of young Spaniards following hard upon the heels\nof an ancient prophet.\n\nNdong was at first exasperated by this unwelcome publicity; but\nlater his feelings were relieved by an inadvertent remark. Before\nreaching Teneriffe, two missionary ladies, to whom I am grateful for\nmany kindnesses, had made a little suit for him out of some of their\nown clothes. This suit was far beyond anything he had ever hoped to\npossess. And in addition to this I bought him a pair of shoes at Santa\nCruz\u2014little canvas shoes with hemp soles, for which I paid a peseta. When\nhe protested against the rude staring of the Spaniards, and was about\nto cry, I remarked that perhaps these poor Spanish children were only\nadmiring his fine clothes. He took me more literally than I had expected,\nand from that time made no more complaint.\n\nAfter four days I left Santa Cruz by a stage-coach, travelling directly\nacross the middle of the island to Orotava, a small port on the other\nside. Orotava is situated at the base of the great Teneriffe Peak, one of\nthe greatest in the world, which rises to a height of 12,500 feet above\nthe sea and is supposed to be the Mt. Atlas of ancient fable. Above the\ntown the broad landscape, on which the quaint hut of the toiling peasant\ncontrasts with stately English homes, rises at first slowly and then more\nrapidly, until at last it sweeps upward far above the clouds. On a hill\nthree miles from the town towards the Peak stands the magnificent English\nhotel, where I stayed, surrounded with many acres of the loveliest\nflowers in terraced gardens. It is a perfect fairy-land. The hotel is\nimmense in size, and in winter it is filled with English guests; but I\nwas there in summer and I was the only guest.\n\nThe hotel commands the finest view of the Peak. It is usually hidden\nbehind the clouds by day, and is visible in the evening. As one sees\nit first, in the late afternoon, a white cloud is stretched across its\nmiddle height, concealing the mountain all but the very summit which\nappears like a celestial island floating upon radiant clouds in the high\nheavens. It is fifteen miles to the summit. There is a good road and one\ncan make the ascent on a donkey, all but the last three miles, which most\npeople prefer to walk. Near the summit the ground is hot a few inches\nbelow the surface, which is usually the only evidence that it is still\nan active volcano. But two years ago there issued from the crater for\nseveral mouths a volume of smoke which at the distance of the hotel,\nfifteen miles, appeared as large as the funnel of an ocean steamer.\n\nThe distance from Santa Cruz to Orotava is twenty-six miles; and the\nroad of course passes up and down the mountain grades, in some places\nvery steep. We were nine hours on the way. The old coach, a relic of\nbygone ages, was so \u201cromantic\u201d that I doubted whether it would ever\nreach its destination. It was drawn by three scraggy horses, a little\nolder than the coach, at whom the driver never ceased shouting, as he\ncracked his long-lashed whip about their heads. The harness was of sundry\nmaterials, leather straps, ropes and chains, tied and knotted any place\nand everywhere. And they were continually parting, especially in critical\nascents of the road, at which the driver would spring from his seat in a\npanic, as if such a casualty had never happened before, notwithstanding\nthe evidence of many previous knots. Then seeing the excitement of the\npassengers, who were trying to scramble out, but in such disorder that\nthey jammed together and each one prevented the others, he would block\nthe coach and proceed to repair the harness, in which art he ought to\nhave been an expert, if practice makes perfect. No sooner did we reach\nthe next ascent, however, than as if by the spell of some malignant\nsprite all the knots untied at the same moment, and again the passengers\nwere thrown into a state of panic.\u2014But one gets used to being killed. We\nhad two relays of horses on the way.\n\nThe coach was apparently intended for four persons, but for a\nconsiderable part of the distance was occupied by seven, four of whom\nsmoked cheap cigars, although the windows were closed much of the time.\nFor we ascended the mountain to a great height, and night coming on at\nthe same time, it was very cold, much more so than I had prepared for,\nand being fresh from the equator, I suffered as if I had been thrust\ninto the Arctic zone. Ndong had a high fever, and I had to wrap my\ntravelling-rug around him. The result was that for the next ten days I\nhad one of the severest colds I have ever had in my life. The coach was\nso crowded that I could only save Ndong from being crushed or sat upon by\nholding him on my knee, but he was very much exhausted by the journey.\n\nBefore reaching Orotava I left the coach which did not pass the Grand\nHotel, to which I was bound. I took a carriage, which carried some of the\nmails from that point, and which passed the hotel. The driver was told\nto leave me at the hotel. But he forgot and took me on down the steep\ngrade, a mile further towards the town. Then, recalling the order he had\nreceived he suddenly stopped, and pointing to the lights of the hotel\nup the steep height behind us invited me to get out. I kept my seat and\nrequested him to drive me back to the hotel. A \u201cpalaver\u201d ensued in which\nneither of us understood in particular what the other was saying. For he\nspoke only Spanish, of which I did not know a sentence. I had no money\naccessible before reaching the hotel. I tried to tell him that I would\npay him; but he probably did not understand. Then I thought that the\nmatter might as well be cut short; so pointing to the hotel I gave him a\nperemptory order in the English language, but the accent was universal.\nIn reply he whipped his horses and drove straight on to the town.\nReaching his destination, on the main street, he jumped down and with\nviolent gesticulation proceeded to throw all my baggage into the street,\nwhich was a sufficient inducement for me to follow; and I found myself,\nat eleven o\u2019clock at night, miserably cold, with a sick child in my arms,\nand with all my baggage, in the street of a foreign town where there was\nno person with whom I could speak a word.\n\nSeveral loafers who were still abroad gathered around, and recalling by\nmere chance the name of a Spanish hotel in the town, I directed them to\ncarry my baggage and the child, and show me the way to it. Fortunately\nit was quite near. I remained there that night, and next day went to the\nGrand.\n\nIn the community there was a physician, whose services I requested, Dr.\nIngram, a Scotchman, who was residing there for his health. He found\nthat one of Ndong\u2019s lungs was completely congested, and he advised that\nI should send him to a hospital three miles further up the mountainside\nand close to his home. Accordingly I took Ndong to the hospital where he\nremained for a week.\n\nI went every day to see him, riding the six miles, to the hospital and\nback, on a donkey, which added another chapter of novel experience. The\nCanary Island donkey is a very diminutive quadruped, the colour of a\nmouse and as innocent looking as a lamb. Its ears are about as long as\nits legs. The price of the donkey\u2019s hire includes the owner, who runs\nbehind and shouts, and prods him with a stick. After two days\u2019 experience\nI concluded that shouting and prodding were of no use whatever, and\nrealizing that the moral man in me was rapidly degenerating, I decided\non the third day to leave the driver at home and even pay a higher price\nif necessary for the donkey without a driver, intending myself to assume\nthe management of this soft-eyed creature, who perhaps only needed a\nlittle petting, for those eyes bespoke a peaceful temper. The owner\nreadily assented to the proposition and very wisely requested me to pay\nin advance.\n\nIn a few minutes I had experienced to the full the pain of misplaced\nconfidence. My donkey was a facsimile of the immortal _Modestine_. Having\npatted the donkey kindly and exchanged with her a long look of mutual\nregard, I mounted. She started off on an easy trot until the owner was\nout of sight. Then she stopped and stood still and declined to go on in\nspite of coaxing, kicking and whipping, until I seriously thought of\nbuilding a fire under her to get her to move. While I was reflecting\nupon the adaptation of means to ends and for the time had ceased from\nall measures of coercion, she started as suddenly as she had stopped\nand with as little reason. She seemed to be clear outside the principle\nof causality that inheres in the universe. And having started, she ran\nanywhere and in every direction, evincing neither purpose nor method in\nher going except a marked predilection for hedges and brambles.\n\nIn less than two minutes, however, she reverted to her natural gait,\nwhich, like that of _Modestine_, was something as much slower than a walk\nas a walk is slower than a run. Under cruel and continuous beating I\nforced her to maintain a gait that I hoped would carry me to the hospital\nand back before night, six miles in an entire afternoon. Occasionally\nmy spirit revolted from the ignoble occupation of so maltreating a poor\ndumb animal. But the moment I relaxed she turned aside from the road and\nbegan to browse. Each peasant that passed me threw back his head and\nlaughed. An inward consciousness that I would have laughed myself if I\nhad been in their place only added to my misery. \u201cBut O, what a cruel\nthing is a farce to those engaged in it!\u201d Under the influence of their\nlaughter and the perversity of _Modestine_ humanity died in my heart and\nI belaboured her with all the strength and vivacity that my health would\nallow, stopping only to get my breath and to mop the perspiration from my\nsuperheated brow. Of course, I might better have walked the rocky ascent;\nbut in one thing I was as obstinate as the donkey\u2014I would not give up my\nundertaking to ride her to the hospital and back. Besides, I kept hoping\nthat, as she could not do worse, she might possibly do better; otherwise\nmy arm should have failed me for despair. And to think that I was paying\nfor all this disservice! By some strange fortuity of circumstances we\nactually reached the hospital, and afterwards the hotel, where I took\nfinal leave of her, a weary but a wiser man. At parting she again turned\nto me with an affectionate look of lamb-like innocence; but a deep sense\nof injury together with aching limbs rendered me insensible to her\nmagnanimity.\n\nThe people of Teneriffe are so far behind modern times that the barbers\nare still the surgeons. Dr. Ingram blistered Ndong\u2019s congested lung and\nthe barber was afterwards called in daily to dress the wound. After six\ndays I took Ndong back to the hotel. He seemed on the way to recovery,\nand was much stronger on his feet.\n\nUnder Mr. Marling\u2019s teaching he had acquired a habit of prayer morning\nand evening to which he had ever been faithful. Nothing could surpass the\npathos of the prayers that he offered thanking God for every kindness\nthat he had received from anybody and pleading for his complete recovery.\nHe knew that he was a great care to me and it troubled him. On one\noccasion he entreated: \u201cO Father in heaven, please make me well; for I\u2019ve\nbeen sick so long; and I\u2019m so little; and I have no father nor mother.\u201d\n\nThe day after he returned from the hospital I observed that he was\ninclined to be impatient; the next day he was more impatient, and was\npositively disobedient. I was surprised and pained; and I wondered\nwhether it could be possible that my constant care had in any way spoiled\na disposition which years of neglect and adversity had only sweetened.\nBut it was soon explained. That evening while he was eating his dinner,\nin a little room next the dining-room where I was eating mine, I heard\nhim talking excitedly to the waiter. I immediately went to him and\ncarried him to my room. He sat down and covering his face with both his\nhands held them there without moving. I spoke to him but he did not\nanswer. Then removing his hands from his face, I called him by name. He\nturned his eyes towards mine in an agony of fear: it was his last sane\nmoment. He uttered a loud shriek, and another, and another. I caught\nhim in my arms as he went into a convulsion and laid him on my bed. But\nI knew that upon this poor little boy, from his birth marked out for\nmisfortune, and who had now suffered so long, had at last fallen the\nmost terrible of human calamities\u2014insanity; and that, too, just when his\nrecovery seemed hopeful.\n\nAll night he continued talking wildly, and shrieking at intervals. In\nthe morning he was more quiet, though not more sane. Nor was there any\nmarked change during the ten long weary days that we still remained in\nthe hotel. He gradually became weaker and more insane. I did not let him\nout of my sight except when I went to my meals, and then I locked him in\nmy room.\n\nOnce when I returned from dinner I found him dressed in a suit of white\npajamas of mine. He said to me: \u201cThat woman who comes in to attend to the\nroom while you are at dinner is a very foolish person. She came in this\nevening and looked at me and laughed, and laughed. But all Spaniards seem\nto be foolish.\u201d\n\nOn the 10th of July I returned to Santa Cruz. The next day the _Volta_\narrived and I immediately went on board. I looked forward with dread\nto the long journey on the steamer with an insane child. I engaged a\nsecond-class cabin (although I was a first-class passenger) that I might\nbe removed from the white passengers; for on these steamers there are\nseldom any white men travelling second-class. Again, by the kindness of\nthe captain, Ndong occupied the cabin with me. He was determined to go\nall over the ship, but it was more than ever necessary that I should\nrestrain him. He became impatient of the restraint, and regarded me as\nhis prison-keeper. It made a great difference when this child, who had\nloved me with the utmost devotion, now turned against me. But his own\nsuffering was increased by this feeling; nor was there anything I could\ndo to relieve it. I simply waited for the end and prayed to Him who\ntempers the wind to the shorn lamb.\n\nThere were on board sixteen officers of the English army who were\nexpecting to debark at Cape Coast Castle and were bound for the Ashantee\nterritory of the interior, which, as you probably know, has been for\nseveral mouths the scene of another great uprising of the natives almost\nas formidable as that of thirty years ago. When we reached Sierra\nLeone, we also took on board more than two hundred native soldiers, as\ndeck-passengers. I am glad to testify that among these sixteen officers\nthere were several real gentlemen, in the American sense; others were\ntolerable; and there were still others. They were not pleasant fellow\npassengers. We were looking forward with some dread to their last\nnight on board; and they also were looking forward to it, but with\nfeelings entirely different from ours. We were expecting to reach Cape\nCoast Castle on Thursday. But for the last sixty hours the captain,\nwithout telling anybody, used the reserve power of two knots an hour,\nincreasing our full speed from ten to twelve knots. Accordingly, it was\nwith astonishment and unmixed joy that on Wednesday morning, coming on\ndeck, we read on the bulletin: \u201cCape Coast Castle this morning at eight\no\u2019clock!\u201d They had not time to get drunk.\n\nBut, in any case, the heartrending scene which we witnessed soon after\nwe had anchored would probably have sobered them. Five missionaries of\nthe Swiss _Basle Mission_ were brought on board in a most pitiful and\nawful condition. Among them was that great and widely-known veteran, Mr.\nRamseyer, whom I had long wished to meet. Mrs. Ramseyer was also in the\nparty, besides two other younger women and another man.\n\nAt the outbreak of the war these missionaries had fled to Kummassi,\nthe seat of the English government, and were there when that city was\nbesieged by the natives. The English governor was also in the city.\nFor several months they had lived on half-rations, until they were\nso reduced in flesh that their friends would not have recognized\nthem. All this time they were waiting and watching for the arrival of\nreinforcements from the English army. At last, having waited for the\nexpected relief until their supplies were nearly exhausted, they broke\nthrough the lines of the enemy and made a desperate effort to reach\nthe coast. The governor escaped at the same time and with his retinue\nstarted for the coast by a different road. Along the main road the enemy\nwas strongest so that it was impassable; therefore the missionary party\nof six persons, three men and their wives, together with their fifty\ncarriers, took a most circuitous road, and indescribably bad. They all\nwalked but Mrs. Ramseyer who was carried in a hammock. Many of their\ncarriers were shot down by the enemy and others died by the way, being\nexhausted by famine. I think it was only fifteen carriers that reached\nthe coast. One man of the missionary party died when they had been a\nweek on the way. They walked for twenty-five successive days before they\nreached the coast. One woman, the wife of the man who died on the way,\nwalked all the last day without shoes.\n\n\u201cThat day, as well as others,\u201d said Mr. Ramseyer, \u201cwe waded in water to\nour waists, and sometimes almost to the women\u2019s shoulders.\u201d\n\nThe collapse came when they reached the coast; at least for all but Mr.\nRamseyer, a man of iron constitution. The next day the _Volta_ called and\nthey were brought on board and were laid upon the deck like corpses; all\nbut Mr. Ramseyer.\n\nThe captain, whose humour and inexhaustible anecdote were usually an\nantidote for the tedium and weariness of so long a journey, was overcome\nby the scene on deck to the extent that I saw him brush a tear away.\nAnd then, finding it absolutely necessary to do something, as a vent to\nhis feeling of sympathy, and supposing that the very best thing for the\nmissionary party all round would be a strong stimulant, he stepped to the\nskylight and shouted: \u201cWhisky! Whisky!\u201d Then, evidently reflecting that\nif a little whisky were good, more would be better, he circulated about\nthe deck shouting, \u201cWhisky!\u201d at every steward who put his head out of a\nport-hole.\n\nIt sounded like an invocation to some favourite fetish; and for that\nmatter whisky is the fetish of many white men in West Africa. They invoke\nits aid in all their troubles. If there had been many more stewards\naround, I am afraid there would have been a serious shortage of whisky\nfor the rest of the voyage, and such an event would have created greater\nconsternation on the coast than the Ashantee war itself.\n\n\u201cGreat Scott!\u201d exclaimed a man in the saloon who had been occupied with\nwriting and did not know what was occurring on deck, \u201cwhere is all that\nwhisky going at this hour of the morning? What\u2019s come on board? the\nEnglish army?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d replied the steward, \u201cit\u2019s a party of missionaries.\u201d The man\nwent up the companionway two steps at a time to see the party of\nmissionaries who could drink so much whisky. I do not remember whether\nthe missionaries drank any of the whisky; but it may be taken for granted\nthat it was not wasted.\n\nWhile they still lay on the deck, Mr. Ramseyer, standing up, told the\nstory of their sufferings to the shocked and eager passengers assembled\nabout him. Until this morning the war had been a kind of a jest to these\nofficers of the army; but now it became a stern reality, and the change\nin their behaviour was noticeable. One of them, by the way, was shot by a\nnative and instantly killed a few days after landing.\n\nThat same evening Mr. Ramseyer told me of the experience of himself and\nMrs. Ramseyer in the former Ashantee war, thirty years ago. In that war\nthey were captured by the natives and held for ransom. Five long years,\nfrom 1869 to 1874, they were prisoners, carried about from place to place\nto escape the pursuit of the English. They were told that they would\nbe killed rather than given up. During the first year their feet were\nput in stocks at night to prevent their escape. But they made friends\nof their captors, who finally gave them up without ransom. They went to\nSwitzerland for a long rest, and then returned again to their work.\n\nMr. Ramseyer closed his story of this latest war by declaring\ntriumphantly that the Christian natives had not taken part in the\nrebellion; though their loyalty had cost many of them their lives.\n\nI have digressed at length from my subject and am several days ahead\nof my story; but I am glad to have this opportunity of recording the\nheroism of this grand old man, great alike in counsel and in action;\nwhose advice successive governors of Ashantee for many years have sought;\nand the equal heroism of his noble wife, and the devotion of the other\nmissionaries of the party, who might have escaped safely at the outbreak\nof this war, but that they chose rather to suffer with their people.\n\nI said that from the time we came on board at Santa Cruz Ndong was\ndisposed to wander over the ship, and I had to watch him closely. Several\ntimes he escaped from me. On one occasion I had been up with him until\nabout three o\u2019clock in the morning. He was then asleep and I also lay\ndown and slept soundly for a little while. But during this time he had\nwakened and was gone. The door was fastened at the first hook and I did\nnot suppose that he could pass through. He went on a tour of inspection\naround the ship; but in a few minutes he was tired and wished to return.\nHe became confused and wandered into the saloon, at the other end of\nthe deck, and from the saloon into the cabin which he had occupied with\nme when we went north. One of the army officers, a captain, an entire\nstranger to me at the time, occupied the cabin. Imagine his surprise when\nhe was awakened in the dark by a strange hand upon his face. Supposing\nit to be the hand of a robber, he seized it; but finding how very, very\nsmall it was, he concluded that his life was not in immediate danger. He\nremembered the little boy whom he had seen with me, and calling a steward\nhe sent him to me. I apologized to the gentleman next morning as best I\ncould. His generosity relieved my humiliation.\n\nAll the way to Teneriffe Ndong had been getting weaker each day. One\nmorning I took him on deck as usual, but in a little while he asked to be\ncarried back to bed. All that day and the next he lay quietly repeating\nstories from the Gospel, one after another. He was again patient and\nloving as before, and his mind was clearer. On Thursday morning, July\n19th, about three o\u2019clock he wakened, and I rose and sat beside him. He\nwas very weak and spoke with effort. But after a while he talked more,\nand without difficulty. I had partly raised him in the bed and he lay on\nthe pillows with his arm around my neck. At last, with eyes dilated and\naglow with the beauty of another world, he said: \u201cI see Mr. Marling; he\ncomes towards the door; and beyond him I see the City of God; and Jesus\nis there. Do you not see, Mr. Milligan?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, Ndong,\u201d I said.\n\nAfter a while he fell asleep; and some hours later he passed into the\ndeeper sleep in which there is \u201cno more pain\u201d; for he had gone to be with\nJesus, \u201cwhich is far better.\u201d\n\nThat same day at noon we buried him at sea, two hundred miles west of\nSierra Leone. Only those who have witnessed a burial at sea know how it\naffects the mind with a nameless depression and spreads a gloom over\nall on board. It is perhaps the awful vastness of the ocean grave that\nimparts this sense of desolation. The sailors have many superstitions\nregarding death on shipboard. For instance, they say that sharks\ninvariably follow the ship for twenty-four hours before a death takes\nplace.\n\nI have several times conducted burial services at sea;\u2014once, on a French\nsteamer, the burial of a deputy-governor of Senegal. The body wrapped in\ncanvas, and with heavy weights at the feet, is placed upon a plank at\nthe open gangway, with the feet towards the sea, ropes being attached to\nthe inner end of the gangplank. After the service, at the signal of the\ncaptain, the engines are stopped, whose ceaseless beating, night and day,\nthe ear had not seemed to hear until it stopped. The ensuing stillness\nis like the sudden suspension of nature. At this moment the sailors\nstanding by lift the ropes and draw the gangplank over the ship\u2019s side\nuntil it tilts and the body slides into the sea. A momentary circling of\nthe water, and nothing more remains to mark the place. Another signal,\nthe engines again commence the ceaseless beating, and the effect is even\nmore depressing; it is like the sudden knocking at the gate after the\nmurder in _Macbeth_. Death is only realized in contrast to the world\u2019s\nactivity. On these African steamers which so often have the sick on\nboard, especially on the homeward voyage, deaths are often kept secret\nand the burials performed at night, for the sake of the passengers; and\nit is a kindly custom.\n\nThe bodies of natives dying on board are often flung overboard without\neven being wrapped, and there is never any formal service. But the\ncaptain of the _Volta_ to all the rest of his kindness added this also,\nthat he gave little Ndong a white man\u2019s burial. The boatswain wrapped the\nbody in its canvas shroud and laid it upon the gangplank with the British\nflag thrown over it. As I took my place at the side, the captain stepped\nforward and stood beside me. A missionary brother read some verses of\nScripture; another missionary, of Ndong\u2019s own colour, offered a prayer.\nThe captain gave the signal and the body, wrapped in its \u201cheavy-shotted\nhammock-shroud, dropped in its vast and wandering grave.\u201d\n\nI have said little of his passionate love for me; but it will ever be one\nof the sweetest memories of my life in Africa. And when my own time comes\nand I shall see with unholden eyes the land that is fairer than day, I am\nthinking that among those who first shall greet me will be Ndong Mba, the\nlittle scholar.\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nA CHURCH\n\n    \u201cEthiopia shall haste to stretch out her hands unto\n    God.\u201d\u2014_Psalm_ 68:31.\n\n\nThere are many who seem to think that the heathen, the world over, are\nreiterating the ancient cry of Macedonia, \u201cCome over and help us,\u201d and\nthat multitudes are converted to Christianity at the first hearing of\nthe Gospel; notwithstanding that in our own land those who know its\ntranscendent import and ample evidence, and those who have even been\ntrained in Christian households, are not so easily won. Degradation and\nignorance are a poor preparation for Christian faith.\n\nTo the cultured heathen of old the Gospel was foolishness, and it is\nnot less foolish to the uncultured heathen. The inspiring vision of a\nnation in a day is more poetic than factual. Neither the nation nor the\nindividual is won in a day. Evangelism would be a simple process if it\nwere only to say, as Philip said to Nathanael: \u201cCome and see.\u201d Nathanael,\nhowever, was not a bloodthirsty savage, but a pious Jew. It is certain\nthat our duty does not end in merely announcing the Gospel to the\nheathen, and giving them the opportunity to hear, while we pass the word\non to others; for this does not evangelize, nor accomplish anything else\nworth while. The watchword, lifted with battle-cry fervour, that appeals\nfor the evangelization of the world in this generation, has inspired\nthe zeal of many and has thereby done good service; but it is liable\nto look for geographical rather than moral results, and the policy of\nmissions, if it respond to this exigent desire, becomes spectacular, the\naim being to cover the utmost territory. New work is begun before the old\nis half done, with a consequent waste of the labour already expended. New\nstations are opened before the old are half manned for thorough work; and\nsince only a thorough work can ever become self-sustaining and be left to\ntake care of itself, it follows that this principle of forced extension\ndefeats every other principle, and in the end defeats itself.\n\nI know eleven missionary societies working in West Africa, and in most\nof those societies there is need of a policy based upon reality versus\nromance. In most of them the missionaries agree that the stations are\nseriously undermanned. I know one mission station at least which has\nbeen opened for more than sixty-five continuous years, and missionaries\nare still there without the least likelihood of their moving on; for the\nsimple reason that the station has been so undermanned in all these years\nthat they have not yet trained a native ministry; whereas, if instead\nof making haste to open new stations they had concentrated their forces\nthere in sufficient numbers to do a thorough work, they might have left\nit long ago to the care of the natives themselves, and the missionaries\nmight have opened new fields, with the likelihood that those also would\nin a reasonable length of time be sufficiently evangelized to be left to\nthemselves.\n\nNothing retards progress like too much haste. The cause of the\nundermanned stations and the resultant crippled work is not, as many will\nsay, that there are not enough missionaries, but that there are too many\nstations. The policy cannot make missionaries, but it does make stations,\nand a wise policy will adapt the number of stations to the number of\nmissionaries, instead of so scattering the missionaries that not one\nof them can do a work that will remain. In the arithmetic of missions\ntwo men can do not only twice as much but ten times as much as one. The\nFrench Protestant Society, whose work on the Ogow\u00e9 River in the Congo\nFran\u00e7ais is without doubt the most successful work in all West Africa,\nhave only two stations, but have ten missionaries at each station.\nNeither can it be said that the crippled force at work in most of the\nmissions is due to the hostile climate, inasmuch as every year, and\nalmost every month, the unexpected happens, and missionaries are obliged\nto lay down their work suddenly and go home. I reply that _elsewhere_\n(as I have said before) it is the unexpected that happens, but in Africa\nit is the unexpected that we _expect_. We know the climate. It is one of\nthe exigencies of the situation, and since the policy cannot change the\nclimate, the climate ought to change the policy.\n\nA policy of true evangelism must aim to establish a self-sustaining\nchurch, that is, a church which is independent of foreign money, and\nwhich is manned with its own ministry; and this is a slow process. It\ninvolves a threefold work, that of preaching (not on Sunday only, but\ndaily, probably itinerating) that of teaching (at least in Africa, where\nthere are no native schools) and the higher training for the ministry.\nIf any one of these departments is wanting, the work is not progressing\ntowards a self-sustaining church, and the policy is so far defective. But\nhere is work for several men, at least, at one mission station. To place\nthem at several stations means that no thorough or progressive work can\nbe done at any station. And as such scattering of forces is poor policy\nit is also poor economy. For a station is usually an extensive property,\nexpensive to build and expensive to maintain. The unnecessary multiplying\nof stations is extravagance. In our Presbyterian mission these\nconsiderations are being fully realized, and the present policy evinces\na determination to do thorough work in the field already occupied rather\nthan to enlarge our territory at the expense of crippling the established\nwork. We have learned by our failures as well as by our successes.\n\nThe result of an inadequate force of missionaries at a station is not so\nmuch that the missionary is overworked\u2014most missionaries are not making\nany such complaint\u2014but that the work is not adequately done. And this\nwears on mind and heart; for the work is one, and if a part of it be\nneglected the whole must suffer. It is not the work that the missionary\nactually does that wears him out, but that which he does not do and\ncannot do, although perhaps his success depends upon it.\n\nThe Fang work included itinerating over a field more than a hundred miles\nby fifty miles, and the charge of a school in which I had no adequate\nassistant for two years. To this was added the Mpongwe work when Mr.\nBoppell\u2019s health compelled him to leave the field. The Mpongwe work\nincluded the charge of the church at Baraka with its regular Sunday and\nmid-week services, and the pastoral work, a class in the Sunday-school, a\nteachers\u2019 meeting, and the instruction of a candidate for the ministry.\nAt such a station there is also a great deal of secular work; the care\nof the premises and the buildings, which are in constant need of repair,\nthe care of several boats, the buying of building material, the charge of\na store, ordering and receiving our own supplies, the treasurership\u2014the\nlatter a large work, because all purchases of goods and food were made in\nEurope and America. I suffered some under the strain, and the work, of\ncourse, suffered more than I did. My day and evening were laid out by the\nhour in a routine that was fixed as far as circumstances would allow.\n\nThe arrival of an English steamer, once a month, deranged all plans;\nbut it was a welcome interruption, chiefly because it brought the mail.\nIt is a pathetic instance of the white man\u2019s interest that the natives\neverywhere, even if they know no other word of English, have learned to\ncall the steamer, \u201cthe mail,\u201d because this is what they hear the white\nman say when he sees it. The steamer nearly always came in the morning.\nWhile it was still fifteen miles away we could see the smoke on the\nhorizon. There was always a strife among the boys and the men for which\nof them would be the first to announce it. At the sight of it they all\ncame running and shouting, \u201cMail! Mail!\u201d If Toko made the announcement he\nwould say: \u201cMr. Milligan, mail live for come; I look him.\u201d\n\nImmediately I call Ndong Koni and tell him to call the crew, get out the\n_Evangeline_, and see that they all have their uniforms.\n\nMeanwhile I put on a suit of white drill, such as I have described, a\nwhite helmet, and white shoes. Thus attired in the regulation best I go\naboard and take breakfast with the captain, who gives me all the news of\nthe coast. If he has cargo for the mission I wait until it is discharged\non the beach, and then go ashore and have it carried up to the mission\nstoreroom. When this is done I read my letters. But I sometimes carried\nthe bundle of them around with me full half a day before reading them;\nand I always waited until I could close the door of my study and give the\norder that I was not to be disturbed.\n\nBut an urgent duty awaits me. A technical and minute declaration in\nFrench must be made of any and all the goods that have arrived. In\ndeclaring provisions, for instance, the different provisions in a given\nbox must be declared separately, with the weight of each. The boxes, of\ncourse, could not be opened under any circumstances until everything\nwas declared and a permit received. But if the bills of lading should be\ndelayed, or if they were not made out with all the particular weights,\nthere was endless trouble. I could not open the boxes until I made the\ndeclaration, and I could not make the declaration until I opened the\nboxes. In such a case, after much waiting and annoyance, an officer\nwould come and I would open the boxes in his presence. Sometimes these\ndeclarations were very troublesome. In one instance there was malted milk\nin one of the boxes. I did not know how to declare it; for I could not\nimagine under what class it would come. That I might make no mistake,\nand run the risk of a fine, I sent some malted milk that I had already\non hand to the _chef_ of the _douanes_ telling him what it was and how\nit was made, and asking him how I should declare it. After a day\u2019s\nconsideration he wrote advising me that malted milk should be declared as\n_pain d\u2019\u00e9pice_\u2014_spiced bread_. But if the rules and regulations bothered\nme, I must say that the French custom-officers are, I believe, the most\ncourteous and obliging in the world, and a striking contrast to American\ncustom-officers.\n\nBut besides the arrival of the steamer there are other interruptions less\nwelcome. While I am busy preparing my sermon for Sunday, in time stolen\nfrom other duties, a man appears at the door, and without waiting for\nrecognition asks me to go with him to the mission store and get him a\npackage of rat-poison\u2014price about five cents. Shall I, or shall I not, go\nto the store? We are owing him this amount for produce he has sold us,\nand he holds a \u201cbon\u201d for it, which he can negotiate only at our store. He\nlives far away, and his friends are waiting for him. Besides, rat-poison\nitself is a kind of Gospel in this rat-ridden land. It ranks about next\nto soap. I get him his rat-poison. But I do not believe in mission\nstores. At some stations, of course, they are a necessity: at some, I\nknow they are a serious hindrance to the real work of the missionary. It\nis vain to answer that some money (a small amount at the most) is thus\nturned into the mission treasury. I reply that missionaries are not sent\nout to make money; let those who stay at home do that: they are sent to\nspend it. I am glad to say that if I accomplished nothing else in Africa\nI finally sold out that mission store, and gave our trade to one of the\ntrading-houses. And I am glad also to add that instead of a financial\nloss, we actually gained by dealing with the traders, not to speak of the\ngreat saving of time for the serious work of the missionary.\n\nThe work of itinerating I regarded as my chief work, however much\ndetained from it. For most men it is also the most interesting work,\ninasmuch as it brings one into contact with the people in their native\ncondition. With all their savagery there is really very little danger of\nviolence at their hands. But a drunken savage is to be feared. Not that\nhe is much more bloodthirsty; but his greed overmasters him, and he might\neasily be tempted to kill for plunder. For if the white man had nothing\nbut the suit of clothes which he had on him he would still be rich enough\nto inspire native cupidity.\n\nOne Sunday at Nenge Nenge, a town sixty miles up the river, I left the\nlaunch at anchor and went on up the river several miles in a canoe\nborrowed from a trading-house located at Nenge Nenge. It was a very large\ncanoe; and since the workmen were all idle, the trader gave me a crew of\nfifteen men. The West African trader is supremely generous in granting\nall such favours. It happened that a short time before this a white\ntrader of Gaboon, a young man whom I knew very well, who had been in\nAfrica less than a year, returning one night by boat from Elobey Island\nto the mainland, was drowned. The body was never recovered, and indeed,\nit is not unlikely that he was immediately seized and devoured by the\nsharks. Not one of the crew was lost, and although we could not formulate\na charge against them, we more than suspected foul play on their part. No\none will ever know the tragedy of that young man\u2019s last hour.\n\nThe recency of this occurrence made me, perhaps, more suspicious than\nusual, or qualified my courage, on the occasion of the canoe ride at\nNenge Nenge. The men had all been drinking, which I did not observe until\nwe had started, and they were all of one tribe, a distinct disadvantage\nto me if they should mean mischief. And what was worse, they were just\nfresh from a distant bush town, and never had been in contact with white\nmen. The river is broad at this place, and the current is very swift.\nThey first started to sing one of their wild and fascinating boat-songs,\nkeeping time with the paddles. Then the leader began improvising,\naccording to their custom, on the theme of the white man and the white\nman\u2019s riches, the others responding with a refrain. They were gradually\ngetting excited, and were swaying their bodies from side to side, so that\nI feared continually that the canoe would be capsized. Then the song\nbecame a yelling-match, and they were getting still more excited. I had\nnever at any time had a more distinct feeling that I was in a dangerous\ncompany of real savages, fifteen to one, and if I had been in their\nmusical mood I should have been singing Robert Louis Stevenson\u2019s immortal\nbuccaneer song:\n\n    \u201cFifteen men on the dead man\u2019s chest\u2014\n    Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!\u201d\n\nBefore we reached the most secluded part of the river, and while there\nwas still a small town to be passed, I ordered the headman to go close\ninto the bank away from the current until we should pass a turn in the\nriver. When I came close to the bank I said I would land here. They knew,\nof course, that this was not my destination, and they supposed that I\nwould continue the journey in a few minutes. But as soon as I had landed\nI ordered them back to Nenge Nenge, and I proceeded in a small canoe\nwhich I hired at the town near by. Thus I avoided the possibility of\nbeing cut off in the flower of my youth. Or, it may be that I missed an\nadventure that I should have been proud to tell afterwards.\n\nI often found the whole town engaged in dancing, of which they are\npassionately fond. It is not only their chief amusement, but also serves\nfor physical culture, and accounts for their well-developed forms and\ngraceful carriage. A great dancer among them becomes widely known, and\nis as highly esteemed as a virtuoso among us. I was one day teaching the\npeople in a town where there were four Christians, when my attention\nwas arrested by a good-looking and singularly well-developed man coming\ntowards us down the street. I had not seen in Africa nearly so fine\na form. He was graceful as he walked, and much more so when he threw\nhimself down on the ground. He seemed to me a very Apollo Belvidere in\nebony. They told me that he was a famous dancer. He had applied himself\nwith diligence and extraordinary perseverance to the practice of all the\ndifficult movements of the native dance until he was the envy of the\nmen of his tribe. It was probably his persistent application to this\npractice, and his constancy of purpose, that gave to his face an unusual\nexpression of gravity and strength.\n\nI was reminded of the story told by Addison of a shepherd who used\nto divert himself by tossing up eggs and catching them again without\nbreaking them; in which he became so skillful that he could keep up four\nat a time for several minutes together; and who, by his perseverance\nand application had contracted the utmost severity and gravity of\ncountenance. \u201cThat same attention and perseverance,\u201d says Addison, \u201chad\nthey been rightly applied, might have made him a greater mathematician\nthan Archimedes.\u201d\n\nMy native friend, for such he became, remained after the service to talk\nwith me. He had come from his town five miles through the bush on purpose\nto meet me. He said he had been in this town frequently, and had heard\nthose four Christians telling the people about God and the salvation of\nChrist, and he desired to be a Christian. He afterwards put away an extra\nwife, and he also renounced his dancing, for their dances are associated\nwith certain immoralities. We never know in what unlikely place the\nShepherd will find His sheep. Our duty is to declare His Word in every\nplace, and His sheep will hear His voice and follow Him.\n\nBut if I frequently found the people engaged in the noisy dance, I\nsometimes found the whole town steeped in sleep. One day I entered a\ntown that was like a city of the dead; absolutely quiet, and no one to\nbe seen. I walked the length of the town, thrusting my head in at every\ndoor, and asking the people to come out and hear God\u2019s message; but\nonly one man came. At last I asked this man if he would go and call the\npeople. He started down the street, calling men and women by name as he\npassed, telling individuals in aloud voice their particular need of this\npreaching service, because of their personal sins, which he forthwith\nenumerated and charged upon them, exposing the private wickedness of men\nand women in brief biographical sketches, which it might be interesting\nbut not edifying to repeat. I need not say that they responded to this\nurgent invitation. In a few minutes the whole population was in the\nstreet, eloquent with resentment. One might think that they had the\ntenderest reputations to sustain. I would not commend to my fellow\nministers in America this novel method of securing a congregation.\n\nBut how would one preach to such an audience? or what would one say? I am\noften asked. Well, that day I asked the people what kind of a king they\nwould choose, if God should give them their choice. After some discussion\nthey settled upon the idea of power. They would like a king who would be\nstronger than all their enemies, and especially stronger than the Mpongwe\npeople. Then I taught them that Jesus whom God had sent is such a one;\nand I told them how He stilled the storm. Next, I asked them whether\npower alone would be sufficient. They first thought it would. \u201cBut,\u201d I\nsaid, \u201csuppose your king had no sense. Do you put a gun into the hands of\na child? And would you like to see a foolish person armed with power that\nnone of you could resist?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d they said, looking at one another, \u201cwe never thought of that,\u201d and\nit was soon agreed that the king of their choice must be wise as well as\npowerful. Then I said that Jesus was wise with the wisdom of God, knowing\nall our needs and how to supply them. Again I asked if this was all they\nwould desire in their king, that he be powerful and wise. They were quite\nsure.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d I said, \u201csuppose he were bad? that he loved only himself and\nrobbed and killed you?\u201d\n\nJust at this moment a little child began to cry, and all the child\u2019s\nnumerous parents, a considerable part of the audience, turned upon it\nwith such a howl of remonstrance that the frightened child ran for the\nbush.\n\n\u201cSuppose,\u201d I continued, when they were again quiet, and looking as if\nthey had done a good work,\u2014\u201csuppose your king were like yourselves (for\nyou are cruel as beasts) and that he should howl at you and frighten you\njust as you did that child?\u201d\n\nThat would be a calamity indeed. They soon agreed that their king ought\nalso to be good; and that this was the principal thing, although they\nhad not thought of it before. And again, I told them of the love and\nsacrifice of Christ.\n\nBut do I really think that they heeded this Gospel? I think that as I\nleft them talking together some probably laughed at the message,\u2014in\nfact I heard them,\u2014some doubted, and some perhaps pondered these things\nin their hearts, to whom they may afterwards have become the words of\neternal life.\n\nOne often must turn aside during the service to answer irrelevant\nremarks. I was once preaching in a town where the white man had only been\nseen a few times, and was still an object of as much curiosity as would\nbe an inhabitant of Mars, if he should make his advent among us, when a\nwoman in the audience tried to attract my attention by repeating, \u201cI say,\nwhite man! I say! I say!\u201d\n\nAt last I asked her what she wanted. She said: \u201cI want to ask you a\nquestion.\u201d I told her to wait until I had finished talking. But she could\nnot wait, and she kept on interrupting me, until at length I said: \u201cWhat\nis your question?\u201d She said: \u201cI want to know if your feet are as white as\nyour hands and face?\u201d\n\nO shade of Saint Paul, who commanded that women keep silence in the\nchurches, and if they wanted to know anything to ask their husbands at\nhome, how well I now understand that injunction!\n\nI answered: \u201cYes, my feet are as white as my hands and face,\u201d and I tried\nto proceed with the sermon. I had on black socks, and it seems that some\nof the women, observing them, declared that the white man was not all\nwhite; that only his hands and face were white, and that the rest of him\nwas as black as themselves. My answer, therefore, did not satisfy them\nall. Some said, \u201cYou lie, white man. We have eyes; you lie.\u201d I was well\nused to this inartistic form of contradiction, and I did not object.\n\nThey kept on disputing about the socks. But again the same woman said:\n\u201cWell, white man, we want to see for ourselves.\u201d\n\nI could not lose the opportunity of a service merely for the sake of my\ndignity; so I slipped off a shoe and a sock and showed the audience a\nwhite man\u2019s foot, and they all agreed that it was beautiful.\n\nWas I speaking of dignity? Ah me! Dignity fades away to a vague\nimpalpability, and finally becomes a cherished memory.\n\nI have already said that the Gospel at first hearing is scarcely\nintelligible, and time alone brings moral results. I distinctly recall\nthe first religious service that I attended among the Bulu. To them also\nit was the first service. It was conducted by Dr. Good. Before he got to\nthe sermon he asked me to offer a prayer. After a word of explanation,\nthrough an interpreter, about the nature of prayer, I requested the\npeople to close their eyes, and I proceeded to pray in English. Now, this\nclosing of the eyes had very uncanny associations in their minds. I have\nalready told of the Ngi (gorilla) Society, the head of which assumes the\nform and disposition of a gorilla. He approaches the town roaring like\na gorilla, and women and children shut their eyes until he passes; for\nif they see him they will die. When I asked the people to close their\neyes it at once suggested to them some demon spell like that of Ngi,\nbut probably more terrible. All of them, men and women, snapped their\neyes shut, and kept them closed tight. And the terrified women, grabbing\nthe babies from their backs (every Bulu woman has a baby on her back),\nheld their hands over the babies\u2019 eyes, and with such pressure that the\npoor babies simultaneously raised a howl of remonstrance, which in turn\nfrightened the dogs (who made a considerable part of the audience) and\nthey began to bark. A panic ensued, in which the people, keeping their\neyes tight closed, tumbled pell-mell out of all sides of the house. I was\nstruggling with a horrid and profane impulse to laugh; but I was a little\nafraid of Dr. Good; for I had not known him long, and he was my senior.\nWhen I turned, however, I saw him fairly doubled with laughter, and I\nexperienced a delightful sense of freedom, and let nature take its course.\n\nOn one occasion I preached to a large audience a sermon that seemed to\nme quite practical, telling them that their chief troubles were within,\nor \u201cinside,\u201d as I said it in Fang. \u201cYour chief trouble,\u201d I said, \u201cis not\nthe French government, against which you are always complaining; nor is\nit these other tribes with whom you are always at war; but your chief\ntrouble is inside of you, in your own hearts.\u201d\n\nWhen I had finished, a leading man arose, and with a grand air took up\nthe theme. \u201cThe white man is right,\u201d he said; \u201cour worst suffering is\ninside of us. It is not war\u2014nor witchcraft\u2014nor itch\u2014nor flies\u2014but worms\ninside.\u201d He thought I had preached a very helpful sermon, and invited me\nto come back again.\n\nAt this distance of time I can smile; but such a response is a great\ntrial of faith to a new missionary, especially if he has been led to\nexpect startling results and many conversions attending the very first\npreaching of the Gospel. At first I was disheartened at the carnality and\nignorance depicted in the faces of such audiences. Yet, after a few years\nof persistent work and patient waiting, I saw scores and scores of just\nsuch people spiritually and morally transformed; and more marvellous was\nthe result from such a beginning.\n\nA certain old chief responded to a sermon on future punishment by saying\nthat he would send one of his wives to hell in his place, and when\nI suggested that such an arrangement might be attended with serious\ndifficulties he said he would send two of them. Then, when I told him\nthat judging by the history he gave of his wives they would probably be\ngoing there on their own account, he said he supposed he would have to\ngive God a couple of ivories for his ransom.\n\nOne day I went to a new Fang town, Yengal, about two miles along the\nbeach from Baraka. The tide was rising, and I had to wade through water\nfor some distance; at one place it was to my waist. I preached in those\ndripping clothes. On the way to the town I overtook the chief and his\nhead wife. He was very much pleased when he found I was going to his\ntown, and he walked ahead of me, wading into the deeper streams to see\nwhether or not they were too deep for me to wade; for they were rising\nfast with the tide. If I had not been already wet, he would have carried\nme over the streams, and all the deeper places. By the time we reached\nthe town we were good friends. He called the people together, and they\nall came and gave me their attention during the service. I told them of a\nway that leads to eternal life, and a way that leads to destruction.\n\nWhen I had finished speaking, this chief said to me in a most earnest\nmanner: \u201cNow tell me plainly, white man, which road to take when I die?\nIf you will tell me whether to take the road on the right, or the one on\nthe left, I shall remember.\u201d\n\nThat he had been kind and courteous to me on the way, made me feel but\nthe greater compassion that his mind was an abyss of darkness.\n\nI have sometimes found a town in a state of preparation and eager\ninquiry through their casual meeting with native Christians. One day I\nsailed with the _Evangeline_ to a town fifteen miles away, called _Elen\nAkidia_\u2014_Dawn of the Morning_; for it is built upon a hill that rises\nabove the surrounding bush so that they can see the first light of\nday. I stayed in the town over night. In the evening a large audience\ngathered in the palaver-house, which was lighted by a tiny lamp. It\nhad no chimney, to be sure, but still it was the boast of the town.\nThey had been learning for several years of the Christian religion from\nill-instructed natives, but I do not know that any Protestant missionary\nhad ever preached there. They listened so attentively and earnestly that\nI talked to them for more than an hour. Then, being tired, I went out\nand sat near by in the dark, but they remained, gravely discussing what\nthey had heard. The chief in closing said: \u201cWe have done all these things\nthat God hates. We have beaten our wives and made them work like slaves.\nWe have been cruel to children, and we have neglected the sick. But I\nthink God will forgive us when we tell Him we did not know. We have lived\nin great darkness; but now the light has come; we must change our ways.\nAnd you women, you need not be puffed up because the white man took your\npart; for you are the cause of most of our troubles. We must all change\nour ways. I hope the white man will come back soon and help us; for we\nneed help.\u201d\n\nThe grave tone and serious manner of the speaker, with the dark and\nsilent night surrounding, all deepened the impression of his words, which\nseemed the most pathetic I had heard from heathen lips; and often again I\nwent to Elen Akidia\u2014Dawn of the Morning.\n\nI once visited a town where there was a sick woman, close to death and in\ngreat agony. She had become ill suddenly, and the people, not knowing\nthe cause, concluded she was a witch, or rather that she had a witch.\nThe witch in her had turned on her, and was eating her. For the woman\nhad convulsions, and that was a sign that the witch was eating her. They\nwere now able to account for the death of several children in the town;\nthis woman had, without doubt, bewitched them. Her spirit, being \u201cloose\nfrom her body,\u201d had gone out in the night, and while the children were\nsleeping, had eaten them. Next morning the children appeared to be well,\nbut they immediately began to fail, and after a while they sickened and\ndied.\n\nI found the woman lying on a bed, consisting of nothing but poles laid\nupon the ground, although the town was near the coast, and they were\nlong accustomed to better beds. The town was built in a mangrove swamp,\nand the mosquitoes were so thick that to be exposed to them was torture\nthat one could not long endure. But this woman\u2019s bed had no mosquito\nnet, although all the other beds in town were thus furnished. Every\nlittle while her body was convulsed, and her features distorted with\npain. I gave her some medicine, although I had no idea what was the\nmatter with her; for I had only been in Africa a short time. I was sure\nthat the medicine did her no harm, however, and that is the principal\nconsideration. But it served to teach a moral lesson. I told my boys\nto make a fire in her house, and I tried to make her comfortable. Her\nfriends refused to help me.\n\n\u201cThe woman is a witch,\u201d they said, \u201cand the sooner she dies, the better.\u201d\n\nWhen I had made her more comfortable I began to talk to her about God\nand her need of pardon. At first she seemed destitute of any spiritual\ninstinct. The chief regret that she had about dying was that she did not\nwant to leave her goods. Her goods! a brass bracelet and leg ring; a\nfew yards of calico, perhaps; a little oil for the body, and what else\nbut mosquitoes? But there are crises in which the mind is not subject to\nthe ordinary limitations of time, but in a few hours lives through the\nexperience of years. The woman gradually grasped the idea of God\u2019s love\nand the possibilities of the future. A great and mysterious change came\nover her, and she said: \u201cI have been a wicked woman. What shall I do?\u201d I\ntold her of the cross of Christ. And, like the penitent thief, in agony\nand pain, she too ceased cursing and began to pray. That night, as I lay\nin a house near by, I heard her repeating in broken sentences: \u201cMe ne ye\nmam ab\u00e9. Me ne ye mam ab\u00e9. Atat, kwege me ngongol, Atat. M\u2019abune J\u00e9su.\nM\u2019abune J\u00e9su.\u201d\u2014I am sinful. I am sinful. Father, have mercy on me. I\nbelieve in Jesus. I believe in Jesus.\n\nI left the town before morning, and two days later she died, still\nsaying: \u201cAtat, kwege me ngongol. M\u2019abune J\u00e9su.\u201d\n\nEven the sincerest converts have need of the most patient instruction in\nthe morals of Christianity. Many white men seem to make a business of\nscoffing at the moral attempts of the native, when God, who looks upon\nthe heart, probably approves. The first earnest inquirer among the Bulu\nat Efulen was a man named Zanga, whom Dr. Good was daily instructing.\nOne Sunday, when Dr. Good was in Zanga\u2019s town, he found him working, and\nhe told him the law of the Sabbath day. Zanga had already learned of it,\nbut he did not think that the work he was doing was forbidden, because\nDr. Good had not mentioned that particular work. He at once stopped, and\npromised that henceforth he would keep the Sabbath in all reverence. The\nnext Sunday Dr. Good found him again at work, putting a thatch roof on a\nhouse, and he again corrected him.\n\nZanga replied: \u201cWhy, you don\u2019t call this work, do you?\u201d But he stopped\nit, as before.\n\nThe next Sunday Dr. Good again entered Zanga\u2019s town. Zanga saluted him,\nexclaiming enthusiastically: \u201cAh, Ngoot, I am keeping the Sabbath fine\nto-day. I have hired two men to make the roof, and I am just sitting here\ngiving them orders.\u201d He was doing as well as he knew; and most of us know\nfar more than we do. God knows our thoughts and intentions.\n\nAt the beginning of my third year among the Fang, I began to feel\nthat the time of harvest was drawing near. People from towns far and\nnear began to bring their fetishes to me, laying them at my feet, and\nrenouncing them; and the surrender of their fetishes was a better\nconfession than could have been made in words. I especially required\nthe surrender of the father\u2019s skull, the most sacred fetish of the men.\nI soon had so many of these uncanny things that the question what I\nshould do with them became urgent. When I was leaving Africa, a Christian\nnative, who had heard that I was taking some of these skulls with me,\ncame to me in great anxiety and asked me whether I had considered the\nconfusion that might take place at the resurrection if those skulls were\non the other side of the sea. Sure enough, I had never thought of that.\nI scarcely realized the degradation of their beliefs until men and women\nbrought their fetishes to me, and explained them fully as they renounced\nthem.\n\nOne day I visited a town in which twenty-two persons, five men and\nseventeen women, stood up in a line in the street, and delivering up\nall their fetishes, renounced them, and said that they would follow\nChrist and worship only the true God. This was the first large group of\nChristians in one town, and when a church was afterwards organized I gave\nit the name of that town, _Ayol_, which is still the name of the Fang\nchurch. The Ayol Church belongs to Corisco Presbytery, and to the Synod\nof New Jersey. In a few months there were a hundred Christians, and at\nthe end of a year, two hundred, scattered over the large Fang field in\ngroups of six, eight, or ten persons in a town. They had all discarded\ntheir fetishes, and they were meeting together every evening to sing and\npray in the hearing of all the people.\n\nThe fact that those Christians were not in a single community, but\nscattered over extensive territory and in widely separated towns,\ngreatly enlarged the outlook for the future. In a single community, it\nsometimes happens that when a few persons of influence and decision\nbecome Christians they make Christianity popular, and the thoughtless\ncrowd follow their lead, but never exhibit a strong type of Christian\ncharacter. And this suggests another objection to the small, undermanned\nstation. Its work is usually restricted to the vicinity of its location,\nwhere the tremendous prestige of the white man makes Christianity\ndangerously popular, and where the Christians are near enough to the\nmissionary to lean upon him for spiritual support, and perhaps for\nworldly support also if they are very poor. But these small groups\nof Fang Christians, scattered in towns far apart, were leaders, not\nfollowers, of others. They became Christians when Christianity was not\npopular, and had no artificial prestige. They were far enough away\nfrom the mission for wholesome independence, and near enough for the\nhelp which they really needed. They also had a field of opportunity\nimmediately around them, and the whole number brought into contact with\nthe Gospel was very great.\n\nThese Christians in saluting each other invariably use the term,\n\u201cBrother,\u201d though they may belong to hostile and warring clans, and\nbefore they became Christians might not have been able to pass each\nother without fighting. And, strange enough, I did not teach them this\nsalutation; for I never used it myself until they established it. Flesh\nand blood did not reveal it to them, but the Spirit of God; for where\nChrist is, there is the instinct of brotherhood.\n\nThe number of Christians gives no idea whatever of the whole effect of\nChristian influence. Between African heathenism and Christian faith\nthere is an immense interval; and multitudes, while not professing\nto be Christians, were yet far removed from their former heathenism.\nOld beliefs were all unfixed, with a corresponding change in morals.\nCannibalism almost ceases at the first sound of the Gospel, and wars\nbecome less frequent.\n\nOne day two men called upon me, who were not to be suspected of any\ninclination to Christianity. They told me that the sea had been\ndreadfully rough during the whole night in which they were on their way\nto Gaboon. They thought they would all be lost. One of these two men\nsaid to the others: \u201cWe have been sinning against God, for we have been\ntravelling to the market all this Sabbath day, and we know that it is\nwrong.\u201d Then they all prayed to God, as the Christians pray, asking that\nHe would forgive them and save them. I asked him why he did not trust his\nfetishes in the hour of need; for he had enough of them on him.\n\n\u201cFetishes are nothing,\u201d he replied; \u201cit was only an angry God that we\nfeared.\u201d There was a great deal of ignorance in all this; but it showed\nthat they were far removed from their former faith in fetishes; for in\nthe crisis they forsook the fetishes, and turned to God.\n\nThe care of all these new converts, or catechumens, added an entirely\nnew department to my work, and already the departments were numerous. A\nconvert is baptized and received into the church only after he has been\ntwo years on probation; and during those two years he is supposed to\nreceive a regular course of instruction. These Christians were now asking\nfor such instruction that they might be received into the church. My\npurpose had been to form a class in each of the towns where Christians\nresided, and to place a catechist in charge of several adjacent towns,\nwho would live among the people, and teach them daily. But my catechists\nwere not yet ready, though for some time I had been preparing for the\nemergency. In connection with the school I had a class of young men,\nto whom I had been giving special attention, in the hope that they\nmight be fitted for the work of catechists. Yielding to the exigency of\ncircumstances, I placed three of these, Amvama, Obiang, and Eyena, in\nthree principal towns to teach the people. It was a mistake, however, and\nI soon recalled them.\n\nDuring the next year I concentrated my efforts upon this class of\ncatechists, and meanwhile, I visited these groups of Christians as often\nas possible, just to keep up their courage. My catechists accompanied me\nin my itinerating, and much of their training was in the actual work of\npreaching and teaching, and in discussions and criticisms as we travelled\nbetween the towns. But occasional and desultory teaching did not answer\nthe needs of these new converts. It was hard to keep them waiting; for\nthey had delivered up their fetishes, and were helplessly asking, \u201cWhat\nshall we do next?\u201d I kept them waiting a whole year before I sent out the\ncatechists. Those were strainful as well as joyful times, and it was then\nthat I received the name by which all the Fang came to know me, \u201c_Mote Ke\nYe_,\u201d\u2014_Man who doesn\u2019t sleep_.\n\nIn one of my towns six persons who had professed their faith in Christ\nbecame weary of waiting, and went over to the Roman Catholics. For a\nJesuit priest of the French mission had visited them, and offered to\nteach them at once. I need not say that it hurt to have the Jesuits\ngather the harvest for which I had waited so long. I should have welcomed\ntheir help if I believed that they had a real Gospel for the people.\nThere were so many towns in which no missionary work whatever had been\ndone that I had always been sufficiently courteous to pass by those\ntowns where they were working, and go on to those which were utterly\nheathen. But the Jesuits did not reciprocate this courtesy. Usually, as\nsoon as they heard that I had placed a catechist in a certain town, they\nimmediately sent one of their catechists to that same town. A priest\nvisited Ayol, where, as I have said, there were twenty-two Christians. He\nknew that they had been waiting long for instruction. He first tried to\nimpress upon them that baptism was necessary to salvation; and he told\nthem that the reason \u201cMr. Milligan\u201d did not baptize them was that he was\ntheir enemy, and was trying to keep them out of heaven. Then he said that\nhe himself was willing to baptize them then and there, and receive them\ninto the church. There were several shrewd men among the Christians who\nkept them all loyal. They said: \u201cWe are not ready to be baptized. We have\nnot been taught.\u201d Then the priest offered to stay there a week and teach\nthem every day. But they refused outright, and said they would not be\nbaptized by anybody but myself.\n\nThere were many strings to this man\u2019s fiddle. When he went into a town\nwhere he perceived that there was a strong tie between the people and me,\nhe would assume a most friendly and even affectionate attitude towards\nme. In one such town he found one of my catechists, Eyena, who had a\nlarge class of thirty-one persons, some of whom were only inquirers and\nnot converts. The priest told the people that he and I were the best of\nfriends, and that they ought to treat us both alike; that this large\nclass ought to divide into two parts, and he would place a catechist\nthere who would teach half of them. They did not waver. But finding\nthat there were several men in the class who were not yet converts, but\ninquirers, and who were living in polygamy, he at last told those men\nthat if they would enter his class they could be Christians without\nputting away their wives. This inducement enticed four men out of the\nclass. He could the better take advantage of me because I made it a point\nnever to refer to him among the people.\n\nWhen I was once away for a health-change, he visited one of my towns\nwhere there were sixteen newly converted Christians. With great\nenthusiasm he made the bold announcement that Mr. Milligan had been\nconverted to the Roman Catholic faith and that he had come to baptize\nthem and receive them into the only true Church. They were staggered. I\ndo not know what might have happened had it not been for a certain man,\nAngona. Angona stepping forward, said: \u201cIf Mr. Milligan is a Catholic we\nwill all become Catholics. But we will only be baptized by him. So we\nwill wait until he comes.\u201d Despite this opposition this Jesuit and myself\nalways seemed to be good friends when we met.\n\nOne day I walked to an island town six miles away. It was a new town;\nthe people had recently come from the bush. The road, being also new,\nwas very bad: we sometimes waded in mud to our knees. Ndong Koni called\nit _ebol nzen_\u2014_a rotten road_. While I was speaking to the people of\nthe town, on the subject of a future life, endeavouring to awaken their\ninterest by asking questions as to what they knew and believed regarding\nit, I observed in the audience two persons, a man and a woman, wearing a\nRoman crucifix, and I addressed my question to them. I found them quite\nas ignorant as any of the others. \u201cMost of us,\u201d they said, \u201chave some\nbelief in a future life; but we really do not know.\u201d \u201cFor my part,\u201d said\nthe man, \u201cI believe that death finishes everything.\u201d\n\nPointing to the crucifix which he wore, I asked him what it meant. He\nreplied: \u201cThis is a Catholic fetish. A priest came into this town when I\nwas very sick and put this thing on me. I suppose it is a health-fetish,\nfor I soon got well and I have not been sick since.\u201d\n\nThe woman was as ignorant as the man, and they represent a large class\nwho have been baptized and are wearing the crucifix without any idea of\nits meaning. Thus is the cross of Christ degraded to the level of an\nAfrican fetish. I would not say, however, that this is the rule. I am\nsure it is not.\n\nThe Jesuits instil a certain idea of morality; but it leaves much to be\ndesired. One day a girl who had just come from confession was quarrelling\nwith a male cousin, or more likely he was quarrelling with her, when in\nreply to some scurrilous observation, she said to him: \u201cI would half kill\nyou if I were not in a state of grace. But you just wait!\u201d\n\nTime passed, and I had five catechists in the field. At last some of the\ncatechumens were ready to be baptized. Then the church was organized at\nAyol, with fourteen members. They were not likely to confound the church\nof Christ with any mere building made with hands; for as yet there was no\nbuilding. We organized the church and held the first communion service in\nthe street. The second communion service was held in another town called\nMakwena, Ndong Koni\u2019s town, where his uncle was chief. The Christians of\nMakwena had built a beautiful chapel of bamboo, with doors and windows on\nhinges. Ndong Koni had worked in the yard at Baraka in order to buy those\ndoors and windows for the church.\n\n[Illustration: THREE FANG BOYS.\n\n_After several years in the school; also among the first Christians._]\n\nOn the occasion of this second communion service I spent the preceding\nSaturday in going to Ayol and several other widely separated towns\nwith the _Dorothy_, gathering the people for the service. Early Sunday\nmorning I pulled into Makwena with sixty people in the launch, on top\nof it, and in a big canoe behind. They were singing hymns, and singing\nthem beautifully, for there were enough of my schoolboys there to take\nthe parts. Between the hymns they occupied the time with the praises\nof _Dorothy_, the like of which, for comfort and for speed, they had\nnever dreamed of. Upon our arrival a large number of people came down to\nwelcome their fellow Christians. They wore more clothing than the whole\ntown had formerly possessed. These Christians were of various tribes who\nin former times had been continually at war with each other. And I could\nimagine such a company coming together and making the little river run\nred like crimson with each other\u2019s blood. But now they were all saluting\neach other as, \u201cBrother\u201d and \u201cSister\u201d; and there was such hand-shaking\nand social palaver that it scarcely seemed possible there could be so\nmuch happiness in that land of cruelty and tears. And as I reflected that\nthese were but the first-fruits of a great harvest, all the labour, the\ntrials, the perils, the sickness of the years that had passed seemed as\nnothing.\n\nAmong those who were baptized that day I distinctly recall a certain old\nwoman who had probably lived long enough to have experienced all the\nevils and the suffering of heathenism. Her face was almost beautiful\nwith the light of joy that shone in her eyes. Her paltry garment was so\nscrappy and so scanty that I wondered whether there was enough of it to\nmeet the requirements of propriety. But when she came into the service\nshe was dressed in a pure white robe that came up to her shoulders and\nreached to her feet, and was held with a black sash.\n\nI baptized thirty-seven persons and received several whom I had already\nbaptized at Baraka, making in all fifty-five members in the Ayol church\nat the end of that year; and besides there were nearly two hundred\ncatechumens. All those whom I baptized had been on probation and under\ninstruction for two years or more. It was a long service, but the time\npassed quickly for us all, and more so because we sang many hymns. At\nlength we closed the service by repeating all together the Lord\u2019s Prayer:\n\n\u201cTate wa a n\u2019 ey\u00f4, e jui die e bo\u00f1 \u00e9ki. Ayo\u00f1 die nzak. Mam w\u2019 a nyege,\nbe bo\u00f1e mo e si ene, ane b\u2019 a be ey\u00f4. Vage bie biji bi a k\u00f4ge bie emu.\nZamege bie mam ab\u00e9 bi a bo, ane bi a zam ab\u00e9 b\u00f4t b\u2019 a bo bie. Ke l\u00e8te bie\nnz\u00e8n meko\u00f1. Kamege ne bie m\u00f4t a n\u2019 a b\u00e9. Togo na, \u00f4 ne y\u2019 ayo\u00f1, ye ki, y\u2019\n\u00e9w\u00f4ge, mb\u00e8 mb\u00e8, Amen.\u201d\n\nA few mouths later I held a communion service in one of the up-river\ntowns, in which were gathered all the Christians from the upper towns.\nThere I baptized sixty-five persons, making in all one hundred and twenty\nmembers in the Ayol Church. And, besides, there were nearly three hundred\ncatechumens.\n\nWhen I reflect on the kind of men and women that these Christians are,\nand consider the savages they might have been; when I realize the\nsurroundings of darkest ignorance, revolting degradation and horrible\ncruelty in the midst of which they walk in ways of righteousness and\ntruth; when I think how rough that way is and how very dark the night of\nAfrica, my heart goes out to them all in eager sympathy and solicitude.\n\nMay the \u201ckindly light\u201d of God\u2019s love, seen in the face of His Son, shine\nmore and more upon their path, and lead them on \u201co\u2019er crag and torrent\ntill the night be gone.\u201d\n\n\nTHE END\n\nPrinted in the United States of America\n\n\n\n\nLIGHT ON THE GREAT WAR\n\n\n_JAMES A. MACDONALD, LL.D._\n\n_Editor Toronto Globe_\n\nThe North American Idea\n\nThe Cole Lectures for 1917. 12mo, cloth, net $1.25.\n\nThe famous Canadian editor enjoys an established and justly-earned\nreputation. In trenchant and stirring phrase Dr. McDonald discusses the\ngrowth and development of that spirit of liberty, just government, and\nfreedom of individual action, in the light of its relation to the Great\nWorld War.\n\n\n_EDWARD LEIGH PELL, D.D._\n\n_Author of \u201cTroublesome Religious Questions\u201d_\n\nWhat Did Jesus Really Teach About War?\n\n12mo, cloth, net $1.00.\n\nUnquestionably war is a matter of conscience. But in Dr. Pell\u2019s opinion\nwhat America is suffering from just now is not a troubled conscience so\nmuch as an untroubled conscience. That is why this book does not stop\nwith clearing up troublesome questions.\n\n\n_ARTHUR J. BROWN, D.D._\n\n_Author of \u201cUnity and Missions,\u201d \u201cThe Foreign Missionary,\u201d etc._\n\nRussia in Transformation\n\n12mo, cloth, net $1.00.\n\nYears may pass before New Russia will settle down to stability of\nlife and administration. Meanwhile we may be helped to understand the\nsituation and have a deeper sympathy with Russian brethren, if we study\nthe conditions leading up to the Revolution and mind ourselves of\nfundamental characteristics which will undoubtedly affect New Russia\nregardless of the immediate outcome. The book is most timely.\n\n\n_R. A. TORREY, D.D._\n\n_Supt. Los Angeles Bible Institute_\n\nThe Voice of God in the Present Hour\n\n12mo, cloth, net $1.25.\n\nA new collection of sermons by the famous pastor-evangelist. They contain\nstirring gospel appeals and also special messages or enheartenment for\nthose who find themselves perplexed and bewildered by the war conditions\nexisting in this and other lands.\n\n\n_JAMES M. GRAY, D.D._\n\n_Dean of the Moody Bible Institute, Chicago_\n\nProphecy and the Lord\u2019s Return\n\n12mo, cloth, net 75c.\n\nWhat is the purpose of God in connection with the present international\ncataclysm. Does prophecy deal with the world to-day. The author, Dean of\nthe Moody Bible Institute, of Chicago, is well-known as a Bible student\nand expositor, whose writings find appreciation throughout the Christian\nworld. Dr. Grey\u2019s chapters have unusual interest at this time.\n\n\n\n\nMISSIONS\n\n\n_ANDREW F. HENSEY, D.D._\n\n_Of the Congo Mission_\n\nA Master-Builder on the Congo\n\nA Memorial to the Service and Devotion of Robert Ray Eldred and Lillian\nByers Eldred. Illustrated, 12mo, cloth, net 75c.\n\nA graphic and spirited record of the labors of those devoted missionaries\nto the Congo, Robert Ray Eldred and his wife. Mr. Hensey displays his\nhistorical instinct, and has been enabled to produce a book calculated\nto both find and retain a prominent place in contemporary missionary\nliterature, not only as the fascinating story of selfish and untiring\nservice, but as an informative work of reference concerning that part of\nthe Dark Continent in which his subjects lived and labored.\n\n\n_GERTRUDE R. HANCE_\n\nThe Zulu Yesterday and To-Day\n\nTwenty-five Years in South Africa. Introduction by Edgar L. Vincent.\nIllustrated, cloth, net $1.25.\n\nThe author knows the Land of the Zulus, as it was, as it _is_ to-day, and\nwhat she knows she tells in a charming frank and interesting fashion.\nDue credit is given in this volume to civilization (considered merely as\nsuch) for the wonderful advance made in late years in the condition of\nthe native tribesman of South Africa; yet there is nowhere any doubt in\nthe mind of its author as to the Gospel of Christ having been the chief,\nand primal cause of his uplifting.\n\n\n_SAMUEL GRAHAM WILSON, D. D._\n\n_Thirty-two Years Resident in Persia_\n\nModern Movements Among Moslems\n\n12mo, cloth, net, $1.50.\n\n\u201cNot often does there appear a more important work in a special\ndepartment than this of Dr. Wilson. Dr. Wilson\u2019s thirty-two years of\nresidence in Persia and his earlier studies in Bahaism have prepared him\nfor authoritative speaking here. It constitutes an excellent argument\nagainst those who think of missionaries in petty terms. Here is the book\nof statesmanlike thinking.\u201d\u2014_The Continent._\n\n\n_S. M. ZWEMER, D.D., F.R.G.S._\n\nThe Disintegration of Islam\n\nIllustrated. 12mo, cloth, net $1.25.\n\nDr. Zwemer traces the collapse of Islam as a political power in Europe,\nAsia and Africa, as well as the inevitable effect the impact of Western\ncivilization has had, and is still having, on the countries over which\nit still holds sway. All this tends to the final disintegration and\noverthrow of Mohammedanism in fulfilment of a Divine plan of preparedness\nfor the evangelization of Moslem lands.\n\n\n\n\nFOREIGN MISSIONS\n\n\n_ARTHUR J. BROWN, D.D._\n\n_Author of \u201cThe Foreign Missionary\u201d etc._\n\nUnity and Missions\n\nCan a Divided Church Save the World? 12mo, cloth, net $1.50.\n\nAn able treatise, reflecting the thorough knowledge and broad catholicity\nof its author. Dr. Brown writes of things he knows, and presents a\nlucidly written, often passionate appeal for unity in missionary\nendeavor. There can be little doubt that this discussion will make a\nvaluable addition to contemporary missionary literature.\n\n\n_JESSE PAGE_\n\nJudson, the Hero of Burma\n\nThe Stirring Life Story of the First Missionary to the Burmese told for\nBoys and Girls. Illustrated, 8vo, cloth, net $1.00.\n\n\u201cIn this volume Mr. Page tells for boys and girls the stirring life story\nof the first missionary to the Burmese. Mr. Page\u2019s story is told in a way\nthat will hold the interest of the reader to the very end. There is not\na dull page in the whole book. It stirs the imagination and moves the\nheart.\u201d\u2014_Life of Faith._\n\n\n_ALICE M. PENNELL_\n\nA Hero of the Afghan Frontier\n\nThe Splendid Life Story of T. L. Pennell, M.D., B.Sc., F.R.C.S. Retold for\nBoys and Girls. Illustrated, 8vo, cloth, net $1.00.\n\n\u201cOf the many noble men who have helped to make the name of Britain\nhonored in North Western India, Dr. Pennell, of Bannu, holds a foremost\nplace. As a medical missionary among the wild border tribes, his fearless\ncourage, his sympathy, his self-sacrificing devotion, gradually won their\nhearts.\u201d\u2014_Educational News._\n\n\n_REV. W. PAKENHAM WALSH_\n\nEarly Heroes of the Mission Field\n\n_New Edition._ With Frontispiece. Cloth, net 50c.\n\n\u201cDr. Walsh has not only carefully studied the records of Christian life\npreserved by the best Church historians, but he has also reproduced\nin a form at once reliable, instructive, and interesting, the diverse\nconditions and heroic endeavors for the furtherance of the kingdom of God\nthat characterized different eras.\u201d\u2014_Christian._\n\n\n_REV. W. PAKENHAM WALSH_\n\nModern Heroes of the Mission Field\n\n_New Edition._ With Frontispiece. Cloth, net 50c.\n\nContinuing his sketches of Missionary Heroes, the author has chosen\ntypical as well as representative pioneers of the nineteenth century such\nas: Henry Martyn, William Carey, Adoniram Judson, Robert Morrison, Samuel\nMarsden, John Williams, William Johnson, John Hunt, Allen Gardiner,\nAlexander Duff, David Livingstone, Bishop Patteson.\n\n\n\n\nTRAVEL AND DESCRIPTION\n\n\n_S. HALL YOUNG, D.D._\n\nAlaska Days with John Muir\n\nIllustrated, 12mo, cloth, net $1.00.\n\nMen who knew John Muir, the explorer and naturalist, counted that\nprivilege as among the best life had to offer. The author not only knew\nhim but accompanied him on his journeys and exploration trips through the\nfrozen country of Alaska. The book gives a graphic picture of this life,\nwhich is full of thrills which a writer of fiction might well envy.\n\n\n_FRANCIS E. CLARK, D.D._\n\nThe Continent of Opportunity\n\nThe South American Republics\u2014Their History, Their Resources, Their\nOutlook. _New and Revised Edition._ Profusely Illustrated. 12mo, cloth,\nnet $1.50.\n\nA new edition of Dr. Clark\u2019s vivid account of his South American journey,\nwhich, in view of the present interest in these tropics will meet an\nincreased demand.\n\n\n_SAMUEL M. ZWEMER, F.R.G.S._\n\n_Author of \u201cArabia,\u201d etc._\n\nChildhood in the Moslem World\n\nIllustrated, 8vo, cloth, net $2.00.\n\nThe author of \u201cArabia, the Cradle of Islam,\u201d has written a plea for\nMohammedan childhood. The illustrations, made from a remarkable\ncollection of photographs, are profuse and of splendid quality. The\nclaims of millions of children living and dying under the blighting\ninfluence of Islam are set forth with graphic fidelity. Both in text and\nillustrations, Dr. Zwemer\u2019s new book covers much ground hitherto lying\nuntouched in Mohammedan literature.\n\n\n_HERBERT PITTS_\n\nChildren of Wild Australia\n\n_Childrens\u2019 Missionary Series._ 12mo, cloth, Illustrated, colors, net 60c.\n\nA new volume of the familiar Childrens\u2019 Missionary Series. It deals with\nthe uncivilized portion of Australia, and like the other volumes in the\nSeries, it is written by one who knows how to tell a story that will both\nentertain and instruct children.\n\n\n\n\n\u201cTHE STRANGER WITHIN OUR GATES\u201d\n\n\n_EDWARD A. STEINER_\n\n_Author of \u201cOn the Trail of the Immigrant\u201d_\n\nIntroducing the American Spirit\n\n12mo, cloth, net $1.00.\n\nA series of pilgrimages undertaken by an educated European and the\nauthor, in search of the real American Spirit. Professor Steiner presents\nan able analysis of what he conceives that spirit to be and how it finds\nmanifestation in aspiration and ideal, and of how it is revealed and\nexpressed in its attitude to certain pressing national and international\nproblems.","title":"The jungle folk of Africa","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":122376}