Page:Travels in West Africa, Congo Français, Corisco and Cameroons (IA travelsinwestafr00kingrich).pdf/140

 à la Turque, but unfortunately these garments have a band that consists of a run-in string, and that string is out of repair. He writes furiously—blotting paper mislaid—frantic flurry round—pantaloons won't stand it—grab just saves them—something wanted the other side of the room—headlong flight towards it—"now's our chance," think the pantaloons, and make off—recaptured.

Formalities being concluded regarding us, the chief makes a dash out from behind his writing-table, claps his heels together, and bows with a jerk that causes the pantaloons to faint in coils, like the White Knight in "Alice in Wonderland," and my last view was of a combat with them, I hope a successful one, and that their owner, who was leaving for home the next day, is now enjoying a well-earned, honourable repose after his long years of service to his country in Congo Français.

24th.—Pouring wet day.

25th.—Called on the Mother Superior, and collected shells from the bay beyond Libreville. In the afternoon called on the missionary lady, who has now arrived with her young son, per German boat from Batanga, and talked on fetish; Dr. Nassau telling a very pathetic and beautiful story of an old chief at Eloby praying to the spirit of the new moon, which he regarded as a representative of the higher elemental power, to prevent the evil lower spirits from entering his town.

Sunday, 26th.—Mr. Fildes evidently regards it as his duty to devote his Sunday mornings to ladies "invoiced to the firm," and takes me in the gig to go up the little river to the east, ostentatiously only the drainage of the surrounding swamp. The tide just allows us to go over the miniature sand-bar, and then we row up the river, which is about forty feet across, and runs through a perfect gem of a mangrove-swamp, and the stench is quite the right thing—real Odeur de Niger Delta.

As we go higher up, the river channel winds to and fro between walls and slopes of ink-black slime, more sparsely covered with mangrove bushes than near the entrance. This stinking, stoneless slime is honey-combed with crab holes, and the owners of these—green, blue, red, and black—are walking about on the tips of their toes sideways, with that comic pomp peculiar to the crab family. I expected