Hill," and still much affected by picnickers. At Loanghili, or
Loanguilli, south of Looboo Wood, and upon the right bank of a
streamlet which trickles to the sea, is the cemetery, where the
kings are buried in gun-boxes.

The Ma-Loango (for mwani, "lord" of Loango), the great despot who
ruled as far as the Congo River, who used to eat in one house,
drink in another, and put to death man or beast that saw him
feeding, is a thing of the past. Yet five miles to the eastward
(here held to be a day's march) King Monoyambi governs "big
Loango town," whose modern native name, I was told, is Mangamwar.
He shows his power chiefly by forbidding strangers to enter the
interior.

The Factory (Messrs. Hatton and Cookson) was a poor affair of
bamboos and mats, with partition-walls of the same material, and
made pestilent by swamps to landward. Little work was then doing
in palm oil, and the copper mines of the interior had ceased to
send supplies. We borrowed hammocks to cross the swamps, and we
found French Factory a contrast not very satisfactory to our
insular pride. M. Charles de Gourlet, of the Maison Regis, was
living, not in a native hut lacking all the necessaries of
civilized man, but in a double-storied stone house, with
barracoons, hospital, public room, orchestra, and so forth,
intended for the "emigrants." Instead of water, the employes had
excellent cognac and vermouth, and a succulent cuisine replaced
the poor Britishers' two barrels of flour and biscuit. No wonder
that in our half-starved fellow countrymen we saw little of the
"national failing, a love of extravagant adventure." The
Frenchmen shoot, or at least go out shooting, twice a week, they