To Paradise. 367 
was intended as a protection against enemies from without, and there 
were few, if any, plantations between it and the mouth of the river. 
The Canje had not yet been occupied, so that there were no posts 
required in that direction, and with the long stretch of unoccupied _ terri- 
tory on either hand, there was no question of boundaries. There 
being no town, in case of emergency, the planters were collected at either 
the block house of Van Peere, or Fort Nassau, according as cireum- 
stances required.” 
2.10. A baboon (Mycetes sp.) howls from the bank—herald of the 
forests we long to penetrate. 
2.45, “ Sandhills. —the Missionary s home. 
4 p.m. Arakali Creek on right bank—tield of corn on left. Half-an- 
hour after we get light showers of welcome rain, and at 4.45, we arrive at 
Hollandia, where there is a school and Mission house. In this neigh- 
bourhood the Gladstone family, of which the great William Ewart 
Gladstone was a scion, at one time held estates. 
5.20. Pass derelict canoe—custom of river people to borrow a 
neighbours boat and return it by setting adrift on return tide. 
6.10. Veruni (Wieronie 7) Creek—fairly big. Abode of Rev. Taylor 
(Protector of ‘ Bucks’) Ebene Point ? Here a shoal of corials enlivened 
the monotony. 
8.14pm. PARADISE! Evidently we have taken Paradise by 
surprise——no one is ready for us—and where is the climate ?—all is dark, 
disagreeable and hot—even the man with the accounts says to-morrow 
will do. Some one, looking in the lurid flicker of a Dietz lamp infernally 
like a fiend, appears and consults in whispers with one of our party. An 
exasperating interval, language repressed, for we have a tank of petrol 
near by, then we get into our launch and make hot foot back to Kumaka 
and dinner. 
We have arrived at our sleeping (7?) place and time now concerns 
us nothing. 
The cooking fires blaze merrily. We sling hammocks in the open 
rest-house (and an Indian—with a Dutch name. who plays a large part 
in this record—appears). Excellent dinner, topped oft with liqueurs ; 
and we feel like Tartarin Quixote ‘Oh for the double-barrelled rifles, 
daggers, lassoes, and mocassins.. And so to hammock—but not to 
sleep. How wonderful are the sandflies in their universality and activity ! 
One thinks of Tartarin Sancho “Oh for . . . . all iy comforts.” 
Yet one of us sleeps—his snores lacerate the souls of the wakeful. 
Tuesday, 7.45 a.m. Back to Paradise, passing the house on the 
Hill, high up among the tree-tops. Find that the steamer has just 
wriggled itself round for its return voyage. The river being compara- 
