6 
From Fernando Po 
The Factory (Messrs. Hatton and Cookson) 
was a poor affair of bamboos and mats, with par¬ 
tition-walls of the same material, and made pesti¬ 
lent 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 country¬ 
men 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 walk 
to picnics, learn something of the language, and 
see something of the country. They had heard a 
native tradition of Mr. Gorilla’s “big brother,” but 
they could give no details. 
I will conclude this chapter with a notice of 
what has taken place on the Loango Coast a de- . 
cade after my departure. Although Africa has 
