The people round the southern end of Lake Albert are extremely primitive. In their homes is no indication of the least exercise of intelligence to furnish themselves with any tool, utensil, or garment. Only a very few of the men and women adopt clothing; their food consists almost entirely of fish, which they hang out in the sun to dry. Those who possess a boat, a cooking pot, or a food basket have obtained them from other folk in exchange for fish, or inherited them from their ancestors. There are times when one asks if the soul of these people has ceased to pulsate, all human instincts are so crushed in them. But even here were the temples of a deity—in the centre of each courtyard stood a rickety wee grass hutch, in which offerings of food had been placed. Carlyle has rightly said that man was made a worshipping creature. At evening prayers we called the people round us, and tried to talk with them. One typical grey-haired old heathen appeared interested, but hurried the audience back to their homes as soon as possible. When we proposed moving off to a village higher up on the lake, he generously offered himself as escort, and, on our reaching the spot, went from hut to hut, as we thought, asking the people to bring us in food for barter. He then wished us farewell and returned to his home. We afterwards learned that he was circuit priest and had been to every home forbidding the people to visit or listen to the words of the white ladies for fear of offending their god, the fish of the lake, who might withhold their only means of sustenance. Demetrius has many descendants! Judging from the few days we spent roaming along the shores of the lake, I should say that it would be difficult to find a more fascinating spot for a holiday when once you get there. The botanist finds rare treasures hidden away in the creeks and crevices of the cliffs; the sportsman has a free hand to carry home as many hippo teeth or crocodile hides as he may desire, and the modern historian would find on its shores not a few materials for writing up the story of present day Africa. Quite close to where we were camped, took place some years ago the meeting between Emin Pasha and his rescuer, the late Sir Henry Stanley, who had, in his search for the lost general and his column, penetrated right through Africa from the West coast, overcoming almost insuperable difficulties. In spite of the attractiveness of the Albert Lake it is scarcely a cheerful place to be isolated at, and standing so near to the same spot one felt a strong pity for that Egyptian leader as he gave orders for his boat to be sunk to prevent the enemy seizing it, so cutting off all chance of his own escape.