This sail of one hundred miles alone the coast of this vast lake, though somewhat monotonous and tame in its details to the reader, furnished one of the most interesting episodes in Stanley's life--not because the scenery was new and beautiful, but because he, with his white sail, and fire-arms, and strange dress, was as strange and wonderful to these natives as was Columbus, with his ship, and cannon, and cavaliers to the inhabitants of the New World. Though often differing in appearance, and language, and manner, they were almost uniformly friendly, and in the few cases where they proved hostile, they were drunk, which makes civilized men, as well as savages, quarrelsome. It was frequently very difficult to win their confidence, and often Stanley would spend hours in endeavoring to remove their suspicions. In this wild, remote home, their lives pass on without change, each generation treading in the footsteps of the preceding one--no progress, no looking forward to increased knowledge or new developments. There were no new discoveries to arouse their mental faculties, no aspirations for a better condition, and they were as changeless as their tropical climate. Hence, to them the sudden appearance of this strange phenomenon on their beautiful lake could not be accounted for. It had seemingly dropped from the clouds, and at the first discharge of a pistol they were startled and filled with amazement. Stanley, whether rowing or sailing, kept close to the shore, that nothing worthy of note should escape him, frequently landing to ascertain the name of the district he was in, the bays he crossed, the mountains he saw, and the rivers that emptied into the lake. In short, he omitted nothing which was necessary to a complete survey and knowledge of this hitherto unknown body of water.