Prince Kaduma, truth compels me to state, is a true Central African “toper”—a naturally amiable man, whose natural amiability might be increased to enormous proportions, provided that it was stimulated by endless supplies of pombé. From perpetual indulgence in his favourite vice, he has already attained to that blear-eyed, thick-tongued, husky-voiced state from which only months of total abstinence can redeem a man. In his sober moments—I cannot say hours—which were soon after he rose in the morning, he pretended to manifest an interest in his cattle-yard, and to be deeply alive to the importance of doing something in the way of business whenever opportunities offered. In fact, he would sometimes go so far as to say to his half-dozen elders that he had something in view even then—“but we must have a shauri first.” Becoming exceedingly interested, the elders would invite him to speak, and instantly assume that wise, thoughtful, grave respect which you sometimes see in members of Parliament, Congress, Reichstag, &c. “Ah, but,” Kaduma would say, “does a man work when he is hungry? Can he talk when he is thirsty?” The elders slily exchange winks and nods of approval, at which Kaduma bursts into a hoarse chuckle—never a laugh—for Kaduma is remarkable for possessing the conceit of humour. Others may laugh at his dry sayings, but he himself never laughs: he chuckles. The great jar of froth-topped pombé[8] is then brought up by a naked youth of fourteen or fifteen years, who is exceedingly careful to plant the egg-bottomed jar firmly on the ground lest it should topple over. Beside it is conveniently placed Kaduma’s favourite drinking cup, as large as a quart measure, and cut out of a symmetrically shaped gourd. Kaduma is now seated on a favourite low stool, and folds his greasy Sohari cloth about him, while the elders are seated on either side of him on wood chips, or axe handles, or rocks. The foaming jar is ready, and the dusky Ganymede attentive. Kaduma stretches out his hand languidly—it is all affectation, for Kaduma is really thirsty—and Ganymede, with both hands, presents the cup kneeling. The pombé being broached, the valves of the “shauri” are opened. During the hour devoted to the consumption of the pombé, Kaduma may be said to be rational, and even interested in business. Withal he is gay, light-hearted, and pleasant in conversation; grand projects are hinted at; trading expeditions even as far as Ujiji suggested; a trip to Unyanyembé and Zanzibar appears to be in serious contemplation with him. But, alas! the pombé is ended. Kaduma goes to sleep. At three o’clock he expands again into a creature of intelligence. Two or three pots are exhausted between 3 and 6 P.M., and finally Kaduma reels to his cot like the inebriated sot he really is. Alas! for the virtues of a naturally intelligent nature drowned by such intemperance! Alas! for the fine attributes of manhood conquered by vile indulgences! Alas! for the brains muddled by