Matadi is not much more than a railroad terminus. Between the Lower and Upper Congo, that is, between Matadi and Leopoldville, on Stanley Pool, the river is not navigable, owing to the rapids. A railroad two hundred and fifty miles long unites these two places. It was built at a tremendous cost both of money and of life. Out of four hundred Chinese imported at one time, for work on the railroad, two hundred and fifty died within three years. Kruboys and others were brought from the north and engaged to work according to a certain definite contract; but in most cases the contract was disregarded and they were practically enslaved, working until they died. The railroad, the _Chemin de Fer du Congo_, is exceedingly useful and has also proved a paying investment. The fare from Matadi to Leopoldville, two hundred and fifty miles, was fifty dollars, when I was at Matadi, that is, twenty cents a mile. But I imagine that those who had made the journey on foot over that rough country, did not begrudge the exorbitant fare. Henry M. Stanley, starting from Matadi, blasted the rocks in order to make a road by which the sections of his boat could be dragged along _en route_ to the Upper Congo. Until I visited Matadi I did not know the meaning of the name which the natives gave to Stanley, _Bula Matadi_. It means _Breaker of Rocks_—a name to be proud of, surely; and one which Stanley deserved. His authority was superseded by that of the government of the Congo, which to this day is called by the natives _Bula Matadi—Breaker of Rocks_ and incidentally of _men_. It happened that Consul Casement was at Matadi; and the captain and I were invited to a picnic which was given in his honour. It was a novel experience for Africa. We rowed down the river and landed for our lunch in a peculiar and pleasant place on piles of rock, of historic and even legendary interest. During those days there was a representative missionary gathering at Matadi and I had the opportunity of meeting and conversing with missionaries from all over the Congo Free State. Some of them I had known before. All whom I met had but one story to tell in regard to the “Belgian atrocities,” a story that might have been a chapter from the history of Hell.