nalism. He cast the spell of the Congo River over me
and I lingered to see this mother of waters. Thus it came about that I
not only followed Stanley's trail through the heart of Equatorial Africa
but spent weeks floating down the historic stream, which like the rivers
that figured in the Great War, has a distinct and definite human
quality. The Marne, the Meuse, and the Somme are the Rivers of Valour.
The Congo is the River of Adventure.

In writing, as in everything else, preparedness is all essential. I
learned the value of carrying proper credentials during the war, when
every frontier and police official constituted himself a stumbling-block
to progress. For the South African end of my adventure I provided myself
with letters from Lloyd George and Smuts. In the Congo I realized that I
would require equally powerful agencies to help me on my way. Wandering
through sparsely settled Central Africa with its millions of natives,
scattered white settlements, and restricted and sometimes primitive
means of transport, was a far different proposition than travelling in
the Cape Colony, the Transvaal, or Rhodesia, where there are through
trains and habitable hotels.

I knew that in the Congo the State was magic, and the King's name one to
conjure with. Accordingly, I obtained what amounted to an order from the
Belgian Colonial Office to all functionaries to help me in every
possible way. This order, I might add, was really a command from King
Albert, with whom I had an hour's private audience at Brussels before I
sailed. As I sat in the simple office of the Palace and talked with this
shy, tall, blonde, and really kingly-looking person, I could not help
thinking of the last time I saw him. It was at La Panne during that
terrible winter of 1916-1917, when the Germans were at the high tide of
their success. The Belgian ruler had taken refuge in this bleak,
sea-swept corner of Belgium and the only part of the country that had
escaped the invader. He lived in a little chalet near the beach. Every
day the King walked up and down on the sands while German aeroplanes
flew overhead and the roar of the guns at Dixmude smote the ear. He was
then leading what seemed to be a forlorn hope and he betrayed his
anxiety in face and speech. Now I beheld him fresh and buoyant, and
monarch of the only country in Europe that had really settled down to
work.

King Albert asked me many questions about my trip. He told me of his own
journey thro