There may be peace in Berlin, or Brussels, or London, but because the atmosphere of Africa is not the same as that of the great cities, there will be no peace beneath the Equator.

From the West Coast of Africa to the East men will fight and quarrel and bicker so long as human nerves are human nerves.

The irritability lurks in the shades of boundless forests where men may starve for want of animal sustenance; it hovers over the broad bosoms of a hundred slow rivers haunted by the mysterious crocodile, the weird hippopotamus.

It is everywhere, and by reason of it men quarrel about trifles and descend to brutal passion over a futile discussion.
Victor Durnovo had sent his boatmen into the forest to find a few bananas, a few handsful of firewood, and while they were absent he gave vent to that wild unreasoning passion which is inhaled into the white man's lungs with the air of equatorial Africa.

For there are moral microbes in the atmosphere of different countries, and we must not judge one land by the laws of another.