One may take his choice. They are all the same
price. One fact is sure: he keeps his prominence
and a vast following, no matter what he does.
He “deceives” the Duke of Fife—it
is the Duke’s word—but that does not
destroy the Duke’s loyalty to him. He tricks
the Reformers into immense trouble with his Raid,
but the most of them believe he meant well. He
weeps over the harshly—taxed Johannesburgers
and makes them his friends; at the same time he taxes
his Charter-settlers 50 per cent., and so wins their
affection and their confidence that they are squelched
with despair at every rumor that the Charter is to
be annulled. He raids and robs and slays and
enslaves the Matabele and gets worlds of Charter-Christian
applause for it. He has beguiled England into
buying Charter waste paper for Bank of England notes,
ton for ton, and the ravished still burn incense to
him as the Eventual God of Plenty. He has done
everything he could think of to pull himself down
to the ground; he has done more than enough to pull
sixteen common-run great men down; yet there he stands,
to this day, upon his dizzy summit under the dome
of the sky, an apparent permanency, the marvel of
the time, the mystery of the age, an Archangel with
wings to half the world, Satan with a tail to the other
half.
I admire him, I frankly confess it; and when his time
comes I shall buy a piece of the rope for a keepsake.
CONCLUSION.
I have traveled more than anyone else, and I have
noticed that even the angels speak English with an
accent.
—Pudd’nhead
Wilson’s New Calendar.
I saw Table Rock, anyway—a majestic pile.
It is 3,000 feet high. It is also 17,000 feet
high. These figures may be relied upon.
I got them in Cape Town from the two best-informed
citizens, men who had made Table Rock the study of
their lives. And I saw Table Bay, so named for
its levelness. I saw the Castle—built
by the Dutch East India Company three hundred years
ago—where the Commanding General lives;
I saw St. Simon’s Bay, where the Admiral lives.
I saw the Government, also the Parliament, where
they quarreled in two languages when I was there, and
agreed in none. I saw the club. I saw
and explored the beautiful sea-girt drives that wind
about the mountains and through the paradise where
the villas are: Also I saw some of the fine old
Dutch mansions, pleasant homes of the early times,
pleasant homes to-day, and enjoyed the privilege of
their hospitalities.
And just before I sailed I saw in one of them a quaint
old picture which was a link in a curious romance—a
picture of a pale, intellectual young man in a pink
coat with a high black collar. It was a portrait
of Dr. James Barry, a military surgeon who came out
to the Cape fifty years ago with his regiment.
He was a wild young fellow, and was guilty of various
kinds of misbehavior. He was several times reported
to headquarters in England, and it was in each case
expected that orders would come out to deal with him
promptly and severely, but for some mysterious reason
no orders of any kind ever came back—nothing
came but just an impressive silence. This made
him an imposing and uncanny wonder to the town.
Copyrights
Following the Equator from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
