"And you'll stick to her all your days, I suppose?" said Martha, after a pause, with a sneer.

"Please God, I will," said David firmly. "You can understand how the thought of her has kept me straight," he went on, and now his voice was very gentle; "you do know better than most what 'tis to love an' be faithful, you've a-been faithful if ever a woman was so you an' me can understand each other."

· Martha uttered a low cry, and David, raising his eyes, which had been looking on the ground during his last speech, saw that her face was con

The Times.

vulsed with anger and pain; but before he could speak she had turned and rushed into the house, treading on the rose as she went. He looked after her remorsefully, unable to explain even to himself the sudden impulse which had prompted his recent appeal. He had hoped perhaps to lead back the widow's thoughts into their habitual channel, and to express his faith in, and admiration of, her fidelity. He could scarcely tell now what had been his motive, but the result had been disastrous; he had evidently turned the dagger in Martha's wound.

XII. BULUWAYO.

Rhodesia is not, strictly speaking, in "South Africa"; but the two are so closely connected that a visit to South Africa, however short, would not be complete without a view of the southern part at least of the country which Rhodes saved for the Empire.

It is pleasant to pass from the bare plains of the Transvaal and the long backs of the treeless downs, beautiful as they are in their own way, to the forest country-the "Bosch Veldt"through which the train runs for hundreds of miles on the way to Buluwayo. The timber is not fine,-not like English timber,-nor is the forest thick; but the grassy glades, with their clumps of yellow mimosa and other trees, are very restful to the eye, and there are many wild-flowers. The sol

itude of it all, and the feeling that even in the modern railway carriage one is surrounded by real nature, bring peace to one's soul.

Here and there, at long distances apart, one comes upon little wayside stations, a shanty or two of the eternal corrugated iron, with perhaps a few native huts of branches and thatch. The rest is unbroken forest, which looks, and is, ideal game country, though the larger game has mostly disappeared before the inroads of hunters.

Nearly forty-eight hours of travel from the noise and rush of the Rand gold-mines brings one to Buluwayo, the former capital of the ill-fated chief Lo Bengula, now a flourishing English town of four or five thousand inhabitants.

Although it was midsummer when I arrived, the weather was cool, almost cold, with much rain at times, and a high wind; and the country round looked rather desolate. As far as the eye could see, on all sides stretched the undulating forest; there were no salient features in the landscape, and the impression was one of sameness and monotony.

This impression wears off after a time-particularly if the sun comes out and touches the little fluffy balls of the yellow mimosa. Then the near forest turns into a sheet of gold, as bright as a stretch of Cornish gorse; and farther away the gold merges into green, and the green fades away into the blue depths of the distant atmosphere.

Only seventeen years ago Lo Bengula was at the height of his power; and Buluwayo, the "Place of Slaughter," was the centre of his dominion. It is not easy to say how far his rule extended; but in a country about as large as Great Britain there was no one who dared oppose him. His Matabele warriors-kinsmen of the Zulus who fought us so fiercely at Isandula and Rorke's Drift-were regarded by the neighboring tribes and by themselves as invincible. Many thousands of them were gathered about his "kraal" at Buluwayo. One is shown still the low umbrella-shaped tree under which the king sate dispensing his wild justice while the great forest-birds wheeled overhead. It stands now in the grounds of our English "Government House," and Lo Bengula lies in some hidden forest grave which his tribesmen will not make known to his conquerers; but he was strong in those days, only seventeen years ago.

Then, in an unhappy hour for him, he let loose his warriors upon the tribes which had come under the influence of the white man; and the white man rose in sudden wrath and decided that his power must be broken. It is a pitiful story altogether, like so many of the stories of the savage and the white man; and one cannot help sympathizing to some extent with the savage. It is generally an evil day for the uncivilized nations, or at least for their rulers, when the white pioneer first comes into their country; and one cannot wonder that some of them should cling to the only safe

policy-that of absolute exclusion.. Still Lo Bengula was a savage; and though one may feel sorry for the fall of a ruler who had his good points, it is undeniable that the establishment of white influence in such a country puts an end to many horrors-to oppression and torment of every kind inflicted upon great numbers of men;: perhaps to frequent and widespread massacres depopulating whole districts. The native rule is picturesque; and the character of the savage has many fine qualities, which seem to disappear when he comes into contact with civilization. It is much to be doubted whether the black man who is to be met to-day riding across the veldt on a bicycle, with an old pot hat on his head, to work in the mines, is the equal of the black man who used to fling himself, assegai in hand, upon the lines of our breechloaders. One thinks with regret of the tall regiments of Cetewayo and Lo Bengula wiped off the face of the earth, and their proud traditions gone for ever. they were kept up at of blood and suffering. should put sentiment aside, and be glad that the sons of those magnificent fighting men will read good schoolbooks, and talk bad English, and spend their lives peacefully grubbing out gold and diamonds, "the two great enemies of mankind," or tilling the fields of the white man.

But certainly an awful cost

No doubt one

You will see them in the white man's hotel at Buluwayo now, doing the rough work, while the tables in the modern dining-room are served by Indian waiters from Natal, who look upon them with scorn as an inferior

race.

The Indians have some reason to think highly of themselves, for the white employer in Buluwayo evidently thinks highly of them. It would astonish the Madrassi "boy" in his own country to be told that his kinsmen

here were drawing pay at the rate of six or seven pounds a-month, with board and lodging found, or a great deal more if they cook the curries which they have made a standing dish all over South Africa. These are not good, by the way. It passes the wit of man to make a good curry out of India.

There are some fine buildings upon the wide roads of Buluwayo, the signs of a time when it was believed that a second Rand was to be found among the forests of Rhodesia. There are some good, and expensive, shops; and a public library; and one of the largest drill halls in the world for the Volunteers.

Sitting in the "bird cage" veranda of the comfortable club, looking out through the blossoms of the Bougainvillea at the statue of Cecil Rhodes, who stands at the cross-ways in his sack coat with his hands joined behind him, while the southerly breeze makes the Union Jack on the hotel fly out against the clear blue sky, it is difficult to persuade oneself that only seventeen years ago Jameson and Forbes marched into the place with their little colonial army.

It is a wonderful story, the story of that short campaign. Few finer things have been done by Englishmen. Think of it-seven hundred men marching straight on the capital of a famous chief, master of many thousands of well-trained and hitherto unbeaten warriors; sustaining and repelling two fierce attacks; finally driving him away into the forest, with the relics of his shattered regiments about him, shattered but still outnumbering them by ten to one. And then the "Wilson Patrol," thirty-five in all, many of them English public school boys, young still but hardened by some years of colonial life, led by the Scotchman Alan Wilson, riding into the midst of the enemy, with the night coming on, to take the king

in his own camp. They failed, and

one of the best of South African writers has told us, in the words of the Matabele, how they fought their last fight-how, "when only five or six of the thirty-five were left, they took off their hats, and under fire from all sides sang something as the English do, standing up, and then went on fighting. And how at last only one man was left, one man bigger than the rest, who wore a broad-brimmed hat; while beside him a wounded comrade reached up to hand him cartridges, until he too went down, and the big man fought alone."

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Now those days are gone. Alan Wilson and his men lie together, on the lonely hillside by the grave of Cecil Rhodes, and in place of the Matabele kraals an English town has grown into being.

Now you can drive out through the mimosa jungle to a pretty racecourse and polo-ground, or watch good tennis played on excellent courts of pounded ant-hills, or attend a ball where scores of Englishwomen are enjoying themselves, all the more perhaps because there are men enough in Rhodesia to go round,-men who are not too lazy and selfish to dance.

The second Rand has not been found, but the gold output of Rhodesia is very considerable; and the numberless remains of ancient workings which have been discovered in various parts of the country show clearly that whether or not Rhodesia was, as some think, the Ophir of King Solomon's days, it has produced in the past great quantities of the precious metal. But this is a story which has been told by many.

One of the small private mines which are turning out gold now is an interesting thing to visit. Riding through the mimosa forest in search of it, a man is as likely as not to lose his way, for there is no road, and the track is faint. But one finds the mine

at last a small engine, which you could almost cover with a sheet, working a rough crushing-machine; an Englishman in shirt and corduroy trousers supervising a dozen natives, who are digging out pieces from a little ribbon of white ore, which runs along the side of a shallow gravel-pit. Among the bushes all round are a few more pits, dug to test the continued existence of the little white ribbon; and two or three huts of branches and thatch for the workers to sleep in. The Englishman is cheery and hopeful. He volunteers the information that the initial expense of the whole thing was about a thousand pounds, and that he thinks, if all goes right, he will soon be making five hundred pounds a-month out of the venture. But of course, he says, that depends upon many things: upon the reef in the gravel remaining as rich in gold as it is now; upon his having enough money in hand to tide over any blank weeks, when the run of gold ore stops; and so on, and so on. The monthly bill for labor, coal, and other things is heavy-£100 to £150 amonth-and many promising mines break down that way. Also, it is almost impossible to get any white help. The natives are good enough, but they are a bit lazy when they are not being looked after; and you cannot get a decent white man to help you for love or money. The lowest wage here for a white miner is forty pounds a-month, and when you get him ten to one he drinks, or if he does not drink he does nothing. "The last one I had never did a hand's turn. He would not even put a drop of oil in the enginesaid it was Kafir's work. He just sat on that log and smoked, and sometimes kicked a nigger. I could not stand him, so after three months I gave him the sack. Then he asked for a character, and when I refused he asked for a drink." It is the old trouble which one meets all over South Africa, the

cry of "Kafir's work," the curse of the country.

Still our friend in the corduroys was very cheery and hopeful. He had been at gold-mining for a good many years and "had his ups and downs," but he had made a little capital now and thought he was going to do well. "It is just that," he said, "you want something for the rainy days."

May he prosper! Many companies doing the same thing on a larger scale have failed, I am told. So have many private workers. But many of the latter get along fairly well, and some become rich.

I felt very much inclined to offer myself for the place on a month's probation-and try to help him through. It would have been a novel experience; and a month in camp in the mimosa jungle ought to have been pleasant enough. But I had other engagements, and was obliged to refrain.

XIII.

CHRISTMAS AT THE VICTORIA FALI S.

When Bryce visited South Africa and Rhodesia fifteen years ago, he was prevented from seeing the Victoria Falls because this would have meant a three weeks' march from Buluwayo. Now the train covers the distance in twenty-four hours or less. The railway line to the Zambesi lies through one almost unbroken stretch of forest, and about half-way, as the sun was setting, I saw in a grassy open patch to the left a palm-tree which warned me that we were getting near tropical country. All about were many wildflowers, especially a five-petalled flower of true scarlet color about the size of a buttercup, which is very common in Rhodesia. No one could tell me what it was called. Early in the morning, a cool bright delicious morning, the train drew up at the little open station near the falls.

Among the trees, close to the sta

tion, was a low red-roofed hotel of corrugated iron, with wooden verandas, which looked northwards towards the river. Not that the falls themselves could be seen. Immediately in front of my veranda was a newly laid tennis-court. A water-wagtail with white collar and little black shirt-front was running about over the moist earth of it. All round were trees and flowering-shrubs, and a few bananas, their broad smooth leaves wet and glistening with recent rain. Just beyond the tennis-court was a narrow line of railway, and two or three feet beyond that the edge of a very deep ravine running down to the hidden river. As it was midsummer, everything was green. The forest stretched away on all sides as far as one could see, not flat, but undulating, the green waves passing into distant blue. To the right, not far away, two lines of rocky cliff broke the forest. To the front and left there rose, between and over the trees, several hundred feet into the fresh blue sky, shifting columns and masses of white vapor, like the smoke of some great fire. They were always changing in height and form, as clouds change on a windy day; and through them one could get occasional glimpses of a calm reach of river above the cataract. A dull, ceaseless roar, like the sound of a heavy sea, came from under them. It was distant, and through it one could hear the cooing of doves and the calls of other birds-one very like the Indian "coppersmith"-tonk, tonk, tonk.

Walking down after breakfast towards the river, I passed through a quiet wood full of wild-flowers, all new to me, pink and yellow and blue. On the moist paths were beautiful little beetles, like scraps of scarlet velvet. A troop of baboons sat and watched, or cantered slowly away through the trees.

A few minutes' walk brings one to a

white single arch railway bridge over the river just below the falls. This is as little disfiguring as one could expect a railway bridge to be,-iron, of course, for the height is too great to allow of a stone bridge. It is said to be over four hundred feet, though it looks less. But the bridge is not ugly, as such things go, and the line on both sides is hidden by the forest. From the bridge one has a fine view of the gorge and part of the fall itself, which is so close that with a northerly wind the spray comes down in a steady soft rain upon the roadway.

Passing over the bridge and turning to the left, one finds beautiful paths through the wood which lead to the eastern end of the falls. Standing there by the water's edge above the falls, one sees the mile-broad river sweeping slowly down, through islands covered with reeds and tropical jungle, to the rocks at the verge of the drop. These split the river into innumerable streams, which pour suddenly over the verge, falling at first solid and green and heavy, then quivering into veils of white foam, and mingling hundreds of feet below with the great white cloud which seethes eternally over the bottom of the chasm. From it rise swirls of vapor which fly up swiftly into the sky overhead.

At one spot near the end of the chasm there is a narrow break in the cliff opposite the falls; and through this break, across which one can throw a stone, the river rushes southward.

As I stood on the rocks by the water's edge a storm came rolling down from the north, along the line of the river. The sun was blotted out by leaden masses of cloud, and soon they were cloven by perpendicular streaks of lightning. Over the ceaseless roar of the water the thunder boomed out at intervals. The rain came down at first in heavy drops like bullets, then in a fierce tropical shower.