as if he were in an arm-chair, but it must be a difficult thing to do if you think seriously of it.  The etiquette seems to be to take no notice of him as we pass into the parlor, where we present our pass and the people in authority satisfy themselves that we are quite in rule.  Then the old chief walks quietly in, takes off his soft felt hat and sits himself down in a Windsor arm-chair with grave deliberation.  He is uncommonly ugly; but when one remembers that he is nearly seventy years of age, it is astonishing to see how young he looks.  Langalibalele is not a true Kafir at all:  he is a Fingor, a half-caste tribe contemptuously christened by the Kafirs “dogs.”  His wool grows in distinct and separate clumps like hassocks of grass all over his head.  He is a large and powerful man and looks the picture of sleek contentment, as well he may.  Only one of his sons, a good-natured, fine young man, black as ebony, is with him, and the chief’s one expressed grievance is that none of his wives will come to him.  In vain he sends commands and entreaties to these dusky ladies to come and share his solitude.  They return for answer that “they are working for somebody else;” for, alas! the only reason their presence is desired is that they may cultivate some of the large extent of ground placed at the old chief’s disposal.  Neither he nor his stalwart son would dream for a moment of touching spade or hoe; but if the ladies of the family could only be made to see their duty, an honest penny might easily be turned by oats or rye.  I gave him a large packet of sugar-plums, which he seized with childish delight and hid away exactly like the big monkeys at the Zoo.

By way of a joke, Malambuli pretended to want to take them away, and the chattering and laughing which followed was almost deafening.  But by and by a gentleman of the party presented a big parcel of the best tobacco, and the chuckling old chief made over at once all my sweetmeats “jintly” to his son, and proceeded to hide away his new treasure.  He was dressed exactly like a dissenting minister, and declared through the interpreter he was perfectly comfortable.  The impression here seems to be that he is a restless, intriguing and mischief-making old man, who may consider himself as having come out of the hornets’ nest he tried to stir up uncommonly well.

We don’t want to bump up and down the sandy plain again, so a lively conversation goes on in Dutch about the road between one of my gentlemen and somebody who looks like a “stuck-vat” upon short legs.  The dialogue is fluent and lively, beginning with “Ja, ja!” and ending with “All right!” but it leads to our hitting off the right track exactly, and coming out at a lovely little cottage-villa under the mountain, where we rest and lunch and then stroll about up the hill spurs, through myrtle hedges and shady oak avenues.  Then, before the afternoon shadows grow too long, we drive off to “Groote