We had a visitor—­an emissary from the Boers—­on Sunday.  And though he turned out to be a Scotchman!—­so brimful of hope and good humour were we that the circumstance detracted little from the cordiality of his reception.  He was a doctor, the doctor whose services had been commandeered by the practical Boer.  Some of us felt disposed to doubt his nationality; but the gentleman talked Scotch—­that is, English—­dialectically and broad; and when he shook hands familiarly with a few local members of his profession, the sceptics were silenced.  Show me your company, etc., did not apply.  The main point, however, was, his business.  What did he want?  He wanted medicines, surgical instruments, and things—­a request which occasioned much shoulder-shrugging apropos of the medico’s “nerve.”  That he served the Boers in his professional capacity only, was evidenced by the candour with which he opened his heart when queried as to the fortunes of the family who had taken a loan of him.  He admitted a loss of one hundred killed and wounded Boers in the recent fight.  This was rather higher than our own estimate—­and we were not given to minimise on the wrong side.  It was wonderful.  Whether the learned doctor exaggerated—­but why should he (a Scot) in such a case?—­unless indeed the canny one desired to please and make sure of his medicines.  Anyhow he got his medicines (including a personal prescription, from his “ain country"), and with a bow of gratitude departed.

The Diamond Fields’ Advertiser was quite readable on Monday.  It contained news, and less of the fiction (culled from old magazines) with which it had been regaling us for weeks.  On Monday we read of modern London, and of transports, fights, etc. (in the present war).  We were engrossed in the news when the Boer guns began to play.  Three shots were fired, and we had to admire the impudence of an enemy who acted as if the coming Column gave him no concern.  The missiles hit nobody, although one was facetiously alleged to have winged a locust.  These insects swarmed the land—­it was difficult to avoid hitting them—­and one was not missed.  We got more shells in the afternoon, but they did no harm whatsoever.

The predominant and all-absorbing subject of discussion was the Column, its coming, its movements generally.  We felt a little disappointed at the delays which the opposition it had encountered rendered unavoidable.  But we were not despondent, nor hyper-critical—­not yet.  The bombardments might be written down a fiasco, and what after all did it matter whether relief came to-morrow, or not till the day following.  Still, these delays upset plans and calculations.  They upset bets and wagers, and the “bad losers” who villified both Briton and Boer with delightful impartiality.  They upset diary-writers—­prospective meteors in the firmaments of literature—­and they upset the magnates of the De Beers Corporation, whose annual meeting had been fixed for that day.  The meeting had to be postponed until Thursday, in order that the dividend declared might immediately be cabled, in accordance with custom, to the shareholders throughout the world.  The wires were bound to be in flashing order by Thursday.  It was re-assuring to find oneself in agreement on that head with a rock of common sense like Mr. Cecil Rhodes.