wanton candour.  There were monsters who out of sheer, crass good nature did offend; but even they took care to couple with their “remarks” an apologetic laugh, which was intended to convey that the joke, though carried far, was just a joke.  The wags—­the species was not yet extinct—­were especially felicitous.  They treated the subject as a very original piece of humour indeed.  Their treatment of it gained them an occasional cuff in the ear, and they had to be discriminative in their choice of victims.  Everybody was not to be wished “returns of the day” with impunity.

The happiest people in the world on Christmas Day were the wise and simple natives.  They foregathered in the streets and revelled to their hearts’ content.  All day long they sang, danced, and laughed; they held orgies (in honour of the Colonel) and corroborees of the kind described by de Rougemont—­the Washington of France.  The antics of our dusky tragedians and comedians made a striking spectacle, and were quite as entertaining as the performances of the highly rated Harrys, Irving and Lauder.  There was a moral in the orgies—­though we did not draw it.  The natives were happy; short commons did not trouble them or mar their enjoyment in the slightest.  With us it was far otherwise; we had anticipated a different Yuletide; the natives had not.  The natives made the most of theirs; we the least of ours.  Some of us had dreamt of dining in Europe.  Others of us had visions of beer drinking at the coast.  A great many would fain have taken the waters of Modder River.  But all were disappointed, dour, and sorrowful—­all save our true philosopher, the native.

The twenty-sixth of December is proverbially a sad day.  It was so with us, but not sadder than the day before.  A few shells were sent out among the Boers to ascertain how they got Christmas over them; and they by way of reply made some good practice on the Premier Mine.  A water-pipe was mutilated, and a man standing near had the pipe knocked out of his mouth by a piece of shell.  A good deal of desultory firing went on for several hours.  The enemy’s guns were obviously handled by men who knew what they were about, and we soon afterwards definitely learned (what we had long suspected) that there were French and German experts behind them.  The remainder of the day was dusty, stormy, and uninteresting.

Lord Methuen’s guns made a noise on Wednesday.  Their booming, with intervals of silence, went on all day; from Kimberley shell after shell could be seen bursting in all directions.  Our confidence began to revive; indeed it had never waned so far as the capabilities of the Column were concerned; and we were satisfied that a second assault on Magersfontein would be crowned with success.  The excuses advanced on behalf of those most responsible for the failure of the first attack were legion.  That they had not been given half enough men for the job was a favourite