All in all, Capetown gives you the idea of being neither very rich nor very poor, neither over-industrious nor over-lazy, decently successful, reasonably happy, whole-heartedly easy-going.

The public buildings—­what I saw of them—­confirm the idea of a placid half-prosperity.  The place is not a baby, but it has hardly taken the trouble to grow up.  It has a post-office of truly German stability and magnitude.  It has a well-organised railway station, and it has the merit of being in Adderley Street, the main thoroughfare of the city:  imagine it even possible to bring Euston into the Strand, and you will get an idea of the absence of push and crush in Capetown.

When you go on to look at Government House the place keeps its character:  Government House is half a country house and half a country inn.  One sentry tramps outside the door, and you pay your respects to the Governor in shepherd’s plaid.

Over everything brooded peace, except over one flamboyant many-winged building of red brick and white stone with a garden about it, an avenue—­a Capetown avenue, shady trees and cool but not large:  attractive and not imposing—­at one side of it, with a statue of the Queen before and broad-flagged stairs behind.  It was the Parliament House.  The Legislative Assembly—­their House of Commons—­was characteristically small, yet characteristically roomy and characteristically comfortable.  The members sit on flat green-leather cushions, two or three on a bench, and each man’s name is above his seat:  no jostling for Capetown.  The slip of Press gallery is above the Speaker’s head; the sloping uncrowded public gallery is at the other end, private boxes on one side, big windows on the other.  Altogether it looks like a copy of the Westminster original, improved by leaving nine-tenths of the members and press and public out.

Yet here—­alas, for placid Capetown!—­they were wrangling.  They were wrangling about the commandeering of gold and the sjamboking—­shamboking, you pronounce it—­of Johannesburg refugees.  There was Sir Gordon Sprigg, thrice Premier, grey-bearded, dignified, and responsible in bearing and speech, conversationally reasonable in tone.  There was Mr Schreiner, the Premier, almost boyish with plump, smooth cheeks and a dark moustache.  He looks capable, and looks as if he knows it:  he, too, is conversational, almost jerky, in speech, but with a flavour of bitterness added to his reason.

Everything sounded quiet and calm enough for Capetown—­yet plainly feeling was strained tight to snapping.  A member rose to put a question, and prefaced it with a brief invective against all Boers and their friends.  He would go on for about ten minutes, when suddenly angry cries of “Order!” in English and Dutch would rise.  The questioner commented with acidity on the manners of his opponents.  They appealed to the chair:  the Speaker blandly pronounced that the hon. gentleman had been out of order from