Look at the map of South Africa, and there, in the very centre of the British possessions, like the stone in a peach, lies the great stretch of the two republics, a mighty domain for so small a people.  How came they there?  Who are these Teutonic folk who have burrowed so deeply into Africa?  It is a twice-told tale, and yet it must be told once again if this story is to have even the most superficial of introductions.  No one can know or appreciate the Boer who does not know his past, for he is what his past has made him.

It was about the time when Oliver Cromwell was at his zenith—­in 1652, to be pedantically accurate—­that the Dutch made their first lodgment at the Cape of Good Hope.  The Portuguese had been there before them, but, repelled by the evil weather, and lured forwards by rumours of gold, they had passed the true seat of empire and had voyaged further to settle along the eastern coast.  Some gold there was, but not much, and the Portuguese settlements have never been sources of wealth to the mother country, and never will be until the day when Great Britain signs her huge cheque for Delagoa Bay.  The coast upon which they settled reeked with malaria.  A hundred miles of poisonous marsh separated it from the healthy inland plateau.  For centuries these pioneers of South African colonisation strove to obtain some further footing, but save along the courses of the rivers they made little progress.  Fierce natives and an enervating climate barred their way.

But it was different with the Dutch.  That very rudeness of climate which had so impressed the Portuguese adventurer was the source of their success.  Cold and poverty and storm are the nurses of the qualities which make for empire.  It is the men from the bleak and barren lands who master the children of the light and the heat.  And so the Dutchmen at the Cape prospered and grew stronger in that robust climate.  They did not penetrate far inland, for they were few in number and all they wanted was to be found close at hand.  But they built themselves houses, and they supplied the Dutch East India Company with food and water, gradually budding off little townlets, Wynberg, Stellenbosch, and pushing their settlements up the long slopes which lead to that great central plateau which extends for fifteen hundred miles from the edge of the Karoo to the Valley of the Zambesi.  Then came the additional Huguenot emigrants—­the best blood of France three hundred of them, a handful of the choicest seed thrown in to give a touch of grace and soul to the solid Teutonic strain.  Again and again in the course of history, with the Normans, the Huguenots, the Emigres, one can see the great hand dipping into that storehouse and sprinkling the nations with the same splendid seed.  France has not founded other countries, like her great rival, but she has made every other country the richer by the mixture with her choicest and best.  The Rouxs, Du Toits, Jouberts, Du Plessis, Villiers, and a score of other French names are among the most familiar in South Africa.