“I expect in a day or two a reply from the king, giving me permission to hunt in his veldt. I only wish to go a short distance from here, to the Ramaqueban, and Shashani, and thereabouts--a tract of country that I know pretty well, and for which I have a real affection, so often have I roamed through its wilds. Rivers that I know well I look upon as friends. I wish, indeed, I could be set down now where I was last year, when I was sent by the king into his favourite veldt on failing to reach the Zambesi, but it is too far, and I should have to traverse the thickly-populated part of the country to reach it. The loathing with which I regard this people is in itself sufficient to deter me. The king himself is well enough, and rules the Kafirs with a rod of iron, but the Kafirs, as a nation, I abominate, and not without good reason. The amount of pride you must pocket when sojourning amongst these scantily-dressed gentlemen is something not to be forgotten. I don’t know whether their condescensions or aggressions are the more difficult to bear with patience. Without patience it is hopeless to think of getting on at all. A long string of them filed past my abode lately, and making for Brown’s store requested to be fed. This of course Brown complied with, as the land here is only held on sufferance, and these Matabele were supposed to be out on particular business--to murder a lot of poor Bushmen, as we were told afterwards. The latter are constantly being killed, and their life is one long struggle for existence. A gun is almost useless to them, as the brutal conquerors of the country are pretty sure to bag it, and ten to one knock the owner of it on the head into the bargain. “The Bushmen are the real wild men of the country, living in temporary huts, and subsisting entirely on what the veldt produces. They are wonderful runners, and possess certain mysterious instincts, raising them in that respect nearly to the level of some of the noblest animals. The Matabele, on the other hand, think themselves the lords of creation, and speak of the slaves (Makalakas) as ‘dogs;’ and the Bushmen are only looked upon as game. I have one remarkably small creature of the Bushman race with me, who is working for a gun. He always takes to his heels and hides when he sees any Matabele, unless he is with his master and at the waggon. A kraal of these people was lately driven from the Shashe, and is now encamped close to the settlement here. I rode through their camp the other day, and felt that I was amongst the true children of the forest, resembling more the North American Indians than the usual Kafir races of this country. Their huts are made of poles, converging together at the top, these laid over with branches, and finally rudely thatched with long grass. I should say there were between fifty and a hundred of them in the camp.” To this letter, here cut short, he adds the following, four days later:--