King Williamstown is a thoroughly commercial little city with a pleasant club, with a railway to East London, and with smiling German cultivation all around it. But it has no trees. There is indeed a public garden in which the military band plays with great éclat, and in which horses can be ridden, and carriages with ladies be driven about,--so as to look almost like Hyde Park in June. I stayed three or four days at the place and was made very comfortable; but what struck me most was the excellence of the Kafir servant who waited upon me. A gentleman had kindly let me have the use of his house, and with his house the services of this treasure. The man was so gentle, so punctual, and so mindful of all things that I could not but think what an acquisition he would be to any fretful old gentleman in London. When I was at King Williamstown I was invited to hold a conference with two or three Kafir Chiefs, especially with Sandilli, whose son I had seen at school, and who was the heir to Gaika, one of the great kings of the Kafirs, being the son of Gaika’s “great wife,” and brother to Makomo the Kafir who in the last war had done more than Kafir had ever done before to break the British power in South Africa. It was Makomo who had been Sir Harry Smith’s too powerful enemy,--and Sandilli, who is still living in the neighbourhood of King Williamstown, was Makomo’s younger but more royal brother. I expressed, of course, great satisfaction at the promised interview, but was warned that Sandilli might not improbably be too drunk to come.