With the last words of the quaint Dutch poem ringing in my ears, we followed our guide across the courtyard into an arched white doorway. The old entrance, the sea entrance to the Castle, was blocked up, because on the other side runs the Cape Government Railway, with all its paraphernalia of tin walls, engine-rooms, dirty, ugly workshops, gasometers, coal-heaps, all making up the foreshore scenery of Table Bay, and delighting the eyes of the workers and drones who are daily hurried (_sic_) along like 'animated packages in a rabbit hutch.'[1] In the plaster ceiling of this archway is such a charming miniature plan, in raised stucco, of the Castle buildings. From here we climbed some stone steps and came on to the ramparts, called after the ships that first brought Company rule to the Cape--the _Reiger_, the _Walvis_, the _Dromedaris_. We climbed up stone stairs, and in white stucco, in the wall, were the Company's arms--the big galleon in full sail. We passed the cells--the one used by Cetewayo, the rebellious Chief of the Zulus, the 'Children of Heaven,' had a special little fireplace sunk into the wall--walked along wonderfully neat, bricked ramparts past the Guard Tower, and climbed down more steps into the courtyard. We rambled through the quarters of the old Governors. Everything is groaning under heavy military paint--teak doors, beautiful brass fittings and beamed ceilings--and about a mile away, shut up in a small ugly museum room, are the Rightful Inhabitants--the proper belongings of these long rooms: the oak tables, the big chairs, which once held the old Dutch Governors, the glass they used, the huge silver spittoons, their swords, the flowered panniers of their wives' dresses, fire-irons, brasses, china, the old flags, someone's sedan-chair--all bundled together in grotesque array. The teak-beamed rooms in the Castle would make a better setting than the little room in the museum.