These Hottentots of Kuboos are wretchedly poor, for though nominally a tiny commonwealth sharing equally their belongings, the fine herds of cattle and flocks of sheep occasionally met with in the locality do not belong to them, but to old Jasper Cloete, their nominal chief, a fat, wily old chap, who could never be cajoled into embracing Christianity when once he had grasped the fact that to do so he should give up all his goods and chattels to the common weal. He could hardly be blamed! Indolent, shiftless, and hopelessly degenerate, these Richtersfeldt Hottentots, nominally Christians, have all the failings of their savage forefathers, and of the white man whose “faith” they have adopted, without the good qualities of either. They have been taught to chant a few hymns, parrot-fashion, and some of the outward forms of “Christianity” as disseminated by the Berlin Mission; but witchcraft, demonology, and all the beliefs of their ancient and more robust savagery still dominate them when once they are outside their little stone church at Kuboos. Avowedly, they believe in a resurrection--and they are devout enough to forgather from far and wide to partake of _nachtmaal_ once a year. Really, they believe that the soul of the newly departed takes possession of a jackal--known to them as the _K’nas Jackhals_, and many a time have I seen the _ouderlings_ (elders) of this Christian Mission crouching round a camp fire in abject fear because an unusual-looking jackal had been seen sniffing round the camp, and they imagined one of the party was about to die and that the uncanny animal was prowling round waiting for his soul. A mass of superstition, a race of cadging, whining beggars, the only qualities they ever possessed--hardihood, courage, endurance--have been emasculated by their newly acquired “religion,” and they are the least likeable of any natives I have ever had to suffer. A few days of interesting prospecting in the vicinity, and I received a mail with instructions to return temporarily to Cape Town; so, paying off the “boys,” we sent the waggon direct to Port Nolloth, whilst Ransson and myself, with our horses and a pack-mule in charge of little Samuel, took the circuitous route down to the Orange, near Aries Drift, to look at certain supposed nitrate deposits there, thence striking across open country to the coast near Buchu Bay, from whence we followed the coast down to Port Nolloth. And those last few days were crammed with more discomfort than all the rest of the trip put together!