That there is more than one man of the name of Jan Celliers in South Africa I know, but there is only one Jan Celliers who can be honoured by the title "Poet and Patriot," and that is the remarkable personality of our friend in Pretoria, J.F.E. Celliers. I have chosen him as the subject of this chapter, not so much because of the important, I may almost say revolutionary part he has played in the building up of South African literature since the war, as on account of the unique patriotism displayed by him throughout the war under circumstances of the severest test and trial. How he, after active service in the field since the beginning of the war, came to be locked up in Pretoria as an unseen prisoner of war, an unwilling captive between the green walls of his suburban garden, when the British took possession of the capital on that stupefying June 5th, 1900, we shall briefly relate in this chapter. Mr. Celliers' experience was that of many good and faithful burghers. The news of heavy Boer losses, the desperately forced march of the British troops from Bloemfontein to Pretoria, the crushing blows in quick succession, the departure of the Boer Administration from the seat of government, the demoralisation of the scattered forces, and the painful uncertainty of what the next step was to be--these things, combined with the fact, in Mr. Celliers' case, of having no riding-horse or bicycle on which to escape from the town, caused him to be surprised by the wholly unexpected entry of the British forces into the capital. Just a brief period of dazed inaction, a few hours of stupefied uncertainty, and he found himself hopelessly cut off from every chance of escape. He planned escape from the beginning, for conscientious scruples forbade his taking the oath of neutrality. Of the oath of allegiance there was no question whatever. There was nothing for it but to keep himself hidden until an opportunity for escaping to his fellow-countrymen in the field presented itself. The first three weeks were spent in the garden, but it soon became evident that listening ears and prying eyes were being paid to discover his whereabouts, and closer confinement was found necessary. Thereafter he sat between four walls, reading and writing during the greater part of the day, keeping a watchful eye on the little front gate through a narrow opening in the window-blind and disappearing, through a trap-door, under the floor as soon as a soldier or official entered the gate. When darkness fell he left his cramped hiding-place, and gliding unseen through the house and yard, this weary prisoner occupied himself with exercises for the preservation of his health, running, jumping, standing on his head, and plying the skipping-rope vigorously, under the protecting shadows of the dark cypress trees. The weeks went by, broken once by the intense excitement of a visit of one of the burghers from the field.