inconceivable, improbable, we refuse to believe them; yet, again and
again they return.
There are some things the mind refuses seriously to entertain, as the
man who has long loved and revered his mother would refuse to accept
the assertion of the first passer-by that there was any possibility of
her raising up her hand to strike his wife or destroy his child. But
much repetition may at last awaken doubt; and the man may begin to look
out anxiously for further evidence.
* * * * *
We English South Africans are stunned; we are amazed; we say there can
be no truth in it. Yet we begin to ask ourselves: “What means this
unwonted tread of armed and hired soldiers on South African soil? Why
are they here?” And the only answer that comes back to us, however
remote and seemingly impossible is--WAR!
To-night we laugh at it, and to-morrow when we rise up it stands
before us again, the ghastly doubt--war!--war, and in South Africa!
War--between white men and white! _War!_--Why?--Whence is the
cause?--For whom?--For what?--And the question gains no answer.
We fall to considering, who gains by war?
Has our race in Africa and our race in England interests so diverse
that any calamity so cataclysmic can fall upon us, as war? Is
any position possible, that could make necessary that mother and
daughter must rise up in one horrible embrace, and rend, if it be
possible, each other’s vitals?... Believing it impossible, we fall to
considering, who is it gains by war?
There is peace to-day in the land; the two great white races, day by
day, hour by hour, are blending their blood, and both are mixing with
the stranger. No day passes but from the veins of some Dutch South
African woman the English South African man’s child is being fed; not
a week passes but the birth cry of the English South African woman’s
child gives voice to the Dutchman’s offspring; not an hour passes but
on farm, and in town and village, Dutch hearts are winding about English