MARK TWAIN

of land in the world which doesn't represent the ousting
and re-ousting of a long line of successive "owners," who
each in turn, as "patriots," with proud swelling hearts de-
fended it against the next gang of "robbers" who came to
steal it and did—and became swelling-hearted patriots in
their turn. And this Transvaal, now, is full of patriots,
who by the help of God, who is always interested in these
things, stole the land from the feeble blacks, and then
re-stole it from the English robber and has put up the
monument—which the next robber will pull down and
keep as a curiosity.

May 28. Drove in the afternoon with Poultney Bigelow;
and after lecture he and I went to the sumptuous bachelor
house of a German friend of his and had supper and com-
fortable fire (cold night) and hot whiskey and cigars; and
good talk about Helmholz and Mumson and Vierchow.

I think the Veldt in its sober winter garb is as beau-
tiful as Paradise. There were unlined stretches day before
yesterday where it went rolling and swelling and rising
and subsiding and sweeping grandly on and still on, like
an ocean, toward the remote horizon, its pale brown deep-
ening by delicately graduated shades to rich orange and
finally to purple and crimson where it washed against the
wooded hills and naked red crags at the base of the sky.

These darkies—just like ours—are not quite so big and
brawny as the Natal Zulus. And the language seems to
have no Zulu clicks in it; seems to have no angles or
corners in it, no roughnesses, no vile S's or other hissing
sounds—very, very mellow and rounded and flowing. The
women have the sweet soft musical voice of ours, too. I
followed a couple of them a mile to listen to the music of
their speech and the happy ripple of their laugh.

What a curious thing a detective story is. And was
there ever one that the author needn't be ashamed of,
except the "Murders in the Rue Morgue"?

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