The great tall Dutchmen came in to
shoot, and did but moderately, I thought.
The longest range was
five hundred yards, and at that they shot well; at shorter ranges,
poorly enough. The best man made ten points. But oh! what figures
were there of negroes and coloured people! I longed for a
photographer. Some coloured lads were exquisitely graceful, and
composed beautiful tableaux vivants, after Murillo's beggar-boys.
A poor little, very old Bosjesman crept up, and was jeered and
bullied. I scolded the lad who abused him for being rude to an old
man, whereupon the poor little old creature squatted on the ground
close by (for which he would have been kicked but for me), took off
his ragged hat, and sat staring and nodding his small grey woolly
head at me, and jabbering some little soliloquy very sotto voce.
There was something shocking in the timidity with which he took the
plate of food I gave him, and in the way in which he ate it, with
the WRONG side of his little yellow hand, like a monkey. A black,
who had helped to fetch the hamper, suggested to me to give him
wine instead of meat and bread, and make him drunk FOR FUN (the
blacks and Hottentots copy the white man's manners TO THEM, when
they get hold of a Bosjesman to practise upon); but upon this a
handsome West Indian black, who had been cooking pies, fired up,
and told him he was a 'nasty black rascal, and a Dutchman to boot',
to insult a lady and an old man at once.
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