It is Monday night, 6th of January 1896. It is the night when the great National Union meeting should have been held under the chairmanship of Charles Leonard. The meeting is being held, but only a committee meeting; but alas and alack Charles Leonard is not here to take the chair. Charles Leonard is in Cape Town. Poor Charles Leonard. The body may have been willing, but the heart was too faint. Such is ever the fate of braggarts. While danger is yet far away, great deeds are talked of—then the braggart is a hero; and, alas for human credulity, the braggart will always find those who will believe in him. It is not everybody who can read the heart of man in his face, or from his tongue, and, least of all, the public. How easily the PUBLIC—the people—as a whole, will allow a boasting, a glib-tongued, plausible braggart to lead them by the nose. How disgusting it is for a student of human nature to see a man thus lead a crowd of credulous people to believe in him, to make a hero of him, to accept his statements for gospel, and all because the man has a plausible appearance and can TALK.
Johannesburg for a time believed in Charles Leonard!
Now the National Union Committee, self-styled Reform Committee, by others called the deformed Committee, was holding a meeting—to do what? To decide upon what they should do in reply to President Kruger’s ultimatum, in which they were given twenty-four hours to lay down their arms and surrender unconditionally.
But the meeting is strictly private; it is not for the public to hear the bitter recriminations amongst the Committee because of blunders and mistakes of the few leaders, nor the regrets of those who had allowed themselves to be flattered into joining a movement which, in their hearts, they knew to be wrong and condemnable; therefore we shall not report the proceedings, but content ourselves that we shall know the result of their deliberations soon, within twenty-four hours.
After Steve had safely conducted the prisoners into their place of confinement, his first act was to report himself as ready for duty, in case of need, to his own field cornet, after which he went home, had a bath, and a good sleep before tea-time.
The members of the amateur debating society are gathered together once more. The debate goes on every night now. The burning questions of the day are eagerly discussed, and everyone present airs his views of what ought to be done, what he would do if he had the control of affairs. Truly the amount of wisdom (?) wasted in this manner is really alarming. It is a pity that the wisdom, knowledge and statescraft exhausted in this private and useless manner could not be bottled up and labelled, to be used as occasion requires. Such bottled-up knowledge may even become a marketable commodity, if some great inventor would only find out how it is to be preserved. Edison might take the hint one of these days.
How easy it would make it for public men and statesmen to buy a little wisdom on certain subjects, especially when in a dilemma. How easy it would be, say, for Mr Chamberlain to buy a bottle of wisdom on ‘Home Rule for the Rand,’ or for President Cleveland on ‘Venezuela Affairs,’ or for President Kruger on ‘How to deal with the Uitlanders,’ or for Charles Leonard on ‘The safest way to play the game of doubling on the hounds,’ or for Rhodes on ‘How to make the Afrikander Bond an Imperial bond (to make him Emperor?),’ or even on ‘How to make Rhodesia pay.’ So many uses could be found for such bottled wisdom and knowledge.
Of course, I know that books and papers generally serve as bottles to contain and preserve much of this same wisdom and knowledge, but so much of it goes to waste, so few have the opportunity or means to so preserve their own knowledge.
We will at least preserve a little of the knowledge and statescraft exuded at this evening’s conversation in the sitting-room of Steve’s boarding-house. It will, at least, serve to show the tendency of public feeling during this time, when public feeling ran high.
‘Hillo, Steve! Well, I am hanged! is it yourself or your spirit I see? Well, at least, your hand feels mortal enough.’ It was Harrison who spoke, shaking Steve heartily by the hand.