The official Headquarters of Field-Marshal Lord Roberts and his staff are at the Residency.
TO MISS BLOEMFONTEIN.
A LOVE LETTER.
Come, little Miss Bloemfontein, sit down beside me and let me hold your dimpled hand and look into those eyes which have caught the wonderful blue of these heavens, and the tints of your gardens and your bowery streets. I think our whole army likes you, you belle of the Boer aristocracy. You certainly change your lovers easily and lightly, but soldiers are reported not to mind a little coquetry when they are far from home. You have tripped out to meet us so enticingly, you have so led us into your bower with your warm little hand, and you have spoken so kindly to us, that we dislike to think you were quite the same to your earlier beaux in their homespun suits, their flapping hats, and their lavish indulgence in whiskers and beards, which, as you must know, are the cheapest of luxuries—prodigalities in which misers indulge to make a show and save a barber's bill.
You might have been hateful to us and we could not have blamed you, for we came too nearly, as certain other soldiers came to the Sabine sisterhood, with blood in our eyes and weapons in hand, fancying that you would cling to your old love, and never dreaming that he would run away and leave you unprotected in this placid and pretty little boudoir that you have set up here. You won't forget that little episode, will you, Miss Bloemfontein? And you did take note, didn't you, my dear, that when we found you deserted, all forlorn, we changed from lion to lamb, from blustering warrior to soft-spoken wooer? We spoke no harsh word to your people and did their goods no violence. Even now, we stand aside in our own place, crowding none of your servitors, but smiling back the smiles you bathe us in, and breathing our admiration softly—for you are a pretty miss and gentle—and we are not so stupid as to fail to see that you are no Boadicea, but a lover of peace and concord, if ever one has lived on earth since the Muses took to the clouds. Sweetness of loving sighs its soft song of delight in every breeze that rustles the leaves of your tree-garlands. Domesticity asserts its command, by your order, in the aspect of every cottage in your park-like nest. Homely comfort radiates from the hearths and the faces of all who live under your delightful rule.
I never anywhere saw a prettier or a more astonishing scene than I witnessed in your market-square on the second night of the stay, which we hope you will invite us to prolong to eternity. We sent a few greasy and stained melodists with pipes and drums to play in the square, partly to show you that we had dethroned Mars and substituted Pan in the best niche in our hearts, and partly to set our own pleasure tripping to gay tunes. And lo! out you came with your maidens and their lovers, your old men and matrons, and the children within your gates. And we all forgot that we had quarrelled with your cast-off favourite, that each of us had shed the other's blood, and that we had come to you with an anger that we supposed you matched within your own fair bosom. Your people and ours touched elbows and laughed and sang together. For one I was amazed. Of all the sharp contrasts of strife I know of none so bold and strong as that scene when it was compared with the scenes of only a few days back at Paardeberg and Driefontein.
It was your magic, your witchery, your tact that brought it about, you South African beauty. Without these helps we never could have enjoyed that evening as we did, and that evening was the bridge that spanned the gulf between the angry past and the happy future in our lives, little miss.
Draw closer, Miss Bloemfontein. Let our arms touch, and the thrill of ardent friendship vivify our new relation. You do like us British, don't you, dear? You don't have to be British yourself, you know. You can stay on being Dutch and piously Presbyterian and all the rest. We will respect whatever you admire, and we will promise to make you richer, freer, happier and even more beautiful—with the ripened charms of a long-assured content, if only you will let your chief predikant publish the banns next Sunday—or sooner, if you will.
Julian Ralph.