water, and his straddled legs, and his odious eyes shaded by his
brutal hand, and his cry of ‘Qu-u-u-u-aaa!’ (Bosjesman for
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something desperately insulting I have no doubt) – conscious of an
affectionate yearning towards that noble savage, or is it
idiosyncratic in me to abhor, detest, abominate, and abjure him? I
have no reserve on this subject, and will frankly state that,
setting aside that stage of the entertainment when he counterfeited
the death of some creature he had shot, by laying his head on his
hand and shaking his left leg – at which time I think it would have
been justifiable homicide to slay him – I have never seen that
group sleeping, smoking, and expectorating round their brazier, but
I have sincerely desired that something might happen to the
charcoal smouldering therein, which would cause the immediate
suffocation of the whole of the noble strangers.
There is at present a party of Zulu Kaffirs exhibiting at the St.
George’s Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London. These noble savages
are represented in a most agreeable manner; they are seen in an
elegant theatre, fitted with appropriate scenery of great beauty,
and they are described in a very sensible and unpretending lecture,
delivered with a modesty which is quite a pattern to all similar
exponents. Though extremely ugly, they are much better shaped than
such of their predecessors as I have referred to; and they are
rather picturesque to the eye, though far from odoriferous to the
nose. What a visitor left to his own interpretings and imaginings
might suppose these noblemen to be about, when they give vent to
that pantomimic expression which is quite settled to be the natural
gift of the noble savage, I cannot possibly conceive; for it is so
much too luminous for my personal civilisation that it conveys no
idea to my mind beyond a general stamping, ramping, and raving,
remarkable (as everything in savage life is) for its dire
uniformity. But let us – with the interpreter’s assistance, of
which I for one stand so much in need – see what the noble savage
does in Zulu Kaffirland.
The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he submits
his life and limbs without a murmur or question, and whose whole
life is passed chin deep in a lake of blood; but who, after killing
incessantly, is in his turn killed by his relations and friends,
the moment a grey hair appears on his head. All the noble savage’s
wars with his fellow-savages (and he takes no pleasure in anything
else) are wars of extermination – which is the best thing I know of
him, and the most comfortable to my mind when I look at him. He
has no moral feelings of any kind, sort, or description; and his
‘mission’ may be summed up as simply diabolical.
The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies his life are, of
course, of a kindred nature. If he wants a wife he appears before
the kennel of the gentleman whom he has selected for his father-inlaw,
attended by a party of male friends of a very strong flavour,
who screech and whistle and stamp an offer of so many cows for the
young lady’s hand. The chosen father-in-law – also supported by a
high-flavoured party of male friends – screeches, whistles, and
yells (being seated on the ground, he can’t stamp) that there never
was such a daughter in the market as his daughter, and that he must
have six more cows. The son-in-law and his select circle of
backers screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in reply, that they will
give three more cows. The father-in-law (an old deluder, overpaid
at the beginning) accepts four, and rises to bind the bargain. The
whole party, the young lady included, then falling into epileptic
convulsions, and screeching, whistling, stamping, and yelling
together – and nobody taking any notice of the young lady (whose
charms are not to be thought of without a shudder) – the noble
savage is considered married, and his friends make demoniacal leaps
at him by way of congratulation.
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