d exalted traditions, she approaches
the little child grovelling in the dust with a sharpened knife in her
hand. This is no War--it is an attempt at Infanticide.

And as the brain of the onlooker reels, and as his thoughts fade away
into uneasy slumbers, there arises before him in a dream the distant
prospect of Bantu children playing amongst the gardens and ruins of the
sunny south around thousands of graves in which the descendants of the
European heroes of Faith and Freedom lie sleeping.

For the marauding hordes of the Bantu are once more roving where
European dwellings used to stand. And when the question is asked--why
all this has happened? Why the heroic children of an heroic race, to
which civilisation owes its most priceless blessings, should lie
murdered there in that distant quarter of the globe? An invisible spirit
of mockery answers, "Civilisation is a failure; the Caucasian is played
out!" and the dreamer awakens with the echo of the word "Gold! gold!
gold!" in his ears.

The orchids of Birmingham are yellow. The traditions of the greatest
people on earth are tarnished and have become yellow.

The laurels which Britannia's legions hope to win in South Africa are
sere and yellow.

But the sky which stretches its banner over South Africa remains blue.
The justice to which Piet Retief appeals when our fathers said farewell
to the Cape Colony, and to which Joachim Prinsloo called aloud in the
Volksraad of Natal when it was annexed by England; the justice to which
the burghers of the Transvaal entrusted their case at Paarde Kraal in
1880, remains immutable, and is like a rock against which the yeasty
billows of British diplomacy dissolve in foam.

It proceeds according to eternal laws, unmoved by human pride and
ambition. As the Greek poet of old said, it permits the tyrant, in his
boundless self-esteem, to climb higher and higher and to gain greater
honour and might until he arrives at the appointed height, and then
falls down into the infinite depths.

Africanders, I ask you but to do as Leonidas did with his 300 men when
they advanced unflinchingly at Thermopylae against Xerxes and his
myriads, and do not be disturbed by such men as Milner, Rhodes, and
Chamberlain, or even by the British Empire itself, but cling fast to the
God of our forefathers, and to the Righteousness which is sometimes slow
in acting, but which never slumbers nor forgets. Our forefathers did not
pale before the terrors of the Sp