Affairs were a chaos. The region, grown historic as the
Transvaal, had been told to arrange its future as it would. The Orange
Free State had been kicked outside the British line of empire, with a
solatium in money, in the manner that an angry father bids adieu to a
ne'er-do-well son. A white man in South Africa hardly knew what flag he
was living under, or, indeed, if he could claim any. Panda, on the
Zululand frontier, growled over his assegai and knobkerry. Moshesh, the
Basuto, hung grimly on the face of Thaba Bosego, a Mountain of Night in
very truth. The embers of a Kaffir war still glowed.
Who was to hold the arena? Its hazards were thrown to Sir George Grey. At
the moment, he would, perhaps, rather have returned to New Zealand, but
he was told that somebody with the necessary qualifications must hie to
the Cape, and that the Government had selected him. He packed his baggage
and sailed from Bristol, Sir James Stephen going down there to see him
embark. Bristol, as he explained, was then endeavouring to establish
relations with the Cape and Australasia, which were coming into note.
'When I reached Cape Town,' Sir George pursued, 'they had just got their
first Parliament, but it was hardly in operation. Under the constitution
that had been granted, the Governor remained, to all purposes, the
paramount force in the country.
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