THE EAST COAST 147 



ning, this is but a tale of playground facts and 

 fancies, and if I am to continue your guide, 

 philosopher and friend you must hurry by 

 Lourenco Marques, which is the gateway of the 

 Transvaal and its gold, you must not tarry long 

 amidst the corrugated irondom of Beira, which 

 is the harbour of Rhodesia. Our liner does not 

 call at Chinde — Chinde is merely a mock port 

 to which only the riff-raff of navigation journey, 

 and if you have read aright what has already 

 been written in this volume anent Chinde you 

 will not regret the omission. 



Speed away then to JNIozambique with its 

 Citadel of the Centuries that basks in an atmo- 

 sphere of yester-year's valour. For indeed San 

 Sebastian was a great fortress in its day. But 

 that was very, very long ago. The straggling 

 piles of masonry that rest on the corals of the 

 Indian Ocean, in these strangely altered times, 

 are little more than a name, inscribed on a faded 

 banner that has not gone forth to battle for 

 centuries — at the best it is a penal settlement, 

 or a place of exile, where banished Portuguese 

 play at soldiering and rub epauletted shoulders 

 with black flesh. It is a sad thing to see a strong 

 man fall and make no effort to regain his feet. 

 It is infinitely more pathetic to read of a nation 

 that has been content to sleep away its manhood. 

 And in its days as vigorous and adventurous 

 blood coursed through the veins of Portugal as 

 ever made Greece and Rome and Spain the 

 masters of the world. 



The deeds that Cortez and Pizarro wrought 

 for the kings of Aragon in the New World were 

 not one whit more valorous than the discoveries 

 and conquests of Vasco da Gama, Francisco 

 Homem and Barreto in Africa for the glory of 



