28 
BRITISH CENTRAL AFRICA 
morning in May:—A glorious blue sky; floods of sunshine; a cool breeze and 
a sparkling freshness in the atmosphere which reminds one of Capetown; clean 
red roads, neat brick houses, purple mountains, and much greenery. 
The organ is giving forth a hymn of Mendelssohn’s by way of introit as we 
enter the church, and as, simultaneously, the choir and clergy take their places. 
The Norman architecture of the interior, the stained glass windows, the 
embroidered altar cloths, the brass lecterns and their eagles, the carved altar 
rails, the oak pulpit, the well-appointed seats with scarlet cushions—even the 
sunlight checked in its exuberance by passing through the diamond panes 
of the tinted windows—produce an effect on the newcomer of absolute astonish¬ 
ment. He requires to fix his eyes on the black choir in their scarlet and white 
vestments to realise that he is in Africa and not in Edinburgh or Regent’s Park. 
The congregation consists mainly of Europeans and the service is in English. 
[The natives will assemble at other hours when worship is conducted in their 
own language.] A short service with good music, well sung by the black choir, 
and a quarter of an hour’s sermon: then we are out once more in the sunny 
square, in a temperature not hotter than a mild summer’s day at home, 
exchanging greetings with many acquaintances, almost all of whom are habited 
in such clothes as they would wear on a Sunday in Scotland. Some of the men 
turn out in black coats, light trousers, top hats, patent leather boots, white spats 
and brown gloves; and the ladies are wearing silk blouses and cloth skirts, with 
all the furbelows and puffs and pinchings and swellings which were the height 
of the fashion in London not more than four months ago, for there is an 
almost pathetic desire on the part of the Blantyre settlers to keep in touch 
with civilisation. 1 
In the bare, open space which so fittingly surrounds this handsome church, 
groups of mission boys are standing, respectably clothed in not badly-fitting 
European garments and wearing black felt hats. They are conversing in low 
tones, a little afraid of having their remarks overheard by the critical Europeans. 
They have a slight tendency to giggle, of which they are conscious and some¬ 
what ashamed. A long file of mission girls, modestly and becomingly clad in 
scarlet and white, crosses the square to the native quarters of the mission under 
the guidance of a lady in dove-grey with a black bonnet and a grass-green 
parasol. By way of quaint contrast to these reclaimed guardians of the flock 
is the aboriginal wolf in the persons of some Angoni carriers who, forgetting or 
ignoring that Sunday was a day of rest with the European, are bringing up 
loads from the Upper Shire. Stark naked, all but a tiny square of hide or 
a kilt of tiger-cat tails, with supple, lithe bodies of glistening chocolate (shiny 
with perspiration), with the hair of their heads screwed up into curious little 
tufts by means of straw, they glide past the church with their burdens, alter¬ 
nately shy and inquisitive—ready to drop the burden and dart away if a 
European should address them roughly; on the other hand gazing with all their 
eyes at the wonderfully dressed white women, and the obviously powerful 
“wafumo” 2 amongst the white men. A smartly-uniformed negro policeman in 
yellow khaki and black fez hurries them off the scene, shocked at their nudity, 
which was his own condition a year ago. 
A good-looking Sikh soldier—over on a day’s leave from the neighbouring 
garrison, or else accompanying some official as orderly—loiters respectfully on 
the fringe of the European crowd. He is in undress and wears a huge blush- 
rose turban, a loose snow-white shirt, a fawn-coloured waistcoat, white paijamas 
1 Blantyre in fact is like an Indian Hill Station. 2 Chiefs. 
