[PLATS WDOOo 
LEVEREGT ARIS, AN OLD HOTTENTOT. 
“ Mild, melancholy, and sedate he stands. 
Tending another’s flock upon the fields— 
H is father's once—where now the white man builds 
His home, and issues forth his proud commands. 
His wan eye flashes not; his listless hands 
Lean on the shepherd’s stall'; no more he wields 
The Libyan bow—but to the oppressor yields 
Submissively bis freedom and his lands.” 
The annexed sketch is a portrait of an old man at Genadendal, Leveregt Aris, a pure .Hottentot, about eighty 
years of age. There are now but few remaining within the Cape Colony of this enslaved and persecuted race that 
arc without some admixture of European or Negro blood. Those commonly called Hottentots are mostly Creoles and 
half-castes, retaining in part only the characteristic features of the original Hottentot race. Nowhere within the 
limits of the Colony are these people now to be met with existing in a wild state. Beyond the Orange River, 
however, in Great Namaqua Land, the original light-coloured races of Southern Atrica still enjoy their life of roving 
freedom; and amidst the recesses of the Quathlambas, and in the rocky fastnesses ol the desert mountains beyond 
the Gariep, the wily Bushman 
“ Sleeps within bis black-browed den 
In the lone wilderness." 
At Gnadenthal, and several other missionary establishments, much has been done for the amelioration and benefit of 
this oppressed and timid race; and the old man before, us, after a life of servitude and slavery, has found an asylum 
where he may lay his bones in peace in the soil once his owm. 
AN 0L1) HOTTENTOT WOMAN, WITH HALF-CASTE GREAT-GRANDCHILDREN, 
Here is a sketch in the interior of one of the Hottentot huts at Genadendal—the oldest woman in the 
settlement—so old, that she can remember when the hippopotami tenanted the adjoining river of Zonder-cinde, and 
the valley r beyond was scattered over with Hocks of ostrich and hartebeeste—sitting by her humble fireside, in peacefnl 
security, surrounded by her children’s children, even to the fourth generation. They say she numbers nearly one 
hundred summers; and despite her skeleton and bony frame, and the deep wrinkles that furrow her countenance, 
she has w orn w ell through a life of Dutch slavery and thraldom; and has lasted out, a solitary, sapless trunk, to 
witness the flag of freedom hoisted over the once accursed land of the Hottentot and the slave. That little hoy, 
with the dark bright eyes, has the white man’s blood flowing in his veins: he is beautiful in his ragged blanket. 
11 is mother and his grandmother are dead, and there is only that dear old soul of a great-grandmother to hush 
his baby head to sleep upon her knee. Youth and age in strong contrast; a young and tender plant sheltering 
itself beneath the fostering ruin from whence it sprang. 
