There is an instrument common among the inland tribes, but of which I never saw a specimen in the South, constructed somewhat on the principle of the piano. It consists of a strong wooden framework; into this eight slips of wood are fixed, which, when struck in rapid succession, sound a perfect octave. Skilful players can, with a small drumstick, perform quite a number of airs with surprising accuracy, and all in perfect time. But of all African musical instruments the most horribly maddening to European ears is the reed. This resembles nothing that I have ever heard except the "drones" of the bagpipes when an indifferent player is getting his instrument into tune. This is saying a good deal; I might say more, but, being a Scotchman, dare not with impunity.
I had many friends among the musicians, but never, unfortunately, wrote down any of their legends. After entertaining one with their strains they, one and all, would begin: "The master sees I am a child. Our people have forgotten music. Long ago every warrior could play skilfully, and a man never went on a journey but he carried his instrument with him. The great players could bring the beasts of the forest out of the bush to listen, and even the birds would fly round and round them. Since the white man came and took our country, our hearts are heavy, men do not sing. When we have a meeting, if young men fight it is the tronk [gaol]; the tronk is killing us. No. The master sees I am a child, and can touch this as our children throw the spear and the bunguza."
"What was it the ancestors could do which you cannot do?"
"The master asks a foolish question to-day. He sits here and smokes when I play. If he heard my father he could not sit, he would dance."
"Was your father a great musician?"
"Yes, to me; but the old men when he was young would say he was a child. He could not play like them."
"Do you know who made the first instrument like that?
