Yankee Girls in Zulu Land

Louise Vescelius-Sheldon

"Yankee Girls in Zulu Land"

Chapter One.

New York City, November, 18—.

My Dear Children:

Your Affectionate Mother.

P.S. George wants to know what has set you thinking of going to South Africa, where there are only Zulus and missionaries. Of course if the physician orders it for Frank’s health, you know what is best.

Chapter Two.

Well, it had rained, and snowed, and “fogged” for six months during the year we were in London, and we had seen the sun only on ten separate days during that period. The doctor ordered a change of climate for Frank, to a land of heat and sunshine, and advised us to go to South Africa, that land of “Zulus and missionaries.”

The old strain ran through my head, “From Greenland’s icy mountains, From India’s coral strands, Where Afric’s sunny fountains,” etc, and as anything that suggested sunshine, even if it were in a diluted state, was what we wanted, we considered that a health excursion to the antipodes was worth a trial, if it wrought the desired effect.

There lived in the house with us an African lady who had recently come “home” for a trip to see the wonders of a civilised world. You must not imagine that by African I mean a Zulu or a Kafir or Hottentot. Oh, dear, no! The lady in question was as white as we, and very much more fashionable. She never tired of expatiating on the glories of her country, its marvellous fertility, its thousands of miles of grasslands, its myriads of birds of dazzling plumage and bewitching song, its flocks of sheep, flocks so large that even their owners could only approximately count their numbers, its mighty rivers, and above all, its immense wealth in gold and diamonds. Then the hospitality of the farmers, the way in which they welcomed strangers and treated them to the best of everything, was quite beyond the conception of any one who had not visited this wonderful country.

These descriptions, tallying with the doctor’s directions, decided us, and having counted up our pounds, shillings, and pence, we made adieus, packed our Saratogas, and took passage on board the mail steamer Trojan, Captain Lamar, sailing from the London Docks.

We had left ourselves so very little time to make our final arrangements that, as soon as the cab started, there commenced a running fire of questions.

“Did you pack the gloves in the big box?”

“Did you put the thin dresses on top, for we shall want them in the tropics,” etc, when all of a sudden Louise sprang up with a gasp and a shout:

“Stop the cab! stop the cab!”

“What for?”

“Stop the cab, I say!”

“She must be ill,” we cried. “Stop the cab!” and an unharmonious trio immediately assailed the ears of the driver: “Stop the cab!”

The cab stopped. “What’s up anyhow?” inquired the London Jehu.

“I have left my diary on the dressing-table!”

If any of you have kept a diary you will understand the dread horror that overwhelmed us all at this awful announcement: one gasp, one moment of terrible silence, and then—action. “I must go back for it at once. You go on. I will take a hansom and gallop all the way. If I miss the boat, I will catch you at Dartmouth. I would sooner die than have that diary read! Hi, driver! Montague Place, Kensington! A half-sovereign if you drive as fast as you can.” Bang! slam! a rush! a roar! and Louise is whirled away in the hansom cab, with the white-horse and the dashing-looking driver, with a flower in his button-hole. How the horse flew! What short cuts the driver took, darting across street-corners, shaving lamp-posts and imperilling the lives of small boys and old women selling apples, as only a London hansom-cab driver can! Everybody turns around as the white horse with the short tail, dragging the cab with its pale-faced occupant, dashes down the street, through the squares, across the park, round the crescent, where the policeman looks almost inclined to stop it, until he sees the anxious look of the girl inside; up the terrace, down two more streets, and finally, with a clatter, rattle, bang, a plunge and a bump, horse, cab, and “fare” come to a standstill at Montague Place. The door is thrown open by the servant-girl. “Have you seen a red-covered book with a brass lock that I left on the dressing-table in my room?”

“No, miss.”

“Very well, where is Mrs — Oh! there you are! Oh! please, have you seen a brass book with a red lock, that I left on the—Why, there it is in your hand! Oh, thank you ever so much! I know you were going to bring it to me. Good-bye! I shall be just in time.

“London Docks! Cabman, quick! Catch the Trojan before she leaves.” “All right, miss!” A twist, a plunge, a flick with the whip, and the bob-tailed nag is half-way down Oxford Street before the astonished landlady can realise the fact that her chance of finding out all the secrets of Miss Louise is gone forever.

Meanwhile Eva and Frank are anxiously awaiting her arrival on board the ship: they have visited their state-room and seen their luggage carefully stored away, and are now left with nothing to do but speculate as to the result of Louise’s expedition. Presently the clanging of the bell on the bridge gives warning that the warps are to be cast off, there is a rush to the gangway of the weeping friends of the passengers, and the hoarse cry passes along the quay: “Ease her off gently there! Forward! Stand by the cast-off!” The two girls are almost in despair, and have resigned themselves to the possible postponement of the journey, for Louise’s catching the boat at Dartmouth seems to them only a bare possibility; when the people idling on the quay suddenly part from side to side, and a hansom cab with the self-same short-tailed “white” horse and knowing-looking driver dash triumphantly up the gangway, already in course of being drawn from the ship, and deposit the diary (for that seems to be for the moment of the most importance) and Louise into the arms of the quartermaster. Blessings on that London hansom cab, its horse, and knowing driver. They had nobly done their duty and at 11:29, one minute before the ship casts off to drop down the river, the three sisters with the recovered diary are safe on board the steamer.

Moral: Don’t keep a diary.

Chapter Three.

Soon after nightfall the lights along the coast began to fade slowly out of sight, at length entirely disappearing, and we were left in our little world bounded by the bulwarks of the ship, with the ocean on all sides, and the star-studded heaven above, sailing out into that “summer voyage of the world,” as it is called. Certainly to us the recollection of it is like a long, happy summer’s dream, passed under the bluest of skies by day, and the brightest of stars by night. On the sixth day after leaving Dartmouth (a long passage, we were told) we sighted the beautiful Island of Madeira. The weather had cleared, the air was deliciously fresh and balmy, the sea calm; and every one on deck to view the purple cloud slowly rising from the sea, which, they informed us, was Madeira.

Gradually the cloud assumed shape, then deeper shadows appeared here and there, till at last we could discern the graceful uplands, the mountain island, and the fantastically formed rocks strewn along the coast, with the sea breaking into foam on the picturesque beach.

For half an hour we skirted along the coast, seeing no other signs of human habitation than an occasional hut among the boulders on the cliffs, until, rounding a point, we came suddenly upon the beautiful village of Funchal, which is built on the beach of a romantic bay, with the verdant hills rising in grassy terraces in every direction. Low, white stone buildings peeped out from small forests, and the air was soft and balmy as it gently fanned the cheek, giving one a delicious sense of rest and warmth, only to be felt and appreciated on the borders of the tropics after a cold, damp, cheerless English winter. Scarcely had we dropped anchor ere the deck of the ship was swarming with men and women from the shore, offering for sale native work of every description, wicker basket chairs, sofas, tables, inlaid work-boxes, feather flowers, parrots, canaries, such lovely embroidery, and, what was most acceptable to many of us, the varied fruits of the island. Whilst feasting ourselves with bananas, mangoes, oranges, etc, we had an opportunity of observing the strange jumble of humanity on our decks, and surrounding the ship in row-boats of all sizes and shapes. Scores of half-nude, dark-skinned boys were in the boats chattering and tempting passengers to throw coins into the water for them to dive after, and the amount of dexterity they displayed in diving after a sixpence, catching it before it had sunk apparently more than five or six feet, sometimes bringing it up between their toes, was truly remarkable.

On the deck everything was noise and confusion; the sailors at work unloading cargo were hustling the swarthy half-breed Portuguese peddlers out of their way, while they, with one eye on their customers and another on their wares (for Mr Jack Tar is not at all particular about throwing overboard anything that happens to be in his way), were chattering away in a polyglot tongue half English and half Portuguese, praising their own goods and deprecating their neighbours’.

They will take generally before they leave the ship less than one-half what they ask for their goods when they first come aboard, and we noticed that passengers who had been to Madeira before did not attempt to make a bargain until the vessel was just about to start. As we were to remain at anchor five or six hours we wished to take a run on shore, and, together with a married lady and her husband, chartered one of the queer cheese-box-looking boats for the expedition.

All appears delightfully clear while in the distance: the convent on the slope, and the green hill itself, form an agreeable background; but ashore the prospect changed, and the streets turned out to be narrow and dirty, with the exception of the principal boulevard, which runs up from the beach toward the hill.

The queer-looking covered conveyances with runners like a sled and drawn by two undersized oxen, not larger than calves, arrested our attention, and we regretted our inability to take a jaunt in one up the hill to the convent, which had been spoken of as the most interesting place on the island, where the beautiful embroidery is made; but our time was limited, and we could only make a hasty tour of a few narrow, unhealthy-looking streets lined with trees of dense foliage, sip a glass of Madeira wine, so bad in quality it nearly choked us, and then return to our boats.

During the ramble we entered a large, ancient cathedral, that must have been built ages ago, whose decorations were well worth more than the hasty glance we gave it. We passed on to some shops where we found costly hand-made laces. One lace shawl which we bought could be rolled up in a ball in one hand without any injury to the fabric. As we hurried down to the beach we passed several invalids, lying in hammocks swung on upright poles at head and feet and protected from the sun’s rays by awnings; these were carried by servants, and in this gentle manner they enjoyed the air and saw the sights offered on the beach without much fatigue.

What an English graveyard the Island of Madeira is! It is sad to see the feeble creatures there with the deluded idea that Madeira will give health to their tired lungs. It may in a few cases, as some plants will flourish in the climate that will kill others; but no one can see the purple cloud slowly settle over the island and envelop it at sunset, as we did, and believe that in that damp atmosphere, that island home, the consumptive can be cured of the deadly disease. He must go farther south and inland to that dry, sunny upland country, with its dewless nights and hot, sunny days, where health and new life blood have filled the veins of many who would have been along with the others in the English graveyard of Madeira, if that had been their home.

Arrived on board, we found everything in readiness for departure, and, having cleared the decks of the parrots and their owners, the anchor was weighed, the decks washed of the débris caused by the peddlers, and with the ship’s head pointing south, we steamed away from Madeira.

Chapter Four.

Life at sea is necessarily monotonous, and our voyage, though most enjoyable, did not differ from others in this respect. There were the usual athletic sports for the gentlemen, and occasional concerts in the evening, when one or another of the amateurs would cause considerable amusement by his nervousness. One young gentleman, who had volunteered to sing “After the Opera is Over,” found himself when he started to sing minus the words, the tune, or any idea of how to extricate himself. He sang “Aftah the op’ra is ov’ah! Aftah the op’ra is done! Aftah the op’ra is ov’ah! No—oh—confound it!—I sang that befo—ah! Aftah the op’ra is ov’ah! After the op’ra is ov’ah—ah—is done. Aftah the op’ra—No—what is it?” Then he softly hummed over to himself two or three times, and then, “After the op’ra is ov’ah! We swells—we swells—of the—we swells of the op’ra is ov’ah! Oh, doothe take it, I must have a brandy and sodah. Excuse me.” And he suddenly disappeared in a deck cabin immediately behind the piano, but as he was serenaded so frequently afterward by those who were anxious he should learn the air, there is very little doubt that he will ever forget it. The nights were very oppressive when crossing the equator, and the gentlemen would take up their rugs and sleep so pleasantly on deck, whilst the female passengers would pass sleepless, hot nights below in the close state-room. But one bright night one of the heavy showers which come and go so suddenly in the tropics, without a note of warning, came sweeping down and inundated the sleepers, who came clattering and chattering, wet through, down the saloon stairs at three o’clock in the morning, calling to the stewards for creature comforts and dry blankets and disturbing every one of the passengers who had managed to defy the stifling closeness of the state-rooms and get to sleep.

There were a number of young men in the second-class saloon who were going out to the diamond and gold fields to seek their fortunes. These were continually bothering the merchants and diggers who had been out before for any particulars of the country they could give them. One of these latter gentlemen, talking about their eager inquiries one day at table, told an amusing story of a previous voyage he had made, which is good enough to bear repeating. He said he was on his way out two or three years before, when the diamond fields had only recently been opened up, and the ship was full of eager adventurers going out to seek their fortunes on the fields. Among the passengers in the saloon was a wealthy digger who had been home on a business trip, and who, having a strong appreciation of the ridiculous, was continually amusing himself by giving the most grotesque accounts of the life on the fields, and the many ways in which fortunes had been found or made.

It chanced that the ship was short of hands, and the captain and chief engineer were in great straits to get the coal properly “trimmed,” or broken up for the furnaces, the few available stokers being in constant requisition at the fires. One day our facetious friend proposed to lay a friendly wager with the captain that he would, before the next day was out, have half the passengers in the fore cabin volunteering to break up coal.

He strolled down into the engine room that afternoon, taking care to choose a time when a number of the embryo diggers were loitering about, and carelessly taking up a piece of coal he suddenly started and said: “Good gracious, engineer, where did this coal come from?” The engineer, who was in the plot, said: “Some we brought from Cape Town to last for return trip.” “I thought so. Why this is the very same coal in which the diamonds are always found on the fields.”

“No!” said the engineer. “Yes,” repeated our friend, “and I will give you a sovereign to let me overhaul the next lot of coal you get out of the bumpers.”

“Oh, for the matter of that,” said the engineer, “you are welcome to go over the whole lot; it is all in great lumps and isn’t trimmed yet.”

“All right, lend me a coal hammer,” and into the bunker stepped our joker, followed by the interested gaze of a score of the emigrants. In less than a quarter of an hour he emerged with five or six rough diamonds in his hand. “Well, boys,” said he, “that isn’t bad work for the time, is it? Now, I don’t care to go working about in a ship’s coal bunkers. Besides, I don’t care for the stuff. That coal wants breaking up; go and get permission of the captain to let you do it, and I’ll wager half of you will be rich before you arrive at Cape Town.”

No sooner said than done. Permission was granted, and, in less time than it takes to tell it, fifteen or twenty of the diamond seekers were hard at work banging at the coal, and straining their eyes in vain for the diamonds which seemed so easy to find. But their quest was fruitless, and the joker kept them at it by telling them they did not break the coal properly, that it had to be broken across the grain, and so on. Every bit of coal the ship required for her voyage was soon beautifully trimmed for the fires, and no diamonds found.

Chapter Five.

The voyage from Madeira to the Cape was simply delightful. A fortnight, during which we had crossed the equator through the heat of the tropics, had elapsed, when we found ourselves one morning at dawn of day approaching the rocky and precipitous shores of the Island of Saint Helena. It had a most rugged appearance, which was heightened by its lonely position, the island rising almost perpendicularly on all sides, in some places of to the height of one thousand to twelve hundred feet. Our steamer was to remain several hours, and many of the passengers took advantage of the delay to go ashore and see the spot made so famous as the scene of exile of Napoleon. The entrance to the island is guarded by natural walls of stone towering above the steamer, and looking so stern and cruel. A feeling of desolation was on us as we walked up the one narrow, deserted street, with its filthy, repulsive-looking inhabitants of dusky-coloured men and women. This spot was once all life and glitter with the pride of the British Navy, when Saint Helena was the port for the finest of British vessels to harbour in, on their way to India by the Cape but all that glory belongs now to history. What a terrible sense of desolation must have filled that great man’s heart in his rock-bound prison, where escape was impossible; his jail possessed but one gateway, and that led into the boundless ocean.

We chartered some cadaverous frameworks which some dirty little boys assured us were horses. Getting into a clattering vehicle, we were taken to Longwood, for six years the home of the weary exile. ’Tis a long, low building, very prettily situated at the head of a lovely valley in the centre of the island.

His tomb lies lower down the glen. As we stood there, we could not but think of the other tomb in Paris, with its gilded dome, vying with the surrounding pinnacles to reach high heaven. I remember one sunny day in Paris entering this temple; the sun was streaming through the yellow stained-glass windows upon the marble pillars in the rear of the building, making them appear like columns of gold; everything seemed to be praising the life of their great hero.

Quite different, this, his resting-place. On this misty morning at Saint Helena, as I stood in the grand silence beside this simple tomb, which seemed to tell the story of this weary-hearted man, I felt that no one could doubt, after visiting this spot, that Napoleon believed in a Higher Ruler, a Superior Being; otherwise his own hand would have cut short his dreary existence.

This visit of a few hours’ duration was sufficient to cast a gloom over us. So, picking a few leaves from the grave, we came down to the shore again, and the dear old ship seemed like a kind heart waiting to receive us, and cheer away our loneliness.

We still had an hour to spare, and several of our party decided to ascend “Jacob’s ladder,” by which name is known a long flight of steps reaching from the beach to the heights, said to be the longest stairway in the world. The barracks are built on the cliff, and an English garrison is stationed there. We climbed these hundreds of steps and walked on to the parade ground, where the men were drilling; as soon as the officer in command spied us he seemed to lose his presence of mind, and the end man in the line turned one eye over his shoulder to see what was the matter, so did the next man; in time it was a funny sight to see the body of the whole line of men in position, but all heads turned to see the visitors. The sentry stationed there welcomed us with an expression of delight. Poor fellow! he said that they had received no mail for sixty days, the steamers calling at the island only at long intervals. When asked if it was not a dreary life, he shook his head and looked out to sea with moistened eyes, more eloquent than any words in expressing the monotony of the existence.

I have heard of a man who, wanting to see the world, enlisted in an English regiment, and was stationed on the island of Saint Helena for fourteen years.

As we were leaving the island one of the little nondescripts came laughing past, and in the most workmanlike manner picked my pocket of its purse. He was caught before he could get away, when he cried bitterly, not so much, apparently, at being detected as for not being allowed to keep his ill-gotten gains.

Here is a spot for one whose soul is yearning for untried missionary fields. The interior of the island is said to be beautiful, flowers and foliage growing in great luxuriance.

Leaving Saint Helena, we sailed southeast in a straight course for Table Bay; for two days after leaving the island, our table was decorated with fresh tropical flowers and fruits in great variety. We here felt the influence of the heavy ground swell, which the sailors say is a peculiarity of those latitudes, and has given rise to the burden of a sailor’s song, “Rolling Down to Saint Helena.”

At sunrise of the twenty-eighth day after leaving London, having passed through the “summer voyage of the world,” we sighted the long, flat-topped mountain which has given its name to the bay that lies at its foot.

When we first sighted it, it appeared like a huge solitary rock standing in the midst of the ocean, but as we gradually steamed up to the arms of Table Bay, which opens to the north-west, the town nestling at the foot of the mountain became visible, and as we brought up to allow the port captain and health officer to come on board, the scene came more clearly into view. The mountains outlined clearly against the sky, the mauve and golden-tinted clouds, the deep blue water of the bay, edged with a white and curving shore of singular beauty, surmounted by bold, rocky mountain ranges, combined to form one of the most striking views we had ever seen.

We will never lose the impression of South African scenery received that morning. We had bidden farewell to the smoky fogs of London, and had changed them for a country that was rich and brilliant, where the atmosphere was surprisingly bright and clear, and the scenery bold, spacious, and grand.

The long range of mountains which completely separates the Peninsula of the Cape of Good Hope from the mainland, though at a distance of seventy miles, stood out with a sharply defined outline in the morning air, the ravines, water courses, and terraced heights appearing with almost supernatural clearness. The characteristic beauty of light, which distinguishes South Africa, was seen in the full and even splendour with which every object, near and remote, became visible. Small boulders, cavernous hollows in the rocks, patches of brush at the head of the kloofs, at an elevation of two thousand feet, could be seen without difficulty. We gazed spellbound at the distant mountain, seemingly so near that we could have seen a human figure were it climbing the heights, or heard a human voice if it broke the silence of the kloofs. And it was not until the revolving of the screw warned us that we were to enter the docks that we awoke from the reverie into which the first view of the country had thrown us. Hastening below, we made preparations for leaving the ship which had been our home for four pleasant, all too fleeting weeks, and on emerging on deck we found the vessel had already entered the well-built stone docks, and was then being made fast to the quay. Shaking hands with Captain Lamar and our other friends on the ship whom we should meet later on in our journey up the country, we told the Malay porter where to find our belongings amongst the luggage of the two hundred passengers aboard, took one last look at the good ship, walked down the gangway, and found ourselves fairly on South African soil, ten thousand miles from the “Old Folks at Home.”

Chapter Six.

One of the first things that attracted our attention on landing was the motley appearance of the people on the quay.

There were the Europeans, some in black frock coat and pot hat—a ridiculous costume for a hot climate—others more sensibly clad in white linen suits and pith helmets. But when we turned to the coloured people who formed the larger proportion of the loiterers, we found ourselves at a loss to say how many different nationalities they represented, and certainly did not know which to pick out as the representatives of the native African.

They were of all colours and all garbs, from the simple costume of rags which distinguishes the Hottentot loafer to the gorgeous silk robes of the Malay priest. It was not till we had been in the colony some time that we were able to distinguish from one another the Kafir and the negro from the west coast and the Hottentot and the Malay.

Having passed our baggage through the custom-house at the entrance to the dock, we took a cab, a regular London hansom with a Malay driver, and drove along a white dusty road to the town, distant a mile from the docks. As is the case on going behind the scenes of a theatre, much of the beauty that had impressed us from the sea disappeared when we came to the town itself. The houses, which had looked spotlessly white and very pretty from the steamer, we found to be little, old-fashioned, square, tumbledown edifices, evidently some of the original Dutch homesteads.

Presently, however, we came to a handsome street of fine stores, and an imposing railroad station, and, rounding the market square, a large rectangular piece of open land in the middle of the town, drove up to the Royal Hotel, where we were received by the proprietor and wife, who were Germans, and made very comfortable. As soon as we had rested, Eva and I sallied forth to view the town.

Our first impression of Cape Town, with its sixty thousand inhabitants, black and white, was that it was composed principally of old-fashioned Dutch houses with individual steps, so that the pedestrian had the choice of either dancing up and down the steps or walking in the middle of the road. We found that although the older houses preponderated, there were several streets of handsome residences. The streets were actually dirtier than those of New York.

The principal business streets run parallel with each other from the sea to the mountain, and are crossed at right angles by narrower streets.

On Adderley Street, which is the Broadway of Cape Town, are the elegant Standard Bank Building, the Commercial Exchange and Reading-room, and, at the further end, the large Dutch Reformed Church, which is the church found in every town in Africa. There are many other imposing buildings, beautifully decorated and built with all the modern improvements architecture can offer. Adjoining Adderley Street is Saint George’s Street, with the towering Saint George’s Cathedral rising at the end of the street; here are to be found the Post-office, club-houses, banks, and the leading newspaper office, the Cape Times. Branching off of these streets, the old-fashioned Dutch mansions of the early settlers may be seen.

They are situated in the midst of beautiful grounds overrun with tropical vines and flowers. Near by are the charming modern English villas and cottages. But the most beautiful and admired suburban houses are to be found at Rondebosch, Wynberg, and Constantia, on the east side of Table Mountain, connected by railway with Cape Town; they lie at an elevation from the town and are delightfully cool during the summer months. A drive through the groves of grand old pine and oak trees, with a glimpse of mountain, precipice and sea, beautiful houses on terraced heights, with vineyards beyond, is a delightful event; these features make it a veritable paradise, not imagined by the English traveller; instead of hot, dry, sandy Africa, we have here majestic scenery, dense forests with a wild beauty of their own, and an atmosphere so clear that every object is distinctly revealed. There is a quaint old castle down by the sea, originally erected by the Dutch, who founded the town about 1650. It is square and podgy, like the pictures we have seen of its founders. The Dutch built many forts along the base of the mountain, possibly to keep off the wild beasts that used to prowl about the back windows of His Excellency, the Governor; these forts lie in ruins.

At the upper end of the town are the Public Gardens, a kind of half park, half Botanical Gardens, and a very pleasant, shady, sleepy, restful place it is, in which to spend an hour on a hot afternoon. There is also a capital museum, full of curiosities, and a handsome public library, containing over forty thousand volumes and all the leading English periodicals of the day.

The House of Parliament is a fine building, and the legislators are Dutch, English, Scotch, Irish, everything but American. The Government house is situated in the midst of beautiful grounds facing the Botanical Gardens, and is a long, low building covering much ground. We attended an afternoon reception there. The guests, after being presented to the Governor and his wife, passed through the rooms into the large, park-like grounds, where some of the musicians of a Highland regiment, dressed in the Scotch dress, were playing on the bagpipes. Some people call it music; it may be music in the Highlands.

A second military band was stationed in another part of the grounds. The gathering was a distinguished one; the ladies displayed great taste in their toilets, making the scene appear quite like an English garden party. But the interest of the traveller is not in the pale-faced colonist, but in the dusky, many-hued, coloured inhabitants.

The Malays, although originally coming from the Malay Peninsula in Asia, are natives of Cape Town and have been there for several generations, being the descendants of the former slaves of the Dutch East India Company and its servants. They seem to have retained all their national characteristics and are as distinct from the Hottentot and the Kafirs as is the white man. They are peculiarly a feature of Cape Town, being seldom met elsewhere in the country, except in small numbers at Port Elizabeth; they have adopted Dutch, the language of the old colonists, as their tongue, are generally strict Mohammedans and sober, clever mechanics. They are as noticeable in the town as on the quay. The picturesque, dusky-coloured Malay woman, with her really beautiful features, her rich-coloured, full skirts hanging straight from the waist, and containing from fifteen to eighteen yards of material, and her bright red, yellow and variegated silk handkerchiefs tied around the head and shoulders, looks like a gorgeous balloon sailing down the street in the wind. The balloon, however, is kept to earth by wooden sandals, held to the foot by a wooden peg between the big and second toes, which make a clattering noise as she walks along the street.

She is generally loaded down with gold and silver ornaments; her whole person is scrupulously neat and clean. The Malay women are the washerwomen and upper servants of the household.

The men dress in blue cloth coat and trousers, coloured vests, a bright-hued handkerchief around the neck, and a huge straw hat. They drive cabs, sell fruit and fish, and are waiters at hotel tables. The opinion they have of themselves is not to be crushed out by anything a colonist may have to say to them, and it is best for the newcomer to let them alone.

Then the Mohammedan grandee is interesting, with his finely chiselled features and tall form robed in a long, coloured, embroidered silk and satin gown of great value, whilst round his head, wound in graceful folds, is a soft white scarf of the finest cambric. The costume of the coolie woman from India, who sells fruit, is a picture; it consists of bright-hued handkerchiefs draped in the shape of a divided skirt on her small figure, a low-necked, sleeveless waist, over which is thrown a velvet low-necked, sleeveless jacket, cut short under the arms, trimmed with golden braid and dangling ornaments. Her small bare ankles are ornamented with solid silver anklets; bangles are on her arms above the elbow; there is a gold ring through the nose, and earrings around the edges of the ears. The rings adorn a dusky face, which has eyes that reflect the warmth of the atmosphere and is crowned by a wealth of jet-black hair, glossy as the raven’s wing. The whole makes a picture for the painter’s brush.

The holy woman who has made a pilgrimage to Mecca is seen with her head and face covered, leaving only the eyes free to gaze upon the things of the world. These odd people, through their contrast to the quiet Dutchman, make the town look as if in holiday attire.

Chapter Seven.

No matter in which direction one goes, the great Table Mountain, at the foot of which Cape Town is built, makes its presence felt. You cannot look along a street without seeing it; it is the first object that meets the gaze on rising and the last impression the drowsy brain relinquishes at night. It is a fine old mountain, rising sheer from the sea in an almost perpendicular wall above the first slope on which the town is built to a height of 3,852 feet. Its summit is cut off perfectly square, thus suggesting its name. It is four miles long and is very often crowned with a huge white cloud that slowly rises like a vapour from the other side, and then gradually settles over the top of the mountain, hanging like a tablecloth on it.

This always brings with it a storm of wind and sand or rain that can be heard shrieking and tearing down the mountain-side, while the town lies in sultry heat and silence. This cloud is almost like a barometer to the residents. When asked if there will be a storm, the questioned one will quietly look at Table Mountain and will tell you the strength of the storm that may be coming by the size of the tablecloth on the mountain.

It rises and falls like a veil of steam. The moon clearly defining the outline of the mountain with its vapour-covered summits on glorious nights with the bluest of skies above, the wind thundering down its sides, screaming and filling the ear with strange sounds, and the sea rolling in and breaking at its base, make a grand scene.

Imagine the tremendous surface this almost vertical mountain-side presents to the ocean, four miles long and three-quarters of a mile high. How the heart of an American manufacturer would sigh if he saw it, to think of such a “stand” being unutilised for advertising purposes!

The mountain is flanked on the north by a peculiarly formed hill, shaped like a crouching lion, the lion’s head, 2,100 feet high, which is nearest the sea, being used for a signal station. On the southwest extremity is the Devil’s Peak, an ugly-looking spiky-topped mountain, with an elevation of 3,300 feet. The sides of the lion’s head and the base of the mountain are covered thickly with the “silver-tree,” only found here and in Natal. The leaves of this tree are three inches long and one inch wide, and are like an exquisite piece of silver-coloured satin, with a white, hairy surface. Only a few short weeks had elapsed since we left the cold, wintry shores of England, and here in December the flowers were growing in abundance around us; for a very small outlay we converted our room into a conservatory.

The number and diversity of the flowers, both wild and cultivated, that thrive in the colony is unlimited, but alas! the perfume is so faint as to be almost imperceptible. We had huge bunches of roses of all shades, vying in beauty with the very finest of their species to be found anywhere, but almost entirely scentless. The plants of South Africa are of great beauty and fill the conservatories of Europe. This southwestern region is the home of the Cape flora. Orchids innumerable abound on the streams of Table Mountain and the Hottentot Holland Mountain, thirty miles inland. Some of the enthusiastic collectors we had met in England would surely have been made happy by the privilege of classifying them. There are said to be 350 species of beautiful heather in this region, at times making the whole mountain-side look like a warm-hued carpet. There are geraniums, asters of all sorts, heliotropes, lobelias, and so many sorts and varieties of lovely twining vines and beautiful ferns that I give up all hope of ever recording one-half of them.

During the winter months of May, June, July, and August rain falls, and from January to April it is very dry. The climate is warm and moist to an almost sub-tropical extent, owing to the currents of the Indian Ocean, so that flowers are to be found the year round. The lovely “Lily of the Nile” is so common as to be designated by the less euphonious name of “Pig Lily.”

During a few days in the month of December the heat was intolerable, but not more so than the summer heat of New York; and it did not last long. It was a dry heat with generally a breeze stirring, and then the nights were cool and lovely beyond description. In the dryness of the climate is to be found the reason of its giving such comfort to the invalid. There is immunity from ague or bronchitis. But the invalid suffering from pulmonary disease must not think that Cape Town is going to cure his tired lungs, but must hasten on up country, where the great physician Nature receives him and restores him healed to his loved ones at home.

There are three climates to choose from in Africa: the coast climate with more or less moisture; a midland climate, cooler and drier; and a mountain climate drier still, with a bracing atmosphere.

The hotel, although as good as any in the colony, would be considered a very ordinary one in America. The smells exhaled on all sides from the blacks who wait on you and from the ditches over which you take your constitutional walk, the sand, filled with fleas that make you occasional visits unless grease and ointment are used freely on the body, these are the chief annoyances offered the health-seeker; but the colonist will tell you they are nothing as an offset to the “great and glorious climate,” and he is right.

Before the end of the first week we came to the conclusion that South Africa was charming. We were hasty in thus concluding, for, in truth, the scenery in and around Cape Town gives the newcomer an impression of the country which subsequent experiences of sandy plains and barren hills fail to justify. We were invited to visit the home of a wine merchant, who owned the most extensive vineyards at Constantia, some distance from town, reached partially by train. From the train you go then by carriage, through delightfully shady roads, to the cool, rambling old house.

In the rear were the vaults, in which were many hogsheads full of wine made from the grapes grown on the place. The grapes of Constantia are said by some enthusiastic visitors to be the finest in the world; they are certainly most luscious, and the wine really delicious. They grow on low bushes about two and a half feet high and are similar to our California grapes, though, if possible, even more palatable.

The manufacture of wine is the principal industry of the suburbs of Cape Town. Pontak and Cape Sherry, the native sweet wines are the favourite beverages and within the reach of the purse of all classes. In the garden was a beautiful flowering vine, and as we stood admiring it Eva spied what appeared to be a lizard on one of the tendrils; it was about two and a half inches in length, with a long, flexible tail and funny little bulging eyes which seemed to act independently of one another, turning in any direction, up, down, in front or behind. As we watched it, it crawled on to a green leaf, and gradually began to assume the same tint as the leaf itself; at last the little creature, from being of a light brown hue, became almost invisible, so thoroughly had it assumed the shade and tone of the surrounding foliage. Suddenly it shot out a long tongue, apparently longer than itself, and “snaked” (the word expresses the action) a fly that had incautiously approached too near. It was our first introduction to the chameleon, and we watched it with wondering interest during the afternoon.

After remaining three weeks in Cape Town, we found that the changes of temperature caused by the south-easters retarded Frank’s recovery, and we hastened our departure for the upland region.

Chapter Eight.

Pearls and diamonds are words that have a charm in themselves. Not only do they represent exceedingly beautiful things, but the words themselves are pretty. The diamond fields of South Africa, the “ninth wonder of the world,” lay within a few days’ journey of us in the interior of the country.

We left the Royal Hotel, with its attentive landlord and lady, one hot morning late in December, and boarded the train that would take us up into the country about three hundred miles, where the coach would receive us and carry us on to Kimberley, the diamond fields. The railroad was well constructed, and passed over mountains with steep grades, through wild scenery, one thousand feet above the level of the sea.

As we neared “Beaufort” the scenery began to change gradually, and before night the view from the car windows presented a scorched desert-like prairie, with not a particle of vegetation except parched little bushes resembling the sage brush of our Western plains.

The horizon was bounded on all sides by ranges of forbidding mountains, which feature is one marked characteristic of African scenery generally, there being no spot, we believe, in the country where mountains are not seen on every side. Our car was provided with a primitive contrivance for sleeping, consisting of a kind of hammock which was stowed away under the seat during the day and at night was adjusted into slots in the wall of the car; drawing the blinds and shading the lamp at the top of the car with its own little curtain, we laid ourselves down to sleep. In the morning the same prospect met our view that we had bidden good-night to the evening before, and the prospect continued the same until we reached Beaufort. About nine o’clock we stopped at a way-station for breakfast; then on again all day we journeyed through the same deserted country, which is called the “Karoo.” Nothing was growing on it but the monotonous bush, and there was not a house in sight; by midday our eyes ached from looking so long at the same objects. We might have been crossing the Great Sahara Desert. At five o’clock in the evening the train, which had kept up one tantalising “dawdle” all day, began to slacken speed and blow the whistle, and we almost hoped that we were about to have an accident or a break-down, or anything, indeed, to break the dismal monotony. But the locomotive only slackened its speed to a crawl and puffed up with great importance to a low shed with the word “Booking Office” painted over the door. We found we had arrived in Beaufort, which proved to be a pretty village with two or three hotels.

From here our heavy baggage was sent on by ox-wagon, as sixty pounds is allowed to each passenger on the coach, all over that amount costing thirty-five cents a pound.

The next morning at five o’clock the coach which was to carry us to the fields drew up to the door of the hotel. It proved to be one of the original coaches which had been used to cross our American Continent, and had been pushed by the iron horse from our Western prairies and imported by the enterprising Cobb and Co, well known both there and in Australia. It was found to be admirably adapted for the rough South African roads.

Eight handsome horses were inspanned, and two Malay drivers, one to handle the long whip, were seated on the box; our luggage was fastened on behind with reins. When the fifteen passengers, including ourselves, were seated, with a wild eldritch shriek from the driver, a yell from his assistant and a crack of his whip, which sounded like a rifle shot, the Kafir boy who held the leaders sprang aside, the eight horses leaped forward into the air, then tore away, plunging to this side and then the other, shaving the corner with the hind wheel which made the crazy old coach lurch like a ship in a gale, and broke into a wild gallop, soon leaving Beaufort West far behind.

For some time after leaving the town our way lay over a long level plain reaching on all sides far into the distance; the curtains were soon lowered to keep us from being stifled by the penetrating, choking, powdery sand.

The horses had started off as if fully determined to make Kimberley before nightfall, but had now settled down into a good swinging trot, jolting us from side to side, one moment banging our heads against the sides of the coach, the next throwing us violently against our neighbours, until attempts to get into a comfortable position were given up as hopeless. The journey up country was a gradual ascent, for the interior of South Africa is a succession of elevated plateaus, rising from the sea in terraces, marked by mountain chains, until the plateaus culminate in the vast plains of the Orange Free State and the Transvaal, which are some 6,000 feet above the sea. In climbing a steep hill the male passengers were often unceremoniously ordered out of the vehicle by the half-caste driver and compelled to walk to the summit.

Our experience of farmhouse meals, which were taken en route, was anything but agreeable, but it taught the lesson never to travel through such a country again, no matter how short the journey, without carrying a hamper, even if it cost a shilling a pound for extra luggage.

At one of these resting-places where we changed horses, we paid one dollar for a cup of coffee and a sour sandwich. At times there was absolutely nothing to eat; then again a palatable dinner would be ready, but on such dirty linen and served with gravy so full of flies that it was impossible to eat it.

None of the other passengers seemed to have learned the lesson of bringing hampers of food with them, although most of them had passed over the same road many times. With all the discomforts of travelling the people of Africa are great travellers, two or three hundred miles by coach or cart being considered no great journey.

Very little life or attempt at cultivation was to be seen on the road Occasionally we came across a herd of cattle grazing, and the sheep seemed to have learned to eat stones, so little of anything else was there for them to feed upon. The open country is universally designated by the Dutch word “Veldt” translatable as “open field,” which it is in the best or the worst sense of the term.

At seven in the evening we arrived at a farmhouse, completely tired out with the continual bumping and jolting we had been subjected to all day, and felt strongly tempted to remain there for the next coach to pass through, but finding we should have to remain a week, preferred to take the jolting to remaining seven long, hot days in that spot. At daybreak next morning the loud banging at the door, and the notes of the driver’s bugle outside, warned us that the coach was ready to start; it seemed that five minutes had not elapsed since we fell asleep, we were so tired.

Climbing sleepily into the coach and yawning in chorus with our fellow-passengers, the driver shouted “right,” the boys let go the heads of the leaders, and off we went to the shrill notes of the driver’s horn in the still, cold, morning air. We slumbered uneasily for an hour after our start, waking up with a painful start as some one’s elbow would insinuate itself into his neighbour’s side, at any extra jolt of the coach. We really did not care if we never reached Kimberley, provided the coach would only stop for two or three hours to let us finish our sleep. The sun came out and warmed up the flies that had left us in the first half hours of our journey. These completed what the jolting had commenced and everybody was soon wide awake. Late in the day we stopped to change horses at a farmhouse, the owner of which was a typical Dutch woman weighing three hundred pounds. She sat in her chair from morning until night, everything she needed being brought to her; her daughter assisted her from her chair to her bed, which was the only exercise she had all day. She was not the sole representative of her kind that we saw in the country.

The second night we were climbing into the upland region, where the nights grew colder, requiring heavy, warm wraps, the stars shone like fiery gems, and threw a white, weird light over the country, in which not a sound could be heard but the rumble of our wheels and the cries of our Jehus. Frank bore the journey as well as any of the rest of us, and her condition of health spoke volumes for the climate.

The third night the coach rumbled quickly over a pine bridge spanning the Orange River, the river being about half a mile wide at this point; when once across we were in Griqua Land West, the land of diamonds!—but still one hundred miles away from Kimberley.

One more day and night on the road through very heavy sand, and we reached the Medder or Mud River, a considerable stream with very deep and precipitous bank’s, down and through which we rumbled with much difficulty, giving the wielder of the “whip” plenty of work to get us over. Toward the afternoon we began to see unmistakable signs of our nearing a large settlement.

We passed some two hundred wagons with their long teams of labouring oxen, while wayside stores became more plentiful and closer together.

At four o’clock we drove up to the Queen’s Hotel, where we alighted, tired and travel-stained, heartily glad to get to the end of our journey.

Chapter Nine.

I can hardly hope to give any idea of our first impression of Kimberley. The town consists entirely of stores and dwelling-houses, covered sometimes with coarse canvas, but more generally with corrugated iron. One cannot help being very much astonished when one considers that every scrap of wood, canvas, and iron has been imported from England or America, and brought six hundred miles in an ox-wagon through a country little removed from a desert.

The “Queen’s Hotel” was the resort of most of the better class of diggers and diamond merchants in the camp. A noisy crowd of fine-looking men usually filled the long, low dining-room at meal-times, a large number bearing the unmistakable stamp of the Jewish race, nearly all of them being representatives of the diamond trade in London and on the Continent. On the evening of our arrival several acquaintances we had made on board the steamer coming out to the Cape called on us, and they seemed like the faces of old friends; through them we were made acquainted with the Kimberleyites.

For the first few days we could do nothing but wonder at the extraordinary energy and resource that men’s brains can display when incited thereto by the hope of wealth. The town is unlike any other place in the world, and looked at first sight as though it had been built in a night, being more like a huge encampment than a town. It is usually spoken of by the residents as “the camp,” and they use the expression of going “up camp” or “down camp” just as we would say “up town” or “down town.” The day after our arrival we paid a visit to the mine, and were rewarded by a sight of the very biggest hole in the world, covering between twenty-five and thirty acres, shaped like a huge bowl, and over four hundred feet deep.

The first diamond in South Africa was found in 1867 by one of the children of a Dutch farmer named Jacobs, who had it in his possession for months, in perfect ignorance of its value, before the accidental calling of a traveller, Mr Van Nierkirk. Mr Van Nierkirk sent it at once to an eminent geologist, Dr Atherstone, of Grahamstown, who discovered the fact that indeed it was a diamond.

Natives and Europeans began to search, and the result was that several other diamonds were very soon found, and the hopes of the Cape Colony, which at that time was in a bankrupt condition, began to revive.

The first diamonds were found in the boulders and under the Vaal River, so that it was not until 1872 that the diggings at Dutoitspar and Kimberley attracted any attention. But they very soon eclipsed the old diggings, and the present town sprang up around the claim. For some time the claims were kept distinct from one another, but as they dug lower and lower, it was found impossible to retain the roads separating the claims, so the whole was thrown into one large mine.

The diamondiferous soil is quarried out below by Kafirs and deposited in great iron buckets which run on standing wire ropes, and are hauled up by steam to the receiving boxes on the brink of the mine. Everywhere is activity and bustle, and a loud hum comes up out of that vast hole from three or four thousand human beings engaged at work below.

The men themselves look like so many flies as they dig away at the blue soil, and the thousands of wire ropes extending from every claim to the depositing boxes round the edge have the appearance of a huge spider’s web, while the buckets perpetually descending empty and ascending full might well represent the giant spiders.

The mine having recently been worked by companies owning large blocks of ground, there could still be traced the individual claims of the original diggers, some carried down to a great depth and others left standing like square turrets with the ground all dug away round them.

The effect is weird in the extreme, and it does not require any very great stretch of fancy to imagine these isolated claims to be the battlemented castles of the gnomes who inhabit the underground regions. As we were gazing down the mine, the whistles from the engine-houses began simultaneously to shriek out the signal that it was time for men to cease working and come up from the mine for dinner.

The buckets ascended for the last time and stood still; the tiny ants at work below threw down their picks and shovels and began to toil up the sides of the hole. Gradually they grew larger and larger till the ants became moles, till the moles looked like rabbits, then larger till the rabbits became boys, and finally emerged full-grown men.

They were principally Kafirs, with very little clothing beyond a cloth round their loins; some sported old red military jackets, and the appearance of their bare black legs beneath was comical in the extreme. Every thirteen or fourteen Kafirs at work in the mine have a white overseer, to prevent as much as possible that wholesale robbery which goes on amongst them.

One would think they would find it rather hard to steal, and still more difficult to conceal a diamond on their naked persons under the eye of the overseer; but, despite all precautions, they do steal a vast number of stones, picking them up and carrying them away in their mouths or between their toes.

The largest diamonds are usually unearthed in the mines before the stuff is washed, and an overseer must keep his eyes well open, for he cannot be sure of the honesty of any one of his “boys.”

Chapter Ten.

Diamonds are mostly found in a hard, bluish-green rock which has to be blasted, the safest time for doing this being the noon or midnight hour. The noise of it sounds like an enemy bombarding the camp. We stood on the edge of the mine and saw a solitary man down below, who looked as big as a rabbit, light a fuse and then run from it for his life, when, with a report like a thousand cannons, the earth rose two hundred feet in the air and then fell to ground again, probably dropping a Koh-i-noor on a neighbouring claim.

There are somewhat poorer and smaller mines at Dutortspan, Bulfontein, and old de Boers, all comprised within a radius of three and a half miles, and the cab-carts plying for hire in the streets have no lack of custom in carrying people from mine to mine.

Most of the property in the mines is now owned by companies, individual claim-holders finding that it paid them better to consolidate than struggle with the immense working expenses of a single claim, surrounded by blocks owned by wealthy companies. When the companies first formed, there was some wild speculation with the stock, and several fortunes were made and lost in a few days by amateur stock speculators. We were invited to inspect the washing-ground of one of the large companies, and very interesting we found it. The blue ground is taken as it comes up from the mine to a plot of ground rented for the purpose, called a depositing floor, and, after being dumped down in heaps, is spread out on the ground in large, coarse lumps, just as it leaves the pick and shovel of the miner. Water is then liberally poured over it and it is left for two or three days to the action of the atmosphere; at the end of that time it loses its rock-like appearance and shows itself to be a conglomerate of pebbles, ironstone, and carbon.

It is then thrown against coarse sieves to separate the larger stones, which are flung aside, and is afterward taken to the washing-machine. This consists of a circular iron tub, rather shallow and some ten or twelve feet in diameter, in which are fixed from the centre six or eight rakes, with long teeth six inches apart, which are kept perpetually revolving by a small steam-engine, or by a whim worked by horses or mules.

Water is kept flowing into the tub through one opening, as the diamondiferous soil is worked in through another. The revolution of the rakes causes a thorough disintegration of the stuff, the lighter portion of which is forced over the upper edge, carried away by the engine, and thrown on the refuse heap. After sixty or eighty loads have been passed through the machine, the rakes are lifted up and the contents of the box carefully taken out. It will be at once understood that only the heaviest portions of the precious soil, and therefore the diamonds, if there are any, have been left in the machine, the lighter parts having been washed over the upper edge of the box.

When taken out, the residue, which consists of nothing but heavy ironstone and carbon in a pure state and crystals of various hues, is carefully sifted through sieves of different degrees of fineness, sometimes placed one under the other in a cradle and thoroughly rocked. Then, when every trace of foreign matter has been carefully removed, a dextrous turn of the hand, as the sieve with its contents is held in a tub of water, brings the diamonds, garnets, and the heavier lumps of ironstone into a little heap in the very centre, so that when the sieve is reversed on the common pine sorting-table they lie together. The white, alum-like appearance of the rough diamond contrasts strongly with the rich-hued garnets, with which the surrounding blackness of carbon and ironstone is studded. It is only by practice that one is enabled to tell at sight what is a diamond; the sieve appeared to be full of them, but we were told they were only crystals, which could easily be detected from diamonds by taking one between the teeth; the diamond resists their action, but the crystal crumbles away. Thousands upon thousands of garnets roost exquisite in colour are found in every sieveful, but they are thrown aside contemptuously, being almost valueless.

We were allowed the fascinating pleasure of sorting over a sieveful of the pebbly-like residuum of the washing-box, and I can give no idea of the feeling of excitement that came over us as we pored over the table, each armed with a triangular piece of zinc for raking over the stones.

We found several diamonds, and felt like breaking the tenth commandment as they were calmly pocketed by the manager of the “floor,” but were each somewhat consoled by the present of a small diamond as a souvenir of the day’s wash-up.

No one would believe from the appearance of a rough diamond, looking like nothing so much as a piece of alum, that it could ever be cut into a beautiful, fiery gem.

Of course the expenses of a company owning a block of claims are enormous, and a large number of stones have to be found before the margin for a dividend arrives. From the opening of the mine in 1871 to the end of 1885 the yield of diamonds amounted to 100,000,000 dollars. The Kimberley mine produces almost twice as much as the three other mines combined. The expense and difficulty of reaching the diamond field in the early days kept away the rowdy element to be found in our Western mines.

Such diggers as have remained on the field since the “early days” seem never to be tired of talking of the life they then led as the happiest they have ever known. Then, each would peg out his claim and go to work therein with pick and shovel, depending scarcely at all upon the uncertain help of the lazy Kafir, but with his own strong arm attacked the hard, pebbly soil in which the diamond was imprisoned, and in a primitive way “washed” the soil for diamonds. They are not to be picked up walking through the streets or over the “floors” where the soil lies becoming pulverised by sun and rain. They hide away and peep out sometimes after several cartloads have been washed through the machine.

The days have gone forever when a lucky blow of the pick, or a fortunate turn of the spade, might result in a prize worth a fortune to the finder. Now there are no poor man’s diggings, and one must possess great wealth before he attempts to seek the diamond in its rocky bed. The time when a poor man could go to the fields and possibly make a fortune in the first week of his stay, has passed away.

The mines are now drifting into the hands of a few large companies, and everybody is looking to the Transvaal, with its budding gold fields, as the scene of the next South African Eldorado.

Chapter Eleven.

So interesting and novel was the life at the fields, that although in many respects our surroundings and mode of living were rough and primitive, there was a charm about it that atoned for most of its shortcomings.

After much difficulty, soon after our arrival we succeeded in finding a small house, which we rented, as being more comfortable and affording greater privacy than a hotel. We fortunately obtained an excellent housekeeper, a worthy Scotchwoman, whose husband was engaged as overseer in the mine for one of the companies.

Our house contained one large room, with four other very tiny ones opening out of it. The kitchen was, after the manner of South Africa, situated away from the house, at one corner of the large plot of ground which surrounded the house.

The roof and walls were, like its neighbours, of corrugated iron, and a spacious verandah encircled it; a high rush fence which inclosed the compound served to keep out intruders and prevent the curious gaze of any inquisitive passer-by.

Here we led a happy life, with Frank improving in health every day of her existence. Our rent was 125 dollars a month. Wood was 75 dollars a wagon-load: it had been known as high as 200 dollars, but coal, having been found in the immediate vicinity, had been brought into the market by some of the more enterprising of the farmers and had taken the place of wood for fuel in the furnaces.

Edibles were reasonable, considering the place, excepting vegetables. On one occasion when we wished to have a particularly tempting, large cauliflower we paid 2 dollars for it. This did not enter into our menu very often of course, for we decided to like other things not so necessarily expensive, until we two (or three) might find a Koh-i-noor.

There were two cafés, one kept by an American and the other by French people, where one could be served, at a reasonable price, with a meal that could vie in variety, delicacy, and culinary perfection with the first-class restaurants in London or New York. After eating one of these meals it was strange to go out into the crowded thoroughfare and hire a cart and drive four or five miles in a country in which one might imagine one’s self in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Surely one could but say that Kimberley is one of the wonders of the world.

The domestic servants are of a different kind to those working in the mine, who are usually raw Kafirs from the interior. The Kafirs generally remain only long enough to save sufficient money to buy a gun or a few head of cattle and return to their kraals. There they trade off their cattle for a wife, and then she does all the work for her husband, whilst he sits down the remainder of his days and tires himself out in watching her do the work, till the soil, and do everything else, telling her the while pretty stories of his adventures, and how he loves her, she thinking it only an honour to work and slave for such a brave boy as hers!

These Kafirs are continually arriving, coming from long distances, walking sometimes as far as 1,500 miles in the interior; but the household servants are different; they are a heterogeneous mixture of Malays from Cape Town and Kafirs and the imported coolies from Natal. It is difficult to say which makes the worst servant; at any rate, we found, no matter from which race we selected our help, it was never safe to leave anything of value, at all portable, within their reach.

Ladies are quite a rarity on the fields, few of the married diggers of merchants caring to subject their wives to the discomforts of the life and the unreliable domestic help. Consequently they remain at home in Europe or in the more civilised towns of the Cape Colony or Natal. The few married ladies resident on the fields are very social, and helped much toward making our stay a pleasant one.

On the evenings when we were “at home,” the capacity of our one reception-room would be tested to its fullest extent. There was always some subject for conversation, some startling event continually occurring to form a theme for discussion.

Now it was the breaking out of the Basuto War, with the report concerning the regiment of mounted irregulars to be raised in the camp for active service; then again a stone of more than usual size and brilliancy had been discovered; or some illicit diamond buyer had been “trapped” by the detectives. This latter topic was always of absorbing interest to the digger or merchant.

It is the illicit diamond buyer, or as they term it, tout court, I.D.B., who has been the sharpest thorn in the digger’s side. He it is who incites the Kafirs who are employed in the mines to steal, and then secretly buys of them the stolen gems. The temptation to become possessed for 400 dollars of a stone clearly worth 4,000 dollars is very great, and occasionally even a detective is found by his associate to be engaged in the illicit trade. It is illegal to own a diamond unless one is a claim-holder or a licensed buyer. If a private individual wishes to purchase a stone or two for himself, he must first obtain a permit from the authorities.

These precautions will be seen to be necessary, because the value of the diamond, its portability, the facility with which it can be concealed, and the uncertainty regarding its existence make it a source of temptation to dishonesty among all classes. It is therefore against the law for any one, even if a licensed buyer, to purchase a diamond from any one not a claim-holder, unless he can produce his permit.

The law has become so stringent and the detective force so active that terror has stricken the hearts of the I.D.B.s, for it is now a matter of fifteen years’ hard labour to be convicted of buying a stolen diamond. Before this stringent law was passed, many went away rich in a few years who could not have possibly made “their pile” in any legitimate business in that length of time. Men who have been suspected for years, but have managed to evade detection, have been pounced upon by detectives at most unexpected moments; but the temptation is so strong that, despite the penalty, the practice still goes on, but to a smaller extent than before.

It was astonishing to find out how often the culprit turned out to be a man in a good and responsible position, and often the very men who were the loudest in the denunciation of the crime were themselves practising it. We were in a café one evening when there was a sudden hush, followed by a startled buzz of conversation, and we heard the name of a well-known man followed by the word “detectives.” A man standing near who was suspected of carrying on the same trade became suddenly pale and bit uneasily on his cigar, and with a careless laugh said, “Serves him right,” in a tone of voice which spoke louder than words, “What a fool not to be more careful!” Before we left the camp that same man was working in convict dress.

Detectives themselves have been tempted to dabble in the trade, and have been trapped, and are now working in convict dress by the side of the men they have helped to hunt down. This fascinating trade of gems offers great temptations to the weak-willed, and it takes a certain amount of bull-dog courage, combined with caution and patience, to continue in this dangerous business.

On mail days great envelopes of diamonds are sent to London. Some of these packages contain flawless diamonds; others smoky diamonds used in machinery for polishing and cutting the stones; others again would contain stones of all colours, sizes, and purity. One day we handled some packages of spotless gems that the broker had been months collecting; they were beautiful indeed. One package, worth many thousands of dollars, contained yellow diamonds, selected stones in size, colour, and purity. Those of yellow tinge are bought and worn by the East Indians.

The pure white stone is of more value than the yellow because not so plentiful. It is a strange fact that these diamond merchants seldom wear diamond jewellery; they prefer rubies or corals to the too common gem, the diamond.

The famous Porter Rhodes diamond was found, it is said, by one of his overseers. A director of one of the companies called one morning and I opened the door to him; he assured himself that no one could overhear us before handing me an envelope within which lay this great, pure white diamond, which only some millionaire with plenty of ready money can afford to be the possessor of. I felt highly complimented when told I was the first lady who had had the diamond in her hand, and there was no need for wonder at his caution, for no one would care to let it be known he had such a prize about him.

It looks like a large lump of alum with a light like white satin through it, and weighs 150 carats.

Mr Rhodes placed it on exhibition later on for the benefit of the hospital, and 5 dollars admission fee was charged to merely have a peep at it. It made some of the old diggers who had been working for years so sick at heart, that they did not feel like work for a week afterward: It is said that when Mr Porter Rhodes had an audience with Her Majesty, the Queen of England, to exhibit the diamond, he had been told that he must not contradict her. But when she remarked she did not think it as large as the Koh-i-noor, he could not endure that, even from a crowned head, and said: “It is larger!” His pride, however, is not to be wondered at, for I believe Mr Porter Rhodes is the only Mr who can boast of owning one of the few big diamonds in the world.

Some enterprising ladies own Scotch carts, which they send to the wash-ups in which their husbands and brothers are interested, and get the small pebbly refuse that has been hastily looked over at the sorting-table. This is brought to the house and sorted over by them more carefully for the tiny diamonds that have been overlooked in the haste of sorting out larger prizes. A few of the ladies dressed themselves on the money they made at this work.

It tires the back and eyes, to be sure, but not any more than other woman’s work.

Chapter Twelve.

The diamond fields of South Africa, though of recent discovery, have eclipsed all others in the world, both in richness and extent. One of the first diamonds found, worth 125,000 dollars, named the “Star of South Africa,” is owned by the Countess of Dudley, its weight being 46.5 carats. The colour of the Kimberley diamonds makes them much more valuable than those of Dutoitspan or Bulfontein. Those found in the latter mines are larger, but yellow or slightly coloured; all the mines seem inexhaustible. The largest diamond ever found in South Africa came from the Dutoitspan mine in 1885 and weighed 404 carats, but was spotted and of a yellowish tinge. Every man interested in these mines expects and hopes daily to “go one better.”

American products are liked, our carriages and heavy wagons wearing better in the hot, dry climate than those of English manufacture. Corn comes from home to these shores in ship-loads, and the American light and strong furniture is liked.

Mark Twain’s and Bret Harte’s writings are universally read, and the South Africans say that all they need to open up the country’s interests is about “twenty-five ship-loads of live Yankees.”

Some of the houses are furnished beautifully with American furniture. One lady’s bedroom I entered had blue silk and lace coverlet and hangings to an elegant black walnut bed, marble-topped dressing bureau, and the remainder of the room furnished in keeping; but there is no satisfaction in furnishing a house richly or dressing elaborately, on account of the great dust storms. They come up suddenly, without the slightest warning, obscuring the light of day. Solid moving columns of red sand, resembling water-spouts, are whirled round and round and blow like a tornado over the town. These sand storms are quite a feature of Kimberley and a very disagreeable one, but they clear the air of any pestilence. The climate, though scorchingly hot during the middle of the day, is otherwise a very pleasant and healthy one.

A low camp fever is prevalent during the summer months, but it comes more from the defective sanitary arrangements than from any fault of the climate. Women and children succumb to this African fever very quickly in the hot summer, when the air quivers with the heat; the only hope of recovery is in being taken away immediately from “the camp” to Bloourfontin, a beautiful town in the Orange Free State, or to breathe the sea air. The nights everywhere in South Africa away from the immediate coast line are invariably cool, no matter how hot it has been during the day, so that one can always obtain a comfortable night’s rest. But that delightful twilight hour, so much enjoyed at home, is not known here, the sinking of the sun being followed immediately by darkness.

A beautiful black Newfoundland dog attached itself to us, and was as faithful a body guard as any human being, for when once outside the door at night, no one dared to come within his reach, and when we went out of an evening he was locked in to guard the house.

One evening on returning home from a social gathering we found the lock had been broken, the act evidently the work of a white man bent on robbery during our absence; but Hector’s growls had frightened him away. We had no fears after that of its being attempted again, but we reckoned without our host. One evening, a week later, we made preparations to go out, but as soon as Hector saw us putting on our wraps, he watched his opportunity and slipped out. No coaxing could bring him back, and so he followed our cart. This time the burglars did not hurry about their work, but made a most leisurely examination and overhauling of our belongings.

We returned to a house which was a scene of the greatest confusion. Every trunk was empty, with its contents piled up on the floor; every pocket in dress and cloak turned inside out, and all jewellery and souvenirs that had not been locked up in the safe, of course, gone. We did not let it frighten us, for, after notifying the police, we shut and barricaded the doors and sat up till dawn; but there is no use denying the fact that if a mouse had made its appearance we should have screamed.

Many balls are held during the cool winter evenings, a few of which we attended; one, conducted under the auspices of the ubiquitous Freemasons, was held in the Iron Theatre building, and a very brilliant affair it was. There were four hundred and fifty invitations, of course many more gentlemen than ladies being present, but it was interesting to see what an elegant company assembled so many hundreds of miles from the nearest point of civilisation. Many of the ladies were attired in London or Parisian imported costumes of satin and lace; some of the wives and daughters of the wealthier residents being literally ablaze with diamonds, the result of their husbands’, or fathers’, own pick and shovel, which they had had cut and set during one of their numerous trips to Europe. It was when returning from this ball at three o’clock in the morning that we first visited the mine by moonlight, and it may be said without hesitation that such another sight cannot be found in any other part of the world.

The moon and stars seem to shine with a brighter light in the magnificently clear atmosphere than they do in our northern hemisphere, and the ghastly shadows cast by the immense perpendicular and horizontal excavations in the mine gave a weird look to a scene the impression of which can never be effaced. The moonlit chasm resembled a vast deserted city that had slowly crumbled into ruins.

Another interesting feature of Kimberley is the arrival of the interior traders’ wagon trains, for every wagon is full of precious and various wealth, the result of a long, risky venture. Not infrequently the costly wares are sold by auction, in the morning market, and the tusks, teeth, skins, horns and feathers are spread out upon the ground as if they were no better than field stuff or garden produce.

It is no uncommon thing to see wagon cargoes worth 50,000 dollars exhibited for sale in this unceremonious way, amidst a crowd of onlookers, some of whom look almost as wild as the animals which produced the barbaric spoils, and as black as coal. Professional hunters also bring the result of their trips, though the labour of getting together the skins and ivory is yearly becoming greater, as the game is driven farther and farther north. No doubt the rapid increase in the value of farm produce will tend to lessen the inducements to hunting. Civilisation and barbarism are such mixed quantities in this land that it seems as if the former will never conquer the latter.

The inhabitants of Kimberley, numbering 20,000 whites, are determined to make a fine city of it. The old one-storey iron and canvas houses were being moved aside for larger and finer dwelling-houses.

Capital was being invested in water-works which would bring the water in pipes from the Vaal River, some seventeen miles away. Government was putting up stone buildings for post-office and telegraph offices. Churches were towering up above the surrounding dwelling-houses and stores. A club-house, the finest in the country, was built at a cost of 90,000 dollars, and they still keep on improving the streets, which extend over twenty miles. There are some very fine jewellery stores and dry goods houses, as attractive as any in American cities of double its population. An air of activity pervades the place. Thirty-two electric Brush lights, of two thousand candle power, light up the city.

Wishing to see how far civilisation had crept into the interior and also to breathe the wonderful air of the Transvaal for a little while, we left our house in charge of our worthy housekeeper and drove away from the coach office early one bright summer’s morning.

Chapter Thirteen.

We were told that the Transvaal Republic was an entirely inland territory; nowhere does it touch the sea, from which its nearest point is quite one hundred miles. It extends from the Vaal River to the Limpopo, and from the same river and the colony of Griqua Land West (the diamond fields) on the west to the Zulu country and Portuguese settlements on the east. It is exceedingly healthy, lying from 6,000 to 7,000 feet above the sea level. Our road for some distance after leaving Kimberley was through thick sand; indeed, Kimberley seems to lie in the centre of a veritable sea of sand, sometimes so loose and deep that to go through it is like wading through deep snow. The coach required constant changing of its six horses at stables en route to make any progress.

On the second day from the Fields we passed through the village of Bloemhof, the first place after leaving Kimberley. It is quite a pretty little spot, the only street being wide and clean, with tolerably well-kept grass-plots on either side of the road. It formed an agreeable contrast to Clerksdorp, a wretched hamlet we reached the following day, where the hotel (save the mark!) boasted one room and parlour, with an individual in charge who was collectively clerk, proprietor, waiter, bartender, and chambermaid.

As we neared Potchefstrom there was an agreeable change in the appearance of the country, the characteristics of the lower veldt, which were alternately a plain and a mountain pass in unvarying succession, giving place to a park-like landscape, forming the most delightful of prospects.

The country was everywhere beautifully fresh and green, the monotony of grassland being varied with clumps of thorn bushes and stunted trees. The variety of thorn is almost endless, from the beautiful, fragrant, flowered “mimosa” to the prickly pear, and the suggestively named “wacht een beetje” or “wait a bit” bramble. Three days’ and three nights’ almost constant travelling brought us to Potchefstrom, and there, a thousand miles from Cape Town, we were obliged to confess that we had reached the prettiest village in the country.

Alighting at the Blue Post Hotel, we were received in a manner which almost made us doubt the existence of such places as we had passed through on our way.

We were shown to a very nice room, and sat down to as good a dinner as the heart of a tired American girl could desire.

The worthy hostess, Mrs Jenkinson, a ruddy-faced, buxom Englishwoman, who seemed to bring with her all the freshness of her native Devonshire, made us most comfortable during our visit; her kindness was appreciated, coming, as it did, after the extortions of the grasping hovel-keepers of the roadside. The town itself is like a large orchard, so abundant are the fruit trees. Every street is a boulevard of orange and peach trees, which here grow side by side. The very hedgerows are figs and quinces, while everywhere may be seen grapevines, lemons, shaddocks, and bananas. Between the sidewalk and the street is a well-kept grass-plot, with a stream of clear water running in the midst of it, a veritable rarity in South Africa. The Mooi (Dutch for “beautiful”) River takes a horseshoe curve round the village, which is built on a slope. The furrows which hold the water are led from the upper to the lower bend, and thus a perpetual stream passes through the town. Eight mills were situated at the entrance of the town, and several more were in course of erection.

We met an American gentleman, Mr C—, who had made a considerable fortune in the Gold Fields, and who was conducting one of the mills; this he had fitted with machinery brought from the—Philadelphia Exhibition. His wife was a pleasant-faced, cheerful little woman, whose history, as it was told us, sounded like a romance. He had first met her at Pilgrim’s Rest Gold Fields, where she had gone from Natal with her two brothers. She, following their example, had pegged out a claim. She had hired natives, had worked at it herself, and had turned out more gold than either of her brothers.

We began to hear the most alarming rumours of the disaffection of the Dutch Boers with the Government. Several prominent farmers had called a large meeting, at which it was unanimously voted to pay no taxes to the hated “Englanders.” Such startling stories began to be circulated about the attitude of the country people that we hastened to gather up our skirts and get on to and out of Pretoria before the threatened rising took place.

At the end of three most enjoyable weeks in Potchefstrom we again took seats in the coach, and after one hundred miles of jolting, bumping, and general discomfort, arrived at Pretoria, then the seat of the English Government, and now the capital of the Republic. On the way we passed the sources of the Limpopo River, and at a place called Wonderfontein were shown a remarkable phenomenon. The water, which runs in a clear, tolerably rapid stream, suddenly disappears into the sand, and appears again a considerable distance further on, as bright and clear as though its progress had never been interrupted. There are also gold diggings on the road; a rush had been made to them some time previous to our arrival, but they had now been nearly abandoned, and a stray prospector or two were the sole remaining signs of the presence of the metal.

Chapter Fourteen.

Pretoria presented quite a lively appearance when we first saw it. The presence of the British military, with their bright uniforms, gave a gay appearance to the town. The playing of the band every evening on the market square was an agreeable event, but one could not help remarking the sullen looks of the few Boers who were loitering about, and the lowering glances they from time to time directed toward the detested “red-coats.” There were many churches and a number of stores. Although the town was not as pretty as Potchefstrom, the surrounding country district was exceedingly rich and fertile.

The northern portions of the districts, being warmer and at a lower elevation than the rest, could produce, besides the various cereals, tobacco, indigo, and the orange tree, the sugarcane, coffee, cotton, and the different kinds of tropical and semi-tropical products.

The people of Pretoria and Potchefstrom, to whom we expressed our admiration of the country, told us we should go to Rustenberg, distant about sixty miles from Pretoria, which place they declared to be a veritable paradise. All the temperate and most of the tropical plants and fruits were to be seen there side by side, the whole country around presenting the appearance of a garden.

The gold fields are situated in and about Leydenberg, a town two hundred and twenty-five miles north-west of Pretoria, where considerable gold had been found, although the gold-bearing tract was declared by prospectors to be “patchy.”

Since the fields had first been discovered various rushes had taken place, resulting, as such rushes do, in various fortunes for the rushers, some coming away on foot, bringing their worldly wealth in their blankets and tin pans, and others bringing theirs in carts, which were loaded with the precious metal.

Our hotel proprietor had been one of the unfortunates. He said the prospects in the gold fields had never been great, and were then daily diminishing. “Gold,” he said, “there is, but not in payable quantities; it is too patchy. One man will wash out ten or fifteen dollars’ worth in a week, while the claims around him will not come near paying expenses. Sometimes a large nugget is found, as, for instance, the one recently exhibited in Durham, weighing 214 ounces. Young men frantically rush to see such a nugget, and immediately imagining the country is covered with gold, are eager to leave a good situation and go to the fields.

“Deceived humanity! Let them be wise men for only five minutes, and ask themselves how much did that nugget cost the finder, and how many didn’t find the nugget at all? I possess a quantity of gold that cost me ninety dollars the ounce, whereas the market value is from fifteen to twenty dollars the ounce. I am neither an Australian nor Californian miner, but, having always been in partnership with the latter, I have had the benefit of their experience, and I claim to be a practical miner. Labour is scarce. Kafirs are paid four dollars a month (they now receive much more) and have the usual diet, mealie meal, which is fifteen dollars a sack and sometimes twenty-five. No,” said he, “prosperity is the exception, and the great cry is. How can I get away from here?”

The attitude of the Boers had become more and more menacing during our short stay in Pretoria, and it seemed prudent to retire whilst we could. So giving up with a sigh all our half-formed resolutions to see the wild country and enjoy the glorious climate where the regaining of health was a certainty, we packed ourselves away in the down coach. The easiest way to ride with comfort in a coach is to imagine one’s self India-rubber. Don’t sit too firmly on the seat, but sway about with the motion of the coach until you can’t imagine yourself India-rubber any more. By the time the body is numb and pretty nearly paralysed, the coach stops, and on trying to descend the limbs refuse to act. But the India-rubber idea has rested the body in some measure. The farms we passed on our way down were deserted, all the occupants having trekked to Potchefstrom to attend a monster meeting fixed for the following week. There had been heavy rains, and we crossed several streams which had changed into rivers since our journey up. One, the Yorksey, which was only just fordable, had been but a stagnant puddle when we passed it before.

Just calling in on our kind hostess, Mrs Jenkinson, in Potchefstrom, and taking a last look at the beautiful orchard-like village, so soon to become a terrible scene of bloodshed and slaughter, we continued on our way without incident other than the usual discomforts attendant on a South African coach ride. At several points in the roads we passed groups of Kafirs going to the diamond fields, and other groups returning from them, and it was amusing to note the prosperous appearance of the latter compared with the half-naked, destitute condition of their brethren going in the opposite direction. Most of them carried huge bundles on their heads, and it was funny to see the strange medley of articles some were carrying home as curiosities. Two of them carried ragged umbrellas, with scarcely a shred of material on their skeleton frames. They seemed to fancy bright tin pails and pannikins; and a new white flannel blanket, with several bright-coloured stripes decorating the ends, was an indispensable article in the kit of every one of them.

We passed through Clerksdorp and Bloemhof, as on our journey up, arriving in Kimberley on the fourth morning, travel-stained and weary, and most heartily sick of Messrs Cobb and Co’s coaches. Apart from the travelling we had enjoyed our trip very much, having seen the most interesting country in South Africa. Although the poor Transvaal seems to be doomed to years of political trouble before it can become truly prosperous, it is undoubtedly, with its undeveloped mineral wealth, its rich soil, the game which abounds there for the hunter, and, above all, with its glorious climate, the country of the future of South Africa. The farmers seem to want rousing; they lack ambition. Large tracts of country, capable of producing almost anything, lie dormant, waiting for employment. The best thing that can happen to the country is the successful opening up of some paying gold fields. This would bring many men of the right sort to the country, men with energy and determination, and above all, some healthy ambition. To the stranger newly arrived in the country the people seem lazy and listless, but after a year’s residence there this same listlessness gradually begins to steal over the newcomer. He then greets the latest comer, who is energetic and indifferent to heat, with the remark: “Wait till you have been out here as long as I, and see how you will like it then.”

Experts believe the mineral wealth of the Transvaal to be enormous. The diversity and variety of the minerals found there is unsurpassed. It has lead, cobalt, silver, plumbago, saltpetre, sulphur, iron, the best coal, and above all, gold! Echoes reach the ear of a story that there are signs on the western coasts, and not far distant, of the mines of Ophir. One also hears of an impregnable country beyond, and of a tribe kindred to the Basutos, ruled by the great chief “Sekukuni.” Everything one hears in Africa that is weird and strange one easily believes.

As a grazing country the Transvaal is by far the best in South Africa. Sheep, cattle and horses thrive there, and certain districts are especially suited to one or another class of live-stock. It is in some parts well wooded, particularly in the north, while its producing capabilities are practically unlimited. When traffic can be easily extended to Delagoa Bay, it is confidently expected great changes will take place.

It remains to be seen whether the Boer, left to himself, is capable of self-government with progress. Will he utilise the advantages of his country, or will he rest from generation to generation in stagnant content, comforting himself with the maxim: “What was good enough for my father is good enough for me.”

Chapter Fifteen.

We found our motherly old housekeeper awaiting our arrival with everything fresh and clean throughout the house, and we were glad once more to be “at home.” The ten months of our life in “the camp” had been full of interest and pleasure, and its sun’s rays had given health to the invalid. But such a desert region of country could have no attraction for any one but the speculator. After a thoroughly good rest we turned our thoughts toward the first stage of our return.

Frank had gained so wonderfully in health that we thought a change to the coast would do no harm. If harm did come, however, we could return, for we were decided to remain in the country until she had regained her health. It seems that human beings belong more to the vegetable than to the animal kingdom. They are like plants that flourish if they are put in the right soil, and grow in the climate best suited to them. The damp, heavy air of London, that necessitated exercise and food, was delightful to Eva and me, whilst Frank pined away under it as if she were breathing a deadly poison.

At the beginning of the new year we prepared to go by coach the usual way to Grahamstown, the principal town in the eastern province of the Cape Colony, and the point of our destination. In a few days our furniture was disposed of, our housekeeper dismissed, and we took our places in the coach to leave, and bade good-by to Kimberley and many kind friends we had made. For seven months it had not rained, but rumours of heavy rains had reached us a few weeks before our departure, and we feared we should find impassable the river we should have to cross on our way to Fauresmith, near which “Jagersfontein” (the new diamond fields) is situated. The roads we found in no better condition than those in the colony, and the coach threw us about and jolted us against one another and the sides in the old familiar way.

On arriving at the bank of the river, we found it was rushing down like a torrent, and almost level with the top of the precipitous banks, some sixty feet high. At another time we should have found the river at the foot of these banks, meandering along in an easily forded stream. The only contrivance for crossing, provided for such an emergency as the rising of the river, was a stout wire rope stretched from bank to bank, upon which was swung a common pine box of fair dimensions, but full of gaping holes, and looking, in itself, by no means capable of sustaining the weight of a healthy body. But it was the only possible mode of transit, so, screwing our courage to the sticking point, we prepared to cross. The box could only accommodate one individual at a time. So Eva stepped in to face the danger of the passage alone. One portmanteau was carried over with each passenger. How the heart beat as the Kafirs on the other side commenced to haul on the pulley lines attached to the frail machine.

We watched Eva with breathless interest as she was slowly pulled along in jerks, now and then coming to a dead standstill and dangling over that swollen stream, whilst the haulers rested before taking a fresh grasp of the lines; pulling a few seconds, then resting a few seconds, leaving the subject to dangle over the torrent with the heart thumping wildly. The rest of us followed in due course. As the opposite bank was reached, and we were lifted on to terra firma, the hand of that black man was clutched with as much fervency as we had ever grasped the hand of our dearest friend.

Having landed, we got into a coach which was waiting, to receive us. By night we reached Koffyfontein, a small village which had sprung up around what was supposed to be another diamond mine. Although a good deal of money had been invested in the neighbourhood, we did not hear of any fortunes having been made. We travelled all the next day, traversing a level plain well covered with grass and swarming with game. We often passed large herds of spring-bok, which started off with their graceful, springing gallop at sight of the coach. When we arrived at Fauresmith late in the afternoon we were tired indeed! The town has become prominent since the diamond mine at Jagersfontein (distant about four miles) has been opened. It is a long, straggling village with an unpronounceable Dutch name. Soon after our arrival the town was visited by a thunderstorm, which broke upon the hills round about us with terrific force, preceded by that deathly stillness and darkness which is so very ominous. Africa can deal out wonderful thunder and lightning. The lightning flashes incessantly, and seems to strike something every time it descends, the air quivers with electricity, and the atmosphere constantly changes from purple to gold. For any one who enjoys seeing a thunderstorm, Africa meets all requirements. The rain fell in torrents, but in an hour passed away, leaving the early evening cool and delightful.

We took a stroll to the banks of the river, which had swollen into a torrent, and was sweeping down over rocks and boulders. A number of Kafirs, who had been working in the town, stood gazing dismally at it, whilst their wives and children looked on from across the stream. Several diggers from Jagersfontein, formerly of Kimberley, were stopping at the wretched hotel we were obliged to stop at. The mine is in a more workable condition than that at Kimberley, but not so large, and with ground not so rich, but the stones found there are said by the miners of Jagersfontein to be whiter and purer than any others. The mine produces about 250,000 dollars worth annually. The diggers complain as bitterly against their foe, the I.D.B., as their Kimberley brothers. The penalty attached to the crime in the Orange Free State, where the mine is situated, is greater than in Kimberley, but the detective system is not as complete. There is less risk of conviction, therefore, but the diggers have formed a detective system amongst themselves, and woe to the man who falls into their clutches! It is estimated that from one-fourth to one-fifth of the diamonds found in the mines never reach their rightful owners.

At dawn of the next day we continued on our journey, passing through the village of Phillopolis, once the principal place of the native tribe of the Griquas. It is a typical Dutch village, ill built, and in every way insignificant and uninviting. Close by the village is a very large Kafir kraal. As we passed it many came out to see the coach go by. A few hours later we crossed one of the bridges which span the Orange River, and were again in the Cape Colony. We passed through Colesberg, a village of considerable size, and the centre of a large sheep and ostrich-farming country. A thriving wool-washing establishment is situated there. Wool is the most important production of the farming industry of Cape Colony, but the best farmers in sheep-raising are not among the native Dutch, but among the English, German, and Scotch emigrants. I never saw Boer women knitting; the Boer women, in fact, seem to have little capacity for the kind of work peculiar to women in other civilised countries. From Colesberg we travelled through an uninviting country, usually a plain, studded, here and there with isolated hills, and having very little timber. We reached Grahamstown in the cool of the evening of the next day, alighting at the Masonic Hotel.

Chapter Sixteen.

On the day following our arrival at Grahamstown the thermometer stood at one hundred and thirty degrees. The air fairly quivered with the intensity of the heat, and although nowhere in South Africa can the song of birds be heard, our ears were tired with the sound of busy insect life. The continuous hum made by the myriads of locusts and other insects in the trees sounded like the buzzing of a saw-mill with twenty or thirty great circular saws in full swing. The climate of Grahamstown is considered almost perfect for the English invalid. Frequent rains in summer make the heat endurable; the winter is drier than at Port Elizabeth.

It is called the “City of Churches,” for many fine churches and a cathedral make the town interesting. The houses are in the midst of beautiful grounds filled with trees of dense foliage and with rare plants. The people are very social, and a fine class of English the descendants of the early settlers are to be met with here. They are very kind, and make the life of the invalid endurable, if not pleasant. To be ill and alone in the midst of unsympathetic neighbours is certainly worse than to linger a hopeless invalid amongst loving friends. The society of Grahamstown tries to welcome the stranger; and male visitors find amusement in hunting in the surrounding district, where game is plentiful. It is a fact that many English youths who have been threatened with hereditary consumption have gone to Grahamstown and made it their home for several years, and then returned to their island home, a wonder to all their friends.

British settlers of 1820 took root in this district around Grahamstown. This settlement is one of the most important events that ever happened in the history of the colony, and is a standing example of the utility of intelligently assisted emigration. The whole country at that time was in great trouble on account of a series of terrible Kafir wars, and, just before the importation of the new blood, the district in and around Grahamstown, which was then a military post, named in honour of its commander, had been swept by a marauding tribe of Griquas.

The town is the seat of an episcopate, and has numerous churches, banks and public buildings. It has also a large military barracks, now no longer occupied. It is a great place for church controversy. The portly figure and priestly countenance of the “Dean of Grahamstown” belongs as much to the history of the place as his own cathedral spire. We were invited after service one Sunday evening to supper at the Deanery, where we met the Dean’s wife, and some pleasant people. The house was a large, one-storey building, comfortably furnished. As we all sat around the well-provided table, chatting merrily, we noticed the Dean did not talk much, but was listening with a very interested countenance. Sitting in his big chair, his feet stretched under the table, and the tips of his fingers in his trousers pockets, he looked with his round face, round features, and rotund figure, and his half-shut but sharp eyes peering out through his gold-rimmed spectacles, a picture of contentment. At last, with a little sniff peculiar to him, he said: “Now let me hear you talk American.” Imagine our astonishment at his request, to which we replied with a merry peal of laughter. Because we were not speaking with a rasping Yankee twang, and “guessing,” and “reckoning,” he began to doubt whether we were Americans. No man could enjoy a joke or anything funny more than the good-natured Dean, but I don’t think he was convinced that we were speaking our native language during our visit to him.

The “twang” of the Yankee girl, though frequently a matter of jest, is, I notice, when connected with the Yankee dollar, very much sought after by many of the world’s so-called great ones, who are very ready to exchange old family plate, ruined castles, and historical deeds of valour, and thus become easily reconciled to the “twang” once so laughed at.

At the hotel we met a gentleman and his wife, whose acquaintance we had made on our arrival in the country. They had recently bought an ostrich farm, some thirty miles from the town, and pressed us warmly to pay them a visit, which invitation we were delighted to accept. They proposed bringing the ox-wagon from the farm to take us out. The wagon arrived, and our friends had prepared it for our use, neglecting nothing to make our ride as easy and comfortable as possible. The coloured boy, with a tremendous crack of the long whip and shouting “T-r-ek,” started the long train of sixteen oxen into a slow walk along, the town road. When we got into the country on the hilly road, where ruts were many, we all got out and walked. Our road lay through a thick, thorny wood, and along by steep, rocky cliffs, upon which we could see and hear hundreds of monkeys leaping from rock to rock, chattering and screaming. They seemed greatly frightened at us, and yet fascinated, for they would run along the face of the cliff ahead of the slowly toiling oxen, keeping up a startled clatter, and peering at us from behind stones or branches of trees. We had started late in the afternoon, and before we reached the farmhouse at which we were to stop for the night the moon had risen, and dense black shadows and silvery streaks of light were thrown ghost-like before our path. After reaching the house we sat up till late, watching the beauty of the moonlit scene.

Chapter Seventeen.

Next morning we resumed our journey, and after five hours’ trek, made most enjoyable by the mode of travelling and the rugged beauty of the scenery, we arrived at “Grasslands,” the home of our friends. The house was of one-storey, well built and roomy, and being on a rise, commanded a fine view of the wild, uninhabited surrounding country. Our host was a handsome, high-spirited Englishman, with a little English child-wife, a dainty little piece of humanity.

As the young wife leaned against the veranda talking to us in her pink calico dress, broad-brimmed straw hat trimmed with a bit of lace, and a spray of jessamine she had pulled from the vine covering the front of the house, she did not look much like one to live where wild monkeys chatter in the trees, and savage beasts come within rifle range of the front door.

Our friend was engaged in ostrich-farming, and many of these queer-looking bipeds, with their long necks and floating feathers, the beauty of which is certainly wasted on their own backs, were wandering around the house. It had been an addition to our stock of information to learn in the Cape Colony that ostrich feathers were as much the product of regulated human labour as wool, mohair, or silk. We had always supposed ostrich feathers to be procured by hunters, and had in mind stories of their tactics in the chase of the fleet-footed bird. We learned that Cape farmers buy and sell ostriches as they do sheep, and fence their flock in, stable them, and grow crops for them. The eggs are not yet considered as belonging to the Cape dairy, and are not sent to market with bread and cheese. They are too precious for consumption, and too valuable even to be left for hatching to the rude methods of nature. The act of laying has not yet been dispensed with, but as soon as the eggs have been laid the nest is discarded, the parents are “locked out,” and the mechanical certainties of the incubator are substituted for parental instinct and affection. We were glad to learn, for the sake of our cherished traditions, that this farming was only of comparatively recent date, a domesticated ostrich being fifteen or twenty years ago unknown. There are now 150,000 of these domesticated birds in the Cape Colony, giving employment to not less than 8,000,000 dollars capital.

Our host informed us that the rearing of ostriches was an extremely difficult operation, as the bird itself, although devouring everything that comes in its way, from a steel fork to a lemon, is very delicate, and liable to injury in all sorts of ways. They are housed at night in circular kraals, surrounded by a low rush fence, the ostrich, despite his fleetness and strength of legs, being unable to mount or jump over any obstacle, and turned out during the day into the veldt in charge of a herd.

An ostrich can give a mighty kick, sufficient to break a man’s leg, but you may easily choke him by throwing your arms around his neck. The bird can then do nothing, for he has no strength in his wings to beat his enemy off, and is only able to use his formidable legs, like a horse, backward. Still, he is an awkward enemy to engage, for it requires some courage to rush up to a bird and embrace him until help arrives, or until you succeed in choking him. Despite the strength of his legs they are easily broken if the bird accidentally strikes them against any obstruction, such as a hanging bramble or a wire fence. He must be carefully watched to prevent such accidents, and it is also necessary to drive him away from any food likely to disagree with him. The feathers are sometimes plucked, and sometimes separated from the body by a sharp curved knife, each feather being taken separately. To do this the fanner drives them into a small inclosure, where there is little room to move about, and insinuates himself in among them, selecting such feathers as have arrived at maturity, and leaving the others to grow. The bird has a fresh crop of feathers every year, and as the prime feathers are very valuable, it may easily be believed that a lucky breeder finds the occupation a very profitable one.

The prettiest sight to see on an ostrich farm is the nursery, where, in a large room, in inclement weather, a score or more of little chicks are attended by a black boy, whom they follow everywhere.

Many farmers are unfortunate and meet with accidents, and thus lose heavily. Sometimes the soil is unfitted to grow the herbage necessary for the ostriches’ food, and there are many accidents they are liable to, such as dangers from prowling jackals or from severe storms. Then there are tigers and vultures to be guarded against. It will thus be seen that the ostrich farmer’s life is not necessarily a happy one. Our stay at Grasslands was made very pleasant by Mr M— and his wife. What with picnics in the wild surrounding country day after day, musical evenings on the moonlit lawn, a week passed away before we knew it.