MARITZBURG, September 1, 1876.
I have had many pleasant cups of tea in my life, indoors and out of
doors, but never a pleasanter cup than the one I had the other day in a
wagon, or, to speak more exactly, by the side of a wagon—a wagon, too,
upon which one looked with the deepest respect, for it had just come
down from a long journey up the country, where it had been trekking
these four months past—trekking night and day right up to the territory
of the Ama-Swazies, through the Thorn country, over hundreds of miles
of these endless billowy hills, rolling in wearying monotony day after
day; but—and this “but” made up for every other shortcoming—amid
hunting-grounds happier than often fall to the lot of even the South
African explorer. And there were the spoils of the little campaign
spread out before us. The first result, however, which struck me was
the splendid health of the travelers. Sunburned indeed they were,
especially the fair young English girl-face which had smiled good-bye
to me from the depths of a sun-bonnet last April. But who would
not risk a few shades of tan to have gone through such a novel and
delightful journey? I never saw two people look so well in all my life
as this adventurous couple, and it was with one voice they declared
they had enjoyed every moment of the time. And what a pleasant time it
must have been, rewarded as they were—and deserved to be—by splendid
sport! On the fore part of the wagon lay a goodly pile of skins and
quantities of magnificent horns, from the ponderous pair on the shaggy
buffalo-skulls down to taper points which might have belonged to a
fairy buck, so slender, so polished, so inexpressibly graceful, were
they. But the trophy of trophies was the skin of a lion, which had
been shot in the earliest morning light some twenty yards from the
hunter’s tent. It was a splendid skin, and the curved claws are to be
made into a necklace and earrings for the sportsman’s wife, who indeed
deserves them for bearing her share of the dangers and discomforts
of the expedition so cheerfully and bravely. It was very difficult
to elicit the least hint of what the discomforts were, or might have
been, until at last my eager questions raked out an admission that a
week of wet weather (the only one, by the way, in all the four months)
was tedious when cooped up under the tilt of the wagon, or that some
of the places up and down which the lumbering, unwieldy conveyance had
crept were fearful to look at and dangerous to travel, necessitating a
lashing together of the wheels by iron chains, as well as the use of
the ordinary heavy brake. Yet there had been no upset, no casualty, no
serious trouble of any sort; and I think what these English travelers
were more impressed with than anything else was the honesty of the
Kafirs. The wagon with its stores of food and wine, of comforts and
conveniences of all sorts, had been left absolutely alone by the side
of a track crossed and recrossed every hour by Kafirs, and twenty
miles short of the place whither the tent had been carried for greater
facilities of getting at the big game. The oxen were twenty miles off
in another direction, under no one’s care in particular; the wagon
stood absolutely alone; and yet when the moment of reassembling came
every bullock was forthcoming, and nothing whatever of any description
was missing from the unguarded wagon. The great attraction to the
Kafirs along the line of travel had been the empty tins of preserved
milk or jam: with tops and bottoms knocked out they made the most
resplendent bangles, and became a violent fashion up among the Thorns.
Nor was that grand lion’s skin the only one. There were quagga skins,
wolf skins, buck skins of half a dozen different species, eland skins,
buffalo skins, lynx and wild-cat skins enough to start a furrier’s
shop, and all in excellent preservation, having been tightly pegged
out and thoroughly dried. The horns—or rather the skulls—were still
a little high, and needed to be heaped well to leeward before we
settled down to tea, camping on kegs and boxes and whatever we could
find. I was made proud and happy by being accommodated with a seat on
the lion skin; and exactly opposite to me, tranquilly grazing on the
young grass, was the identical donkey which had attracted the king of
animals to the spot where his fate awaited him. Although camped in
the very heart of the lion country, the hunter had neither seen nor
heard anything of his big game until this donkey chanced to be added
to the stud, and then the lions came roaring round, half a dozen at a
time. A huge fire had to be kept up night and day, and close to this
the unhappy ass was tethered, for his life would not have been worth
much otherwise; and he seems to have been thoroughly alive to the
perils of his situation. Lions can resist anything except ass-flesh,
it appears; but it is so entirely their favorite delicacy that they
forget their cunning, and become absolutely reckless in pursuit of it.
When at the last extremity of terror, the poor donkey used to lift
up his discordant voice, and so keep the prowling foe at bay for a
while, though it invariably had the double effect of attracting all
the lions within earshot. And so it was that in the early dawn the
hunter, hearing the lion’s growls coming nearer and nearer, and the
poor donkey’s brays more and more frequent, stole out, rifle in hand,
just in time to get a steady shot at the splendid brute only fifteen
yards away, who was hungrily eyeing the miserable ass on the other
side of the blazing fire. In spite of all legends to the contrary, a
lion never attacks a man first, and this lion turned and moved away
directly he saw the sportsman’s leveled rifle. Only one shot was fired,
for the dull thud of the bullet told that it had struck the lion, and
nothing upon earth is so dangerous as a wounded lion. The huge beast
walked slowly away, and when the full daylight had come the sportsman
and a few Kafirs followed up the blood-flecked trail for a quarter of
a mile, or less, to find the lion lying down as if asleep, with his
head resting on his folded fore paw, quite dead. I don’t think I ever
understood the _weight_ of a lion until I was told that it took two
strong Kafirs to lift one of its ponderous fore feet a few inches even
from the ground, and it was almost more than ten men could manage to
drag it along the ground by ropes back to the tent. Twenty men could
scarcely have carried it, the size and weight of the muscle are so
enormous. The Kafirs prize the fat of the lion very highly, and the
headman of the expedition had claimed this as his perquisite, melting
it down into gourds and selling it in infinitesimal portions as an
unguent. I don’t know what the market-price up country was, but whilst
we were laughing and chatting over our tea I saw the crafty Kafir
scooping out the tiniest bits of lion’s fat in return for a shilling.
One of my Kafirs asked leave to go down and buy some. “What for, Jack?”
I asked. “Not for me, ma’—_for my brudder_: make him brave, ma’—able
for plenty fight, ma’.” I am certain, however, that this was a ruse,
and that Jack felt his own need of the courage-giving ointment.
Talking of Jack, reminds me of a visit I had the other day from a
detachment of his friends and relatives. They did not come to see Jack:
they came to see me, and very amusing visitors they were. First of all,
there was a bride, who brought me a young hen as a present. She was
attended by two or three scraggy girls of about fifteen, draped only in
short mantles of coarse cloth. The bride herself was exceedingly smart,
and had one of the prettiest faces imaginable. Her regular features,
oval outline, dazzling teeth and charming expression were not a bit
disfigured by her jet-black skin. Her hair was drawn straight up from
her head like a tiara, stained red and ornamented with a profusion of
bones and skewers, feathers, etc., stuck coquettishly over one ear,
and a band of bead embroidery, studded with brass-headed nails, being
worn like a fillet where the hair grew low on the forehead. She had
a kilt—or series of aprons, rather—of lynx skins, a sort of bodice of
calf skin, and over her shoulders, arranged with ineffable grace, a gay
table-cover. Then there were strings of beads on her pretty, shapely
throat and arms, and a bright scarlet ribbon tied tight round each
ankle. All the rest of the party seemed immensely proud of this young
person, and were very anxious to put her forward in every way. Indeed,
all the others, mostly hard-working, hard-featured matrons, prematurely
aged, took no more active part than the chorus of a Greek play, always
excepting the old induna or headman of the village, who came as escort
and in charge of the whole party. He was a most garrulous and amusing
individual, full of reminiscences and anecdotes of his fighting days.
He was rather more frank than most warriors who
Shoulder their crutch and show how fields are won,
for the usual end of his battle-stories was the naïve confession, “And
then I thought I should be killed, and so I ran away.” He and I used up
a great many interpreters in the course of the visit, for he wearied
every one out, and nothing made him so angry as any attempt to condense
his conversation in translating it to me. But he was great fun—polite,
as became an old soldier, full of compliments and assurances that
“now, the happiest day of his life having come, he desired to live no
longer, but was ready for death.” The visit took place on the shady
side of the verandah, and thither I brought my large musical-box and
set it down on the ground to play. Never was there such a success. In
a moment they were all down on their knees before it, listening with
rapt delight, the old man telling them the music was caused by very
little people inside the box, who were obliged to do exactly as I bade
them. They were all in a perfect ecstasy of delight for ever so long,
retreating rapidly, however, to a distance whenever I wound it up. The
old induna took snuff copiously all the time, and made me affectionate
speeches, which resulted in the gift of an old great-coat, which he
assured me he never should live to wear out, because he was quite in
a hurry to die and go to the white man’s land, now that he had seen
me. We hunted up all manner of queer odds and ends for presents, and
made everybody happy in turn. As a final ceremony, I took them through
the house: tiny as it is, it filled them with amazement and delight.
My long looking-glass was at once a terror and a pleasure to them,
for they rather feared bewitchment; but I held up the baby to see
himself in it, and then they were pacified, saying, “The chieftainess
never would go and bewitch that nice little chieftain.” As usual, the
pictures were what they most thoroughly enjoyed. Landseer’s prints of
wild cattle elicited low cries of recognition and surprise: “Zipi in
korno!” (“Behold the cows!”) My own favorite print of the three little
foxes was much admired, but pronounced to be “lill catties.” The bride
was anxious to know why I kept the beds of the establishment on the
floor and allowed people to walk over them. She did not consider that a
good arrangement evidently; nor could she understand how matting could
be of any use except to sleep on. At last it became time for “scoff,”
and they all retired to partake of that dainty, the old induna having
begged leave to kiss my hands, which he did very gallantly, assuring me
he had never been so happy before in all his life, and that he could
quite believe now what I had told him about the great white queen over
the sea being just as careful for and fond of her black children as of
her white ones. I made a great point of this in my conversations with
him, and showed them all Her Majesty’s picture, to which they cried
“Moochlie!” (“Nice!”), and gave the royal salute. I must say I delight
in these little glimpses of Kafir character; I find in those whom I
come across, like my visitors of last week, so much simple dignity
with shrewd common sense. Their minds, too, seem peculiarly adapted
to receive and profit by anything like culture and civilization, and
there certainly is a better foundation on which to build up both these
things than in any other black race with which I am acquainted.
SEPTEMBER 15.
Such an expedition as we have just made! It reminded me exactly of the
dear old New Zealand days, only that I should have been sure to have
had a better horse to ride in New Zealand than here. I have a very poor
opinion of most of the animals here: anything like a tolerable horse is
rare and expensive, and the ordinary run of steeds is ugly to look at,
ill-groomed and ill-favored, besides not being up to much work. Upon
this occasion I was mounted on a coarsely-put-together chestnut, who
was broken in to carry a lady a few evenings ago whilst I was getting
ready for my ride. However, beyond being a little fidgety and difficult
to mount, owing to lurking distrust of my habit, he has no objection
to carry me. But he is as rough as a cart-horse in his paces, and the
way he stops short in his canter or trot, flinging all his legs about
anywhere, is enough to jolt one’s spine out of the crown of one’s head.
As for his mouth, it might as well be a stone wall, and he requires to
be ridden tightly on the curb to keep him from tripping. When you add
to these peculiarities a tendency to shy at every tuft of grass, and
a habit of hanging the entire weight of his head on your bridle-hand
as soon as he gets the least bit jaded, it must be admitted that it
would be easy to find a pleasanter horse for a long, hurried journey.
Still, on the principle of all’s well that ends well, I ought not to be
so severe on my steed, for the expedition ended well, and was really
rather a severe tax on man and beast. This is the way we came to take
it:
Ever since I arrived, now nearly a year ago, I have been hearing of a
certain “bush” or forest some forty-five or fifty miles away, which is
always named when I break into lamentations over the utter treelessness
of Natal. Latterly, I have had even a stronger craving than usual to
see something more than a small plantation of blue gums, infantine oaks
and baby firs, making a dot here and there amid the eternal undulation
of the low hills around. “Seven-Mile Bush” has daily grown more
attractive to my thoughts, and at last we accepted one of many kind and
hospitable invitations thither, and I induced F—— to promise that he
would forego the dear delight of riding down to his barn-like office
for a couple of days, and come with Mr. C—— and me to the “bush.” This
was a great concession on his part; and I may state here that he never
ceased pining for his papers and his arm-chair from the moment we
started until we came back.
It was necessary to make a very early start indeed, and the stars
were still shining when we set off, though the first sunbeams were
creeping brightly and swiftly over the high eastern hills. It was a
fresh morning, in spite of the occasional puff of dust-laden air, which
seemed to warn us every now and then that there was such a thing as
a hot wind to be considered, and also that there had not been a drop
of rain for these last five months. The whole country seems ground to
powder, and the almost daily hot winds keep this powder incessantly
moving about; so it is not exactly pleasant for traveling. We picked up
our Kafir guide as we rode through the town, and made the best of our
way at once across the flats between this and Edendale, which we left
on our right, climbing slowly and tediously up a high hill above it;
then down again and up again, constantly crossing clear, cold, bright
rivulets—a welcome moment to horse and rider, for already our lips
are feeling swollen and baked; across stony reefs and ridges cropping
out from bare hillsides; past many a snug Kafir kraal clinging like
the beehives of a giant to the side of a steep pitch, with the long
red wagon-track stretching out as though for ever and ever before
us. The sun is hot, very hot, but we have left it behind us in the
valleys below, and we sweep along wherever there is a foothold for the
horses, with a light and pleasant air blowing in our faces. Still, it
is with feelings of profound content that at the end of a twenty-mile
stage we see “Taylor’s,” a roadside shanty, looking like a child’s
toy set down on the vast flat around, but uncommonly comfortable and
snug inside, with mealie-gardens and forage-patches around, and more
accommodation than one would have believed possible beneath its low,
thatched eaves from the first bird’s-eye glance. The horses are made
luxuriously comfortable directly in a roomy, cool shed, and we sit down
to an impromptu breakfast in the cleanest of all inn-parlors. I have
no doubt it would have been a very comprehensive and well-arranged
meal, but the worst of it was it never had a chance of being taken as
a whole. Whatever edible the nice, tidy landlady put down on her snowy
cloth vanished like a conjuring trick before she had time to bring the
proper thing to go with it. We ate our breakfast backward and forward,
and all sorts of ways, beginning with jam, sardines, and mustard,
varied by eggs, and ending with rashers of bacon. As for the tea, we
had drunk up all the milk and eaten the sugar by the time the pot
arrived. The only thing which at all daunted us was some freshly-made
boers’ bread, of the color of a sponge, the consistency of clay and
the weight of pig iron. We were quite respectful to that bread, and
only ventured to break off little crusts here and there and eat it
guardedly, for it was a fearful condiment. Still, we managed to eat an
enormous breakfast in spite of it, and so did the horses; and we all
started in highest condition and spirits a little before two o’clock,
having had more than a couple of hours’ rest. After riding hard for
some time, galloping over every yard of anything approaching to broken
ground, we ventured to begin to question our guide—who kept up with us
in an amazing manner, considering the prominence of his little rough
pony’s ribs—as to the remaining distance between us and “Seven-Mile
Bush.” Imagine our horror when he crooked his hand at right angles to
his wrist, and made slowly and distinctly five separate dips with it,
pointing to the horizon as he did so! Now, the alarming part was, that
there were five distinct and ever-rising ranges of hills before us, the
range which made a hard ridge against the dazzling sky being of a deep
and misty purple, so distant was it. We had been assured at Taylor’s
that only twenty-five miles more lay between us and the “bush,” and
those mountains must be _now_ at least thirty miles off. But the guide
only grins and nods his head, and kicks with his bare heels against his
pony’s pronounced ribs, and we hasten on once more. On our right hand,
but some distance off, rises the dark crest of the Swartzkopf Mountain,
and beneath its shadow, extending over many thousand acres of splendid
pasture-ground, is what is known as the Swartzkopf Location, a vast
tract of country reserved—or rather appropriated—to the use of a large
tribe of Kafirs. They dwell here in peace and plenty, and, until the
other day, in prosperity too. But a couple of years ago lung-sickness
broke out and decimated their herds, reducing the tribe to the very
verge of starvation and misery. However, they battled manfully with the
scourge, but it gave them a distrust of cattle, and they took every
opportunity of exchanging oxen for horses, of which they now own a
great number. What we should have called in New Zealand “mobs” of them
were to be seen peacefully pasturing themselves on the slopes around
us, and in almost every nook and hollow nestled a Kafir kraal. Here
and there were large irregular patches of brown on the fast greening
hillsides, and these straggling patches, rarely if ever fenced, were
the mealie-gardens belonging to the kraals.
By four of the clock we have made such good way that we can afford
immediately after crossing Eland’s River, a beautiful stream, to
“off saddle” and sit down and rest by its cool banks for a quarter
of an hour. Then, tightening up our girths, we push off once more.
It has been up hill the whole way, just excepting the sudden sharp
descent into a deep valley on the farther side of each range; but
the increasing freshness—nay, sharpness—of the air proved to us how
steadily we had been climbing up to a high level ever since we had
passed through Edendale. From this point of the journey the whole
scenic character of the country became widely different from anything
I have hitherto seen in Natal. For the first time I began to understand
what a wealth of beauty lies hidden away among her hills and valleys,
and that the whole country is not made up of undulating downs, fertile
flats and distant purple hills. At the top of the very first ridge
up which we climbed after crossing Eland’s River a perfectly new and
enchanting landscape opened out before us, and it gained in majesty
and beauty with every succeeding mile of our journey. Ah! how can I
make you see it in all its grandeur of form and glory of color? The
ground is broken up abruptly into magnificent masses—cliffs, terraces
and rocky crags. The hills expand into abrupt mountain-ranges, serrated
in bold relief against the loveliest sky blazing with coming sunset
splendors. Every cleft—or _kloof_, as it is called here—is filled
with fragments of the giant forest which until quite lately must have
clothed these rugged mountain-sides. Distant hill-slopes, still bare
with wintry leanness, catch some slanting sun-rays on their scanty
covering of queer, reddish grass, and straightway glow like sheets of
amethyst and topaz, and behind them lie transparent deep-blue shadows
of which no pigment ever spread on mortal palette could give the
exquisite delicacy and depth. Under our horses’ feet the turf might be
off the Sussex downs, so close and firm and delicious is it—the very
thing for sheep, of which we only see a score here and there. “Why
are there not more sheep?” I ask indignantly, with my old squatter
instincts coming back in full force upon me. Mr. C—— translates my
question to the Kafir guide, who grins and kicks his pony’s ribs and
says, “No can keep ship here. Plenty Kafir dog: eat up all ships two,
tree day.” “Yes, that is exactly the reason,” Mr. C—— says, “but I
wanted you to hear it from himself.” And ever after this, I,
remembering the dearness and scarcity of mutton in Maritzburg, and
seeing all this splendid feed growing for nothing, look with an eye
of extreme disfavor and animosity on all the gaunt, lean curs I
see prowling about the kraals. Almost every Kafir we meet has
half a dozen of these poaching-looking brutes at his heels, and
it exasperates me to hear that there _is_ a dog law or ordinance, or
something of that sort, “only it has not come into operation yet.” I
wish it would come into operation to-morrow, and so does every farmer
in the country, I should think. Yes, in spite of this fairest of fair
scenes—and in all my gypsy life I have never seen anything much more
beautiful—I feel quite cross and put out to think of imaginary fat
sheep being harried by these useless, hideous dogs.
But the horses are beginning to go a little wearily, and gladly pause
to wet their muzzles and cool their hoofs in every brook we cross.
I am free to confess that I am getting very tired, for nothing is
so wearying as a sudden, hurried journey like this, and I am also
excessively hungry and thirsty. The sun dips down quite suddenly behind
a splendid confusion of clouds and mountain-tops, lights up the whole
sky for a short while with translucent masses of crimson and amber,
which fade swiftly away into strangest, tenderest tints of primrose and
pale green, and then a flood of clear cold moonlight breaks over all
and bathes everything in a differing but equally beautiful radiance.
Three ridges have now been climbed, and the pertinacious guide only
dips his hand twice more in answer to my peevish questions about the
distance. Nay, he promises in wonderful Dutch and Kafir phraseology to
show me the “baas’s” house (whither we are bound) from the very next
ridge. But what a climb it is! and what a panorama do we look down
upon from the topmost crag before commencing the steep descent, this
time through a bit of dense forest! It is all as distinct as day, and
yet there is that soft, ineffable veil of mystery and silence which
moonlight wraps up everything in. We look over immense tree-tops, over
plains which seem endless beneath the film of evening mist creeping
over them, to where the broad Umkomanzi rushes and roars amid great
boulders and rocks, leaping every here and there over a crag down to
a lower level of its wide and rocky bed. In places the fine river
widens out into a mere, and then it sleeps tranquilly enough in the
moonlight, making great patches of shimmering silver amid the profound
shadows cast by hill and forest. Beyond, again, are mountains, always
mountains, and one more day’s journey like this would take us into
Adam Kop’s Land. As we look at it all now, it does indeed seem “a
sleepy world of dreams;” but in another moment the panorama is shut
out, for we are amid the intense darkness of the forest-path, stepping
carefully down what resembles a stone ladder placed at an angle of 45°.
Of course I am frightened, and of course my fright shows itself in
crossness and in incoherent reproaches. I feel as if I were slipping
down on my horse’s neck; and so I am, I believe. But nobody will “take
me off,” which is what I earnestly entreat. Both my gentlemen retain
unruffled good-humor, and adjure me “not to think about it,” coupled
with assurances of perfect safety. I hear, however, a great deal of
slipping and sliding and rolling of displaced rocks even after these
consoling announcements of safety, and orders are given to each weary
steed to “hold up;” which orders are not at all reassuring. Somebody
told me somewhere—it seems months ago, but it must have been early
in the afternoon—that this particular and dreadful hill was only
three-quarters of a mile from the “baas’s;” so you may imagine my
mingled rage and disappointment at hearing that it was still rather
more than three miles off. And three miles at this stage of the journey
is equal to thirteen at an earlier date. It is wonderful how well the
horses hold out. This last bit of the road is almost flat, winding
round the gentlest undulation possible, and it is as much as I can
do to hold the chestnut, who has caught sight evidently of twinkling
lights there under the lee of that great wooded cliff. No sound can
ever be so delightful to a wearied and belated traveler as the bark
of half a dozen dogs, and no greeting more grateful than their rough
caresses, half menace and half play. But there is a much warmer and
more cordial welcome waiting for us behind the _sako bono_ of the
dogs, and I find myself staggering about as if the water I have been
drinking so freely all day had been something much stronger. On my
feet at last in such a pretty sitting-room! Pictures, books, papers,
all sorts of comforts and conveniences, and, sight of joy! a tea-table
all ready, even to the tea-pot, which had been brought in when the
dogs announced us. If I had even sixpence for every cup of tea I drank
that evening, I should be a rich woman to the end of my days. As for
the milk, deliciously fresh from the cow, it was only to be equaled by
the cream; and you must have lived all these months in Natal before
you can appreciate as we did the butter, which looked and tasted like
butter, instead of the pale, salt, vapid compound, as much lard as
anything else, for which we pay three shillings and sixpence a pound in
Maritzburg, and which has been costing six shillings in Port Elizabeth
all this winter.
It is always a marvel to me, arriving at night at these out-of-the-way
places, which seem the very Ultima Thule of the habitable globe, _how_
the furniture, the glass and china, the pictures and ornaments and
books, get there. How has anybody energy to think of transporting
all these perishable articles over that road? Think of their jolting
in a bullock-wagon down that hill! One fancies if one lived here it
must needs be a Robinson-Crusoe existence; instead of which it is as
comfortable as possible; and if one did not remember the distance and
the road and the country, one might be in England, except for the Kafir
boys, barefooted and white-garmented, something like choristers, who
are gliding about with incessant relays of food for us famished ones.
The sweet little golden-haired children, rosy and fresh as the bough
of apple-blossoms they are playing with, the pretty châtelaine in her
fresh toilette,—all might have been taken up in a beneficent fairy’s
thumb and transported, a moment ago, from the heart of civilization
to this its farthest extremity. As for sleep, you must slumber in
just such a bed if you want to know what a good night’s rest is,
and then wake up as we did, with all memories of the long, wearying
day’s journey clean blotted out of one’s mind, and nothing in it but
eagerness not to lose a moment of the lovely fresh and cool day before
us. Even the sailing clouds are beautiful, and the shadows they cast
over the steep mountains, the broad rivers and the long dark belt of
forest are more beautiful still. Of course, the “bush” is the great
novelty to us who have not seen a tree larger than a dozen years’
growth could make it since we landed; and it is especially beautiful
just now, for although, like all native forests, it is almost entirely
evergreen (there is a more scientific word than that, isn’t there?),
still, there are patches and tufts of fresh green coming out in
delicate spring tints, which show vividly against the sombre mass of
foliage. But oh, I wish they had not such names! Handed down to us
from our Dutch predecessors, they must surely have got changed in some
incomprehensible fashion, for what rhyme or reason, what sense or
satire, is there in such a name as “cannibal stink-wood”?—applied, too,
to a graceful, handsome tree, whose bark gives out an aromatic though
pungent perfume. Is it not a libel? For a tree with a particularly
beautifully-veined wood, of a deep amber color, they could think of
no more poetical or suggestive name than simply “yellow-wood:” a tree
whose wood is of a rich veined brown, which goes, too, beautifully with
the yellow-wood in furniture, is merely called “iron-wood,” because it
chances to be hard; and so forth.
Before going to the “bush,” however, we consider ourselves bound to
go and look at the great saw-mill down by the Umkomanzi, where all
these trees are divided and subdivided, cut into lengths of twenty
feet, sawn into planks, half a dozen at a time, and otherwise changed
from forest kings to plain, humdrum piles and slabs and posts for
bridges, rooftrees, walls, and what not. There is the machinery at
work, with just one ripple, as it were, of the rushing river turned
aside by a little sluice, to drive the great wheel round and set all
the mysterious pistons and levers moving up and down in their calm,
monotonous strength, doing all sorts of miraculous things in the most
methodical, commonplace manner. I was much struck by the physiognomy
of the only two white men employed about this mill. There were some
assistant Kafirs of course, but these two in their widely-different
ways were at once repellent and interesting. One of them was, I think,
the biggest man I ever saw. To say that he looked like a tall tree
himself among his fellows is to give you, after all, the best idea
of his enormous height and powerful build. He moved huge logs about
with scarcely an effort, and it was entirely for his enormous physical
strength that our host kept him in his place. I did not need to be
told he was one of the most persistent and consistent bad characters
imaginable, for a single glance at his evil countenance was enough
to suggest that he could hardly be a very satisfactory member of
society. He had only one eye, and about as hang-dog, sullen, lowering
a countenance as one would see out of the hulks. His “mate” was a
civil, tidy, wizen-looking, elderly man, who might have appeared
almost respectable by the side of the bigger villain if his shaking
hand and bleared, restless eyes had not told _his_ story plainly
enough. Still, if he could only be kept out of temptation the old man
might be trusted; but our host confessed that he did not half like
retaining the services of the other, and yet did not know where to
find any one who would or could do his work so easily and admirably.
It is almost impossible to get any men to come and live up here, so
far away from their fellow-creatures and from everything except their
work; so one has to put up with a thousand drawbacks in the service
one is able to procure. I was glad when we turned our backs upon that
villainous-looking giant and strolled beneath a perfect sun and sky
and balmy air toward the lowest kloof or cleft where the great “bush”
ran down between two steep spurs. The grass of the downs over which
we walked had all the elasticity of tread of turf to our feet, but
they ended abruptly in a sort of terrace, under which ran a noisy,
chattering brooklet in a vast hurry to reach the Umkomanzi over yonder.
It is easy to scramble down among the tangle of ferns and reeds and
across the boulders which this long dry winter has left bare, and so
strike one of the Bushmen’s paths without difficulty, and get into
the heart of the forest before we allow ourselves to sit down and
look around us. How wonderfully poetical and beautiful it all is!—the
tall, stately trees around us, with their smooth magnificent boles
shooting up straight as a willow wand for sixty feet and more before
putting forth their crown of lofty branches, the more diminutive
undergrowth of gracefulest shrubs and plumy tufts of fern and lovely
wild flowers—violets, clematis, wood-anemones and hepaticas—showing
here and there a modest gleam of color. But indeed the very mosses and
lichens at our feet are a week’s study, and so are the details of the
delicate green tracery creeping close to the ground. The trees, the
actual great forest trees, are our delight, however, and we never weary
of calling to each other to “come and look at this one,” extemporizing
measuring-lines from the endless green withies which hang in loops and
festoons from the higher branches. Thirty feet round five feet from the
ground is not an uncommon measurement, and it is half sad, half amusing
to see how in an hour or so we too begin to look upon everything as
timber, to call the most splendid trees “blocks” (the woodman’s word),
and to speculate and give opinions as to the best way of “falling” the
beautiful stems. Up above our heads the foliage seems all interlaced
and woven together by a perfect network of these monkey ropes—a stout
and sturdy species of _liane_, really—such as I have seen swinging
from West India forest trees. Here they are actually used as a sort
of trapeze by the troops of baboons which live in these great woods,
coming down in small armies when the mealies are ripe, and carrying
off literally armsful of cobs. The Kafirs dread the baboons more than
anything else, and there is a regular organized system of warfare
between them, in which the baboons by no means get the worst. I heard
a sickening story of how only last season the Kafirs of a kraal close
by, infuriated by their losses, managed to catch an old baboon, leader
of his troop, and skinned him and let him go again into the woods. It
is too horrible to think of such cruelty, and it seemed a blot upon
the lovely idyllic scene around us. All the wild animals with which
the bush was teeming until a very few years ago are gradually being
driven farther and farther back into the highest part, which has not
yet been touched by axe or hatchet. There are still many kinds of buck,
however—we saw three splendid specimens grazing just outside—besides
other game. It must—not so long ago, either—have been the quiet forest
home of many a wild creature, for there are pits now to be seen, one
of which we came across with sharp stakes at the bottom, dug to trap
elephants, whose bones lie there to this day. Tigers also have been
seen, and panthers and leopards, but they grow scarcer every year.
The aboriginal inhabitants of the border country beyond, the little
Bushmen—the lowest type of human creatures—used to come down and hunt
in great numbers here in this very spot where we are sitting, and
traces of their ingenious methods of snaring their prey are to be seen
in many places.
As I sat there, with the tinkle of the water in my ears, sole break in
the “charmèd silence” around, I could not make up my mind which was the
most enchanting, to look up or down—up to where the tenderest tint of
cobalt blue showed through the flicker of green leaves nearly a hundred
feet above us, and where a sudden terror among the birds drove them in
bright-plumaged flight from bough to bough; or down on the ground among
the delicious brown leaves and wonderful minutiæ of diminutive tendril
and flower. Here and there were fallen crimson and yellow leaves,
riveting the eye for a moment by their vivid glow, or the young fronds
of a rare fern over yonder are pushing up their curled horns of pale
green. A month hence it will be all carpeted with wild flowers, and the
heaths will be spires of tiny bells. There is also a coarse but sweet
grass, growing luxuriantly, on which the cattle love to feed when all
the herbage outside is parched and burned to the very root.
As I read over what I have written, I am filled with a deep disgust to
perceive how impossible it has been for me to catch even the faintest
reflection of the charm of that forest-glade—how its subtle beauty is
not, by any poor words of mine, to be transferred to paper—how its
stillness and its life, its grandeur and its delicate prettinesses, the
aroma of the freshly-cut logs, the chirrup of the cicalas, the twitter
of the birds, all, all escape me. Yet I shall have failed indeed if
I have not been able to convey to you that it was a delicious hour,
and that I enjoyed every moment of it. I am only a woman, so I was
content to sit there plaiting a crown of ferns, and thinking how I
should tell you all about it some day, perhaps. My companions conversed
together, and their talk was entirely about killing something—“sport”
they called it—how best they could get a shot at those graceful bucks
over yonder; what a pity the close season had begun; what partridges
there were; when the wild-ducks would come down to that large mere
shining in the distance; whether there were any wild-pigeons; how far
into the unexplored bush one must penetrate to get a shot at a panther;
and so forth. It seemed a desecration to talk of taking life on such a
heavenly morning, and I was glad when it all ended in a project of a
fishing-excursion after a late luncheon.
As we found we should be obliged to start early to-morrow morning, I
decided to stay at home and rest this afternoon; and I did not regret
my resolution, for it was very pleasant by the fire, and our beautiful
morning turned into a raw, cold drizzle. But, as the people about
here say, it has really forgotten how to rain, and it is more like a
Scotch mist than anything else. Whatever it may be called, it blots
out mountain and forest and river, and causes the fishing-excursion
to turn into the dismalest failure. Next morning, too, when we start
after breakfast, we are all glad of our waterproofs (what _should_ I
do without my ulster?), and the ground is as slippery as though it
had been soaped. Our farewells are made, and we declare that we have
no need of our Kafir guide again, though I confess to misgivings as
to how we are to find our road through so thick a mist. It has also
been decided, for the sake of the horses, to take them only as far as
Taylor’s to-night, and so break the journey. But the question is, Shall
we ever find Taylor’s? for it is a little off the track, and we cannot
see five yards to our right hand or our left. We are obliged to go very
slowly, and there are places, steep up and down hill, where in spite
of precaution and picking out grass or stones to go over, our horses’
feet fly from under them, and we each in our turn come down on the damp
red clay in an awkward sprawl. However, we do not disgrace ourselves
by tumbling off, and my poor habit fares the worst, for the chestnut
always seems to pick himself up, in some odd way, by its help; and the
process is not beneficial to it. Eland’s River is crossed early in
the afternoon, and then, slippery or not, we are forced to push on,
for it seems as though it intended to be pitchy dark by four o’clock,
and the mist turns into a thick, fine rain. At last, about half-past
four, we hear on our left the joyful sound of barking dogs and crowing
cocks, and the horses of their own accord show a simultaneous desire to
turn off the track, to which, with its guiding wagon-wheels, we have
so persistently clung. If it be _not_ Taylor’s—if it turns out that
these sounds come only from a Kafir kraal—then indeed I don’t know what
we shall do, for we can never find the track again. It is an anxious
moment, and Taylor’s is so small and so low that we are as likely as
not to ride right over it; but no, there is a wagon, and behind the
wagon, and not much higher, is a thatched roof, and under that thatched
roof are warmth and food and shelter and a warm, cordial welcome; all
of which good things we are enjoying in five minutes’ time. As for the
horses, they are rubbed down and put to stand in a warm shed, with
bedding up to their knees and a perfect orgie of mealies and green
forage before them in boxes. Let us hope they enjoyed the contrast
between indoors and out of doors as much as we did. At all events, they
were freshness itself next morning, when we made another start—not
quite so early, for only the lesser half of our long journey lay before
us, and the flood of sunshine made it worth while to wait a little and
let the soapy clay tracks have a chance to get dry.
It was exquisitely fresh and balmy about nine o’clock, when, after a
capital breakfast, we did start at last, and the well-washed hills
had actually put on quite a spring-green tint since we passed them a
couple of days ago from yesterday’s long looked-for, much-wanted rain.
I went through many anxieties, however, on that return journey, because
my two companions, who were in the most tearing, school-boy spirits,
insisted on leaving the road with its guiding marks of wagon-wheels, as
well as every landmark to which I fondly clung, and taking me across
country, over hill and dale, through swampy hollows and over rocky
goat-paths, until I was quite bewildered and thoroughly incredulous as
to where we should emerge. It is true that the dark crest of Swartzkopf
lay steadily to our left, just where it should be, but I invariably
protested we were all wrong when I had any leisure or breath to do
anything but “hold on with my eyelids” up and down hill. At last we
climbed up our last hill-face, and there, below us, literally smiling
in the sunshine, lay the pretty little mission settlement of Edendale.
We were exactly where we wanted, topographically speaking, to be, but
between us and Edendale the mountain dropped sheer down, as it seemed
to me, and naught but a goat-path was there. “Of course we are going
to get off and lead our horses down,” I fondly hope. No such thing!
I can’t very well get off by myself, for the precipice is so sheer
that I should certainly drop down a hundred feet or so. F—— steadily
declines to “take me off,” and begins to slip and slither down the
track on horseback. I feel my saddle getting into all sorts of odd
positions, and I believe I am seated on my horse’s ears, although I
lean back until I can nearly touch his tail. It is really horrible. I
get more and more cross every moment, and scold F—— and reproach Mr.
C—— furiously all the way down, without eliciting the smallest sign
of remorse from either. But it is very difficult to remain cross when
once we have reached the foot of that cruel descent, for it is all
inexpressibly lovely and calm and prosperous that beautiful spring
morning. Everybody seems busy, and yet good-humored. The little black
children grinned and saluted on their way to school; the elders cried
“Sako bono, inkosa!” as they looked up from their basket-plaiting or
their wagon-making; the mill-wheel turned merrily with a busy clatter
inexpressibly cool and charming; the numerous fowls and ducks cackled
and quacked as they scuttled from under our horses’ feet. We rode down
the main street, with its neat row of unburnt brick houses on either
hand, across a little river, and so, under avenues of syringas whose
heavy perfume filled the delicious air, out into the open country once
more. It is nearly a dead level between this and Maritzburg, and the
road is in good order after the long winter drought; so we make the
best of our way, and hardly draw rein until we are under the lee of the
hill on which Fort Napier stands. Here is a villainous bit of road,
a perfect study of ingenuity as to cross-drains, holes and pitfalls
generally; so the horses take breath once more for an easy canter down
the quiet straight streets of the sleepy little Dutch town. Our cottage
lies beyond it and across the river, but it is still early, hardly noon
in fact, when we pull up at our own stable-door, and the horses seem
every whit as fresh and in as good condition as when we started, yet
they have gone close upon one hundred miles from first to last,
Over hill, over dale,
Through brush, through brier.
SEPTEMBER 25.
I declare I have not said anything about the weather for a long
time. I cannot finish more appropriately than by one of my little
meteorological reports. The skies are trying to remember how to
rain; we have every now and then a cold, gray day—a day which is my
particular delight, it is so like an English one; then rain more or
less heavy, and an attempt at a thunderstorm. The intervening days
are brightly glaring and exceedingly hot. Everything is bursting
hurriedly and luxuriantly into bloom; my scraggy rose-bushes are
thickly covered with buds, which blow into splendid roses after every
shower; the young oaks are a mass of tender, luxuriant green, and even
the unpoetical blue gums try hard to assume a fresh spring tint; the
fruit trees look like large bouquets of pink blossom, and the laquot
trees afford good sport for G—— in climbing and stone-throwing. On
the veldt the lilies are pushing up their green sheaths and brilliant
cups through the still hard ground, the black hill-slopes are turning
a vivid green, and the weeds are springing up in millions all over my
field-like flower-beds. Spring is always lovely everywhere, but nowhere
lovelier than in “fair Natal.”
[Illustration: Decoration]
POPULAR NOVELS
PUBLISHED BY
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., PHILADELPHIA.
DOROTHY FOX.
By LOUISA PARR, author of “Hero Carthew,” etc. With numerous
Illustrations. 8vo. Paper cover, 75 cents. Extra cloth, $1.25.
“Such an artist is the author of ‘Dorothy Fox,’ and we must thank her
for a charming novel. The story is dramatically interesting, and the
characters are drawn with a firm and graceful hand. The style is fresh
and natural, vigorous without vulgarity, simple without mawkishness.
Dorothy herself is represented as charming all hearts, and she will
charm all readers.... We wish ‘Dorothy Fox’ many editions.”—_London
Times._
“One of the best novels of the season.”—_Philadelphia Press._
“It is admirably told, and will establish the reputation of the author
among novelists.”—_Albany Argus._
JOHN THOMPSON, BLOCKHEAD,
And Companion Portraits. By LOUISA PARR, author of “Dorothy Fox.”
12mo. With Frontispiece. Extra cloth. $1.75.
“Extremely well-told stories, interesting in characters and incidents,
and pure and wholesome in sentiment.”—_Boston Watchman and Reflector._
“They are quite brilliant narrative sketches, worthy of the reputation
established by the writer.”—_Philadelphia Inquirer._
WHY DID HE NOT DIE?
Or, The Child from the Ebräergang. From the German of AD. VON
VOLCKHAUSEN. By Mrs. A. L. WISTER, translator of “Old Mam’selle’s
Secret,” “Gold Elsie,” etc. 12mo. Fine cloth. $1.75.
“Few recently published novels have received more general perusal
and approval than ‘Only a Girl;’ and ‘Why Did He Not Die?’ possesses
in at least an equal degree all the elements of popularity. From the
beginning to the end the interest never flags, and the characters and
scenes are drawn with great warmth and power.”—_New York Herald._
THE DAUGHTER OF AN EGYPTIAN KING. An Historical Romance.
Translated from the German of GEORGE EBERS by HENRY REED. 12mo. Extra
cloth. $1.75.
“It is a wonderful production. There have been ancient novels
before now, but none, according to our recollections, so antique as
this.”—_New York World._
“The plot is a most interesting one, and in its development we are
given an accurate insight into the social and political life of the
Egyptians of that time.”—_Boston Evening Traveller._
AT THE ALTAR.
A Romance. From the German of E. WERNER, author of “Hermann,” “The
Hero of the Pen,” etc. By J. S. L. 12mo. Fine
cloth, ornamented. $1.50.
“A vigorous, graphic picture of German life.”—_Home Journal._
“A striking story, well conceived, powerfully written, and finely
translated.”—_Trade Circular._
THROWN TOGETHER.
A Story. By FLORENCE MONTGOMERY, author of “Misunderstood,” “A Very
Simple Story,” etc. 12mo. Fine cloth. $1.50.
“The author of ‘Misunderstood’ has given us another charming story
of child-life. This, however, is not a book for children.”—_London
Athenæum._
“A delightful story, founded upon the lives of children. There is a
thread of gold in it upon which are strung many lovely sentiments....
One cannot read this book without being better for it, or without a
more tender charity being stirred up in his heart.”—_Washington Daily
Chronicle._
PEMBERTON;
Or, One Hundred Years Ago. By HENRY PETERSON. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.75.
“One of the most attractive works of fiction issued this
season.”—_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin._
EXPIATION.
By Mrs. J. C. R. DORR, author of “Sybil Huntington,” etc. 12mo. Cloth.
$1.50.
“A work of absorbing interest.”—_Boston Gazette._
“A story of mystery, and almost tragedy, intensely
portrayed.”—_Washington Chronicle._
ERMA’S ENGAGEMENT.
By the author of “Blanche Seymour.” 8vo. Paper, 75 cents. Cloth, $1.25.
“Is a thoroughly readable book.”—_Appletons’ Journal._
“The style is fresh and entertaining, and the various characters are
sketched with great animation.”—_Boston Gazette._
“NOT PRETTY, BUT PRECIOUS,”
And other Short Stories. By Popular Writers. Illustrated. 8vo. Paper
cover. 50 cents.
“Deserving of wide-spread and lasting popularity.”—_Cincinnati
Chronicle._
MUST IT BE?
A Romance. From the German of CARL DETLEF. By MS., translator of “By
His Own Might” and “A Twofold Life.” Illustrated. 8vo. Paper cover, 75
cents. Fine cloth, $1.25.
“The scene is laid in Russia, and the story is told with great vigor
and picturesqueness of style. It has some charming domestic scenes,
in addition to a number of intensely dramatic situations. The plot is
exceedingly well managed, and the descriptions of Russian character,
manners, and scenery are particularly happy. Its striking independence
of treatment and its utter freedom from conventionality will prove not
the least of its recommendations.”—_Boston Globe._
ARTICLE 47.
A Romance. From the French of ADOLPHE BELOT. By JAMES FURBISH. 8vo.
Cloth, $1.25. Paper, 75 cents.
This highly interesting novel, on which the play of the same name is
based, is a powerful story of French life, with a plot which absorbs
the attention of the reader throughout.
SERGEANT ATKINS.
A Tale of Adventure. Founded on Fact. By an Officer of the United
States Army. With Illustrations. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.75.
“It is the best Indian story, because the truest to life, that we have
lately seen.”—_Boston Post._
“Apart from its mere literary merits as a graphic, well-told, and
spirited narrative of border experience and Indian warfare, ‘Sergeant
Atkins’ really gives us all the facts of the Florida war which are
necessary to a clear understanding of its origin, progress, and
character.”—_Army and Navy Journal._
BEECHWOOD.
By Mrs. R. R. SPRINGER. 12mo. Fine cloth. $1.50.
“A book so thoroughly genuine in its utterance of feeling,
so good in design and pure in style, is altogether above the
average.”—_Philadelphia Age._
WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT IT?
A Novel. 12mo. Fine cloth. $1.75.
A bright and attractive romance, with an interesting plot, well
sustained throughout.
MARIE DERVILLE.
A Story of a French Boarding-School. From the French of Madame GUIZOT
DE WITT, author of “Motherless,” etc. By MARY G. WELLS. 12mo. Extra
cloth. $1.50.
“It is gracefully written, the moral is unexceptionably pure, the plot
is very prettily evolved, and the characters are drawn with delightful
naturalness.”—_Philadelphia Evening Bulletin._
UNDER LOCK AND KEY.
A Story. By T. W. SPEIGHT, author of “Brought to Light,” “Foolish
Margaret,” etc. 12mo. Fine cloth. $1.75.
“To all who are fond of exciting situations, mystery, and ingeniously
constructed plots, we unhesitatingly recommend this work.”—_Boston
Globe._
THE TRUE HISTORY OF JOSHUA
DAVIDSON, COMMUNIST. By the author of “A Girl of the Period.” 12mo.
Extra cloth. $1.50.
“The book is a work of remarkable ability, and has made its mark in
England, as it will, doubtless, do in this country.”—_Boston Eve.
Traveller._
MAN IS LOVE.
An American Story. By ONE WHO KNOWS. 12mo. Fine cloth. $1.75.
“American home-life is faithfully depicted.”—_Philadelphia Press._
VICTOR NORMAN, RECTOR;
Or, Bessy’s Husband. A Romance. By Mrs. MARY A. DENISON, author of
“What Not?” “Among the Squirrels,” “The Lovers’ Trials,” etc.
12mo. Fine cloth. $1.50.
“A charming story, by a writer who passes from pathos to humor with
infinite ease and naturalness.”—_Peterson’s Magazine._
THE SCAPEGOAT.
A Novel. By LEO. 12mo. Paper cover, $1.00. Cloth, $1.50.
“The book has a good deal of life and spirit in it.”—_Philadelphia Age._
“It is bold and vigorous in delineation, and equally pronounced and
effective in its moral.”—_St. Louis Times._
⁂ For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon
receipt of the price by the Publishers.
POPULAR WORKS OF FICTION
_Published by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., Philadelphia._
The following Novels are among the most popular works of fiction
published, all having passed through a number of editions.
At Odds. By Baroness Tautphœus, author of “The Initials,” etc. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.75.
Beatrice Boville, and other Stories. By “OUIDA,” author of “Puck,”
etc. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Bébée. A Story. By “OUIDA,” author of “Strathmore,” etc. 12mo. Cloth.
$1.50.
Beyond the Breakers. By Hon. R. D. OWEN. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth.
$1.50. Paper. $1.00.
Breaking a Butterfly. By the author of “Guy Livingstone.” Illustrated.
12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
By His Own Might. By the author of “Only a Girl.” 12mo. Cloth. $1.75.
Cecil Castlemaine’s Gage, and other Stories. By “OUIDA.” 12mo. Cloth.
$1.50.
Chandos. A Novel. By “OUIDA,” author of “Idalia,” etc. 12mo. Cloth.
$1.50.
Children of the Abbey. By REGINA MARIA ROCHE. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00.
Countess Gisela. After the German of E. Marlitt, by Mrs. A. L. WISTER.
12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Daisy. By the author of “The Wide, Wide World.” 12mo. Cloth. $2.00.
Dallas Galbraith. A Novel. By Mrs. R. H. DAVIS. 8vo. Cloth. $1.50.
Paper. $1.00.
Dollars and Cents. By the author of “Queechy,” etc. 12mo. Cloth. $1.75.
Dolores. A Novel. By Mrs. FORRESTER, author of “Diana Carew.” 12mo
Cloth. $1.75.
Dorothy Fox. By LOUISA PARR. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth. $1.25. Paper. 75
cents.
Folle-Farine. A Novel. By “OUIDA,” author of “Strathmore,” etc. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.50.
Gil Blas of Santillane. From the French of LE SAGE. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00.
Gold Elsie. From the German of E. Marlitt, by Mrs. A. L. WISTER. 16mo.
Fine cloth. $1.50.
Granville de Vigne. By “OUIDA,” author of “Idalia,” “Puck,” etc.
12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Green Gate (The). After the German of Wichert, by Mrs. WISTER. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.75.
Hulda. A Romance. From the German. By Mrs. WISTER. 12mo. Cloth. $1.75.
Idalia. A Novel. By “OUIDA,” author of “Under Two Flags,” etc. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.50.
Leaf in the Storm (A), and other Stories. By “OUIDA.” Illustrated.
8vo. Paper. 50 cents.
Life and Adventures of a Country Merchant. By J. B. JONES.
Illustrated. Cloth. $1.25.
Little Moorland Princess (The). After the German of E. Marlitt, by
Mrs. A. L. WISTER. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Magdalena. From the German of E. Marlitt. Illustrated. 8vo. Paper. 35
cents.
Malcolm. By GEORGE MACDONALD. 8vo. Cloth. $1.50. Paper. $1.00.
Old Mam’selle’s Secret (The). After the German. By Mrs. A. L. WISTER.
12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Only a Girl. A Romance. After the German. By Mrs. A. L. WISTER. 12mo.
Cloth. $2.00.
Over Yonder. From the German of E. Marlitt. Illustrated. 8vo. Paper.
30 cents.
Pascarel. A Romance. By “OUIDA,” author of “Idalia,” etc. 12mo. Cloth.
$1.50.
Puck. A Novel. By “OUIDA,” author of “Idalia,” “Strathmore,” etc.
12mo. Cloth. $2.00.
Queechy. By the author of “The Wide, Wide World.” 12mo. Cloth. $1.75.
Quits. A Novel. By BARONESS TAUTPHŒUS, author of “The Initials.” 12mo.
Cloth. $1.75.
Randolph Gordon, and other Stories. By “OUIDA,” author of “Chandos,”
etc. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Strathmore; or, Wrought by his Own Hand. By “OUIDA” 12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Say and Seal. A Novel. By the author of “The Wide, Wide World,” etc.
12mo. Cloth. $2.00.
Scottish Chiefs. An Historical Romance. By JANE PORTER. 12mo. Cloth.
$1.00.
Second Wife (The). From the German of E. Marlitt, by Mrs. WISTER.
12mo. Cloth. $1.75.
Signa. A Romance. By “OUIDA,” author of “Under Two Flags,” etc. 12mo.
Cloth. $2.00.
Thaddeus of Warsaw. An Historical Romance. By JANE PORTER. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.00.
Thrown Together. By FLORENCE MONTGOMERY. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Tricotrin. A Novel. By “OUIDA,” author of “Puck,” etc. With Portrait.
12mo. Cloth. $1.50.
Tristram Shandy. By LAURENCE STERNE. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00.
Twofold Life (A). A Romance. By the author of “Only a Girl.” 12mo.
Cloth. $1.75.
Under Two Flags. A Novel. By “OUIDA,” author of “Puck,” etc. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.50.
War Path (The). By J. B. JONES. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Why did He not Die? After the German. By Mrs. A. L. WISTER. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.75.
Wide, Wide World (The). A Tale. By the author of “Queechy,” etc. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.75.
Wild Western Scenes. By J. B. JONES. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
POPULAR JUVENILE BOOKS.
Cast Up by the Sea. By Sir SAMUEL W. BAKER. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.
$1.25.
Deep Down. A Tale of the Mines. By R. M. BALLANTYNE. Illustrated.
12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Dick Rodney; or, Adventures of an Eton Boy. By JAMES GRANT.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Eastern Fairy Legends. Collected by M. FRERE. Illustrated. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.25.
Enchanting and Enchanted. Fairy Tales from the German. By Mrs. A. L.
WISTER. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Erling the Bold. By R. M. BALLANTYNE. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Eva’s Adventures in Shadowland, and the Merman. Illustrated. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.25.
Fire Brigade (The). A Tale of London. By R. M. BALLANTYNE.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Frank Wildman’s Adventures on Land and Water. By GERSTAECKER. Illus.
12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Heroic Life; or, Pictures of Heroes. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Mark Seaworth. A Tale of the Indian Ocean, By W. H. G. KINGSTON.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Midshipman (The), Marmaduke Merry. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. Illustrated.
12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Peter the Whaler. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.
$1.25.
Princess (The) and the Goblin. By GEORGE MACDONALD. Illustrated. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.25.
Privateersman (The), and his Adventures. By CAPTAIN MARRYAT, R. N.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Ranald Bannerman’s Boyhood. By GEORGE MACDONALD. Illustrated. 12mo.
Cloth. $1.25.
Red Eric (The); or, the Whaler’s Last Cruise. By R. M. BALLANTYNE.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Round the World. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Salt Water; or, the Adventures of Neil d’Arcy. By W. H. G. KINGSTON.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Tiger Prince (The); or, Adventures in Abyssinia. By WM. DALTON.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Wild Sports in the Far West. By FREDERICK GERSTAECKER. Illustrated.
12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Young Islanders (The); or, The School-Boy Crusoes. By J. TAYLOR.
Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25.
Published by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., Philadelphia.
VALUABLE WORKS OF REFERENCE.
Allibone’s Dictionary of Prose Quotations. By S. AUSTIN ALLIBONE,
LL.D. With Indexes. 8vo. Extra cloth. $5.00.
Allibone’s Dictionary of Poetical Quotations. By S. AUSTIN ALLIBONE,
LL.D. With Indexes. 8vo. Extra cloth. $5.00.
Chambers’s Encyclopædia. _American Revised Edition._ A Dictionary
of Useful Knowledge. Profusely Illustrated with Maps, Plates, and
Woodcuts. 10 vols. Royal 8vo.
Lippincott’s Pronouncing Biographical Dictionary. Containing complete
and concise Biographical Sketches of the Eminent Persons of all Ages
and Countries. By J. THOMAS, A.M., M.D. Imperial 8vo. Sheep, $15.00. 2
vols. Cloth, $22.00.
Allibone’s Critical Dictionary of Authors. A Dictionary of English
Literature and British and American Authors, Living and Deceased. By
S. AUSTIN ALLIBONE, LL.D. 3 vols. Imperial 8vo. Extra cloth. $22.50.
Lippincott’s Pronouncing Gazetteer of the World. A Complete
Geographical Dictionary. By J. THOMAS and T. BALDWIN. Royal 8vo.
Sheep. $10.00.
Chambers’s Book of Days. A Miscellany of Popular Antiquities connected
with the Calendar. Profusely Illustrated. 2 vols. 8vo. Extra cloth.
$8.00.
Critical Commentary. A Commentary, Critical, Experimental, and
Practical, on the Old and New Testaments. By Drs. JAMIESON, FAUSSET,
and BROWN. With 16 Maps and Plans. 6 vols. Royal 8vo. Extra cloth.
$30.00.
Dictionary of Quotations, from the Greek, Latin, and Modern Languages.
With an Index. Crown 8vo. Extra cloth. $2.00.
Furness’s Concordance to Shakespeare’s Poems. An Index to Every Word
therein contained, with the Complete Poems of Shakespeare. 8vo. Extra
cloth. $4.00.
Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary, containing all the Principal Names
and Terms relating to Antiquity and the Ancients, with a Chronological
Table. 8vo. Sheep, $3.75. 16mo. Cloth, $1.50.
Scott’s Commentary on the Bible. Containing the Old and New
Testaments. With Notes, Observations, References, Indexes, etc. 3
vols. Royal 8vo Extra cloth. $9.00. _Commentary on the New Testament._
Royal 8vo. Cloth. $3.00.
POPULAR STANDARD WORKS,
_OF THE MOST APPROVED EDITIONS._
Ancient Classics for English Readers. Embracing the Distinguished
Authors of Greece and Rome. Edited by Rev. W. L. COLLINS. 20 vols.
16mo. Cloth. $1.00 per vol. In set of 10 vols. in box. Extra cloth.
$15.00.
Bigelow’s Life of Benjamin Franklin. Written by himself (Franklin).
Edited from Original Manuscripts, printed Correspondence, and other
Writings. By Hon. JOHN BIGELOW. 3 vols. With Portrait. Crown 8vo.
Extra cloth. $7.50.
Forster’s Life of Charles Dickens. By JOHN FORSTER, author of “Life of
Goldsmith,” etc. With Steel Engravings and Fac Similes. 3 vols. 12mo.
Extra cloth. $6.00.
Hazlitt’s Life of Napoleon Buonaparte. Illustrated with 100 Fine
Steel Engravings. 3 vols. Crown 8vo. Fine cloth, extra. $7.50. _Cheap
Edition._ 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth. $4.50.
Prescott’s Complete Works. _New and Revised Edition._ Edited by J.
FOSTER KIRK. 15 vols. 12mo. With Portraits from Steel, and Maps. Fine
cloth, extra. $2.25 per vol.
Bulwer’s Novels. Complete in 26 vols. With Frontispieces. _The Globe
Edition._ 16mo. Bound in fine cloth. _The Lord Lytton Edition._ 12mo.
Fine cloth, extra. Either edition $1.50 per vol.
Dickens’s Works. _The Standard Illustrated Edition._ Complete in 30
vols. 8vo. Fine cloth, extra. $3.00 per vol. _The Charles Dickens
Edition._ Illustrated. 12 vols. 12mo. Fine cloth. $25.00 per set.
Landor’s Works. The Works of Walter Savage Landor. _New Edition._
Edited by JOHN FORSTER. 8 vols. With Portraits. Crown 8vo. Cloth.
$32.00.
Addison’s Complete Works. Edited, with Notes, by Prof. GREENE. With
Portrait on Steel. 6 vols. 12mo. Cloth. $9.00.
Byron’s Complete Poetical Works. Edited by THOMAS MOORE. Illustrated
with Steel Plates. 4 vols. 12mo. Fine cloth, extra. $10.00.
Goethe’s Complete Works. With Portrait. 7 vols. 12mo. Fine cloth.
$10.50.
Kirk’s History of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy. By JOHN FOSTER
KIRK. 3 vols. 8vo. Fine cloth. $9.00.
Knight’s Half-Hours with the Best Authors. Selected and Edited by
CHARLES KNIGHT. Revised. 4 vols. 12mo. With extra Steel Portraits.
Cloth gilt, $10.00.
Macaulay’s History of England. Complete. Steel Portrait, and 6 Maps,
colored. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth. $5.00.
Randall’s Life of Thomas Jefferson. By HENRY S. RANDALL, LL.D. In 3
vols. 8vo. Cloth. $10.00.
Schiller’s Complete Works. With Portrait. 6 vols. 12mo. Fine cloth.
$9.00.
Scott’s (Waverley) Novels. _The Abbotsford Edition._ Profusely
Illustrated. 12 vols. Crown 8vo. Fine cloth. $18.00. _Edinburgh
Edition._ 48 vols. 16mo. Illustrated. Fine cloth. $84.00.
Thackeray’s Complete Works. _Standard Library Edition._ Profusely
Illustrated. Complete in 22 vols. 8vo. Extra cloth. $3.00 per vol.
☛ The above Works are also bound in a variety of handsome extra styles.
☛ For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postpaid, upon
receipt of the price by the Publishers.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. All other
variations in hyphenation, spelling and punctuation remain unchanged.
In the first section of Part III “an old artillery bushy” might well
be a typographical error for busby.
isiZulu words have been left unchanged, although the spelling used is
not necessarily correct by modern standards.