Caledon, Feb. 21st.
THIS morning’s post brought your packet, and the announcement of an extra
mail to-night—so I can send you a P.S. I hear that Capetown has been
pestilential, and as hot as Calcutta. It is totally undrained, and the
Mozambiquers are beginning to object to acting as scavengers to each
separate house. The ‘_vidanges_’ are more barbarous even than in Paris.
Without the south-easter (or ‘Cape doctor’) they must have fevers, &c.;
and though too rough a practitioner for me, he benefits the general
health. Next month the winds abate, but last week an omnibus was blown
over on the Rondebosch road, which is the most sheltered spot, and
inhabited by Capetown merchants. I have received all the _Saturday
Reviews_ quite safe, likewise the books, Mendelssohn’s letters, and the
novel. I have written for my dear Choslullah to fetch me. The Dutch
farmers don’t know how to charge enough; moreover, the Hottentot drivers
get drunk, and for two lone women that is not the thing. I pay my gentle
Malay thirty shillings a day, which, for a cart and four and such a jewel
of a driver, is not outrageous; and I had better pay that for the few
days I wait on the road, than risk bad carts, tipsy Hottentots, and
extortionate boers.
This intermediate country between the ‘Central African wilderness’ and
Capetown has been little frequented. I went to the Church Mission School
with the English clergyman yesterday. You know I don’t believe in every
kind of missionaries, but I do believe that, in these districts, kind,
judicious English clergymen are of great value. The Dutch pastors still
remember the distinction between ‘Christenmenschen’ and ‘Hottentoten’;
but the Church Mission Schools teach the Anglican Catechism to every
child that will learn, and the congregation is as piebald as Harlequin’s
jacket. A pretty, coloured lad, about eleven years old, answered my
questions in geography with great quickness and some wit. I said, ‘Show
me the country you belong to.’ He pointed to England, and when I
laughed, to the cape. ‘This is where we are, but that is the country I
_belong to_.’ I asked him how we were governed, and he answered quite
right. ‘How is the Cape governed?’ ‘Oh, we have a Parliament too, and
Mr. Silberbauer is the man _we_ send.’ Boys and girls of all ages were
mixed, but no blacks. I don’t think they will learn, except on
compulsion, as at Gnadenthal.
I regret to say that Bill’s wife has broken his head with a bottle, at
the end of the honeymoon. I fear the innovation of being _married at
church_ has not had a good effect, and that his neighbours may quote Mr.
Peachum.
I was offered a young lion yesterday, but I hardly think it would be an
agreeable addition to the household at Esher.
I hear that Worcester, Paarl, and Stellenbosch are beautiful, and the
road very desolate and grand: one mountain pass takes six hours to cross.
I should not return to Capetown so early, but poor Captain J— has had his
leg smashed and amputated, so I must look out for myself in the matter of
ships. Whenever it is hot, I am well, for the heat here is so _light_
and dry. The wind tries me, but we have little here compared to the
coast. I hope that the voyage home will do me still more good; but I
will not sail till April, so as to arrive in June. May, in the Channel,
would not do.
How I wish I could send you the fruit now on my table—amber-coloured
grapes, yellow waxen apples streaked with vermillion in fine little
lines, huge peaches, and tiny green figs! I must send dear old Klein a
little present from England, to show that I don’t forget my Dutch adorer.
I wish I could bring you the ‘Biltong ‘ he sent me—beef or bok dried in
the sun in strips, and slightly salted; you may carry enough in your
pocket to live on for a fortnight, and it is very good as a little
‘relish’. The partridges also have been welcome, and we shall eat the
tiny haunch of bok to-day.
Mrs. D— is gone to Capetown to get servants (the Scotch girl having
carried on her amours too flagrantly), and will return in my cart. S— is
still keeping house meanwhile, much perturbed by the placid indolence of
the brown girl. The stableman cooks, and very well too. This is
colonial life—a series of makeshifts and difficulties; but the climate is
fine, people feel well and make money, and I think it is not an unhappy
life. I have been most fortunate in my abode, and can say, without
speaking cynically, that I have found ‘my warmest welcome at an inn’.
Mine host is a rough soldier, but the very soul of good nature and good
feeling; and his wife is a very nice person—so cheerful, clever, and
kindhearted.
I should like to bring home the little Madagascar girl from Rathfelders,
or a dear little mulatto who nurses a brown baby here, and is so clean
and careful and ‘pretty behaved’,—but it would be a great risk. The
brown babies are ravishing—so fat and jolly and funny.
One great charm of the people here is, that no one expects money or
gifts, and that all civility is gratis. Many a time I finger small coin
secretly in my pocket, and refrain from giving it, for fear of spoiling
this innocence. I have not once seen a _look_ implying ‘backsheesh’, and
begging is unknown. But the people are reserved and silent, and have not
the attractive manners of the darkies of Capetown and the neighbourhood.