Dr. Shea says he fears I must not winter in England yet, but that I am
greatly improved—as, indeed, I could tell him. He is another of the kind
‘sea doctors’ I have met with; he came all the way from Simon’s Bay to
see me, and then said, ‘What nonsense is that?’ when I offered him a fee.
This is a very nice place up in the ‘gardens’, quite out of the town and
very comfortable. But I regret Caledon. A— will show you my account of
my beautiful journey back. Worcester is a fairy-land; and then to catch
tortoises walking about, and to see ‘baviāans’, and snakes and secretary
birds eating them! and then people have the impudence to think I must
have been ‘very dull!’ _Sie merken’s nicht_, that it is _they_ who are
dull.
Dear Dr. Hawtrey! he must have died just as I was packing up the first
Caffre Testament for him! I felt his death very much, in connexion with
my father; their regard for each other was an honour to both. I have the
letter he wrote me on J—’s marriage, and a charming one it is.
I took Mrs. A— a drive in a Hansom cab to-day out to Wynberg, to see my
friends Captain and Mrs. T—, who have a cottage under Table Mountain in a
spot like the best of St. George’s Hill. Very dull too; but as she is
really a lady, it suits her, and Capetown does not. I was to have stayed
with them, but Wynberg is cold at night. Poor B—’s wife is very ill and
won’t leave Capetown for a day. The people here are _wunderlich_ for
that. A lady born here, and with 7,000_l._ a year, has never been
further than Stellenbosch, about twenty miles. I am asked how I lived
and what I ate during my little excursion, as if I had been to Lake
Ngami. If only I had known how easy it all is, I would have gone by sea
to East London and seen the Knysna and George district, and the primæval
African forest, the yellow wood, and other giant trees. However, ‘For
what I have received,’ &c., &c. No one can conceive what it is, after
two years of prison and utter languor, to stand on the top of a mountain
pass, and enjoy physical existence for a few hours at a time. I felt as
if it was quite selfish to enjoy anything so much when you were all so
anxious about me at home; but as that is the best symptom of all, I do
not repent.
S— has been an excellent travelling servant, and really a better
companion than many more educated people; for she is always amused and
curious, and is friendly with the coloured people. She is quite
recovered. It is a wonderful climate—_sans que celà paraisse_. It feels
chilly and it blows horridly, and does not seem genial, but it gives new
life.
To-morrow I am going with old Abdool Jemaalee to prayers at the Mosque,
and shall see a school kept by a Malay priest. It is now Ramadan, and my
Muslim friends are very thin and look glum. Choslullah sent a message to
ask, ‘Might he see the Missis once more? He should pray all the time she
was on the sea.’ Some pious Christians here would expect such horrors to
sink the ship. I can’t think why Mussulmans are always gentlemen; the
Malay coolies have a grave courtesy which contrasts most strikingly with
both European vulgarity and negro jollity. It is very curious, for they
only speak Dutch, and know nothing of oriental manners. I fear I shall
not see the Walkers again. Simon’s Bay is too far to go and come in a
day, as one cannot go out before ten or eleven, and must be in by five or
half-past. Those hours are gloriously bright and hot, but morning and
night are cold.
I am so happy in the thought of sailing now so very soon and seeing you
all again, that I can settle to nothing for five minutes. I now feel how
anxious and uneasy I have been, and how I shall rejoice to get home. I
shall leave a letter for A—, to go in April, and tell him and you what
ship I am in. I shall choose the _slowest_, so as not to reach England
and face the Channel before June, if possible. So don’t be alarmed if I
do not arrive till late in June. Till then good-bye, and God bless you,
dearest mother—_Auf frohes Wiedersehn_.