In that far foreign country, the dream of old days
And old haunts often bears me to Anthony Wray’s;
The white little cottage with nest-crowded eaves,
Peeping out half the year from an ambush of leaves.
And now once again have my footsteps been there,
And have found it—deserted, dismantled, and bare;
Except where the wall-flow’rs still cluster and wave
On the gable: they now are like flow’rs on a grave.
At that window, I thought as I passed through the door,
Where the late sunbeam strikes down the weed-covered floor,
How often the sunlight and moonlight have shone
Upon bright, living faces, that now are all gone.
In the choice ingle-nook stood no Martha’s arm-chair,
But a heap of dead leaves which the wind had swept there;
The low-talking wind that breathed thoughts of the time
When young voices rang round like a holiday chime.
And the hearth had become like a cold churchyard stone,
Encrusted with mould and with moss overgrown,
That had glowed through so many a long winter night,
The heart of the cottage, a core of warm light.
What talk and what mirth there! what tales told or read
To the children that listened in joy tinged with dread!
A storm shakes the window; they solemnly gaze
On each other, and draw their stools nearer the blaze.
Their father is drowsy with labour gone through,
And the deep satisfaction of nothing to do;
The woof of light sleep in its network has bound him,
And home mildly shines through the mist that’s around him.
The mother sits knitting and smiling fond praise;
The cheek of the youngest shines warm in the blaze
As he rests his white head on his grandmother’s knee;
Alas! that these pictures mere phantoms should be.
As ghosts of burnt roses cloud up from their ashes,
Rise scenes from the past in these transient flashes;
Thin visions, soon melted, which leave the heart sore,
By half-showing that which they will not restore.
Could it be that this Household was gone, and for ever?
The wood looked unchanged, and the fields, and the river;
Co-tenants of time, even part did these seem
Of beings who now are but shapes of a dream.
The broad-leaved horse-chesnut my thoughts used to wed
With those for whose shelter its boughs seemed to spread,
Dipped slowly in sunlight its fans as of old,
But beneath, all had passed “like a tale that is told.”
Long I stood, and had no word of comfort to say
Yet not unconsoled did I turn me away:
Thank God for the faith that is stronger than grief,
The fountain that springs to the parched soul’s relief.
The whispered assurance which raises and soothes,
That these are the phantoms, and those still the truths;
And their trials and virtues, their tears and their mirth
_Not_ faded like yesterday’s light from the earth!
“CAPE” SKETCHES.
There is a peculiarity evinced by such of the advocates of colonisation
as have acquainted themselves personally with colonial life, which puts
in a strong light the adaptability of most of our territories beyond sea
for bettering the condition of enterprising emigrants. It is this:—each
man vaunts loudly the superiority of the colony he has visited over all
the others. “How is it possible,” writes a settler in New Zealand to us,
“that people will be so blind as to risk their capital in Australia
while there is New Zealand, the finest country, with the finest climate
in the world!” The friend, who occasionally amuses and instructs us with
his vivid sketches of Australian life, exclaims—“New Zealand!—Where are
its markets?—What is a farmer to do with his produce when he has got
it?—No, no; my advice is Sydney.” “By no means,” ejaculates a third,
just home from Port Philip, “South Australia is the country for an
energetic man to gain independence and wealth.” A successful emigrant,
hot from Hobart Town, vaunts the advantages of Van Dieman’s Land. Our
friend from Canada over-rides all these opinions. “Why,” he argues, “go
to uncivilised, uncultivated, and far-off countries, when you can, at
once, join established communities, and enjoy regular British
institutions, only a three weeks’ sail distant; where markets are
regular, food cheap, and where (on account of the intense cold) there is
nothing to do for one-third of the year?” Lastly, we are favoured with
the opinion of a five years’ resident in South Africa:—“Truly,” he says,
“people who brave the regions of a northern climate, who expose their
lives in dangerous proximity to savages, who heed not agues in swamps,
nor thirst in deserts, forget there is such a place as the Cape of Good
Hope.”
Although all this one-sided enthusiasm does not prove either of the
respective cases argued by the different advocates; yet it shows in a
broad light the certain advantages of emigration in general. To whatever
quarter of the globe the observer turns, he sees, amidst occasional
instances of disappointment and loss, that emigration has, in general,
answered the expectations of the emigrants. But this general success he
does not attribute to the soundness of the principle in the abstract,
but to the advantages of the particular country in which he has
witnessed the most prosperity.
In, therefore, sifting and comparing with other evidence the numerous
papers which we receive from, and relative to, the various colonies, it
is our aim to give such true pictures of colonial life as enable the
reader to judge fairly of the pains, pleasures, losses and gains of all
the new homes which have been established by and for Englishmen in
various parts of the globe.
We have been led into these remarks by a communication now before us
from the gentleman already mentioned who has passed five active years in
the colony of the Cape of Good Hope. His characteristic preface to the
amusing and instructive sketches of Cape Life is as follows:—
“I cannot but think, that, in the present rage for promoting
emigration, too much attention is paid to new and untried countries
whose resources are as yet doubtful and undeveloped, to the detriment
of the old established colonies, whose constant cry is for ‘labour,
labour, labour.’ Amongst the least popular of our old colonies is the
Cape of Good Hope. Yet I think, that most, if not all, the objections
usually raised against it are erroneous; while many of its undoubted
advantages are overlooked. It is my desire, if possible, to remove
some of the prejudices entertained against a land where I spent five
happy years of my life. My intention is simply to give a few
travelling sketches, and to portray some of the characteristic
features of the country and its inhabitants.”
Cape Wine enjoys a very unenviable notoriety in England. Order a glass
of sherry at a fourth-rate tavern: taste it—it is _very_ bad—you turn up
your nose and cry “Cape!” Mr. Lazarus, a Hebrew dealer in wine and
money, “does a little bill” for you, and sends you home as part payment
a few dozen of “excellent Madeira.” Are you rash enough to taste it? If
so, as soon as you have recovered from the sputtering caused by its
fearful acidity, you mutter a phrase never mentioned to ears polite, and
say again—“Cape!” In fact, whenever you drink any vile compound, under
the name of wine, to which you are at a loss to ascribe a native land,
you cry—“Cape!”
The old adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” is fully
exemplified here. Still it must be admitted that the dog must first have
_earned_ his bad name. So it is with Cape Wine. It _was_ very bad, and a
great part of it is so still; while decidedly the worst of it is sent to
England. I have often endeavoured to persuade the wine farmers that this
is bad policy on their part; but they will not be convinced. They say
that Cape Wine has a bad name in the market; that it is bought only as
“Cape Wine,” without any distinction of vintage or class; and that the
worst of it brings them as good a price as the best. And yet there is a
vast difference in the various qualities; and even the best of them are
still susceptible of wonderful improvement.
There is a similarity between the Cape and the Madeira grape. Both are
cultivated very much in the same manner, but the grand point of
difference between the two is the time of gathering the grapes. In
Madeira they are not gathered till so ripe that many begin to fall, and
many are withered from over ripeness; these are of course rejected. By
this means a smaller amount of wine is obtained from a vineyard than
would have been produced had the grapes been gathered earlier: but the
quality of the wine is improved beyond conception. Every grape is full,
ripe, and luscious, and the wine partakes of its quality. Nothing can
prove more clearly the necessity of the grape being fully, and rather
_over_ ripe, than the difference of the wine produced on the north side
of the Island of Madeira, where this perfection of the grape can
scarcely be attained, and that grown on the south side: the latter is
Nectar; the former Cape; or little better.
Now at _the_ Cape the object of the farmer is always to get the greatest
_quantity_ of wine from his vineyard; and consequently he gathers his
grapes when they are barely ripe, and none have fallen or withered;
whereby he fills his storehouses with wine full of acidity and of that
vile twang which all who have tasted shudder to recal.
Some of the wine-growers in the colony have lately pursued a different
plan, and with vast success. This has been chiefly among the English
colonists; for a Dutch boor at the Cape is a very intractable animal,
and not easily induced to swerve from old systems, be they ever so bad.
Probably, the principal reason why the colony produced from the very
first such bad wines, was its having been colonised by Dutchmen, who
could have had no experience at home in wine-growing.
Who knows what might have been the case had a colony from the plains of
Champagne or Bordeaux first settled there? Apropos of this, I may
mention that a fellow passenger of mine was a Frenchman from Champagne.
At the Cape he entered into partnership with a young Englishman (also a
fellow passenger), and agreed to take a wine farm. The Englishman was to
supply capital—the Frenchman knowledge. Monsieur had determined to make
“Cape Champagne;” and remarkably well he succeeded. Often at public and
even at private dinners, when swallowing something dignified with the
name of that right-royal wine, have I sighed to think how far more
palatable would be a bottle of Monsieur L——’s vintage.
It perhaps requires a greater outlay of capital to be a successful
wine-grower than almost anything else in the colony. There are, in
addition to the purchase of land and vines, the expenses of storehouses,
casks, and, above all, that most difficult commodity to attain—labour.
So great is the want of the latter, and so uncertain the supply of even
that which is attainable, that he is a bold man who ventures on
wine-farming at the Cape.
The wine-growers are generally wealthy men, for, in spite of all
obstacles, their profits are very large. Few people who even touch at
the Cape fail to visit the Constantia wine farms, producing the
delicious sweet wine of that name. It is grown on a mountain named after
the wife of one of the former Governors of the Cape—whether in
compliment to the lady’s sweetness of disposition, or her love for the
wine then produced, I know not. Three farms monopolise this mountain.
Even half a mile from them, the wine produced is of a very inferior
flavour. They live in excellent style, these Constantia wine-growers.
When first I visited one of them, a carriage-and-four and two buggies,
conveying a party of Indian visitors, had just drawn up at the door. A
_déjeûner_ was spread in a long, handsome, and elegantly-furnished
apartment, for the entertainment of any one who might chance to come and
visit the farm. Two or three superintendents were ready to show the
“lions” of the place to visitors, and to give them samples of the wine
to taste. There are many varieties of it. And, oh, how seductive that
same Constantia is! Who can resist it in all its delicious varieties?
I recollect that as I rode towards the farm I passed a toll-gate, and
looking, I suppose, extremely like a “griffin” (for I had only been a
week in the colony), the “pikeman” observed, as he took my twopence, and
handed me the ticket, “Hopes you’ll be able to read it as you comes
back, Sir!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“No offence, Sir,” said the man with a grin; “only I’ve seed a many as
_couldn’t_—that’s all.”
The three Constantia wine-growers are Dutchmen; and so, in fact, are
nearly all the wine farmers throughout the colony. Englishmen who go out
there generally take to trade or sheep-farming; and they are right,—for
it requires far less experience, less capital, and less labour, to
follow almost any calling at the Cape than that of a wine-grower. I
think, however, that a Company might be profitably established here or
in the colony, for cultivating the vine there and importing its produce
to Europe. For this purpose, they should send out labourers and
superintendents, carefully selected from the wine districts of France
and Germany; and take care that the Madeira plan of gathering the grapes
be adopted. They should agitate, too, for a reduction of the duty on the
wine: at present it is far too high. Perhaps the profits would not at
first be great, for there is a serious obstacle to be overcome,—a bad
name in the market; but eventually I believe that the speculation would
be a lucrative one, and that it would in time remove the unfortunate
stigma now affixed to Cape wine.
In these days of railroad travelling, when twenty miles an hour would be
considered slow enough to justify a letter of complaint from “Viator” to
the editor of the Times, it may rather astonish my readers to learn that
twenty miles is considered a fair day’s journey at the Cape. Yet so it
is.
Unless you amble on horseback, which only men and _young_ men can
undertake, the sole and universal method of travelling is by an
ox-wagon. Just go and see the wagon exhibited by Cumming in his
South-African Exhibition, at Hyde Park corner! Imagine such a machine,
with twelve or fourteen oxen attached to it by a long rope of plaited
hide (called a treck-tow) attached to the pole, and to which are
fastened the yokes of the oxen. Then fancy a little Hottentot lad, very
much like one of the Bushmen lately exhibited in London (but, perhaps,
hardly so handsome,) leading the two front oxen by a strip of hide
fastened to their horns (called a reim), and a full-grown Hottentot
seated on the driving-seat, in the front of the wagon, with an enormous
whip in his hands formed of a long bamboo handle and a lash of plaited
thongs, with which he can, from his seat, reach the leaders of his team;
and you have the “travelling carriage” of South Africa complete before
your eyes.
The same team (or “span” in South-African phraseology) of oxen take you
the whole journey, whether it be twenty or two hundred miles; and as
they have no other food on the way, nor indeed at any other time, than
the grass and water on the roadside, you may imagine that twenty or
twenty-five miles a day is quite work enough for them. The journey is,
however, by no means so tedious or uninteresting an affair as might be
supposed. It is like so many days of pic-nic-ing, with new scenery each
day, and in a glorious climate. The wagon is of course well furnished
with tea, sugar, coffee, wine, flour, eggs, fresh and preserved meat,
vegetables, and in fact all that refreshes and cheers the inward man:
for, be it recollected, that there are no inns, or at least the very few
there are are scattered at such great distances apart over the country
that no wagon traveller thinks of visiting them. The wagon in fact
becomes your home and your store-house as well as your travelling
carriage. A long stretcher is slung in it, on which is placed your bed,
which serves for a lounging couch by day. Some people travel with a
tent, but this is unnecessary when the party does not exceed two or
three, besides the Hottentots, who sleep under the wagon, or under a
bush or anywhere else on the ground, as soundly as their masters in
their beds.
Travellers generally take their guns with them, as they may chance to
get a little sport on the road. At six in the morning we will suppose
the carriage to start; at about ten you will “outspan”—that is, take out
the oxen and let them feed, and prepare for breakfast. Your Hottentots
soon collect fuel, the wagon is drawn up close by a mimosa or some other
bush, a fire is lighted, the kettle set to boil, the coffee prepared,
the steaks cooked in a frying-pan, and perhaps some hot cakes made of
meal baked for you; and with a beautiful country round you, and a
magnificent sky above you, if you cannot make a good breakfast, and feel
a light heart, I fear that you must be terribly “used up.”
Then comes a stroll through the bush with your double-barrel on your
shoulder, in search of a partridge or a Guinea fowl, or a stray
antelope; and back to the wagon, now ready for another start.
Forward, again, till dinner-time, when the same process is gone through.
After dinner, perhaps you will go forward another four or five miles,
and then “outspan” for the night.
The nights of the Cape climate are glorious! I can scarcely imagine
anything more beautiful. The sky of that deep, dark blue, which we never
see in northern climates; the moon shining as she only can in such a
sky, the stars so bright and distinct, with the beautiful southern cross
in all its brilliancy, among them; the perfect stillness of everything
around; the lofty and rugged mountains where the foot of man has never
trodden; the thick dark bush, penetrable only by the wild beast or the
savage; the broad plain covered with Aloes, Cape Heaths, Wild Stocks,
and the ten thousand variegated shrubs which make a carpet beneath your
feet as beautiful as the canopy of heaven above your head; and that
little spot worthy the pencil of Salvator Rosa—the dark foliage of the
bush lighted up by your fire, and around it the dusky forms of your
Hottentots stretched at their ease, and enjoying, as none but a half
savage knows how thoroughly to enjoy, the requisite delight of the
“Dolce far niente.”
No doubt railroads are glorious inventions. All honour, too, to Macadam,
and to stagecoaches and post-chaises; all praise to the comforts and
convenience of a good English Inn. But if you have a spark of native
poetry in your composition, in spite of bad roads, slow travelling,
rough fare, and a bed “al fresco,” you will enjoy one of these South
African journeys more than any trip you ever took in Europe. You have no
other travelling companions than the beauties of Nature’s works around
you, fresh as from the hands of their Creator, and the thoughts and
reflections high and holy, as such scenes and such companionship will
not fail to call forth.