[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
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POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 8.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
OUR HEALTH.
BY DR ANDREW WILSON, HEALTH-LECTURER.
I. HEALTH AND ITS GENERAL CONDITIONS.
A broad and scientific view of life is that which regards it as being
composed, in its physical aspects at least, of a series of actions or
functions more or less defined in their nature. These functions, as the
physiologist terms them, are discharged, each, by a special organ or
series of organs; and health may therefore be viewed as the result of
the harmonious working of all the organs of which the body is composed.
Disturbances of health arise whenever the natural equilibrium
maintained between the functions of the body is disturbed. For example,
a broken bone being an infringement of the functions of a limb, is a
disturbance of health equally with the fever which runs riot through
the blood, and produces a general disturbance of the whole system. An
aching tooth equally with brain disorder constitutes a disturbance
of health. We may therefore define health as the perfect pleasurable
or painless discharge of all the functions through which life is
maintained.
Doubtless this bodily equilibrium of which we have spoken is subject
to many and varied causes of disturbance. Life is after all a highly
complex series of actions, involving equally complicated conditions for
their due performance. Like all other living beings, man is dependent
upon his surroundings for the necessities of life. These surroundings,
whilst ministering to his wants, may under certain circumstances become
sources of disease. Thus we are dependent, like all other animal forms,
upon a supply of pure air, and this condition of our lives may through
impurities prove a source of serious disease. The water we drink,
equally a necessity of life with air, is likewise liable to cause
disease, when either as regards quantity or quality it is not supplied
in the requisite conditions. Man is likewise in the matter of foods
dependent upon his surroundings, and numerous diseases are traceable
both to a lack of necessary foods and to over-indulgence in special
kinds of nourishment. The diseases known to physicians as those of
over-nutrition belong to the latter class; and there are likewise many
ailments due to under-nutrition which also receive the attention of
medical science.
In addition to these outward sources of health-disturbance, which
constitute the disease of mankind, there are other and more subtle and
internal causes which complicate the problems of human happiness. Thus,
for example, each individual inherits from his parents, and through
them from his more remote ancestors, a certain physical constitution.
This constitution, whilst no doubt liable to modifications, yet
determines wholly or in greater part the physical life of the
being possessing it. We frequently speak of persons as suffering
from inherited weakness, and this inherited weakness becomes the
‘transmitted disease’ of the physician. Each individual, therefore,
may be viewed as deriving his chances of health, or the reverse, from
a double source—namely, from the constitution he has inherited and
from the surroundings which make up the life he lives and pursues.
It is the aim and object of sanitary science to deal as clearly and
definitely as possible with both sources of health and disease. In the
first instance, Hygiene, or the science of health, devotes attention to
the surroundings amid which our lives are passed. It seeks to provide
us with the necessary conditions of life in a pure condition. It would
have us breathe pure air, consume pure food, avoid excess of work,
strike the golden mean in recreation, and harbour and conserve the
powers of old age, so as to prolong the period of life and secure a
painless death. In the second aspect of its teachings, this important
branch of human knowledge would teach us that with an inherited
constitution of healthy kind we should take every means of preserving
its well-being; and when on the other hand an enfeebled and physically
weak frame has fallen to our lot, the teachings of health-science are
cheering in the extreme.
Even when an individual has been born into the world, handicapped,
so to speak, in the struggle for existence by physical infirmity and
inherited disease, health-science is found to convey the cheering
assurance that it is possible, even under such circumstances, to
prolong life, and secure a measure of that full happiness which the
possession of health can alone bestow. In illustration of this latter
remark, we might cite the case of a person born into the world with
a consumptive taint, or suffering from inherited tendencies to such
diseases as gout, rheumatism, insanity, &c. Vital statistics prove
beyond doubt, in the case of the consumptive individual, that if his
life be passed under the guidance of health laws, if he is warmly
clad, provided with sufficient nourishment, made to live in a pure
atmosphere, and excess of work avoided, he may attain the age of
thirty-six years without developing the disease under which he labours,
and once past that period, may reasonably hope to attain old age.
In the case of the subject who inherits gout, a similar attention
to the special conditions of healthy living suited to his case may
insure great or complete freedom from the malady of his parent.
Strict attention to dietary, the avoidance of all stimulants, and the
participation in active, well-regulated exercise, form conditions which
in a marked degree, if pursued conscientiously during youth, will ward
off the tendency to develop the disease in question. In the case of an
inherited tendency to mental disorders, mysterious and subtle as such
tendency appears to be, it has been shown that strict attention to the
education and upbringing of the child, a judicious system of education,
the curbing of the passions, and the control of emotions, added to
ordinary care in the selection of food and the physical necessities of
life, may again insure the prolongation of life, and its freedom from
one of the most terrible afflictions which can beset the human race.
These considerations in reality constitute veritable triumphs of
health-science; they show us that in his war against disease and
death, man finds literally a saving knowledge in observance of the
laws which science has deduced for the wise regulation of his life. It
is ignorance or neglect of this great teaching which sends thousands
of our fellow-mortals to an early grave, and which destroys hopes,
ambitions, and opportunities that may contain in themselves the promise
of high excellence in every department of human effort.
The one great truth which health-reformers are never weary of
proclaiming, because they know it is so true, consists in the
declaration that the vast majority of the diseases which affect and
afflict humanity are really of _preventable_ nature. Until this truth
has been thoroughly driven home, and accepted alike by individuals
and nations, no real progress in sanitary science can be expected
or attained. To realise fully the immense power which the practical
application of this thought places in our hands, we may briefly
consider the causes of certain diseases, which in themselves though
powerful and widespread, are nevertheless of _preventable_ kind.
Amongst these diseases, those, popularly known as infectious fevers,
and scientifically as zymotic diseases, stand out most prominently.
We shall hereafter discuss the nature and origin, as far as these have
been traced, of those ailments. Suffice it for the present to say, that
science has demonstrated in a very clear fashion the possibilities of
our escape from those physical terrors by attention to the conditions
to which they owe their spread.
Typhoid fever, also known as enteric and gastric fever, is thus
known to be produced, and its germs to breed, amongst the insanitary
conditions represented by foul drains and collections of filth wherever
found. Experience amply proves that by attention to those labours
which have for their object the secure trapping of drains, flushing of
sewers, and abolition of all filth-heaps, the chances of this fever
being produced are greatly decreased. It has also been shown that
even where this fever has obtained a hold, attention to drains and
like conditions has resulted in the decrease of the epidemic. Again,
typhus fever is notoriously a disease affecting the over-crowded,
squalid, and miserable slums of our great cities. Unlike typhoid
fever, which equally affects the palace of the prince and the cottage
of the peasant, typhus fever is rarely found except in the courts and
alleys of our great cities. We know that the germs of this fever,
which in past days constituted the ‘Plague’ and the ‘Jail Fever’ of
John Howard’s time, breed and propagate amongst the foul air which
accumulates in the ill-ventilated dwellings of the poor. Attention to
ventilation, personal cleanliness, and the removal of all conditions
which militate against the ordinary health of crowded populations,
remove the liability to epidemics of this fever. Again, the disease
known as ague has almost altogether disappeared from this and other
countries through the improved drainage of the land; though it still
occasionally lingers in the neighbourhood of swamps and in other
situations which are wet and damp, and which favour the decay of
vegetable matter.
Man holds in his own hands the power both of largely increasing and
decreasing his chances of early death, and nowhere is this fact better
exemplified than in the lessened mortality which follows even moderate
attention to the laws of health; the words of Dr Farre deserve to be
emblazoned in every household in respect of their pungent utterance
concerning the good which mankind is able to effect by even slight
attention to sanitary requirements. ‘The hygienic problem,’ says Dr
Farre, ‘is how to free the English people from hereditary disease ...
and to develop in the mass the athletical, intellectual, æsthetical,
moral, and religious qualities which have already distinguished some of
the breed. There is a divine image in the future, to which the nation
must aspire. The first step towards it is to improve the health of the
present age; and improvement, if as persistently pursued as it is in
the cultivation of inferior species, will be felt by their children
and their children’s children. A slight development for the better in
each generation, implies progress in the geometrical progression which
yields results in an indefinite time, that if suddenly manifested would
appear miraculous.’
In 1872, Mr Simon told us that the deaths occurring in Great Britain
were more numerous by a third than they would have been, had the
existing knowledge of disease and its causes been perfectly applied.
He added that the number of deaths in England and Wales which might
reasonably be ascribed to causes of a truly preventable nature,
number about one hundred and twenty thousand. Each of those deaths
represents in addition a number of other cases in which the effects
of preventable disease were more or less distinctly found. Such an
account of a mortality, the greater part of which is unquestionably
preventable, may well startle the most phlegmatic amongst us into
activity in the direction of health-reform. In order that the nation at
large may participate in this all-important work, it is necessary that
education in health-science should find a place in the future training
of the young as well as in the practice of the old. And if there is
one consideration which more than another should be prominently kept
in view, it is that which urges that the duty of acquiring information
in the art of living healthily and well is an individual duty. It is
only through individual effort that anything like national interest in
health-science can be fostered. There is no royal road to the art which
places length of days within the right hand of a nation, any more than
there exists an easy pathway to full and perfect knowledge in any other
branch of inquiry. It is the duty of each individual, as a matter of
self-interest, if on no higher grounds, to conserve health; and the
knowledge which places within the grasp of each man and woman the power
of avoiding disease and prolonging life, is one after all which must in
time repay a thousandfold the labour expended in its study. It is with
a desire of assisting in some measure the advance of this all-important
work, that the present series of articles has been undertaken; and
we shall endeavour throughout these papers to present to our readers
plain, practical, and readily understood details connected with the
great principles that regulate the prevention of disease both in the
person and in the home.
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER XII.—A FAIR ARBITER.
There was a little uneasiness in Madge’s mind regarding the effect her
note might have on Mr Hadleigh. She had no doubt that she had given
the right answer, and was at rest on that score. But she had divined
something of the rich man’s desolation, and she was grieved to be
compelled to add in any way to the gloom in which he seemed to live.
She wished that she could comfort him: she hoped that there would come
a day when she would be able to do so.
It was a relief to her when at length she received this short missive:
‘I am sorry. I know that your refusal is dictated by the conviction
that what you are doing is best. I hope you will never have cause to
repent that you chose your way instead of mine.’
The foreboding which lurked in these words was plainly the reflection
of his own morbid broodings, but like all strong emotion, it was
infectious, and, reason as she would, she could not shake off its
influence entirely. At every unoccupied moment an indefinable shadow
seemed to cross the period between Philip’s going and return. There
was only one way of getting rid of this impression—to be always busy.
Fortunately that was the remedy nearest at hand; for with household
duties, her uncle’s accounts and correspondence—considerably multiplied
during harvest—and the preparation with her own hands of sundry useful
articles for Philip to take with him on his travels, she had plenty to
do, without reckoning the hours her lover himself occupied.
It was during one of those happy hours that Philip referred to the
proposal made by his father, and laughingly asked if she would agree to
it.
This was a trial which Madge had anticipated, and was yet unprepared
to meet. She could not make up her mind whether or not to tell Philip
about Mr Hadleigh’s letters. So, again she followed her maxim, and did
what was most disagreeable to herself—kept the secret.
‘You know what I think about it, Philip,’ she answered; ‘and I know the
answer you gave him.’
‘You are sure?’
‘Quite sure—you refused.’
‘And you are not sorry? Cruel Madge—you do not wish me to stay.’
‘What we wish is not always best, Philip.’
She looked at him with those quiet longing eyes; and he wished they
had not been at that moment walking in the harvest-field, with the
reaping-machine coming at full swing towards them, followed by its
troop of men and women gathering up the shorn grain, binding it into
sheaves and piling them into shocks for the drying wind to do its part
of the work. Had they only been in the orchard, he would have given her
a lover’s token that he understood and appreciated her sacrifice.
‘I am not prepared to give unqualified assent to that doctrine,’ he
said, thinking of the inconvenient neighbourhood of the harvesters.
‘However, in this instance I did not do what I wished.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Oh, he gave me a lot of good advice.’
‘Did you take it?’ she demanded, smiling.
‘Well, you see if we were to take all the good advice that is offered
us, there would be no enterprise in the world.’
‘I am going to show you one man who will take good advice.’
‘Who is that?’
‘There he is speaking to uncle.’
‘Why, that is Caleb Kersey. I never heard of him taking advice, as he
is too much occupied in giving it; and a nice mess he is making of the
harvest at our place.’
‘That is what I am going to see him about. I promised your father to
make some arrangement with him; but he has been away in Norfolk, and I
have had no opportunity of speaking to him until now.’
This Caleb Kersey’s name had suddenly become known throughout the
agricultural district of the country—to the labourers as that of their
champion; to the farmers as that of their bane. He was a man of short
stature and muscular frame; bushy black hair; square forehead and chin;
prominent nose and piercing gray eyes. When in repose or speaking to
his comrades, his expression was one of earnest thoughtfulness; but it
became somewhat sulky when he was addressing his superiors, and fierce
with enthusiasm when haranguing a crowd.
He was not more than thirty; yet he had worked as a farm-labourer
in all the northern and in several southern counties, thus becoming
acquainted with the ways and customs of his class in the various
districts. On returning to Kingshope he caused much consternation in
the neighbourhood of that quiet village, as well as in the town of
Dunthorpe, by forming an Agricultural Labourers’ Union, the object of
which was to obtain better wages and better cottages.
The Union did secure some advantages to the mass of labourers; but it
brought little to Caleb Kersey. The farmers were afraid to employ him,
lest he should create some new agitation amongst their people; and a
large number of the men who had been carried away by the first wave of
this little revolution having profited by it, settled down into their
old ways and their old habits of respect for ‘the squire, the parson,
and the master.’ But Caleb remained their champion still, ready to
be their spokesman whenever a dispute arose between them and their
employers.
He had picked up a little knowledge of cobbling, and when he could not
obtain farmwork, he eked out a living by its help.
‘It’s ’long ov them plaguy schools and papers,’ said Farmer Trotman one
day to Dick Crawshay. ‘There ain’t a better hand nowhere than Caleb;
but it was a black day for him and for us that he larned reading and
writing.’
The stout yeoman of Willowmere was scarcely in a position to sympathise
with this lamentation, for he had been in no way disturbed by Caleb’s
doings. Most of his servants were the sons and daughters of those who
had served his father and grandfather, and who would as soon have
thought of emigrating to the moon, as of quitting a place of which they
felt themselves to be a part, even if it were only to move into the
next parish. So, Uncle Dick could say no more than:
‘I don’t have any trouble with my people. They seem to jog on pretty
comfortable; and I daresay you’d get on well enough with Caleb if you
only got the right side of him. I give him a job whenever there is
one to give and he wants it; and he’s worth two any ordinary men. I
wouldn’t mind having him all the year round if he’d agree. But that’s
somehow against his principles.’
‘Ah! them principles are as bad as them schools for upsetting ignorant
folks. Look at me: all the larning I got was to put down my name plain
and straight; and there ain’t nobody as’ll say I haven’t done my duty
by my land and cattle.’
This was a proposition to which Uncle Dick could cheerfully assent, and
his neighbour was satisfied.
‘I want to speak to Caleb for a minute, uncle,’ said Madge as she
advanced.
Uncle Dick nodded, and walked leisurely after the harvesters,
accompanied by Philip.
‘Yes, miss,’ was the respectful observation of the redoubtable champion.
‘I am glad to see you back, because I have been wanting you for several
days.’
‘What for, miss?’
‘Well, I want to know in the first place, are you engaged anywhere?’
‘Not at present.’
‘Then will you let me engage you for a friend of mine?’
‘I’d like to do anything to please you, miss; but maybe your friend
wouldn’t care to have me.’
He said this with a faint smile, as if regretting that she had given
herself any trouble on his account.
‘He is not only ready to take you, but is willing to let you select the
hands who are to work under you for the whole of the harvest.’
‘That would be agreeable, if there is no bother about the wages.’
‘They will be the same as here.’
‘We wouldn’t want more than Master Crawshay gives.’
‘When can you get the hands together?’
‘In a day or two. But you haven’t told me where the place is, and I
would have to know how much there is to cut.’
‘Now you are to remember that it is I who am engaging you, Caleb,
although the place is not mine; and I want you to get people who will
consent to do without beer until after work.’
‘You mean Ringsford,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I’m afeared’——
There she stopped him by laying her hand on his shoulder and saying
with a bright smile: ‘I know you don’t take beer yourself, and you
know how much the others will gain by dropping it. I want you to get
this work done, Caleb; and there is somebody else who will be as much
pleased with you for doing it as I shall be. Come now, shall I tell
_her_ that you refuse to be near her, or that you are glad of the
chance?’
Caleb hung his head and consented. He knew that she spoke of Pansy.
CHAPTER XIII.—THE CARES OF STATE.
The ladies of the Manor were in the element which delighted them most
when preparing for the dinner and the ‘little dance’ which were to
express the agony they experienced at the departure of their brother
for a distant land. But the truth was that they did not think of the
parting at all: their whole minds were occupied with the festival
itself and with the ambition to make it the most brilliant that had
ever been known at Ringsford.
There are people who, whilst desirous of cultivating a reputation for
hospitality, regard the preparations for the entertainment of their
friends as an affliction; and whilst distributing smiles of welcome to
their guests, are, without malice, secretly wishing them far enough and
the whole thing well over. There are others who send out invitations
which they calculate will not be accepted, and who feel chagrined if
they are. But these young ladies thoroughly enjoyed the bustle of the
necessary arrangements for a banquet—and the larger its scale, the
greater their pleasure; and although they did send some invitations
out of deference to social obligations, whilst hoping they would be
declined, such drawbacks affected neither their appetites nor their
enjoyment when the evening came.
On the present occasion, Miss Hadleigh was of course most anxious that
everything should be done in honour of Philip; but it was impossible
for her to escape a certain degree of gratification in anticipating the
impression which was to be made on her betrothed of the importance of
the Family. She had subscribed for a gorgeously bound copy of a county
history in which a page was devoted to Ringsford Manor and its present
proprietor. It was remarkable how frequently that book lay open on the
drawing-room table at that particular page.
Caroline and Bertha had their private thoughts, too, about the
possibilities of the forthcoming festival. They did not deliberately
speculate upon obtaining devoted lovers; but they did count upon
securing numerous admirers. And, then, they were all to have new
dresses for the occasion. This was no special novelty for them: but,
however many dresses she may possess, there is no woman who does not
find interest and excitement in getting a new one.
With light hearts they attacked the business of issuing invitations;
and although ‘the little dance’ was second in order, they began with
it first. They progressed rapidly and merrily: there were a few
discussions as to whether or not they should include Mrs Brown and
the Misses Brown, or only have Miss Brown; whether they should have
Miss Jones alone, or Miss Jones and Miss Sarah Jones; and so on. There
were no discussions about the gentlemen, even when it was discovered
that supposing two-thirds of those invited came, it would be necessary
to erect a marquee on the lawn to allow room for dancing. Indeed the
discovery enhanced the glory of the event and caused a marked increase
in the number of cards sent out.
This was all smooth enough sailing; but they had to haul in their
colours at the first attempt to make up the list of guests for the
dinner. They were limited to twelve or fourteen; and there were so many
of those asked to the second part of the programme, who would feel
slighted and offended on hearing that they had been passed over in the
first part, that the girls were appalled by the difficulty of arranging
matters so as to cause the least possible amount of heart-burning. It
was not as if this were an ordinary gathering: the degree of friendship
would be distinctly marked by the line drawn between those who were
invited to the dinner and those who were not.
Their father had only mentioned Mr Wrentham and the Crawshays: he left
his daughters to select the other guests.
Miss Hadleigh had a vague sensation that she wished she had not been
so ready to call everybody her ‘Dearest friend.’ That rendered her
position decidedly more awkward than it would have been otherwise.
‘Of course we must have Alfred,’ she said decisively, as if relieved to
have settled one part of the difficulty.
‘Of course we _must_ have him,’ chimed her sisters.
‘And ... we ought to have his people,’ she added meditatively; ‘they
are—in a sort of way—connections of the Family.’
‘Alfred’ was Mr Crowell, the young merchant to whom she was engaged.
‘Yes, we ought to ask them,’ observed Caroline, with a suggestion in
voice and look that she would not be sorry if something should prevent
them from accepting.
‘Then we must ask old Dr Guy—he is such a friend of Philip’s; and if we
ask him, I don’t see how we can avoid sending cards to Fanny and her
stupid husband.’
Dr Guy was the oldest medical man of the Kingshope district: Fanny was
his daughter, married to his partner, Dr Edwin Joy.
‘I have it!’ cried Bertha, clapping her hands with glee at the notion
that she had solved the problem: ‘we’ll go and find out the evenings
that the people we don’t want are engaged, and invite them for those
very evenings.’
‘Foolish child,’ said the eldest sister majestically; ‘they would not
be all engaged for the same evening, and our date is fixed.’
‘Oh!—I did not think of that,’ rejoined Bertha, crestfallen.
‘How many have we got, Caroline?’
Caroline was believed to have a head for figures; and being glad to
be credited with a head for anything, she endeavoured to sustain the
character by making prompt guesses at totals which were generally
found to be wrong. Nevertheless, the promptitude of her replies and an
occasional lucky hit sufficed to keep up the delusion as to her special
faculty. She was lucky this time, for she had been reckoning them all
the time.
‘Ten; and the vicar will make eleven.’
‘Ah, yes—I had almost forgotten the dear old vicar. Thank you,
Caroline. That leaves us with only three places; and I suppose Philip
and Coutts will want to have some of their friends at dinner.’
The list of particular guests occupied four days of anxious thought
and much re-arrangement, with the result that room for two additional
places had to be made at the table. Even when all this was done, they
had not quite made up their minds who were really the most intimate
friends of the Family.
(_To be continued._)
THE ‘KITCHEN KAFFIR.’
Fortune, for good or ill, has cast my lot in the little Crown colony
of Natal. Let me at once say that I have no intention of going over
ground already but too well trodden. What with wars and rumours of wars
upon its borders, Natal has lately been ‘written up’ to a considerable
extent by enterprising travellers and newspaper correspondents. Minerva
has been treading closely on the heels of Mars, and at the first blush,
there would seem but little more to tell. However, the hasty grasp at
things made by dashing ‘specials’ and travellers may have left some
grains of information that will perhaps prove interesting.
It is only necessary to my subject to state, by way of introduction,
that Natal has a population of about thirty thousand whites and three
hundred thousand blacks—the latter, as will be seen, in a proportion
of ten to one. These are, of course, round numbers. The city of
Pietermaritzburg, the capital of the colony—where my afore-mentioned
lot is cast—contains between six and seven thousand Europeans, a large
number of Indian coolies, and a much larger number of natives. A
considerable proportion of the last-named fall to be spoken of under
the heading of this article—the ‘Kitchen Kaffir.’ Most of the domestic
work of the colony is performed by the natives. They come into the
town from the surrounding country from distances of twenty, fifty, or a
hundred miles, sometimes farther. The Kaffirs, thanks to the indulgence
of our paternal government, are allowed to settle and thrive on the
available Crown lands of the colony, and their kraals form a frequent
feature of the up-country landscape. Though these natives enjoy the
protection of the British government, polygamy is allowed under the
Native Law. Wives have to be bought with bullocks. The young natives,
ambitious to wed, leave the ancestral kraal, and work for wages in the
town until they have saved enough money to buy the requisite oxen.
Hence the Kitchen Kaffir.
My wife is now sitting at my elbow, sub-editing my remarks. This is
needful; for although we have been three years in the colony, I stand
second to her in knowledge of Kaffir character, and particularly of
Kaffir language. This cannot, of course, be referred to any inferiority
in my mental calibre, but to the fact that I am engaged in business
in the town all day; while my wife is brought more in contact with
the domestic Kaffir. He is named Sam, and has been with us for over
two years and a half. Well do I remember the first time I saw him. He
was drawing water, for an ungracious mistress, out of the _sluit_ or
rivulet-gutter that runs down the side of the Pietermaritzburg streets
or roads. I thought I had never seen a happier mortal. He was dressed
in an old shirt and trousers. In the latter, appeared a great rent;
frayed patches were visible all over his raiment; yet his face beamed
with a grin unrivalled in expressive extent by anything outside of a
Christy Minstrel entertainment. Our hearts instantly warmed towards
Sam, and we invited him to our hearth at the munificent rate of one
pound a month. He posed as bashfully as a maiden receiving an offer
of marriage. He shoved the back of his horny hand into his capacious
mouth, coquettishly paddled in the dust with his right big toe, and
took sly, sidelong glances at us with his large and rolling left eye.
All this we took to mean ‘Yes.’ A few days afterwards, Sam appeared
at the back of our cottage, carrying his sticks—no Kaffir ever goes
about without two or three _knobkerries_ in his hand—a rolled-up mat to
sleep on, and a wooden pillow. His attire was as ragged as ever; but by
means of some of my old clothes he assumed a more respectable air. I
must explain that, to suit European ideas of decency, the Kaffirs are
not permitted to wear their kraal costume in the town. Whenever they
come within the municipal boundary, they have to doff the _moochee_ or
fur-kilt and don trousers. They do so with great reluctance. If you
happen to be on the outskirts of the town, you will see the departing
Kaffirs joyfully throwing off shirt and trousers, tying these in a
bundle, re-assuming their _moochee_, and trotting happily homewards.
The duties of the Kitchen Kaffir are multifarious and fairly well
performed. He chops the wood, lights the fire, serves at table, cleans
the rooms, goes messages, and nurses the baby. He has weaknesses, of
course; but these he possesses in common with the rest of the human
family. He smokes and snuffs, and is fully alive to the benefits of
frequent leisure. At periodic intervals, generally of six months,
he shows a strong desire to go home, to _hamba lo kaya_. But this
intermittent home-sickness, while the gratifying of it may entail
some inconvenience on the _baas_ (master) or the _meesis_, is not
an unpleasing feature in the native character. Kraal-life is very
patriarchal, and the Kaffirs have strong home-instincts. They are a
social race, and the sociality is abundantly visible in the manners and
habits of the Kitchen Kaffir. In the ‘Kaffir house’—the outbuilding to
be found in the rear of nearly all colonial villas and cottages—there
is many a jovial evening spent by the ‘boys.’ When the toil of day
is over—few domestic natives work after six or seven o’clock in the
evening—they gather together and gossip on the events of the day. They
retail all the private life of their masters and mistresses; for they
have a wonderful faculty, distinct from prying, of shrewdly finding
out everything that is going on. News travels with astonishing speed
amongst the native population. The ‘boys’ apparently take it in turn to
invite each other to spend the evening and share the porridge supper.
Concurrently with the gossiping, they smoke. The pipe is a small bowl
fitted into a bullock’s horn, partly filled with water, through which
the smoke is drawn. The ‘boys’ generally sit in a circle; and by the
light of a stump of candle stuck in a corner, you can see their forms
dimly through the stiff clouds which they are blowing. The smoke seems
to be continually getting into the Kaffirs’ air-passages, as a loud
chorus of coughs is incessantly kept up. So the night wears on. At nine
o’clock a bell rings at the police-station, the signal for all Kaffirs
to go home. Any native found on the streets after that hour, unless
he have a written ‘pass’ from his master, is apprehended and fined
half-a-crown.
Sam, when solitary, amuses his evenings by playing on what I may call a
one-stringed harp. It consists of a wire strung on a wooden bow about
four feet long, near one extremity of which is fastened a hollow gourd
to give resonance. It is played by being struck with a stick; and by
pressing the wire, Sam can increase the range of the instrument to
two notes—‘tim-tum, tim-tum,’ by the hour together. He also, to its
accompaniment, sings certain wild melodies, probably with impromptu
words. The Kaffirs are noted _improvisatores_. You cannot even send
one on an errand without his chanting the object of his mission in
loud tones all down the street. It certainly goes against all ideas of
fitness to hear your Kaffir, as he ambles along, singing out in Zulu,
with endless repetitions, and to an incoherent melody: ‘Oh! missis is
going to make soup, and I’m off to buy the peas;’ or, ‘We’re right out
of firewood, and I’m to borrow some from Mrs Jones;’ or, ‘Master’s
sick, and I’m hurrying for the physic!’ If these domestic revelations
were only heard by the Kaffir population, it would not matter so
much; but the words are almost equally patent to the white people.
However, as everybody’s Kaffir sings his errands, there is a certain
compensation!
It should now be remarked that Kitchen Kaffir is also the name of the
modified Zulu spoken by the domesticated native. It is as peculiar
in its way as ‘Pidgin English,’ or any other of those _langues de
convenance_ which have originated in the intimate relations existing
between the British and some ultra-continental peoples. The Zulu
language proper is a well-developed tongue, elaborate in mood, tense,
and case, as can be seen in the erudite volume of the late Bishop
Colenso, who was as great an authority in Ethiopian grammar as in
arithmetic. Here and there, one may find old colonists, traders, or
missionaries who have a thorough knowledge of ‘Zulu;’ but the settlers
in general have neither the opportunity nor perhaps the inclination to
learn it. The prevailing custom of England seems to be to restrict her
subject races to their own tongue.
The Kitchen Kaffir is slightly heterogeneous. A number of English
and Dutch words have crept into it, with certain modifications to
adapt them to the genius of the Zulu language. Amongst the former we
would cite _callidge_ (carriage), _follik_ (fork), _nquati_ (note, or
letter), _lice_ (rice), and so on, the pronunciation being governed by
the fact that the Kaffirs experience difficulty in articulating _r_.
The letter _x_ is also a stumbling-block. Hence ‘box’ is transformed
into _bogus_, and a popular English Christmas institution transplanted
to the colony is known as a ‘Kissmiss bogus.’ ‘Sunday,’ again, is
spoken of as _Sonda_ or _Sonto_; and ‘horse’ is _ihashi_. In denoting
money there are also some peculiar terms. A threepenny piece is known
as a _pen_, and the latter word is pretty generally used amongst
the Europeans themselves. I may here interject the remark that the
threepenny piece is about the lowest coin in circulation in the colony.
Pennies are scarce, and farthings an unknown quantity. I was told by a
Natal schoolmistress that one of the greatest difficulties she met with
was in teaching the children how many farthings made up a penny; and
a little colonial-born girl once said to me: ‘Oh! how I would like to
go to England to see farthings!’ The Kaffirs look down with contempt
upon coppers. A half-crown is called, by a strange phonetic twist, a
_facquelin_, and a florin—well, thereby hangs a tale. Some years ago, a
contractor in Natal, who hailed from the north of the Tweed, hit upon
a brilliant idea, which he thought would result in a great saving of
expenditure. In giving his Kaffir labourers their weekly payment, he
substituted two-shilling pieces—till then unknown among the natives—for
half-crowns, thinking the ‘untutored savage’ would not detect the
difference. They went away contented; but it was not long ere the
storekeepers had enlightened their minds as to the true value of the
money. I forget how the matter ended; but it is a sad fact that to this
day the Kaffirs always speak of a florin as a ‘Scotchman.’ Traces of
Dutch in Kitchen Kaffir are numerous.
As to the Zulu element in Kitchen Kaffir, I would premise that the
written Zulu bears no very great resemblance to the spoken language.
This is partly owing to the number of ‘clicks,’ which originally
formed no characteristic of the Zulu tongue, but were many years ago
borrowed from the Hottentots, who revel in these verbal impediments.
There are three clicks, represented on paper by _c_, _q_, and _x_.
The _c_ is made by pressing the tongue against the teeth, as when one
is slightly annoyed; while _q_ is like a ‘cluck,’ and _x_ like the
‘chick’ made to start a horse. These, however, are what musicians
would term ‘accidentals,’ and but little interrupt the sonorous,
melodic flow of Kaffir utterance. To those who know the Zulu language
only through books, such words as _gqugquza_ (to stir up) and _uqoqoqo_
(windpipe) may seem next to unpronounceable; but in the native’s lips
they lose much of their angularity. So, too, with such combinations as
_ubugwigwigwi_ (whizzing-sound) and _ikitwityikwityi_ (whirlwind).
But now to return briefly to Sam. In many respects he is an excellent
servant, and like most of the unsophisticated Kaffirs, could be trusted
with untold gold. The average Kitchen Kaffir is frequently left in
charge of a house during the absence of the family, and would no more
think of making away with the valuables than would a watch-dog. One
evening Sam asked and received permission to go to the ‘school,’ by
which is meant the mission-school, where the Kaffirs are taught to
read and write, and where they also receive religious instruction.
The effect upon Sam was instantaneous. He invested in a new coat and
trousers, a waistcoat, and a white shirt with long cuffs. Big boots
adorned his feet, and a felt hat his head. A few days later he had
acquired a paper collar, gloves, and leggings, and finally he blossomed
out into an umbrella. His evenings are now spent in laborious _vivâ
voce_ attempts to master the alphabet, and the rude scrawls upon the
whitewashed wall testify to his efforts at caligraphy.
There is much diversity of opinion in Natal as to the results attending
the religious training of the native, and perhaps it would be well if
a little more of the ‘sweet reasonableness’ of Matthew Arnold were
imported into the discussion. There is, however, the fact that many
of the Kaffirs are taught to read and write, and this cannot in the
long-run be an evil. What has yet been accomplished, even at such
institutions as that founded by Bishop Colenso at Bishopstowe, and that
at Lovedale in the Cape Colony, is perhaps comparatively small; but it
may be as pregnant with encouragement as the humble blue flower that
cheered the heart of Mungo Park in the African desert.
TWO DAYS IN A LIFETIME.
A STORY IN EIGHT CHAPTERS.
CONCLUSION.
Presently the nurse came and carried off Miss Lucy and her doll. Lady
Dimsdale rose and joined Mrs Bowood.
A minute later, a servant came and presented Captain Bowood with a
card. The latter put on his spectacles, and read what was written on
the card aloud: ‘“MR GARWOOD BROOKER, Theatre Royal, Ryde.” Don’t know
him. Never heard of the man before,’ said the Captain emphatically.
‘The gentleman is waiting in the library, sir,’ said the servant. ‘Says
he wants to see you on very particular business.’
‘Humph! Too hot for business of any kind. Too many flies about. Must
see him though, I suppose.’
The servant retired; and presently the Captain followed him into the
house. Mrs Bowood and Lady Dimsdale lingered for a few minutes, and
then they too went indoors.
As Captain Bowood entered the library, Mr Brooker rose and made him
a profound bow. He was a stoutly-built man, between fifty and sixty
years of age. He wore shoes; gray trousers, very baggy at the knees; a
tightly buttoned frock-coat, with a velvet collar; and an old-fashioned
black satin stock, the ends of which hid whatever portion of his linen
might otherwise have been exposed to view. A jet black wig covered his
head, the long tangled ends of which floated mazily over his velvet
collar behind. His closely shaven face was blue-black round the mouth
and chin, where the razor had passed over its surface day after day
for forty years. The rest of his face looked yellow and wrinkled, the
continual use of pigments for stage purposes having long ago spoiled
whatever natural freshness it might once have possessed. Mr Brooker
had a bold aquiline nose and bushy brows, and at one time had been
accounted an eminently handsome man, especially when viewed from before
the footlights; but his waist had disappeared years ago, and there was
a general air about him of running to seed. When Mr Brooker chose to
put on his dignified air, he was very dignified. Finally, it may be
said that every one in ‘the profession’ who knew ‘old Brooker,’ liked
and esteemed him, and that at least he was a thorough gentleman.
Having made his bow, Mr Brooker advanced one foot a little, buried one
hand in the breast of his frock-coat, and let the other rest gracefully
on his hip. It was one of his favourite stage attitudes.
‘Mr Brooker?’ said Captain Bowood interrogatively, as he came forward
with the other’s card in his hand.
‘At your service, Captain Bowood.’ The voice was deep, almost
sepulchral in its tones. It was the voice of Hamlet in his gloomier
moments.
‘Pray, be seated,’ said the Captain in his offhand way as he took a
chair himself.
Mr Brooker slowly deposited himself upon another chair. He would have
preferred saying what he had to say standing, as giving more scope for
graceful and appropriate gestures; but he gave way to circumstances. He
cleared his voice, and then he said: ‘I am here, sir, this morning as
an ambassador on the part of your nephew, Mr Charles Warden.’
‘Don’t know any such person,’ replied the Captain shortly.
‘Pardon me—I ought to have said your nephew, Mr Charles Summers.’
‘Then it’s a pity you did not come on a better errand. I want nothing
to do with the young vagabond in any way. He and I are strangers. Eh,
now?’
‘He is a very clever and talented young gentleman; and let me tell you,
sir, that you ought to be very proud of him.’
‘Proud of my nephew, who is an actor!—an actor! Pooh!’ The Captain
spoke with a considerable degree of contempt.
‘_I_ am an actor, sir,’ was Mr Brooker’s withering reply, in his most
sepulchral tones.
The Captain turned red, coughed, and fidgeted. ‘Nothing personal,
sir—nothing personal,’ he spluttered. ‘I only spoke in general terms.’
‘You spoke in depreciatory terms, sir, respecting something about which
you evidently know little or nothing.’
The Captain winced. He was not in the habit of being lectured, and
the sensation was not a pleasant one, but he felt the justice of the
reproof.
‘Ah, sir, the actor’s profession is one of the noblest in the world,’
resumed Mr Brooker, changing from his Hamlet to his Mercutio voice;
‘and your nephew bids fair to become a shining ornament in it. I know
of few young men who have progressed so rapidly in so short a time,
and the press notices he has had are something remarkable. Here are a
few of them, sir, only a few of them, which I have brought together.
Oblige me by casting your eye over them, sir, and then tell me what you
think.’ Speaking thus, Mr Brooker produced from his pocket-book three
or four sheets of paper, on which had been gummed sundry cuttings from
different newspapers, and handed them to the Captain.
That gentleman having put on his glasses, read the extracts
through deliberately and carefully. ‘Bless my heart! this is most
extraordinary!’ he remarked when he had done. ‘And do all these fine
words refer to that graceless young scamp of a nephew of mine?’
‘Every one of them, sir; and he deserves all that’s said of him.’
Like many other people, Captain Bowood had a great respect for anything
that he saw in print, more especially for any opinion enunciated by the
particular daily organ whose political views happened to coincide with
his own, and by whose leading articles he was, metaphorically, led by
the nose. When, therefore, he came across a laudatory notice anent his
nephew’s acting extracted from his favourite _Telephone_, he felt under
the necessity of taking out his handkerchief and rubbing his spectacles
vigorously. ‘There must be something in the lad after all,’ he muttered
to himself, ‘or the _Telephone_ wouldn’t think it worth while to make
such a fuss about him. But why didn’t he keep to tea-broking?’
‘I am much obliged to you, sir,’ said the Captain, as he handed the
extracts back to Mr Brooker.
‘I am afraid that I make but a poor envoy, sir,’ said the latter,
‘seeing that as yet I have furnished you with no reason for venturing
to intrude upon you this morning.’
‘You have a message for me?’ remarked the Captain.
‘I have, sir; and I doubt not you can readily guess from whom. Sir, I
have the honour to be the manager of the travelling theatrical company
of which your nephew forms a component part. I am old enough to be the
young man’s father, and that may be one reason why he has chosen to
confide his troubles to me. In any case, I have taken the liberty of
coming here to intercede for him. There are two points, sir, that he
wishes me to lay before you. The first is his desire—I might, without
exaggeration, say his intense longing—to be reconciled to you, who
have been to him as a second father, since his own parents died. He
acknowledges and regrets that in days gone by he was a great trouble
to you—a great worry and a great expense. But he begs me to assure you
that he has now sown his wild-oats; that he is working hard in his
profession; that he is determined to rise in it; and that he will yet
do credit to you and every one connected with him—all of which I fully
indorse. But he cannot feel happy, sir, till he has been reconciled to
you—till you have accorded him your forgiveness, and—and’——