The voyage from Madeira to the Cape was simply delightful. A fortnight,
during which we had crossed the equator through the heat of the tropics,
had elapsed, when we found ourselves one morning at dawn of day
approaching the rocky and precipitous shores of the Island of Saint
Helena. It had a most rugged appearance, which was heightened by its
lonely position, the island rising almost perpendicularly on all sides,
in some places of to the height of one thousand to twelve hundred feet.
Our steamer was to remain several hours, and many of the passengers took
advantage of the delay to go ashore and see the spot made so famous as
the scene of exile of Napoleon. The entrance to the island is guarded
by natural walls of stone towering above the steamer, and looking so
stern and cruel. A feeling of desolation was on us as we walked up the
one narrow, deserted street, with its filthy, repulsive-looking
inhabitants of dusky-coloured men and women. This spot was once all
life and glitter with the pride of the British Navy, when Saint Helena
was the port for the finest of British vessels to harbour in, on their
way to India by the Cape but all that glory belongs now to history.
What a terrible sense of desolation must have filled that great man's
heart in his rock-bound prison, where escape was impossible; his jail
possessed but one gateway, and that led into the boundless ocean.
We chartered some cadaverous frameworks which some dirty little boys
assured us were horses. Getting into a clattering vehicle, we were
taken to Longwood, for six years the home of the weary exile. 'Tis a
long, low building, very prettily situated at the head of a lovely
valley in the centre of the island.
His tomb lies lower down the glen. As we stood there, we could not but
think of the other tomb in Paris, with its gilded dome, vying with the
surrounding pinnacles to reach high heaven. I remember one sunny day in
Paris entering this temple; the sun was streaming through the yellow
stained-glass windows upon the marble pillars in the rear of the
building, making them appear like columns of gold; everything seemed to
be praising the life of their great hero.
Quite different, this, his resting-place. On this misty morning at
Saint Helena, as I stood in the grand silence beside this simple tomb,
which seemed to tell the story of this weary-hearted man, I felt that no
one could doubt, after visiting this spot, that Napoleon believed in a
Higher Ruler, a Superior Being; otherwise his own hand would have cut
short his dreary existence.
This visit of a few hours' duration was sufficient to cast a gloom over
us. So, picking a few leaves from the grave, we came down to the shore
again, and the dear old ship seemed like a kind heart waiting to receive
us, and cheer away our loneliness.
We still had an hour to spare, and several of our party decided to
ascend "Jacob's ladder," by which name is known a long flight of steps
reaching from the beach to the heights, said to be the longest stairway
in the world. The barracks are built on the cliff, and an English
garrison is stationed there. We climbed these hundreds of steps and
walked on to the parade ground, where the men were drilling; as soon as
the officer in command spied us he seemed to lose his presence of mind,
and the end man in the line turned one eye over his shoulder to see what
was the matter, so did the next man; in time it was a funny sight to see
the body of the whole line of men in position, but all heads turned to
see the visitors. The sentry stationed there welcomed us with an
expression of delight. Poor fellow! he said that they had received no
mail for sixty days, the steamers calling at the island only at long
intervals. When asked if it was not a dreary life, he shook his head
and looked out to sea with moistened eyes, more eloquent than any words
in expressing the monotony of the existence.
I have heard of a man who, wanting to see the world, enlisted in an
English regiment, and was stationed on the island of Saint Helena for
fourteen years.
As we were leaving the island one of the little nondescripts came
laughing past, and in the most workmanlike manner picked my pocket of
its purse. He was caught before he could get away, when he cried
bitterly, not so much, apparently, at being detected as for not being
allowed to keep his ill-gotten gains.
Here is a spot for one whose soul is yearning for untried missionary
fields. The interior of the island is said to be beautiful, flowers and
foliage growing in great luxuriance.
Leaving Saint Helena, we sailed southeast in a straight course for Table
Bay; for two days after leaving the island, our table was decorated with
fresh tropical flowers and fruits in great variety. We here felt the
influence of the heavy ground swell, which the sailors say is a
peculiarity of those latitudes, and has given rise to the burden of a
sailor's song, "Rolling Down to Saint Helena."
At sunrise of the twenty-eighth day after leaving London, having passed
through the "summer voyage of the world," we sighted the long,
flat-topped mountain which has given its name to the bay that lies at
its foot.
When we first sighted it, it appeared like a huge solitary rock standing
in the midst of the ocean, but as we gradually steamed up to the arms of
Table Bay, which opens to the north-west, the town nestling at the foot
of the mountain became visible, and as we brought up to allow the port
captain and health officer to come on board, the scene came more clearly
into view. The mountains outlined clearly against the sky, the mauve
and golden-tinted clouds, the deep blue water of the bay, edged with a
white and curving shore of singular beauty, surmounted by bold, rocky
mountain ranges, combined to form one of the most striking views we had
ever seen.
We will never lose the impression of South African scenery received that
morning. We had bidden farewell to the smoky fogs of London, and had
changed them for a country that was rich and brilliant, where the
atmosphere was surprisingly bright and clear, and the scenery bold,
spacious, and grand.
The long range of mountains which completely separates the Peninsula of
the Cape of Good Hope from the mainland, though at a distance of seventy
miles, stood out with a sharply defined outline in the morning air, the
ravines, water courses, and terraced heights appearing with almost
supernatural clearness. The characteristic beauty of light, which
distinguishes South Africa, was seen in the full and even splendour with
which every object, near and remote, became visible. Small boulders,
cavernous hollows in the rocks, patches of brush at the head of the
kloofs, at an elevation of two thousand feet, could be seen without
difficulty. We gazed spellbound at the distant mountain, seemingly so
near that we could have seen a human figure were it climbing the
heights, or heard a human voice if it broke the silence of the kloofs.
And it was not until the revolving of the screw warned us that we were
to enter the docks that we awoke from the reverie into which the first
view of the country had thrown us. Hastening below, we made
preparations for leaving the ship which had been our home for four
pleasant, all too fleeting weeks, and on emerging on deck we found the
vessel had already entered the well-built stone docks, and was then
being made fast to the quay. Shaking hands with Captain Lamar and our
other friends on the ship whom we should meet later on in our journey up
the country, we told the Malay porter where to find our belongings
amongst the luggage of the two hundred passengers aboard, took one last
look at the good ship, walked down the gangway, and found ourselves
fairly on South African soil, ten thousand miles from the "Old Folks at
Home."