I have had many pleasant cups of tea in my life, indoors and out of doors, but never a pleasanter cup than the one I had the other day in a wagon, or, to speak more exactly, by the side of a wagon—a wagon, too, upon which one looked with the deepest respect, for it had just come down from a long journey up the country, where it had been trekking these four months past—trekking night and day right up to the territory of the Ama-Swazies, through the Thorn country, over hundreds of miles of these endless billowy hills, rolling in wearying monotony day after day; but—and this “but” made up for every other shortcoming—amid hunting-grounds happier than often fall to the lot of even the South African explorer. And there were the spoils of the little campaign spread out before us. The first result, however, which struck me was the splendid health of the travelers. Sunburned indeed they were, especially the fair young English girl-face which had smiled good-bye to me from the depths of a sun-bonnet last April. But who would not risk a few shades of tan to have gone through such a novel and delightful journey? I never saw two people look so well in all my life as this adventurous couple, and it was with one voice they declared they had enjoyed every moment of the time. And what a pleasant time it must have been, rewarded as they were—and deserved to be—by splendid sport! On the fore part of the wagon lay a goodly pile of skins and quantities of magnificent horns, from the ponderous pair on the shaggy buffalo-skulls down to taper points which might have belonged to a fairy buck, so slender, so polished, so inexpressibly graceful, were they. But the trophy of trophies was the skin of a lion, which had been shot in the earliest morning light some twenty yards from the hunter’s tent. It was a splendid skin, and the curved claws are to be made into a necklace and earrings for the sportsman’s wife, who indeed deserves them for bearing her share of the dangers and discomforts of the expedition so cheerfully and bravely. It was very difficult to elicit the least hint of what the discomforts were, or might have been, until at last my eager questions raked out an admission that a week of wet weather (the only one, by the way, in all the four months) was tedious when cooped up under the tilt of the wagon, or that some of the places up and down which the lumbering, unwieldy conveyance had crept were fearful to look at and dangerous to travel, necessitating a lashing together of the wheels by iron chains, as well as the use of the ordinary heavy brake. Yet there had been no upset, no casualty, no serious trouble of any sort; and I think what these English travelers were more impressed with than anything else was the honesty of the Kafirs. The wagon with its stores of food and wine, of comforts and conveniences of all sorts, had been left absolutely alone by the side of a track crossed and recrossed every hour by Kafirs, and twenty miles short of the place whither the tent had been carried for greater facilities of getting at the big game. The oxen were twenty miles off in another direction, under no one’s care in particular; the wagon stood absolutely alone; and yet when the moment of reassembling came every bullock was forthcoming, and nothing whatever of any description was missing from the unguarded wagon. The great attraction to the Kafirs along the line of travel had been the empty tins of preserved milk or jam: with tops and bottoms knocked out they made the most resplendent bangles, and became a violent fashion up among the Thorns.

Nor was that grand lion’s skin the only one. There were quagga skins, wolf skins, buck skins of half a dozen different species, eland skins, buffalo skins, lynx and wild-cat skins enough to start a furrier’s shop, and all in excellent preservation, having been tightly pegged out and thoroughly dried. The horns—or rather the skulls—were still a little high, and needed to be heaped well to leeward before we settled down to tea, camping on kegs and boxes and whatever we could find. I was made proud and happy by being accommodated with a seat on the lion skin; and exactly opposite to me, tranquilly grazing on the young grass, was the identical donkey which had attracted the king of animals to the spot where his fate awaited him. Although camped in the very heart of the lion country, the hunter had neither seen nor heard anything of his big game until this donkey chanced to be added to the stud, and then the lions came roaring round, half a dozen at a time. A huge fire had to be kept up night and day, and close to this the unhappy ass was tethered, for his life would not have been worth much otherwise; and he seems to have been thoroughly alive to the perils of his situation. Lions can resist anything except ass-flesh, it appears; but it is so entirely their favorite delicacy that they forget their cunning, and become absolutely reckless in pursuit of it. When at the last extremity of terror, the poor donkey used to lift up his discordant voice, and so keep the prowling foe at bay for a while, though it invariably had the double effect of attracting all the lions within earshot. And so it was that in the early dawn the hunter, hearing the lion’s growls coming nearer and nearer, and the poor donkey’s brays more and more frequent, stole out, rifle in hand, just in time to get a steady shot at the splendid brute only fifteen yards away, who was hungrily eyeing the miserable ass on the other side of the blazing fire. In spite of all legends to the contrary, a lion never attacks a man first, and this lion turned and moved away directly he saw the sportsman’s leveled rifle. Only one shot was fired, for the dull thud of the bullet told that it had struck the lion, and nothing upon earth is so dangerous as a wounded lion. The huge beast walked slowly away, and when the full daylight had come the sportsman and a few Kafirs followed up the blood-flecked trail for a quarter of a mile, or less, to find the lion lying down as if asleep, with his head resting on his folded fore paw, quite dead. I don’t think I ever understood the weight of a lion until I was told that it took two strong Kafirs to lift one of its ponderous fore feet a few inches even from the ground, and it was almost more than ten men could manage to drag it along the ground by ropes back to the tent. Twenty men could scarcely have carried it, the size and weight of the muscle are so enormous. The Kafirs prize the fat of the lion very highly, and the headman of the expedition had claimed this as his perquisite, melting it down into gourds and selling it in infinitesimal portions as an unguent. I don’t know what the market-price up country was, but whilst we were laughing and chatting over our tea I saw the crafty Kafir scooping out the tiniest bits of lion’s fat in return for a shilling. One of my Kafirs asked leave to go down and buy some. “What for, Jack?” I asked. “Not for me, ma’—for my brudder: make him brave, ma’—able for plenty fight, ma’.” I am certain, however, that this was a ruse, and that Jack felt his own need of the courage-giving ointment.

Talking of Jack, reminds me of a visit I had the other day from a detachment of his friends and relatives. They did not come to see Jack: they came to see me, and very amusing visitors they were. First of all, there was a bride, who brought me a young hen as a present. She was attended by two or three scraggy girls of about fifteen, draped only in short mantles of coarse cloth. The bride herself was exceedingly smart, and had one of the prettiest faces imaginable. Her regular features, oval outline, dazzling teeth and charming expression were not a bit disfigured by her jet-black skin. Her hair was drawn straight up from her head like a tiara, stained red and ornamented with a profusion of bones and skewers, feathers, etc., stuck coquettishly over one ear, and a band of bead embroidery, studded with brass-headed nails, being worn like a fillet where the hair grew low on the forehead. She had a kilt—or series of aprons, rather—of lynx skins, a sort of bodice of calf skin, and over her shoulders, arranged with ineffable grace, a gay table-cover. Then there were strings of beads on her pretty, shapely throat and arms, and a bright scarlet ribbon tied tight round each ankle. All the rest of the party seemed immensely proud of this young person, and were very anxious to put her forward in every way. Indeed, all the others, mostly hard-working, hard-featured matrons, prematurely aged, took no more active part than the chorus of a Greek play, always excepting the old induna or headman of the village, who came as escort and in charge of the whole party. He was a most garrulous and amusing individual, full of reminiscences and anecdotes of his fighting days. He was rather more frank than most warriors who

Shoulder their crutch and show how fields are won,

for the usual end of his battle-stories was the naÏve confession, “And then I thought I should be killed, and so I ran away.” He and I used up a great many interpreters in the course of the visit, for he wearied every one out, and nothing made him so angry as any attempt to condense his conversation in translating it to me. But he was great fun—polite, as became an old soldier, full of compliments and assurances that “now, the happiest day of his life having come, he desired to live no longer, but was ready for death.” The visit took place on the shady side of the verandah, and thither I brought my large musical-box and set it down on the ground to play. Never was there such a success. In a moment they were all down on their knees before it, listening with rapt delight, the old man telling them the music was caused by very little people inside the box, who were obliged to do exactly as I bade them. They were all in a perfect ecstasy of delight for ever so long, retreating rapidly, however, to a distance whenever I wound it up. The old induna took snuff copiously all the time, and made me affectionate speeches, which resulted in the gift of an old great-coat, which he assured me he never should live to wear out, because he was quite in a hurry to die and go to the white man’s land, now that he had seen me. We hunted up all manner of queer odds and ends for presents, and made everybody happy in turn. As a final ceremony, I took them through the house: tiny as it is, it filled them with amazement and delight. My long looking-glass was at once a terror and a pleasure to them, for they rather feared bewitchment; but I held up the baby to see himself in it, and then they were pacified, saying, “The chieftainess never would go and bewitch that nice little chieftain.” As usual, the pictures were what they most thoroughly enjoyed. Landseer’s prints of wild cattle elicited low cries of recognition and surprise: “Zipi in korno!” (“Behold the cows!”) My own favorite print of the three little foxes was much admired, but pronounced to be “lill catties.” The bride was anxious to know why I kept the beds of the establishment on the floor and allowed people to walk over them. She did not consider that a good arrangement evidently; nor could she understand how matting could be of any use except to sleep on. At last it became time for “scoff,” and they all retired to partake of that dainty, the old induna having begged leave to kiss my hands, which he did very gallantly, assuring me he had never been so happy before in all his life, and that he could quite believe now what I had told him about the great white queen over the sea being just as careful for and fond of her black children as of her white ones. I made a great point of this in my conversations with him, and showed them all Her Majesty’s picture, to which they cried “Moochlie!” (“Nice!”), and gave the royal salute. I must say I delight in these little glimpses of Kafir character; I find in those whom I come across, like my visitors of last week, so much simple dignity with shrewd common sense. Their minds, too, seem peculiarly adapted to receive and profit by anything like culture and civilization, and there certainly is a better foundation on which to build up both these things than in any other black race with which I am acquainted.

September 15.

Such an expedition as we have just made! It reminded me exactly of the dear old New Zealand days, only that I should have been sure to have had a better horse to ride in New Zealand than here. I have a very poor opinion of most of the animals here: anything like a tolerable horse is rare and expensive, and the ordinary run of steeds is ugly to look at, ill-groomed and ill-favored, besides not being up to much work. Upon this occasion I was mounted on a coarsely-put-together chestnut, who was broken in to carry a lady a few evenings ago whilst I was getting ready for my ride. However, beyond being a little fidgety and difficult to mount, owing to lurking distrust of my habit, he has no objection to carry me. But he is as rough as a cart-horse in his paces, and the way he stops short in his canter or trot, flinging all his legs about anywhere, is enough to jolt one’s spine out of the crown of one’s head. As for his mouth, it might as well be a stone wall, and he requires to be ridden tightly on the curb to keep him from tripping. When you add to these peculiarities a tendency to shy at every tuft of grass, and a habit of hanging the entire weight of his head on your bridle-hand as soon as he gets the least bit jaded, it must be admitted that it would be easy to find a pleasanter horse for a long, hurried journey. Still, on the principle of all’s well that ends well, I ought not to be so severe on my steed, for the expedition ended well, and was really rather a severe tax on man and beast. This is the way we came to take it:

Ever since I arrived, now nearly a year ago, I have been hearing of a certain “bush” or forest some forty-five or fifty miles away, which is always named when I break into lamentations over the utter treelessness of Natal. Latterly, I have had even a stronger craving than usual to see something more than a small plantation of blue gums, infantine oaks and baby firs, making a dot here and there amid the eternal undulation of the low hills around. “Seven-Mile Bush” has daily grown more attractive to my thoughts, and at last we accepted one of many kind and hospitable invitations thither, and I induced F—— to promise that he would forego the dear delight of riding down to his barn-like office for a couple of days, and come with Mr. C—— and me to the “bush.” This was a great concession on his part; and I may state here that he never ceased pining for his papers and his arm-chair from the moment we started until we came back.

It was necessary to make a very early start indeed, and the stars were still shining when we set off, though the first sunbeams were creeping brightly and swiftly over the high eastern hills. It was a fresh morning, in spite of the occasional puff of dust-laden air, which seemed to warn us every now and then that there was such a thing as a hot wind to be considered, and also that there had not been a drop of rain for these last five months. The whole country seems ground to powder, and the almost daily hot winds keep this powder incessantly moving about; so it is not exactly pleasant for traveling. We picked up our Kafir guide as we rode through the town, and made the best of our way at once across the flats between this and Edendale, which we left on our right, climbing slowly and tediously up a high hill above it; then down again and up again, constantly crossing clear, cold, bright rivulets—a welcome moment to horse and rider, for already our lips are feeling swollen and baked; across stony reefs and ridges cropping out from bare hillsides; past many a snug Kafir kraal clinging like the beehives of a giant to the side of a steep pitch, with the long red wagon-track stretching out as though for ever and ever before us. The sun is hot, very hot, but we have left it behind us in the valleys below, and we sweep along wherever there is a foothold for the horses, with a light and pleasant air blowing in our faces. Still, it is with feelings of profound content that at the end of a twenty-mile stage we see “Taylor’s,” a roadside shanty, looking like a child’s toy set down on the vast flat around, but uncommonly comfortable and snug inside, with mealie-gardens and forage-patches around, and more accommodation than one would have believed possible beneath its low, thatched eaves from the first bird’s-eye glance. The horses are made luxuriously comfortable directly in a roomy, cool shed, and we sit down to an impromptu breakfast in the cleanest of all inn-parlors. I have no doubt it would have been a very comprehensive and well-arranged meal, but the worst of it was it never had a chance of being taken as a whole. Whatever edible the nice, tidy landlady put down on her snowy cloth vanished like a conjuring trick before she had time to bring the proper thing to go with it. We ate our breakfast backward and forward, and all sorts of ways, beginning with jam, sardines, and mustard, varied by eggs, and ending with rashers of bacon. As for the tea, we had drunk up all the milk and eaten the sugar by the time the pot arrived. The only thing which at all daunted us was some freshly-made boers’ bread, of the color of a sponge, the consistency of clay and the weight of pig iron. We were quite respectful to that bread, and only ventured to break off little crusts here and there and eat it guardedly, for it was a fearful condiment. Still, we managed to eat an enormous breakfast in spite of it, and so did the horses; and we all started in highest condition and spirits a little before two o’clock, having had more than a couple of hours’ rest. After riding hard for some time, galloping over every yard of anything approaching to broken ground, we ventured to begin to question our guide—who kept up with us in an amazing manner, considering the prominence of his little rough pony’s ribs—as to the remaining distance between us and “Seven-Mile Bush.” Imagine our horror when he crooked his hand at right angles to his wrist, and made slowly and distinctly five separate dips with it, pointing to the horizon as he did so! Now, the alarming part was, that there were five distinct and ever-rising ranges of hills before us, the range which made a hard ridge against the dazzling sky being of a deep and misty purple, so distant was it. We had been assured at Taylor’s that only twenty-five miles more lay between us and the “bush,” and those mountains must be now at least thirty miles off. But the guide only grins and nods his head, and kicks with his bare heels against his pony’s pronounced ribs, and we hasten on once more. On our right hand, but some distance off, rises the dark crest of the Swartzkopf Mountain, and beneath its shadow, extending over many thousand acres of splendid pasture-ground, is what is known as the Swartzkopf Location, a vast tract of country reserved—or rather appropriated—to the use of a large tribe of Kafirs. They dwell here in peace and plenty, and, until the other day, in prosperity too. But a couple of years ago lung-sickness broke out and decimated their herds, reducing the tribe to the very verge of starvation and misery. However, they battled manfully with the scourge, but it gave them a distrust of cattle, and they took every opportunity of exchanging oxen for horses, of which they now own a great number. What we should have called in New Zealand “mobs” of them were to be seen peacefully pasturing themselves on the slopes around us, and in almost every nook and hollow nestled a Kafir kraal. Here and there were large irregular patches of brown on the fast greening hillsides, and these straggling patches, rarely if ever fenced, were the mealie-gardens belonging to the kraals.

By four of the clock we have made such good way that we can afford immediately after crossing Eland’s River, a beautiful stream, to “off saddle” and sit down and rest by its cool banks for a quarter of an hour. Then, tightening up our girths, we push off once more. It has been up hill the whole way, just excepting the sudden sharp descent into a deep valley on the farther side of each range; but the increasing freshness—nay, sharpness—of the air proved to us how steadily we had been climbing up to a high level ever since we had passed through Edendale. From this point of the journey the whole scenic character of the country became widely different from anything I have hitherto seen in Natal. For the first time I began to understand what a wealth of beauty lies hidden away among her hills and valleys, and that the whole country is not made up of undulating downs, fertile flats and distant purple hills. At the top of the very first ridge up which we climbed after crossing Eland’s River a perfectly new and enchanting landscape opened out before us, and it gained in majesty and beauty with every succeeding mile of our journey. Ah! how can I make you see it in all its grandeur of form and glory of color? The ground is broken up abruptly into magnificent masses—cliffs, terraces and rocky crags. The hills expand into abrupt mountain-ranges, serrated in bold relief against the loveliest sky blazing with coming sunset splendors. Every cleft—or kloof, as it is called here—is filled with fragments of the giant forest which until quite lately must have clothed these rugged mountain-sides. Distant hill-slopes, still bare with wintry leanness, catch some slanting sun-rays on their scanty covering of queer, reddish grass, and straightway glow like sheets of amethyst and topaz, and behind them lie transparent deep-blue shadows of which no pigment ever spread on mortal palette could give the exquisite delicacy and depth. Under our horses’ feet the turf might be off the Sussex downs, so close and firm and delicious is it—the very thing for sheep, of which we only see a score here and there. “Why are there not more sheep?” I ask indignantly, with my old squatter instincts coming back in full force upon me. Mr. C—— translates my question to the Kafir guide, who grins and kicks his pony’s ribs and says, “No can keep ship here. Plenty Kafir dog: eat up all ships two, tree day.” “Yes, that is exactly the reason,” Mr. C—— says, “but I wanted you to hear it from himself.” And ever after this, I, remembering the dearness and scarcity of mutton in Maritzburg, and seeing all this splendid feed growing for nothing, look with an eye of extreme disfavor and animosity on all the gaunt, lean curs I see prowling about the kraals. Almost every Kafir we meet has half a dozen of these poaching-looking brutes at his heels, and it exasperates me to hear that there is a dog law or ordinance, or something of that sort, “only it has not come into operation yet.” I wish it would come into operation to-morrow, and so does every farmer in the country, I should think. Yes, in spite of this fairest of fair scenes—and in all my gypsy life I have never seen anything much more beautiful—I feel quite cross and put out to think of imaginary fat sheep being harried by these useless, hideous dogs.

But the horses are beginning to go a little wearily, and gladly pause to wet their muzzles and cool their hoofs in every brook we cross. I am free to confess that I am getting very tired, for nothing is so wearying as a sudden, hurried journey like this, and I am also excessively hungry and thirsty. The sun dips down quite suddenly behind a splendid confusion of clouds and mountain-tops, lights up the whole sky for a short while with translucent masses of crimson and amber, which fade swiftly away into strangest, tenderest tints of primrose and pale green, and then a flood of clear cold moonlight breaks over all and bathes everything in a differing but equally beautiful radiance. Three ridges have now been climbed, and the pertinacious guide only dips his hand twice more in answer to my peevish questions about the distance. Nay, he promises in wonderful Dutch and Kafir phraseology to show me the “baas’s” house (whither we are bound) from the very next ridge. But what a climb it is! and what a panorama do we look down upon from the topmost crag before commencing the steep descent, this time through a bit of dense forest! It is all as distinct as day, and yet there is that soft, ineffable veil of mystery and silence which moonlight wraps up everything in. We look over immense tree-tops, over plains which seem endless beneath the film of evening mist creeping over them, to where the broad Umkomanzi rushes and roars amid great boulders and rocks, leaping every here and there over a crag down to a lower level of its wide and rocky bed. In places the fine river widens out into a mere, and then it sleeps tranquilly enough in the moonlight, making great patches of shimmering silver amid the profound shadows cast by hill and forest. Beyond, again, are mountains, always mountains, and one more day’s journey like this would take us into Adam Kop’s Land. As we look at it all now, it does indeed seem “a sleepy world of dreams;” but in another moment the panorama is shut out, for we are amid the intense darkness of the forest-path, stepping carefully down what resembles a stone ladder placed at an angle of 45°. Of course I am frightened, and of course my fright shows itself in crossness and in incoherent reproaches. I feel as if I were slipping down on my horse’s neck; and so I am, I believe. But nobody will “take me off,” which is what I earnestly entreat. Both my gentlemen retain unruffled good-humor, and adjure me “not to think about it,” coupled with assurances of perfect safety. I hear, however, a great deal of slipping and sliding and rolling of displaced rocks even after these consoling announcements of safety, and orders are given to each weary steed to “hold up;” which orders are not at all reassuring. Somebody told me somewhere—it seems months ago, but it must have been early in the afternoon—that this particular and dreadful hill was only three-quarters of a mile from the “baas’s;” so you may imagine my mingled rage and disappointment at hearing that it was still rather more than three miles off. And three miles at this stage of the journey is equal to thirteen at an earlier date. It is wonderful how well the horses hold out. This last bit of the road is almost flat, winding round the gentlest undulation possible, and it is as much as I can do to hold the chestnut, who has caught sight evidently of twinkling lights there under the lee of that great wooded cliff. No sound can ever be so delightful to a wearied and belated traveler as the bark of half a dozen dogs, and no greeting more grateful than their rough caresses, half menace and half play. But there is a much warmer and more cordial welcome waiting for us behind the sako bono of the dogs, and I find myself staggering about as if the water I have been drinking so freely all day had been something much stronger. On my feet at last in such a pretty sitting-room! Pictures, books, papers, all sorts of comforts and conveniences, and, sight of joy! a tea-table all ready, even to the tea-pot, which had been brought in when the dogs announced us. If I had even sixpence for every cup of tea I drank that evening, I should be a rich woman to the end of my days. As for the milk, deliciously fresh from the cow, it was only to be equaled by the cream; and you must have lived all these months in Natal before you can appreciate as we did the butter, which looked and tasted like butter, instead of the pale, salt, vapid compound, as much lard as anything else, for which we pay three shillings and sixpence a pound in Maritzburg, and which has been costing six shillings in Port Elizabeth all this winter.

It is always a marvel to me, arriving at night at these out-of-the-way places, which seem the very Ultima Thule of the habitable globe, how the furniture, the glass and china, the pictures and ornaments and books, get there. How has anybody energy to think of transporting all these perishable articles over that road? Think of their jolting in a bullock-wagon down that hill! One fancies if one lived here it must needs be a Robinson-Crusoe existence; instead of which it is as comfortable as possible; and if one did not remember the distance and the road and the country, one might be in England, except for the Kafir boys, barefooted and white-garmented, something like choristers, who are gliding about with incessant relays of food for us famished ones. The sweet little golden-haired children, rosy and fresh as the bough of apple-blossoms they are playing with, the pretty chÂtelaine in her fresh toilette,—all might have been taken up in a beneficent fairy’s thumb and transported, a moment ago, from the heart of civilization to this its farthest extremity. As for sleep, you must slumber in just such a bed if you want to know what a good night’s rest is, and then wake up as we did, with all memories of the long, wearying day’s journey clean blotted out of one’s mind, and nothing in it but eagerness not to lose a moment of the lovely fresh and cool day before us. Even the sailing clouds are beautiful, and the shadows they cast over the steep mountains, the broad rivers and the long dark belt of forest are more beautiful still. Of course, the “bush” is the great novelty to us who have not seen a tree larger than a dozen years’ growth could make it since we landed; and it is especially beautiful just now, for although, like all native forests, it is almost entirely evergreen (there is a more scientific word than that, isn’t there?), still, there are patches and tufts of fresh green coming out in delicate spring tints, which show vividly against the sombre mass of foliage. But oh, I wish they had not such names! Handed down to us from our Dutch predecessors, they must surely have got changed in some incomprehensible fashion, for what rhyme or reason, what sense or satire, is there in such a name as “cannibal stink-wood”?—applied, too, to a graceful, handsome tree, whose bark gives out an aromatic though pungent perfume. Is it not a libel? For a tree with a particularly beautifully-veined wood, of a deep amber color, they could think of no more poetical or suggestive name than simply “yellow-wood:” a tree whose wood is of a rich veined brown, which goes, too, beautifully with the yellow-wood in furniture, is merely called “iron-wood,” because it chances to be hard; and so forth.

Before going to the “bush,” however, we consider ourselves bound to go and look at the great saw-mill down by the Umkomanzi, where all these trees are divided and subdivided, cut into lengths of twenty feet, sawn into planks, half a dozen at a time, and otherwise changed from forest kings to plain, humdrum piles and slabs and posts for bridges, rooftrees, walls, and what not. There is the machinery at work, with just one ripple, as it were, of the rushing river turned aside by a little sluice, to drive the great wheel round and set all the mysterious pistons and levers moving up and down in their calm, monotonous strength, doing all sorts of miraculous things in the most methodical, commonplace manner. I was much struck by the physiognomy of the only two white men employed about this mill. There were some assistant Kafirs of course, but these two in their widely-different ways were at once repellent and interesting. One of them was, I think, the biggest man I ever saw. To say that he looked like a tall tree himself among his fellows is to give you, after all, the best idea of his enormous height and powerful build. He moved huge logs about with scarcely an effort, and it was entirely for his enormous physical strength that our host kept him in his place. I did not need to be told he was one of the most persistent and consistent bad characters imaginable, for a single glance at his evil countenance was enough to suggest that he could hardly be a very satisfactory member of society. He had only one eye, and about as hang-dog, sullen, lowering a countenance as one would see out of the hulks. His “mate” was a civil, tidy, wizen-looking, elderly man, who might have appeared almost respectable by the side of the bigger villain if his shaking hand and bleared, restless eyes had not told his story plainly enough. Still, if he could only be kept out of temptation the old man might be trusted; but our host confessed that he did not half like retaining the services of the other, and yet did not know where to find any one who would or could do his work so easily and admirably. It is almost impossible to get any men to come and live up here, so far away from their fellow-creatures and from everything except their work; so one has to put up with a thousand drawbacks in the service one is able to procure. I was glad when we turned our backs upon that villainous-looking giant and strolled beneath a perfect sun and sky and balmy air toward the lowest kloof or cleft where the great “bush” ran down between two steep spurs. The grass of the downs over which we walked had all the elasticity of tread of turf to our feet, but they ended abruptly in a sort of terrace, under which ran a noisy, chattering brooklet in a vast hurry to reach the Umkomanzi over yonder. It is easy to scramble down among the tangle of ferns and reeds and across the boulders which this long dry winter has left bare, and so strike one of the Bushmen’s paths without difficulty, and get into the heart of the forest before we allow ourselves to sit down and look around us. How wonderfully poetical and beautiful it all is!—the tall, stately trees around us, with their smooth magnificent boles shooting up straight as a willow wand for sixty feet and more before putting forth their crown of lofty branches, the more diminutive undergrowth of gracefulest shrubs and plumy tufts of fern and lovely wild flowers—violets, clematis, wood-anemones and hepaticas—showing here and there a modest gleam of color. But indeed the very mosses and lichens at our feet are a week’s study, and so are the details of the delicate green tracery creeping close to the ground. The trees, the actual great forest trees, are our delight, however, and we never weary of calling to each other to “come and look at this one,” extemporizing measuring-lines from the endless green withies which hang in loops and festoons from the higher branches. Thirty feet round five feet from the ground is not an uncommon measurement, and it is half sad, half amusing to see how in an hour or so we too begin to look upon everything as timber, to call the most splendid trees “blocks” (the woodman’s word), and to speculate and give opinions as to the best way of “falling” the beautiful stems. Up above our heads the foliage seems all interlaced and woven together by a perfect network of these monkey ropes—a stout and sturdy species of liane, really—such as I have seen swinging from West India forest trees. Here they are actually used as a sort of trapeze by the troops of baboons which live in these great woods, coming down in small armies when the mealies are ripe, and carrying off literally armsful of cobs. The Kafirs dread the baboons more than anything else, and there is a regular organized system of warfare between them, in which the baboons by no means get the worst. I heard a sickening story of how only last season the Kafirs of a kraal close by, infuriated by their losses, managed to catch an old baboon, leader of his troop, and skinned him and let him go again into the woods. It is too horrible to think of such cruelty, and it seemed a blot upon the lovely idyllic scene around us. All the wild animals with which the bush was teeming until a very few years ago are gradually being driven farther and farther back into the highest part, which has not yet been touched by axe or hatchet. There are still many kinds of buck, however—we saw three splendid specimens grazing just outside—besides other game. It must—not so long ago, either—have been the quiet forest home of many a wild creature, for there are pits now to be seen, one of which we came across with sharp stakes at the bottom, dug to trap elephants, whose bones lie there to this day. Tigers also have been seen, and panthers and leopards, but they grow scarcer every year. The aboriginal inhabitants of the border country beyond, the little Bushmen—the lowest type of human creatures—used to come down and hunt in great numbers here in this very spot where we are sitting, and traces of their ingenious methods of snaring their prey are to be seen in many places.

As I sat there, with the tinkle of the water in my ears, sole break in the “charmÈd silence” around, I could not make up my mind which was the most enchanting, to look up or down—up to where the tenderest tint of cobalt blue showed through the flicker of green leaves nearly a hundred feet above us, and where a sudden terror among the birds drove them in bright-plumaged flight from bough to bough; or down on the ground among the delicious brown leaves and wonderful minutiÆ of diminutive tendril and flower. Here and there were fallen crimson and yellow leaves, riveting the eye for a moment by their vivid glow, or the young fronds of a rare fern over yonder are pushing up their curled horns of pale green. A month hence it will be all carpeted with wild flowers, and the heaths will be spires of tiny bells. There is also a coarse but sweet grass, growing luxuriantly, on which the cattle love to feed when all the herbage outside is parched and burned to the very root.

As I read over what I have written, I am filled with a deep disgust to perceive how impossible it has been for me to catch even the faintest reflection of the charm of that forest-glade—how its subtle beauty is not, by any poor words of mine, to be transferred to paper—how its stillness and its life, its grandeur and its delicate prettinesses, the aroma of the freshly-cut logs, the chirrup of the cicalas, the twitter of the birds, all, all escape me. Yet I shall have failed indeed if I have not been able to convey to you that it was a delicious hour, and that I enjoyed every moment of it. I am only a woman, so I was content to sit there plaiting a crown of ferns, and thinking how I should tell you all about it some day, perhaps. My companions conversed together, and their talk was entirely about killing something—“sport” they called it—how best they could get a shot at those graceful bucks over yonder; what a pity the close season had begun; what partridges there were; when the wild-ducks would come down to that large mere shining in the distance; whether there were any wild-pigeons; how far into the unexplored bush one must penetrate to get a shot at a panther; and so forth. It seemed a desecration to talk of taking life on such a heavenly morning, and I was glad when it all ended in a project of a fishing-excursion after a late luncheon.

As we found we should be obliged to start early to-morrow morning, I decided to stay at home and rest this afternoon; and I did not regret my resolution, for it was very pleasant by the fire, and our beautiful morning turned into a raw, cold drizzle. But, as the people about here say, it has really forgotten how to rain, and it is more like a Scotch mist than anything else. Whatever it may be called, it blots out mountain and forest and river, and causes the fishing-excursion to turn into the dismalest failure. Next morning, too, when we start after breakfast, we are all glad of our waterproofs (what should I do without my ulster?), and the ground is as slippery as though it had been soaped. Our farewells are made, and we declare that we have no need of our Kafir guide again, though I confess to misgivings as to how we are to find our road through so thick a mist. It has also been decided, for the sake of the horses, to take them only as far as Taylor’s to-night, and so break the journey. But the question is, Shall we ever find Taylor’s? for it is a little off the track, and we cannot see five yards to our right hand or our left. We are obliged to go very slowly, and there are places, steep up and down hill, where in spite of precaution and picking out grass or stones to go over, our horses’ feet fly from under them, and we each in our turn come down on the damp red clay in an awkward sprawl. However, we do not disgrace ourselves by tumbling off, and my poor habit fares the worst, for the chestnut always seems to pick himself up, in some odd way, by its help; and the process is not beneficial to it. Eland’s River is crossed early in the afternoon, and then, slippery or not, we are forced to push on, for it seems as though it intended to be pitchy dark by four o’clock, and the mist turns into a thick, fine rain. At last, about half-past four, we hear on our left the joyful sound of barking dogs and crowing cocks, and the horses of their own accord show a simultaneous desire to turn off the track, to which, with its guiding wagon-wheels, we have so persistently clung. If it be not Taylor’s—if it turns out that these sounds come only from a Kafir kraal—then indeed I don’t know what we shall do, for we can never find the track again. It is an anxious moment, and Taylor’s is so small and so low that we are as likely as not to ride right over it; but no, there is a wagon, and behind the wagon, and not much higher, is a thatched roof, and under that thatched roof are warmth and food and shelter and a warm, cordial welcome; all of which good things we are enjoying in five minutes’ time. As for the horses, they are rubbed down and put to stand in a warm shed, with bedding up to their knees and a perfect orgie of mealies and green forage before them in boxes. Let us hope they enjoyed the contrast between indoors and out of doors as much as we did. At all events, they were freshness itself next morning, when we made another start—not quite so early, for only the lesser half of our long journey lay before us, and the flood of sunshine made it worth while to wait a little and let the soapy clay tracks have a chance to get dry.

It was exquisitely fresh and balmy about nine o’clock, when, after a capital breakfast, we did start at last, and the well-washed hills had actually put on quite a spring-green tint since we passed them a couple of days ago from yesterday’s long looked-for, much-wanted rain. I went through many anxieties, however, on that return journey, because my two companions, who were in the most tearing, school-boy spirits, insisted on leaving the road with its guiding marks of wagon-wheels, as well as every landmark to which I fondly clung, and taking me across country, over hill and dale, through swampy hollows and over rocky goat-paths, until I was quite bewildered and thoroughly incredulous as to where we should emerge. It is true that the dark crest of Swartzkopf lay steadily to our left, just where it should be, but I invariably protested we were all wrong when I had any leisure or breath to do anything but “hold on with my eyelids” up and down hill. At last we climbed up our last hill-face, and there, below us, literally smiling in the sunshine, lay the pretty little mission settlement of Edendale. We were exactly where we wanted, topographically speaking, to be, but between us and Edendale the mountain dropped sheer down, as it seemed to me, and naught but a goat-path was there. “Of course we are going to get off and lead our horses down,” I fondly hope. No such thing! I can’t very well get off by myself, for the precipice is so sheer that I should certainly drop down a hundred feet or so. F—— steadily declines to “take me off,” and begins to slip and slither down the track on horseback. I feel my saddle getting into all sorts of odd positions, and I believe I am seated on my horse’s ears, although I lean back until I can nearly touch his tail. It is really horrible. I get more and more cross every moment, and scold F—— and reproach Mr. C—— furiously all the way down, without eliciting the smallest sign of remorse from either. But it is very difficult to remain cross when once we have reached the foot of that cruel descent, for it is all inexpressibly lovely and calm and prosperous that beautiful spring morning. Everybody seems busy, and yet good-humored. The little black children grinned and saluted on their way to school; the elders cried “Sako bono, inkosa!” as they looked up from their basket-plaiting or their wagon-making; the mill-wheel turned merrily with a busy clatter inexpressibly cool and charming; the numerous fowls and ducks cackled and quacked as they scuttled from under our horses’ feet. We rode down the main street, with its neat row of unburnt brick houses on either hand, across a little river, and so, under avenues of syringas whose heavy perfume filled the delicious air, out into the open country once more. It is nearly a dead level between this and Maritzburg, and the road is in good order after the long winter drought; so we make the best of our way, and hardly draw rein until we are under the lee of the hill on which Fort Napier stands. Here is a villainous bit of road, a perfect study of ingenuity as to cross-drains, holes and pitfalls generally; so the horses take breath once more for an easy canter down the quiet straight streets of the sleepy little Dutch town. Our cottage lies beyond it and across the river, but it is still early, hardly noon in fact, when we pull up at our own stable-door, and the horses seem every whit as fresh and in as good condition as when we started, yet they have gone close upon one hundred miles from first to last,

September 25.

I declare I have not said anything about the weather for a long time. I cannot finish more appropriately than by one of my little meteorological reports. The skies are trying to remember how to rain; we have every now and then a cold, gray day—a day which is my particular delight, it is so like an English one; then rain more or less heavy, and an attempt at a thunderstorm. The intervening days are brightly glaring and exceedingly hot. Everything is bursting hurriedly and luxuriantly into bloom; my scraggy rose-bushes are thickly covered with buds, which blow into splendid roses after every shower; the young oaks are a mass of tender, luxuriant green, and even the unpoetical blue gums try hard to assume a fresh spring tint; the fruit trees look like large bouquets of pink blossom, and the laquot trees afford good sport for G—— in climbing and stone-throwing. On the veldt the lilies are pushing up their green sheaths and brilliant cups through the still hard ground, the black hill-slopes are turning a vivid green, and the weeds are springing up in millions all over my field-like flower-beds. Spring is always lovely everywhere, but nowhere lovelier than in “fair Natal.”