Capetown, March 20th.

Dearest Mother,

Dr. Shea says he fears I must not winter in England yet, but that I am greatly improved—as, indeed, I could tell him. He is another of the kind ‘sea doctors’ I have met with; he came all the way from Simon’s Bay to see me, and then said, ‘What nonsense is that?’ when I offered him a fee. This is a very nice place up in the ‘gardens’, quite out of the town and very comfortable. But I regret Caledon. A— will show you my account of my beautiful journey back. Worcester is a fairy-land; and then to catch tortoises walking about, and to see ‘baviāans’, and snakes and secretary birds eating them! and then people have the impudence to think I must have been ‘very dull!’ Sie merken’s nicht, that it is they who are dull.

Dear Dr. Hawtrey! he must have died just as I was packing up the first Caffre Testament for him! I felt his death very much, in connexion with my father; their regard for each other was an honour to both. I have the letter he wrote me on J—’s marriage, and a charming one it is.

I took Mrs. A— a drive in a Hansom cab to-day out to Wynberg, to see my friends Captain and Mrs. T—, who have a cottage under Table Mountain in a spot like the best of St. George’s Hill. Very dull too; but as she is really a lady, it suits her, and Capetown does not. I was to have stayed with them, but Wynberg is cold at night. Poor B—’s wife is very ill and won’t leave Capetown for a day. The people here are wunderlich for that. A lady born here, and with 7,000l. a year, has never been further than Stellenbosch, about twenty miles. I am asked how I lived and what I ate during my little excursion, as if I had been to Lake Ngami. If only I had known how easy it all is, I would have gone by sea to East London and seen the Knysna and George district, and the primÆval African forest, the yellow wood, and other giant trees. However, ‘For what I have received,’ &c., &c. No one can conceive what it is, after two years of prison and utter languor, to stand on the top of a mountain pass, and enjoy physical existence for a few hours at a time. I felt as if it was quite selfish to enjoy anything so much when you were all so anxious about me at home; but as that is the best symptom of all, I do not repent.

S— has been an excellent travelling servant, and really a better companion than many more educated people; for she is always amused and curious, and is friendly with the coloured people. She is quite recovered. It is a wonderful climate—sans que celÀ paraisse. It feels chilly and it blows horridly, and does not seem genial, but it gives new life.

To-morrow I am going with old Abdool Jemaalee to prayers at the Mosque, and shall see a school kept by a Malay priest. It is now Ramadan, and my Muslim friends are very thin and look glum. Choslullah sent a message to ask, ‘Might he see the Missis once more? He should pray all the time she was on the sea.’ Some pious Christians here would expect such horrors to sink the ship. I can’t think why Mussulmans are always gentlemen; the Malay coolies have a grave courtesy which contrasts most strikingly with both European vulgarity and negro jollity. It is very curious, for they only speak Dutch, and know nothing of oriental manners. I fear I shall not see the Walkers again. Simon’s Bay is too far to go and come in a day, as one cannot go out before ten or eleven, and must be in by five or half-past. Those hours are gloriously bright and hot, but morning and night are cold.

I am so happy in the thought of sailing now so very soon and seeing you all again, that I can settle to nothing for five minutes. I now feel how anxious and uneasy I have been, and how I shall rejoice to get home. I shall leave a letter for A—, to go in April, and tell him and you what ship I am in. I shall choose the slowest, so as not to reach England and face the Channel before June, if possible. So don’t be alarmed if I do not arrive till late in June. Till then good-bye, and God bless you, dearest mother—Auf frohes Wiedersehn.