  Recalled to England — Regrets and farewells — Cape horses lacking in intelligence — "Old Martin" — A chapter of accidents — A horse "after Velasquez" — The Spy's revenge — Virtues and faults of Cape horses — Horse-sickness — Good-bye to Swaylands — Kaffir crane — The voyage home — Dogs in durance — St. Helena — A visit to Longwood — Home again. At last, after several busy and most enjoyable years of ostrich-farming life, the time came when—our presence being required in England—we bade farewell to our colonial home, and, leaving the management of affairs in the able hands of a friend from the old country, with whom T—— had recently entered into partnership, took our departure from Swaylands, not without many regrets. Although, within the wide circle enclosed by our wire fence, we were not leaving many of our human fellow-creatures, there were plenty of good-byes to be said; for those who live on these out-of-the-way farms come to be on very intimate and familiar terms with their live stock, and all our creatures—even the fowls, and those tamer members of our large family of ostriches which for years had been daily looking inquiringly in at our windows, and picking and stealing round the kitchen door—were old friends, from whom we were sorry to part. But, strange to say, the very animal which in England becomes one of the friendliest seems here the least domesticated; and it cost us less of a pang to bid adieu to our horses than might be imagined by people at home, unacquainted with the surprising lack of intelligence which, in the Cape Colony, distinguishes the equine race. Their independent lives, and the freedom which most of them enjoy to roam as they will about the veldt, unfettered by the restraints of a stable, seem to have rendered them very indifferent to human society. It is no use trying to make a friend of your horse; he contemptuously repels all your advances, obstinately refuses to eat out of your hand, despises pieces of bread, lumps of sugar, and all such delicate little attentions wherewith you have never failed to win the heart of his English brother, and, however many years he may have lived with you, persists to the last in remaining on the coldest and most distant of terms. Among all our horses the only really intelligent animal was one of Arab descent. But our good-bye to him was said a year before; and now, on leaving Swaylands, we can but take our last look at "the place where the old horse died." The faithful old grey friend who lies under that rough clump of bush was a favourite of long standing. He had belonged to T—— many years ago, was sold by him on leaving the colony, and, after changing hands several times, chiefly among acquaintances of his former owner—in remembrance of whom he acquired the name of "Old Martin"—was repurchased by T—— soon after we came out. Although by this time he was a long way past his prime, he was still considerably the best of all our horses, and for pluck and endurance we have never seen his equal. At the end of the longest day's journey—even though it had covered sixty miles—he would come in pulling as hard as at the start, and apparently as fresh. No matter how poor his condition—and South African horses do indeed get poor during long droughts—he was at all times equally ready for work. We never insulted him by carrying so unnecessary an article as a whip; for he did everything with a will, and whether cantering, trotting, or only walking, always seemed to be endeavouring to run away with you. As a lady's horse he was simply perfect, all his paces being equally delightful for the rider. In former times T—— and his four-footed namesake had gone through many adventures together; and now, when after the lapse of years these two friends and comrades met again, the old horse instantly recognised his master with unmistakeable signs of pleasure. One of these early adventures came very near costing the good grey his life. T——, during a journey on horseback, came one evening to a river crossed by an open railway-bridge consisting only of iron girders. To save time and avoid a circuitous route he decided to take a somewhat reckless short cut and lead the horse over that bridge. In this Blondin-like fashion they had proceeded about half-way across, when poor old Martin's foot slipped, and down he came, falling in such a position that his body lay prone on the narrow iron pathway formed by the rail and girder, while on either side two of his legs dangled helplessly over space. Sundown was approaching; so too was a train which, as T—— remembered, was very nearly due; but, though he tried his utmost to help the poor animal to his feet, all was unavailing, and presently the train hove in sight. T——, waving his handkerchief with wild gestures, succeeded in attracting the attention of the engine-driver, who stopped the train and came to his assistance. But, with all their efforts, they could not succeed in raising the horse from his perilous position; the train could wait no longer, and they had no choice but to resort to the kill-or-cure expedient of rolling him over into the water below. Falling from a height of some twenty-five feet, he went so deep into the mud at the bottom of the shallow African river that T—— was unable to pull him out, and had to leave him there all night. On coming back next morning with a span of oxen and some stout riems, he was horrified to find that during the night the unfortunate animal had sunk deeper and deeper into the mud, till little more than his nose remained above water. It was the work of much time and exertion to drag him out; and during the process his neck got such a twist that for the remainder of his days there was a crook in it, which caused his head to hang meditatively a little on one side. Another time he was attacked by a large swarm of vicious bees, which settled all over him, stinging him so severely that his whole body swelled up, and he assumed the proportions of that preposterously inflated horse by Velasquez in the picture-gallery at Madrid. For three days the poor old fellow stood immoveable; then, after taking an enormous drink of water, he gradually recovered. Very different, too, from the unintelligent Cape horses was "The Spy," a well-known steeple-chaser, imported into the colony by T—— some years ago. An incident which occurred during his voyage out recalls the oft-told anecdote of the elephant and the tailor. The horse-box in which the Spy was placed being just outside the door of the saloon, his head was in close proximity to the waiters as they passed and repassed during their attendance at meals. One of these waiters, being of a malicious turn of mind, found great enjoyment in teasing the unoffending animal, and missed no opportunity of giving him a rough knock on the nose in passing. For a while the Spy bore this treatment patiently; but he was biding his time, and at last had his revenge. One day, as the obnoxious waiter, bearing in either hand a steaming dish of currie and rice, was stepping briskly along to the saloon, he suddenly found himself grasped in a pair of powerful jaws, whisked clean off his legs, shaken like a rat in the grip of a terrier, and, finally, ignominiously dropped on to the deck among the dÉbris and scattered contents of his dishes. Although the horses produced by the Cape Colony are the best in South Africa, they have been much over-rated. It is true that a large number of them are capable of getting through a good deal of slow, continuous work under the saddle, with poor food and hardships as to shelter; but the vast majority of the colonial horses are in all respects indifferent animals, and devoid of good looks. In one point, perhaps, they surpass all other equine races in the world—their feet being generally excellent, and the hoofs so firm and hard as rarely to require shoeing, even on very long journeys. Many horses of most unprepossessing exterior are scarcely to be matched for speed and endurance in the field; but, taken en masse, South African horses are a failure. They are almost invariably poor and timid jumpers, and, when in harness, move but very small weights. A light cart containing two persons is sufficient to tax the powers of a pair of average horses, and even then jibbing is always imminent. At least eighty per cent. of the Cape horses are desperate stumblers, and uneasy in their paces—faults attributable to round, heavy shoulders and defective hind-quarters. Among the good horses the greater proportion are ill-tempered, and delight in buck-jumping, whenever they have the rare chance of being in good condition. The terrible distemper known as "horse sickness" periodically causes great destruction in many parts of the colony; and the fear of it operates as a check on breeders, who would otherwise import better horses to improve their studs. A "salted horse"—one which has had horse-sickness—is very valuable, even if abounding in all kinds of equine misfortunes or faults. Such animals range in price from £25 to £100, according to age and quality. Horse-sickness is most partial in its operations; and sometimes, in the case of two adjoining farms, one will be severely attacked by the disease, while the other remains perfectly free from it. And now, at length, the day of departure has come; and we leave Swaylands, though not in our own cosy little American spider. That fairy chariot, alas! is hors de combat; its strong, though delicate-looking wheels have succumbed at last to the roughness of Karroo roads and the dryness of the South African climate; and as we pass out at the little gate we take our last look at it as it lies there on the ground, a forlorn, sledge-like thing. What glorious drives we have had in that once daintiest and prettiest of little carriages—travelling to hunts or dances, fetching our mail, or sending off precious freights of feathers to the Port Elizabeth market! and how vividly the recollection of them comes back to us as we pass for the last time along the familiar Mount Stewart road! Even now, at this time and distance, we can still conjure them up, and see and hear once more the well-known and loved sights and sounds of the Karroo. Animal and bird life start into quick motion all round us: the little duyker antelopes spring up from their forms among the bush, and dart gracefully away; the flights of pretty Namaqua partridges run along the ground quite close to us; the knorhaans, rending the air with discordant, over-powering noise, chatter out their loud disapproval of our approach; the little bright-eyed meerkats stare audaciously at us, then dive into their holes in pretended fear of us; the air is all full of the sweet scent of mimosa-blossoms, and T——, singing joyously in the overflow of good spirits induced by its pure, fresh, exhilarating qualities, enlivens the journey with one song after another as we spin merrily along on our airy, bicycle-like wheels; while Toto, equally happy, careers at our side, chasing every animal and bird that he sees, though seldom able to catch anything much swifter on its feet than a tortoise. These tortoises, by the way, always afforded Toto excellent sport; he considered it his bounden duty to bring to us—no matter from what distance—all that he could possibly grasp with his teeth; and, many of them being much too large to be carried in this way, he was often obliged to put them down for a while, to rest his poor aching jaws. Sometimes he would come to a standstill before a gigantic specimen, and call us, with loud, excited barks, to the spot where some fifty pounds of splendid material for soup were to be had for the picking-up. He would stand barking triumphantly at the creature, which, in response, kept up a low, roaring noise, expressive of deepest disgust at his proceedings. And when the prize was secured, and we drove off with it safely ensconced at our feet, Toto was a proud dog indeed. Somehow, on this last drive into Mount Stewart, everything is tantalizingly looking its very best; the veldt, refreshed by recent rains, is of a lovely soft green, and delicate flowers peep from it in all directions; the dazzling sunshine—so soon to be exchanged for cold northern skies—seems brighter than ever; and, in the clear atmosphere of the Karroo, the bold outlines of the far-off Cock's Comb are lifted up, as it were, by a strange effect of mirage—the mountain appearing quite detached from the horizon, and with blue water flowing at its foot. Just before we reach the turn in the road which hides the homestead of Swaylands from our view, we stop and look back; and, if it must be owned, that last look at the poor little ugly house—our dear home for the past few years—is taken by not quite undimmed eyes. Then on, at a brisk pace, to Mount Stewart, where, at the pleasant little hotel in which we have so often been hospitably entertained, the host and his numerous family are assembled in full force to bid us God-speed. I take my last, wistful look at a long-coveted tame Kaffir crane, a delightful bird, who, in his neat suit of softest French-grey plumage, stalks solemnly—as he has been doing any time these four or five years—about the precincts of station and hotel; and am introduced to a newly-captured baby jackal, which T—— has just bought, and which is to accompany us to England. Then the train, at its usual leisurely pace, crawls down with us to Port Elizabeth. More good-byes—and at last we and all our zoological collection are safe on board the Union Company's S.S. Mexican; and soon the coast of Algoa Bay recedes from our view. Toto does not enjoy his journey as he did when outward-bound; for there are too many of the canine race on board, and one little pair of pugs in particular—belonging to richly-jewelled passengers of the Hebrew persuasion, who have not trained up their dogs in the way they should go—commence the voyage by invading everybody's cabin, and making themselves generally so objectionable that on the second day the captain's fiat goes forth for the impartial consignment of all the dogs—good, bad and indifferent—to hen-coops. There they are accordingly, on the second-class deck, ranged in a dismal row, at one end of which poor little caged Anubis, the jackal-cub, yelps piteously for mother, brethren and freedom; and there, for the four weeks of the voyage, they are condemned to remain. All are profoundly miserable; but poor old Toto—being so much the largest—is the most to be pitied. In that narrow cage, where there is hardly room for him to turn round, he travels through the steaming heat of the tropics; his legs become cramped and stiff from want of exercise; he fattens like a Strasburg goose on the Irish stew and other substantial viands from the saloon table with which the waiters—cruelly generous—persist in stuffing him; and when, as a rare treat, he is allowed half an hour's liberty for what is ironically called a "run" on deck, he is able to do little more than sit down and pant. With better luck than often falls to the lot of travellers by steamer, we remain a sufficient time at St. Helena to allow of a somewhat hurried visit to Longwood; and, going ashore with a good number of fellow-passengers, we charter the few carriages and saddle-horses to be had in the little town, and proceed, as fast as we can, up the steep, zigzag road. We notice that in this island there seem to be two completely different climates within a very short distance of one another. Down near the sea-level, bananas and other tropical plants grow luxuriantly in the close, stifling heat: but as we ascend we come into another climate; the air is almost cold, there is a fine, drizzling rain; blackberries, bracken, and other home-like plants border the roadside, and we might imagine ourselves in England, but for the bright-hued little birds which peep fearlessly at us from the bushes. Though the excursion is a most enjoyable one, especially after being cooped up on board ship, Longwood itself is disappointing, the house being quite dismantled, and containing nothing but a very beautiful bust of Napoleon, which has been placed by his family in one of the rooms. Our passage is throughout a calm and prosperous one: we have pleasant company on board; there are none of the cliques and small enmities which so often spoil the enjoyment of a voyage; some of the passengers play and sing well; good concerts and theatricals enliven many of our evenings; and our only disappointment is the unkind fate which again brings us through Madeira in the dark. And at last, one lovely April morning—which seems to have been made on purpose to welcome returning colonists, spoilt by a long continuance of Cape sunshine—we drop quietly into Southampton; English violets and primroses are brought on board in delicious profusion; the usual hurried farewells are exchanged while most of us struggle wildly with refractory bags and wraps; Toto, in an alarmingly plethoric condition, waddles forth from his hen-coop; and very soon we are on terra firma, and—paying the first dread penalty of the newly-landed—pass through the ordeal of the Custom House. This turns out to be a very lengthy and tedious business; for, since we have been away, new and stringent regulations have come into force, and we find that our innocent cabin-trunks and hand-bags are all suspected of containing dynamite. Not until every package has been thoroughly ransacked are we allowed to depart, and seek our train. Then the latter bears us along through woodland scenery, brilliant with all the fresh tints of an English spring, which for us seems to have a new beauty. And in a few hours we find ourselves back in old, familiar scenes; friends from whom we have long been parted are round us once more; and the dear, delightful, rough South African life is a thing of the past. THE END. D. APPLETON & CO'S PUBLICATIONS. WORKS BY ARABELLA B. BUCKLEY (MRS. FISHER). THE FAIRY-LAND OF SCIENCE. With 74 Illustrations Cloth, gilt, $1.50. "Deserves to take a permanent place in the literature of youth."—London Times. 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The strange experiences of two boys in the forests and swamps of Georgia. III. THE LOG SCHOOL-HOUSE ON THE COLUMBIA. A Tale of the Pioneers of the Great Northwest. By Hezekiah Butterworth, author of "Zigzag Journeys." Illustrated. In a story romantic, exciting, and instructive as well, the author introduces his readers to a new field which will prove to be one of absorbing interest. Also stories by Octave Thanet, Richard Malcolm Johnston, and other well-known authors, which will be published shortly. The series, bound in cloth, with specially designed uniform cover. Per volume, $1.50. FIRST VOLUME IN THE SERIES OF THE YOUNG HEROES OF OUR NAVY. LITTLE JARVIS. By Molly Elliot Seawell. Illustrated by J. O. Davidson and George Wharton Edwards. The story of the heroic midshipman of the frigate Constellation. The second of the Youth's Companion prize stories. Bound in cloth, with specially designed cover. 8vo. $1.00. Recent Issues in Appletons' Town and Country Library. THE NUGENTS OF CARRICONNA. An Irish Story. By Tighe Hopkins. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. "An extremely racy Irish story, quite separated from everything that savors of the present agitation in Ireland, and one of the best things of the kind for several years."—Springfield Republican. A SENSITIVE PLANT. A novel by E. and D. Gerard, joint authors of "Reata," "The Waters of Hercules," etc. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. "An agreeable and amusing love-story, the scene of which is part of the time in a coal-mining district in Scotland, and afterward in Venice, and a prominent character in which is a shrinking girl whose sensitiveness is suggestive of the little mimosa flower which gives title to the book."—Cincinnati Times-Star. DOÑA LUZ. By Don Juan Valera. Translated by Mrs. Mary J. Serrano. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. "A triumph of skillful execution as well as of profound conception of modern Spanish character and social life. It is full of the best traditions of Spanish thought, both sacred and secular, of Spanish proverbial wisdom, and of the humor of Cervantes and other lights of the past in the literature of Spain."—Brooklyn Eagle. PEPITA XIMENEZ. By Don Juan Valera. Translated by Mrs. Mary J. Serrano. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. "A very striking and powerful novel."—Boston Transcript. "'One of the jewels of literary Spain' is what a Spanish critic has pronounced the most popular book of recent years in that language, Don Juan Valera's novel 'Pepita Ximenez.'"—The Nation. THE PRIMES AND THEIR NEIGHBORS. Ten Tales of Middle Georgia. By Richard Malcolm Johnston, author of "Widow Guthrie." 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.25. "The best of Southern tales."—Chicago Herald. "The thorough excellence of Col. Johnston's work is well known. He was among the first of the successful short-story writers of this country. The steady increase in his fame is the best indication of the solid appreciation of the reading public. This public will give the new volume the same reception that made 'Widow Guthrie' one of the most successful of recent novels."—Baltimore American. THE IRON GAME. By Henry F. Keenan, author of "Trajan," "The Aliens," etc. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. "An entertaining romance which covers the time from just before the war until soon after the peace. Six young people carry on their love-making under countless difficulties, owing to two of them being on the wrong side of the 'unpleasantness.' Of course, there are all sorts of adventures, plots, misunderstandings, and wonderful escapes…. The book is written in excellent taste."—Pittsburgh Bulletin. STORIES OF OLD NEW SPAIN. By Thomas A. Janvier. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. "The author does for the Mexicans much what Longfellow has done for the Acadians."—New York Commercial Advertiser. "Mr. Janvier has evidently explored the ancient ruins and studied the old church records thoroughly, and has drawn therefrom much hitherto unused material."—Cincinnati Times-Star. "Another lot of those tales of Mexico, which their author, Thomas A. Janvier, knows how to write with such skill and charm. Nine of the stories are delightful, and nine is the number of stories in the book."—New York Sun. THE MAID OF HONOR. By the Hon. Lewis Wingfield. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. "A story of France just before, during, and after the Reign of Terror. There are not many novels in our language which portray rural conditions in France in this troubled period, and this has a unique interest for that reason."—Chicago Times. "A very graphic story of those troublous times which witnessed the temporary triumphs of 'the people.'"—Rochester Herald. "It may safely be said that up to the last page … the reader's attention is not allowed to flag."—London AthenÆum. IN THE HEART OF THE STORM. By Maxwell Grey, author of "The Silence of Dean Maitland." 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. "The plot is compact, deftly constructed, free from extravagances and violent improbabilities, with a well-managed element of suspense running nearly to the end, and strongly illustrative throughout of English life and character. The book is likely to add materially to the author's well-earned repute."—Chicago Times. CONSEQUENCES. By Egerton Castle. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. "It is a real pleasure to welcome a new novelist who shows both promise and performance…. The work is distinguished by verve, by close and wide observation of the ways and cities of many men, by touches of a reflection which is neither shallow nor charged with the trappings and suits of weightiness; and in many ways, not least in the striking end, it is decidedly original."—Saturday Review. THE WHITE MOUNTAINS: A Guide to their Interpretation. With a Map of the Mountains and Ten Illustrations. By Rev. Julius H. Ward. 12mo. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25. "Books descriptive of the White Mountains are too few. Any lover of the Granite Hills will gladly welcome this valuable addition to White Mountain literature, both for the pleasure he himself will derive from its perusal, and for the good it will do in exciting an interest in the minds of strangers. So far as we know, Mr. Ward's is only the sixth of such books…. If we were to attempt to classify Mr. Ward's book, we should place it along with that of Starr King, for its sympathetic treatment of the subject. It seems to us, however, to occupy a place not filled by any of them, and to share the merits of all. It is not a guide-book, and yet its systematic arrangement and the intelligent hints in its preliminary chapters give it a real value as a guide to the tourist."—Rev. Ithamar W. Beard, in White Mountain Echo. "Mr. Ward's aim has been something apart from the aims of these who have gone before him. He has sought to write neither a guide-book nor an itinerary. He aimed not at mere description, nor did he permit his imagination alone to guide his pen. His was rather a sympathetic and intelligent attempt to interpret for the contemplative mind the great lessons which these impressive elevations are capable of imparting to men…. Mr. Ward's sympathy with his subject is keen and alive. He writes as one who loves Nature profoundly. The faith and devotion of such students we are assured that she never betrays. His in truth is a volume to carry along with one to the mountain and to open and read anywhere. It is also a volume to read at home. Even those who have not in years looked upon those glorious pageants of mountain-tops and moving clouds will find it of great interest and of much practical service in recalling their early impressions and suggesting new ones."—New York Times. "The author of 'The White Mountains' is a mountain enthusiast possessing keen poetic conception, the hardihood of a mountaineer, and the especial knowledge of a mountain guide. He, therefore, thoroughly covers his chosen field. Little or nothing is left to any future gleaner; for he has studied this region in all its summer moods and winter tenses, from North Conway to the retreat to Lonesome Lake, from the great wall of the Glen to the heart of the wilderness, from little Jackson Valley to wild-wooded Moosilauke, and the interest of the author is soon communicated to the reader, so that he feels, if he has once visited this region, that he must go again with this book in his hand, to look with wider eyes and finer intelligence, to dream with poets and think with sages."—The New York Home Journal. "The volume, although it covers familiar ground, is unique in its plan and treatment, and opens up a new and wonderful source of enjoyment to the lover of natural scenery. It humanizes Nature, or, rather, it brings the single individual soul into communion with that vast and universal soul which pervades the material universe."—Boston Transcript. "Description of the perpetually changing mountain view (assisted by ten good photogravures), and interpretation of it after the manner of the poet and the believer in the Divine Immanence, are the two offices which Mr. Ward has so successfully discharged that his volume will become a classic on the White Mountains."—Literary World. "It furnishes a great deal of practical information which will be of inestimable service."—Boston Gazette. "The book is replete with noble thoughts expressed in language of exquisite beauty."—New York Observer. "The author is thoroughly in love with his subject and not less thoroughly acquainted with it."—New York Tribune. Footnotes
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