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Ebook has 1960 lines and 66193 words, and 40 pages

Illustrator: G.E. Graves

Yankee Girls in Zulu Land, by Louise Vescelius-Sheldon.

My Dear Children:

Your Affectionate Mother.

P.S. George wants to know what has set you thinking of going to South Africa, where there are only Zulus and missionaries. Of course if the physician orders it for Frank's health, you know what is best.

Well, it had rained, and snowed, and "fogged" for six months during the year we were in London, and we had seen the sun only on ten separate days during that period. The doctor ordered a change of climate for Frank, to a land of heat and sunshine, and advised us to go to South Africa, that land of "Zulus and missionaries."

The old strain ran through my head, "From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strands, Where Afric's sunny fountains," etc, and as anything that suggested sunshine, even if it were in a diluted state, was what we wanted, we considered that a health excursion to the antipodes was worth a trial, if it wrought the desired effect.

There lived in the house with us an African lady who had recently come "home" for a trip to see the wonders of a civilised world. You must not imagine that by African I mean a Zulu or a Kafir or Hottentot. Oh, dear, no! The lady in question was as white as we, and very much more fashionable. She never tired of expatiating on the glories of her country, its marvellous fertility, its thousands of miles of grasslands, its myriads of birds of dazzling plumage and bewitching song, its flocks of sheep, flocks so large that even their owners could only approximately count their numbers, its mighty rivers, and above all, its immense wealth in gold and diamonds. Then the hospitality of the farmers, the way in which they welcomed strangers and treated them to the best of everything, was quite beyond the conception of any one who had not visited this wonderful country.

We had left ourselves so very little time to make our final arrangements that, as soon as the cab started, there commenced a running fire of questions.

"Did you pack the gloves in the big box?"

"Did you put the thin dresses on top, for we shall want them in the tropics," etc, when all of a sudden Louise sprang up with a gasp and a shout:

"Stop the cab! stop the cab!"

"What for?"

"Stop the cab, I say!"

"She must be ill," we cried. "Stop the cab!" and an unharmonious trio immediately assailed the ears of the driver: "Stop the cab!"

The cab stopped. "What's up anyhow?" inquired the London Jehu.

"I have left my diary on the dressing-table!"

If any of you have kept a diary you will understand the dread horror that overwhelmed us all at this awful announcement: one gasp, one moment of terrible silence, and then--action. "I must go back for it at once. You go on. I will take a hansom and gallop all the way. If I miss the boat, I will catch you at Dartmouth. I would sooner die than have that diary read! Hi, driver! Montague Place, Kensington! A half-sovereign if you drive as fast as you can." Bang! slam! a rush! a roar! and Louise is whirled away in the hansom cab, with the white-horse and the dashing-looking driver, with a flower in his button-hole. How the horse flew! What short cuts the driver took, darting across street-corners, shaving lamp-posts and imperilling the lives of small boys and old women selling apples, as only a London hansom-cab driver can! Everybody turns around as the white horse with the short tail, dragging the cab with its pale-faced occupant, dashes down the street, through the squares, across the park, round the crescent, where the policeman looks almost inclined to stop it, until he sees the anxious look of the girl inside; up the terrace, down two more streets, and finally, with a clatter, rattle, bang, a plunge and a bump, horse, cab, and "fare" come to a standstill at Montague Place. The door is thrown open by the servant-girl. "Have you seen a red-covered book with a brass lock that I left on the dressing-table in my room?"

"No, miss."

"Very well, where is Mrs--Oh! there you are! Oh! please, have you seen a brass book with a red lock, that I left on the--Why, there it is in your hand! Oh, thank you ever so much! I know you were going to bring it to me. Good-bye! I shall be just in time.

Meanwhile Eva and Frank are anxiously awaiting her arrival on board the ship: they have visited their state-room and seen their luggage carefully stored away, and are now left with nothing to do but speculate as to the result of Louise's expedition. Presently the clanging of the bell on the bridge gives warning that the warps are to be cast off, there is a rush to the gangway of the weeping friends of the passengers, and the hoarse cry passes along the quay: "Ease her off gently there! Forward! Stand by the cast-off!" The two girls are almost in despair, and have resigned themselves to the possible postponement of the journey, for Louise's catching the boat at Dartmouth seems to them only a bare possibility; when the people idling on the quay suddenly part from side to side, and a hansom cab with the self-same short-tailed "white" horse and knowing-looking driver dash triumphantly up the gangway, already in course of being drawn from the ship, and deposit the diary and Louise into the arms of the quartermaster. Blessings on that London hansom cab, its horse, and knowing driver. They had nobly done their duty and at 11:29, one minute before the ship casts off to drop down the river, the three sisters with the recovered diary are safe on board the steamer.

Moral: Don't keep a diary.

Soon after nightfall the lights along the coast began to fade slowly out of sight, at length entirely disappearing, and we were left in our little world bounded by the bulwarks of the ship, with the ocean on all sides, and the star-studded heaven above, sailing out into that "summer voyage of the world," as it is called. Certainly to us the recollection of it is like a long, happy summer's dream, passed under the bluest of skies by day, and the brightest of stars by night. On the sixth day after leaving Dartmouth we sighted the beautiful Island of Madeira. The weather had cleared, the air was deliciously fresh and balmy, the sea calm; and every one on deck to view the purple cloud slowly rising from the sea, which, they informed us, was Madeira.

Gradually the cloud assumed shape, then deeper shadows appeared here and there, till at last we could discern the graceful uplands, the mountain island, and the fantastically formed rocks strewn along the coast, with the sea breaking into foam on the picturesque beach.

For half an hour we skirted along the coast, seeing no other signs of human habitation than an occasional hut among the boulders on the cliffs, until, rounding a point, we came suddenly upon the beautiful village of Funchal, which is built on the beach of a romantic bay, with the verdant hills rising in grassy terraces in every direction. Low, white stone buildings peeped out from small forests, and the air was soft and balmy as it gently fanned the cheek, giving one a delicious sense of rest and warmth, only to be felt and appreciated on the borders of the tropics after a cold, damp, cheerless English winter. Scarcely had we dropped anchor ere the deck of the ship was swarming with men and women from the shore, offering for sale native work of every description, wicker basket chairs, sofas, tables, inlaid work-boxes, feather flowers, parrots, canaries, such lovely embroidery, and, what was most acceptable to many of us, the varied fruits of the island. Whilst feasting ourselves with bananas, mangoes, oranges, etc, we had an opportunity of observing the strange jumble of humanity on our decks, and surrounding the ship in row-boats of all sizes and shapes. Scores of half-nude, dark-skinned boys were in the boats chattering and tempting passengers to throw coins into the water for them to dive after, and the amount of dexterity they displayed in diving after a sixpence, catching it before it had sunk apparently more than five or six feet, sometimes bringing it up between their toes, was truly remarkable.

On the deck everything was noise and confusion; the sailors at work unloading cargo were hustling the swarthy half-breed Portuguese peddlers out of their way, while they, with one eye on their customers and another on their wares , were chattering away in a polyglot tongue half English and half Portuguese, praising their own goods and deprecating their neighbours'.

They will take generally before they leave the ship less than one-half what they ask for their goods when they first come aboard, and we noticed that passengers who had been to Madeira before did not attempt to make a bargain until the vessel was just about to start. As we were to remain at anchor five or six hours we wished to take a run on shore, and, together with a married lady and her husband, chartered one of the queer cheese-box-looking boats for the expedition.

All appears delightfully clear while in the distance: the convent on the slope, and the green hill itself, form an agreeable background; but ashore the prospect changed, and the streets turned out to be narrow and dirty, with the exception of the principal boulevard, which runs up from the beach toward the hill.

The queer-looking covered conveyances with runners like a sled and drawn by two undersized oxen, not larger than calves, arrested our attention, and we regretted our inability to take a jaunt in one up the hill to the convent, which had been spoken of as the most interesting place on the island, where the beautiful embroidery is made; but our time was limited, and we could only make a hasty tour of a few narrow, unhealthy-looking streets lined with trees of dense foliage, sip a glass of Madeira wine, so bad in quality it nearly choked us, and then return to our boats.

During the ramble we entered a large, ancient cathedral, that must have been built ages ago, whose decorations were well worth more than the hasty glance we gave it. We passed on to some shops where we found costly hand-made laces. One lace shawl which we bought could be rolled up in a ball in one hand without any injury to the fabric. As we hurried down to the beach we passed several invalids, lying in hammocks swung on upright poles at head and feet and protected from the sun's rays by awnings; these were carried by servants, and in this gentle manner they enjoyed the air and saw the sights offered on the beach without much fatigue.

What an English graveyard the Island of Madeira is! It is sad to see the feeble creatures there with the deluded idea that Madeira will give health to their tired lungs. It may in a few cases, as some plants will flourish in the climate that will kill others; but no one can see the purple cloud slowly settle over the island and envelop it at sunset, as we did, and believe that in that damp atmosphere, that island home, the consumptive can be cured of the deadly disease. He must go farther south and inland to that dry, sunny upland country, with its dewless nights and hot, sunny days, where health and new life blood have filled the veins of many who would have been along with the others in the English graveyard of Madeira, if that had been their home.

Arrived on board, we found everything in readiness for departure, and, having cleared the decks of the parrots and their owners, the anchor was weighed, the decks washed of the debris caused by the peddlers, and with the ship's head pointing south, we steamed away from Madeira.

Life at sea is necessarily monotonous, and our voyage, though most enjoyable, did not differ from others in this respect. There were the usual athletic sports for the gentlemen, and occasional concerts in the evening, when one or another of the amateurs would cause considerable amusement by his nervousness. One young gentleman, who had volunteered to sing "After the Opera is Over," found himself when he started to sing minus the words, the tune, or any idea of how to extricate himself. He sang "Aftah the op'ra is ov'ah! Aftah the op'ra is done! Aftah the op'ra is ov'ah! No--oh--confound it!--I sang that befo--ah! Aftah the op'ra is ov'ah! After the op'ra is ov'ah--ah--is done. Aftah the op'ra--No--what is it?" Then he softly hummed over to himself two or three times, and then, "After the op'ra is ov'ah! We swells--we swells--of the--we swells of the op'ra is ov'ah! Oh, doothe take it, I must have a brandy and sodah. Excuse me." And he suddenly disappeared in a deck cabin immediately behind the piano, but as he was serenaded so frequently afterward by those who were anxious he should learn the air, there is very little doubt that he will ever forget it. The nights were very oppressive when crossing the equator, and the gentlemen would take up their rugs and sleep so pleasantly on deck, whilst the female passengers would pass sleepless, hot nights below in the close state-room. But one bright night one of the heavy showers which come and go so suddenly in the tropics, without a note of warning, came sweeping down and inundated the sleepers, who came clattering and chattering, wet through, down the saloon stairs at three o'clock in the morning, calling to the stewards for creature comforts and dry blankets and disturbing every one of the passengers who had managed to defy the stifling closeness of the state-rooms and get to sleep.

There were a number of young men in the second-class saloon who were going out to the diamond and gold fields to seek their fortunes. These were continually bothering the merchants and diggers who had been out before for any particulars of the country they could give them. One of these latter gentlemen, talking about their eager inquiries one day at table, told an amusing story of a previous voyage he had made, which is good enough to bear repeating. He said he was on his way out two or three years before, when the diamond fields had only recently been opened up, and the ship was full of eager adventurers going out to seek their fortunes on the fields. Among the passengers in the saloon was a wealthy digger who had been home on a business trip, and who, having a strong appreciation of the ridiculous, was continually amusing himself by giving the most grotesque accounts of the life on the fields, and the many ways in which fortunes had been found or made.

It chanced that the ship was short of hands, and the captain and chief engineer were in great straits to get the coal properly "trimmed," or broken up for the furnaces, the few available stokers being in constant requisition at the fires. One day our facetious friend proposed to lay a friendly wager with the captain that he would, before the next day was out, have half the passengers in the fore cabin volunteering to break up coal.

He strolled down into the engine room that afternoon, taking care to choose a time when a number of the embryo diggers were loitering about, and carelessly taking up a piece of coal he suddenly started and said: "Good gracious, engineer, where did this coal come from?" The engineer, who was in the plot, said: "Some we brought from Cape Town to last for return trip." "I thought so. Why this is the very same coal in which the diamonds are always found on the fields."

"No!" said the engineer. "Yes," repeated our friend, "and I will give you a sovereign to let me overhaul the next lot of coal you get out of the bumpers."

"Oh, for the matter of that," said the engineer, "you are welcome to go over the whole lot; it is all in great lumps and isn't trimmed yet."

"All right, lend me a coal hammer," and into the bunker stepped our joker, followed by the interested gaze of a score of the emigrants. In less than a quarter of an hour he emerged with five or six rough diamonds in his hand. "Well, boys," said he, "that isn't bad work for the time, is it? Now, I don't care to go working about in a ship's coal bunkers. Besides, I don't care for the stuff. That coal wants breaking up; go and get permission of the captain to let you do it, and I'll wager half of you will be rich before you arrive at Cape Town."

No sooner said than done. Permission was granted, and, in less time than it takes to tell it, fifteen or twenty of the diamond seekers were hard at work banging at the coal, and straining their eyes in vain for the diamonds which seemed so easy to find. But their quest was fruitless, and the joker kept them at it by telling them they did not break the coal properly, that it had to be broken across the grain, and so on. Every bit of coal the ship required for her voyage was soon beautifully trimmed for the fires, and no diamonds found.

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.

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