JOURNEY TO CALEDON
Caledon,Dec.10th.
I did not feel at all well at Simon's Bay,which is a land of hurricanes.We had a 'south-easter'for fourteen days,without an hour's lull;even the flag-ship had no communication with the shore for eight days.The good old naval surgeon there ordered me to start off for this high 'up-country'district,and arranged my departure for the first POSSIBLE day.He made a bargain for me with a Dutchman,for a light Malay cart (a capital vehicle with two wheels)and four horses,for 30S.a day -three days to Caledon from Simon's Bay,about a hundred miles or so,and one day of back fare to his home in Capetown.
Luckily,on Saturday the wind dropped,and we started at nine o'clock,drove to a place about four miles from Capetown,when we turned off on the 'country road',and outspanned at a post-house kept by a nice old German with a Dutch wife.Once well out of Capetown,people are civil,but inquisitive;I was strictly cross-questioned,and proved so satisfactory,that the old man wished to give me some English porter gratis.We then jogged along again at a very good pace to another wayside public,where we outspanned again and ate,and were again questioned,and again made much of.
By six o'clock we got to the Eerste River,having gone forty miles or so in the day.It was a beautiful day,and very pleasant travelling.We had three good little half-Arab bays,and one brute of a grey as off-wheeler,who fell down continually;but a Malay driver works miracles,and no harm came of it.The cart is small,with a permanent tilt at top,and moveable curtains of waterproof all round;harness of raw leather,very prettily put together by Malay workmen.We sat behind,and our brown coachman,with his mushroom hat,in front,with my bath and box,and a miniature of himself about seven years old -a nephew,-so small and handy that he would be worth his weight in jewels as a tiger.At Eerste River we slept in a pretty old Dutch house,kept by an English woman,and called the Fox and Hound,'to sound like home,my lady.'Very nice and comfortable it was.
I started next day at ten;and never shall I forget that day's journey.The beauty of the country exceeds all description.
Ranges of mountains beyond belief fantastic in shape,and between them a rolling country,desolate and wild,and covered with gorgeous flowers among the 'scrub'.First we came to Hottentot's Holland (now called Somerset West),the loveliest little old Dutch village,with trees and little canals of bright clear mountain water,and groves of orange and pomegranate,and white houses,with incredible gable ends.We tried to stop here;but forage was ninepence a bundle,and the true Malay would rather die than pay more than he can help.So we pushed on to the foot of the mountains,and bought forage (forage is oats AU NATURAL,straw and all,the only feed known here,where there is no grass or hay)at a farm kept by English people,who all talked Dutch together;only one girl of the family could speak English.They were very civil,asked us in,and gave us unripe apricots,and the girl came down with seven flounces,to talk with us.Forage was still ninepence -half a dollar a bundle -and Choslullah Jaamee groaned over it,and said the horses must have less forage and 'more plenty roll'(a roll in the dust is often the only refreshment offered to the beasts,and seems to do great good).
We got to Caledon at eleven,and drove to the place the Doctor recommended -formerly a country house of the Dutch Governor.It is in a lovely spot;but do you remember the Schloss in Immermann's Neuer Munchausen?Well,it is that.A ruin;-windows half broken and boarded up,the handsome steps in front fallen in,and all ENSUITE.The rooms I saw were large and airy;but mud floors,white-washed walls,one chair,one stump bedstead,and PRAETEREA NIHIL.
It has a sort of wild,romantic look;I hear,too,it is wonderfully healthy,and not so bad as it looks.The long corridor is like the entrance to a great stable,or some such thing;earth floors and open to all winds.But you can't imagine it,however Imay describe;it is so huge and strange,and ruinous.Finding that the mistress of the house was ill,and nothing ready for our reception,I drove on to the inn.Rain,like a Scotch mist,came on just as we arrived,and it is damp and chilly,to the delight of all the dwellers in the land,who love bad weather.It makes me cough a little more;but they say it is quite unheard of,and can't last.Altogether,I suppose this summer here is as that of '60was in England.
I forgot,in describing my journey,the regal-looking Caffre housemaid at Eerste River.'Such a dear,good creature,'the landlady said;and,oh,such a 'noble savage'!-with a cotton handkerchief folded tight like a cravat and tied round her head with a bow behind,and the short curly wool sticking up in the middle;-it looked like a royal diadem on her solemn brow;she stepped like Juno,with a huge tub full to the brim,and holding several pailfuls,on her head,and a pailful in each hand,bringing water for the stables from the river,across a large field.There is nothing like a Caffre for power and grace;and the face,though very African,has a sort of grandeur which makes it utterly unlike that of the negro.That woman's bust and waist were beauty itself.
The Caffres are also very clean and very clever as servants,Ihear,learning cookery,&c.,in a wonderfully short time.When they have saved money enough to buy cattle in Kaffraria,off they go,cast aside civilization and clothes,and enjoy life in naked luxury.
