Dear Periwinkle,—Since that memorable1, not to say miserable2, day, when you and I parted at Saint Katherine’s Docks, (see note 1), with the rain streaming from our respective noses—rendering tears superfluous3, if not impossible—and the noise of preparation for departure damaging the fervour of our “farewell”—since that day, I have ploughed with my “adventurous4 keel” upwards5 of six thousand miles of the “main,” and now write to you from the wild Karroo of Southern Africa.
The Karroo is not an animal. It is a spot—at present a lovely spot. I am surrounded by—by nature and all her southern abundance. Mimosa trees, prickly pears, and aloes remind me that I am not in England. Ostriches6, stalking on the plains, tell that I am in Africa. It is not much above thirty years since the last lion was shot in this region, (see note 2), and the kloofs, or gorges7, of the blue mountains that bound the horizon are, at the present hour, full of “Cape8-tigers,” wild deer of different sorts, baboons9, monkeys, and—but hold! I must not forestall10. Let me begin at the beginning.
The adventurous keel above referred to was not, as you know, my own private property. I shared it with some two hundred or so of human beings, and a large assortment11 of the lower animals. Its name was the “Windsor Castle”—one of a magnificent line of ocean steamers belonging to an enterprising British firm.
There is something appallingly12 disagreeable in leave-taking. I do not refer now to the sentiment, but to the manner of it. Neither do I hint, my dear fellow, at your manner of leave-taking. Your abrupt13 “Well, old boy, bon voyage, good-bye, bless you,” followed by your prompt retirement14 from the scene, was perfect in its way, and left nothing to be desired; but leave-takings in general—how different!
Have you never stood on a railway platform to watch the starting of an express?
Of course you have, and you have seen the moist faces of those two young sisters, who had come to “see off” that dear old aunt, who had been more than a mother to them since that day, long ago, when they were left orphans15, and who was leaving them for a few months, for the first time for many years; and you have observed how, after kissing and weeping on her for the fiftieth time, they were forcibly separated by the exasperated16 guard; and the old lady was firmly, yet gently thrust into her carriage, and the door savagely17 locked with one hand, while the silver whistle was viciously clapt to the lips with the other, and the last “goo–ood—bye—d–arling!” was drowned by a shriek18, and puff19 and clank, as the train rolled off.
You’ve seen it all, have you not, over and over again, in every degree and modification20? No doubt you have, and as it is with parting humanity at railway stations, so is it at steamboat wharves21.
There are differences, however. After you had left, I stood and sympathised with those around me, and observed that there is usually more emotion on a wharf22 than on a platform—naturally enough, as, in the case of long sea voyages, partings, it may be presumed, are for longer periods, and dangers are supposed to be greater and more numerous than in land journeys,—though this is open to question. The waiting process, too, is prolonged. Even after the warning bell had sent non-voyagers ashore23, they had to stand for a considerable time in the rain while we cast off our moorings or went through some of those incomprehensible processes by which a leviathan steamer is moved out of dock.
After having made a first false move, which separated us about three yards from the wharf—inducing the wearied friends on shore to brighten up and smile, and kiss hands, and wave kerchiefs, with that energy of decision which usually marks a really final farewell—our steamer remained in that position for full half an hour, during which period we gazed from the bulwarks24, and our friends gazed from under their dripping umbrellas across the now impassable gulf25 in mute resignation.
At that moment a great blessing26 befell us. A boy let his cap drop from the wharf into the water! It was an insignificant27 matter in itself, but it acted like the little safety-valve which prevents the bursting of a high-pressure engine. Voyagers and friends no longer looked at each other like melancholy28 imbeciles. A gleam of intense interest suffused29 every visage, intelligence sparkled in every eye, as we turned and concentrated our attention on that cap! The unexpressed blessing of the whole company, ashore and afloat, descended30 on the uncovered head of that boy, who, all unconscious of the great end he was fulfilling, made frantic31 and futile32 efforts with a long piece of stick to recover his lost property.
But we did at last get under weigh, and then there were some touches of real pathos33. I felt no disposition34 to note the humorous elements around when I saw that overgrown lad of apparently35 eighteen summers, press to the side and wave his thin hands in adieu to an elderly lady on shore, while tears that he could not, and evidently did not care to restrain, ran down his hollow cheeks. He had no friend on board, and was being sent to the Cape for the benefit of his health. So, too, was another young man—somewhere between twenty and thirty years—whose high colour, brilliant eye, and feeble step told their own tale. But this man was not friendless. His young wife was there, and supported him with tender solicitude36 towards a seat. These two were in the after-cabin. Among the steerage passengers the fell disease was represented in the person of a little boy. “Too late” was written on the countenances38 of at least two of these,—the married man and the little boy.
As to the healthy passengers, what shall I say of them? Need I tell you that every species of humanity was represented?
There were tall men, and short men, as well as men broad and narrow,—mentally, not less than physically39. There were ladies pretty, and ladies plain, as well as grave and gay. Fat and funny ones we had, also lean ones and sad. The wise and foolish virgins40 were represented. So too were smokers41 and drinkers; and not a few earnest, loving, and lovable, men and women.
A tendency had been gaining on me of late to believe that, after passing middle-life, a man cannot make new and enthusiastic friendships. Never was I more mistaken. It is now my firm conviction that men may and do make friendships of the closest kind up to the end of their career. Of course the new friends do not, and cannot, take the place of the old. It seems to me that they serve a higher purpose, and, by enabling one to realise the difference between the old and the new, draw the cords of ancient friendship tighter. At all events, you may depend upon it, my dear Periwinkle, that no new friend shall ever tumble you out of the niche42 which you occupy in my bosom43!
But be this as it may, it is a fact that in my berth44—which held four, and was full all the voyage—there was a tall, dark, powerful, middle-aged45 man, an Englishman born in Cape Colony, (see note 3), who had been “home” for a trip, and was on his way out again to his African home on the great Karroo. This man raised within me feelings of disgust when I first saw him in the dim light of our berth, because he was big, and I knew that a big man requires more air to fill his lungs than a little one, and there was no superabundant air in our berth—quite the reverse. This man occupied the top berth opposite to mine. Each morning as I awoke my eyes fell on his beard of iron-grey, and I gazed at his placid46 countenance37 till he awoke—or I found his placid countenance gazing at me when I awoke. From gazing to nodding in recognition is an easy step in ordinary circumstances, but not when one’s head is on one’s pillow. We therefore passed at once, without the ceremony of nodding, into a quiet “good morning.” Although reticent47, he gradually added a smile to the “good morning,” and I noticed that his smile was a peculiarly pleasant one. Steps that succeed the “first” are generally easy. From disliking this man—not on personal, but purely48 selfish grounds—I came to like him; then to love him. I have reason to believe that the attachment49 was mutual50. His name—why should I not state it? I don’t think he would object—is Hobson.
In the bunk51 below Hobson lay a young Wesleyan minister. He was a slender young fellow,—modest and thoughtful. If Hobson’s bunk had given way, I fear that his modesty52 and thoughtfulness might have been put to a severe test. I looked down upon this young Wesleyan from my materially exalted53 position, but before the voyage was over I learned to look up to him from a spiritually low position. My impression is that he was a “meek” man. I may be mistaken, but of this am I certain, that he was one of the gentlest, and at the same time one of the most able men in the ship.
But, to return to my berth—which, by the way, I was often loth to do, owing to the confined air below, and the fresh glorious breezes on deck—the man who slept under me was a young banker, a clerk, going out to the Cape to make his fortune, and a fine capable-looking fellow he was, inclined rather to be receptive than communicative. He frequently bumped me with his head in getting up; I, not unfrequently, put a foot upon his nose, or toes, in getting down.
What can I say about the sea that has not been said over and over again in days of old? This, however, is worthy54 of record, that we passed the famous Bay of Biscay in a dead-calm. We did not “lay” one single “day” on that “Bay of Biscay, O!” The “O!” seems rather awkwardly to imply that I am not stating the exact truth, but I assure you that it is a fact. More than this, we had not a storm all the way to the Cape. It was a pure pleasure excursion—a sort of yacht voyage—from beginning to end; very pleasant at the time, and delightful55 now to dwell upon; for, besides the satisfaction of making a new friend like Hobson, there were others to whom I was powerfully drawn56, both by natural sympathy and intellectual bias57.
There was a Wesleyan minister, also an Englishman, born in South Africa, and of the race of Anak, with whom, and his amiable58 wife, and pretty children, I fraternised ardently59. My soul was also gladdened by intercourse60 with a clergyman of the Dutch-Reformed Church, well-known in the Cape, and especially in the Transvaal—who, with his pleasant wife and daughter, was on his way back to South Africa after a brief trip to Europe. He was argumentative; so, you know, am I. He was also good-tempered, therefore we got on well.
It would be an endless business to name and describe all the passengers who were personally attractive, and who were more or less worthy of description. There were, among others, a genial61 and enthusiastic Dutch-African legislator of the Cape; a broad-shouldered but retiring astronomer62; also a kindly63 Cape merchant; and a genial English banker, with their respective wives and families. I had the good fortune to sit in the midst of these at meals, close to Captain Hewat, who is unquestionably, what many of us styled him, a “trump.” He is also a Scotchman. There was likewise a diamond-digger, and another man who seemed to hate everybody except himself. There were also several sportsmen; one of whom, a gallant64 son of Mars, and an author, had traversed the “Great Lone65 Land” of British America, and had generally, it seemed to me, “done” the world, with the exception of Central Africa, which he was at last going to add to his list. There were also troops of children, who behaved remarkably66 well considering the trials they had to undergo; and numerous nurses, some of whom required more attention than all the ladies put together.
You will now, no doubt, expect an account of romantic adventures on the deep, and narrow escapes, and alarms of fire, and men overboard, and thrilling narratives67. If so, your expectations are doomed68 to disappointment. We fished for no sharks, we chased no whales, we fell in with no slavers or pirates. Nevertheless we saw flying fish, and we had concerts and lectures; and such delightful perambulations of the decks, and such charming impromptu69 duets and glees and solos on retired70 parts of the deck in moonlight nights, and such earnest discussions, and such genial companionship! Truly that voyage was one of those brilliant episodes which occur only once in a lifetime, and cannot be repeated; one of those green spots in memory, which, methinks, will survive when all other earthly things have passed away.
I will write no more about it, however, at present. Neither will I proceed in what is usually considered the natural manner with my epistles—namely, step by step. Arrivals, cities, travelling, roads, inns, and all such, I will skip, and proceed at one bound to that which at the present moment is to me most interesting, merely remarking that we reached Capetown, (of which more hereafter), in November,—the South African summer—after a voyage of twenty-five days.
I am now sojourning at Ebenezer-Hobson’s residence on the Karroo.
Note 1. Near the Tower of London. The South African traffic is now carried on chiefly through the East India Docks, Poplar, from which the union Castle liners depart. The mail boats proceed from Southampton.
Note 2. In 1840. See page 83. The author was writing in 1876.
Note 3. Known as the Province of the Cape of Good Hope, (or the Cape Province), since the establishment of the union of South Africa in 1910.
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1
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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ostriches
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| n.鸵鸟( ostrich的名词复数 )；逃避现实的人，不愿正视现实者 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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baboons
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| n.狒狒( baboon的名词复数 ) | |
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forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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appallingly
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| 毛骨悚然地 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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27
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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smokers
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| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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45
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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48
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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50
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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51
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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52
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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53
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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56
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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58
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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68
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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