Dolce far Niente
General Sir F. Carrington and Mr. Cecil Rhodes on the homeward voyage
N.B.—A lady critic has written to say that although not an admirer of my sketches generally, in this instance she is pleased with “Rhodes’ feet”!
As we head into the green heights around Plymouth, there is one excited old Colonist, buttonholing everyone in turn, shouting with eager irony, “Saw you ever veldt like yon green hills?” And as a fog of driving sleet bursts like a blizzard on us, a mad heart–choking cheer goes up of joy to see real snow again.
A little red–bearded Scottish missionary is dancing wildly about the deck, with his coat–tails flying, yelling, “Man! I haena seen the snaw for twenty years!”
Why does not some one laugh at him? We can’t.
We are back once more in the yellow fog and the grimy slush of thawing snow in dear old, same old England.
Then, from the rushing hum of the special train, through the roar of the sloppy, lamp–lit streets, to the comfort and warmth—of Home.