The Colony horses, with a little training, answer admirably for either hunting or shooting. They may be taught to remain stationary for hours together by merely turning the bridle over their heads, resting the extremities of the reins on the ground. They seldom trot; the usual pace is a canter, and occasionally an amble.
So much has already been said and written on the Cape Colony, its sturdy Boers, its soil, its productions, and so forth, that it would be superfluous to add any thing farther. Suffice it to mention a few of the most remarkable incidents of my journey.
Soon after leaving Komaggas, my horse—a young half-trained stallion which had only been ridden thrice—shied, and, rearing on his hind legs, came to the ground on his back with sudden violence. Providentially, the soil was soft and yielding, and although I sustained his whole weight for a few seconds, I escaped with no worse consequence than a tight squeezing.
After leaving Komaggas the homesteads of the Boer became daily more numerous. Riding up one morning to a house, with a view of obtaining some bread and flour, I was greeted with the following civil address: “Daar komt weder die verdoomde Engelsman;” that is, “There comes again the cursed Englishman.” Though I had heard much of the aversion these men entertain for all that is British, and their coarse language in general, I certainly had not expected that they would have carried their animosity so far. Walking straight up to the individual that had thus accosted me, I said, in as good Dutch as I could muster, “My good friend, in my country, when a stranger does us the honor to pay us a visit, before even asking his errand or his name, much less abusing him, we invite him to our table; and, when he has quenched his thirst and satisfied his hunger, we may probably inquire whence he comes or where he goes;” and with this I leaped into the saddle. The fellow clearly felt the rebuke, for, on turning my horse’s head away, he endeavored to persuade me to stop; but his rude salutation had quite spoiled my appetite.
As a rule, however, though frequently coarse and abrupt in their language and conversation, they are undeniably hospitable; and when a person can converse with them in their own language, and accommodate himself to their manners and peculiarities, they are excellent fellows, as I have often experienced. To several of their customs, nevertheless, the stranger will find some difficulty in reconciling himself.
In these localities, on meeting a wayfaring man, the Dutch Boer invariably thus accosts him: “Good-day! Where do you come from? Where are you going? Are you married? How many children have you?” and so forth. If you should be so unfortunate as not to have entered into the marriage state, he is astonished beyond measure, and looks upon you with something like contempt.
Like most people who are novices in a foreign language, I committed at first sad mistakes, and many a joke and laugh originated at my expense. Once, indeed, my awkwardness cost me the loss of a supper, of which I stood greatly in need, having ridden some fifty miles in the course of the day without tasting food of any description. In the Dutch language, “danken” signifies a direct refusal; but, not being aware of this, I interpreted it in the very reverse sense, as meaning, “If you please.” As often, therefore, as I repeated the ominous word, so often had I the mortification of seeing the smoking dishes pass by me!
Refreshing myself one afternoon at a comfortable farmhouse, the worthy host inquired whence and how far I had journeyed. Having made a rough calculation in my own mind, I told him the approximate distance. No sooner had I done so than he clasped his hands together, and, turning to his wife, exclaimed, in the utmost amazement, “Gracious heavens! the man has been in Timbuctoo!” “No, my good friend, not quite so far,” I remarked. But he became too much absorbed in the novel idea, and, without attending to me, he went on to say, “Yes, indeed, the man has been at Timbuctoo.” I again took the liberty to remonstrate, when his brother, who was also present, ejaculated, “Yes, brother, you are right. Timbuctoo! ah! eh? yes! Let me see, Timbuctoo. Ah! I remember to have read that it is situated at the end of Africa, in a place where you can see nothing but sand.” Once more I attempted to explain, but to no purpose. Right or wrong, I must have been at Timbuctoo. I secretly wished I had been there.
Finding they apparently knew more about my travels than I did, I left them to themselves to discuss the merit of the journey, and, diving into the eatables which had been liberally spread before me, I did ample justice to their hospitality.
On the 22d of September I reached Cape-Town, where my appearance afforded no little delight and amusement to the mob, who shouted merrily after me, “Look at the jockey! ha! ha! ha!” My dress was certainly highly picturesque. An old English hunting-cap—a present from a friend—adorned my head. The striped jacket that I wore, now well bleached with sun and rain, had shrunk to such a degree as to reach only a few inches down my back; and as for sleeves, they just covered the elbows, the rest having been left on the “Wacht-een-bigte” bushes. My nether garments, consisting of a pair of moleskin trowsers, were on a par with my jacket, for they hardly reached to the calf of my leg; and, to complete the “turn-out,” my “veld” shoes were of untanned leather, and so sunburnt as to resemble bricks. And as Cape-Town at that time could boast of no “Moses and Son,” or “Silver and Co.,” it was only by degrees, and exploring the different shops, that I was able to remodel my dress.