The tools of the Bosjesman artist are simple enough, consisting of a feather dipped in grease, in which he has mixed colored clays, and, as Mr. Baines well observes, he never fails to give the animals which he draws the proper complement of members. Like a child, he will place the horns and ears half down the neck, and distribute the legs impartially along the body; but he knows nothing of perspective, and has not the least idea of foreshortening, or of concealing one limb or horn behind another, as it would appear to the eye.
The same traveller rather differs from Mr. Christie in his estimation of the artistic powers of the Bosjesman, and his capability for comprehending a picture. According to him, a Bosjesman can understand a colored drawing perfectly. He can name any tree, bird, animal, or insect, that has been drawn in colors, but does not seem to appreciate a perspective drawing in black and white. “When I showed them the oil-painting of the Damara family, their admiration knew no bounds. The forms, dress, and ornaments of the figures were freely commented on, and the distinctive characteristics between them and the group of Bushmen pointed out. The dead bird was called by its name, and, what I hardly expected, even the bit of wheel and fore part of the wagon was no difficulty to them. They enjoyed the sketch of Kobis greatly, and pointed out the figures in the group of men, horses, and oxen very readily. Leaves and flowers they had no difficulty with, and the only thing they failed in was the root of the markwhae. But when it is considered that if this, the real blessing of the desert, were lying on the surface, an inexperienced Englishman would not know it from a stone at a little distance, this is not to be wondered at. The dead animals drawn in perspective and foreshortened were also named as fast as I produced them, except a half-finished, uncolored sketch of the brindled gnoo. They had an idea of its proper name, but, said they, ‘We can see only one horn, and it may be a rhinoceros or a wild boar.’”
The following anecdotes have been kindly sent to me by Captain Drayson, R. A., who was engaged in the late Kaffir war:—
“The habits of the Bushman are those of a thoroughly wild hunter; to him cattle are merely an incumbrance, and to cultivate the soil is merely to do himself what Nature will do for him. The country in which he resides swarms with game, and to kill this is to a Bushman no trouble. His neighbors keep cattle, and that is as a last resource a means of subsistence; but, as the Bushman wanders over the country, and selects those spots in which the necessaries of life abound, he rarely suffers from want. If a young Bushman be captured, as sometimes happens when the Dutch Boers set out on an expedition against these thieves, the relatives at once track the captive to its prison, and sooner or later recover it. I once saw a Bushboy who had been eight years in a Dutchman’s family, had learned to speak Dutch, to eat with a knife and fork, and to wear clothes; but at the end of that time the Bushboy disappeared. His clothes were found in the stables in the place of a horse which he had taken with him. The spoor being rapidly followed, was found to lead to the Draakensberg Mountains, among the fastnesses of which the Boers had no fancy to follow, for from every cranny and inaccessible ridge a poisonous arrow might be discharged, as the youth had evidently rejoined his long-lost relatives.
“It was a great surprise to notice the effect on our Dutch sporting companions of the intimation of ‘Bushmen near.’ We were riding on an elevated spur of the Draakensberg, near the Mooi River, when a Boer suddenly reined up his horse, and exclaimed:—
“‘Cess, kek die spoor von verdamt Boschmen!’
“Jumping off his horse he examined the ground, and then said: ‘A man it is; one naked foot, the other with a velschoen.’ The whole party immediately became intensely excited, they scattered in all directions like a pack of hounds in cover; some galloped to the nearest ridge, others followed on the spoor, all in search of the Bushman. ‘He has not long gone,’ said one of my companions; ‘be ready.’
“‘Ready for what?’ I inquired.
“‘Ready to shoot the schelm.’
“‘Would you shoot him?’ I asked.