Yankee Girls in Zulu Land

by Louise Vescelius Sheldon

Quite different, this, his resting-place. On this misty morning at Saint Helena, as I stood in the grand silence beside this simple tomb, which seemed to tell the story of this weary-hearted man, I felt that no one could doubt, after visiting this spot, that Napoleon believed in a Higher Ruler, a Superior Being; otherwise his own hand would have cut short his dreary existence.

This visit of a few hours’ duration was sufficient to cast a gloom over us. So, picking a few leaves from the grave, we came down to the shore again, and the dear old ship seemed like a kind heart waiting to receive us, and cheer away our loneliness.

We still had an hour to spare, and several of our party decided to ascend “Jacob’s ladder,” by which name is known a long flight of steps reaching from the beach to the heights, said to be the longest stairway in the world. The barracks are built on the cliff, and an English garrison is stationed there. We climbed these hundreds of steps and walked on to the parade ground, where the men were drilling; as soon as the officer in command spied us he seemed to lose his presence of mind, and the end man in the line turned one eye over his shoulder to see what was the matter, so did the next man; in time it was a funny sight to see the body of the whole line of men in position, but all heads turned to see the visitors. The sentry stationed there welcomed us with an expression of delight. Poor fellow! he said that they had received no mail for sixty days, the steamers calling at the island only at long intervals. When asked if it was not a dreary life, he shook his head and looked out to sea with moistened eyes, more eloquent than any words in expressing the monotony of the existence.

I have heard of a man who, wanting to see the world, enlisted in an English regiment, and was stationed on the island of Saint Helena for fourteen years.

As we were leaving the island one of the little nondescripts came laughing past, and in the most workmanlike manner picked my pocket of its purse. He was caught before he could get away, when he cried bitterly, not so much, apparently, at being detected as for not being allowed to keep his ill-gotten gains.

Here is a spot for one whose soul is yearning for untried missionary fields. The interior of the island is said to be beautiful, flowers and foliage growing in great luxuriance.

Leaving Saint Helena, we sailed southeast in a straight course for Table Bay; for two days after leaving the island, our table was decorated with fresh tropical flowers and fruits in great variety. We here felt the influence of the heavy ground swell, which the sailors say is a peculiarity of those latitudes, and has given rise to the burden of a sailor’s song, “Rolling Down to Saint Helena.”

At sunrise of the twenty-eighth day after leaving London, having passed through the “summer voyage of the world,” we sighted the long, flat-topped mountain which has given its name to the bay that lies at its foot.

When we first sighted it, it appeared like a huge solitary rock standing in the midst of the ocean, but as we gradually steamed up to the arms of Table Bay, which opens to the north-west, the town nestling at the foot of the mountain became visible, and as we brought up to allow the port captain and health officer to come on board, the scene came more clearly into view. The mountains outlined clearly against the sky, the mauve and golden-tinted clouds, the deep blue water of the bay, edged with a white and curving shore of singular beauty, surmounted by bold, rocky mountain ranges, combined to form one of the most striking views we had ever seen.

We will never lose the impression of South African scenery received that morning. We had bidden farewell to the smoky fogs of London, and had changed them for a country that was rich and brilliant, where the atmosphere was surprisingly bright and clear, and the scenery bold, spacious, and grand.