THE EMIGRANT’S CABIN AT THE CAPE.
AN EPISTLE IN RHYME.
Where the young river, from its wild ravine,
Winds pleasantly through Eildon’s pastures green,—
With fair acacias waving on its banks,
And willows bending o’er in graceful ranks,
And the steep mountain rising close behind,
To shield us from the Snowberg’s wintry wind,—
Appears my rustic cabin, thatched with reeds,
Upon a knoll amid the grassy meads;
And, close beside it, looking o’er the lea,
Our summer-seat beneath an umbra-tree.
This morning, musing in that favourite seat,
My hound, old Yarrow, dreaming at my feet,
I pictured you, sage Fairbairn, at my side,
By some good Genie wafted o’er the tide;
And after cordial greetings, thus went on
In fancy’s dream our colloquy, dear John.
P.—Enter, my friend, our beehive-cottage door:
No carpet hides the humble earthen floor,
But it is hard as brick, clean-swept and cool.
You must be wearied? Take that jointed stool;
Or on this couch of leopard-skin recline;
You’ll find it soft—the workmanship is mine.
F.—Why, Pringle, yes—your cabin’s snug enough,
Though oddly shaped. But as for household stuff,
I only see some rough-hewn sticks and spars;
A wicker cupboard, filled with flasks and jars;
A pile of books, on rustic framework placed;
Hides of ferocious beasts that roam the waste;
Whose kindred prowl, perchance, around this spot—
The only neighbours, I suspect, you’ve got!
Your furniture, rude from the forest cut,
However, is in keeping with the hut.
This couch feels pleasant: is’t with grass you stuff it?
So far I should not care with you to rough it.
But—pardon me for seeming somewhat rude—
In this wild place how manage ye for food?
P.—You’ll find, at least, my friend, we do not starve:
There’s always mutton, if nought else, to carve;
And even of luxuries we have our share.
And here comes dinner (the best bill of fare)
Drest by that “nut-brown maiden,” Vytjè Vaal.
[To the Hottentot Girl]. Meid, roep de Juffrowen naar’t middagmaal.
[To F.] Which means—“The ladies into dinner call.”
(Enter Mrs. P. and her Sister, who welcome their Guest to Africa. The party take their seats round the table, and conversation proceeds.)
P.—First, here’s our broad-tailed mutton, small and fine,
The dish on which nine days in ten we dine;
Next, roasted springbok, spiced and larded well;
A haunch of hartébeest from Hyndhope Fell;
A paauw, which beats your Norfolk turkey hollow;
Korhaan, and Guinea-fowl, and pheasant follow;
Kid carbonadjes, à-la-Hottentot,
Broiled on a forkèd twig; and, peppered hot
With Chili pods, a dish called Caffer-stew;
Smoked ham of porcupine, and tongue of gnu.
This fine white household bread (of Margaret’s baking)
Comes from an oven, too, of my own making,
Scooped from an ant-hill. Did I ask before
If you would taste this brawn of forest-boar?
Our fruits, I must confess, make no great show:
Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow.
But there’s green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie,
And wild asparagus. Or will you try
A slice of water-melon?—fine for drouth,
Like sugared ices melting in the mouth.
Here too are wild grapes from our forest-vine,
Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine.
And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot,
(From fair Glen-Avon, Margaret, is it not?)
Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy Swart
Brought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart—
Enough to load a Covent-Garden cart.