The Emigrant’s Cabin at the Cape

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.

But come, let’s crown the banquet with some wine,
What will you drink? Champagne? Port? Claret? Stein?
Well--not to tease you with a thirsty jest,
Lo, there our only vintage stands confest,
In that half-aum upon the spigot-rack.
And, certes, though it keeps the old kaap smaak,
The wine is light and racy; so we learn,
In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.
--Let’s pledge this cup “to all our friends,” Fairbairn!

F.--Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner’s good.
Springbok and porcupine are dainty food;
That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn;
And, in your country fruits, and Cape Sauterne,
The wildish flavour’s really--not unpleasant;
And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant.
--But--Mrs. Pringle ... shall I have the pleasure ...?
Miss Brown, ... some wine?--(These quaighs are quite a treasure)
--What! leave us now? I’ve much to ask of you ...
But since you will go--for an hour adieu.
[Exeunt Ladies.

But, Pringle--“à nos moutons revenons”--
Cui bono’s still the burden of my song--
Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,
Of savage life you soon must feel satiety:
The MIND requires fit exercise and food,
Not to be found ’mid Afric’s desert rude.
And what avail the spoils of wood and field,
The fruits or vines your fertile valleys yield,
Without that higher zest to crown the whole--
“The feast of Reason and the flow of Soul?”
--Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men;
But can the comforts of your wattled den,
Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks suffice
For one who once seemed finer joys to prize?
--When, erst, like Virgil’s swains, we used to sing
Of streams and groves, and “all that sort of thing,”
The spot we meant for our “poetic den”
Was always within reach of books and men;
By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,
With gifted friends within an easy ride;
Besides our college chum, the parish priest;
And the said den with six good rooms at least.--
Here! save for her who shares and soothes your lot,
You might as well squat in a Caffer’s cot!

Come, now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend,
Of your aspiring aims is this the end?
Was it for nature’s wants, fire, shelter, food,
You sought this dreary, soulless solitude?
Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,
Your native land, your early friends resigned?
As if, believing with insane Rousseau
Refinement the chief cause of human woe,
You meant to realise that raver’s plan,
And be a philosophic Bosjesman!--
Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide--
You sought this den from disappointed pride.

P.--You’ve missed the mark, Fairbairn: my breast is clear.
Nor wild romance nor pride allured me here:
Duty and destiny with equal voice
Constrained my steps: I had no other choice.
The hermit “lodge in some vast wilderness,”
Which sometimes poets sigh for, I confess,
Were but a sorry lot. In real life
One needs a friend--the best of friends, a wife:
But with a home thus cheered, however rude,
There’s nought so very dull in solitude,--
Even though that home should happen to be found,
Like mine, in Africa’s remotest bound.
--I have my farm and garden, tools and pen;
My schemes for civilising savage men;
Our Sunday service, till the Sabbath-bell
Shall wake its welcome chime in Lynden dell:
Some duty or amusement, grave or light,
To fill the active day from morn till night:
And thus two years so lightsomely have flown
That still we wonder when the week is gone.
--We have at times our troubles, it is true,
Passing vexations and privations too;
But were it not for woman’s tender frame,
These are annoyances I scarce would name;
For though perchance they plague us while they last,
They only serve for jests when they are past.

And then your notion that we’re quite exiled
From social life amid these mountains wild,
Accords not with the fact--as you will see
On glancing o’er this district map with me.