CHAPTER IX.
ROBERTSON, SWELLENDAM, AND SOUTHEY’S PASS.
FROM Worcester we went on to a little town called Robertson, which is also the capital of an electoral division. The country here is altogether a country of mountains, varying from three to seven thousand feet high. The valleys between them are broad, so as to give ample space for agriculture,—if only agriculture can be made to pay. Having heard much of the continual plains of South Africa I had imagined that every thing beyond the hills immediately surrounding Capetown would be flat; but in lieu of that I found myself travelling through a country in which one series of mountains succeeds another for hundreds of miles. The Cape Colony is very large,—especially the Western Province, which extends almost from the 28th to much below the 34th degree of latitude S., and from the 17th to the 23rd of longitude E. Of this immense area I was able to see comparatively only a small part;—but in what I did see I was never out of the neighbourhood of mountains. The highest mountain in South Africa is Cathkin Peak, in Natal, and that is over 10,000 feet. In the districts belonging to the Cape Colony the highest is in Basuto, and is the Mont aux Sources. The highest in the Western Province is called The Seven Weeks Poort, which is in the neighbourhood of Swellendam and belongs to the district of which I am now speaking. It is 7,600 feet high. As the first and most important consequence of this the making of roads within a couple of hundred miles of Capetown has been a matter of great difficulty. In every direction passes through the mountains have had to be found, which when found have required great skill and a very heavy expenditure before they could be used for roads. But a second consequence has been that a large extent of magnificent scenery has been thrown open, which, as the different parts of the world are made nearer to each other by new discoveries and advancing science, will become a delight and a playground to travellers,—as are the Alps and the Pyrenees and the Apennines in Europe. At present I think that but few people in England are aware that among the mountains of the Cape Colony there is scenery as grand as in Switzerland or the south-west of France. And the fact that such scenery is close to them attracts the notice of but a small portion of the inhabitants of the Colony itself. The Dutch I fancy regarded the mountains simply as barriers or disagreeable obstacles, and the English community which has come since has hardly as yet achieved idleness sufficient for the true enjoyment of tourist travelling.
Robertson itself is not an interesting town, though it lies close under the mountains. Why it should have missed the beauty of The Paarl, of Ceres, and of Swellendam which we were about to visit, I can hardly say. Probably its youth is against it. It has none of the quaintness of Dutch architecture; and the oaks,—for it has oaks,—are not yet large enough to be thoroughly delightful. We found, however, in its neighbourhood a modern little wood large enough to enable us to lose ourselves, and were gratified by the excitement.
I have said that in these districts, mountainous as they are, the valleys are broad enough for agriculture, if only agriculture can be made to pay. The fertility of the soil is apparent everywhere. Robertson itself is devoted to the making of brandy, and its vineyards are flourishing. Patches of corn were to be seen and trees had grown luxuriantly here and there. It seemed that almost anything would grow. But little or nothing useful will grow without the aid of other water than that bestowed in the regular course of nature. “I plant as many trees,” said the magistrate of the district, speaking to me of the streets of the town, “as I can get convicts to water.” “Wheat;—oh yes, I can grow any amount of wheat,” a farmer said to me in another place, “where I can lead water.” In Messrs. Silver and Co.’s Guide book, page 99, I find the following passage in reference to the Cape Colony. “The whole question of the storing of water by means of scientifically constructed dams is one that cannot be too strongly urged on the Cape Government.” Of the truth of this there can be no doubt, nor is the district one in which the fall of rain is deficient, if the rain could be utilized. It amounts to something over 24 inches annually, which would suffice for all the purposes required if the supply given could be made to flow upon the lands. But it falls in sudden storms, is attracted by the mountains, and then runs off into the rivers and down to the sea without effecting those beneficent objects which I think we may say it was intended to produce. The consequence is that agriculture is everywhere patchy, and that the patches are generally small. The farmer according to his means or according to his energy will subject 10, 20, 30, or 40 acres to artificial irrigation. When he does so he can produce anything. When he does not do so he can produce nothing.[11]
There are the mountains and the rains fall upon them, running off uselessly to the ocean with their purpose unaccomplished. When we want to store the rain water from our roof for domestic uses we construct pipes and tanks and keep the blessing by us so as to have it when we want it. The side of a mountain is much like the roof of a house,—only larger. And the pipes are for the most part made to our hand by nature in the shape of gullies, kloofs, and rivulets. It is but the tanks that we want, and some adjustment as to the right of using them. This, if ever done, must be done by the appliance of science, and I of all men am the last to suggest how such appliance should be made. But that it is practicable appears to be probable, and that if done it would greatly increase the produce of the lands affected and the general well being of the Colony no one can doubt. But the work is I fear beyond the compass of private enterprise in a small community, and seems to be one which requires the fostering hand of Government. If a Governor of the Cape Colony,—or a Prime Minister,—could stop the waters as they rush down from the mountains and spread them over the fields before they reach the sea he would do more for the Colony than has been effected by any conqueror of Kafirs.
From Robertson we went a little off our road to Montague for the sake of seeing Cogman’s Pass. That also is interesting though not as fine as some others. Whence it has taken its name I could not discover. It was suggested to me that it was so called because of its lizards;—and the lizards certainly were there in great numbers. I could not find that Cogman meant lizard either in Hottentot language or in Dutch. Nor did it appear that any man of note of the name of Cogman had connected himself with the road. But there is the Pass with its ugly name leading gallantly and cleverly through the rocks into the little town of Montague.
Montague like Oudtshoorn and Robertson makes brandy, the Montague brandy being, I was assured, equal to the Cango brandy which comes from Oodtshoorn, and much superior to that made at Robertson. I tasted them all round and declare them to be equally villainous. I was assured that it was an acquired taste. I hope that I may not be called on to go through the practice necessary for acquiring it. I shall perhaps be told that I formed my judgment on the new spirit, and that the brandy ought to be kept before it is used. I tried it new and old. The new spirit is certainly the more venomous, but they are equally nasty. It is generally called Cape Smoke. Let me warn my readers against Cape Smoke should they ever visit South Africa.
At Montague, as we were waiting outside the inn for our cart, two sturdy English beggars made their appearance before us, demanding charity. They could get no work to do,—so they said,—in this accursed land, and wanted money to buy bread. No work to do! And yet every farmer, every merchant, every politician I had met and spoke with since I had put my foot on South African soil, had sworn to me that the country was a wretched country simply because labour could not be had! The two men had Cape Smoke plainly developed in every feature of their repulsive faces. As we were seated and could not rid ourselves of our countrymen without running away, we entered into conversation with them. Not get work! It was certainly false! They were on their way, they said, from the Eastern Province. Had they tried the railway? We knew that at the present moment labour was peculiarly wanted on the railway because of the disturbance created by Kreli and his Galekas. For the disturbance of which I shall speak in one of the concluding chapters of my work was then on hand. “Yes,” said the spokesman who, as on all such occasions, was by far the more disreputable of the two. “They had tried the railway, and had been offered 2s. 6d. a day. They were not going to work along side of niggers for 2s. 6d., which would only supply them with grub! Did we want real Englishmen to do that?” We told them that certainly we did want real Englishmen to earn their grub honestly and not to beg it; and then, having endeavoured to shame them by calling them mean fellows, we were of course obliged to give them money.
Such rascals might turn up anywhere,—in any town in England much more probably than in South Africa. But their condition as we saw them, and the excuse which they made for their condition, were typical of the state of labour in South Africa generally. The men, if worth anything, could earn more than 2s. 6d. a day,—as no doubt those other men could have done of whom I spoke some chapters back;—but an Englishman in South Africa will not work along side of a coloured man on equal terms with the coloured man. The English labourer who comes to South Africa either rises to more than the labouring condition, or sinks to something below it. And he will not be content simply to supply his daily wants. He at once becomes filled with the idea that as a Colonist he should make his fortune. If he be a good man,—industrious, able to abstain from drink and with something above ordinary intelligence,—he does make some fortune, more or less adequate. At any rate he rises in the world. But if he have not those gifts,—then he falls, as had done those two ugly reprobates.
On our way from Montague to Swellendam, where was to be our next short sojourn, our Cape cart broke down. The axle gave way, and we were left upon the road;—or should have been left, some fifteen miles from Montague in one direction and the same distance from Swellendam in the other, had not the accident happened within sight of a farm house. As farm houses occur about once in every six or seven miles, this was a blessing; and was felt so very strongly when a young Dutch farmer came at once to our rescue with another cart. “I might as well take it,” he said with a smile when we offered him half a sovereign, “but you’d have had the cart all the same without it.” This was certainly true as we were already taking our seats when the money was produced. I am bound to say that I was never refused anything which I asked of a Dutchman in South Africa. I must remark also that often as I broke down on my travels,—and I did break down very often and sometimes in circumstances that were by no means promising,—there always came a Deus ex machina for my immediate relief. A generous Dutchman would lend me a horse or a cart;—or a needy Englishman would appear with an animal to sell when the getting of a horse under any circumstances had begun to appear impossible. On one occasion a jibbing brute fell as he was endeavouring to kick everything to pieces, and nearly cut his leg in two;—but a kindhearted colonist appeared immediately on the scene, with a very pretty girl in his cart, and took me on to my destination. And yet one often travels hour after hour, throughout the whole day, without meeting a fellow traveller.
Swellendam is such another village as The Paarl, equally enticing, equally full of oaks, though not equally long. From end to end it is but three miles, while The Paarl measures eight. But the mountains at Swellendam are finer than the mountains at The Paarl, and with the exception of those immediately over George, are the loveliest which I saw in the Colony. Swellendam is close under the Langeberg range,—so near that the kloofs or wild ravines in the mountains can be reached by an easy walk. They are very wild and picturesque, being thickly wooded, but so deep that from a little distance the wood can hardly be seen. Here at the foot of the hills were exquisite sites for country houses,—to be built, perhaps, by the future coloured millionaires of South Africa,—with grand opportunities for semi-tropical gardens, if only the water from the mountains could be used. Oranges, grapes, and bananas grow with the greatest profusion wherever water has been “led on.” And yet it seems that the district is the very country for oaks. I had found more oaks during this last little tour through a portion of the Western Province of the Cape Colony than I have ever seen during the same time in England.
My kind host at Swellendam told me that it was imperative to go to the Tradouw,—or Southey’s Pass through the mountains. The Tradouw is the old Dutch name for the ravine which was used for a pass before the present road was made. An energetic traveller will do as he is bid, especially when he is in the hands of an energetic host. The traveller wishes to see whatever is to be seen but has to be told what he should see. To such commands I have generally been obedient. He is too often told also what he should believe. Against this I have always rebelled;—mutely if possible, but sometimes, under coercion, with outspoken vehemence. “If it be true,” I have had to say, “that I mean to write a book, I shall write my book and not yours.” But as to the seeing of sights absolute obedience is the best. Therefore I allowed my host to take me to the Tradouw, though my bones were all bruised and nearly dislocated with Cape cart travelling and the sweet idea of a day of rest under the Swellendam oaks had taken strong hold of my imagination. I was amply repaid for my compliance.
On our way to the Tradouw we passed through a long straggling village inhabited exclusively by coloured people, and called the Caledon Missionary Institution. It had also some native name which I heard but failed to note. It was under the charge of a Dutch pastor upon whom we called and from whom I learned something of the present condition of the location. I will say, however, before I describe the Institution, that it is already doomed and its days numbered. That this should be its fate was not at all marvellous to me. That it should have been allowed to live so long was more surprising.
The place is inhabited by and belongs to persons of colour to whom it was originally granted as a “location” in which they might live. The idea of course has been that as the Colonists made the lands of the Colony their own, driving back the Hottentots without scruple, exercising the masterdom of white men for the spoliation of the natives, something should be secured to the inferior race, the giving of which might be a balm to the conscience of the invader and at the same time the means of introducing Christianity among the invaded, Nothing can be better than the idea,—which has been that on which the South African missionaries have always worked. Nor will I in this place assail the wisdom of the undertaking at the time at which it was set on foot. Whether anything better could then have been done may, perhaps, be doubted. I venture only to express an opinion that in the present condition of our South African Colonies all such Institutions are a mistake. As the Caledon Institution is about to be brought to an end, I may say this with the less chance of giving offence.
The last census taken of the population of the village gave its numbers as 3,000. I was told that at present there might be perhaps 2,000 coloured persons living there. I should have thought that to be a very exaggerated number, judging from the size of the place and the number of ruined and deserted huts, were it not that the statement was made to me in a tone of depreciation rather than of boasting. “They call it three thousand,” said the pastor, “but there are not more than two.” Looking at the people as I passed through the village I should be inclined to describe them as Hottentots, were it not for the common assertion that the Hottentot race is extinct in these parts. The Institution was originally intended for Hottentots, and the descendants of Hottentots are now its most numerous inhabitants. That other blood has been mixed with the Hottentot blood,—that of the negroes who were brought to the Cape as slaves and of the white men who were the owners of the slaves,—is true here as elsewhere. There is a church for the use of these people,—and a school. Without these a missionary institution would be altogether vain;—though, as I have stated some pages back, the school belonging to the Institution at Pacaltsdorp had gone into abeyance when I visited that place. Here the school was still maintained; but I learned that the maximum number of pupils never exceeded a hundred. Considering the amount of the population and the fact that the children are not often required to be absent on the score of work, I think I am justified in saying that the school is a failure. M. Esselin in his schools at Worcester, which is a town of 4,000 inhabitants of whom a large proportion are white, has an average attendance of 500 coloured children. The attendance at the missionary church is no better, the number of customary worshippers being the same as that of the scholars,—namely a hundred. With these people there is nothing to compel them to send their children to school, and nothing but the eloquence of the pastor to induce them to go to church. The same may be said as to all other churches and all other congregations. But we are able to judge of the utility of a church by the force of example which it creates. Among these people the very fashion of going to church is dying out.
But I was more intent, perhaps, on the daily employment than the spiritual condition of these people, and asked whether it sent out girls as maid-servants to the country around. The pastor assured me that he was often unable to get a girl to assist his wife in the care of their own children. The young women from the Missionary Institution do not care for going into service.
“But how do they live?” Then it was explained to me that each resident in the Institution had a plot of ground of his own, and that he lived on its produce, as far as it went, like any other estated gentleman. Then the men would go out for a little sheep-shearing, or the picking of Buchus in the Buchu season. The Buchu is a medicinal leaf which is gathered in these parts and sent to Europe. Such an arrangement cannot be for the welfare either of the Colony or of the people concerned. Nothing but work will bring them into such communion with civilization as to enable them to approach the condition of the white man. The arcadian idea of a coloured man with his wife and piccaninnies living happily under the shade of his own fig tree and picking his own grapes and oranges is very pretty in a book, and may be made interesting in a sermon. But it is ugly enough in that reality in which the fig tree is represented by a ruined mud-hut and the grapes and oranges by stolen mutton. The sole effect of the missionary’s work has too often been that of saving the Native from working for the white man. It was well that he should be saved from slavery;—but to save him from other work is simply to perpetuate his inferiority.
The land at the Caledon Institution is the property of the resident Natives. Each landowner can at present sell his plot with the sanction of the Governor. In ten years’ time he will be enabled to sell it without such sanction. The sooner he sells it and becomes a simple labourer the better for all parties. I was told that the Governor’s sanction is rarely if ever now refused.
Then we went on to the Tradouw, and just at the entrance of the ravine we came upon a party of coloured labourers, with a white man over them, making bricks in the close vicinity of an extensive building. A party of convicts was about to come to the spot for the purpose of mending the road, and the bricks were being made so that a kitchen might be built for the cooking of their food. The big building, I was told, had been erected for the use of the convicts who a few years since had made the road. But it had fallen out of repair, and the new kitchen was considered necessary, though the number of men needed for the repair would not be very large, and they would be wanted only for a few months. I naturally asked what would become of the kitchen afterwards,—which seemed to be a spacious building containing a second apartment, to be used probably as a scullery. The kitchen would again be deserted and would become the property of the owner of the land. I afterwards heard by chance of a contract for supplying mutton to the convicts at 6½d. a pound,—a pound a day for each man;—and I also heard that convict labour was supposed to be costly. The convicts are chiefly coloured people. With such usage as they receive the supply, I should imagine, would be ample. The ordinary Hottentot with his daily pound of mutton, properly cooked in a first-class kitchen and nothing but convict labour to do, would probably find himself very comfortable.
Southey’s Pass,—so called from Mr. Southey who was Colonial Secretary before the days of parliamentary government, and is now one of the stoutest leaders of the opposition against the Ministers of the day,—is seven miles from end to end and is very beautiful throughout. But it is the mile at the end,—furthest from Swellendam,—in which it beats in sublimity all the other South African passes which I saw, including even the Montague Pass which crosses the Outiniqua mountains near George. South Africa is so far off that I cannot hope to be able to excite English readers to visit the Cape Colony for the sake of the scenery,—though for those whose doctors prescribe a change of air and habits and the temporary use of a southern climate I cannot imagine that any trip should be more pleasant and serviceable;—but I do think that the inhabitants of Capetown and the neighbourhood should know more than they do of the beauties of their own country. I have never seen rocks of a finer colour or twisted about into grander forms than those which make the walls of that part of Southey’s Pass which is furthest from Swellendam.
When we were in the ravine two small bucks called Klip-springers,—springers that is among the stones,—were disturbed by us and passing down from the road among the rocks, made their way to the bottom of the ravine. Two dogs had followed the Hottentot who was driving us, a terrier and a large mongrel hound, and at once got upon the scent of the bucks. I shall never forget the energy of the Hottentot as he rushed down from the road to a huge prominent rock which stood over the gorge, so as to see the hunt as near as possible, or my own excitement as I followed him somewhat more slowly. The ravine was so narrow that the clamour of the two dogs sounded like the music of a pack of hounds. The Hottentot as he leant forward over his perch was almost beside himself with anxiety. Immediately beneath us, perhaps twenty feet down, were two jutting stones separated from each other by about the same distance, between which was a wall of rock with a slant almost perpendicular and perfectly smooth, so that there could be no support to the foot of any animal. Up to the first of these stones one of the Klip-springers was hunted with the big hound close at his heels. From it the easiest escape was by a leap to the other rock which the buck made without a moment’s hesitation. But the dog could not follow. He knew the distance to be too great for his spring, and stood on his rock gazing at his prey. Nor could the buck go further. The stone it occupied just beneath ourselves was altogether isolated, and it stood there looking up at us with its soft imploring eyes, while the Hottentot in his excitement cheered on the dog to make the leap which the poor hound knew to be too much for him. I cannot say which interested me most, the man beside me, the little buck just below my feet, or the anxious eager palpitating hound with his short sharp barks. There was no gun with us, but the Hottentot got fragments of stone to throw at the quarry. Then the buck knew that he must shift his ground if he meant to save himself, and, marking his moment, he jumped back at the dog, and was then up among the almost perpendicular rocks over our heads before the brute could seize it. I have always been anxious for a kill when hunting, but I was thoroughly rejoiced when that animal saved himself. The Hottentot who was fond of venison did not at all share my feelings.
This occurred about 22 miles from Swellendam, and delayed us a little. My host, who had accompanied me, had asked a house full of friends to dine with him at seven, and it was five when the buck escaped. South African travelling is generally slow; but under the pressure of the dinner party our horses were made to do the distance in an hour and fifty minutes.
From Swellendam we went on to Caledon another exquisitely clean little Dutch town. The distance from Swellendam to Caledon is nearly eighty miles, through the whole of which the road runs under the Zondereinde mountains through a picturesque country which produces some of the best wool of the Colony. Caledon is another village of oak trees and pleasant detached Dutch-looking houses, each standing in its own garden and never mounting to a story above the ground. In winter no doubt the feeling inspired by these village-towns would be different; but when they are seen as I saw them, with the full foliage and the acorns on the oaks, and the little gardens over-filled with their luxuriance of flowers, with the streets as clean and shaded as the pet road through a gentleman’s park, the visitor is tempted to repine because Fate did not make him a wine-growing, orange-planting, ostrich-feeding Dutch farmer. From Caledon we returned through East Somerset, a smaller village and less attractive but still of the same nature, to Capetown, getting on to the railway about twenty miles from the town at the Eerste River Station. In making this last journey we had gone through or over two other Passes, called How Hoek and Sir Lowry’s Pass. They are, both of them, interesting enough for a visit from Capetown, but not sufficiently so to be spoken of at much length after the other roads through the mountains which I had seen. The route down from Sir Lowry’s Pass leads to the coast of False Bay,—of which Simon’s Bay is an inlet. Between False Bay to the South and Table Bay to the North is the flat isthmus which forms the peninsula, on which stands Capetown and the Table Mountains, the Southern point of which is the Cape of Good Hope.
In this journey among the Dutch towns which lie around the capital I missed Stellenbosch, which is, I am told, the most Dutch of them all. As good Americans when dead go to Paris, so do good Dutchmen while still alive go to Stellenbosch,—and more especially good Dutchwomen, for it is a place much affected by widows. The whole of this country is so completely Dutch that an Englishman finds himself to be altogether a foreigner. The coloured people of all shades talk Dutch as their native language. It is hard at first to get over the feeling that a man or woman must be very ignorant who in an English Colony cannot speak English, but the truth is that many of the people are much less ignorant than they are at home with us, as they speak in some fashion both English and Dutch. In the Eastern Province of the Colony, as in the other Colonies and divisions of South Africa, the native speaks some native language,—the Kafir, Zulu, or Bechuana language as the case may be; but in the part of the Western Province of which I am speaking,—that part which the Dutch have long inhabited,—there is no native language left among the coloured people. Dutch has become their language. The South African language from the mouths of Kafirs and Zulus does not strike a stranger as being odd;—but Dutch volubility from Hottentot lips does do so.
I must not finish this short record of my journeys in the Western Province of the Cape Colony without repeating the expression of my opinion as to the beauty of the scenery and the special charms of the small towns which I had visited.