The Cape and the Kaffirs: A Diary of Five Years' Residence in Kaffirland. Ward

but absolutely necessary, as man by man fell by the roadside overpowered with the heat, foot-tired and faint for want of water. About one hour before we halted on the second day, we came suddenly upon a pool, where a large herd of sheep and goats (the property of a neighbouring farmer) were drinking. The men shouted aloud joyfully; and rushing precipitately to the pool, put their lips to the element, (which, though muddy, was to them most grateful), and drank copiously of the unwholesome draught. Several became ill after doing so; and, instead of being refreshed by it, were rendered less capable of proceeding than before. Fifteen stragglers fell out of one company, and were probably only induced to crawl after the battalion that evening by the dread of wild beasts. On reaching Sunday River, we learned that such a fear was not without a foundation, as five lions had, within the last few days, been seen drinking at the river side. Most gladly did I find, on reaching the “Outspan,” that a bed could be obtained at the snug, small house of Mr Rose, the Field-Cornet, close to the encampment: there, too, we obtained fresh butter, a leg of mutton, and some good English ale and porter, but rejoiced most in copious ablutions and clean bedding. My companions laughed much at my increased admiration of an encampment by moonlight that night, as I left it for a comfortable roof. “It certainly,” said I, “is a very pretty sighted—at a distance.”

      We were up with the dawn next morning, and crossed the beautiful ford of the Sunday River, at sunrise. “Who would imagine,” thought I, “that such a scene of peace and beauty should be one of the fastnesses for wild beasts?” Green boughs met each other across the stream. Down such a pleasant-looking river I had often glided in “merry England,” singing, by the way, with young companions, to the gay music of our guitars, while the plash of oars kept time to the measure of our happy voices. There, in our own happy land, no lions prowled in our neighbourhood, no panthers could we fancy glaring on us from the bush, no venomous reptiles awaited our feet as we stepped upon the green sod from the boat. A South African climate is beautiful all the year round, except when visited by terrific thunderstorms, with their usual accompaniments of hail, rain, and lightning. Ah! that word “except;”—“except” for our dark November days and painful frosts, England would be an unexceptionable residence; still, even with these outward discomforts, look at our fire-sides!

      But why go dreaming back from the brimming, shady Sunday River to the “stately homes of England!” On, on! and let us be thankful, that so far from home there is yet so much to be thankful for, and to enjoy. Oh! for the blessed philosophy which teaches us to make light of every thing! Truly, content is riches! In a moral point of view, may it not be considered as bearing an analogy to the story of the philosopher’s stone, (always remembering the one to be theory, the other practicable), which was supposed to possess the gift of transmuting whatever the possessor of it touched into gold?