Part 3

Another enemy of the agriculturist at the Cape, not less destructive than the former, though less frequent in his attacks, is the locust. Till I went to the Cape, I never had a clear conception of the mischief that could be done by this one of the “Plagues of Egypt.” They came always in clouds, and fly _with_ the wind. I am almost afraid to describe their numbers. I have seen the air as full of these creatures as of the flakes of snow in a heavy snow-storm--in fact, literally “raining locusts.” I have been obliged to turn back on a journey from the impossibility of getting my horse to face them when driven against us by the wind. I have seen immense plains one day covered with grass, corn, and gardens; and the next day left, after a visit of locusts, without one solitary blade of verdure on any part of them. I have seen millions of these insects driven by the wind into the sea at Algoa Bay, and washed on shore in such heaps, that their bodies decaying have become so offensive as to oblige the authorities of the town to employ all the Coolies in the place in burying them. Think of all this, grumbling farmers of England. What corn-laws could afford you “protection” against such an importation? Still, I must add that during my five years’ residence at the Cape, I can only recall three visits of these pests; nor must it be supposed that they at any time spread over the whole Colony. When they visit a sheep or cattle farm, the owner has, of course, no other alternative than to move his stock to some place which they have not visited.

Cattle are profitable stock at the Cape; but no Englishman seems to like them so well as sheep. Besides, it occasionally happens that, in a fit of caprice, every Hottentot labourer on your farm will leave you in a day, and you will have to be your own herdsman. This is comparatively nothing with sheep; but if you had a couple of hundred cows that wanted milking you would be rather in a “fix.”

Horses are also a profitable stock, and far more suited to English taste. But the “returns” are necessarily slow; and few men can afford to wait three years for their profits.

Sheep are the best. Here is one example, by no means extraordinary, but forming an average sample of the fruits of sheep-farming:--A gentleman who was reading for the Church, at Cambridge, found that his health would not allow him to continue his studies; he emigrated to Algoa Bay, with a capital of about two thousand five hundred pounds. He wisely listened to good advice in the selection of a farm and the purchase of his stock of sheep. At the end of three years I visited him, and we talked about sheep-farming, which was then in a bad condition. I was expressing my wonder that so many sheep-farmers had lately been “sold up;” and this was his reply, “What else could you expect? Half of them come out here without one farthing of capital. They hire a farm; buy stock on credit (for two or three years), live on the sale of the wool and also on credit--for they live ‘like fighting-cocks’--and then when pay-day comes at last, they, of course, have not a sixpence. But, look at my own case: I have been here three years; my wool fetches double the price that it did the first year; my stock is just doubled in number and vastly improved in quality; I have lived in as much comfort as I require in the meantime; and I don’t owe a sixpence.”

The life of a Cape farmer is necessarily solitary. His nearest neighbour is probably seven miles off, and his only daily companions are his stock and his labourers. A visitor (especially if he come from one of the Towns) is a veritable Godsend; and is safe to be welcome as long as he chooses to remain. He may ride his host’s horses and shoot or hunt his game, smoke his pipes, and drink his “Cape Smoke,”[A] as long as he pleases. But he must be contented with very rough fare. Mutton and goats’ flesh, meal-cakes (very similar, I fancy, to those which King Alfred burnt), Indian corn, and badly-made coffee, will form the staple articles of his food. He will sleep on a home-made sofa with goatskins for blankets, in a room with a mud floor, and very probably no ceiling but the thatch roof. The house will most likely be built of lath and plaster, and look far more like the stable of a third-rate country inn than a gentleman’s residence. Yet the host is often a highly educated and sensible man, fighting his way to competence, living a comparatively easy life, and, if unblessed with luxuries, at least unharassed by cares, save when an occasional wolf (or rather hyæna) makes a night assault on his homestead.

[A] Cape Brandy.

Of the Cape Trade, the most peculiar and profitable branch is that with the native tribes. At present it is carried on in the most primitive style. A trader will load a couple of waggons with such goods as are likely to sell among savages. Coarse cloth, smart Manchester printed calicoes, blankets, beads, brass curtain-rings (worn by the natives as ornaments on their arms), soldiers’ jackets, wide-awake hats, &c. With this load he will proceed across the colonial boundary, and penetrate as far as he pleases into the interior, calling where experience has shown him he is likely to find customers, and selling his goods like a hawker, or “Cheap Jack,” in England. But he seldom obtains _money_ for his goods,--nor does he wish for it. He gets ivory, ostrich feathers, wild-beast skins, horns, and, in fact, all the rarest trophies of the chase. With these he reloads his waggons for his return home, and reaches the Colony after, perhaps, six or eight months’ absence, with a load which fetches him at once, seven or eight hundred--sometimes a thousand--pounds in exchange for his outlay of one hundred and fifty pounds.

It seems clear that the establishment of trading stations in the interior of Southern Africa would be most profitable to the projectors, and most advantageous to the native tribes, by accustoming them to the sights and habits of a civilised life.

The shopkeepers are rather jealous of the merchants at the Cape. The latter are very often so undignified as to sell a dozen pair of stockings or a single hat, to the exceeding disgust of retailers.

A Cape shop is a curiosity. It strikes a man as odd, to buy his boots and his cheese, or his hat and his sugar, at the same shop,--still more odd to purchase his wife a Chinese shawl and his child a peg-top in the same establishment.

* * * * *

The Wild Sports of South Africa have been celebrated by many a writer, from Major Cornwallis Harris down to Mr. Gordon Cumming. For large game the country is perhaps the finest sporting ground in the world. People come even from India to hunt the lion and the buffalo, the rhinoceros and the hippopotamus, the elephant, the giraffe, and the innumerable varieties of wild deer, from the delicate and graceful springbok to the heavy and powerful gnu. Some of the most dreaded amongst them are not nearly so terrible as travellers’ tales would persuade “the gentlemen of England who sit at home at ease.”

On one occasion I was riding through a wood, with a single companion; we were on a journey, and quite unarmed. At a little open space in the woods we dismounted and knee-haltered our horses to let them feed, while we lazily stretched ourselves under a tree, and “took a pull” at our pocket-pistols, loaded with Cognac. A slight rustling sound was heard above our heads, and down came something to the ground in front of us. It was a fine, full-grown, handsome leopard, who coolly turned round and stared us in the face. I very much doubt whether two respectable young gentlemen ever felt in a greater fright than my friend and myself at that moment. The unwelcome visitor, however, merely wagged his tail, and having apparently satisfied his curiosity as to our personal appearance, trotted quietly off into the woods. Without uttering a word we each drew a long breath, took another pull at the _eau-de-vie_, caught our horses, and put as many miles as we could in a few minutes between ourselves and that same wood.

The lion can even be companionable. Major Nicholson occupies a farm near the north-east boundary of the Colony. He is a great sportsman, and goes out alone to look after a lion with as much unconcern as a Regent Street lounger seeks out a Skye-terrier as a present for his lady-love. In one of his afternoon rambles the Major fell in with a lion; they were both going the same way and jogged along for some distance silent, though excellent friends. At length the lion stopped, turned round, faced the Major, and sat on his haunches like a great tom-cat. The Major, not knowing how soon his majesty’s tacit treaty of peace might be broken with him, levelled his piece, taking aim between the eyes. He was just about to fire, when a sound caused him to turn round; he then at once understood that, the lion having been out for a walk, his lady had come, like a dutiful wife, to meet him. The Major drew back and calculated the odds--two to one in favour of the quadrupeds--and reserved his fire; deciding that it would be little satisfaction to kill the husband and be eaten by the wife, or _vice versâ_. The respectable couple then continued their walk alone, treating the Major with the most sovereign contempt, and allowing him, like Young Norval, to “mark the course they took,” and to follow them to their abode. This he next day visited, with men, dogs, and guns; and a week afterwards I was sleeping soundly, in the Major’s house, on the skin of that same king of the forest, while his consort’s hide served me for a coverlid.

Although the keener sportsman prefers to go beyond the colonial boundary for prey, yet it is customary in the towns for a number of friends to make up a shooting party, who sally forth with waggons and a tent, which they pitch on some agreeable spot, and stay for several days, living _al fresco_,--enjoying good sport by day and good fare at the end of it, with merry songs, toasts, and stories. Others prefer hunting, mount their active little horses, and, followed by a whole host of curs, whose pedigrees would puzzle the most ingenious zoologist, sally forth in search of wild bucks; and many a good run they enjoy, and much do they contribute to the stock of good things which grace the table on the greensward at night.

“BATTLE WITH LIFE!”

Bear thee up bravely, Strong heart and true! Meet thy woes gravely, Strive with them too! Let them not win from thee Tear of regret, Such were a sin from thee, Hope for good yet!

Rouse thee from drooping, Care-laden soul; Mournfully stooping ’Neath grief’s control! Far o’er the gloom that lies, Shrouding the earth, Light from eternal skies Shows us thy worth.

Nerve thee yet stronger, Resolute mind! Let care no longer Heavily bind. Rise on thy eagle wings Gloriously free! Till from material things Pure thou shalt be!

Bear ye up bravely, Soul and mind too! Droop not so gravely, Bold heart and true! Clear rays of streaming light Shine through the gloom, God’s love is beaming bright E’en round the tomb!

SPY POLICE.

We have already given some insight into the workings of the Detective Police system of London, and have found that it is solely employed in bringing crime to justice. We have no political police, no police over opinion. The most rabid demagogue can _say_ in this free country what he chooses, provided it does not tend to incite others to _do_ what is annoying to the lieges. He speaks not under the terror of an organised spy system. He dreads not to discuss the affairs of the nation at a tavern, lest the waiter should be a policeman in disguise; he can converse familiarly with his guests at his own table without suspecting that the interior of his own liveries consists of a spy; when travelling, he has not the slightest fear of perpetual imprisonment for declaring himself freely on the conduct of the powers that be, because he knows that even if his fellow-passenger be a Sergeant Myth or an Inspector Wield, no harm will come to him.

It is not so across the Channel. There, while the criminal police is very defective, the police of politics is all powerful. In March last, thirty thousand political malcontents were swept beyond the gates of Paris in a single morning, before the rest of the people were up; and nobody was any the wiser till the masterly feat had been performed; but during the same month several single individuals were knocked down and robbed--some in broad day, others at dusk--yet neither of the robbers were taken. In Austria, in some of the German states, and in Italy, political _espionage_ is carried to a point of refined ingenuity of which no Englishman can form an idea. Mr. Tomkins goes, for instance, to Naples; and--as the Emperor of Russia might have enlarged on the happiness and prosperity of that city after his recent visit to it, because the streets were cleared of beggars, the cabmen compelled to dress in their best, and the fishermen to wear shoes--so in the “Travels in Italy,” which Mr. Tomkins would undoubtedly publish, there would be not a word about the police spy system; because he, innocent man, was unable to detect in his table companions, in his courier, or in his laundress, an agent of police. It is now our purpose to supply from the authentic information of a resident in Naples, the hiatus to be found in all the books of all the Mr. Tomkinses who have written “Travels.”

The chief agent is the Commissary, who, says our friend, has a certain district put under his care, and is thus made responsible for its order and fidelity; he is a kind of nursing father, in short, to the unhappy inhabitants, with power to ruin or destroy; for though he nominally receives his orders from the Minister of Police, yet, as the cant phrase is, his office is eminently “suggestive;” and whether a suspicion is to be cleared up, an act of vengeance to be perpetrated, or some object of interest or licentiousness to be attained, the report of the Commissary supplies all the data for the operations at head-quarters.

Immediately under his orders this General of Division has both regular and irregular troops, the former being the Policemen of the City; the latter simply Spies. When any long course of inquiry is to be carried out, he employs deputies, who bring in their intelligence from time to time; but if any immediate or important information is desired, the Commissary undertakes that little bit of business himself--it is a delicate _morçeau_ which this gourmand cannot resist, and away he posts to enjoy the banquet.

Some years ago, there resided in the neighbourhood of Naples a foreigner, whose health compelled him to seek a southern climate. His tastes and occupations were literary, and his habits quiet; but whether he had some secret enemy who had denounced him, or whether the Government were afraid of him, because he read and wrote, I know not; but one fine morning the little town was much agitated by the appearance of a Commissary of Police and his attendant “Sbirri.” Many were the conjectures--as is always the case under such circumstances--as to what could be the object of this visitation. No one took it to himself; but as in a church each good Christian lolls in his corner and admires the applicability of the sermon to his neighbour in the next pew; so every little townsman knew precisely the person who merited the inspection of the Police. Don Roberto was sure that the visit was meant for his mortal enemy, Don Giuseppe; whereas the master of the favourite “Cantino” was equally sure that it must be for his rival who sold such acid wine, and permitted scenes in his shop enough to awaken the anger of the Saints. He always thought he was a Carbonaro!

The Commissary, on his arrival, sent for the Syndic.

“Pray, Signor Syndic,” he said, “is there a foreigner residing here, called Don Ferdinand?” (every one is Don, in Naples.)

“Yes!” was the reply.

“And pray, Sir, what is the object of his residence here?”

“I understand, Signor Commissario, that he is in search of health and amusement.”

“Ah! very good: health and amusement. And what may be his occupations?”

“They do say, Sir, that he is engaged much in reading and writing.”

“Reading and writing! Yet in search of health and amusement,” said the official, opening his eyes. “That’s a curious combination; but tell me, has Don Ferdinand any intercourse with the inhabitants? does he ever invite any of them to dinner?”

“I must confess,” said the Syndic, “that he does.”

“Then it is true, that Don Ferdinand proposes toasts after dinner?”

“Well,” replied the Syndic, as if such an admission would be fraught with danger. “I cannot deny it--he _does_ propose toasts.”

“What are they?” asked the great official, sharply.

“His usual practice is, first, to propose the health of our Sovereign Lord the King, and then the health of _his_ Sovereign Lady, the Queen.”

Not without disappointment at having made out nothing serious against Don Ferdinand, our Commissary dismissed the Syndic, merely observing that he had taken note of all his answers, and should draw up his report therefrom, and present it to the Minister of Police.

After that, the Commissary of the Police came twice to my friend’s residence, and put a number of searching questions to his porter. Nothing, however, came of these investigations; first, because there was nothing really alarming in the fact of a man reading and writing, and giving toasts; and, secondly, and perhaps more strongly, because Don Ferdinand was an Englishman; for there is a prestige attaching to the very name of an Englishman which attracts to him the respect of the people and a cautious deferential treatment on the part of the Governments. It is felt, that, however distant he may be from his native land, he is not beyond its protective power, and that any injustice done to him will be resented as an injustice done to the nation. It is this conviction which has been his security in circumstances where I have known the subjects of other States arrested, imprisoned, or sent out of the country, without receiving the protection of their Governments.

The Commissary is eminently a night-bird; sometimes you see him with “measured step and slow,” followed by his Myrmidons, stealing along under the dark shadows of the houses, like a cat treading; or, perchance, you are returning home through the silent streets, carelessly and thoughtlessly, when, at some dark corner, you find yourself confronted by this spectre. He listens for and pauses at every foot-fall, waits about in entries, stops at doors, watches the lights in houses, and, like a true inductive philosopher, from such simple facts--as seeing two or three lights, more or less, or a larger group of heads than usual, infers conspiracies most dreadful and dangerous to the State. Presently a Commissary is seen bustling along with his attendants, with a quick and eager step. He is not on a mission of inspection--oh, no--that cheerful promptitude indicates that game’s a-foot, and that something is to be done. And now he stops before a house and knocks aloud--“Who is there?”--demands some one from within. “Open in the name of the law!” is the reply. What consternation do these words create; lights are gleaming and people are hurrying backwards and forwards, but the knocking continues and becomes louder, and the door is opened, and the unfortunate master of the house is dragged from his bed to be plunged into the dungeons of the Vicaria. His neighbour, luckier than he, had timely notice of the honour intended him by the Commissary; and, escaping over the roof of his house, was enabled to get on board some friendly vessel. Their crime you ask? That of hundreds of others who are eating the bread of penury in exile, or pining in loathsome dungeons--they had taken part in the movements which preceded the publication of the “Constitution” (yet an article of that “Constitution” says, that “a veil of oblivion shall rest upon the past”). They had, in short, assisted in the development of a Constitution which I saw the Majesty of Naples swear on the Gospels to observe.

I know no better type than certain noxious insects for the myrmidons of the Commissary--the Police Spies of the South of Italy. Their multitude, their ubiquity, their unwearied perseverance, their sharp sting, make them worse than the whole insect tribe united, and infinitely more dangerous. You may crush the wasp, or smoke the mosquito, or brush away the ant, and get some intervals of repose in spite of renewed attacks; they give you, too, some warning signs of their approach--but the Police Spy is invisible and never out of hearing; whether you are relaxing in frank and thoughtless merriment, or abandoning yourself to the sweet and delicious dreams of friendship; in the market or the street--the drawing-room--the café--or the church--there he is: “A chiel’s amang ye taking notes, and ’faith he’ll prent it!” They reconnoitre the ground in various detachments for the Commissary, and report the movements, words, and almost thoughts, of the “suspected,” or of whomsoever they please to place upon that fatal list. They assume no distinctive dress--make no sign; they walk in darkness, and move like the pestilence, yet they are as real existences, and follow as precise a trade, as the vendor of maccaroni. These spies are not sent forth at random, like gleaners in a wheat-field, to pick up whatever they can; but they are selected with caution, and assigned a position for which their talents or rank best fit them. Thus it happens that every grade of society has its appropriate and peculiar spies. Some are appointed to watch over the upper classes; some over the _canaglia_; some over the clergy; all watch each other. Enter a drawing-room, and rustling in satin, and distributing the courtesies and refinements of the _galleria_ (drawing-room), you may behold a Government Spy. Beauty and refinement unite to lament the fate of the poor Marchese Maroni, who was arrested yesterday; nay, two crystal drops confirm the grief of the sympathising syren--“It was so hard a case. There was really nothing that could be proved against his Eccellenza. Alas! who is safe under the existing order of things--is there no hope--will there never be any change?” But beware--fall not into the meshes, though they may be woven of silk; be silent or indifferent; the very lips which pronounced these commiserations, are those which a few hours ago denounced the subject of them to the Government. You adjourn, at the close of the Opera, to a café; you are accompanied by several friends, and feel disposed to relax over a glass of iced punch--’tis so hot--and then from one topic of conversation you range to another, as if you were breathing the air of liberty. But who is that sleek old gentleman opposite, whose keen and cunning eye glances occasionally at you from above his paper? He has been seated there, I know not how long, spelling rather than reading yesterday’s paper; yet he has a benevolent expression of countenance; perhaps he is infirm, poor fellow, or is looking for an advertisement; perhaps some article has deeply interested him. Phaugh! waste not your compassion or your speculation upon him--he is a Spy! he has been taking notes, and woe be to you if you have been betrayed into any thoughtless expression of opinion; for every word is registered. What corner of the city, or the country, what class of society is free from this pest! Nor is all this merely imaginary. I paint from the life, and could adduce instances of betrayal in the belle of high society, or in the shopman at the counter, in the caburan who takes your paltry _buonamancia_, or the friend you have cherished in your bosom.