629

By the Sea-Side in South-East Africa.

ALONG the whole Natal coast-line there is, so far as I know, but one spot which can fairly be called a watering-place. To that length of southeast African shore might also be added two hundred miles to the south, and two hundred miles to the north of our colonial frontiers, and then we shall have nearly six hundred miles of glorious sea-frontage utterly unused for purposes of enjoyment by man. The sole rival of Brighton or Biarritz in this part of the world is the place I refer to. A smaller can hardly exist, for it contains only one house. And even that house would, in the eyes of all my English readers, be deemed little better than a hovel. Such as it is, I am its tenant for the time being, and a vast fund of true and healthful enjoyment does the tenancy of my hovel confer upon me.

Few shores can present less variety of outline than that of South-East Africa. No navigable rivers empty themselves into the sea; thus there are no estuaries. Scores of narrow, rocky, shallow streams do fall into the ocean, after devious courses from the ever-visible uplands, but all of them have sand-bars across their mouths, and during the dry mid-year months of winter these bars can often be traversed dryshod. Nor are there any creeks, harbours, or indentations of any kind, except where, here and there, some river-guarding bluff advances a little further than usual into the sea, and thus affords, on one side at least, a small measure of shelter. Between Delagoa Bay on the north, and Algoa Bay on the south-and there are, say, seven hundred miles between them-only one port worth the name is found, and that is Durban, the leading commercial centre of Natal. There an all but landlocked basin, about five miles long, affords a safe haven for vessels of moderate tonnage.

My watering-place, which is what I have to do with now, is about fifteen miles south of Durban. Africa is but a beginner in civilization as yet; and although six miles of railway are in operation near the town, they do not come in this direction. Nor, indeed, do public vehicles of any kind offer facilities for travel. In Natal, when we want to go about, but one way is possible to those who are burdened with baggage or other impedimenta. We have to post to our watering-place. But our chariot is a clumsy, big, and springless waggon, and our team consists of fourteen gigantic oxen, whose vast-spreading horns never fail to strike the stranger with surprise. This cumbrous vehicle is as slow as it is uncomfortable. Moving at the rate of about two miles an hour, we hope to reach our destination ere dusk. The road, though flat, is sandy. Long hills, shaggy with tropical bush-growth, and enlivened by the gardens and

cottages of suburban residents, skirt our way. On the other side the mangrove swamp, which lines the bay, hems us in. Groups of Kaffirs and coolies, laden with fruit and vegetables for sale in town, pass us. Solitary horsemen, devoid of knightly trappings, are seen ambling along such sylvan and shady by-paths as Mr. G. P. R. James would have delighted in. Here we plunge through a narrow, bridgeless stream, where, at high tide, the oxen might have to swim. Here we come to a tree of untold antiquity, under whose spreading branches many a picnic party has disported, and many a belated traveller encamped for the night. After three hours' "trekking," or crawling, the panting oxen are set free, to depasture themselves for an hour or two. No inn is near; but waggon travellers csorn hotel accommodation, being, of all classes of wayfarers, the most selfreliant. Brushwood is gathered in the neighbouring bush by our attendant Kaffirs, a fire is lit, the kettle is boiled, and, seated on the ground, our party take their midday meal.

A few words about that party may not be out of place. I am the only man amongst them a fact portending serious responsibilities. The costume of my fair fellow-travellers would give a serious shock to the proprieties of Scarborough or Deauville. Hats that are nearly two feet in diameter shield the feminine visages from the scorching sun. Crinoline was never in less demand. At my watering-place the utility of apparel is estimated according to its age and strength. The total absence of all curious eyes enables the laws of Nature and the dictates of comfort to be consistently followed.

In the month of May with us the shadows begin to lengthen early, and our journey's end draws near. After crossing the Umlazi by a wooden bridge, we pass sugar-mills in quick succession. For this long, narrow plain, stretching out from the head of the bay, is almost covered with plantations, whose thick, ribbon-like leaves make a cheery rustle as we pass them. The chessboard-like divisions of coffee-estates may also be seen on the wooded hillsides. A little further and we cross a wide, shallow stream, in the quicksands of whose bottom waggons often stick for hours, and which is sometimes so flooded in the summer as to be impassable by horsemen. Now we leave all traces of a road behind us, and follow the bed of the river for half a mile or more, until a narrow path, cut out of the side of a steep hill, shows us that our seaside retreat has at last been reached. I have ridden on ahead, meanwhile, to "prospect" the place, and see how we could get into the house; for when too late to return to Durban it is discovered that the one key which serves for all the doors has been left behind. A narrow path cut out of the side of a steep hill, rising at an angle of about forty-five degrees, brings me to an opening of the bush on the top of a shoulder of the hill, about a hundred feet above the plain. Just through this, in a small shelf-like nook, surrounded on three sides by bush, stands our home for the ensuing month. My enthusiasm about the attractions of the spot somewhat abated when I saw our residence. It

is a small building of a construction peculiar to South Africa, and known locally as "wattle and dab." Its walls are simply made of poles, with wattles interlaced between them, the whole being daubed over with rough plaster, and then limewashed. In an inclement climate, where the winds are violent and rains are frequent, such a style of architecture would never keep out the weather. But in our mild latitude it gives capital shelter and lasts for many a long year. In this case the structure consists of one centre room, twenty feet long and fourteen wide, into which open four small rooms, two on either side, each being respectively fourteen by eight. The first serves us as parlour, dining-room, reception-room, and room of all-work, the others are all bedrooms. Overhead there is nothing but the bare sheets of iron that form the roof. As the walls are only about ten feet high, and whitewashed inside as well as out, the reader will form some idea of the charming simplicity which distinguishes this, our marine ménage.

Locks in Natal are superfluities. Until within the last year burglars and robbers were never heard of except as plaguing foreign lands. As often as not in our country districts doors are left unlocked, windows unfastened, and our houses generally accessible to any evil-disposed persons. Our primitive state hitherto has been our great security. As civilization grows and spreads all this will pass away; and there are such evidences latterly, that, as a colony, we are civilizing and degenerating concurrently. This is by way of explaining how it was that I managed so readily, with the aid of a large nail, to force open the lock, and thus obtain ingress. Although no other house is to be found at a less distance than a mile the lock was a formality-a deference to usage and nothing

more.

The sun was setting as the waggon drew up for the night at the bottom, and weary work we had dragging all our household goods up that ladderlike path before darkness set in. Although the house was let as "furnished" we had a host of moveables to bring with us, the furniture being simply confined to a table, two closets, one large and four small bedsteads, some shelves, a cracked toilet glass, and a dozen chairs. It required some exertion, therefore, to put our house in order and appease our hunger, but both were duly accomplished within two or three hours. Our Kaffirs picked up a large pile of drift-wood from the beach in a few minutes, and soon a roaring fire filled our bare and curtainless apartment with a blaze of light.

Once shaken down into something like order, the everlasting boom of the breakers tempts me out. From the verandah in front I can see nothing but the vast, mystic blank of the ocean, stretching from my feet away into dim obscurity, and streaked along the shore, as far as the eye can penetrate the gloom, with white lathery bars of foam. Every few seconds, as some new roller rises darkly out of the sea, and plunges down upon the rocks in a crashing cataract of surge, a strange flash

of veiled phosphorescent light shoots along the breaker, as though some sudden blaze had burst out beneath it. This effect is quite different from the more sparkling displays of ocean phosphorescence one sees on a smaller scale when on the water at night. Only once have I seen anything like it, and that was off the coast of South America, one dark night when the ocean was crossed by broad bands of the same sort of light, emitted as we afterwards found, by a large species of jelly-fish, whose scientific denomination I am not naturalist enough to remember correctly.

Although I have been accustomed all my life to live near the sea, the constant roar of the waves only some hundred feet below produces at first an unpleasant and irritating sensation. On this first night I said that the din would certainly drive me mad if I continued there; but next night the noise was as great, and my reason seemed unimpaired; the night after that I concluded that the ocean might rave far more loudly than it did without affecting my sanity. The sea, indeed, became companionable in its vocal efforts before many days were over. Those grand tones, so unquenchably impressive, are, after all, the most eloquent of Nature's voices. For four weeks they have never ceased, and when, in the calmest weather, their fury abates, they only sink into a milder cadence. At night we have never got rid of the notion that a storm is raging. We wake, and fancy that rain is pouring down in torrents, and that a gale is howling round the house. Nothing of the sort. Go out, and the air is deliciously still, the stars shine peacefully, and all the elements are hushed except the sleepless ocean.

About seven in the morning the red dull blaze of the sun as it rises above the sea-line and looks in at our curtainless windows (there are no prying eyes to fear) wakes us all. From my pillow I look down upon the broad sea now, and usually at this time in a state of oily calm. No horizon is clearly visible in the mists of morning. It is not here as it is at sea, where the early riser enjoys the grandest aspect of the changeful ocean. The sea looks its worst at this time. Except on rare occasions when gales arise, these southern winter mornings are still, and the waves that may have tossed and tumbled in the sunlight of the preceding evening have generally subsided ere midnight. Thick vapours hang over the waters and contract the distance, the sun rises red and big, the sea looks torpid and dull; but it is not silent. Loud as ever roar the crashing breakers; and if the tide be flowing in, the din they make will be your first disturbance on awaking.

Short time does one take in dressing at so primitive a retreat. Having loosed the bit of string by which the door is temporarily fastened, I begin to do what all masters of South African households are compelled to do, namely, to set the wheels of the domestic machinery, in the shape of Kaffir and coolie servants, at work. The easy natures of these people forbid any exertion on their part that is not absolutely necessary. There they are, seated round the old grate in the reed hut, windowless, door

less, and floorless, which acts as kitchen and servants' quarters to the establishment. A large pot of maize porridge gurgles pleasantly on the fire, and their simple hearts are rejoicing in the prospect of a speedy meal. Happily, they are a docile, albeit a lazy, people, and they skip about their several duties with a song on their lips and a smile in their eyes. Not so, however, our Indian cook. He is in great straits. He can't keep the draughts out of the kitchen, and he is distressed by the utter lack of all facilities for cooking. He mutters that he can't understand why his master should desert home comforts for such a place. Nature has few charms for Sambo anywhere; to love her is to acquire a taste. My cook falls into a yet lower state of despondency on finding that both teapot and coffee-pot have been forgotten, and with a sigh he proceeds to make an earthenware pitcher without a handle do duty for those utensils, as well as, at a later stage, act as deputy for a soup tureen.

The order of the day at our watering-place is about as regular and systematic as it is at more pretentious resorts. Breakfast being over, down all the party sallies to the beach. That is the beginning and the end of our enjoyments; the shore in one phase or another engrosses all our attention. Now the tide happens to be out. Smooth and hard the sands stretch bare on either hand. Beyond them the dark rocks are left uncovered by the falling tide. An almost perpendicular bound of about a hundred feet carries us to the top of a pile of boulders, by which the beach just here is buttressed. Below these, on one side a platform of rock stretches out to the sea. This slab of sandstone is worn into numberless little basins and channels, in which lovely striped fish of tiny size and delicate proportions flit about. Further on, the pools are deeper and larger; the rocks are undermined by the sea, which you can hear champing and chafing beneath you. Now and then, an incoming wave fills these pools to overflowing, and through countless unsuspected holes and chinks the water spurts up like a fountain into your face. To the further rocks the mussels cling in black masses, tons on tons, small and great, from the delicate green-tinted youngster to the big, hoary, and bearded patriarch.

It is here that we fish. On the first morning of our arrival a Kaffir put his hook down a deep hole not more than a foot in diameter, and in a minute's time he hauled up a huge rock-cod, dark-brown and spotted, with broad greedy mouth, and ugly fins. These insignificant-looking pools, crannies though they be, give access to the still depths of sea underneath, where these fish, which are delicious eating, love to lie. But there are fish of all kinds to be had for the hauling. Come to this rock—a daily haunt of ours. Down in the clear depths you may see hundreds of beautiful creatures-some darting quickly from rock to rock, and pool to pool, others gliding slowly nearer the bottom, now poking at a bunch of seaweed, or putting to flight a shoal of smaller fry. Here are