Six Months at the Cape | Page 2

bulwarks, and our friends gazed from under their
dripping umbrellas across the now impassable gulf in mute resignation.

At that moment a great blessing befell us. A boy let his cap drop from
the wharf into the water! It was an insignificant matter in itself, but it
acted like the little safety-valve which prevents the bursting of a
high-pressure engine. Voyagers and friends no longer looked at each
other like melancholy imbeciles. A gleam of intense interest suffused
every visage, intelligence sparkled in every eye, as we turned and
concentrated our attention on that cap! The unexpressed blessing of the
whole company, ashore and afloat, descended on the uncovered head of
that boy, who, all unconscious of the great end he was fulfilling, made
frantic and futile efforts with a long piece of stick to recover his lost
property.
But we did at last get under weigh, and then there were some touches of
real pathos. I felt no disposition to note the humorous elements around
when I saw that overgrown lad of apparently eighteen summers, press
to the side and wave his thin hands in adieu to an elderly lady on shore,
while tears that he could not, and evidently did not care to restrain, ran
down his hollow cheeks. He had no friend on board, and was being sent
to the Cape for the benefit of his health. So, too, was another young
man--somewhere between twenty and thirty years--whose high colour,
brilliant eye, and feeble step told their own tale. But this man was not
friendless. His young wife was there, and supported him with tender
solicitude towards a seat. These two were in the after-cabin. Among the
steerage passengers the fell disease was represented in the person of a
little boy. "Too late" was written on the countenances of at least two of
these,--the married man and the little boy.
As to the healthy passengers, what shall I say of them? Need I tell you
that every species of humanity was represented?
There were tall men, and short men, as well as men broad and narrow,--
mentally, not less than physically. There were ladies pretty, and ladies
plain, as well as grave and gay. Fat and funny ones we had, also lean
ones and sad. The wise and foolish virgins were represented. So too
were smokers and drinkers; and not a few earnest, loving, and lovable,
men and women.
A tendency had been gaining on me of late to believe that, after passing

middle-life, a man cannot make new and enthusiastic friendships.
Never was I more mistaken. It is now my firm conviction that men may
and do make friendships of the closest kind up to the end of their career.
Of course the new friends do not, and cannot, take the place of the old.
It seems to me that they serve a higher purpose, and, by enabling one to
realise the difference between the old and the new, draw the cords of
ancient friendship tighter. At all events, you may depend upon it, my
dear Periwinkle, that no new friend shall ever tumble you out of the
niche which you occupy in my bosom!
But be this as it may, it is a fact that in my berth--which held four, and
was full all the voyage--there was a tall, dark, powerful, middle-aged
man, an Englishman born in Cape Colony, [see note 3], who had been
"home" for a trip, and was on his way out again to his African home on
the great Karroo. This man raised within me feelings of disgust when I
first saw him in the dim light of our berth, because he was big, and I
knew that a big man requires more air to fill his lungs than a little one,
and there was no superabundant air in our berth--quite the reverse. This
man occupied the top berth opposite to mine. Each morning as I awoke
my eyes fell on his beard of iron-grey, and I gazed at his placid
countenance till he awoke--or I found his placid countenance gazing at
me when I awoke. From gazing to nodding in recognition is an easy
step in ordinary circumstances, but not when one's head is on one's
pillow. We therefore passed at once, without the ceremony of nodding,
into a quiet "good morning." Although reticent, he gradually added a
smile to the "good morning," and I noticed that his smile was a
peculiarly pleasant one. Steps that succeed the "first" are generally easy.
From disliking this man--not on personal, but purely selfish grounds--I
came to like him; then to love him. I have reason to believe that the
attachment was mutual. His name--why should I not state it? I don't
think he would object--is Hobson.
In the bunk below Hobson lay a young