Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

old friend, or there to inquire after the health of a poorer neighbour. He proceeded on his course in a sort of abstracted manner, as one who revolves great things. Only once did he stop, at the bank where his wife's £2,000 were deposited, to inquire whether there were any news, at which question the manager and the two clerks looked up in utter bewilderment. Mr. Graham's office was conveniently situated, having two entrances, the one from the main street, the other from a back lane. Mr. Waddle chose the latter. Guided by a variety of directions, such as a hand pointing forward, or "This way, or "Come in," and so forth, he found himself at last in the "waiting-room," presently in the sole occupancy of a melancholy-looking youth of about fourteen or so, Mr. Graham's confidential clerk and errand-boy. Martin brightened up when Mr. Waddle entered, in acknowledgment of the relation subsisting between that gentleman and his own family, his sister Phebe being maid-of-all-work at Plum Cottage.

years might yield a miserable £400 a year, to one | streets, stopping here to exchange civilities with an who was about to plunge both hands-nay, to dive head-foremost-into gold, silver, sulphur, and platina mines; not to speak of all the other investments that lay temptingly spread within reach? There they were iron-works, coal-works, gas-works, waterworks; competing manures for selection all over the world; companies of every imaginable description and for every conceivable purpose, from the importation of sardines to the discounting of tens of thousands of pounds; all limited in liability, and sure to yield at least twenty per cent., not to speak of the advance in the value of shares. In fact, success was so certain, that some benevolent gentlemen had kindly undertaken to guarantee the interest for several years, counting profits even before they were made, thus reversing that stale, superannuated adage about "catching your hare before you cook it." Besides, the "management" was in each case unexceptionable, and as Mr. Graham said, "Give me good names, and I'll float anything!" And the names were undoubtedly good, for did they not invariably include at least one lord, two honourables, an M.P., and several gentlemen who hailed from the best addresses in the West End, and from another in some "lane"or "court" presumably in the City-" courts" and "lanes" being, in a mercantile aspect there, sometimes symbolical of greater wealth than ordinary streets or squares?

To be sure, Mr. Waddle felt in his inmost heart that as he knew nothing whatever of any business save that of the tannery, he might be scarcely qualified to judge of, or to take part in, such enterprises, at least without very good advice; but then neither did those majors, admirals, honourables, and M.P.'s understand anything about it, and yet they could constitute the directorate of the companies. With such a directorate, then, must he not be safe? Besides, strictly speaking, Graham himself knew little about it, and yet he had told Mr. Waddle concerning a certain individual, only lately in a small provision shop, who had now attained to the estate of an esquire, and was hopefully tending towards some directorship.

In short, taking all things into consideration, Mr. Waddle persuaded himself, without much difficulty, of two things: First, it would be not only wrong, but cruel, to allow young Nicoll to continue so intiImate in his house. What would be the use of it? It could only excite false hopes. There was now a gulf between James and Pussy; and to speak plainly he would only be doing his duty towards Mrs. Waddle and Pussy, for whose sakes alone he was working and planning. Secondly, Mr. Waddle perceived most clearly that now or never he must make his investments. Just at that moment he might be considered as having obtained his wife's consent. But would the mood last? Besides, though he might keep James Nicoll out of the house, there was no saying what, or how soon, report might reach old John Nicoll. The mere suggestion of consulting the old broker had filled Mr. Waddle with vague terror; what would the reality be?

So Mr. Waddle planted his hat firmly on his head and sallied forth. He had not made up his mind in what to invest, nor indeed to invest at all; but he would consult Graham. Very different was Mr. David Waddle's mien and bearing that morning from what it had been wont, when with mind at ease he used to make his way through the well-known

But Mr. Waddle was too much absorbed in his own business to take special notice of Martin Puddles. What passed in Mr. Graham's office may best be described by results. Suffice it that the deliberations were protracted, that Mr. Graham several times offered to "wire up," which his client nervously declined, not knowing very well what it implied, but disliking the sound of the expression; and that Mr. Waddle ultimately issued again into the street, metaphorically carrying on his two arms four baskets, into which he had, by Mr. Graham's advice, distributed his two thousand eggs; for, as Mr. Graham had pointed out, it was not wise to carry them all in one basket, however strong and capacious. But now, if, for argument's sake, the "Great Wheal Bang" failed to yield immediately twenty-five per cent.which it couldn't, however there was Patagonian Platina; and if Patagonian Platina failed-which it couldn't-there was the Windward Islands Gas and Water Works; and behind them again, the "Irish Bog-Diamonds and Peat Draining Company," all of which, as set forth in the various prospectuses, were severally bound in honour to pay twenty-five per cent., and which in their combination might be regarded as constituting a sort of mutual guarantee and insurance investment.

While thus Mr. Waddle's difficulties had been in course of successful removal, those whom he had left at home were trying to solve a problem not less puzzling than his. In point of fact, James Nicoll had actually written that he would arrive on the morrow, and hoped to spend Sunday with "Uncle and Aunt Waddle," before seeking his fortunes in the great metropolis.

Mr. Waddle on his return wrote to say that it would not be convenient, and told his wife and Pussy why he had done so. Poor girl, she little expected this. She had resolved she would face her father along with James; she would brave his anger; she would leave the house and gain her bread as a teacher-in short, she was in the mood of desperate heroism not uncommon to young ladies in such circumstances. At last, softer and submissive counsels began to prevail, just as it was time to wash away the traces of tears before her father's joining them at dinner.

That meal, which was generally of the simplest kind, ordinarily took place at the early hour of one o'clock. To an onlooker who was acquainted with

all that had taken place between breakfast and dinner, it would have been not a little interesting to notice how Mr. and Mrs. Waddle were deceiving each other, for the mother had resolved to encourage Pussy's hopes. Husband and wife had each a secret, which it was their aim not to betray to the other by look or gesture. Husband and wife looked each quite unconcerned and happy - seemed peculiarly unsuspicious and ingenuous, and were specially attentive to each other's wants.

CHAPTER IV.-A SUNDAY OF UNREST.

A MORE complete misrepresentation could not be made than that of the conventional, dull, "puritanical Sabbath" in a certain set of story-books. True, there are odd twisted and gnarled people, and there are local prejudices, and misapprehensions of those things in life that are the most true, good, and joyous; but mental or moral malformations become apparent in other things than religion, and on other days than the Sunday. Why, then, impute to the Lord's day the folly, ignorance, or hypocrisy of men, or see no sunlight resting on its limpid waters, but only the reflection of some exaggerated grotesqueness?

Ever since Mr. Waddle had possessed a home of his own, the happiest day in it had always been that of the Lord-no business, no bustle, no work, no cares! All that was left behind in the work-a-day week, and only what was holy and happy carried over from it. The family had each other all to themselves-at a throne of grace, in social converse, in the quiet afternoon walk, and even in the house of God. Body, soul, and spirit were at rest, not idly, but, as it were, in the golden sunlight of His felt presence. There all their tenderest memories had rooted and their best thoughts and purposes sprung.

But it was not quite so on this particular Sunday. Mr. Waddle's mind was preoccupied; his wife looked troubled and anxious, and Pussy's thoughts were also somewhat wandering. And why was all this? Mr. Waddle had tried hard to persuade himself that he was only doing that which was right and dutiful. He would not use his wealth for selfish purposes; he would do good; he would be charitable, even liberal. Yet the very fact that he so reasoned with himself might have shown him his conscience was not at ease. Nor could he fix his thoughts. Even in the midst of his highest aspirations he would find himself suddenly among shares and mines, and calculations when the first dividends might be expected, and whether they would be twenty or twenty-five per cent. Of all the passions there is none which so closely intertwines itself around our whole thinking as that to which Mr. Waddle had fallen a victim.

It was a long Sunday morning-far longer than usual. At last the bells pealed, and the family prepared to sally forth to the house of God. They knew everybody in it, from the minister to the woman who was nominally the pew-opener. Not that she had much to do, for there were few changes in the chapel, and fewer strangers, and every one knew his own pew. The minister was growing old and visibly careworn since the time his family had come to number one son and six daughters. They were nice bright girls, the Hartwells, pleasant to behold, and still pleasanter to think upon, with their warm affections clustering around their poor home more than if it had been a palace, and their enthusiasm for their poor threadbare father, as if he had been the acme of perfection and a veritable hero. And they were

right; a veritable hero he was, waging a life-long fight against a sense of dependence by realising who his Master was; striving against poverty by faith, against neglect by humility, and against a general disappointment of his wishes, tastes, and aspirations by a determined use of what he had; seeking to transplant what he knew must be blighted in Greenwood into another soil, where assuredly it would spring and bloom.

Mr. and Mrs. Waddle had always agreed that there was not a man more earnest and true than their own minister. His sermons just told what and how he had experienced-neither more nor less. Mrs. Waddle could not persuade herself it would be otherwise on that day. To be sure, it was a strange text to choose, "Let your conversation be without covetousness, and be content with such things as ye have; for He hath said, I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." Mrs. Waddle felt her ears tingle and her face burn when the minister read it out. All the time of the sermon she never ventured to look to the right nor the left. In expounding the text the preacher reversed the order of its statements. He began by showing how the Lord had redeemed. us, and therefore could never leave nor forsake us. With this blessed conviction in our hearts, he argued, we might well rest contented with such things as His wisdom and goodness provided for us. It were not only folly, but dangerous sin, to mingle covetousness with our conversation or life. Yet it was there the enemy was always busiest, to weaken our trust, and to pierce us with many foolish and hurtful lusts. So, and in this strain, the sermon continued. Perhaps the preacher was a trifle too energetic, possibly speaking the more freely that no one could by any chance accuse him of covetousness.

Whatever others may have thought, to Mrs. Waddle it seemed a message directly from heaven, so precious were its consolations and so suitable its lessons. As the sermon drew to its close, she could have responded audibly to the description of the effects of covetousness on the heart. Inwardly she resolved to dismiss her fears and speak frankly to her husband on the subject. She had bent her head reverently to seek strength for this task, when an unexpected nudge intimated that in Mr. Waddle's opinion her devotions were unduly prolonged. Then for the first time she gathered what hold the demon must have obtained upon her husband's spirit, and a feeling of terrible desolateness settled upon her. Mr. Waddle said little on the way home, and returned with coldness the advances of his fellow-worshippers.

"I never wish to hear the like of that again," was the first critical remark Mr. Waddle trusted himself to make, when the two were again seated in the parlour at home. "Nothing but the law and morality! No gospel!" "But, David-”

"I know, I know! Speaking about things that he doesn't understand a bit. Does not the apostle tell us to be diligent in business'?" 66 Yes, but--"

"But what?" Then, with singular inconsistency, not giving his wife time to answer the question, he added, "I don't wonder, if these are his views, that the place is half empty. No person could get on with such principles. The whole world would go asleep!"

"How can you speak of the good man in that way?" burst in Mrs. Waddle; for upon her mind

rushed the recollection of these many years when in | joy and in sorrow the minister and his family had been their truest friends. She recalled how he had stood by the bedside of her children, and wept and prayed with her husband and herself, when one after the other of them lay up in that darkened room, dressed in white, and covered with flowers, as if the last earthly remembrance of them were to be as arrayed for heaven's bridal. Many a scene floated past her vision with which the minister, his work and word, were indelibly associated. And now the threatened loss of her most valued friends was only too symbolical of the better things with which she and her husband were to part.

"You need not take on so, Ann! Only, I think, when a man is past his work, he had better give it up, and make way for one younger."

Happily, the rest was cut short by the appearance of Phebe with dinner.

"Is Miss Kate not at home?" "Kate is gone to the minister's," said Mrs. Waddle, hesitating to explain more.

"I wish she weren't so intimate there." But that was all Mr. Waddle would say on this occasion, nor did his wife deem it prudent under present circumstances to contradict him. The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Mr. Waddle did not propose to go again to church, but spent most of the time dozing. He wondered why James Nicoll had not spoken to them, for he saw him in the minister's pew, and knew Pussy would meet him at "the manse," but he did not even mention his name. His wife tried to read; to fix her mind on the immutable promises; to cast the anchor of her hope in some quiet harbour. But it was all in vain, and she was glad to find the relief of tears in the solitude of her own room. And now it was not only sorrow that weighed her down, but anxious care for her child.

Kate had been so accustomed to love her early friend and companion, that she had scarcely before become conscious of her real relationship or feelings towards James Nicoll. He was so often in their house, always welcome, always one of themselves, that she regarded him quite as much part of her life as her own father or mother. To be sure, since that legacy of £4,000 had come to him, and he had begun to form plans of life, his language and bearing towards her had undergone some change. He had become more earnest, more attentive, more respectful. Now and then he had thrown out hints of bright hopes which he never could deserve to see realised, but which, somehow or other, he yet seemed to think would be realised. And when he had asked her opinion, and been at once guided by it, and then looked at her so intently, as one that would fain put another question, and yet another, she had blushed and dropped her eyes. He had never spoken to her of love, and yet she knew all about it. She had never fallen in love with him, and yet she loved him all along.

It was quite otherwise with her dearest friend and most intimate confidant, Emma Hartwell, the minister's eldest daughter. Now her John had taken her quite by surprise. Poor, meek, modest, self-distrusting girl that she was, she could have no idea that the bright, clever, fine youth, who was rapidly making his way, and was going to seek his fortunes as a doctor in London, had ever even noticed her, far less that he thought her face the fairest, her voice the sweetest, and her heart the gentlest, man could ever

woo. Yet he judged rightly; nay, scarcely, for she had far more of the treasure hidden than ever he, even with his loving eyes, could discover. Then, when he so unexpectedly spoke to her, asking her if she could ever love one so inferior to herself, it had come upon her with a sudden rush, that made her eyes swim and her head feel giddy. And he had misunderstood her, and imagined-well, never mind what-till he had caught her eye, and then he had gone to the other extreme. And that very evening he had spoken to her father in his study, and father had given his blessing, and mother had wept over her, and they had all prayed together, and when they had gone in from that dear old study into their poor parlour for tea, John had been so kind, and offered his arm to mother, and spoken to her with as much courteous respect as if she had been a real duchess! Only no one was to know anything of their engagement, and so she only smiled when any interfering friend deemed it her duty broadly to hint that she, Emma, should do something for herself and her family, and not expect to be supported in luxury, just as if Emma had not been teaching, working, and helping all her life long!

All this, and much more, chiefly about John Laing, had Emma communicated to her dearest friend Kate. And all this about James, his legacy, his purposes, what he had said, how he had looked, and a great deal more, had Kate in turn communicated to her dearest friend Emma. And now that James Nicoll had, no doubt, come just to do what her own John had successfully enacted before he went to London, this was to be the upshot! Long and earnest was the consultation between the two friends, as they were closeted together the greater part of the afternoon. Despite her meekness, Emma could not see it in the same way as Kate. Why should Kate's heart be broken, and James be made wretched for ever? For Emma felt sure that any one who had known and loved her Kate could never think of another. This statement Kate was, of course, bound strongly to combat, though in her inmost heart she liked and fain believed it, at least so far as James Nicoll was concerned. Mr. Waddle's could only be a passing whim! He was too good, too kind, to persist in it. And would not James brilliantly succeed in London; for was there ever a girl like Emma who has seen other than the brightest future before her friend's lover? To all such arguments poor little Pussy could only oppose a tearful negative. She saw only too clearly that, in her father's mood, the alternative before her was either worldly ruin if he failed, or the sacrifice of her affections if he succeeded. In either case it would be right to part finally from her lover; right to her father, and especially to James, whe should be free to make another choice. The bond that joined them to each other must be severed, at whatever cost to herself. But in reality, as Emma reminded her friend, there was not such a bond as yet uniting them! How, then, could it all be arranged?

At last the two resolved to take Emma's mother into their confidence, she was so judicious, kind, and gentle. What if she would go and see James? The minister's wife entered readily and tenderly on her work. But she found it more difficult than she had anticipated.

Mrs. Hartwell was now to furnish these details. But how could she tell the young man who had come so full of hope that the best for himself and her he

had meant to woo was to forget they had ever met? Did she then not love him? Mrs. Hartwell thought it wisest to evade the question; and James, with the resentment perhaps not unnatural under such circumstances, spoke hardly and bitterly of Kate-more so than the minister's wife, with all her meekness and all her pity, could bear. So they parted-not in anger, but in estrangement. Yet as the weary hours crept on, an irresistible longing stole over the young man's heart at least to see once more her whom he had so loved, and from whom he was henceforth to be parted for ever. On learning that Kate was at the minister's house, he said he would accompany Mrs. Hartwell, and would hear from Kate herself her decision. When he came, and they were left together, poor Kate's heart stood still for a moment, then beat violently. He tried to take her hand, but she drew back.

"No, James, it cannot be-it must not be!" "Cannot be? Why not, Kate? Do you not love me?-can you never love me?"

It was a terrible trial to have to answer such an appeal. But had she not her duty to consider? Was it not best and kindest to James to act as she did? But what if he should misunderstand her? She would bear that sorrow also for his sake if it could the more effectually sever him from his attachment.

"No, no!" she entreated, piteously; "but we must part, James; we must."

"Do you wish it so?" broke in the young man, passionately.

"Wish it? It must be. Yes, I wish it-that is-"

But Kate had not time to finish her sentence. In a moment he had bidden her a bitter farewell, and was hurrying away. What should she do? Her first impulse was to hasten after him and to explain all. But had she not that very morning, after a long struggle, made this very sacrifice of her heart and life, as she thought, unto the Lord? And should she now, when the trying moment came, draw back? Kate took her way home. As she entered the parlour it seemed as if a return of her father's former fondness would in some measure help her to bear up under the heavy load.

"Well, Pussy, we have missed you sadly, me and mother. Come, sit beside me, as in old days." Kate slid down on the rug before the fire and laid back her head against her father's knees. Her mother watched anxiously her expression.

"And where have you been, Pussy? you seem weary," and Mr. Waddle gently stroked the fair hair of his child.

"Nowhere but at the minister's, father." "Nowhere else?"

"Nowhere;" and Kate turned her truthful eyes full into her father's face. Then her mother understood what heartache her child must suffer. "Well, but you seem so weary, Pussy. I wish you would not go so often to the minister's." after a pause, You must give them up, Kate, they

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

And,

are in a different position." "No, father, I cannot give them up.' "You cannot? No; not for me, Kate?" This was too much for her overwrought feelings; she burst into tears and sobs.

"No, not for you, father; never, never will I give them up! I have given up for you all that made life dear to me, but I cannot do that-no I cannot!"

"Let the child be, David," gravely interposed Mrs. Waddle; "she is over-tired to-night. Come, Kate, to your own room, and rest."

Neither Mrs. Waddle nor Kate appeared again during the evening. It had been the most un-Sundaylike Sunday ever passed in that family. But Mr. David Waddle had taken note of his daughter's words, and had understood them. "Never mind," he soliloquised, "it will be all right by-and-by. This thing is done, the rest will come in good time."

In good time! when the shares would pay, and be sold-and pay again, and again be sold, and so on, till even his wife and Kate would laugh at their present blindness and folly!

So Mr. David Waddle chuckled inwardly as he lit his candle to retire to his own room, on the whole well contented with himself and the world in general.

VICTORIA FALLS, ZAMBESI RIVER.

TH

BY THOMAS BAINES, F.R.G.S.

HESE gigantic cataracts, the greatest natural wonder of South Africa, first discovered by Dr. Livingstone, are situated nearly in the centre of the course of the great Zambesi, which, rising not far from the west coast, and draining nearly all that part of the continent between ten degrees and twenty degrees of south latitude, flows by a delta on the east coast, extending from eighteen degrees to nineteen degrees south, into the Indian Ocean. The geography of this mighty river is in itself too interesting a subject to be compressed into a subordinate paragraph, and it is better, therefore, to pass at once to these magnificent Victoria Falls, which supply the illustration to the present paper, and to which I feel but too deeply that neither my pen nor pencil can do justice.

It was soon after hearing of the discovery that, returning to Cape Town from the Zambesi Expedition, which I had left the year before, I met with Mr. James Chapman, whom I had known ten years before in the country of the Transvaal emigrants, and who had since crossed the continent of Africa from east to west. He was now preparing to start on another journey, and we agreed to join in attempting the passage from Walvisch Bay on the west coast, to the mouth of the Zambesi on the east, making our way to the Falls, with the land equipage belonging to my friend, and thence by the river, in a portable boat of copper I had constructed for the purpose, but only part of which, owing to lung sickness and other difficulties incidental to 1,500 miles of land carriage, we were able to convey to the river.

Leaving behind us the shifting sands of the west coast, the alternate thirsty deserts and green oases of Damara and Namaqua lands, the deep blue lotusstudded Bō-tlet-le river, and the elevated high land to the north, destitute for two hundred miles of the smallest indication of a river, we are again greeted, as we suddenly plunge into the broad valley of the Zambesi system, with the sweet music of gushing water. Travelling along the tributary streams as far as, on account of the poisonous cattle-fly, it is safe to take the oxen, we encamp on the sources of the Nyati or Buffalo river, near the waggon of the ambassador sent by Sechele to demand from Sekelētu

restitution of the goods of the unfortunate mission- | aries who had perished of harsh treatment, if not of actual poison, in his country a year before.

The unfortunate Makalakas, or natives of the valleys, scattered by the cruel raids of the Matebele, began to collect round us, glad to be fed upon the wild game that fell to my companion's rifle. A number of them agreed to carry our absolute necessaries across the broad, arid ridge of red sand, scantily clothed with mopanies, and other varieties of the Bauhinia, which carry their leaves in pairs, edge up, that the sun may not scorch them, so that the traveller finds no shade beneath. We bivouacked on its northern slope, under a spreading mochicheerietree, in latitude 8° 0′ 15′′, and watching the red glare of our fire as it shone high into the recesses of the foliage, heard gradually stealing on the air, as the stillness of the night came on, the low murmuring of the cataract, still sixteen miles distant, like the sighing of the ocean before a gale.

Starting early in the morning, we were on our march when Edward Barry discovered the "smoke." Seeking a little opening in the trees, we saw the water of the broad Zambesi gleaming like a mirror beyond a long perspective of hill and dale, while from the chasm into which the water fell rose clouds of spray and mist a mile or thereabout in extent. The central clouds were the largest, but in all we counted ten, rising rather like the spray thrown up by a cannon-ball than in a strictly columnar form. The rising sun shed its warm light upon their soft vapoury forms, just swayed and altered by a gentle south-east breeze. The grey hills faded gradually into the distance, and the deep valley, winding for miles between us and the Falls, showed every variety of rough brown rock, or green or autumnal foliage -a relief unspeakable to the eye, long wearied by looking on sere mopanie leaves, burnt grass, and desolated country.

Short time was there to gaze upon this lovely scene; our weary, heavily-laden men were pressing on for water, and we had refreshed ourselves at a little rocky streamlet, called the Masoë, and started with renewed vigour, when our guide whistled. A halt was made, and every eye turned in the direction indicated. A black rhinoceros (Boriēle), the fiercer of the two varieties, was visible in the bush upon our right, and his uneasy gestures showed that he had sighted us at the same moment. Keeping back our excited follower as well as we could, Chapman and I crept to within fifty yards, and fired with deadly aim into his shoulder. He stumbled, badly wounded, but stood at bay a hundred yards farther, viciously snuffing the air with elevated nose; a couple more shots brought him down with a broken shoulder, but again the chase commenced. He dashed through the thickets at a pace we could not cope with. Four miles back we came upon him again, but the rush of the three men who followed put the beast again to flight. We therefore left them with orders to creep up more cautiously and despatch him.

The deep, narrow chasm of the lower river redoubling in abrupt zigzags through the valley appeared almost beneath our feet. Steep, red cliffs compressed the torrents of the lower river, which, from its depth and the absence of reflection from the sky, assumed a grass-green tint; the dark shadows of the precipices contrasting with the plateaux above, whose yellow surfaces showed like fields of ripened corn; the dark-green forest fringing the

ravine of the Victoria was beyond, and from behind this rose the white vaporous spray clouds from which the Falls derive their name-Mosi, oa, Tunya, or "Smoke that sounds "-and through their openings we caught long vistas of the broad upper river, glancing like silver in the sunlight, and studded with palmy islands. The scattered bush assumed more and more the character of a forest as we approached the better-watered country of the upper river; palmyras towered above the various thorns and timber trees; dwarf fan-palms, or wild dates, with their graceful, drooping, feathery leaves, nestled below them; gigantic baobabs reared their massive trunks or spread their arms, each bigger than an ordinary forest tree, above, and the dark cypress-like motsouri afforded a sombre contrast to the rich foliage around.

According to rule we ought to have gone straight on to the halting-place opposite the ferry; but artists have always some strange fancy that sensible men would never dream of, and, at my suggestion, we camped down under a shadowy ana-tree (a gigantic thorn, whose timber is much used for building purposes by the white people in Damara land), and, taking two or three attendants to carry gun and sketch-book, I walked down to ensure at least a preliminary view. least a preliminary view. The ground to leeward was swamped by constant showers from the spraycloud; the footprints of elephants, hippopotami, and buffaloes were filled with fine clear water; the black and rotting stumps over which we stepped were clad with delicate ferns or interlaced with bush rope; the dank foliage shook down its drenching moisture as we passed beneath. Putting aside the branches that obstructed our view, we stood at once on the precipitous verge, face to face with the westernmost cataract of the Victoria Falls. The channel opposite us, between the western shore and the nearest island, seemed about fifty yards in width, the gradual slope of its bed, while it diminished by a few feet the actual height of the fall, receiving of course a deeper body of water, which rushed impetuously over the broken rocks, gushing upward at one impediment in a beauteous dome of transparent emerald and silver tints, maintaining so permanently its place and form that the mind could scarcely realise the evanescence of its particles. A few yards more of still increasing slope, and the snow-white seething torrent, its tossed-off spray glittering and flashing like showers of diamonds in the sun, takes its final leap sheer out from the edge of the precipice to the dark abyss four hundred feet below, breaking, as it shoots diagonally downward, into masses which may be likened to snow wreaths, or the nuclei of comets, leaving long trains of lighter particles and spray to follow more slowly in their rear.

The "Three Rill Island"-its summit crowned with grass and forest, its dark, precipitous and overhanging front, deepened almost to blackness in the shadow, its base projecting like a massive buttress, and its sides broken by a chasm down which poured three smaller rills, filling it with a dull, grey mist which only a vertical sun at another period of the year could illuminate intervened between the Leaping Water" and the long vista of the Great Western or Main Falls, stretching in magnificent perspective of nearly half a mile to Garden Island, but broken here and there by the "dividing rock" and other smaller projections. The cliff here seemed to be of its original height, and from the absence

[ocr errors]

« ÎnapoiContinuă »