NOVELS.
BY VELDT AND KOPJE.•
IF the stories in this collection are written with less art than we should have expected after reading the distinguished verses, " Voices of Africa," which form a preface to the book (we had the pleasure of publishing these some years ago, by the way, in the Spectator), they are still valuable in proportion as they are instructive. Mr. Scully knows the Kaffir well, and we read with attention and respect all that be tells us about Kaffir modes of thought, customs, powers of speech, and music. When he does not rely on the knowledge which is his peculiar strength, and enters into open competi- tion with other story-tellers on common ground, he produces but middling work, such as the rather washy comedy, " Ms. Bloxham's Choice." The best story, in our judgment, comes first. It is called " The Lepers," and is a moving narrative, with some of the true qualities of tragedy. It opens with that characteristic entertainment of Kaffirs, a "beer-drink," which generally goes through the stages of
good humour, bragging, recriminations, fights, and torpor. Beer, as Mr. Scully says, " seems to act like a kind of sympa- thetic ink in .bringing every ancient and half-obliterated grievance to the surface." The torpid stage is succeeded by a ravenous hunger, which only meat and plenty of it can satisfy. On the good humour of a " beer-drink " in its pre- liminary stage falls the. chilling news that the lepers are ordered to remove themselves to a distant place where they are to live in isolation. A splendidly powerful young native,.
who is showing the first signs of the disease on his body, becomes the spokesman of the lepers, and asks the Magistrate that instead of being banished they may be shot by the police. We believe that the words attributed to Mangele are no ex- aggeration of the dignity with which the Kaffir can speak :—
" We, men and women who are dead, though living, come to our Father, the Government, to ask for a little thing. God, whom the White Man has taught us to know, smote us with this sick- ness which has filled our bones with water for marrow, and caused our quick flesh to rot slowly, like dead wood. We acknowledge that it is only right we should .be. separated from other men, so that we may not give the disease to those who are clean, but we cannot dwell apart from our kindred, our cattle and the fields wherein our fathers saw the corn growing when they were little children—therefore we wish to die now, this day. Then will the sickness die with us, and our Father, the Government, will not be put to any further trouble on our account. What we ask of the White Chief, our Magistrate, is this: that he now, before the sun has begun to fall, send hither his policemen with rifles, and bid them shoot us skilfully so that we may suffer little pain.' Then turning to his companions, who had heard him in silence, he added= My brothers and sisters—children of my Father—tell our Chief if I have spoken the right word.' An eager murmur of assent followed. , Yes, our. Chief, ho has spoken the one word which is in all our hearts: kill us here, but send us not to dwell apart from our homes and our kindred.' It was some little time before the Magistrate was able to command his feelings sufficiently to admit of his speaking. When they saw that he was about to reply, his miserable hearers leant forward with every appearance of the keenest interest. In his heart he knew that what the poor creatures asked for was for them the best. His compassion was so deep that he could have slain them with his own hand. The word you have spoken,' he said, has gone through my heart like the bullet you have asked for. What can I say for your comfort ? Go, my poor brothers and sisters whom God has afflicted so sorely. ln tha place to which your Father, the Government, is sending.you, neither hunger nor cold will afflict you; you will have many friends and your days will be passed in peace. The thing you adk for I may net give, for• the Law allows it not. My heart will be with you in your exile.' Then a wail of anguished protest went up'from the miserable crowd—" The scene in which Mangele, with all the domineering impulse of his yo nth, leads the stricken lepers, some of them decrepit with old age as well as with leprosy, to a lofty precipice and bids them throw themselves down with him, and in which we are told how the poor wretches falter, quail, and utterly break down in courage, is the most effective, and perhaps the truest, in the book. Mr. Scully has so much sympathy that we hope he will be- able some day to give us such an interpretation of Kaffir legends as Sir George Grey gave us of Polynesian myths. With the " veld Boer " Mr. Scully is as much ea • By Veldt and Kopje. By W. C. Scully. London : T. Fisher ITnwin. 168.] rapport as with the Kaffir. We must quote the following passage from " The Writing on the Rock," because every one who knows the Boer will admit that a long experience of the veld is embodied in these few sentences. The author has just arrived at a farmhouse and is welcomed by the Boer owner
who is blind :—
" I grasped the old man's outstretched hand. He retained mine for a few seconds, feeling first the palm, then the back and lastly the fingers carefully over. I looked the while into his eyes; these were clear and blue and gave no suggestion of blindness. `You work your brain too much and your body too little,' said- he, dropping my hand. 'Your mind travels without rest on an endless road.' I was somewhat startled; it was so unexpected and at the same time so tersely true. ' It is clear,' I replied, that you do not need eyes to see. My brain is busy turning out barren thoughts, like a mill grinding sawdust.'—' When young, one runs after thoughts ; but when you grow old the thoughts will come and wait, like servants, until you wish to use them.'- ' My thoughts are less like servants than like dogs hunting me to death,' I replied.—`A dog will obey if he be trained ; if you do not train him he will bite you.'—' Yes, I can see that. But if you let them grow big without using the whip—what then ?'—'Watch and pray ; call the Lord to your help, and He will"deliver you."
Of the other stories we like best "Rainmaking." There is a very grim humour in the situation of the rainmaker who tries to restore his crumbling reputation by "plumping " for the arrival of rain on a particular day, and then waiting in a terror of suspense to see if his rash prophecy will come true, well knowing:that his life will be forfeit if it fails. His own discomfiture is the opportunity of a rival rainmaker; and one feels that all Kaffir rainmakers and witch-doctors must find it difficult, like the augurs, to refrain from smiling when they pass one another on the road. The chapter on Kaffir music, which is an exegetical essay, is out of keeping with the rest of the book ; but it is very interesting. Every Kaffir chief has his private song, just as mediaeval knights had their mottoes, and this is always associated with his name. In one of the least unsophisticated tunes, Mr. Scully suspects a European origin. The mother of one chief is said to have been a European woman. The reader "may be reminded of the Indian children in one of Mr. Kipling's stories who were heard singing some outlandish gibberish, which turned out to be 'a corruption of "The Wearin.' of the Green."
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