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And after cordial greetings, thus went on

In fancy's dream our colloquy, dear John.

P.—————— Enter, my friend, our beehive cottage door : No carpet hides the humble earthen floor,

But it is hard as brick, clean-swept and cool:

You must be wearied?

Take that jointed stool;

Or on this couch of leopard-skin recline ;

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F. Why, Pringle, yes-your cabin's snug enough, Though oddly shaped. But as for household stuff, I only see some rough-hewn sticks and spars ; A wicker cupboard, filled with flasks and jars ; A pile of books, on rustic framework placed ; Hides of ferocious beasts that roam the waste; Whose kindred prowl, perchance, around this spot – The only neighbours, I suspect, you've got! Your furniture, rude from the forest cut, However, is in keeping with the hut.

This couch feels pleasant: is 't with grass you stuff it? So far I should not care with you to rough it.

But

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pardon me for seeming somewhat rude ·

In this wild place how manage ye for food.

P.-You'll find, at least, my friend, we do not starve: There's always mutton, if nought else, to carve ; And even of luxuries we have our share.

But here comes dinner (the best bill of fare),

Drest by that "Nut Brown Maiden," Vytjè Vaal. [To the HOTTENTOT GIRL.]

Meid, roep de Juf

frouwen naar 't middagmaal.

[To F.] Which means "The ladies in to dinner call."

[Enter MRS. P. and her sister, who welcome their guest to Africa. The party take their seats, and conversation proceeds.]

P.— First, here's our broad-tailed mutton, small
and fine,

The dish on which nine days in ten we dine;
Next, roasted spring-bok, spiced and larded well;
A haunch of hartèbeest from Hydnehope Fell;
A paauw, which beats your Norfolk turkey hollow;
Korhaan, and Guinea-fowl, and pheasant follow :
Kid carbonadges, à-la-Hottentot,

Broiled on a forked twig; and peppered hot
With Chili pods, a dish called Caffer-stew ;
Smoked ham of porcupine, and tongue of gnu.
This fine white household bread (of Margaret's baking)
Comes from an oven too of my own making,
Scooped from an ant-hill. Did I ask before
If you would taste this brawn of forest boar?
Our fruits, I must confess, make no great show:
Trees, grafts, and layers must have time to grow.
But there's green roasted maize, and pumpkin pie,
And wild asparagus. Or will you try

A slice of water melon ? - fine for drouth,
Like sugared ices melting in the mouth.

Here too are wild grapes from our forest vine,
Not void of flavour, though unfit for wine.
And here comes dried fruit I had quite forgot,
(From fair Glen Avon, Margaret, is it not?)
Figs, almonds, raisins, peaches. Witbooy Swart
Brought this huge sackful from kind Mrs. Hart,
Enough to load a Covent Garden cart.

But come, let's crown the banquet with some wine:
What will you drink? Champagne ? Port? Claret?

Stein ?

Well!- not to tease you with a thirsty jest,
Lo! there our only vintage stands confest,
In that half-aum upon the spigot rack;

And certes, though it keeps the old kaap smaak,
The wine is light and racy; so we learn,
In laughing mood, to call it Cape Sauterne.
Let's pledge this cup

bairn !

66 to all our friends," Fair

F.-Well, I admit, my friend, your dinner 's good, Spring-bok and porcupine are dainty food; That lordly paauw was roasted to a turn, And in your country fruits and Cape Sauterne, The wildish flavour's really not unpleasant, And I may say the same of gnu and pheasant. But, Mrs. Pringle - shall I have the pleasure? Miss Brown some wine?

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quite a treasure).

What, leave us now?

But since you will go

(these quaighs are

I've much to ask of you for an hour adieu.

[Exeunt Ladies.]

But, Pringle- " à nos moutons revenons
Cui bono's still the burden of my song
Cut off, with these good ladies, from society,
Of
savage life you soon must feel satiety :
The mind requires fit exercise and food,
Not to be found 'mid Afric's deserts rude.
And what avail the spoils of wood and field,
The fruits or wines your fertile valleys yield,
Without that higher zest to crown the whole,—
The feast of reason and the flow of soul?
Food, shelter, fire, suffice for savage men ;
But can the comforts of your wattled den,
Your sylvan fare and rustic tasks suffice

For one who once seemed fairer joys to prize?
When erst, like Virgil's swains, we used to sing
Of streams and groves, and "all that sort of thing."
The spot we meant for our poetic den,"

66

Was always within reach of books and men ;
By classic Esk, for instance, or Tweed-side,
With gifted friends within an easy ride;
Besides our college chum, the parish priest;
And the said den with six good rooms at least.
Here!- save for her who shares and soothes your lot,

You might as well squat in a Caffer's cot!
Come now, be candid: tell me, my dear friend,
Of your aspiring aims is this the end?
Was it for nature's wants, fire, shelter, food,
You sought this dreary, soul-less solitude?
Broke off your ties with men of cultured mind,
Your native land, your early friends resigned?

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As if, believing, with insane Rousseau,
Refinement the chief cause of human woe,
You meant to realize that raver's plan,
And be a philosophic Bosjesman!

Be frank; confess the fact you cannot hide
You sought this den from disappointed pride.

P.-You've missed the mark, Fairbairn; my breast is clear;

Nor wild Romance nor Pride allured me here:
Duty and Destiny with equal voice

Constrained my steps: I had no other choice.

ADDRESS TO A STEAM VESSEL.

BY JOANNA BAILLIE.

FREIGHTED with passengers of every sort,
A motley throng, thou leavest the busy port:
Thy long and ample deck, where scattered lie
Baskets and cloaks, and shawls of scarlet dye;
Where dogs and children through the crowd are
straying,

And, on his bench apart, the fiddler playing,
While matron dames to tresselled seats repair,
Seems, on the gleamy waves, a floating fair.
Its dark form on the sky's pale azure cast,
Towers from this clust'ring group thy pillared mast.

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