ears so much about--an icy blast which appears to
come straight from the South Pole, and which often makes its appearance
in the height of summer, which season it then was. The hansom, of the
oldest-fashioned type, shook and jolted beyond belief, and threatened
every moment to fall to pieces. The streets from the docks to the town
were unfinished, untidy, and vilely paved, and I remember comparing them
very unfavourably with Melbourne or Sydney. However, I soon modified my
somewhat hasty judgment. We had seen the town's worst aspects, and later
I noticed some attractive-looking shops; the imposing Houses of
Parliament, in their enclosed grounds, standing out sharply defined
against the hazy background of Table Mountain; and the Standard Bank and
Railway-station, which would hold their own in any city. At the same
time, as a place of residence in the summer months, I can well
understand Cape Town being wellnigh deserted. Those who can boast of
even the most moderate means have their residences in the attractive
suburbs of Rondebosch, Newlands, or Wynberg, and innumerable are the
pretty little villas and gardens one sees in these vicinities. There the
country is beautifully wooded, thick arching avenues of oak extending
for miles, interspersed with tracts of Scotch firs and pines, the latter
exhaling a delicious perfume under the sun's powerful rays. Everywhere
green foliage and abundant vegetation, which, combined with the setting
of the bluest sky that can be imagined, make the drives round Cape Town
some of the most beautiful in the world. At Newlands, the Governor's
summer residence, a pretty but unpretentious abode, Sir Hercules and
Lady Robinson then dispensed generous hospitality, only regretting their
house was too small to accommodate visitors, besides their married
daughters. We stayed at the Vineyard Hotel in the immediate
neighbourhood--a funny old-fashioned hostelry, standing in its own
grounds, and not in the least like an hotel as we understand the word.
There whole families seemed to reside for months, and very comfortable
it was, if somewhat primitive, appearing to keep itself far apart from
the rush of modern improvements, and allowing the world to go by it
unheeded. Only half a mile away, at Rondebosch, was situated then, as
now, on the lower slopes of Table Mountain, the princely domain of the
late Mr. Cecil Rhodes. At the moment of which I write the house itself
was only approaching completion, and I mu