ndy night. Next day the
weather had recovered its temper, and I was called upon deck directly
after breakfast to see the "Gates of St. John," a really fine pass
on the coast where the river Umzimvubu rushes through great granite
cliffs into the sea. If the exact truth is to be told, I must confess
I am a little disappointed with this coast-scenery. I have heard
so much of its beauty, and as yet, though I have seen it under
exceptionally favorable conditions of calm weather, which has allowed
us to stand in very close to shore, I have not seen anything really
fine until these "Gates" came in view. It has all been monotonous,
undulating downs, here and there dotted with trees, and in some places
the ravines were filled with what we used to call in New Zealand
_bush_--i.e., miscellaneous greenery. Here and there a bold cliff or
tumbled pile of red rock makes a landmark for the passing ships, but
otherwise the uniformity is great indeed. The ordinary weather along
this coast is something frightful, and the great reputation of our
little Florence is built on the method in which she rides dry and safe
as a duck among these stormy waters. Now that we are close to "fair
Natal," the country opens out and improves in beauty. There are still
the same sloping, rolling downs, but higher downs rise behind them,
and again beyond are blue and purpling hills. Here and there, too, are
clusters of fat, dumpy haystacks, which in reality are no haystacks at
all, but Kafir kraals. Just before we pass the cliff and river which
marks where No-Man's Land ends and Natal begins these little locations
are more frequently to be observed, though what their inhabitants
subsist on is a marvel to me, for we are only a mile or so from shore,
and all the seeing power of all the field-glasses on board fails to
discern a solitary animal. We can see lots of babies crawling about
the hole which serves as door to a Kafir hut, and they are all as fat
as little pigs; but what do they live on? Buttermilk, I am told--that
is to say, sour milk, for the true Kafir palate does not appreciate
fresh, sweet milk--and a sort of porridge made of _mealies_. I used
to think "mealies" was a coined word for potatoes, but it really
signifies maize or Indian corn, which is rudely crushed and ground,
and forms the staple food of man and beast.

In the mean time, we are speeding gayly over the bright waters, never
very calm along this shore. Presently we come to a spot clearly m