There is one genius of my acquaintance, called
"Sixpence," who is not only a capital cook, but an accomplished English
scholar, having spent some months in England. Generally, to Cape Town
and back is the extent of their journeyings, for they are a home-loving
people; but Sixpence went to England with his master, and brought back a
shivering recollection of an English winter and a deep-rooted amazement
at the boys of the Shoe Brigade, who wanted to clean his boots. That
astonished him more than anything else, he says.
The Kafirs are very fond of attending their own schools and church
services, of which there are several in the town; and I find one of my
greatest difficulties in living out here consists in getting Kafirs to
come out of town, for by doing so they miss their regular attendance at
chapel and school. A few Sundays ago I went to one of these Kafir
schools, and was much struck by the intently-absorbed air of the pupils,
almost all of whom were youths about twenty years of age. They were
learning to read the Bible in Kafir during my visit, sitting in couples,
and helping each other on with immense diligence and earnestness. No
looking about, no wandering, inattentive glances, did I see. I might as
well have "had the receipt of fern-seed and walked invisible" for all
the attention I excited. Presently the pupil-teacher, a young black man,
who had charge of this class, asked me if I would like to hear them sing
a hymn, and on my assenting he read out a verse of "Hold the Fort," and
they all stood up and sang it, or rather its Kafir translation, lustily
and with good courage, though without much tune.
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