South African Anecdotes.

Collected from various sources, Oral and Written.

By A. ELLMAN.

Some forty years ago a schoolmaster was imported from Holland to teach in the Zoutpansberg District. To their horror, the elders of the district one day discovered that the children were taught that the world turns on its own axis. The elders met and consulted regarding these new doctrines, and finally agreed to refer the subject to the minister, who requested the schoolmaster to explain. The schoolmaster said: “I teach them about the heavenly bodies, and that the earth revolves round the sun.” The minister answered: “Well, this may be true, no doubt—and what the earth does in Holland, but it would be more convenient at present if in the Zoutpansberg district you would allow the sun still to go round the earth for a few years longer. We do not like sudden changes in such matters.”

During the war, some troops marching to the relief of Kimberley halted at Hanover Road after a weary day’s marching. “Call this Hanover Road!” exclaimed a Tommy. “I call this h—l of a road.”

[4]

In the early days at Barberton there was a digger well known as “Charlie the Reefer.” He was a successful digger, and soon after his arrival at De Kaap he came into town with a bagful of nuggets, which he exchanged for sovereigns at the Bank. He then proceeded to the Landdrost’s office and said to the astonished official that he wished to deposit ten pounds.

“What is that for?” asked the official.

“To pay my fine.”

Nothing was known of such a fine at the Landdrost’s office. “Oh, that’s all right,” exclaimed the digger, “I am a careful man; I always pay my fines in advance. I’m off on a spree, and am sure to get run in, and it makes me feel more comfortable to know that the fine is provided for.”

When Sir Charles Warren first arrived at the Cape, he had with him a silver presentation plate for Major (afterwards Sir) Owen Lanyon. The Custom House officials insisted on opening the package containing the plate, though the invoice stated exactly its nature. Sir Charles says (in “On the Veld in the Seventies”) that he felt sure they would spoil it with their rough hands, so he said he would rather knock it into the sea than have any more bother with it, and gave it a good kick. This had the desired effect on the Custom House officers. They gave in at once, saying it could be of no value if he could kick it; and so he got it through without any injury.

[5]

Many years ago church services used to be held at Barkley in the canteen, and on one occasion, in the middle of the sermon, the preacher noticed that several of those present were smiling. He looked round, and found he had displaced a blackboard put up as a screen, thereby disclosing the following notice:—“Free-and-Easy to-night. Gags free.”

There was once in the Cape an old miser named Van der Pool. The best of wines were to be found in his cellars, but no one ever tasted them. He hated spinach, but since spinach grew in his garden he used to eat it, being loath to waste it. On one occasion his black cook, Saartje, brought him a big dish of spinach, rotten with long keeping. What then happened is given by Miss Juta (“The Cape Peninsula”) in Saartje’s own words. “Saartje,” say ole Bass, very gentle, soft like, “go fetch me from die cellar a best big bottle of ole Pontac.”

I run fetch ole Pontac. Ole Basses, he put die bottle just so in front of him. “Now,” he say, “Saartje, you trek.” I trek no ferder dan die door keyhole. I see ole Bass pur out best ole Pontac, and put die spinach in front, too. “Now,” he say, “Hendrik, you see dis fine, werry, werry, fine ole Pontac, you eat dis verdomte spinach first, den you drink dis wine, wot’s been standing, Hendrik, kerl, for werry many years.” Ole Bass, he eat, eat fast as I nebber seen him before; den, when all spinach done, ole Bass he pour die wine back in die bottle. He laf, laf, and he say, putting his finger to his nose: “Hi! Hendrick, I fool you dis time, I think, fool you pretty well.”

[6]

President Kruger could enjoy a joke, even though directed against himself. Volksraad Committees often met at the Presidency, on which occasions they were regaled with coffee and cigars. Once a member of a Volksraad Committee condoled with Mr. Kruger on his recent severe financial losses. “What do you mean?” indignantly demanded the President. “Oh, I am referring to your recent losses on the Stock Exchange.” The President was now in a fury. “How dare you say that!” he shouted. “Well, there must be something in it” was the unconcerned reply. “But I tell you I have not lost a penny in any speculation whatsoever!” again protested the President, indignantly. “Then how is it we get no cigars to-day, President,” said the member, with an injured air. “I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon!” was the answer, and with a hearty laugh the President himself produced the fragrant weed.

In the pre-war days in the Transvaal many of the higher positions in the public service were filled by men whose only qualification was that they were friends of the “powers that were.” An old friend of President Kruger had fallen on evil days, and came to the President for help. “I have lost my farm,” he said, “and now you must give me an appointment.” The President regretted that he could not get him suitable employment in the service of the[7] State. “But surely there must be some post open which you can give me,” the applicant pleaded. “Not one,” replied the President, sorrowfully. “I have tried everywhere. All the chief positions are filled up; and as to a clerkship, well, you know yourself you are too stupid for that.”

A Kaffir Story.—Two Tambookies running from the field of battle hid themselves in a hole, but the leg of one unfortunately protruding caught the eye of some wary Icalaca. They pulled him out and were preparing to slay him, when he cried: “Spare me, and I will tell you something.” They paused, and he said: “There is yet another man in that hole.” The second hidden warrior, hearing this, called out from his place of concealment: “Don’t believe him, kill him at once; he tells lies, there is no one in here.” But it availed him nothing, and, after the custom of Kaffirs, the two prisoners were forthwith assegaied.

Another Kaffir Story.—Umthonthlo, a native chief, who was the terror of his neighbours in the seventies, was once buying some guns from a trader who thought to deceive him. Showing him two guns, the trader asked the chief what he thought of them. “Oh,” said he, “this one is a Friday gun, that one is a Monday gun.” When asked to explain, he[8] said: “Do I not know that all your artisans work well from Tuesday to Friday, and then all get drunk, and their Monday’s work is worth nothing at all? Never show me a Monday gun again.”

When the Reform prisoners were confined in the Pretoria Gaol they were frequently visited by the late Mr. B. I. Barnato, and on the occasion of one of his visits he chaffed them about the position that they had found themselves in, remarking that they had tried to play a game of poker with the Transvaal Government on a “Colley Thumper” hand. None of them had heard of this term before, and Mr. Barnato was asked to explain. He replied:—An English traveller with a not very extreme knowledge of poker, found himself on one occasion engaged in a game with an astute old Yankee on board an American steamer. Playing cautiously, the Englishman did pretty well until he suddenly found himself, to his great satisfaction, in possession of a full hand. The players alternately doubled the stakes until they were raised to £100. The Englishman then called the American’s hand, and the American deliberately put down a pair of deuces, a four, a seven, and a nine. The Englishman, with a triumphant smile, put down his full hand, and

proceeded to gather the stakes. “Stop,” said the Yankee, “the stakes are mine; yours is only a full hand; mine is a ‘Colley Thumper,’ it beats everything.”[9] The Englishman had never heard of such a hand before, but he determined not to show his ignorance, and reluctantly relinquished the stakes. The game then proceeded until at length the Englishman found himself in possession of a pair of deuces, a four, a seven and a nine. Betting went on freely until the stakes were raised to £500. The Englishman again called, and the Yankee put down a straight. “Ah,” said the joyful Englishman, “mine is a ‘Colley Thumper.’” “True,” said the American, “but you forget the rules. It only counts once in an evening.”

The following story illustrates the Kaffir’s love of cattle. A German trader once presented Panda, King of the Zulus, with a watch. “What is the use of it?” said he. “To tell where the sun is? We can see it; when cloudy we remain in our huts; at night we sleep. Does it give milk?” “No.” “Does it give calves?” “No.” “Then take your watch away.”

With certain troops sent to quell a Kaffir rising in the Cape in 1875, was a staff officer who was wearing one of the recently introduced spike helmets. On seeing him, an old native said he knew which of the soldiers would be most successful with the rebels, pointing out the officer with the helmet, and adding: “A pretty ramming he will give them.”

[10]

Years ago, when everything from South Africa was looked upon in England as strange, an enterprising American conceived the idea of bringing home a party of Kaffirs to astonish the citizens of London. Very wisely, instead of going into the wilds to find them, he contented himself with procuring some Kaffirs in the vicinity of Cape Town, and having instructed them in native dances and clothed them in the skin and war-paint of the savage Zulu, he brought them to London. The “wild” Kaffirs soon became the rage. A Dutch farmer from the Cape, named De Beer, who was then visiting England, strolled into the hall in Leicester Square, where the performance was going on. On seeing him, two of the “wild” Kaffirs rushed from the stage, and, seizing him by the arm, shouted in Dutch: “Here is old baas De Beer.” De Beer then discovered that these warlike savages were no other than his own labourers, who had deserted from his service in the Cape for a reason which he had never been able to discover.

One of the most conspicuous concessionaires before the war was Mr. Edward Lippert, to whom the dynamite monopoly had been granted. This circumstance caused a local wit to paraphrase Madame Roland’s famous exclamation: “Oh, Lippert E., Lippert E., what crimes are committed in thy name!”

[11]

President Kruger once accepted an invitation to a Parisian Ball, but no sooner had he entered the ball-room when he precipitately retreated, remarking “that they must have come too early, as the ladies were evidently not dressed yet!”

In 1875 there was a police corps in the Cape Colony known as the Frontier Armed Mounted Police, and the following anecdote is related by Mr. H. A. Broeme, who was then a member of the Force, in his book, “The Log of a Rolling Stone.” It was a point of etiquette with the corps that if an express rider stayed overnight he should be offered the very best bed in the station, even if the lawful occupant slept on the floor, but there was a surly trooper who would always decline to extend this hospitality, although he had by far the best bed, so the other members determined one day to pay him out. One evening an express rider came, shortly after which the “surly one” went “down town” by himself, never offering anything to the tired rider. On his return he was met by several of his fellow-troopers most apologetically. They were sorry to inform him that the express rider had got a little bit drunk, and had turned in, boots and spurs and all, into the surly trooper’s bed. Would the surly trooper mind? “I call it a blooming piece of presumption,”

said he. “D——d if I’ll have it!” “You surely can’t turn him out now,” urged the others.[12] “It will discredit the station. Better doss down alongside on the floor, old chap, till he wakes. Here are some spare blankets.” This, with considerable reluctance and many oaths, he did, and it is presumed slept very roughly until after daylight. Then a fearful yell of rage was heard, and a pair of top boots, a peaked cap and bolster were seen flying through the air. The sleeping express rider was a dummy!

Discipline was not the strong point of the corps in those easy-going days. Occasionally, says the same writer, Sir Walter Currie, the Officer Commanding, would take an inspection tour, but none were more surprised than he if any of his men were brought up before him for breach of discipline. A delinquent having once been brought before him for not having cleaned his troop horse or equipments on saddle parade, Sir Walter gazed at him absent-mindedly for a minute or so, and then, turning to the Sergeant-Major, said:—“Sergeant-Major, fine the beggar half-a-crown.” That was all.

A Free Stater was once charged before the Circuit Court with the crime of murder, and the evidence against him was strong. Now a certain trader, for commercial reasons, was anxious that the accused should be discharged, but did not think that this was possible in view of the evidence, but he thought that a verdict[13] of culpable homicide might be obtained by a judicious pulling of the strings. A friend of the trader’s was one of the jurymen, and him he induced to stick out for a verdict of culpable homicide. At the trial, the foreman, in reply to the usual question put by the Registrar of the Court, declared that they were all agreed save one. The jury were then locked up and remained at their deliberations for three hours, and then the foreman reported that they had come to an unanimous decision as to the verdict, which was culpable homicide. On hearing the verdict the trader was overjoyed, and hastened to congratulate his friend on his smartness in being able to bring round the rest of the jury to his way of thinking.

“Yes,” said his friend, “it was hard work, I assure you.”

“Why? Were they all against you?”

“Yes, I should think they were. They all wanted to bring in a verdict of ‘Not Guilty’”.

Amongst the pre-war Boer leaders, General De la Rey was one of the most progressive, whilst his brother Piet, who was a member of the Volksraad, belonged to the reactionary party. Piet seldom spoke in the Raad, but on the occasion of the member for Johannesburg presenting a petition for permission to use the English language in the Courts of the Rand, he felt it his duty to say a few words. He said:—“English to be used instead of Dutch[14] in Republican public offices? Never! Rather than that I would take up my old gun again and trek into the wilderness, or to fight, as the President wished. Never will I consent while alive to such an abomination—for”—resuming his seat—“my land is my land, and my tongue is my tongue!” The General deeply resented his brother’s speech. Now, Piet de la Rey’s eldest son, Jan, was a Customs officer on the western frontier, and as such received a percentage on what he collected, and from him, a few weeks after he made the above speech, Piet received a letter from Jan expressing fear

“that I may incur great liability, as all the way-bills are in English, and as you would never let us children learn that language, I have got to believe what they tell me about them. So, please, father, advise me what to do.”

Piet consulted the General. The latter read the letter without saying a word. But Piet pleaded with him to tell him what advice to give to Jan. “Tell him,” at last replied the General, “that your land is your land, and your tongue is your tongue!”

In the seventies, when Sir Charles Warren was in Kimberley, he had tea one evening with a Mrs. Barber. There were some nice cakes, and he ate a good many. Then some more visitors came in, and he went away. Mrs. Barber was then taking care of a meercat belonging to Sir Charles. After he had left,[15] and whilst she was feeding the meercat, she said to her guests: “Bother that brute Warren, he eats such a lot.” “Of course,” says Sir Charles (in his book “On the Veld in the Seventies”), it very soon came round to me that Mrs. Barber had called me a brute because I ate so many of her cakes. I took it as one of the usual stories afloat, but when I next saw her I told her what had been imputed to her. At first she was very indignant, but suddenly she said: “But now I recollect I really did say it. I call the meercat ‘Warren,’ and was abusing it for eating so much!”

Mr. “Barney” Barnato once related the following story in the Christmas number of the “Pelican.” When he first landed in Cape Town, en route for the Diamond Fields, he put up at the Masonic Hotel. There he met an individual clad in gorgeous raiment, ornamented with a profusion of large diamonds, who asked his name and where he was going to, and on hearing that the Fields were his destination, endeavoured to change his resolution, saying that he had himself cleared out all the diamonds that were there. Of course, “Barney” was a little cast down at this, but still stuck to his determination to see for himself. Years after he met the same stranger in Johannesburg. The stranger asked him how he managed to become chairman of the De Beers Company. “By not taking your[16] advice,” was the prompt reply. The story was afterwards classed by its author amongst his many successful works of fiction.

Once a well-known individual borrowed £10 from Mr. Barnato at Johannesburg, and, although asked for the money several times, always put off payment. One day “between the chains” Barnato said openly to some friends:—“Mind you don’t lend —— any money. He has £10 of mine, and it is time he was stopped.” The man heard of this, and coming up to him said:—“I hear you have been talking about me?” “Yes; I want my money.” “Well, here is your £10, and don’t talk about me any more.” A short time afterwards the same man asked Barnato for £25. “No, can’t do it,” was the reply. “Why not? I don’t owe you anything.” “I know you don’t, but you’ve disappointed me once, and I won’t risk another disappointment.”

About the year 1877, Sir Charles Warren was travelling in a post-cart from Cape Town to Kimberley and had as a fellow-passenger a very taciturn young man who was diligently studying his prayer-book. Warren’s curiosity was roused, but, being of a reserved nature, said nothing. Eventually his curiosity overcame his reserve, and he asked the young man what he was reading. “The Thirty-nine Articles” was the reply, and in this manner[17] the two got to know each other. The young man was Cecil Rhodes, on his way back from Oxford to Kimberley for the long vacation, and he was characteristically using his time in the post-cart before he plunged again into the midst of diamonds and finance, in learning the Thirty-nine Articles for his next examination at Oxford.