Here was another English village, but quite of a different class;—and yet picturesque beyond expression. "The" Knysna as the place is called is a large straggling collection of houses which would never be called other than a village in England, but would strike an investigating visitor as a village rising townwards. It is, in a very moderate way, a seaport, and possesses two inns. The post boy with unflinching impartiality refused to say which was the better, and we went to the wrong one,—that which mariners frequented. But such is South African honesty that the landlord at once put us right. He could put us up no doubt;—but Mr. Morgan at the other house could do it better. To Mr. Morgan, therefore, we went, and were told at once that we could have a leg of mutton, potatoes, and cabbages for dinner. "And very glad you ought to be to get them," said Mrs. Morgan. We assented of course, and every thing was pleasant.
In fifteen minutes we were intimate with everybody in the place, including the magistrate, the parson, and the schoolmaster; and in half an hour we were on horse back,—the schoolmaster accompanying us on the parson's nag,—in order that we might rush out to the Heads before dark. Away we scampered, galloping through salt water plashes, because the sun was already disappearing. We had just time to do it,—to gallop through the salt water and up the hills and round to the headland, so that we might look down into the lovely bright green tide which was rushing in from the Indian ocean immediately beneath our feet. From where I stood I could have dropped a penny into the sea without touching a rock.
