ost of our summer
afternoons are, wet and cold and drizzling; but, considering that
there was no thunderstorm likely to break over our heads that day, I
felt that I could afford to despise a silent Scotch mist. We varied
our afternoon weather last week by a hailstorm, of which the stones
were as big as large marbles. I was scoffed at for remarking this, and
assured it was "nothing, absolutely nothing," to _the_ great hailstorm
of two years ago, which broke nearly every tile and pane of glass in
Maritzburg, and left the town looking precisely as though it had been
bombarded. I have seen photographs of some of the ruined houses, and
it is certainly difficult to believe that hail could have done so much
mischief. Then, again, stories reach me of a certain thunderstorm one
Sunday evening just before I arrived in which the lightning struck a
room in which a family was assembled at evening prayers, killing the
poor old father with the Bible in his hand, and knocking over every
member of the little congregation. My informant said, "I assure you
it seemed as though the lightning were poured out of heaven in a jug.
There were no distinct flashes: the heavens appeared to split open and
pour down a flood of blazing violet light." I have seen nothing like
this yet, but can quite realize what such a storm must be like, for I
have observed already how different the color of the lightning is. The
flashes I have seen were exactly of the lilac color he described, and
they followed each other with a rapidity of succession unknown in
less electric regions. And yet my last English letters were full of
complaints of the wet weather in London, and much self-pity for the
long imprisonment in-doors. Why, those very people don't know what
weather inconveniences are. If London streets are muddy, at all events
there are no dangerous morasses in them. No matter how much it rains,
people get their comfortable meals three times a day. _Here_, rain
means a risk of starvation (if the little wooden bridge between us and
the town were to be swept away) and a certainty of short commons.
A wet morning means damp bread for breakfast and a thousand other
disagreeables. No, I have no patience with the pampered Londoners,
who want perpetual sunshine in addition to their other blessings, for
saying one word about discomfort. They are all much too civilized and
luxurious, and their lives are made altogether too smooth for them.
Let them come out here and try to