The Disappearance of Latin - An Excursus
by Herman Charles Bosman
Apart from purely cultural considerations, there is another reason why our educational authorities must insist on Latin being retained in the curriculum. The study of Latin builds character. If you have Latin throughout your school years, and you have enough of it, you will never, in later life, become decadent – no matter how weak-willed you are naturally, or to what extent your bloodstream is tainted with the various forms of congenital depravity. And no matter how checkered your life may be, a thorough grounding in Latin during the formative years will pull you through every subsequent vicissitude.
The mental effort you have to put into acquiring a mastery of the rules of Latin grammar – prose, syntax, conjugations, declensions, ‘ut’ with the subjunctive, the ablative absolute, indirect statement – all that can only make your mind foursquare and imbue your nature with a purposeful earnestness and impart to your character a quality of granite that will remain inside of you, irrespective of what surface qualities of gaiety and apparent irresponsibility you acquire later on for purely decorative purposes.
The iron introduced into your soul through the weary hours of slogging away at Latin will remain.
That is where, when it comes to character building, Latin is so superior to mathematics. Mathematics teaches you to be slick, the use of ingenuity, to look for quick ways – saying a dozen times so many pennies is the same number of shillings, and using logarithm tables, instead of multiplying out. But there is no nonsense like that about Latin. There is only hard, honest toil. The result when you have studied Latin is that in later life you approach an issue in an honest, stupid, straightforward fashion, which is the right way, in the long run, for approaching any issue. You don’t look for loopholes. Evasions are all right for securing short-range results. Honest stupidity is the only thing that brings you lasting satisfaction – even if it is only for the reason that you are too stupid to know any better.
Penology and education being, for obvious reasons, closely interrelated sciences, it is as well to consider, for a moment, the advisability of introducing the study of Latin as a prison task for our convicts along with the more orthodox activities of packing oakum, sewing mail-bags and breaking stones. The compulsory study of Latin in prisons could go a long way towards reforming our criminal classes. How the convicts would hate those dreary hours of drudgery. Hours spent in the hall with grammars and textbooks, under the supervision of broken-down and retired Latin teachers.
The compulsory study of Latin as a routine part of the hard labour course would lead to the reform of many otherwise incorrigible criminals. ‘The stone-pile was nothing,’ I can imagine a reformed recidivist saying, ‘and I could always do solitary. But that fourth-year Latin class left me a broken man. I am only 52 – and look at me. O tempora, o mores.’
No, Latin is not a dead language. There is a great future for it.
Die Verdwyning van Latyn - 'n Excursus
deur Herman Charles Bosman
Afgesien van die suiwer kulturele oorwegings, is daar ’n ander rede waarom die opvoedkundige gesaghebbendes daarop moet aandring dat
Latyn in die leerplan behoue moet bly. Om Latyn te bestudeer bou karakter. As jy Latyn reg deur jou skooldae geneem het, en jy het genoeg daarvan gehad, sal jy nooit in jou latere lewe, dekadent raak nie – maak nie saak watter gebrek aan wilskrag jy het nie, of tot watter mate jou bloedstroom besmet is met die verskeie vorme van aangebore gebrek nie. En dit maak nie saak hoe veelbewoë jou lewe mag wees nie; ’n deeglike skoling in Latyn gedurende die vormende jare, sal jou deur al die daaropvolgende lotgevalle dra.
Die verstandelike inspanning wat jy moet gebruik om die bemeestering van die reëls van die Latynse grammatika te verwerf – prosa, sintaksis, voegwoorde, verbuigings, “ut” met die subjunktief, die ablatiewe absoluut, indirekte stellings – dit alles kan net jou gees vierkantig maak en jou karakter met ’n doelgerigte erns besiel, en aan jou persoonlikheid ʼn kwaliteit van graniet verleen wat binne in jou sal bly, ongeag watter oppervlakkige soorte vrolikhede en skynbare onverantwoordelikhede jy lateraan vir blote redes van verfraaiing mag najaag.
Die yster wat jy deel van jou siel maak as gevolg van die vermoeiende ure van geswoeg met Latyn, sal vir altyd by jou bly.
Dit is waar, wanneer dit kom by die bou van karakter, Latyn altyd superieur bo wiskunde sal wees. Matesis leer jou om vernuftig te wees, vindingrykheid te gebruik, om vir vinnige maniere te soek – soos ’n dosyn keer soveel pennies is dieselfde aantal sjielings, en om logaritmes te gebruik in plaas van om dinge te vermenigvuldig. Maar in Latyn is daar nie daardie soort twak nie. Daar is slegs harde, moeisame geswoeg. As jy Latyn bestudeer het, is die gevolg daarvan in jou latere lewe, dat jy ’n vraagstuk op ’n eerlike, dom-onnosele, onverbloemde manier benader, en dit is uiteindelik die regte manier om enige saak te benader. Jy is nie op die uitkyk vir skuiwergate nie. Ontwykings is aanvaarbaar om korttermyn resultate te verkry. Opregte domheid is die enigste ding wat jou langdurige bevrediging besorg – al is dit slegs vir die rede dat jy te onnosel is om van beter te weet.
Die oplê van straf en opvoeding is, vir voor die handliggende redes, onderlinge verbonde wetenskappe. Dit sal gaaf wees om vir ’n oomblik die raadsaamheid te oorweeg om die studie van Latyn in te voer as ’n taak in die tronke vir ons bandiete, tesame met die meer ortodokse aktiwiteite om toue te verpak, possakke aanmekaar te werk of om klippe te breek. Die verpligte bestudering van Latyn in die tronke sal baie daartoe bydra om ons kriminele tipes te hervorm. Dink net hoe die bandiete daardie vervelige sieldodende ure sal haat. Ure wat deurgebring word in ’n saal met grammatika en handboeke, onder toesig van gebroke en afgetrede Latyn-onderwysers.
Die verpligte bestudering van Latyn as ’n deel van die kursus vir dwangarbeid, sal daartoe lei dat hardnekkige kriminele tot inkeer kom. “Om klippe te kap was niks,” kan ek my voorstel, word deur ’n hervormde residivis gesê, “en alleen-selstraf kon ek altyd doen. Maar daardie vierdejaarse Latynklas het my ’n gebroke man gemaak. Ek is slegs 52 – en kyk nou na my. O tempora, o mores.”
Nee, Latyn is nie ’n dooie taal nie. Daar is ’n groot toekoms daarvoor.
Karoo Windpomp-Morsekode
deur Marthinus van Bart
Pieter Johannes Olivier van die plaas Kweekwa in die distrik Victoria-Wes, was ’n wetsgehoorsame, vreedsame perde- en skaapboer wat in die hart van die barre Groot Karoo hard gewerk het om ’n menswaardige bestaan vir hom, sy vrou, Christine (Chrissie), en hul gesin te maak.
Sy vader, Andries Philippus, het die 29 000 morg grond aan die togryerspad tussen Victoria-Wes en Carnarvon, Williston en Calvinia, al in 1853 gekoop. Later is die grond onderverdeel in die plase Trompsgraf, Adriaanskuil, Nuwefontein, Ysterkoppe enWitkranz.
Gedurende die Anglo-Boereoorlog (1899-1902) het Britse kolonnes dikwels hierdie togryersroete vanaf Victoria-Wes, waar ’n spoorwegstasie op die hooftrajek tussen Kaapstad en Johannesburg was, na Namakwaland gevolg. Soms het die soldate op Kweekwa aangedoen om water en voer vir hul trekosse, muile en perde te kry.
Olivier was welgesteld en het ’n Amerikaanse windpomp ingevoer en laat oprig om water vir sy 204 perde en ander vee te voorsien.
Nadat die eerste Boere-kommando’s einde 1900 die Kaapkolonie binnegedring het om die Britse militêre van stryk te bring en ook Kaapse Rebelle vir die Boeresaak te werf, het die Britte krygswet ook hier afgekondig. Hulle het dadelik op Olivier se perde en skape beslag gelê, en hom met slegs vier donkies gelaat.
Dit was ’n yslike vernedering vir hierdie gesiene man. Nie net het hy hom uit die oorlogsake gehou nie, maar Chrissie het ook brood gebak en aan die Britse soldate verkoop. Sy het by tye 26 brode per slag gebak om in die vraag van die militêre te voorsien.
Op ’n dag het elf soldate van die Sixth Inniskillin Dragoons, wat op Victoria-Wes gestasioneer was, Olivier in hegtenis geneem op aanklag dat hy in die nag in Morsekode aan die Boere-kommando’s spioenasieboodskappe oor Britse troepebewegings gesein het. Hy is sonder verhoor in die tronk opgesluit, en later op parool binne die dorpsgrense vrygelaat. Hy en sy gesin het toe in Pastoriestraat in hul nagmaalstuishuis gewoon.
Eers ná die oorlog het Olivier uitgevind dat Britse soldate op die togryerspad een nag, toe die maan helder was, die maanlig op die vinne van sy draaiende windpompwiel gesien blink het. Omdat hulle nie van die bestaan van die windpomp geweet het of so iets geken het nie, het hulle gemeen dat dit Olivier was wat met ’n lamp boodskappe in Morsekode na die Boere-kommando’s en die Kaapse Rebelle sein.
Olivier is wel ná die oorlog kompensasie vir die perde en vee waarop beslag gelê is, uitbetaal. Dit is egter hierdie soort mishandeling deur die Britse militêre owerhede wat talle eerbare en lojale Kolonialers daartoe gedryf het om hulle aan Boerekant te skaar en die wapen teen die Empire op te neem.
Hierdie ware verhaal is deur Elbie Immelman, kultuurhistorikus, opgeteken, en dit is in 2003 onder die opskrif Die Heliograaf gepubliseer in Vir Vryheid en vir Reg, ’n Anglo-Boereoorlog-gedenkboek (Tafelberg).
Karoo Windpump Morse Code
by Marthinus van Bart
Pieter Johannes Olivier, of the farm Kweekwa in the district of Victoria West, was a law-abiding, peace-loving farmer who kept horses and sheep, and wrested an honest living from the arid soil in the heart of the Great Karoo. He was an industrious farmer and succeeded in earning a good living for himself, his wife Christine (Crissie) and their family.
As far back as 1853, Pieter’s father, Andries Philippus, had purchased 29 000 morgen of land adjacent to the transport route from Victoria West to Carnarvon, Williston and Calvinia. This vast tract of land was later subdivided into the farms Trompsgraf, Adriaanskuil, Nuwefontein, Ysterkoppe and Witkranz.
During the Anglo-Boer War (1899-1902), British columns frequently used this transport route from Victoria West, where there was a railway station on the main line between Cape Town and Johannesburg, to Namaqualand. Sometimes British troops would touch at Kweekwa in search of water and feed for their trek-oxen, mules and horses, and indeed for themselves.
Olivier was a prosperous farmer, and he had imported an American windpump which he used to provide water for his 204 horses and his other livestock.
After the first Boer commandos entered the Cape Colony at the end of 1900 to disrupt enemy forces and to recruit Cape Rebels to the Boer cause, the British proclaimed martial law in this area. They immediately seized Olivier’s horses and sheep, and left him with just four donkeys.
This was a great humiliation for this highly regarded man, especially as he had remained strictly neutral in the affairs of the war, and his wife Crissie had even baked bread for British soldiers and sold it to them. On occasion she had baked as many as 26 loaves at a time to satisfy demand from the passing British troops.
One day eleven soldiers from the Sixth Inniskillin Dragoons, who were stationed at Victoria West, arrived at Kweekwa and Pieter Olivier was summarily arrested. He was accused of spying and signalling messages about the movements of the British forces to Boer commandos at night, using Morse code. He was locked up in gaol without any trial or hearing whatsoever, but was subsequently released on parole, although confined to the boundaries of the village of Victoria West. He and his family then lived in their church house in Pastorie Street, which they had ordinarily used when attending nagmaal in the village.
It was only after the war that Olivier discovered the explanation for his past misfortune. One moonlit night, British soldiers on the transport route had spotted the light of the moon shining intermittently on the blades of his windpump as it turned slowly in the gentle breeze of a Karoo night. Having no idea of the existence of this windpump, and because they were ignorant about such a contraption, they thought Olivier had been using a lamp to signal messages in Morse code to Boer commandos or Cape Rebels.
Olivier did receive compensation for the seizure of his horses and livestock after the end of the war, but it was this sort of abuse of martial law that drove many honourable and loyal citizens of the Colony to become Cape Rebels, siding with the Boers and taking up arms against a sea of troubles.
This true story was recorded by cultural historian Elbie Immelman, and published in 2003 by Tafelberg in Vir Vryheid en Vir Reg, a book commemorating the Anglo-Boer War, under the title Die Heliograaf.
Vader en Seun
uit No Outspan
deur Deneys Reitz
In Junie 1924, na aan die einde van die parlementêre sitting, het ek ’n aangename verrassing gekry.
Daar is ’n instelling wat bekend staan as die Parlementêre Assosiasie van die Empire, en al die lede van die parlement van Groot Brittanje en die Dominiums word toegelaat om daarby aan te sluit. Van tyd tot tyd stuur dié assosiasie ’n verteenwoordigende groep op welwillendheidsbesoeke na verskeie lande in die Empire, en hierdie jaar is Suid-Afrika die verkose land. Veertig of vyftig lede van die parlement het in Kaapstad aangekom vir ’n uitgebreide toer van die Unie en Rhodesië, en deur stemming is ek verkies as een van die plaaslike afgevaardigdes om hulle te vergesel.
Ek het, met ons vertrek, uitgevind dat my pa ook aangewys is om saam met ons te gaan, as verteenwoordiger van die Unie-Senaat.
Ek was besonder verheug hieroor, want vir ’n hele aantal jare het ons baie min van mekaar gesien. Toe ons kinders was, in die ou dae toe hy President van die Oranje Vrystaatse Republiek was, was ek en my broers sy onafskeidbare metgeselle, òf dit in ’n koets was òf te perd. Maar na hy die Staatsekretaris van president Paul Kruger geword het, het ons al minder en minder van hom gesien. Toe kom die lotgevalle van die Anglo-Boereoorlog en die daaropvolgende ballingskap, hy in Texas en ek in Madagaskar. Met ons terugkeer Suid-Afrika toe, het hy die President van die Hoërhuis geword en ek was ’n sukkelende prokureur in ’n klein dorpie ’n duisend myl van hom af, en so het ons mekaar slegs met rare geleenthede ontmoet. Die Eerste Wêreldoorlog en die daaropvolgende na-oorlogse aktiwiteite, het ons apart gehou, en nou na amper ’n hele leeftyd, is ons aangewese om vir die volgende paar maande saam te toer.
Baie gou het hy die sentrale karakter van die ekspedisie geword, want hy was ’n buitengewoon voortreflike baasverteller en ’n ryk bron van inligting aan ons buitelandse gaste, en dit was vir my ’n plesier om te sien hoe hulle hulle na hom gewend het oor sy wye kennis. Hy was ’n kundige geleerde in die ware sin van die woord. Hy het Grieks en Latyn bemeester en kon Frans, Duits, Hoog-Hollands en Afrikaans ewe vlot praat. Sy taalbeheersing van Engels en sy kennis van die Engelse letterkunde was heel moontlik ongeëwenaard deur enige van die aantal geleerdes, skrywers, openbare figure en bekende persoonlikhede waaruit ons groep parlementariërs saamgestel is.
My pa was verder ook ’n digter. Nie juis ’n befaamde digter nie, maar ’n egte digter, want hy het gedigte geskryf uit die liefde daarvoor. Daar was tye waar ek hom dopgehou het. Sy lippe het stilswygend beweeg; dan sou hy ’n koevert of ’n stukkie papier vat, en daar het ’n deuntjie, ’n koeplet of ’n lied verskyn.
In die Anglo-Boereoorlog het sy Afrikaanse verse baie daartoe bygedra om ons swaar beproefde manne in die veld te vertroos, en dié gedigte word steeds onthou.
Hy het met dieselfde gemak in Engels as in Afrikaans of Hollands geskryf. In Bloemfontein is daar die graf van ’n baba-sustertjie van my wat lank gelede gesterf het. Op haar grafsteen is ’n grafskrif wat deur my pa geskep is:
Her tiny feet that never trod
This thorny world of ours,
Are standing by the Throne of God
Amid his fairest flowers.
Toe die Britte ons in 1902 uit die Transvaal verjaag het, het ek hom, toe ons trein die Portuguese grens oorgesteek het, dopgehou daar waar hy vir ’n rukkie doodstil gesit het. Hy het sy skryfblok uitgehaal en op sy knieë ’n paar reëls geskryf en dit vir my gegee. Ek het hulle nog steeds.
Suid-Afrika
Op watter vreemde strande my voete ookal mag loop
Die toekoms vir jou is vol van hoop.
Die son van vryheid mag vir ’n wyle nie meer skyn
Maar nie vir altyd; God vergeet nie ons pyn.
Father and Son
from No Outspan
by Deneys Reitz
In June 1924, towards the end of the Parliamentary session, I had a pleasant surprise.
There is an institution known as the Empire Parliamentary Association, which all Members of Parliament in Great Britain and the Dominions are entitled to join. Periodically the Association sends a group on visits of goodwill to different countries of the Empire, and this year South Africa had been chosen as their venue. Some forty or fifty Members of Parliament arrived at Cape Town on an extended tour of the Union and Rhodesia, and I was elected by ballot as one of the local delegates to accompany them.
I found, on our departure, that my father was to accompany us. He was a Member of the Union Senate, which had elected him as its representative.
I was the more delighted at this, for we had seen but little of each other for a great many years. As children, my brothers and I had been his inseparable companions by coach and on horseback in the days when he was President of the Orange Free State Republic, but after he became State Secretary to President Paul Kruger we saw less and less of him. Then came the vicissitudes of the Anglo-Boer War and subsequent exile, he in Texas and I in Madagascar. On our return to South Africa, he became President of the Upper House and I was a struggling lawyer in a small village a thousand miles away, so we met only at rare intervals. The Great War and the post-war activities that followed kept us apart and now, after almost a lifetime, we were to travel together for the next few months.
He soon became the central figure of the expedition, for he was a polished raconteur and a mine of information to our overseas guests, and I noted with pleasure how they deferred to him and his wide learning. He was a scholar in the best sense of the term. He had a mastery of Latin and Greek, and he spoke French, German, High Dutch and Afrikaans with equal facility; his command of English and his knowledge of English literature were probably unsurpassed by any in this company of savants, authors, public men, and men of the world that made up our group of Parliamentarians.
My father was a poet too. Not a great poet, but a true poet, for he wrote poetry for the love of it. I have watched him on occasion. His lips would move silently; then he would take an envelope or an odd scrap of paper, and there appeared a ditty, a couplet, or a song.
In the Anglo-Boer War his Afrikaans poems went far to hearten our sorely tried men in the field, and they are still remembered.
He wrote as easily in English as in Afrikaans or Dutch. At Bloemfontein is the grave of an infant sister of mine who died long ago. On her headstone is an inscription which he composed:
Her tiny feet that never trod
This thorny world of ours,
Are standing by the Throne of God
Amidst His fairest flowers.
When the British ordered us out of the Transvaal in 1902, I saw him, as our train crossed the Portuguese border, sitting motionless for a while, then he took a pad upon his knees and wrote a few lines, which he handed me. I have them yet.
South Africa
Though foreign shores my feet may tread,
M y hopes for thee are not yet dead.
Thy freedom’s sun may for a while be set,
But not forever; God does not forget.
Mr Guest the Unwilling Host
From Commando – Of Horses and Men
by Deneys Reitz
When Mr Guest saw us appear, with the soldiers only just going through the garden beyond, he looked as if he had just seen an apparition, and when we laid him under further contribution, he seemed to be on the verge of a fit. However, he complied with our demands, grumbling and complaining at first, and then laughing at his ill luck. Having satisfied our requirements, we rode up the valley a little distance, to where there was a pleasant orchard and a large cultivated field hedged round with high branches of thorn, in the manner customary in this area. This was the one error of judgment we made during our trip, for, instead of making for the wider country lower down, we had entered a cul-de-sac.
We thought the English were finally gone, and prepared a meal, after which I made a second mistake, for, while the others kept their horses by them, I turned my little Arab, all saddled as he was, into the field and, thoroughly weary from having been up all night, sought out a shady spot in the lee of the thorn fence and, without telling the others where I was, fell soundly asleep.
I was awakened, I do not know how long after, by the crash of rifle-fire nearby and, starting to my feet half-dazed, I saw a number of English soldiers standing before their horses blazing away at my seven companions, who were riding down the valley for their lives. I had only myself to blame for being left behind, as they did not know where I was, and were in any case unable to wait. My chief hope of escape was my horse, but he was standing inside the field in full view of the firing soldiers. They had not yet noticed me, as I was screened by the fence, so I parted some of the branches to see what chance there was of getting at my pony. By great good luck he was standing on the other side within a few yards of me. The firing had alarmed him, for he was restlessly tossing his head and snuffing the air, and I could see that in another moment he would bolt, so I called to quiet him and, worming my way through a weak spot in the fence, ran up to where he stood quivering with excitement. Jumping into the saddle, I rode for a small gateway in the far corner, which was the only outlet. The soldiers saw me at once and turned their fire upon me, in spite of which I managed to get through the opening, but, just as I was gathering speed beyond, a bullet brought my poor horse headlong to the ground, and flung me yards over his head. Picking up my rifle I ran towards the homestead, thinking that my party might be making a stand there. The soldiers beyond the field kept firing at me as I appeared and disappeared amongst the trees, but I got within hail of the house unharmed. At the corner of a barn stood six or seven men, whom in my haste I took to be my friends, and I made straight for them. But as I came within thirty yards of them, one stepped forward and, levelling his rifle, called on me to halt.
They were English soldiers, and not the only ones, for more came rushing round from the stables and out of the dwelling house. Escape seemed impossible, but I made a bid for it. To my right was a small grove of poplars and, swerving aside, I dashed for this cover before they could send more than a bullet or two after me.
Volleys came crashing through the trees as I ran, but I emerged safely on the other side into hummocky ground, where I twisted and turned to such good effect that, although the men came hurrying round to cut off my retreat, I got into a broken stretch with no more serious damage than a gash from a bullet, which ripped up the sole of my boot and made running difficult.
Breasting a knoll, I glanced back. The soldiers near the field had mounted their horses, and were coming after me. Of those around the homestead, some were running in my direction and others were in the yard throwing saddles on their animals, and I had a final glimpse of Mr Guest in his shirtsleeves on the stoep, wildly gesticulating, but whether he was urging on the men to my capture or protesting against the crowning disaster of a battle on his doorstep, there was no time to consider, for I was in a very tight corner.
There was no sign of my companions. The sharp ground was cutting my foot, the horsemen were close behind me, and already I could hear the men yelling at me to stop. I was just deciding that I had better do so when I came upon a deep nullah running down the mountainside. Here it flashed on me that if my pursuers saw me disappear over the bank, they would naturally think that I was making down its bed to the centre of the valley, or up towards the mountain. Looking aslant my shoulder, to make sure that they saw what I was doing, I went over the bank, but instead of trying to escape up or down the watercourse, as they would expect, I found a spot on the opposite side, where the rains had washed out a shallow runnel, and, crawling up this, went flat on my face into the bushes beyond, which stood just high enough to conceal a prostrate man. Having left the nullah unperceived, I worked myself forward another fifty yards to a slightly denser patch, and stopped there.
The soldiers, seeing me jump into the spruit, did exactly what I’d anticipated. On reaching the spot where they had seen me vanish, they separated into two parties, one of which galloped up the mountainside, and the other down towards the valley. I had a clear view of the search from where I lay, and after a while I could see, from the undecided way in which they were riding about, that they were completely nonplussed.
In the end they must have concluded that I had got away on the upper side, for they spread out along the mountain slope like beaters at a shoot, moving further and further from my hiding-place. I knew now that I was comparatively safe, for the sun was setting, and before long I heard them clattering back to the farm, where presently their campfires shone out, indicating that Mr Guest was once more to be an unwilling host.
I felt proud of my successful ruse, but there was little else pleasant to contemplate. I lay in the bracken like a hunted rabbit; my foot throbbed painfully; my companions were gone, and so was the commando; my horse was dead and my saddle and belongings were in the hands of the enemy.
As thinking did not mend matters, I rose at length, and limped off in the dark.
