CHAPTER I.

TO THE GOLD COAST FOR GOLD

_A Personal Narrative_

BY Richard F. Burton AND Verney Lovett Cameron

In Two Volumes--Vol. I.

TO OUR EXCELLENT FRIEND

JAMES IRVINE

(OF LIVERPOOL, F.R.G.S, F.S.A, &C.)

WE INSCRIBE THESE PAGES AS A TOKEN OF OUR APPRECIATION AND ADMIRATION

FOR HIS COURAGE AND ENERGY IN OPENING AND WORKING THE GOLDEN LANDS OF

WESTERN AFRICA

_'Much have I travelled in the realms of gold'_

SHAKESPEARE

PREFACE.

The following extract from 'Wanderings in West Africa,' a book which I

wrote in 1862 and published (anonymously) in 1863, will best explain the

reasons which lately sent me to Western Africa:--

In several countries, for instance, Dinkira, Tueful, Wásá (Wassaw), and

especially Akim, the hill-region lying north of Accra, the people are

still active in digging gold. The pits, varying from two to three feet

in diameter, and from twelve to fifty deep (eighty feet is the extreme),

are often so near the roads that loss of life has been the

result. 'Shoring up' being little known, the miners are not unfrequently

buried alive. The stuff is drawn up by ropes in clay pots, or

calabashes, and thus a workman at the bottom widens the pit to a

pyriform shape; tunnelling, however, is unknown. The excavated earth is

carried down to be washed. Besides sinking these holes, they pan in the

beds of rivers, and in places collect quartz, which is roughly pounded.

They (the natives) often refuse to dig deeper than the chin, for fear of

the earth 'caving in;' and, quartz-crushing and the use of quicksilver

being unknown, they will not wash unless the gold 'show colour' to the

naked eye.

As we advance northwards from the Gold Coast the yield becomes

richer....

It is becoming evident that Africa will one day equal half-a-dozen

Californias....

Will our grandsons believe in these times ... that this Ophir--that

this California, where every river is a Tmolus and a Pactolus, every

hillock is a gold-field--does not contain a cradle, a puddling-machine,

a quartz-crusher, a pound of mercury? That half the washings are wasted

because quicksilver is unknown? That whilst convict labour is

attainable, not a company has been formed, not a surveyor has been sent

out? I exclaim with Dominie Sampson--'Pro-di-gious!'

Western Africa was the first field that supplied the precious metal to

mediaeval Europe. The French claim to have imported it from Elmina as

early as A.D. 1382. In 1442 Gonçales Baldeza returned from his second

voyage to the regions about Bojador, bringing with him the first gold.

Presently a company was formed for the purpose of carrying on the

gold-trade between Portugal and Africa. Its leading men were the

navigators Lanzarote and Gilianez, and Prince Henry 'the Navigator' did

not disdain to become a member. In 1471 João de Santarem and Pedro

Escobar reached a place on the Gold Coast to which, from the abundance

of gold found there, they gave the name of 'São Jorje da Mina,' the

present Elmina. After this a flood of gold poured into the lap of

Europe; and at last, cupidity having mastered terror of the Papal Bull,

which assigned to Portugal an exclusive right to the Eastern Hemisphere,

English, French, and Dutch adventurers hastened to share the spoils.

For long years my words fell upon flat ears. Presently the Ashanti war

of 1873-74 brought the subject before the public. The Protectorate was

overrun by British officers, and their reports and itineraries never

failed to contain, with a marvellous unanimity of iteration, the magic

word--Gold.

The fraction of country, twenty-six miles of seaboard out of two

hundred, by a depth of sixty--in fact, the valley of the Ancobra

River--now (early 1882) contains five working companies. Upwards of

seventy concessions, to my knowledge, have been obtained from native

owners, and many more are spoken of. In fact, development has at length

begun, and the line of progress is clearly traced.

At Madeira I was joined (January 8, 1882) by Captain Cameron, R.N.,

C.B., &c. Our object was to explore the so-called Kong Mountains, which

of late years have become _quasi_-mythical. He came out admirably

equipped; nor was I less prepared. But inevitable business had delayed

us both, and we landed on the Gold Coast at the end of January instead

of early October. The hot-dry season had set in with a heat and a

drought unknown for years; the climate was exceptionally trying, and all

experts predicted early and violent rains. Finally, we found so much to

do upon the Ancobra River that we had no time for exploration. Geography

is good, but Gold is better.

In this joint book my energetic and hard-working friend and

fellow-traveller has described the five working mines which I was unable

to visit. He has also made an excellent route-survey of the country,

corrected by many and careful astronomical observations. It is curious

to compare his work with the sketches of previous observers, Jeekel,

Wyatt, Bonnat, and Dahse. To my companion's industry also are mainly due

our collections of natural history.

We are answerable only for our own, not for each other's statements. As

regards my part, I have described the Gold-land as minutely as possible,

despite the many and obvious disadvantages of the 'photographic style.'

Indeed, we travellers often find ourselves in a serious dilemma. If we

do not draw our landscapes somewhat in pre-Raphaelite fashion, they do

not impress the reader; if we do, critics tell us that they are

wearisome _longueurs,_ and that the half would be better than the

whole. The latter alternative must often be risked, especially in

writing about a country where many at home have friends and

relatives. Of course they desire to have as much detail about it as

possible; hence the reader will probably pardon my 'curiosity.'

The Appendix discusses at some length the various objections made to the

Gold Coast mines by the public, which suffers equally from the 'bull'

and the 'bear' and from the wild rumours set afloat by those not

interested in the speculation. I first dispose of the dangers menaced by

Ashanti invasions. The second number notices the threatened

labour-famine, and shows how immigration of Chinese, of coolies, and of

Zanzibar-men will, when wanted, supply not only the Gold Coast, but also

the whole of our unhappy West African stations, miscalled colonies,

which are now starving for lack of hands. The third briefly sketches the

history of the Gold-trade in the north-western section of the Dark

Continent, discusses the position and the connections of the auriferous

Kong Mountains, and suggests the easiest system of 'getting' the

precious metal. This is by shallow working, by washing, and by the

'hydraulicking' which I had studied in California. The earlier miners

have, it is believed, begun at the wrong end with deep workings, shafts,

and tunnels; with quartz-crushers, stamps, and heavy and expensive

machinery, when flumes and force-pumps would have cost less and brought

more. Our observations and deductions, drawn from a section of coast,

will apply if true, as I believe they are, to the whole region between

the Assini and the Volta Rivers.

I went to the Gold Coast with small expectations. I found the Wásá

(Wassaw) country, Ancobra section, far richer than the most glowing

descriptions had represented it. Gold and other metals are there in

abundance, and there are good signs of diamond, ruby, and sapphire.

Remains to be seen if England has still honesty and public spirit enough

to work this old-new California as it should be worked. I will answer

for its success if the workers will avoid over-exclusiveness, undue

jealousy and rivalry, stockjobbing, and the rings of 'guinea-pigs' and

'guinea-worms.'

RICHARD F. BURTON.

CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

CHAPTER

I. PRELIMINARY: TRIESTE TO LISBON

II. FROM LISBON TO MADEIRA

III. A FORTNIGHT AT MADEIRA

IV. MADEIRA _(continued)_--CHRISTMAS--SMALL

INDUSTRIES--WINE--DEPARTURE FOR TENERIFE

V. TO TENERIFE, LA LAGUNA, AND OROTAVA

VI. THE ROUTINE ASCENT OF MOUNT ATLAS, THE 'PIKE' OF TENERIFE

VII. THE SPANISH ACCOUNT OF THE REPULSE OF NELSON FROM

SANTA CRUZ DE TENERIFE

VIII. TO GRAND CANARY--LAS PALMAS, THE CAPITAL

IX. THE COCHINEAL--THE 'GALLO'--CANARY 'SACK'--ADIEU TO THE CANARIES

X. THE RUINED RIVER--PORT AND THE TATTERED FLAG

XI. SIERRA LEONE: THE CHANGE FOR THE BETTER

TO THE GOLD COAST FOR GOLD.

CHAPTER I.

PRELIMINARY: TRIESTE TO LISBON.

The glory of an explorer, I need hardly say, results not so much from

the extent, or the marvels of his explorations, as from the consequences

to which they lead. Judged by this test, my little list of discoveries

has not been unfavoured of fortune. Where two purblind fever-stricken

men plodded painfully through fetid swamp and fiery thorn-bush over the

Zanzibar-Tanganyika track, mission-houses and schools may now be

numbered by the dozen. Missionaries bring consuls, and consuls bring

commerce and colonisation. On the Gold Coast of Western Africa, whence

came the good old 'guinea,' not a washing-cradle, not a pound of

quicksilver was to be found in 1862; in 1882 five mining companies are

at work; and in 1892 there will be as many score.

I had long and curiously watched from afar the movement of the Golden

Land, our long-neglected El Dorado, before the opportunity of a revisit

presented itself. At last, in the autumn of 1881, Mr. James Irvine, of

Liverpool, formerly of the West African 'Oil-rivers,' and now a large

mine-owner in the Gulf of Guinea, proposed to me a tour with the object

of inspecting his concessions, and I proposed to myself a journey of

exploration inland. The Foreign Office liberally gave me leave to escape

the winter of Trieste, where the ferocious Bora (nor'-nor'-easter) wages

eternal war with the depressing and distressing Scirocco, or

south-easter. Some One marvelled aloud and said, 'You are certainly the

first that ever applied to seek health in the "genial and congenial

climate" of the West African Coast.' But then Some One had not realised

the horrors of January and February at the storm-beaten head of the ever

unquiet Adriatic.

Thus it happened that on November 18,1881, after many adieux and _au

revoirs,_ I found myself on board the Cunard s.s. _Demerara_

(Captain C. Jones), bound for 'Gib.' My wife was to accompany me as far

as Hungarian Fiume.

The Cunard route to 'Gib' is decidedly roundabout. We began with a run

to Venice, usually six hours from the Vice-Queen of the Adriatic: it was

prolonged to double by the thick and clinging mist-fog. The sea-city was

enjoying her usual lethargy of repose after the excitement of the

'geographical Carnival,' as we called the farcical Congress of last

September. She is essentially a summering place. Her winter is

miserable, neither city nor houses being built for any but the finest of

fine weather; her 'society'-season lasts only four months from

St. Stephen's Day; her traveller-seasons are spring and autumn. We found

all our friends either in bed with bad colds, or on the wing for England

and elsewhere; we inhaled a _quant. suff._ of choking vapour, even

in the comfortable Britannia Hotel; and, on the morning of the 23rd, we

awoke to find ourselves moored alongside of the new warehouses on the

new port of Hungarian, or rather Croatian, Fiume.

Fiume had made prodigious strides since I last saw her in 1878; and she

is gradually taking the wind out of the sails of her sister-rival. While

old Tergeste wastes time and trouble upon futile questions of policy,

and angry contrasts between Germans and Slavs, and Italians and

Triestines, Fiume looks to the main chance. The neat, clean, and

well-watered little harbour-city may be called a two-dinner-a-day place,

so profuse is her hospitality to strangers. Here, too, we once more

enjoyed her glorious outlook, the warm winter sun gilding the

snowy-silvery head of Monte Maggiore and raining light and life upon the

indigo-tinted waters of Fiume Bay. Next to Naples, I know nothing in

Europe more beautiful than this ill-named Quarnero. We saw a shot or so

of the far-famed Whitehead torpedo, which now makes twenty-one miles an

hour; and on Nov. 25 we began to run down the Gulf _en route_ for

Patras.

It was a pleasure to emerge from the stern and gloomy Adriatic; and

nothing could be more lovely than the first evening amongst the Ionian

Islands. To port, backed by the bold heights of the Grecian sea-range,

lay the hoary mount, and the red cliffs, 780 feet high, of Sappho's

Leap, a never-forgotten memory. Starboard rose bleak Ithaca, fronting

the black mountain of Cephalonia, now bald and bare, but clothed with

dark forests till these were burnt down by some mischievous

malignant. Whatever of sterility deformed the scene lay robed under a

glory of colour painted with perfect beauty by the last smile of the

sun. Earth and air and sea showed every variety of the chromatic scale,

especially of rose-tints, from the tenderest morning blush of virgin

snow to the vinous evening flush upon the lowlands washed by the purple

wave. The pure translucent vault never ceased to shift its

chameleon-like hues, that ranged between the diaphanous azure of the

zenith and the faintest rainbow green, a border-land where blue and

yellow met and parted. The air felt soft and balmy; a holy calm was on

the face of creation; all looked delicious after the rude north, and we

acknowledged once more that life was worth living.

Patras also has greatly improved since I last saw her in 1872. The

malaria-swamps to the north and south of the town have been drained and

are being warped up: the 'never-failing succession of aguish fevers'

will presently fade out of the guide-books. A macadamised boulevard has

been built, and a breakwater is building. The once desert square,

'Georgios A',' has been planted with trees, which should be Eucalyptus;

and adorned with two French statues of bronze which harmonise admirably

with the surroundings. The thoroughfares are still Sloughs of Despond

after rain, and gridirons of St. Laurence in dusty summer; but there are

incipient symptoms of trottoirs. And throughout there is a disappearance

of the hovels which resembled Port Sa'id in her younger day, and a

notable substitution of tall solid houses.

All this has been brought about by 'fruit,' which in Patras means

currants; that is, 'Corinthian grapes.' The export this year is unusual,

110,000 tons, including the Morea and the Islands; and of this total

only 20,000 go to France for wine-making. It gives a surprising idea of

the Christmas plum-pudding manufacture. Patras also imports for all the

small adjacent places, inhabited by 'shaggy capotes.' And she will have

a fine time when that talented and energetic soldier, General Türr, whom

we last met at Venice, begins the 'piercing of the Isthmus.' _À

propos_ of which, one might suggest to Patras, with due respect, that

(politically speaking) 'honesty is the best policy.'

Being at Patras on St. Andrew's Day, with a Scotch demoiselle on board,

we could hardly but pilgrimage to the place of the Apostle's

martyrdom. Mrs. Wood kindly sent her daughters to do the honours.

Aghyos Andreas lies at the extreme south of the town on the system of

ruts, called a road, which conducts down-coast. The church is a long

yellow barn, fronting a cypress-grown cemetery, whose contents are being

transferred to the new extramural. A little finger of the holy man

reposes under a dwarf canopy in the south-eastern angle: his left arm is

preserved at Mount Athos in a silver reliquary, set with gems. Outside,

near the south-western corner, is the old well of Demeter (Ceres), which

has not lost its curative virtues by being baptised. You descend a dwarf

flight of brick steps to a mean shrine and portrait of the saint, and

remark the solid bases and the rude rubble arch of the pagan temple. A

fig-tree, under which the martyrdom took place, grew in the adjacent

court; it has long been cut down, probably for fuel.

The population of Patras still affords a fine study of the 'dirty

picturesque,' with clothes mostly home-made; sheepskin cloaks;

fustanellas or kilts, which contain a whole piece of calico; red

leggings, and the rudest of sandals; Turkish caps, and an occasional

pistol-belt. The Palikar still struts about in all his old bravery; and

the _bourgeois_ humbly imitates the dingy garb of Southern

Italy. The people have no taste for music, no regard for art, no respect

for antiquities, except for just as much as these will bring. They own

two, and only two, objects in life: firstly, to make money, and

secondly, to keep and not to spend it. But this dark picture has a

bright side. No race that I know is so greedy of education; the small

boys, instead of wending unwillingly to school, crowd the doors before

they are opened. Where this exceptional feeling is universal we may hope

for much.

The last evening at Patras showed us a beautiful view of what is here

called Parnassus (Parnassó), the tall bluff mountain up the Gulf, whose

snows at sunset glowed like a balass ruby. We left the Morea at 2

A.M. (December 2), and covered the fifty-two miles to Zante before

breakfast. There is, and ever has been, something peculiarly sympathetic

to me in the 'flower of the Levant.' 'Eh! 'tis a bonny, bonny place,'

repeatedly ejaculated our demoiselle. The city lies at the foot of the

grey cliffs, whose northern prolongation extends to the Akroteri, or

Lighthouse Point. A fine quay, the Strada Marina, has been opened during

the last six years along the northern sea-front, where the arcades

suggest those of Chester. It is being prolonged southwards to the old

quarantine-ground and the modern prison, which rests upon the skirts of

the remarkable Skopo, the Prospect Mountain, 1,489 feet high. This

feature, which first shows itself to mariners approaching Zakynthos from

north or from south, has a saddle-back sky-line, with a knob of

limestone shaped like a Turkish pommel and sheltering its monastery,

Panaghia of Skopo, alias Our Lady of the Look-out. Below it appears

another and a similar outcrop near a white patch which has suggested

marble-quarrying; and the northern flank is dotted with farmhouses and

villas. The dwarf breakwater, so easily prolonged over the shallows, has

not been improved; but at its base rises a brand-new opera-house, big

enough for a first-rate city. Similarly at Barletta they raised a loan

to build a mole and they built a theatre. Unlike Patras, Zante long had

the advantage of Italian and then of English rule; and the citizens care

for music more than for transformation-scenes. The Palikar element also

is notably absent; and the soldiers are in uniform, not in half-uniform

and half-brigand attire. I missed the British flag once so conspicuous

upon the southern round tower of the castle, where in days, or rather

nights, of old I had spent not a few jolly hours; but I heard with

pleasure that it is proposed to make a _haute-ville_ of the now

deserted and crumbling triangle, a _Sommerfrisch_ where the

parboiled citizens of Athens will find a splendid prospect and a cooling

sea-breeze.

Mr. E. Barff kindly accompanied us in the usual drive 'round the

Wrekin,' for which we may here read the 'wreck.' We set out along the

sea-flank of the Castle hill. This formation, once a regular hog's-back,

has been split by weather about the middle; and its southern end has

been shaken down by earthquakes, and carved by wind and rain into

precipices and pinnacles of crumbling sandstone, which form the 'Grey

Cliffs.' Having heard at Patras the worst accounts of Zante since it

passed under Greek rule, I was not a little surprised by the excellent

condition of the roads and the general look of prosperity.

Turning to the right we entered Mr. Barff's garden-house, where the

grounds were bright and beautiful with balsam and mignonette, dahlias

and cyclamens, chrysanthemums and oleanders, jasmine and double-violets,

orange-blossoms, and a perfect Gulistan of roses, roses of York and

Lancaster, white, pink, and purple, yellow and green--a perfumed spring

in dreary December. Laden with bouquets we again threaded the

olive-grounds, whose huge trunks are truly patriarchal, and saw basking

in the sun old Eumæus, the Swine-King, waiting upon his black and

bristly herd. The glimpse led to a characteristic tale. A wealthy Greek

merchant in London had made the most liberal offers to his brother, a

shepherd in the hills of Cephalonia; the latter returned his very best

thanks, but declared himself perfectly happy and unwilling to tempt

fortune by change of condition to England. Greece, it is evident, has

not ceased to breed 'wise men.'

We returned, _viâ_ the landward flank of the hog's-back, along the

fine plain ('O Kampos') bounded west by the range called after Mount

Meriy, the apex, rising 3,274 feet. Anglo-Zantiots fondly compare its

outline with the Jura's. The look of the rich lowlands, 'the vale,' as

our charts call it, suggested a river-valley, but river there is

none. Every nook and corner was under cultivation, and each

country-house had its chapel and its drying-ground for 'fruit,' level

yards now hidden under large-leaved daisies and wild flowers. We passed

through the Graetani village, whose tenants bear a bad name, and saw

none of the pretty faces for which Zante is famed. The sex was dressed

in dark jackets and petticoats _à l'italienne_; and the elders were

apparently employed in gathering 'bitter herbs,' dandelion and the wild

endive. Verily this is a frugal race.

The drive ended with passing up the Strada Larga, the inner High Street,

running parallel with the Marina. After Turkish fashion, trades flock

together, shoemakers to the south and vegetable-vendors to the

north. There are two good specimens of Venetian palazzetti, one

fantastic, the other classical; and there is a rough pavement, which is

still wanting in Patras. A visit to the silk-shop of Garafuglia

Papaiouanou was obligatory: here the golden-hued threads reminded me of

the Indian Tussur-moth. Also _de rigueur_ was the purchase of nougat

and raki, the local mandorlato and mastaché, almond-cake and

grape-spirit.

Zante appears to me an excellent home for a large family with a small

income. A single man lives at the best hotel (Nazionale) for forty-five

francs per week. A country-house with nine bedrooms, cellarage,

stabling, dog-house, orangery, and large garden, is to be had for

25_l._ a year. Fowls cost less than a franc; turkeys, if you do not

buy them from a shipchandler, two francs and a half. The strong and

sherry-flavoured white wine of Zante rarely exceeds three shillings the

gallon, sixpence a bottle. And other necessaries in the same proportion.

But, oh that St. Dionysius, patron saint of Zante, would teach his

_protégés_ a little of that old Persian wisdom which abhorred a lie

and its concomitants, cheating and mean trickery! The _Esmeralda_,

after two days and one night at Zante, was charged 15_l._, for

pilotage, when the captain piloted himself; for church, where there is

no parson; and for harbour dues where there is no harbour. It is almost

incredible that so sharp-witted a race can also be so short-sighted; so

wise about pennies, so foolish about pounds.

On Saturday we left Zante in the teeth of a fresh but purely local

north-easter, which whistled through the gear and hurled the spray high

up Cape Skinari. The result was, as the poet sings--

That peculiar up-and-down motion

Which belongs to the treacherous ocean.

Not without regret I saw the last of the memorious old castle and of

Skopo the picturesque. We ran along the western shore of Cephalonia, the

isle of three hundred villages: anyone passing this coast at once

understands how Greece produced so many and such excellent seamen. The

island was a charming spectacle, with its two culminations, Maraviglia

(3,311 ft.) and Elato (5,246 ft.), both capped by purple cloud; its

fertile slopes and its fissured bight, Argostoli Bay, running deep into

the land.

We fondly expected to pass the Messina Straits by daylight, and to cast

another glance upon old Etna, Scylla and Charybdis, the Liparis and

Stromboli. And all looked well, as about noon we were abreast of Cape

Spartivento, the 'Split-wind' which divides the mild northers and

southers of the Straits from the raw Boras and rotting Sciroccos of the

Adriatic. But presently a signal for succour was hoisted by a marvellous

old tub, a sailer-made-steamer, sans boats, sans gunwales; a something

whose dirt and general dilapidation suggested the Flying Dutchman. I

almost expected to see her drop out of form and crumble into dust as our

boys boarded her. The _America_, of Barletta, bound from Brindisi

to Genoa, had hurt her boilers. We hauled in her cable--these gentry

must never be trusted with a chance of slipping loose--and tugged her

into Messina, thereby losing a valuable day.

The famous Straits were almost a replica of Ionian Island scenery: the

shores of the Mediterranean, limestone and sandstone, with here and

there a volcanic patch, continually repeat themselves. After passing the

barren heel of the Boot and its stony big toe, the wady-streaked shores

become populous and well cultivated, while railway trains on either

side, island and continent, toss their snowy plumes in the pride of

civilisation. The ruined castles on the crags and the new villages on

the lowlands told their own story of Turkish and Algerine piracy, now

doomed to the limbo of things that were. In the evening we were safely

anchored within the zancle (sickle) of Messina-port, whose depth of

water and circular shape have suggested an old crater flooded. It was

Sunday, and we were greeted with the familiar sounds, the ringing of

cracked bells, the screaming of harsh, hoarse voices, a military band

and detached musical performances. The classical facade of the Marina,

through whose nineteen archways and upper parallelograms you catch a

vista of dark narrow wynd, contrasts curiously with Catania: the former

is a 'dicky,' a front hiding something unclean; while the latter is laid

out in Eastern style, where, for the best of reasons, the marble palace

hides behind a wall of mud. The only new features I noted were a metal

fish-market, engineer art which contrasts marvellously with the Ionic

pilasters and the solid ashlar of the 'dicky;' and, at the root of the

sickle, a new custom-house of six detached boxes, reddest-roofed and

whitest-walled, built to copy children's toy cottages. Croatian Fiume

would blush to own them. Of the general impurity of the town and of the

_bouquet de Messine_ the less said the better.

As we made fast to the Marina our tobacco was temporarily sealed after

the usual mean Italian fashion. Next morning an absurd old person, in a

broad red baldrick, came on board and counted noses, to ascertain that

we had not brought the dreaded small-pox from the Ionian Islands. After

being graciously and liberally allowed to land, we were visited by the

local chapmen, whose goods appeared rather mixed--polished cowhorns and

mildewed figs, dolls in costume and corrosive oranges; by the normal

musical barber, who imitates at a humble distance bird and beast; and by

the vendor of binoculars, who asks forty francs and who takes ten. The

captain noted his protest at the Consulate, and claimed by way of

_sauvetage 200l_. The owners offered 200 lire--punds Scots. Briefly,

noon had struck before we passed out of the noise and the smells of

Messina.

Our good deed had cost us dear. A wet scirocco had replaced the bright

norther and saddened all the view. Passing the tide-rip Charybdis, a

meeting of currents, which called only for another hand at the wheel;

and the castled crag of naughty Scylla, whose town has grown

prodigiously, we bade adieu to the 'tower of Pelorus.' Then we shaped

our course for the Islands of Æolus, or the Winds, and the Lipari

archipelago, all volcanic cones whose outlines were misty as Ossian's

spectres. And we plodded through the dreary dull-grey scene of drizzling

scirocco--

Till, when all veilèd sank in darkling air,

Naught but the welkin and the wave was there.

Next morning showed us to port the Cone of Maritimo: it outlies Marsala,

whose wine caused the blinding of Polyphemus, and since that time has

brought on many an attack of liver. The world then became to us

_pontus et aer_. Days and nights were equally uneventful; the diary

tells only of quiet seas under the lee of Sardinia and of the Balearics,

ghostly glimpses of the North African coast and the steady setting in of

the normal wester, the indraught of 'the Straits.'

On Friday (November 9) the weather broke and deluged us with rain. At

Gibraltar the downpour lasted twenty-four hours. We found ourselves at

anchor before midnight with a very low barometer, which suggested

unpleasantries. Next morning we sighted the deep blue waters of the Bay,

and the shallow brown waters of the Bayside crested with foam by a

furious norther, that had powdered the far Ronda highlands with

snow. Before noon, however, the gale had abated and allowed me to

transfer myself and African outfit on board the _Fez_ (Capt. Hay),

Moroccan Steamship Company, trading to North Africa. This was a

godsend: there is no regular line between Gibraltar and Lisbon, and one

might easily be delayed for a week.

The few hours' halt allowed me time to call upon my old friend,

M. Dautez, a Belgian artist. Apparently he is the only person in the

place who cares for science. He has made extensive collections. He owns

twenty-four coins from Carteia, whereas Florez (Medallas, Madrid, 1773)

shows a total of only thirty-three. Amongst his antiquities there is a

charming statuette of Minerva, a bronze miniature admirably finished. He

has collected the rock fauna, especially the molluscs, fossil and

modern. He is preparing an album of the Flora Calpensis. His birds'

nests were lately sold to an Englishman. All these objects, of immense

local interest, were offered by him at the lowest possible rate to the

Military Library, but who is there to understand their value? I wonder

how many Englishmen on the Rock know that they are within easy ride of

the harbour which named the 'Ships of Tarshish'? Tartessus, which was

Carteia, although certain German geographers would, against the general

voice of antiquity, make the former the country and the latter the city,

lay on both sides of the little Guadarranque stream, generally called

First River; and the row of tumuli on the left bank probably denotes the

site of the famous docks. I was anxious to open diggings in 1872, but

permission was not forthcoming: now, however, they say that the Duke of

Medina Sidonia would offer no objections.

Gib, though barbarous in matters of science, is civilised as regards

'business.' It was a treat to see steamer after steamer puff in, load up

with blue peter at the fore, and start off after a few hours which would

have been days at Patras, Zante, and Messina. Here men work with a will,

as a walk from the Convent to the Old Mole, the Mersa or water-port of a

Moroccan town, amply proves. The uniforms are neat and natty--they were

the reverse five years ago--and it is a pleasure to look upon the fresh

faces of English girls still unstained by unconsumed carbon. And the

authorities have had the good sense to preserve the old Moorish town of

Tárik and his successors, the triangle of walls with the tall tower-like

mosque for apex, and the base facing the bay.

We left Gibraltar at 5 P.M. on Saturday (December 10), giving a wide

berth to the hated Pearl Rock, which skippers would remove by force of

arms. Seen from east or west Gib has an outline of its own. The

Britisher, whose pride it is, sees the 'lion of England who has laid his

paw upon the key of the Mediterranean,' and compares it with the king of

beasts, sejant, the tail being Europa Point. The Spaniards, to whom it

is an eyesore, liken it to a shrouded corpse, the outlined head lying to

the north, and declare, truly enough, that to them it is a dead body.

The norther presently changed to the rainy south-wester, the builder of

the Moroccan 'bars' and the scourge of the coast fringing North-west

Africa, Rolling set in with the usual liveliness. Events were not

eventful. The first midnight found us off Cape Trafalgar, and the second

off St. Vincent. At 4 P.M. (December 12), we saw the light of Espíchel

(_Promóntorium Barbaricum_), the last that shines upon the voyager

bound Brazilwards. Before nightfall we had left Buzio lighthouse to

starboard. We then ran up the northern passage in charge of a lagging

pilot; and, as the lamps were lighting, we found ourselves comfortably

berthed off that pretty toy, Belem Tower.

Next morning broke upon a lovely view: no wonder that the Tagus is the

pride of Portuguese bards. The _Rosicler_, or rosy dawn-light, was

that of a May morning--the May of poetry, not of meteorology--and the

upper windows of distant Lisbon were all ablaze with the unrisen sun. It

was a picture for the loveliest colours, not for 'word-painting;' and

the whole scene was classical as picturesque. We may justly say of it,

'Nullum sine nomine saxum.' Far over the rising hills of the north bank

rose shaggy Cintra, 'the most blessed spot in the habitable globe,' with

its memorious convent and its Moorish castle. The nearer heights were

studded with the oldest-fashioned windmills, when the newest are found

even in the Canaries; a single crest bore its baker's dozen, mostly

decapitated by steam. Advancing we remarked the glorious Belem

monastery, defiled by its ignoble modern ruin to the west; the new

hippodrome crowning the grassy slope; the Bed House of Belem, now being

brightened up for Royal residence during the Exhibition of 1882; the

Memoria and the Ajuda Palace, more unfinished, if possible, than

ever. As we approached the bulk of the city the marking objects were the

cypressed Prazeres Cemetery; the red Necessidades Palace, and the

Estrella, whose dome and domelets, built to mimic St. Peter's, look only

like hen and chickens. Then in due time came the Carmo Church, still

unrepaired since 1755; Blackhorse Square, still bare of trees; the

Government offices, still propped to prevent a tumble-down, and the old

Custom House, still a bilious yellow; the vast barrack-like pile of

S. Vicente, the historic _Sé_ or cathedral with dumpy towers; the

black Castle of São Jorge, so hardly wrung from the gallant Moors, and

the huge Santa Engracia, apparently ever to be a ruin.

I spent a pleasant week at Lisbon, and had a fair opportunity of

measuring what progress she has made during the last sixteen years. We

have no longer to wander up and down disconsolate

Mid many things unsightly to strange ee.

If the beggars remain, the excessive dirt and the vagrant dogs have

disappeared. The Tagus has a fine embankment; but the land side is

occupied by mean warehouses. The sewers, like those of Trieste, still

want a _cloaca maxama_, a general conduit of masonry running along

the quay down-stream. The Rocio has been planted with mean trees,

greatly to the disgust of the average Lusitanian, who hates such

sun-excluding vegetation like a backwoodsman; yet the Quintella

squarelet shows what fine use may be made of cactus and pandanus, aloes

and palms, not to mention the ugly and useful eucalyptus. The

thoroughfares are far cleaner than they were; and Lisbon is now

surrounded by good roads. The new houses are built with some respect for

architectonic effect of light and shade: such fine old streets as the

Rua Augusta offend the eye by façades flat as cards with rows of pips

for windows. Finally, a new park is being laid out to the north of the

Passeio Publico.

Having always found 'Olisipo' exceptionally hospitable and pleasant, I

look forward to the days when she will be connected with Paris by direct

railway. Her hotels are first-rate; her prices are not excessive; her

winter climate is delightful, and she is the centre of most charming

excursions. The capital has thrown off much of her old lethargy. Her

Geographical Society is doing hard and honest work; she has nobly

expiated the national crime by becoming a 'Camonian' city; and she

indulges freely in exhibitions. One, of Ornamental Art, was about to be

opened when I last saw her, and it extended deep into the next spring.