Chapter XXIII

Mauritius, beautiful appearance—Hindoos —Cape of Good Hope—St. Helena—Geology—History of changes in vegetation, probable cause of extinction of land-shells—Ascension—Green Hill—Curious incrustations of calcareous matter on tidal rocks—Bahia—Brazil—Splendour of tropical scenery—Pernambuco—Singular reef—Azores—Supposed crater—Hints to collectors—Retrospect of the most impressive parts of the voyage.

MAURITIUS TO ENGLAND.

April 29th.—In the morning we passed round the northern extremity of the Isle of France. From this point of view the aspect of the island equalled the expectations raised by the many well-known descriptions of its beautiful scenery. The sloping plain of the Pamplemousses, scattered over with houses, and coloured bright green from the large fields of sugar-cane, composed the foreground. The brilliancy of the green was the more remarkable, because it is a colour which generally is only conspicuous from a very short distance. Towards the centre of the island, groups of wooded mountains rose out of this highly-cultivated plain; their summits, as so commonly happens with ancient volcanic rocks, being jagged into the sharpest points. Masses of white clouds were collected around their pinnacles, as if for the sake of pleasing the stranger’s eye. The whole island, with its sloping border and central mountains, was adorned with an air of perfect elegance: the scenery, if I may use such an expression, appeared to the senses harmonious.

I spent the greater part of the next day in walking about the town, and visiting different people. The town is of considerable size, and is said to contain 20,000 inhabitants; the streets are very clean and regular. Although the island has been so many years under the English government, the general character of the place is quite French: Englishmen speak to their servants in French, and the shops are all French; indeed I should think that Calais or Boulogne was much more Anglified. There is a very pretty little theatre, in which operas are excellently performed, and are much preferred by the inhabitants to plays. We were also surprised at seeing large booksellers’ shops, with well-stored shelves;—music and reading bespeak our approach to the old world of civilization; for in truth both Australia and America may be considered as new worlds.

One of the most interesting spectacles in Port Louis, is to observe the various races of men which may be met in walking the streets. Convicts from India are banished here for life; at present there are about 800, and they are employed in various public works. Before seeing these people, I had no idea that the inhabitants of India were such noble-looking figures. Their skin is extremely dark, and many of the older men had large mustaches and beards of a snow-white colour; this, together with the fire of their expressions, gave them quite an imposing aspect. The greater number have been banished for murder and the worst crimes; others for causes which can scarcely be considered as moral faults, such as for not obeying, from superstitious motives, the English laws. These men are generally quiet and well-conducted; from their outward conduct, their cleanliness and faithful observance of their strange religious enactments, it was impossible to look at them with the same eyes as on our wretched convicts in New South Wales. Besides these prisoners, large numbers of free people are yearly imported from India: for the planters were afraid that the negroes, when emancipated, would not work. From these causes the Indian population is here very considerable.

May 1st.—Sunday. I took a quiet walk along the sea-coast to the northward of the town. The plain in that part is quite uncultivated; it consists of a field of black lava, smoothed over with coarse grass and bushes, the latter being chiefly mimosas. Captain FitzRoy, before arriving here, said he expected the island would have a character intermediate between that of the Galapagos and Tahiti. This is a very exact comparison; but it will convey a definite idea to few, excepting to those who were on board the Beagle. It is a very pleasant country, but it has not the charms of Tahiti, or the grandeur of a Brazilian landscape.

The next day I ascended La Pouce, a mountain so called from a thumb-like projection, which rises close behind the town to a height of 2600 feet. M. Lesson, in the voyage of the Coquille, has stated, that the central plain of the island appeared like the basin of a grand crater, and that La Pouce and the other mountains once formed parts of a connected wall. From our elevated position we enjoyed an excellent view over this great mass of volcanic matter. The country on this side of the island appears pretty well cultivated, the whole being divided into fields, and studded with farm-houses. I was however assured, that of the whole land not more than half is yet in a productive state; if such is the case, considering the present great export of sugar, this island, at some future period when thickly peopled, will be of very great value. Since England has taken possession of it, a period of only twenty-five years, the export of sugar is said to have increased seventy-five fold.

One great cause of this prosperity is due to the excellent roads and means of communication throughout the island. At the present day, in the neighbouring Isle of Bourbon, which remains under the French government, the roads are in the same miserable state as they were only a few years past in this place. The Macadamizing art has, perhaps, been of even greater advantage to the colonies, than to the mother country. Although the French residents must have largely profited by the increased prosperity of their island, yet the English government is far from popular. It is unfortunate that there appears to exist scarcely any intercourse among the higher orders of French and English.

May 3d.—In the evening Captain Lloyd, the Surveyor-general, so well known from his examination of the Isthmus of Panama, invited Mr. Stokes and myself to his country-house, which is situated on the edge of Wilheim plains, and about six miles from the port. We staid at this delightful place two days: being elevated nearly 800 feet above the sea, the air was pleasantly cool and fresh, and on every side there were delightful walks. Close by there is a grand ravine, which is worn to a depth of about 500 feet through the slightly inclined streams of lava which have flowed from the central platform.

5th.—Captain Lloyd took us to the Rivière Noire, which is several miles to the southward, in order that I might examine some rocks of elevated coral. We passed through pleasant gardens, and fine fields of sugar-cane growing amidst huge blocks of lava. The roads were bordered by hedges of mimosa, and near many of the houses there were avenues of the mango. Some of the views, where the peaked hills and the cultivated farms were seen together, were exceedingly picturesque; and we were constantly tempted to exclaim, “How pleasant it would be to pass one’s life in such a quiet abode!” Captain Lloyd possessed an elephant; he sent it half way with us on the road, that we might enjoy a ride in true Indian fashion. I should think, as is commonly said to be the case, that the motion must be fatiguing for a long journey. The circumstance which surprised me most, was the quite noiseless step; a ride on so wonderful an animal was extremely interesting. This elephant is the only one at present on the island; but it is said others will be sent for.

May 9th.—We sailed from Port Louis, on our way to the Cape of Good Hope, and on the evening of the 31st anchored in Simon’s Bay. The little town offers but a cheerless aspect to a stranger’s eye. About a couple of hundred, square, whitewashed houses, with scarcely a single tree in the neighbourhood, and very few gardens, are scattered along the beach, at the foot of a lofty, steep, bare wall, of horizontally-stratified sandstone.

The next day I set out for Cape Town, which is twenty miles distant. Both towns are situated within the headlands, but at the opposite extremities of a range of mountains, which extending parallel to the mainland, is joined to it by a low sandy flat. The road skirted the base of these mountains: for the first fourteen miles the country is very desert, and with the exception of the pleasure which the sight of an entirely new vegetation never fails to communicate, there was very little of interest. The view however of the mountains on the opposite side of the flat, brightened by the declining sun, was fine. Within seven miles of Cape Town, in the neighbourhood of Wynberg, a great improvement was visible, and here the country-houses of the more wealthy residents of the capital are situated. The numerous woods of young Scotch firs and stunted oak-trees form the chief attraction of this locality. There is, indeed, a great charm in shade and retirement, after the unconcealed bleakness of so open a country as this. The houses and plantations are backed by a grand wall of mountains, which gives the scene a degree of uncommon beauty. I arrived late in the evening in Cape Town, and had a good deal of difficulty in finding quarters. In the morning several ships from India had arrived at this great inn on the great highway of nations, and they had disgorged on shore a host of passengers, all longing to enjoy the delights of a temperate climate. There is only one good hotel, so that strangers generally live in boarding-houses;—a very uncomfortable fashion to which I was obliged to conform, although I was fortunate in my quarters.

In the morning I walked to a neighbouring hill to look at the town. It is laid out with the rectangular precision of a Spanish city: the streets are in good order, and Macadamized, and some of them have rows of trees on each side; the houses are all whitewashed, and look clean. In several trifling particulars the town had a foreign air, but it is daily becoming more English. There is scarcely a resident, excepting amongst the lowest order, who does not speak some English. In this facility in becoming Anglefied, there appears to exist a wide difference between this colony and that of the Mauritius. It does not, however, arise from the popularity of the English; for the Dutch as well as the French, although they have profited to an immense degree by the English government, yet thoroughly dislike our whole nation.

All the fragments of the civilized world which we have visited in the southern hemisphere, appear to be flourishing: little embryo Englands are springing into life in many quarters. Although the Cape colony possesses only a moderately fertile country, it appears in a very prosperous condition. In one respect it suffers like New South Wales, namely, in the absence of water communication, and in the interior being separated from the coast by a high chain of mountains. This country does not possess coal; and there is no timber, excepting at a considerable distance. Hides, tallow, and wine are the chief exports, and latterly a considerable quantity of corn. The farmers are beginning also to pay attention to sheep-grazing,—a hint taken from Australia. It is no small triumph to Van Diemen’s Land, that live sheep have been exported from a colony of thirty-three years standing, to this which was founded in 1651.

In Cape Town it is said that the present number of inhabitants is about 15,000, and in the whole colony, including coloured people, 200,000. Many different nations are here mingled together; the Europeans consist of Dutch, French, and English, and scattered people from other parts. The Malays, descendants of slaves brought from the East Indian archipelago, form a large body. They are a fine set of men, and can always be distinguished by a conical hat, like the roof of a circular thatched cottage, or by a red handkerchief on their heads. The number of negroes is not very great; and the Hottentots, the ill-treated aborigines of the country, are, I should think, in a still smaller proportion. The first object in Cape Town which strikes the eye of a stranger, is the number of bullock-waggons. Several times I saw eighteen, and I heard of twenty-four oxen being all yoked together in one team. Besides these, waggons with four, six, and eight horses in hand, go trotting about the streets. I have as yet not mentioned the well-known Table Mountain. This great mass of horizontally-stratified sandstone rises quite close behind the town to a height of 3500 feet: the upper part forms an absolute wall, often reaching into the region of the clouds. I should think so high a mountain, not forming part of an extensive platform, and yet being composed of horizontal strata, must be a rare phenomenon. It certainly gives the landscape a very peculiar, and from some points of view, a grand character.

June 4th.—I set out on a short excursion to see the neighbouring country, but I saw so very little, that I have scarcely any thing to say. I hired a couple of horses, and a young Hottentot groom to accompany me as a guide. He spoke English very well, and was most tidily dressed; he wore a long coat, beaver hat, and white gloves! The Hottentots, or Hodmadods as old Dampier calls them, to my eye look like partially bleached negroes. They are of a small stature, and have most singularly-formed heads and faces: the temple and cheek-bones project so much, that the whole face is hidden from a person standing in the same side position in which he would be enabled to see part of the features of a European. Their hair is very short and curly.

Our first day’s ride was to the village of the Paarl, situated between thirty and forty miles to the N.E. of Cape Town. After leaving the neighbourhood of the town, where white houses stand as if picked out of a street and then by chance dropped on the open country, we had to cross a wide level sandy flat, totally unfit for cultivation. In the hopes of finding some hard materials for making a road, the sands had been bored along the whole line to the depth of forty feet, but without any success. Leaving the flat, we crossed a low undulating country, thinly clothed with a slight green vegetation. It was not the flowering season, but even at this time of the year there were some very pretty oxalises and mesembryanthemums, and on the sandy spots fine tufts of heaths. There were also several beautiful little birds:—if a person could not find amusement in observing the animals and plants, there was very little else during the whole day to interest him: only here and there we passed a solitary farm-house.

Directly after arriving at the Paarl, I ascended a singular group of rounded granite hills, which rise close behind the village. From the summit I enjoyed a fine view of the line of mountains which I had to cross on the following morning. Their colours were gray or partly rusty red, and their outlines irregular, but far from picturesque: the general tint of the lower country was a pale brownish green, and the whole entirely destitute of woodland.⁠[1] From the naked state of the mountains, seen likewise through a very clear atmosphere, I was reminded of Northern Chile; but the rocks there, possess at least a brilliant colouring. Immediately beneath the hill, the long village of the Paarl extended; all the houses were whitewashed, and appeared very comfortable; and there was not a single hovel. Each house had its garden and a few trees planted in straight rows; and there were many vineyards of considerable size, which at this time of year were destitute of leaves. The whole village possessed an air of quiet and respectable comfort.

June 5th.—After riding about three hours, we came near to the French Hoeck pass. This is so called from a number of emigrant protestant Frenchmen, who formerly settled in a flat valley at the foot of the mountain: it is one of the prettiest places I saw in my excursion. The pass is a considerable work, an inclined road having been cut along the steep side of the mountain: it forms one of the principal roads from the low land of the coast, to the mountains and great plains of the interior. We reached the foot of the mountains on the opposite, or S. E. side of the pass, a little after noon. Here, at the toll-bar, we found comfortable lodgings for the night. The surrounding mountains were destitute of trees, and even of brushwood; but they supported a scattered vegetation of rather a brighter green than usual: the quantity, however, of white siliceous sandstone, every where protruding itself uncovered, gave to the country a bleak and desolate aspect.

6th.—My intention was to return by Sir Lowry Cole’s pass, over the same chain of mountains as before, but a little further to the south. Following unfrequented paths, we crossed an irregular hilly country until we joined the other line of road. During the whole long day, I met scarcely a single person, and saw but few inhabited spots, or any number of cattle. A few roebucks were grazing on the sides of the hills, and some large dirty white vultures, like the condors of America, slowly wheeled over the place where probably some dead animal was lying. There was not even a tree to break the monotonous uniformity of the sandstone hills: I never saw a much less interesting country. At night we slept at the house of an English farmer; and at an early hour the next day we descended by Sir Lowry’s pass, which, like that of the French Hoeck, has been cut, at a great expense, along the flank of a steep mountain. From the summit, there was a noble view of the whole of False Bay, and of the Table Mountain, and, immediately below, of the cultivated country of Hottentot Holland. The flat, covered with sand-dunes did not appear, when viewed from this height, of the tedious length which we found it before we reached in the evening Cape Town.

June 18th.—We put to sea, and, on the 29th, crossed the Tropic of Capricorn for the sixth and last time. On the 8th of July, we arrived off St. Helena. This island, the forbidding aspect of which has been so often described, rises like a huge castle from the ocean. A great wall, built of successive streams of black lava, forms around the whole circuit a bold coast. Near the town, as if in aid of the natural defence, small forts and guns are every where built up, and mingled with the rugged rocks. The town extends up a flat and very narrow valley; the houses look respectable, and they are interspersed with a very few green trees. When approaching the anchorage there is one striking view: an irregular castle perched on the summit of a lofty hill, and surrounded by a few scattered fir-trees, boldly projects against the sky.

The next day I obtained lodgings within a stone’s throw of Napoleon’s tomb.⁠[2] I confess, however, this had little attraction for me: but it was a capital central situation, whence I could make excursions in every direction. During the four days I staid here, from morning to night I wandered over the island, and examined its geological history. The house was situated at an elevation of about 2000 feet; here the weather was cold and very boisterous, with constant showers of rain; and every now and then the whole scene was veiled in thick clouds.

Near the coast the rough lava is entirely destitute of vegetation: in the central and higher parts, a different series of rocks have from extreme decomposition produced a clayey soil, which, where not covered by vegetation, is stained in broad bands of many bright colours. At this season the land, moistened by constant showers, produces a singularly bright green pasture; this lower and lower down, gradually fades away, and at last disappears. In latitude 16°, and at the trifling elevation of 1500 feet, it is surprising to behold a vegetation possessing a character decidedly English. The hills are crowned with irregular plantations of Scotch firs; and the sloping banks are thickly scattered over with thickets of gorze, covered with its bright yellow flowers. Weeping-willows are common along the course of the rivulets, and the hedges are made of the blackberry, producing its well-known fruit. When we consider that the number of plants now found on the island is 746, and that out of these, fifty-two alone are native species, the rest being imported, and many of them from England, we see a good reason for this English character in the vegetation. The numerous species which have been so recently introduced can hardly have failed to have destroyed some of the native kinds. I believe there is no accurate account of the state of the vegetation at the period when the island was covered with trees; such would have formed a most curious comparison with its present sterile condition, and limited Flora. Many English plants appear to flourish here better than in their native country; some also from the opposite quarter of Australia succeed remarkably well. It is only on the highest and steepest ridges, where the native Flora is still predominant.

The English, or rather the Welsh character of the scenery, is preserved by the numerous cottages and small white houses; some buried at the bottom of the deepest valleys, and others stuck up on the crests of the lofty hills. Some of the views are very striking; I may instance that from near Sir W. Doveton’s house, where the bold peak called Lott is seen over a dark wood of firs, the whole being backed by the red water-worn mountains of the Southern shore.

On viewing the island from an eminence, the first circumstance which strikes one, is the very great number of roads, and forts: the labour bestowed on the public works, if one forgets its character as a prison, seem out of all proportion to its extent or value. There is so little level or useful land, that it seems surprising how so many people (about 5000) can subsist here. The lower orders, or the emancipated slaves, are I believe extremely poor: they complain of want of work, a fact which is likewise shown by the very cheap labour. From the reduction in the number of public servants owing to the island having been given up by the East India Company, and the consequent emigration of many of the richer people, the poverty probably will increase. The chief food of the working class is rice with a little salt meat; as neither of these articles are the products of the island, but must be purchased with money, the low wages tell heavily on the poor people. The fine times, as my old guide called them, when “Bony” was here, can never return again. Now that the people are blessed with freedom, a right which I believe they value fully, it seems probable that their numbers will quickly increase: if so, what is to become of the little state of St. Helena?

My guide was an elderly man, who had been a goatherd when a boy, and knew every step amongst the rocks. He was of a race many times mixed, and although with a dusky skin, he had not the disagreeable expression of a mulatto. He was a very civil, quiet old man, and such appears the character of the greater number among the lower classes. It was strange to my ears to hear a man, nearly white, and respectably dressed, talking with indifference of the times when he was a slave. With my companion who carried our dinner and a horn of water, which latter is quite necessary as all in the lower valleys is saline, I every day took long walks.

Beneath the limits of the elevated and central green circle, the wild valleys are quite desolate and untenanted. Here, to the geologist, there are scenes of high interest, which show the successive changes, and complicated disturbances which have in past times happened. According to my views, St. Helena has existed as an island from a very remote epoch: some obscure proofs, however, of the elevation of the land are still extant. I believe that the central and highest peaks form parts of the rim of a great crater; the southern half of which has been removed by the waves of the sea. There is, moreover, an external margin of black volcanic rocks, which belong to an anterior condition of things. These have been dislocated and broken up by forces acting from below, so that the confusion in structure from these different causes is extreme. On the higher parts of the island considerable numbers of shells occur embedded in the soil, which have always been supposed to be of marine origin: and the fact has been adduced as a proof of the retreat of the sea. The shell turns out to be a Bulimus, or terrestrial species. It is however very remarkable, that it is not now found in a living state: a circumstance which in all probability may be attributed to the entire destruction of the woods, and consequent loss of food and shelter, which occurred during the early part of the last century.

The history of the changes, which the elevated plains of Longwood and Deadwood have undergone, as given in General Beatson’s account of the island, is extremely curious. It is said the plain in former times was covered with wood, and was therefore called the Great Wood. So late as the year 1716 there were many trees upon it, but in 1724 the old trees had mostly fallen; and as goats and hogs were at that time suffered to range about, all the young trees had been devoured. It appears also from the official records, that the trees were unexpectedly, some years afterwards, succeeded by indigenous wire grass, which now spreads over its whole extent.⁠[3] He then adds, “These are curious facts, since they trace the changes which this remarkable spot of land has undergone, for now this formerly naked plain (after the trees had fallen) is covered with fine sward, and is become the finest piece of pasture on the island.” The extent of surface, which was probably covered by wood at a former period is estimated at no less than two thousand acres; at the present day scarcely a tree can be found there. It is said, that in 1709 there were quantities of dead wood in Sandy Bay: this place is now so utterly desert, that nothing but so well-attested an account could make me believe that trees had ever existed there. The fact, that the goats and hogs destroyed all the young trees as they sprung up, and that in the course of time the old ones, which were safe from their attacks, perished from age, seems clearly made out. Goats were introduced in the year 1502; eighty-six years afterwards, in the time of Cavendish, it is known they were exceedingly numerous. More than a century afterwards, in 1731, when the evil was completed and found irretrievable, an order was issued that all stray animals should be destroyed.

When at Valparaiso, I heard it positively affirmed, that the Sandal-wood tree had been found on the island of Juan Fernandez in considerable numbers, but that all without exception were standing dead. At the time, I thought it was some mysterious case of the natural death of a species; but when it is remembered, that goats for very many years have abounded on that island, it seems most probable that the young trees were prevented growing, and that the old ones perished from age. It is a very interesting fact, to observe that the arrival of animals at St. Helena in 1501 did not change the whole aspect of the island, until a period of two hundred and twenty years had elapsed: for they were introduced in 1502, and in 1724 it is said “the old trees had mostly fallen.” There can be no doubt, this change affected not only the Bulimus and probably some other land-shells (of which I obtained specimens from the same bed), but likewise a multitude of insects.

St. Helena, situated so remote from any continent, in the midst of a great ocean, and possessing a unique Flora,—this little world within itself,—excites our curiosity. Birds and insects,⁠[4] as might have been expected, are very few in number; indeed I believe all the birds have been introduced within late years. Partridges and pheasants are tolerably abundant: the island is much too English, not to be subject to strict game-laws. I was told of a more unjust sacrifice to such ordinances, than I ever heard of even in England. The poor people formerly used to burn a plant, which grows on the coast-rocks, and export soda; but a peremptory order came out prohibiting this practice, and giving as a reason, that the partridges would have nowhere to build!

In my walks, I passed more than once over the grassy plain, bounded by deep valleys, on which Longwood stands. Viewed from a short distance, it appears like a respectable gentleman’s country-seat. In front there are a few cultivated fields, and beyond them, the hill of coloured rocks called the Flagstaff, and the square black mass of the Barn. On the whole the view is rather bleak and uninteresting.

The scrupulous degree to which the coast must formerly have been guarded, is quite extraordinary: there are alarm houses, alarm guns, and alarm stations on every peak. I was much struck with the number of forts and picket houses, on the line leading down to Prosperous Bay. One would have supposed that this at least was an easy descent: I found it however a mere goat-path, and in one spot the use of ropes, which were fixed into rings in the cliff, were almost indispensable. At the present day two artillery-men are kept there; for what use it is not easy to conjecture. Prosperous Bay, although with so flourishing a name, has nothing more attractive than a wild sea-beach, and black utterly barren rocks. The only inconvenience I suffered in my walks, was from the impetuous winds. One day I noticed a curious circumstance: standing on the edge of a plain, terminated by a great cliff of about a thousand feet in depth, I saw at the distance of a few yards right to windward, some tern, struggling against a very strong breeze, whilst, where I stood, the air was quite calm. Approaching close to the brink, I stretched out my arm, which immediately felt the full force of the wind: an invisible barrier of two yards wide, separated a strongly agitated from a perfectly calm air. The current meeting the bold face of the cliff, must have been reflected upwards at a certain angle, within which plane there necessarily would be either an eddy or a calm.

I so much enjoyed my rambles among the rocks and mountains of St. Helena, that I felt almost sorry on the morning of the 14th to descend to the town. Before noon I was on board, and the Beagle made sail for Ascension.

We reached the anchorage of the latter place on the evening of the 19th (July). Those who have beheld a volcanic island, situated within an arid climate, will be able at once to picture to themselves the aspect of Ascension. They will imagine smooth conical hills of a bright red colour, with their summits generally truncated, rising distinct out of a level surface of black rugged lava. A principal mound in the centre of the island, seems the father of the lesser cones. It is called Green Hill; its name is taken from the faintest tinge of that colour, which at this time of the year was barely perceptible from the anchorage. To complete this desolate scene, the black rocks on the coast are lashed by a wild and turbulent sea.

The settlement is near the beach; it consists of several houses and barracks placed irregularly, but well built of white freestone. The only inhabitants are marines, and some negroes liberated from slave-ships, who are paid and victualled by government. There is not a private person on the island. Many of the marines appeared well contented with their situation; they think it better to serve their one-and-twenty years on shore, let it be what it may, than in a ship: in which choice, if I were a marine, I would most heartily agree.

The next morning I ascended Green Hill, 2840 feet high, and thence walked across the island to the windward point. A good cart-road leads from the coast settlement to the houses, gardens, and fields, placed near the summit of the central mountain. On the road-side there are milestones, and likewise cisterns, where each thirsty passer-by, can drink some good water. Similar care is displayed in each part of the establishment, and especially in the management of the springs, so that a single drop of water shall not be lost: indeed the whole island may be compared to a huge ship kept in first-rate order. I could not help, when admiring the active industry which had created such effects out of such means, at the same time regretting that it was wasted on so poor and trifling an end. M. Lesson has remarked with justice, that the English nation alone would have thought of making the island of Ascension a productive spot; any other people would have held it without any further views, as a mere fortress in the ocean.

Near the coast nothing grows; a little inland an occasional green castor-oil plant, and a few grasshoppers (true friends of the desert), may be met with. Some grass is scattered over the surface of the central elevated region, and the whole much resembles the worse parts of the Welsh mountains. But scanty as the pasture appears, about six hundred sheep, many goats, a few cows and horses, all thrive well on it. Of native animals, rats and land-crabs swarm in numbers: of native birds, there are none; but the guinea-fowl, imported from the Cape de Verd Islands, is abundant, and the common fowl has likewise run wild. Some cats, which were originally turned out to destroy the rats and mice, have increased so as to become a great plague. The island is entirely destitute of trees, in which, and in every other respect, it is very far inferior to St. Helena. Mr. Dring tells me, that the witty people of the latter place say, “we know we live on a rock, but the poor people of Ascension live on a cinder:” the distinction in truth is very just.

On the succeeding days, I took long walks and examined some rather curious points in the mineralogical composition of some of the volcanic rocks, to which I was guided by the kindness of Lieut. Evans. On the basaltic masses, which are daily washed by the tide, most curious calcareous incrustations have been deposited. They resemble in form certain cryptogamic plants, especially the Marchantiæ; their surface is perfectly smooth and glossy, and their colour black, which seems owing to animal matter. I have shown these incrustations to several geologists, and not one guessed their true origin. Any one would suppose that they had been the product of fire, rather than of a deposition of calcareous matter, now constantly undergoing a round of decay and renovation from the action of the breakers. Near the settlement where these incrustations occur, there is a large beach of calcareous sand, entirely composed of comminuted and rounded fragments of shells and corals. The lower part of this, from the percolation of water containing calcareous matter in solution, soon becomes consolidated, and is used as a building stone; but some of the layers are too hard for freestone, and when struck by the hammer ring like flint.

The main line of beach is directed N.E. and S.W.; Lieutenant Evans informs me, that during the six months included between the 1st of April and the 1st of October, the sand accumulates towards the N.E. extremity, and during the other six it travels back again towards the S.W. end. This periodical movement is due to a change in the direction of the swell, which is influenced by the general direction of the trade-wind, during the two periods of the year. Lieutenant Evans also informs me that during the six years he has resided on this island, he has always observed, that in the months of October and November, when the sand commences travelling towards the S.W., the rocks which are situated at that end of the long beach, become coated by a white, thick, and very hard calcareous layer. I saw portions of this remarkable deposit, which had been protected by an accumulation of sand. In the year 1831 it was much thicker than during any other period. It would appear that the water, charged with calcareous matter by the disturbance of a vast mass of calcareous particles, only partially cemented together, deposits this substance on the first rocks against which it impinges. But the most singular circumstance is, that in the course of a couple of months this layer is either abraded or redissolved, so that after that period, it entirely disappears. It is curious thus to trace the origin of a periodical incrustation on certain isolated rocks, to the motion of the earth with relation to the sun; for this determines the atmospheric currents, which give the direction to the swell of the ocean, and this acts on the arrangement of the sea-beach, and this again on the quantity of calcareous matter held in solution by the waters of the neighbouring sea.

One of my excursions took me towards the S.W. extremity of the island. The day was clear and hot, and I saw the island, not smiling with beauty, but staring with naked hideousness. The lava streams are covered with hummocks, and are rugged to a degree, which, geologically speaking, is not of easy explanation. The intervening spaces are concealed with layers of pumice, ashes, and volcanic tuft. In some parts rounded volcanic bombs, which must have assumed this form, when projected red-hot from the crater, lie strewed on the surface. Whilst passing at sea this end of the island, I could not imagine what was the nature of the white patches, with which the whole plain was mottled; I now found they were seafowl, which were sleeping in such full confidence, that even in midday a man could walk up to, and seize hold of them. These birds were the only living creatures I saw during the day. On the beach a great surf, although the breeze was light, was tumbling over the broken lava rocks.

Upon leaving Ascension the ship’s head was directed towards the coast of South America, and on August 1st, we anchored at Bahia or San Salvador. We staid here four days, in which time I took several long walks. I was glad to find my enjoyment of tropical scenery had not decreased even in the slightest degree, from the want of novelty. The elements of the scenery are so simple, that they are worth mentioning, as a proof on what trifling circumstances exquisite natural beauty depends.

The country may be described as a level plain of about three hundred feet in elevation, which in every part has been worn into flat-bottomed valleys. This structure is remarkable in a granitic land, but is nearly universal in all those softer formations, of which plains usually are composed. The whole surface is covered by various kinds of stately trees, interspersed with patches of cultivated ground, out of which houses, convents, and chapels arise. It must be remembered that within the tropics, the wild luxuriance of nature is not lost even in the vicinity of large cities; for the natural vegetation of the hedges and hill-sides, overpowers in picturesque effect the artificial labour of man. Hence, there are only a few spots where the bright red soil affords a strong contrast with the universal clothing of green. From the edges of the plain there are distant glimpses either of the ocean, or of the great bay bordered by low wooded shores, and on the surface of which numerous boats and canoes show their white sails. Excepting from these points, the range of vision is very limited: following the level pathways, on each hand alternate peeps into the wooded valleys below can alone be obtained. Finally, I may add that the houses, and especially the sacred edifices, are built in a peculiar and rather fantastic style of architecture. They are all whitewashed; so that when illuminated by the brilliant sun of midday, and as seen against the pale blue sky of the horizon, they stand out more like shadows than substantial buildings.

Such are the elements of the scenery, but to paint the effect is a hopeless endeavour. Learned naturalists describe these scenes of the tropics by naming a multitude of objects, and mentioning some characteristic feature of each. To a learned traveller, this possibly may communicate some definite ideas: but who else from seeing a plant in an herbarium can imagine its appearance when growing in its native soil? Who from seeing choice plants in a hothouse can magnify some into the dimensions of forest-trees, and crowd others into an entangled jungle? Who when examining in the cabinet of the entomologist the gay exotic butterflies, and singular cicadas, will associate with these objects, the ceaseless harsh music of the latter, and the lazy flight of the former,—the sure accompaniments of the still, glowing, noonday of the tropics. It is, when the sun has attained its greatest height, that such views should be beheld: then the dense splendid foliage of the mango hides the ground with its darkest shade, whilst the upper branches are rendered from the profusion of light of the most brilliant green. In the temperate zones, as it appears to me, the case is different, the vegetation there is not so dark or so rich, and hence the rays of the declining sun, tinged of a red, purple, or yellow colour, add most to the beauties of the scenery of those climes.

When quietly walking along the shady pathways, and admiring each successive view, one wishes to find language to express one’s ideas. Epithet after epithet is found too weak to convey to those, who have not visited the intertropical regions, the sensation of delight which the mind experiences. I have said the plants in a hothouse fail to communicate a just idea of the vegetation, yet I must recur to it. The land is one great wild, untidy, luxuriant hothouse, which nature made for her managerie, but man has taken possession of it, and has studded it with gay houses and formal gardens. How great would be the desire in every admirer of nature to behold, if such were possible, another planet; yet to every one in Europe, it may be truly said, that at the distance of a few degrees from his native soil, the glories of another world are open to him. In my last walk, I stopped again and again to gaze on these beauties, and endeavoured to fix for ever in my mind an impression, which at the time I knew, sooner or later must fail. The form of the orange-tree, the cocoa-nut, the palm, the mango, the tree-fern, the banana, will remain clear and separate; but the thousand beauties which unite these into one perfect scene must fade away; yet they will leave, like a tale heard in childhood, a picture full of indistinct, but most beautiful figures.

August 6th.—In the afternoon we stood out to sea, with the intention of making a direct course to the Cape de Verd Islands. Unfavourable winds, however, having delayed us, on the 12th we ran into Pernambuco,—a large city on the coast of Brazil in latitude 8° south. We anchored outside the reef; but in a short time a pilot came on board, and took us into the inner harbour, where we lay close to the town.

Pernambuco is built on some narrow and low sand-banks, which are separated from each other by shoal channels of salt water. The three parts of the town are connected together by two long bridges built on wooden piles. The town is in all parts disgusting, the streets being narrow, ill-paved, and filthy; the houses are very tall and gloomy. The number of white people, which during the morning may be met with in the streets, bears about the proportion of foreigners in any other nation; all the rest are black or of a dusky colour. The latter, as well as the Brazilians, are far from prepossessing in their appearance. The poor negroes, wherever they may be, are cheerful, talkative, and boisterous. There was nothing in the sight, smell, or sounds within this large town, which conveyed to my mind any pleasing impressions.

The season of heavy rains had hardly come to an end, and hence the surrounding country, which is scarcely elevated above the level of the sea, was flooded with water. I failed in all my attempts to take any long walks. I was, however, enabled to observe that many of the country-houses in the outskirts, had like those of Bahia a gay appearance, which harmonized well with the luxuriant character of the vegetation.

The flat swampy land on which Pernambuco stands, is surrounded at the distance of a few miles, by a semicircle of low hills, or rather by the edge of a country elevated perhaps two hundred feet above the sea. The old city of Olinda stands on one extremity of this range. One day I took a canoe, and proceeded up one of the channels to visit it; I found the old town from its situation both sweeter and cleaner than that of Pernambuco. I must here commemorate what happened for the first time during the four-and-a-half years we have been wandering about, namely, having met with a want of politeness amongst any class of people: I was refused in a sullen manner at two different houses, and obtained with difficulty from a third, permission to pass through their gardens, to an uncultivated hill, for the purpose of taking a view of the country. I feel quite glad that this happened in the land of the “Brava Gente,” for I bear them no good will—a land also of slavery, and therefore of moral debasement. A Spaniard would have been ashamed at the thought of refusing such a request, or of behaving to a stranger with rudeness. The channel by which we went to, and returned from Olinda, was bordered on each side by mangroves, which sprang like a miniature forest out of the greasy mud-banks. The bright green colour of these bushes always reminded me of the rank grass in a churchyard: both are nourished by putrid exhalations; the one speaks of death past, and the other too often of death to come.

The most curious thing which I saw in this neighbourhood, was the reef that forms the harbour. It runs for a length of several miles in a perfectly straight line, parallel to, and not far distant from, the shore. It varies in width from thirty to sixty yards; it is dry at low water, has a level smooth surface, and is composed of obscurely-stratified hard sandstone. Hence, at first sight, it is difficult to credit that it is the work of nature, and not of art. Its utility is great; close within the inner wall there is a good depth of water, and ships lie moored to old guns, which are fixed in holes on its summit. A lighthouse stands on one extremity, and around it the sea breaks heavily. In entering the harbour, a ship passes within thirty yards of this point, and amidst the foam of the breakers; close by, on the other hand, are other breakers, which thus form a narrow gateway. It is almost fearful to behold a ship running, as it appears, headlong into such dangers.

With respect to the origin of the reef, I believe a bar composed of sand and pebbles formerly existed beneath the water (a circumstance no ways improbable) when the low land, on which the town now stands, was occupied by a large bay; and that this bar was first consolidated, and then elevated. These two processes are of such frequent occurrence in South America, that there can be no objection to using them in accounting for any remarkable structure in the land. There is another and slightly different explanation which possesses equal probability, namely, that a long spit of sand, like some that now run parallel to parts of the neighbouring coast, had its central part consolidated, and then by a slight change in the set of currents, the loose matter removed, so that the hard nucleus alone was left. Although the swell of the open ocean breaks heavily on the outside of this narrow and insignificant line of reef, yet there is no record of its decay. This durability is much the most curious circumstance in its history. Its protection appears due to a layer of calcareous matter, formed by the successive growth of several kinds of organic bodies, chiefly serpulæ, balani, nulliporæ, but no true corals. It is a process strictly analogous to the formation of peat; and like that substance, its effects are to preserve from degradation the matter on which it rests. In true coral reefs, when the upper extremities of the living mass are killed by the rays of the sun, they become enveloped and protected by a nearly similar process. It is probable, that if a breakwater, such as that at Plymouth, was built in these tropical seas, it would be imperishable; that is, as imperishable as any part of the solid land, all of which must some day suffer decay and renovation.

On the 17th we took our final leave of the coast of South America, and on the last day of the month anchored at Porto Praya. We staid there only five days, and on the 5th of September steered for the Azores. On the 19th we anchored off the town of Angra, the capital of Terceira.

This island is moderately lofty, and has a rounded outline, with detached conical hills evidently of volcanic origin. The land is well cultivated, and is divided into a multitude of rectangular fields by stone walls, extending from the water’s edge to high up on the central hills. There are few or no trees, and the yellow stubble land at this time of the year gave a burnt-up and unpleasant character to the scenery. Small hamlets and single whitewashed houses are scattered in all parts. In the evening a party went on shore: we found the city a very clean and tidy little place, containing about 10,000 inhabitants, which includes nearly the fourth part of the total number on the island. There are no good shops, and there is little appearance of activity, excepting the intolerable creaking of an occasional bullock-waggon. The churches are very respectable, and there were formerly a good many convents; but Dom Pedro destroyed several. He levelled three nunneries to the ground, and gave permission to the nuns to marry, which, except by some very old ones, was gladly received.

Angra was formerly the capital of the whole Archipelago, but it has now only one division of the islands under its government, and its glory has departed. The city is defended by a strong castle on Mount Brazil, and by a line of batteries encircling the base of this extinct volcano, which overlooks the town. Terceira was the first place that received Dom Pedro, and from this beginning he conquered the other islands, and finally Portugal. A loan was scraped together in this one island of no less than 400,000 dollars, of which sum not one farthing has ever been paid to these first supporters of the present right royal and honourable family.

The next day the Consul kindly lent me his horse, and furnished me with guides to proceed to a spot in the centre of the island, which was described as an active crater. Ascending in deep lanes, bordered on each side by high stone walls, for the three first miles we passed many houses and gardens. We then entered on a very irregular country, consisting of more recent streams of hummocky basaltic lava. The rocks are covered in some parts by a thick brushwood about three feet high, and in others by heath, fern, and short pasture: a few broken-down old stone walls completed the resemblance with the mountains of Wales. I saw, moreover, some old English friends amongst the insects; and of birds, the starling, water-wagtail, chaffinch, and blackbird. There are no houses in this elevated and central part, and the ground is only used for the pasture of cattle and goats. On every side besides the ridges of more ancient lavas, there were cones of various dimensions, which still partly retained their crater-formed summits; and where broken down, showed a pile of cinders, such as those from an iron-foundry.

When we reached the so-called crater, I found it consisted of a slight depression, or rather of a short valley abutting against a higher range and without any exit. The bottom was traversed by several large fissures, out of which, in nearly a dozen places, small jets of steam issued as from the cracks in the boiler of a steam engine. The steam close to the irregular orifices was far too hot for the hand to endure it. It had but little smell, yet from every thing made of iron being blackened, and from a peculiar rough sensation communicated to the skin, the vapour cannot be pure; I imagine it contains some muriatic acid. The effect on the surrounding trachytic lava was singular, the solid stone being entirely converted either into pure snow-white porcelain clay, or into a kind of the brightest red, or the two colours were marbled together. The steam has thus been emitted during many years; and it is said that flames once issued from the cracks. During rain, the water from each bank must flow into these cracks; and it is probable that this same water trickling down to the neighbourhood of some heated subterranean lava, causes the above effects. Throughout the island, the powers from below have been unusually active during the last year; several small earthquakes have been felt, and during a few days a jet of steam issued from a bold precipice (part of Mount Brazil) overhanging the sea, not far from the town of Angra.

I enjoyed my day’s ride, though I did not find much worth seeing. It was pleasant to meet the peasantry; I do not recollect ever having beheld a set of handsomer young men, with more good-humoured expressions. The greater number whom we met, were employed in the mountains gathering sticks for firewood. A whole family, from the father to the least boy, might be seen, each carrying his bundle on his head to sell in the town. Their burdens were very heavy; this hard labour and the ragged state of their clothes plainly bespoke poverty; yet I am told it is not that they want food, but there is an absence of all luxuries,—a case parallel to that of Chiloe. Hence, although the whole land is not cultivated, numbers are emigrating to Brazil, where the contract to which they are bound differs but little from slavery. It seems a great pity that so fine a population should be compelled to leave a land of plenty, where every article of food—meat, vegetables, and fruit—is exceedingly cheap and most abundant: but the labourer finds his labour of proportionally little value.

Another day I set out early in the morning to visit the town of Praya situated towards the N.E. extremity of the island. The distance is about fifteen miles; the road ran during the greater part of the way, not far from the coast. The country is all cultivated, and scattered over with houses and small villages. I noticed in several places, that the solid lava, which in part formed the road, was worn into ruts of the depth of twelve inches from the long traffic of the bullock-waggons. This circumstance has been noticed with surprise in the ancient pavement of Pompeii, for it does not occur in any of the present towns of Italy. The waggon-wheels here have a tire surmounted by singularly large knobs of iron; perhaps the old Roman wheels were thus furnished. The country during our morning’s ride was not interesting; excepting always when enlivened by the pleasant sight of the healthy peasantry. The harvest was lately over, and near the houses, the fine yellow heads of the Indian corn were tied in large bundles, to be dried, to the poplar-trees; and these, seen from a distance, appeared weighed down by some beautiful fruit,—the very emblem of fertility.

One part of the road crossed a broad stream of lava, which from its rocky and black surface seemed to be of comparatively recent origin: indeed, the crater, whence it had flowed, could be distinguished. The industrious inhabitants have turned this space into vineyards; but for this purpose it was necessary to clear away the loose fragments, and to pile them up into a multitude of walls, which enclose little patches of ground a few yards square, thus covering the country with a network of black lines.

The town of Praya is a quiet, forlorn, little place: many years since a large city was here overwhelmed by an earthquake. It is asserted that the land then subsided, and a wall of a convent now bathed by the sea, is shown as a proof of it: the fact is probable, but the supposed proof not conclusive. I returned home by another road, which first led along the northern shore, and then crossed the central part of the island. This north-eastern extremity is particularly well cultivated, and produces a large quantity of fine wheat. The square open fields, and small villages with whitewashed churches, gave to the view, as seen from the heights, an aspect resembling the less picturesque parts of central England. We soon reached the region of clouds, which during our whole visit hung very low and concealed the tops of the mountains. For a couple of hours we crossed this central and elevated part, which is not inhabited and has a desolate appearance. When we descended from the clouds to the city, I heard the good news that astronomical observations had been obtained, and that we should go to sea the same evening.

On the 25th we called at the island of St. Michael’s for letters, and then steered a direct course for England. On October 2d the Beagle anchored at Falmouth, where I left her, having lived on board the little vessel very nearly five years.

As this volume may possibly fall into the hands of some one about to undertake a similar expedition, I will offer a few pieces of advice, some of which I observed with much advantage, but others, to my cost, neglected. Let the collector’s motto be, “Trust nothing to the memory;” for the memory becomes a fickle guardian when one interesting object is succeeded by another still more interesting. Keep a list with the date of the ships by which every box of specimens, or even a letter, is transmitted to England; let the receiver do the same: it will afterwards save much anxiety. Put a number on every specimen, and every fragment of a specimen; and during the very same minute let it be entered in the catalogue, so that if hereafter its locality be doubted, the collector may say in good truth, “Every specimen of mine was ticketed on the spot.” Any thing which is folded up in paper, or put into a separate box, ought to have a number on the outside (with the exception perhaps of geological specimens), but more especially a duplicate number on the inside attached to the specimen itself. A series of small numbers should be printed from 0 to 5000; a stop must be added to those numbers which can be read upside down (as 699. or 86.). It is likewise convenient to have the different thousands printed on differently coloured paper, so that when unpacking, a single glance tells the approximate number.

For specimens in spirits of wine, I found the following plan answered admirably: Get a set of steel dies from 0 to 9, a small punch, and some sheets of trebly-thick tinfoil. The numbers may at any time be stamped in a line, with a hole punched in front of each, and then cut off with a pair of scissors as wanted. These tickets cost little trouble in making, and do not corrode. Each specimen in spirits should be loosely folded up in very open gauze, or some such stuff; the string which ties up the corners may likewise secure the number. Use nothing but glass jars; but these are difficult to be obtained of any size out of Europe. Jars of earthenware, and wooden casks, either leak, or allow of evaporation; and when such are used, it is not easy to know whether the specimens are too much crowded (a very common fault), or in what state the spirit is in, which through glass can be judged of by its colour. Bear in mind, that in nine out of ten specimens which are spoiled, it is owing to the spirit being too weak. The jars should be closed with a bung covered by bladder, twice by common tinfoil, and by bladder again; let the bladder soak till half putrid. I found this plan quite worth the trouble it cost.

Few, excepting those who have travelled in ships, know the extreme inconvenience of want of room; and on this much depends: but if it be practicable, keep three or four sets of bottles open at the same time, so that one may serve for crustacea, another for animals for dissection, another for minute specimens, another for fish, always putting the latter into the strongest spirit. Any how it is absolutely necessary to keep a couple of receiving bottles in which every thing can at first be put, and afterwards transferred to the permanent bottles with fresh spirits. Without assistance from government, and plenty of room, it is most disheartening work to attempt to bring home many specimens in spirits, although without doubt in such a state they are very far the most valuable. I should recommend any one circumstanced as I was to preserve the skins only of large fish and reptiles. But with room and means at command, let the collector place no limit to the number of his glass jars.

With respect to the catalogues it is inconvenient to have many; but there must at least be two, one for the tin labels or specimens in spirits, and another for the paper numbers, which should be applied indiscriminately to every kind of specimen. If the observer has any particular branch to which he devotes much attention, a third catalogue exclusively for such specimens is desirable: I kept a third for geological specimens and fossils. In a like manner notes should be as simple as possible: I kept one set for geology, and another for zoological and all other observations. It is well to endeavour to write upon separate pages remarks on different specimens; for much copying will thus be saved. My journal was likewise kept distinct from the other subjects. I found an arrangement carried thus far very useful: a traveller by land would, I suppose, be obliged to adopt a still more simple plan.

Use arsenical soap⁠[5] for all skins, but do not neglect to brush the legs and beak with a solution of corrosive sublimate. Likewise slightly brush over all dried plants with the solution. For collecting insects use a plain strong sweeping-net, and pack the specimens of all orders, excepting lepidoptera, between layers of rag in pill-boxes, placing at the bottom a bit of camphor; this costs scarcely any trouble, and the insects, especially thousands of unknown minute ones, arrive in an excellent state. Take a good stock of chip pill-boxes—a simple plain strong microscope, such as that long ago described by Ellis—a good stock of lace-needles, with glass tubes and sealingwax, for the purpose of making dissecting instruments. I need not mention small collecting bottles covered with leather, tin boxes, dissecting scissors, blowpipe case, compasses, mountain barometer, &c. I should recommend a sort of work-box fitted up to hold watch-glasses, glass micrometers, pins, string, printed numbers, &c.; and I found a small cabinet with drawers, some lined with cork, and others with cross partitions, most useful as a temporary storehouse.

Pack up for shipment every specimen of every kind in boxes lined with tinned plates, and soldered together: if the case be large the specimens should further be packed into light pasteboard or other boxes, for by long pressure even skins of quadrupeds are injured. On no account whatever put bottles with spirits of wine, though ever so well packed, in the same case with other specimens, for if one should break every thing near it will be spoiled, as I found to my cost in one instance.

When limited either in time, funds, or space, let not the collector crowd too many specimens either into one bottle, or into one case. For he should constantly bear in mind as his second motto, that “It is better to send home a few things well preserved, than a multitude in a bad condition.” As long as due steps are taken that the harvest may not be spoiled, let him not be disheartened, because he may for a long time be labouring by himself; let him work hard from morning to night, for every day and every hour is precious in a foreign clime; and then most assuredly his own satisfaction will one day well repay him.

Our voyage having come to an end, I will take a short retrospect of the advantages and disadvantages, the pains and pleasures, of our five years’ wandering. If a person should ask my advice, before undertaking a long voyage, my answer would depend upon his possessing a decided taste for some branch of knowledge, which could by such means be improved. No doubt it is a high satisfaction to behold various countries, and the many races of mankind, but the pleasures gained at the time do not counterbalance the evils. It is necessary to look forward to a harvest, however distant it may be, when some fruit will be reaped, some good effected.

Many of the losses which must be experienced are obvious; such as that of the society of all old friends, and of the sight of those places, with which every dearest remembrance is so intimately connected. These losses, however, are at the time partly relieved by the exhaustless delight of anticipating the long wished-for day of return. If, as poets say, life is a dream, I am sure in a voyage these are the visions which serve best to pass away the long night. Other losses, although not at first felt, tell heavily after a period; these are, the want of room, of seclusion, of rest;—the jading feeling of constant hurry;—the privation of small luxuries, the comforts of civilization and domestic society, and, lastly, even of music and the other pleasures of imagination. When such trifles are mentioned, it is evident that the real grievances (excepting from accidents) of a sea life are at an end. The short space of sixty years has made an astonishing difference in the facility of distant navigation. Even in the time of Cook, a man who left his comfortable fireside for such expeditions, underwent severe privations. A yacht now with every luxury of life might circumnavigate the globe. Besides the vast improvements in ships and naval resources, the whole western shores of America are thrown open, and Australia has become the metropolis of a rising continent. How different are the circumstances to a man shipwrecked at the present day in the Pacific, to what they were in the time of Cook! since his voyage a hemisphere has been added to the civilized world.

If a person suffer much from sea-sickness, let him weigh it heavily in the balance. I speak from experience: it is no trifling evil which may be cured in a week. If, on the other hand, he takes pleasure in naval tactics, he will assuredly have full scope for his taste. But it must be borne in mind, how large a proportion of the time, during a long voyage, is spent on the water, as compared with the days in harbour. And what are the boasted glories of the illimitable ocean? A tedious waste, a desert of water, as the Arabian calls it. No doubt there are some delightful scenes. A moonlight night, with the clear heavens and the dark glittering sea, and the white sails filled by the soft air of a gently-blowing trade-wind;—a dead calm, with the heaving surface polished like a mirror, and all still, except the occasional flapping of the sails. It is well once to behold a squall with its rising arch and coming fury, or the heavy gale of wind and mountainous waves. I confess, however, my imagination had painted something more grand, more terrific in the full-grown storm. It is an incomparably finer spectacle when beheld on shore, where the waving trees, the wild flight of the birds, the dark shadows and bright lights, the rushing of the torrents, all proclaim the strife of the unloosed elements. At sea the albatross and petrel fly as if the storm were their proper sphere, the water rises and sinks as if fulfilling its usual task, the ship alone and its inhabitants seem the objects of wrath. On a forlorn and weather-beaten coast, the scene is indeed different, but the feelings partake more of horror than of wild delight.

Let us now look at the brighter side of the past time. The pleasure derived from beholding the scenery and the general aspect of the various countries we have visited, has decidedly been the most constant and highest source of enjoyment. It is probable that the picturesque beauty of many parts of Europe exceeds any thing we have beheld. But there is a growing pleasure in comparing the character of scenery in different countries, which to a certain degree is distinct from merely admiring its beauty. It depends more on an acquaintance with the individual parts of each view. I am strongly induced to believe that, as in music, the person who understands every note will, if he also possesses a proper taste, more thoroughly enjoy the whole, so he who examines each part of a fine view, may also thoroughly comprehend the full and combined effect. Hence, a traveller should be a botanist, for in all views plants form the chief embellishment. Group masses of naked rock even in the wildest forms, and they may for a time afford a sublime spectacle, but they will soon grow monotonous. Paint them with bright and varied colours, they will become fantastic; clothe them with vegetation, they must form at least a decent, if not a most beautiful picture.

When I said that the scenery of Europe was probably superior to any thing which we have beheld, I excepted, as a class by itself, that of the intertropical regions. The two classes cannot be compared together; but I have already often enlarged on the grandeur of these climates. As the force of impressions generally depends on preconceived ideas, I may add, that all mine were taken from the vivid descriptions in the Personal Narrative of Humboldt, which far exceed in merit any thing I have read on the subject. Yet with these high-wrought ideas, my feelings were far from partaking of any tinge of disappointment on first landing on the shores of Brazil.

Among the scenes which are deeply impressed on my mind, none exceed in sublimity the primeval forests undefaced by the hand of man; whether those of Brazil, where the powers of Life are predominant, or those of Tierra del Fuego, where Death and Decay prevail. Both are temples filled with the varied productions of the God of Nature:—no one can stand in these solitudes unmoved, and not feel that there is more in man than the mere breath of his body. In calling up images of the past, I find the plains of Patagonia frequently cross before my eyes: yet these plains are pronounced by all most wretched and useless. They are characterized only by negative possessions; without habitations, without water, without trees, without mountains, they support merely a few dwarf plants. Why then, and the case is not peculiar to myself, have these arid wastes taken so firm possession of the memory? Why have not the still more level, the greener and more fertile Pampas, which are serviceable to mankind, produced an equal impression? I can scarcely analyze these feelings: but it must be partly owing to the free scope given to the imagination. The plains of Patagonia are boundless, for they are scarcely practicable, and hence unknown: they bear the stamp of having thus lasted for ages, and there appears no limit to their duration through future time. If, as the ancients supposed, the flat earth was surrounded by an impassable breadth of water, or by deserts heated to an intolerable excess, who would not look at these last boundaries to man’s knowledge with deep but ill-defined sensations?

Lastly, of natural scenery, the views from lofty mountains, though certainly in one sense not beautiful, are very memorable. When looking down from the crest of the highest Cordillera, the mind undisturbed by minute details, was filled with the stupendous dimensions of the surrounding masses.

Of individual objects, perhaps no one is more certain to create astonishment than the first sight in his native haunt of a real barbarian,—of man in his lowest and most savage state. One’s mind hurries back over past centuries, and then asks, could our progenitors have been such as these? Men, whose very signs and expressions are less intelligible to us than those of the domesticated animals; men, who do not possess the instinct of those animals, nor yet appear to boast of human reason, or at least of arts consequent on that reason. I do not believe it is possible to describe or paint the difference between savage and civilized man. It is the difference between a wild and tame animal: and part of the interest in beholding a savage, is the same which would lead every one to desire to see the lion in his desert, the tiger tearing his prey in the jungle, the rhinoceros on the wide plain, or the hippopotamus wallowing in the mud of some African river.

Among the other most remarkable spectacles which we have beheld, may be ranked the stars of the southern hemisphere—the water-spout—the glacier leading its blue stream of ice in a bold precipice overhanging the sea—a lagoon island raised by the coral-forming polypi—an active volcano—and the overwhelming effects of a violent earthquake. The three latter phenomena, perhaps, possess for me a peculiar interest, from their intimate connexion with the geological structure of the world. The earthquake must however, be to every one a most impressive event: the earth, considered from our earliest childhood as the type of solidity, has oscillated like a thin crust beneath our feet; and in seeing the most beautiful and laboured works of man in a moment overthrown, we feel the insignificance of his boasted power.

It has been said, that the love of the chase is an inherent delight in man—a relic of an instinctive passion. If so, I am sure the pleasure of living in the open air, with the sky for a roof, and the ground for a table, is part of the same feeling: it is the savage returning to his wild and native habits. I always look back to our boat cruises, and my land journeys, when through unfrequented countries, with a kind of extreme delight, which no scenes of civilization could have created. I do not doubt that every traveller must remember the glowing sense of happiness he experienced, from the simple consciousness of breathing in a foreign clime, where the civilized man has seldom or never trod.

There are several other sources of enjoyment in a long voyage, which are, perhaps, of a more reasonable nature. The map of the world ceases to be a blank; it becomes a picture full of the most varied and animated figures. Each part assumes its true dimensions: continents are not looked at in the light of islands, or those islands considered as mere specks, which are, in truth, larger than many kingdoms of Europe. Africa, or North and South America, are well-sounding names, and easily pronounced; but it is not till having sailed for some weeks along small portions of their coasts that one is thoroughly convinced how large a portion of our immense world these names imply.

From seeing the present state, it is impossible not to look forward with high expectation to the future progress of nearly an entire hemisphere. The march of improvement, consequent on the introduction of Christianity throughout the South Sea, probably stands by itself on the records of history. It is the more striking when we remember that only sixty years since, Cook, whose most excellent judgment none will dispute, could foresee no prospect of such change. Yet these changes have now been effected by the philanthropic spirit of the British nation.

In the same quarter of the globe Australia is rising, or indeed may be said to have risen, into a grand centre of civilization, which at some not very remote period, will rule as empress over the southern hemisphere. It is impossible for an Englishman to behold these distant colonies, without a high pride and satisfaction. To hoist the British flag, seems to draw with it as a certain consequence, wealth, prosperity, and civilization.

In conclusion, it appears to me that nothing can be more improving to a young naturalist, than a journey in distant countries. It both sharpens, and partly likewise allays that want and craving, which, as Sir J. Herschel⁠[6] remarks, a man experiences although every corporeal sense is fully satisfied. The excitement from the novelty of objects, and the chance of success, stimulate him to increased activity. Moreover as a number of isolated facts soon become uninteresting, the habit of comparison leads to generalization. On the other hand, as the traveller stays but a short space of time in each place, his descriptions must generally consist of mere sketches, instead of detailed observation. Hence arises, as I have found to my cost, a constant tendency to fill up the wide gaps of knowledge, by inaccurate and superficial hypotheses.

But I have too deeply enjoyed the voyage, not to recommend any naturalist, although he must not expect to be so fortunate in his companions as I have been, to take all chances, and to start, on travels by land if possible, if otherwise on a long voyage. He may feel assured, he will meet with no difficulties or dangers (excepting in rare cases) nearly so bad as he beforehand anticipated. In a moral point of view, the effect ought to be, to teach him good-humoured patience, freedom from selfishness, the habit of acting for himself, and of making the best of every thing, or in other words contentment. In short he should partake of the characteristic qualities of the greater number of sailors. Travelling ought also to teach him distrust; but at the same time he will discover, how many truly goodnatured people there are, with whom he never before had, or ever again will have any further communication, who yet are ready to offer him the most disinterested assistance.

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