IV 



My Log 383 



unto the Straits of Dover, And behold the entrance 

 to the French lake is more like a broad river than a 

 narrow sea, and the noble hills on each side are so 

 near as to permit of the closest examination. The 

 African side, contrary to what one might expect, 

 is not only the finest in contour, but positively the 

 greenest and most richly coloured. It put me 

 exceedingly in mind of the west of Scotland, barring 

 the Apes Hill, which said hill is composed of mighty 

 buttresses of light-coloured stone, unlike anything I 

 ever saw before. The country seems covered with 

 scrub, and looks a sporting one. We just got a 

 glimpse of Tangiers, and saw the British Consul's 

 flag flying away at a great rate, apparently about 

 half as big as the town. Far away in the interior 

 rise mighty blue mountains, and the whole has a 

 deliciously wild and mysterious look, such as Africa 

 ought to have, though I expected it browner. The 

 Spanish side is utterly barren, barring a few 

 scattered olive-trees. The curved ridges of naked 

 limestone stand out of the barrenness like the ribs 

 of a camel in the desert sand. 



Tarifa makes a bright and sparkling white and 

 yellow bit in the foreground, and has much quaint 

 Moorish wall and turret about it. The women here 

 still wear the yashmak, and an Englishman defended 

 it against a Frenchman, for which see your Murray, 

 if you have not mislaid it as I have. On the south 

 side one gets a glimpse of Ceuta, a miserable hole, 

 which the Spaniards are very anxious to swop with 



