VOYAGE. 63 



plumage a pleasing mixture of brownish grey and white, softly 

 and downily blended together. The feet white, flabby, tri- 

 angular — yea, gooseform. His true place is on the wing or on 

 the wave ; on land or deck he is as awkward as a swan in a 

 similar predicament, and waddles along as uneasily. His legs 

 appear weak, too weak to support him in an erect posture ; as 

 to perching " on mast or shroud," as the poet hath it, it is too 

 absurd. By the way, it is lucky to catch an albatross, however 

 unlucky it may be to shoot one. 



September 17th. The ivhitest day in the calendar, and so let it 

 be considered, henceforth and for ever. At three o'clock this 

 morning, just as the night began to wane, Joseph went on deck, 

 and lo ! we were within two miles of the African coast, and 

 grim and black it looked. I came up at six a.m., and there 

 sure enough lay the African shore, stretched far and wide in 

 the grim twilight, and at two or three miles distance — the 

 breakers dashing on the shore, and everything full of life and 

 reality. The sun arose — the African sun — from a dense bank 

 of mist, and smiled on us most lovingly. By eight o'clock we 

 came off Table Bay, and the prospect was truly grand and noble. 

 Table Mountain, the Lion's and the Devil's Mountains, and 

 sundry others, spread along the sea, a very bold range. No one 

 was disappointed — it was finer than any of us expected. I 

 write now during a shower of Cape rain, while waiting for a fair 

 blast to get on shore ; but that cruel Table Mountain has let 

 fall his table-cloth, and curtained the whole sky. But no matter ; 

 he was so civil as first to allow us a full view of all the wonders 

 and beauties. Green Point, and the innumerable white cottages 

 scattered over it ; the town, handsome and regularly built, and 

 the woods of white broom (Protea argentea) on the hills above. 

 Numerous boats put off to us, and Malays, beautiful in contour 

 and colour, manned them, offering oranges, porcupine quills, 

 eggs, and crayfish ! a sweet medley. I am not going to make 

 this stupid journal a land account. It is ended when I land 

 you in Cape Town, where I now write. 



We left the Carnatic in a fine yacht. The water was smooth, 

 the wind gentle, and we had a pleasant sail. Every now and 

 then a huge fragment of Laminaria buccinalis, the glory of 

 Cape seaweeds, floated past me, refreshing to my eyes, but I 

 disdained to grasp at it. We landed. . . . What was it I saw 



