In the afternoon of August 4 we made out the picturesque outline of the Cape Verde Islands, and before sunset entered the channel between St. Vincent and St. Antão, finally dropping anchor for the night in the outer part of the fine harbour of St. Vincent. Having been selected as a coaling station, this has become the chief resort of steamers plying between Europe and the Southern Atlantic, and we were led to expect that the operation would take up great part of the following day. Here a fresh disappointment awaited me. I had confidently reckoned upon spending several hours ashore, and seeing something of the curious vegetation of the island, which includes a scanty representation of tropical African types, with several forms allied to the characteristic plants of the Canary Islands.

I had not duly taken account of the perverse temper of the officers of health, whose chief object in life seems everywhere to be to make their authority felt by the needless annoyance they cause to unoffending fellow-creatures. We had left Rio with a clean bill of health; not a single case of yellow fever had occurred for months before our departure; but Brazil is regarded as permanently “suspected,” and quarantine regulations were strictly enforced in our case.

I am far from believing that in certain conditions, and as regards certain diseases, judicious quarantine regulations may not be effective; but, reckoning up all the loss and inconvenience, and the positive damage to health, arising from the sanitary regulations now enforced, I question whether it would not be better for the world if the system were entirely abolished.

The view of St. Vincent, backed by a bold and stern mountain mass, on which scarcely a trace of vegetation is visible from a distance, was for some time sufficiently interesting; but as the day wore on, and the sun beat down more fiercely, life on board became less agreeable. To keep out the penetrating coal dust all the ports were closed, and, with the thermometer at 90°, the air below was stifling, and the passengers generally preferred to remain on deck, and breathe the hot air mixed with the coal dust that arose from the open bunkers.

I offered two of the boatmen who hung about the ship three milreis if they would land on an uninhabited part of the bay, which I pointed out to them, and collect for me every plant they found growing, and I was well pleased when, after two or three hours, they returned with a respectable bundle of green foliage. Under the vigilant eyes of the officers of health the specimens were hauled up to the deck, while the three dollars were thrown into the boat. It is remarkable that coin is nowhere supposed to convey contagion.

When I came to examine it, I found to my disgust that the bouquet included only the leaves of two species, with no trace of flower or fruit. One was most probably Nicotiana glauca, introduced from tropical America; the other a leguminous shrub, possibly a Cassia, but quite uncertain.

The rest of the passengers spent most of the day in bargaining with the hucksters who flocked round the ship. Ornaments made from palm leaves, sweetmeats of very suspicious appearance, photographs, and tobacco in various forms, were the chief articles of traffic, and the main object seemed to be to prolong the chaffering and bargaining over each article so as to kill as much time as possible. More attractive in appearance were the tropical fruits, of which those suitable to a dry climate grow here in perfection. In spite of persevering efforts, I have never developed much appreciation of the banana as an article of diet, but I thought those obtained here much the best that I have anywhere eaten.

General satisfaction was felt when, the work of coaling being finished, the ship was again in motion, with her head set towards Europe. On returning to the channel between the islands, and still more when we had got well out to sea, we encountered a rather strong breeze right ahead, which with varying force continued for the next four days. This was, of course, the regular trade-wind of the North Atlantic, and had the agreeable effect of lowering the temperature, which at once fell to 78°. Along with the trade-wind, the sea-current apparently travels in the same direction. It is certain that the temperature of the water was here much lower. Before reaching St. Vincent we found it between 80° and 81° Fahr., while after leaving the islands it had fallen to 74°. This temperature remained nearly constant for three days, but on the evening of the 9th, in about 27° north latitude, we abruptly encountered another current of still cooler water, in which the thermometer fell to 69°.

The force of the wind never, I think, exceeded what seamen describe as a fresh breeze, but it sufficed to cause at times considerable disturbance of the surface; and on the afternoon of the 6th we shipped some heavy seas, so that it was found expedient to slacken speed for a time.

I have alluded in a former page to the ordinary observation that in the track of the trade-winds the breeze usually falls off about sunset. It is more difficult to account for the opposite phenomenon, which we experienced on three successive evenings from the 7th to the 9th of August, when the force of the wind increased in a marked degree after nightfall.

I was also struck by the fact that the temperature of the air throughout the voyage from St. Vincent to the mouth of the Tagus seemed to be unaffected either by the varying force of the wind or by the fall in surface-temperature of the sea, to which I have above referred. On board ship in clear weather it is very difficult to ascertain the true shade temperature when the sun is much above the horizon, but the observations made at sunrise and after nightfall from the evening of the 5th to the morning of the 11th varied very slightly, the utmost range being from 77·5° to 73°.

Some points in the Canary Islands are often visible in the voyage from Brazil to Europe, especially the lofty peak of Palma; but we passed this part of the course at night, and nothing was seen. As we drew near to Europe, the wind, through keeping the same direction, gradually fell off to a gentle breeze, and the surface of the water became glassy smooth, heaving gently in long undulations. The relative effect of smooth or rough water on the speed of steamers is remarkable, and was shown by the fact that during the twenty-four hours ending at noon on the 11th of August the Tagus accomplished a run of 295 knots, while three days before, with only a gentle breeze but rougher water, the run to noon was only 240 knots.

Early in the afternoon of the 11th, the Rock of Lisbon at the mouth of the Tagus was distinctly visible, and we slowly entered the river and cast anchor at the quarantine station below Belem. Our captain, after the experience of St. Vincent, did not expect to obtain pratique at Lisbon, and with more or less grumbling the passengers had made up their minds to remain on board, when, after a long deliberation, the unexpected news, “admitted to pratique,” was rapidly spread through the ship, and we moved up to the anchorage opposite the picturesque old tower of Belem, which the true mariner must always regard as one of his holy places. It marks the spot wherefrom Vasco de Gama and his companions, after a night spent in prayer in the adjoining chapel, embarked on their memorable voyage, and here, after years of anxious uncertainty, King Manuel greeted the survivors on their return to their country.

The sun was sinking when such passengers as wished to see something of Lisbon took the opportunity for going ashore, while others, like myself, preferred to remain on board. Hoping to receive letters at the post-office, I landed early next morning, and found a tramcar to carry me to the centre of the town. Early hours are not in much honour at Lisbon. I found the post-office closed, and, after several vain efforts, was informed that letters could not be delivered until ten o’clock, the precise hour fixed for our departure from the anchorage at Belem.

The voyage from Lisbon along the coasts of Portugal and Galicia is usually enjoyed, even by fair-weather sailors. The case is often otherwise with the Bay of Biscay, but on this occasion there was nothing of which the most fastidious could complain. I have sometimes doubted whether injustice has not been done to that much-abused bay, which, in truth, is not rightly so called by those bound from the north to the coast of Portugal. It is simply a part of the Atlantic Ocean, adjoining the coast of Europe between latitudes 43° 46′ and 48° 28′. I have not been able to ascertain that the wind blows harder, or that the sea runs higher there than elsewhere in the same latitudes, and am inclined to rank the prejudice against that particular tract of sea-water among vulgar errors.

The adventurer who has attempted to open up a trade with some distant region is accustomed, as he returns home, to count up the profits of his expedition; and in somewhat the same spirit the man who pursues natural knowledge can scarcely fail to take stock of the results of a journey. It is his happy privilege to reckon up none but gains, and those of a kind that bring abiding satisfaction. He may feel some regret that outer circumstance or his own shortcoming have allowed opportunities to escape, and lessened the store that he has been able to accumulate; but as for the positive drawbacks, which seemed but trivial at the time, they absolutely disappear in the recollection of his experiences. Thinking of these things as the journey drew to a close, I could not help feeling how great are the rewards that a traveller reaps, even irrespective of anything he may learn, or of the suggestions to thought that a voyage of this kind cannot fail to bear with it. How much is life made fuller and richer by the stock of images laid up in the marvellous storehouse of the brain, to be summoned, one knows not when or how, by some hidden train of association—shifting scenes that serve to beautify many a common and prosaic moment of life!

Often during this return voyage my thoughts recurred to an article in some periodical lent to me by my kind friends at Petropolis, wherein the writer, with seeming gravity, discussed the question whether life is worth living. My first impression, as I well remember, was somewhat contemptuous pity for the man whose mind could be so profoundly diseased as even to ask such a question, as for a soldier who, with the trumpet-call sounding in his ear, should stop to inquire whether the battle was worth fighting. When one remembers how full life is of appeals to the active faculties of man, and how the exertion of each of these brings its correlative satisfaction; how the world, in the first place, needs the daily labour of the majority of our race; how much there is yet to be learned, and how much to be taught to the ignorant; what constant demand there is for the spirit of sympathy to alleviate suffering in our fellows; how much beauty exists to be enjoyed, and, it may be, to be brought home to others;—one is tempted to ask if the man who halts to discuss whether life is worth living can have a mind to care for truth, or a heart to feel for others, or a soul accessible to the sense of beauty.

Recurring to the subject, as I sometimes did during the homeward voyage, it seemed to me that I had perhaps treated the matter too seriously, and that the article I had read was an elaborate hoax, by which the writer, while in truth laughing at his readers, sought merely to astonish and to gain repute as an original thinker. However the fact may be, when taken in connection with the shallow pessimism which, through various channels, has of late filtered into much modern literature, there does appear to be some real danger that the disease may spread among the weaker portion of the young generation. A new fashion, however absurd or mischievous, is sure to have attractions for the feebler forms of human vanity. It is true that there is little danger that the genuine doctrine will spread widely, but the mere masquerade of pessimism may do unimagined mischief. The better instincts of man’s nature are not so firmly rooted that we should wish to see the spread of any influence that directly allies itself with his selfish and cowardly tendencies.

To any young man who has been touched by the contagion of such doctrines, I should recommend a journey long enough and distant enough to bring him into contact with new and varied aspects of nature and of human society. Removed from the daily round of monotonous occupation, or, far worse, of monotonous idleness, life is thus presented in larger and truer proportions, and in a nature not quite worthless some chord must be touched that will stir the springs of healthy action. If there be in truth such beings as genuine and incurable pessimists, the stern believer in progress will be tempted to say that the sooner they carry out their doctrine to its logical result the better it will be for the race. Their continued existence, where it is not merely useless, must be altogether a mischief to their fellow-creatures.

On the morning of the 16th of August, all but completing five months since I quitted her shores, the coast of England was dimly descried amid gusts of cold wind and showers of drizzling rain. My winter experiences in the Straits of Magellan were forcibly recalled to my mind, and I felt some partial satisfaction in the seeming confirmation of the conclusion which I had already reached—that the physical differences between the conditions of life in the northern and southern hemispheres are not nearly so great as has generally been supposed.