On the Indian Hills

THERE is so much strange and curious in these chapters which I have put together, albeit they deal with districts under aegis of the British flag, and within less than two weeks' direct steaming of the English shores, that I shall no doubt be excused for passing lightly over the familiar preliminaries. Every one knows of an outward bound passage down the Thames, of the last sight of one's native shores -- that moment dedicated in silence to an infinitely delicate sorrow, -- of the rugged coast of Portugal, -- and then the Straits.

It is only when well into the Mediterranean that you get the first breath of the East in the sea-wind, and a sight of things which tell you you have at last stepped out of the old new world into a sphere more full of novelty and wonder than any conceived by the wildest dreams of ancient geographers.

The morning of the 25th of August found us off the coast of Africa, steaming along against a fresh head wind. When we first came up after breakfast the land was a misty purple line on the horizon, but as time went on our course took us nearer and nearer, and the mountains and hollows unfolded before us a rich and varied panorama, which we watched as it rolled slowly along. We looked hard for a glimpse of Algeria, that "diamond set in an emerald frame," as the poetic Arabs call their steep town of white houses and green woods, but when the ship's bearings were taken about midday we were sorry to find that we lay a long way to the eastward, and must have passed the town soon after daybreak. However, the coast was beautiful -- a long, serrated range of dark mountains sloping right down into the sea, and broken up and crossed in all directions by deep forest-covered ravines and gullies. Here and there we passed open clearings, where the bright green of waving corn crops could be seen amongst the olive trees and quiet little homesteads, more Dutch than Algerian in appearance, peeping out from the terraces on the steep mountain sides.

A few land birds fluttered to the ship during the day, mostly grey wagtails and shore larks; but they seemed to come from the northward, and were all tired when they first reached us, perching on the rigging or shrouds, whence they could hardly be frightened off. After a time they rapidly recovered their strength, and ran about the deck, searching for insects amongst the ropes and lumber, with very few signs of fear. Fresh water seemed to be what they needed most, some of them even venturing into the hen-coops in order to obtain a drop of the precious liquid. Curiously enough, they would not leave the ship, although the land was plainly in sight about a league away to the southward. Several times I frightened them up, in the hope of starting them for the shore while it was still near; but they preferred to cling to the vessel as a harbor of refuge, and only flew round and round, with their musical call-notes, settling again in some other part of the rigging. Besides the land birds, there were here a good many large brown sea-gulls flying over the steamer -- dull, heavy-winged birds of somber hue, always sailing mournfully about, rising above the crests of the waves and skimming down the hollows, every now and then plunging after a fish, and once more following in our wake to pick up the refuse thrown overboard by the cook.

After Cape Bougiarone we lost sight of land for a time, but enjoyed a beautiful starlight night in passing across the mouth of the deep Gulf of Stora, on which the harbor of Constantine is situated. I believe the only streams in Algeria where trout are to be found flow into the bay close to the town of Collo. Here, too, the most lovely and valuable kinds of red coral are dredged, the rights of fishing for which have caused much bloodshed.