f loveliness, a sort of Pompadour paradise; the sky seemed full of rose-crowned amorini, and the moon wore a rose-coloured veil of bright pink cloud, all so light, so airy, so brilliant, and so fleeting, that it was a kind of intoxication. It is far less grand than northern colour, but so lovely, so shiny. Then the flying fish skimmed like silver swallows over the blue water. Such a sight! Also, I saw a whale spout like a very tiny garden fountain. The Southern Cross is a delusion, and the tropical moon no better than a Parisian one, at present. We are now in lat. 31 degrees about, and have been driven halfway to Rio by this sweet southern breeze. I have never yet sat on deck without a cloth jacket or shawl, and the evenings are chilly. I no longer believe in tropical heat at sea. Even during the calm it was not so hot as I have often felt it in England--and that, under a vertical sun. The ship that nearly ran us and herself down, must have kept no look- out, and refused to answer our hail. She is supposed to
The very best sort of travel memoir, by one who is intensely interested in and open to day to day like in another country. Sent to SA for her health, LDG is fascinated by the various peoples, customs and natural beauty of the land. As a word of warning, while accepting it as a document of its time, the language is off-putting.