_Blue isles and snowy mountains wear_
_The purple noon's transparent light._


_Friday, August 18th_.--The clouds still hung heavy on the hills, or
rather mountains, which surround the bay, occasionally descending in
the form of torrents of rain, and hiding everything from our view.

Early in the morning we weighed anchor and steamed up the bay to the
man-of-war anchorage, a much pleasanter situation than the quarantine
harbour, where we had brought up last night. About 9.30 a.m. the
health officers came on board, and half an hour later we had a visit
from the custom-house official, who required Tom to sign and seal a
declaration upon oath that he had no cargo on board, and not more coal
than we absolutely required for our own consumption.

About eleven o'clock we put on our mackintoshes and thick boots, and,
accompanied by an interpreter, who (together with several washerwomen)
had suddenly made his appearance on board, rowed ashore, pushing our
way through crowds of boats laden with fruit and vegetables. The
landing-place was close to the market, at some broken-down steps, and
was crowded with chattering negroes, of every shade of colour. The
quays seemed covered with piles of fruit and vegetables, discharged
from the boats, the principal produce being sugar-cane, bananas, and
oranges. Each side street that we came to was a little river, which
had to be crossed, or rather forded, after paddling through the mud in
the main thoroughfare.

Our first visit was to the post-office--'no letters'--then to the
British Consulate--'no letters'--and finally to the Legation, but