Arrive at Mauritius.

May 4th.

When I came upon deck I found that we had rounded the north end of the island, and were beating up for Port Louis.  It was a delightful morning, with bright sunshine, smooth water, a gentle trade wind, and an unclouded sky.  The view was very beautiful, and quite equalled my expectations, based, though they were, upon the glowing descriptions of La Pierre.  The extremes of the island are low, but the centre is occupied by the partially wooded crest-like ridge, rugged and pinnacled, connecting La Pouce with the famous Peter Botte.  Viewed in a mass, the country looked burnt up, of a dull yellowish red hue—­the higher hills were dark green, and the lower grounds partially so.  To the left was the fertile plain of Pamplemousses, even now, in the beginning of winter, one mass of green of various degrees of intensity.  As we approached we began to make out more distinctly the sugar plantations, the groves of coconut trees and casuarinas, the features of the town, and the dense mass of shipping in the harbour.  We hove to off the Bell Buoy (denoting the outer anchorage) for the steamer which towed us to our berth abreast of Cooper’s Island.

Port Louis.

The harbour of Port Louis is of singular formation.  It is entered by a narrow passage or break in the coral reef surrounding the island, leading into a large basin, the central portion only of which has sufficient water for shipping.  The bottom is mud, which, they say, is fast accumulating, especially in a small bight called the Trou Fanfaron, where a few years ago a line-of-battle ship could float, but which has now scarcely water enough for a large corvette.  The reefs about the entrance are nearly dry at low-water, at which time one may wade to their outer margin, as is daily practised by hundreds of fishermen.

Passing through the closely packed lines of shipping, and landing as a stranger at Port Louis, perhaps the first thing to engage attention is the strange mixture of nations—­representatives, he might at first be inclined to imagine, of half the countries of the earth.  He stares at a Coolie from Madras with a breech-cloth and soldier’s jacket, or a stately, bearded Moor, striking a bargain with a Parsee merchant; a Chinaman, with two bundles slung on a bamboo, hurries past, jostling a group of young Creole exquisites smoking their cheroots at a corner, and talking of last night’s Norma, or the programme of the evening’s performance at the Hippodrome in the Champ de Mars; his eye next catches a couple of sailors reeling out of a grog-shop, to the amusement of a group of laughing negresses in white muslin dresses of the latest Parisian fashion, contrasting strongly with a modestly attired Cingalese woman, and an Indian ayah with her young charge.  Amidst all this the French language prevails; everything more or less pertains of the French character, and an Englishman can scarcely believe that he is in one of the colonies of his own country.