is often turned; in places young ones about the size of a dollar scuttled towards the sea, and Hotaloya brought a nest of eggs, which, however, were too high in flavour for the European palate.  The host of crabs lining the water stood alert, watching our approach, and when we came within a hundred yards they hurried sideways into the safer sea—­the scene reminded me of the days when, after “tiffin,” we used to “mar kankras” on the Clifton Sands in the Unhappy Valley.

Presently we came to a remarkable feature of this coast, the first specimen of which was seen at Point Ovindo in the Gaboon River.  The Iberian explorers called them “Sernas,” fields or downs, opposed to Coroas, sand-dunes or hills.  They are clearings in the jungle made by Nature’s hand, fenced round everywhere, save on the sea side, by tall walls of dark vegetation.; averaging perhaps a mile long by 200 yards broad, and broken by mounds and terraces regular as if worked by art.  These prairies bear a green sward, seldom taller than three feet, and now ready for the fire,—­here and there the verdure is dotted by a tree or two.  It is universally asserted that they cannot be cultivated; and, if this be true, the cause would be worth investigating.  In some places they are perfectly level, and almost flush with the sea; in others they swell gently to perhaps 100 feet; in other parts, again, they look like scarps and earth-works, remarkably resembling the lower parasitic craters of a huge volcano; and here and there they are pitted with sinks like the sea-board of Loango.  These savannahs (savanas) add an indescribable charm to the Gaboon Coast, especially when the morning and evening suns strike them with slanting rays, and compel them to stand out distinct from the setting of eternal emerald.  The aspect of the downs is civilized as the banks of the Solent; and the coast wants nothing to complete the “fine, quiet old-country picture in the wilds of Africa” but herds of kine grazing upon leas shining with a golden glory, or a country seat, backed by the noble virgin forest, such a bosquet as Europe never knew.

After another hour’s walk, which carried us about three miles, we sighted in one of these prairillons a clump of seventeen huts.  A negro in European clothes, after prospecting the party through a ship’s glass, probably the gift of some slaver, came down to meet us, and led the way to his “town.”  Finding his guest an Englishman, the host, who spoke a few words of French and Portuguese, at once began to talk of his “summer gite” where pirogues were cut out, and boats were built; there were indeed some signs of this industrie, but all things wore the true Barracoon aspect.  Two very fine girls were hid behind the huts, but did not escape my factotum’s sharp eyes; and several of the doors were carefully padlocked:  the pretty faces had been removed when he returned.  This coast does an active retail business with Sao Thome and the Ilha do Principe,—­about Cape Lopez the “ebony trade” still, I hear, flourishes on a small scale.