Fortunately the clouds did not follow us, and the triangulation of the Mars stars now advanced apace. A week of lovely evenings, and fresh strength to use them—what more could the heart of astronomer desire? Alas! this was Mars Bay, and not Arcadia! I cannot think why the poet says,

It seems to me that man, and woman too, wants a very great deal; and the beauty of the universe and the contemplation of the glory of far-off worlds, what consolation do they give, when the kitchen-chimney smokes, when a tooth aches or a new shoe pinches?

“Is life worth living?” asks one of our modern philosophers, and another answers, “That depends on the liver.” True, oh Punch. Then why should we sneer if a man fears indigestion as a mortal foe, and the heart of woman fails when a good cook falls sick in the desert where there is none to replace him?

Such piteous case was ours! Hill fell a victim to severe rheumatism at this time, and woe is me! I had never attended cooking classes at South Kensington.

Although we did not know it at the time, our cook had been originally invalided here for this very malady, caught, like every evil thing, on the Gold Coast; and the damp air of the Mountain had unfortunately brought on a relapse.

Some weeks now passed by pleasantly and busily, but so entirely devoid of incident, that I fear my readers would find in a daily chronicle of them only monotonous repetition.

Sometimes a pretty little donkey would peep over the rocks at us and scamper off again; sometimes a wild cat would mistake my larder for public property, and bring involuntary fasts into the camp. Almost daily a ship of some kind passed us; sometimes so far off as to seem a mere white speck on the horizon, at other times so close that we could easily read her signals without the help of a glass. “What news of the East?” “Is England at war?” “When is the mail due?” were invariable questions; and often, when outward-bound vessels found that a mail was expected soon, they would send letters ashore at Garrison, so that Ascension has still good claim to its old name, “The Sailor's Post Office.”

About the middle of November H.M.S. Beacon, homeward-bound from China, put into harbour for coals and provisions, and her coming made another break in our little community, for at sight of her Graydon grew home-sick. Having exceeded his term of service on the West Coast by two years, he might have gone home with the Orontes in September; and David could not find it in his heart to oppose him now, much as we were likely to suffer by a change.

Our first work was, of course, the Observatory, for observations ought to begin on the 17th of July, and it was necessary that no time should be lost in getting ready.

Our twenty tons of baggage had been landed on the evening of our arrival. At 6 o'clock on the following morning, carts were busy bringing up the numerous cases from the pierhead, and marines were at work unscrewing box-lids and unsoldering tin-lined cases. The sound of hammer and saw woke an echo in the still morning, and by breakfast time the croquet ground was littered with extraordinary heaps of queershaped materials.

In the south-west corner, masons were laying down a level bed of cement for the sleepers of the circular railway on which the Heliometer House revolves; for, as stars had to be observed in all parts of the heavens, the opening of the Observatory must necessarily be arranged to view any part of the sky. This was managed as follows.

A strong octagonal frame was mounted on flanged wheels rolling on the railway, and this frame carried a structure of iron gas-pipes, screwed together and stiffened by cross ties of iron wire—the whole forming a species of cage. To make this a good water-tight house, it was necessary then to cover it with canvas, previously shaped and fitted with means of attachment to the frame.

At Dartmouth, on the 14th of June, we joined the Balmoral Castle, a beautiful new steamer of the Donald Currie Line, bound for the Cape of Good Hope. She had left the London Docks three days before, having all our goods on board except the chronometers, which we brought with us. None of the outward-bound English mail ships touch at Ascension, so that we were under the necessity of taking our passage to St. Helena, there to wait for a return steamer from the Cape to take us back to Ascension.

After a rapid railway journey, we enjoyed a quiet night in harbour. Next morning we had a stroll through the picturesque little town of Dartmouth; for our ship would not sail until mid-day on the 15th. What a curious old town it is!—with its steep, narrow streets, shaded and cooled by projecting piazzas and gable-ends. Bewitched by the quaintness of the place, one sees the streets again alive with the brave army of Red Cross Knights that sailed from this fair bay so many hundred years ago to do battle against the Saracen, and pictures many a “ladye bright” peeping shyly from the little latticed windows to wave a last adieu to her own true knight.

Before entering upon the work that we had left England to do, it was a kind chance that took us for a holiday to St. Helena. Tired of anxious preparation and the constant thinking of one thought, it was no real loss of time to turn aside for a rest by the way, and gather fresh strength from fresh scenes and from the most delightful air it is possible to imagine.

During our week's stay we were able to make three excursions on horseback from James Town, and these little peeps into the country showed me so much that was strange and new, that I find it difficult to disentangle one impression from another. So quickly did they follow in succession, that the one partly effaced the other before time had allowed it to harden on the mind, and the picture memory has to show is somewhat blotted and confused.

The sun had been shining some hours on the hill tops, and was just beginning to creep down the dark rocks into the valley when we started for our first excursion. Captain Oliver had kindly offered to be our guide to Diana's Peak, the hill par excellence of St. Helena, and towards it we now wended our way southwards and upwards. A narrow bridle-path, curling itself among aloes and wild geraniums, soon brought us to “The Briars,” where Napoleon spent the first month of his imprisonment.

After our curiosity respecting wells, pipes, drips, and tanks, had been pretty well satisfied, the crater-exploring mania seized us again; and one fine afternoon my husband and I, accompanied by Mrs. Phillimore, set out for “Cricket Valley,” one of the mysterious basins lying among the plateaux on the eastern part of the island. David had walked there the day before, and had picked up in one of the furrows or runs near the valley, some beautiful specimens of carbonate of iron, the bright sparkle of which has given to the spot where they are found, the name of the “Silver Ore Run.”

It was this silver that we now went in search of. Making use of Jimmy Chivas alternately, Mrs. Phillimore and I followed David round the north side of the mountain along what we confidently supposed to be Elliot's Path. But we now found, that when Elliot's Path gets round to the north side of the mountain, it becomes Rupert's Path—in honour of some other admiral, no doubt—and with the effect of needlessly complicating the geography of the little island. However, it is the same narrow mountain way with a new name; and along Rupert's Path we now proceeded towards Cricket Valley, admiring as we went the rock-hewn gulleys sliding from our feet down to the plain below, and hiding in their deep gloom, aloes and banana trees.

A scientific expedition may be said to have two histories. The one treats of the special object of the expedition, the other of the personal adventures of those concerned in it. It is only the former which finds permanent record in the Transactions of scientific societies: the other too often remains unwritten.

For many reasons I think this is a matter of regret. Mere details of observations are never looked at, except by a very limited number of specialists; to the general public such details are meaningless as well as inaccessible; whilst the ordinary student usually accepts the result merely as he finds it quoted in some standard work or text-book.

It is not because popular accounts of such expeditions do not interest a sufficient circle of readers that they have not been more frequently written, but rather, I think, because the faculties of original research and popular exposition are seldom united in the same individual. Besides this, I have found in my own experience, that on such expeditions there is so much actual work to be done, and the hours are so completely filled with it, that there is neither time nor inclination to write a diary. Thus, before the story can be committed to writing, it has lost its crispness—the interest has faded, and, from treacherous memory, incident is wanting to complete the narrative.

Christmas morning found us again at Commodore's Cottage, with everything around looking much the same as during our first occupation. Only now there was no Observatory on the croquet lawn, while, lying snugly in a strong box were five books of manuscript, containing “Observations of the Opposition of Mars at Ascension, A.D. 1877.” These differences contributed much to our comfort, and even with the thermometer at 89° F. and not a bit of holly in the land, I was prepared to enjoy my first summer Christmas.

Having fallen asleep with the sound of imaginary “waits” and “Christmas Carols” ringing in my ears, I was awakened at sunrise by a very different sound—the beat of tom-toms, accompanied at intervals by a sort of hoarse monotonous chant, which we were given to understand was intended as a song of rejoicing on the part of the Kroomen.

As we walked down to church in the bright morning, our little Garrison looked quite gay and festal. Flags of various colours and devices were flying over the different mess-rooms, and all the men showed clean and trim in holiday attire. Alas! I fear some of them were less clean and trim before the shades of night had fallen; but I must not make the behaviour of a faulty few, a type of the whole. Generally speaking, the men enjoyed their Christmas rationally, and not a single disturbance annoyed us in Garrison during their three days' idleness.

Next morning, Sunday, we were awakened by the novel sound of rain pattering against the window panes, and on looking out I saw—nothing. A dense fog surrounded us, and hid the pretty garden which I doubted not was benefiting richly from its temporary concealment.

By the time I had dressed, however, the air was somewhat clearer, and when I opened the door of our little drawing-room, a curious, perplexing view lay before me. Three paces from the door the ground went headlong down a precipice of 150 feet, covering its fall with Bahama grass, castor-oil trees and shrubs of different kinds. Then a rocky shoulder shot out from the main head, and on this stood the Mountain Hospital in a thicket of Port Jackson willows, now looking cool and fresh from their morning bath. Beyond this another steep descent went sheer down to the broad, crater-dotted plain which stretched away to Garrison and the sea, and where the sun was now shining with a fierce light, while the mist still floated fitfully above and around us.

Here the air felt fresh, sweet, and English-like; there it looked stifling and altogether tropical.