For the last two days we have been in sight of the coast of Annam.

When shall we be at Cape St. Jacques? Shall we lose the tide? This is the question which one asks of the other on board. And by 6 a.m. we find ourselves at rest, waiting outside the bar of the river Dannai, for the tide to turn, to ascend inland to Saigon. Saigon is the French capital of Cochin China, or Indo-China, as it is called, and is the chief city of the provinces of Annam, Tonquin, and before long of Gambogia, when the present King dies.

Cape St. Jacques is a pretty green foreland, jutting out into the sea, fringed with cocoa-nut palms, and has a large white hotel, built by the Pilot. Surely by this roadstead upon the hills, courting the breezes of the north-east monsoon, with the ample anchorage in the rear, the French might have fixed the capital of Cochin China. But no. They placed it, as in olden time, far up a tortuous river, with a narrow channel. The delay, and the pilotage, frighten away the ocean greyhounds of commerce.

We weigh anchor. It is one o'clock. The sun is blazing hot, and there is not a breath of air. But it is cool, they say, compared to what Saigon will be. We shall see. Now we are in the winding channel. North, south, east, west, we steer. Larboard! Triboard! Four hours we steam up the river Dannai, with its flat banks of mangrove swamps, and tangle of tropical vegetation, where they say tigers come out to sun themselves on the sands. We sight at length the cathedral towers of Saigon. They are to the right of us. In another instant they will be to the left. Then we appear to have passed them, for we see the town on the starboard quarter.

But at five we are at the quay, which is shaded by avenues of trees, with the hibiscus, blossoming garden of the agent's house opposite—an old temple with rows of fierce-tailed dragons guarding the roof. On the wharf, the usual motley crowd thickening every minute as the news of our arrival spreads, whilst Victorias, drawn by those beautiful, though rat-like, ponies that are bred in Tonquin, are in waiting. These latter only come out at five in the evening, and in the daytime we must be content with the malabars, as the shuttered gharries are called, from the Annamite name of the coachman.

We take the fashionable drive of Saigon, the tour d'inspection. Off we go, flying as the wind, past some native houses, built on piles over a green swamp, with waving palms above them. Here flourish the Cochin China pig, the real pig of original breed, with its pink, bow-shaped back, and earth-touching stomach, and the bright-plumaged Cochin China fowls. We should like to buy specimens of the animals that have made Cochin China celebrate at home, but doubt the warmth of our reception on board-ship if we return with them. We cross the bridge, and look over the hundreds of sampans that swarm up this creek of the river; then drive along for a few yards by the steam tramway which connects the China town of Cholons with Saigon, out under the cool wide avenues of the Quai du Commerce, with its arsenal and Bureaux d'Affaires. The roads are as flat and firm as a billiard table.

Beautiful boulevards, wide streets, great cafÉs, where pale-faced Frenchmen sip absinthe and petits verres. It is Paris. Bravo, La France! But it would be much better for these gay causeurs, to play lawn-tennis, and football, cricket, rackets and rounders, as do the English at Hong Kong, Singapore, and Colombo, thus defying, in large measure, or at least postponing, the action of the tropics. It is thirty years since the French acquired Saigon and Cochin China. At one time it promised to be a prosperous colony. But that day is past. Commercial depression reigns supreme, and France wearies of the large subsidies swallowed up without results by Tonquin. That, though, is not our business. We rather admire the feats of engineering, of laying out, and the horticultural skill.

We see this in perfection in the Jardin d'Acclimitasion, but with a wealth of natural vegetation, how easy it is to make a garden such a paradise as is this. In the deep bend of the river are the green lawns and forest-trees of this botanical garden. There are banyan trees with their trellise curtains of roots sweeping the ground, cacti in a mighty spiky group, standing apart. Single aloes, with their blooming crests, and the palms—they form a palmery of themselves, with the various specimens of cocoa or tree palms, their straight grey stems tufted at the top; of sago palms, with their graceful curving arms, shadowing the lawns; of travellers, with their hands of mighty fingers outspread from the single stem, all and every kind luxuriantly magnificent, a single one of which would assist in making the fortune of a London florist, such as we who see them dwarfed and frozen when exiled to our northern climes, are scarcely able to realize that they are of the same species. There are magnolias and camellias, growing to the height of our forest trees, bamboo clumps, whose single-jointed stems spring equally high, and mimosa trees, with their tender sensitive leaf, as spreading as our chestnuts. And all these trees are banked up with and grow out of brilliant beds of variegated green and yellow crotons, of caladiums, with their enormous boat-shaped leaves of pink oleanders, of crimson hibiscus, and purple bougainvillea, and cconvolvulus, whilst orange and lemon trees, India rubber and mangoes, mingle with the heavy green and yellow melon-like fruit of the pommelo. In the midst of this is an aviary, and cages of rare animals, natives of these tropical regions. We particularly notice the white pigeon, with the single blood-red spot on the bosom.

We wander about in the dusky growth of overpowering luxuriance, which to us appears so supremely beautiful, but which they say in its monotonous green, palls upon you when you live amongst it. We come upon a cool arbour, formed of green lattices overgrown with creepers and passion flower, containing an exquisite fernery, damp and green, with a collection of orchids of the rarest kinds—indeed, we saw several specimens of the hardier ones in purple and yellow, growing on the trees near the wharf. The twilight of this little open-air conservatory is made darker by the enormous bananas outside, under whose pale green sword-like leaves, cluster such heavy bunches of fruit, fifty or sixty on a single stalk.

Night though closes quickly in, and if we would see the Annamite suburbs we must give rein to our impatient little black steeds and bowl swiftly out into the country, by some fields of brilliant pale green rice, where the monster grey water buffaloes, with branching horns laid backwards, strong and patient, are being driven home from working in them, by coolies, hidden under bamboo hats the size of umbrellas. The marshes have been in a measure drained, but the miasma rises thickly from the rice fields, near which cluster the wretched huts of thatched bamboo.

On we go, now through an avenue entirely composed of the glossy leaved magnolia or another of feathery mimosa, broken only by groves of tufted cocoa palms. Then we reach the military boundary, and returning homewards another way, pass the cemetery where many a Frenchman lies low. Along these shady avenues, deep and cool, we see the walled compounds and overgrown gardens of the bungalows of officers and merchants, of whom about 1700 reside in Saigon. We meet many of them out for their evening drive, flying along in Victorias, to gain as much air as possible. There are many smart-looking officers in white uniforms, with their wives by their side—pale French ladies, but in Parisian fashions. Poor things, they appear sickly and enervated, yet robust compared to the shop-keepers, who look, if they do not say so, as if it was trouble enough to rise on the entrance of a customer, without serving them.

But it should be a great colony. The Governor-General's palace is magnificent—a Versailles, with its long flights of steps and spacious balconies. But his Excellency is always at Hanoi, vainly endeavouring to get things straight in Tonquin. The Cathedral, with its dim aisles and stained glass; the Grecian colonnades of the Palais de Justice; the post-offices; the theatre, with its bi-weekly performances; the Officers' Club, where the punkahs are lyslow waving to and fro in the balconies,—all betoken the great intentions of its founders.

And there are statues of Francis Garnier, the intrepid and disavowed explorer of the way to south-western China, and in the centre of the great boulevard, leading to the Governor's palace, we distinguish a very large stout man on a great pedestal, his stomach far protruding. When we come near, we see whom it represents: Gambetta in the fur coat worn in the balloon whence he escaped from Paris during the siege, to instil life into France, with his outstretched finger pointing in the direction of Tonquin, as in the memorable day when he came to the Chamber, and said, 'Messieurs, au Tonkin!' A dying soldier, in the act of falling, is on one side, and a sailor, with a bayonet peeping round as if in search of the enemy, on the other. The reverse side of this fine monument bears the legend: "À Gambetta, le patriote, dÉfenseur de la politique coloniale."

In the evening some went to the opera, Traviata, played by the subsidized company, to distract the garrison. The sight, however, of the house with its myriad waving fans, was enough for us. We could not face the heat.

What an awful night we passed on board! Four steam winches in charge of seventy shouting French, with ports shut, tropical heat, and mosquitoes by the million. It was over at sunrise like a bad dream. But a sorry sight, the languid heavy-eyed passengers, with not a face but was severely wounded, presented next morning; for none had slept, and all had come off worsted in the conflict with those venomous brutes. Glad we were of daylight to go on shore, and set off in a gharry at seven o'clock to the open arcades where the curio shops are. The black woodwork inlaid with mother-of-pearl that comes from Tonquin is very pretty, but otherwise we only see curiosities common to other countries. We drive past gardens, which, as in France, are unrailed and open to the public, to the market square, with its deep red-roofed market hall, where a busy scene of buying and selling is progressing. We notice many French cafÉs, the familiar little marble-topped tables, looking strange among the palm trees of the gardens. There are many French officers, in solar topees and cotton umbrellas, strolling in the streets, but though the French element predominates, there is a wonderful mixture of races—of Chinese, Annamites with their heads bound in red cloths, Cinghalese with high tortoiseshell comb, and Indians in sarong; and the languages are as varied, for here the Chinese and natives have learnt French, instead of pigeon English.

By nine o'clock the sun on the top of the gharry is overpowering. We are quite overcome by the heat, and abandoning all idea of going by the steam tramway to Cholons, the neighbouring emporium of the Rice of Annam, return on board. But at eleven o'clock the thermometer in the shade registered 95° Fahrenheit, and in the sun about 130°, and we lay on the deck ready to succumb to the awful breathless heat, just existing through the long midday hours of the worst part of the day.

The tropical vegetation of Saigon had entranced us, but its charms faded before the experience of this equatorial temperature by which alone it can be produced. We were grateful when at five o'clock the twenty-four hours' sojourn required by the Government contract were over, and we left Cochin China on our homeward voyage.

It is a long, long journey home to England, this one of 10,000 miles from Shanghai to London—lasting for five weeks.

Day after day goes by with the same routine, until we feel that we are automatons. Passengers come and go at the various ports, but "we go on for ever." Night and day there is heard the ceaseless throbbing of the engines, like the beating heart of some great monster. It lulls you to sleep, keeps you company in the silence of the night, and greets you in the morning, and when we are in port, we unconsciously feel that something is wanting. It is a cheering noise, for every revolution of the screw brings us nearer home; 4368 times does it revolve in one hour, and it takes 3,600,000 revolutions to bring us to Marseilles. We consume 52 tons of coal a day, or 1800 tons for the whole voyage, whilst 8000 kilos of oil are used for the machinery.

The ship is like a floating city with a cosmopolitan population, for we have over twenty different nationalities on board: French, English, German, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Russian, Chinese, Dutch, Austrians, Arabians, Indians, etc., and yet all goes smoothly, save for the passing incident of a passionate Frenchman, who came to ask the captain's permission to fight a duel with an officer from Tonquin, for usurping his place at table.

It is a monotonous thirty-six days of life at sea, alternating with frantic rushes to land, when in port, and sometimes sleeping on shore, where, like at Singapore and Colombo, the ship is hermetically sealed for coaling. Then there is dire confusion on board, everyone loses his head, the stewards are beside themselves, and the organization becomes sadly out of gear. We are thankful to put out to sea once more, into the breeze and calm, to sail away into that great trackless space so well defined "as a circle whose centre is everywhere, and whose circumference nowhere."

We touch at Singapore, and spend the night at Government House, noting the growth of the town, and the great improvements since we were there six years ago. Through the Straits of Malacca, past Acheen Head, the extreme westerly point of Sumatra to Colombo—Colombo with its beautiful sea-shore, where amidst palm groves, the blue breakers of the Indian Ocean are ever rolling in, and casting their surf and foam on the golden sands. Through its tropical avenues we drive, past the barracks, where the pipe of the bagpipes is heard, wailing in their far exile, and the handsome Cingalese merchants, with their checked sarongs and tortoiseshell combs, tempt us with precious stones. Mount Adam, with his pillar-like peak, in the centre of Ceylon, does us honour by showing himself (a rare occurrence) as we put out once more to sea, through the magnificent breakwater of Colombo.

Six days' steaming, and we cast anchor under rocky Aden, whose peaks so barren and sterile, are yet picturesquely deformed, and glowing with warm tints of cobalt and carmine. Then we enter the Red Sea, through the Straits of Babelmandeb, by England's key to the Eastern hemisphere, the Island of Perim, and pass fragrant Mocha on the sandy shore.

One hundred hours through this inland sea, and we are at Suez waiting our turn to enter that great highway of nations, that sandy ditch cut through the desert, that connects the eastern with the western globe. In the daytime we have that strange fascination linked to the boundless plain of sand—the mirage flickering on the horizon, the clear pale blue and pink shades that steal over the desert at sundown, with the golden glory of the sunset sinking slowly into the waters of the Bitter Lake, whilst at night the banks of the canal are illuminated by the broad shafts of light, that sweep from the electric lamp in the bows of every ship.

We spend a dreary Sunday at Port Said, amid its dirty streets, rubbishy oriental shops, thievish donkey-boys, and a population which gathers in the scum of the earth.

The Harbour of Alexandria is entered at sunrise next day, and we look in the dull chill of early morning on its quays and forts, its mosqued domes and windmills, but ere the day is really begun we are on our way joyfully cleaving the waters of the Mediterranean, near, so near home now. The chill winds and the grey atmosphere would make us know we are in Europe once more. The hard even-coloured skies of the East, burning with brazen sun, have been left on the other side of the Canal, and now the skies are full of grey and purple clouds, silver-edged, soft and rounded. The Southern Cross has sunk below the horizon, the brilliant starlight nights, with the purple vault of heaven gemmed with diamond stars, have faded into the past.

Now the snow-clad mountains of Candia or Crete rise up from the ocean above low-lying clouds. Then, the danger of avoiding Charybdis to be wrecked on Scylla safely passed, we thread the green Straits of Messina between the toe of Italy and the Island of Sicily. The smoking cone of Etna is invisible, but the little island volcano of Stromboli shoots forth its black column of lava.

The beacon lighthouses of the Straits of Bonifacio mark out our course between the islands of Sardinia and Corsica. And by the next afternoon the vine-terraced mountains and sunny shores of the Corniche are near at hand, with the white villas of Toulon shining in the sunlight.

The last day on board, the last packing, the last dinner, the last evening. What a pleasant bustle of departure, what a feeling of bonne camaraderie prevails! With the contagious sympathy of joy, passengers speak to each other who have held aloof for the whole month's voyage. We are all restless and excited, and only able to discuss the hour of arrival—no, not the hour, it is the half-hours and quarters that we dispute and wager about.

The sun goes down. The great white cliffs—for they are very near to us now—loom up ghostly in the dim twilight; these are bathed in pink reflections from the rosy sky. We see the little chapel perched on high, where the sailors implore the protection of the sainted Mary ere commencing a voyage—the gloomy dungeon fortress of ChÂteau d'If on its island, and with the last gleams of daylight we sight the green Prado, the cathedral towers of Notre Dame, and the large seaport of Marseilles.

For two days we linger in the sunny south, under blue skies and warm sunshine, amid the palms, cacti, and hedges of roses.

We reach Paris in time to see the gorgeous obsequies at the Madeleine of Dom Pedro, the ex-Emperor of Brazil. Then ends our second journey round the world with a fearful gale in the English Channel, reaching Charing Cross in the raw cold and fog of a December night.