kers near the shore. Our vessel was a small
Genoese brig; and, though the Genoese are the best sailors in the
Mediterranean--even superior to the Greeks, who rank next--our captain
and his crew began to quake. At daylight, the coast-line loomed before
us, immersed in fog, and two hours after, the tall minaret of the great
mosque of Mogador, shooting erect, a dull lofty pyramid, stood over the
thick haze lying on the lower part of the coast.

This phenomenon of the higher objects and mountains being visible over a
dense fog on the shore, is frequent on this side of the Atlantic. Wind
also prevails here. It scarcely ever rains, but wind the people have
nine months out of the twelve. It is a species of trade-wind, which
commences at the Straits, or the coasts of Spain and Portugal, and
sweeps down north-west with fury, making the entire coast of Morocco a
mountain-barrier of breakers, increasing in its course, and extending as
far as Wadnoun, Cape Bajdor, Cape Blanco, even to the Senegal. It does
not, however, extend far out at sea, being chiefly confined to the coast
range. Our alarm now was lest we should get within the clutches of this
fell swoop, for the port once past, it would have required us weeks to
bear up again, whilst this wind lasted.

The Atlantic coast of Morocco is an indented or waving line, and there
are only two or three ports deserving the name of harbours--harbours of
refuge from these storms. Unlike the western coast of Ireland, so finely
indented by the Atlantic wave, this portion of the Morocco coast is
rounded off by the ocean.

Our excitement was great. The capitano began yelping like a cowardly
school-boy, who has been well punched by a lesser and more courageous
antagonist. Immediately I got on deck, I produced an English book, which
mentioned the port of Mogador as a "good" port.

"Per Dio Santo!" exclaimed our capitano; "yes, for the English it _is_ a
good port--you dare devils at sea--for them it _is_ a good port. The
open sea, with a gale of wind, is a good port for the _maladetti_
English."

Irritated at this extreme politeness to our gallant tars, who have so
long "braved the battle and the breeze," I did not trouble farther the
dauntless Genoese, who certainly was not destined to become a Columbus.
Now the men began to snivel and yelp, following the example of their
commander. "We won't go into the port, Santa Virgine! We won't go in to
be shivered to pieces on the rocks." At this mo