On the Wallaby E-Book

Guy Boothby

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A prolific Australian novelist, Guy Boothby was noted for sensational fiction in variety magazines around the end of the nineteenth century. In 1894 he published On the Wallaby; or, Through the East and Across Australia, an account of the travels of himself and his brother, including a description of their journey across Australia from Cooktown to Adelaide. He wrote over 50 books over the course of a decade.

Leseprobe

Contents

Preface

Introduction

We Leave Adelaide ’€” Steerage Passengers ’€” Arrival at Colombo

Colombo ’€” Kandy ’€” Anuradhapura

Colombo ’€” Penano ’€” Singapore ’€” Opium Dens

En Route to British Borneo ’€” Labuan ’€” Sandahkan ’€” Singapore ’€” Banca

Batavia, Buitenzorg

The Java and Arafura Seas ’€” The Yahudi ’€” Torres Straits ’€” Thursday Island ’€” New Guinea ’€” Pearl Diving

Thursday Island ’€” Cape York ’€” Albany Pass ’€” Light Ships ’€” Cooktown ’€” Port Douglas

Cairns ’€” Sugar Industry ’€” Kanakas ’€” Rice Cultivation ’€” Cairns and Herberton Railway ’€” The Barron Falls

Townsville ’€” Separation ’€” The Frozen Meat Trade ’€” James Morril

Charters Towers ’€” Mines ’€” Chinese ’€” ’€˜The Only’€™ Smith ’€” Gilberton ’€” Georgetown ’€” Etheridge and Croydon Gold Fields

Normanton ’€” Horse Dealers ’€” We Prepare to Cross the Continent to Adelaide ’€” ’€˜Mr. Pickwick’€™

Our First Camp ’€” Cattle Stations ’€” Spear Creek ’€” Flinders River ’€” Cloncurry

Hughenden ’€” Coach Journey

The Great Plains ’€” A Mail Change ’€” The Killarney Hotel ’€” Sesbania ’€” Oondooroo ’€” Winton ’€” Westlands ’€” Boundary-rider’€™s Tent ’€” Bimerah

Bimerah ’€” Stonehenge ’€” A Hard Struggle ’€” Jundah

Windorah ’€” Terrible State of Country ’€” We are again obliged to turn back ’€” Horses Die ’€” Privations ’€” The Barcoo ’€” Welford Downs ’€” Boundary Rider’€™s Hut ’€” Milo

Adavale ’€” The Bulloo River ’€” Emudilla ’€” Jim Collins ’€” Comongin ’€” Corrobboree ’€” Bushed ’€” Gouryanah ’€” Cowley Plains

Cowley Plains ’€” Bechel Creek ’€” River Swimming ’€” Black Soil ’€” Cunamulla ’€” The Warrego ’€” Barringun

Bourke ’€” We prepare for a row of 1,500 miles ’€” River Steamers ’€” The Darling River ’€” Wilcannia ’€” Weinteriga ’€” Menindie ’€” The ’€˜Decoy’€™

Wentworth ’€” The Murray River ’€” The Australian Irrigation Colonies ’€” Morgan ’€” Adelaide again

Introduction

“HOW much?’

“Forty-seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eight pence halfpenny.’

“Great Scott! you don’t really mean to say that’s all?’

“Every cent!’ The audit was by no means reassuring. We wanted money badly, no one will ever know how badly, and forty-seven pounds with a few odd shillings and a halfpenny, while in itself a pleasant sum to possess, is by no means an amount sufficient to justify one in setting out on extensive wanderings. Things had not gone well with us in the immediate past, and we were determined to go. As the Long’un put it, “It behoved us to shake the dust of Australia from off our feet.’ And though, myself, I don’t know how the act of shaking the dust from off’ one’s feet should be accomplished, it certainly sounded the proper course to pursue, and when one embarks on a new undertaking, it is surely best to begin in the most orthodox manner.

Hitherto, we had been eminently respectable, from which it may be inferred that our method of earning our livelihoods had never been the subject of parliamentary, private, or police inquiry. Whatever else we may have been, we certainly were not new chums; for between us we had experienced almost every phase of colonial life, had been jacks of all trades, from Government officials and stock-brokers, to dramatists, actors, conjurors, ventriloquists, gold miners, and station hands. Being rovers to the backbone, we were, consequently, neither the possessors of untold wealth nor were we bigoted in our ideas. There was a sage once who, for reasons unnecessary to state here, lived in an iron tank on Sydney’s Circular Quay. Between remittances, he was in a measure well content, and inasmuch as he lived from day to day on such broken victuals as he himself discovered, he came gradually to understand many and curious things. From his lips I learnt wisdom.

“My son!’ he once said, looking up at me from the bunghole entrance to his abode, “believe me, to have nothing is to have everything, and to know starvation is to have acquired all the wisdom of the world.’

I had not then sufficient experience to grasp his meaning, but it has become more clear to me since.

With a show of great secrecy, the Long’un and I had been closeted together all the evening. The hotel candle spluttered and hissed preparatory to going out, and our hard earned capital, even to the odd halfpenny, lay on the table winking and blinking at us, as much as to say “Come, make up your minds quickly. In for a penny, in for a pound. Go out into the big world again, see real life, and as far as we are able, we’ll help you!’

I looked at the Long’un, and the Long’un looked at me. Evidently the same thoughts were animating us both.

“Old man, is it agreed, then, that we make tracks and see things?’

“It is agreed; let us trek.’

Even so was laid the foundation of our extraordinary journey.

Now there are ways and ways of oversea travelling. There are first class passages in Orient liners, and there are working passages on dingy ocean tramps. The former are certainly the more luxurious, but the latter, to my thinking, are, to him who would see and understand, infinitely preferable. There is still another way, an intermediate class, called steerage, where one meets many strange folk. These are the people whose lives make a certain class of books, and with them we decided to throw in our lot.

Our minds once made up, the next business became the finding of a boat likely to contain the phases of character we required, and for some days this appeared impossible. Then, late one sultry afternoon, news reached us of the very vessel we wanted, a foreigner, homeward bound. She was advertised as possessing excellent and cheap steerage accommodation, and, what was still more to our taste, was to sail the following day.

We sought the office instantly, booked our passages for that Clapham Junction of the world. Port Said, and went home to pack.

Chapter 1

We Leave Adelaide–Steerage Passengers–arrival at Colombo

Oh what a bright, fresh morning! A brisk breeze chases fleecy-clouds across a turquoise sky; big green rollers break in a flouse of foam on saffron sands, and throw continuous spray over a wooden jetty; two ocean steamers lie out in the offing, and half a dozen small tugs struggle backwards and forwards between them. Such is the scene on the morning of our departure, early in December 1892, bound we know not whither, and to bring up we know not where.

Our baggage has preceded us on board, and when we ourselves follow in a pot-valiant tender, but little larger than a Zanzibari surf-boat, the wind has risen to a moderate gale. Two friends, with expressed solicitude for our welfare, but what is more likely, a certain amount of curiosity as to our departure, accompany us on board, and even now I can see the expression on their faces, as they realise to what sort of imprisonment we have voluntarily condemned ourselves. Some people have a special faculty for realising; they could realise on anything–an idea, a politician’s broken promise, or even a Wildcat Silver share. Myself I am not so fortunate. I have only tried to realise once in my life, and then the man seemed doubtful as to how I had come by the article. It only realised seven and sixpence.

The vessel, whose name I will not mention, having in my mind certain remarks which hereafter I may be called upon to make concerning her, is of about 3,000 tons register. No doubt she is a serviceable enough craft, but to our minds, accustomed to the trim tautness of our own mail-boats, the untidiness of her decks, the ungainliness of her crew, and the guttural vociferations of her officers seem unship-shape to the last degree.

Arriving on board, and announcing ourselves steerage passengers, we are with small ceremony directed forrard, and introduced to our quarters, situated deep down in the bowels of the forrard hatch. Even in the bright sunshine, it neither looks nor smells like a pleasant place, so, for the reason that pride is a sin and must be overcome, we are not conceited about our advanced position in the ship.

At the foot of the companion we find ourselves in a large, bare hold or saloon (the title is optional), perhaps forty feet long by twenty wide, lighted from the hatchway, which, in fair weather, always remains uncovered. Out of this hold open six small cabins, three on either side, each containing two tiers of iron shelving, which again are divided into six narrow bunks. Thus it will be seen that every cabin is capable of containing twelve occupants, each of whom brings with him, for use in the tropics, a peculiar and distinct, copyrighted odour of his own. In addition to these, a few single cabins are set apart for the use of families and female passengers. In the saloon are fixed, for dining purposes, small deal tables on iron trestles, but each passenger is expected to supply his or her own table utensils, as well as bedding and toilet requisites. Altogether, it is about as dirty and dingy a place as can be imagined.

Steam has been up some time, and as we finish the inspection of our new abode, the whistle sounds for strangers to leave the ship. We conduct our friends, with becoming ceremony, to the gangway, and bid them farewell. It is an impressive moment. Then the launch whistles, the gangway is hauled aboard, the big ship swings slowly round, the screw begins to revolve, and we are on our way.

It would be impossible, even if it could be a matter of interest, to express in words the thoughts which animate us, as standing side by side, we watch the shore fading into the dim distance. Surely, whether one likes or dislikes the place one is leaving, a certain feeling of regret must accompany the last view of it, and with the lessening of that familiar vision, a peculiar and indescribable tenderness towards it creeps round the heart, never to leave it quite the same again. Adelaide is gone, and the wide world lies before us across the seas.

As we swing round to face down the gulf, a lordly P. & O. boat passes us, also homeward bound, her flags waving, passengers cheering, and her band playing “Home, sweet Home’. The familiar melody sounds peculiarly sweet across the water, and in we try to raise a cheer for her. But it is in vain. For the first time we realise that we are on board a foreign boat, where soap and cheering are unknown.

By this time it is nearly two o’clock, and our midday meal is being taken forrard in ship’s buckets. It consists, we discover, of a diffident soup, so modest that it hides its countenance under a mask of abominable fat; this is followed by some peculiar, parboiled beef, potatoes, and cabbage, the latter being, to our tastes, completely spoiled by the presence of the Fatherland-beloved carraway seed. Bread is served ad libitum, but is so sour as to be almost uneatable. Altogether, our first meal on board cannot be reckoned a success, and we express our feelings accordingly.

During its progress, however, we are permitted an opportunity of studying our fellow passengers. They are a motley crew, perhaps sixty-five in number, the like of which I’ve never seen congregated together before. Their nationalities embrace English, Irish, Scotch, Americans, French, Germans,

Italians, Greeks, Portuguese, Spaniards, Afghans, Hindoos, and Singhalese, while their shore-going occupations must have included every profession, from the management of oyster saloons to scientific thieving. Among the number are Pyrenean bear leaders, collectors of birds and reptiles, Italian organ grinders, returning settlers, world roving adventurers, and last, but not least, half a dozen Afghan camel men.

We pass from face to face, until our eyes fall and fasten on a Hadji Mullah, whose home is on the other side of far Kabul. He is exceptionally tall and cadaverous, his face is long, lean, and hatchet shaped, his hands and feet have evidently been designed by an architect with a liking for broad effect, while his clothes are simple swathes of calico, twisted in such a manner as to bring into extra prominence every peculiarity of his extraordinary anatomy. His legs, from the knees downwards, are bare to the winds of heaven, and, as finishing touches, his feet are thrust into unlaced Blucher boots, three sizes too large for him. We were present when he arrived on board. On gaining the deck, he said “Allah’ most emphatically, then turning to the side, shrieked to his compatriots to pass him up his baggage. Somehow it could not be found, and the excitement that followed surpasses description. At length a small bundle, tied up in a dirty red pocket-handkerchief, made its appearance, and was conveyed by its owner with anxious care to his berth below.

As soon as we are fairly under way, and our meagre meal has been disposed of, we betake ourselves to the fo’c’s’le head, destined throughout the voyage to be our favourite camping place, and as we watch the coastline recede from sight, fall to discussing our situation and condition. While thus occupied, we make the acquaintance of our three most trusty allies, some reference to whom may not be out of place.

They are a strange trio. The eldest is a Yorkshireman, broad in back and accent, a native of Bradford, and a vigorous but not over clever ruffian; the second is an Irishman, from County Gal way, rather undersized, and possessed of more than an ordinary share of his country’s wit; while the third, a Londoner from the district of Bayswater, has all the life of the streets at his fingers’ ends and a fund of quaint cockney humour to boot. They have been friends–so we discover, later–for many years, and certainly they have seen a great number of queer experiences together, in out-of-the-way corners of the globe: diamond-digging in South Africa, gold-mining in Australia, blackbirding among the Islands, before the mast here, there, and everywhere, often quarrelling, sometimes fighting, but for some strange reason never separating. What is taking them home we cannot discover, but we are continually being assured that it is business of a most important nature. Without hesitation, we nickname them Bradford, Galway, and the Dook of Bayswater, and by these names and none others are they known throughout the voyage. Genial, good-hearted rascals,–here’s a health to you where’er you go. Some day 1 shall hope to tell the world the strange and curious stories you told me I

Tea, or by whatever name the meal may be designated, is served at two bells (five o’clock), and consists of bread (sour, as at dinner time), badly boiled rice (and a suicidal description of cake), which is washed down with tea of a museum-like flavour and description. Being disinclined always to go hungry, it begins to dawn upon us that the sooner we make friends with the cook or his mate, the sooner we shall escape partial starvation. Accordingly, as soon as dinner in the first saloon is over, and the chief cook is released from his duties, we lay our plans for him, determining to win our way into his affections or perish in the attempt.

Our good fortune decrees that he shall be an elderly person of easy-going temperament, and what is still luckier, able to speak a little English, of which accomplishment he is particularly vain.

Now there are ways and ways of flattering a man. There is the heavy-handed compliment, akin to a shovel that brains the recipient right off, and sends him staggering back, powerless to appreciate or it; there is the grovelling compliment, too abject for return, even if were needed; and lastly, there is the indirect or insinuated compliment which, with a man of moderate intelligence, not only achieves its end, but in so doing disarms suspicion and creates delight.

We fix him on the weather side of his galley, in the act of lighting his after-dinner pipe, and the following conversation ensues.

The Inevitable. “Gute Nacht, mein Herr!’

Chief Cook. (Something unintelligible, but doubtless extremely correct.)

The Long’un (doubtfully), “Wie gehts mit ihrer Gesundheit?’

Chief Cook. (Again unintelligible, but no doubt equally correct.)

Note,–That’s the worst of not learning the answers as well as the questions!

The Inevitable (with a cold shiver of uncertainty), “Das Wetter kliirt sich wieder auf!’

Chief Cook (with a stateliness that baffles description). Vy not mit der Anglish language to me you sprechen? Yes, der sea is much dremendous more quiet becoming!’

The Long’un (with peculiar flattery), “By Jove! we didn’t think you spoke English like that! You must have found it a very difficult language to learn?’

Chief Cook (with pride), “I der English language learnt ven I vas a great liddle poy, und mit der sheep (ship) from Bremen Haven to der London Dogs (Docks) did run!’

The Inevitable. “Really! by the way you speak it, I should almost have thought you an Englishman.’

Chief Cook. “Oh! I speak it ver goot, und mein liddle poy Kasper, he speak it ver goot. You gome mit me, und I to you his–how you call it?–Pot?–Oh!–graff (chuckle of intense satisfaction) vill show!’

We proceed to his berth and enthusiastically admire the photograph of a peculiarly ugly child, almost hidden in an enormous pinafore.

Chief Cook. “Dot is mein liddle poy, mein son!’

The Long’un (in an unguarded moment). “Why! he’s all pinafore!’

Chief Cook (suspiciously), “Bin–a–fore? How you say bin-a-fore?’

The Inevitable (who has been there before), “My friend means to say, that he looks a smart child, able to learn languages quickly, like his father.’ (Gazing at another photo, and adopting a tone of tenderness.) “Ah! Your wife!–Sweet face, very sweet face!’

Chief Cook. “Dot is mein gran-mudder, dot is not mein vife!’

The Inevitable. “Your grandmother? Surely not! and so young–wonderful, wonderful! “(Passing to another photograph.) “This, then, is your wife!’

Chief Cook (with enormous pride). “Yah! Dot is mein vife!’

The Long’un (anxious to retrieve his character). “Beautiful! beautiful! What eyes–what hair!!!’ etc. etc.

Eventually, overcome with delight, the Chief Cook produces a bottle of schnapps, under the influence of which he becomes still more expansive, and finally closes the interview with an invitation to breakfast, in his cabin, the following morning. We bid him good-night and push forrard, not unsatisfied with the result of our interview.

It is certainly a most unpleasant night; the wind blows a hurricane. We are bucketing round Cape Borda, with every appearance of still heavier weather ahead; the ship rolls horribly, and big seas break continually on her decks with a noise like thunder. It is unfortunately necessary that the hatches should be kept on, and in consequence the atmosphere between decks could be cut with a hand saw. The women without exception are ill, as also are many of the men. Heart-rending noises and moans mix with the horrible stench, while the ghostly and uncertain light of one solitary lamp serves rather to increase than to diminish the misery of the scene. We shudder and hunt about for our respective berths.

Fortunately, our location is near the companion ladder, so that we are spared the more intense closeness and horror of the after end. But even then our lot is by no means enviable.

The Long’un’s couch is on the lower tier, between an Italian organ grinder and an elderly Hindoo; I have mine on top, with my friend the Afghan Hadji on one side, and a Port Said Greek, who, it is rumoured, has been spending an enforced residence in Australia, to escape a charge of murder preferred against him in his native place, on the other. I should imagine that neither of them was a good citizen, nor are they, to my thinking, good bed-fellows. About their qualifications for the former position I may of course be wrong, but of the latter fact there can be no doubt whatsoever. You, gentle reader, have perhaps never experienced the delight of sleeping six in a bed; I therefore advise you, should it ever fall to your lot to have to submit to such indignity, to make sure, once and for all, positively and even with threats of violence, that an Afghan Hadji is not of the number. In the first place, his appearance is objectionable and he smells unpleasantly; secondly, he is not a good sailor, and if his situation happens to be inside, he is often compelled, by the exigencies of his nausea, to clamber out over five other prostrate bodies, before he can relieve it. This he does regularly once every fifteen minutes, filling up the intervals with emphatic prayers to Allah, which, as narcotics, are as inconvenient as they would appear to be useless.

As the hours wear on, the horrors of the situation increase, and I am compelled to believe that never in the history of the world has daylight been more ardently longed for than by us weary souls between decks to-night. When at length it does arrive, it reveals a fierce and angry sea, whose mountainous waves rise every moment around us, as if preparatory to demolishing our straining and struggling vessel. The decks seem never to be free from breaking seas, and in consequence, as if to add to the discomfort of the unfortunate sick below, it is necessary that the hatches shall be kept on the livelong day.

Everyone is unhappy, but the misery of the Hadji surpasses description. The dignity of his person, if dignity it ever possessed, seems to have entirely departed from him, leaving in its place a gaunt-eyed, pale-cheeked camel of misery, who goes staggering about the decks in an aimless fashion, his poor legs almost refusing to support the weight of his meagre body. In the middle of his peregrinations, for he is unable to keep still, an attack of nausea seizes him, and makes as if it will rend him limb from limb. He reels to a scupper and falls prone. A big sea breaks over him, bruising him against the bulwark, and soaking him through and through. Twice, in less than a quarter of an hour, this happens, and on each occasion he is rescued by his compatriots, with a fear that is greater than the fear of death staring from his eyes.

This heavy weather continues for four days without cessation, and it is not until we have rounded the Leuwin that it begins to show any signs of abating. Then seeing that we are gradually becoming accustomed to his terrors–Father Neptune slackens his wrath, and within a few days, behold, we are beginning to wish, in our usual discontented fashion, for anything rather than this invariable calm.

Once we are reconciled to the novelty of our position, the days slip quickly by. Our time is occupied in various ways: in reading; playing Monte under the shadow of the after-awning with a Greek, a bogus Italian Count, and a Yankee adventurer; or in transcribing to paper the copious funds of copy, more or less fictional, supplied us by our fellow-voyagers. It is, however, when the evening meal is eaten and pipes are lighted, that the most pleasant portion of the day, or rather night, begins for us.

Then in the still hush of the sun-drop, it becomes our custom to draw our blankets up to the fo’c’s’le head, and cosily ensconcing ourselves behind the cable range, to hold our levee.

As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, and the long shadows of approaching night steal across the deep, the Afghans appear, and spreading their prayer carpets, and removing their shoes, with faces turned towards the Immemorial East, commence their picturesque devotions. Even the Hadji’s angular figure.

Standing clear cut against the sky, loses some of its corners. The length and breadth of the ship behind him, the waste of waters and the gathering night, seem to rub out the harshness of his features, as, stretching his arms to heaven, he cries with a voice to which constant exercise has given abnormal power, “Allah! Ho Akbar; Allah llallallah!’

One by one the great tropic stars march forth from the guard house of night to take up their silent sentry-go above the black sea, churning into foam, under our forefoot. The Look-out stations himself far forward, and our evening may be said to have properly commenced.

Perhaps the most constant in their attendance, and the most varied in the experiences they have to narrate, are our friends the Three Wanderers. Next to them, in point of interest, may rank my bed-fellow, the handsome Port Said Greek, whose stories are too strange even to be impossible, and whose promise to give me an insight into the slums of Port Said I store up in the treasure house of my memory for a not too distant date. Then there is Herr Ollendorf, who spends his days in tropical Northern Australia, catching birds for European dealers, and whose tales of New Guinea and the Pearl Fisheries mark–though we do not know it then–a new era in our lives. And last, but not least, there is the Earl of Vite Chapelle, a tiny street Arab, who is returning, after a brief but curious sojourn in marvellous Melbourne, to the beloved city of his birth. His tales alone would fill a book.

Turn by turn they spin their yarns, doubtless exaggerating in detail, but fairly truthful in the bulk. Late into the night we talk, not even abashed by the Look-out’s monotonous “All’s well!’ or silenced when the moon rises into the cloudless sky with a majesty well suited to the beauty of the evening. Before midnight, however, the talk has slackened off; one by one each man seeks his blankets, till at length the fo’c’s’le head is all silence, and the Look-out has the night to himself.

In this manner day after day speeds by, each one bringing us nearer to Colombo, our first port of call. Lovely weather accompanies us, the sea is like glass, our passengers are people of absorbing interest, and now that our diet is improved, we have nothing left to wish for.

As I have mentioned before, we have formed no definite plans as to our future, and it is not until we are within two days’ steam of Colombo that we make up our minds. Then the stories of our friend the birdcatcher (told among his cages in the fore–peak) take possession of us. They fascinate us strangely; and the more we question and cross-question him, the more the idea grows upon us, until we decide that, instead of going on to Port Said as we first intended, we will transship at Colombo, and endeavour to make our way through the far East to Northern Australia, where on the Pearl Fisheries we confidently believe our Eldorado awaits us.

On the morning of the fifteenth day out, we are greeted with our first view of Ceylon, just discernible through a faint haze, far distant on our starboard bow. By the time breakfast is finished, we have brought it well abeam, and catamarans and native fishing boats are dodging about on all sides of us. At sun time we are in full sight of Colombo, and before the mid-day meal is over, and we have plumed ourselves for shore going, we have picked up the pilot and are entering the harbour.

Having no cases of infectious disease on board, pratique is quickly granted, and bidding our friends on board “goodbye,’ we collect our baggage, charter a boat, and are pulled ashore.

Long after we are out of hearing, we can see the Duke of Bayswater and the Earl of Vite Chapelle on the fo’c’s’le head, waving their caps to us in token of farewell.

Chapter 2

Colombo–Kandy–Anuradhapura

IT is certainly very good to be ashore again, and moreover to me Colombo is a pleasure that never palls. It is astonishing how little is changed; every thing seems just as when we left it last. The same coolies, the same barges, the same impulsive tongues jabbering all round us. The same boatmen shriek and quarrel in our honour, the same money-changers offer us a small but appreciative welcome; and when we leave the landing place and enter the street, to find the rickshaw coolies, just as of old, sitting on their shafts, chewing betel-nut and chattering in the well-remembered fashion, we begin to believe we have never been away at all.

A little naked beggar boy runs beside us, flicking his plump sides, and imploring backsheesh in heart-rending tones, till we say something in the vernacular which causes him to flee and curse us in safety from afar; then some one playing with a mongoose in a corner, hearing what has passed, looks up with a grin which is so full of sympathy that we know and feel we are at home once more.

Now, if there is one place in this world more than another where sooner or later, if you but exercise patience, you shall meet whomsoever you wish, the name of that place is the Grand Oriental, Colombo. Into this caravanserai, day and night, clatter men and women from the uttermost parts of the earth. Dining in the great saloon, or smoking in the verandah, one may meet and converse with yellow-skinned tea men from Hong Kong, grey-bearded squatters from Australia, keen-eyed merchants from Japan, pink and white tourists from England, pearlers from Torres Straits, and explorers and adventurers from everywhere this side of the great Unknown. They arrive today, to depart tomorrow, and as they say “goodbye,’ more come to take their places. And so the everlasting game goes forward, but the Grand Oriental changes not.

The first thing to be done on arrival is to secure rooms, and after this is accomplished, to enjoy a bath. The water is refreshingly clear and cool, and the view from the bathroom window overlooking the hotel garden, is as beautiful as anything to be found in the East. Here, palms of seemingly endless variety, graceful ferns, brilliant yellow and purple hibiscus, tamarinds, and the fragrant champac, grow side by side in grandest luxuriance, while beneath their shelter thrive begonias, bromelias, fuchsias, petunias, and countless varieties of flowering plants. Through this exquisite tracery look in the roofs of houses, each with its tiles of different tint; a perfume of flowers suggestive of the Lotos Isles comes with the view, and the cloudless sapphire sky crowns all.

Dressed again, there are many old friends to be visited: friends who, though living in the midst of ever changing faces, seem never to forget. Two there are in the main street, Mahommedans both, and dealers in precious stones. Immediately we appear, touts from all the shops surround us, imploring our patronage for their respective masters; but our friends suddenly sight us, and though it is years since we saw them last, remember us instantly, and dash out to disperse the noisy crowd, and to beg us to take seats inside their shop, that they may make us welcome in proper form.

This proper form is without any attempt at business, and takes the shape of lemon–squash and sweetmeats, mixed up with many compliments and recollections of bygone days.

Thence we pass on to another and yet another, always with the same kindly welcome greeting us. Before we have paid our last call, the sun is down, and it is time to to dinner.

After our al fresco meals on board ship, a real dinner, well cooked, and served on china and clean linen, with its accompanying glass and silver, has a peculiar charm. We linger over each course, pay befitting attention to a dish of mangoes, and finally come to an anchor, with cigars, in the broad verandah, where white-robed servants move silently about, attentive to our wants.

The noises of the streets are hushed. An almost painful quiet reigns. The subdued chatter of a knot of rickshaw coolies, across the road, blends so harmoniously with the starlight, that the cries of the boatmen, from among the myriad harbour lights, come almost as a relief to the general stillness. A man in a neighbouring chair says sleepily to his companion, “My dear fellow! I know the whole facts of the case–he got into trouble with one of the rajahs, and shot himself for a Lucknow dancing girl.’ Trying to imagine the rest of the story gives me a waking nightmare. But even their voices gradually drop down, till at peace with all the world we climb the cool stone stairs to our respective chambers, and almost before our heads touch the pillows, are sound asleep.

Of all hours of the twenty-four in tropical countries, there can be no doubt that those of the early morning are the most enjoyable. Rising with the day and turning out, pyjama clad, into the divisioned verandah of my room, to watch the city coming back to life, and the sun appearing like a giant refreshed above the fluted tiles of the house-tops is to me a pleasure always new. And again I like the Indian and Cinghalese fashion of serving the Chota-hazare in one’s bedroom verandah. To sit,’ cat, and watch the crowds of natives pass chattering by to their daily occupations, and whilst so doing to ward off the onslaught of voracious crows, is an experience one will not soon forget. Anything like the impudence and persistent thieving of these abandoned birds, I have never met with elsewhere.

Void of shame and moral responsibilities, deaf to entreaties, threats, and expostulations, they carry on their nefarious trade unabashed. Happen but for one moment to turn from your breakfast table, and a marauder swoops down, with the result that your choicest morsel is gone. You are amazed, but it does not strike you as anything to be annoyed at, in fact you think it rather amusing than otherwise, and butter another. Then your next door neighbour appears in his verandah and wishes you good morning. You turn for a moment to reply to him,–a flutter of wings, a caw of triumph, and your second tit-bit has gone the way of the first. Then, if you are properly constituted, you become annoyed. but while you are arranging your feelings, another brigand, with a deep design in his heart, of which you, poor innocent, have no idea, flutters down and perches on the verandah rail.

“Ha, ha! my friend!’ you chuckle, “you shall pay for this,’ and resolving to annihilate him on the spot, you dash into your bedroom for a stick. But this, believe me, is exactly what he wants. He has lured you from your guard, and when you it is to find that the remainder of your breakfast has flown to a neighbouring house-top. Noting your discomfiture, half a dozen miscreants assemble on an adjacent tree, and perform a paean of victory, the theme of which seems to be somewhat after this fashion:

Tenors. “Caw, caw! got him again!’

Basses (with marvellous regard for time). “Caw, caw, caw! We’ve got him, we’ve got him, we’ve got him, got, got, got him again!’

Being new at the game, you shake your fist at them, and while wondering if you shall order some more breakfast, run up the scale of your abusive vocabulary.

But at this juncture the native barber appears with his case of razors and a lime, which latter, as it is Christmas week, he begs you will accept as his gift, and so your thoughts are distracted. While shaving you (and this is shaving, not tomahawking), he recalls the fact that he had the honour of performing the same service for you ten years ago. Further than that, he may possibly be able to set you right as to the room you then occupied, the day you arrived, and the boat by which your honour sailed. You are visibly filled with wonder, but say nothing lest you prove how little worthy of such remembrance you are.

When you have breakfasted, the most instructive way to spend a Colombo morning, unless your soul hankers after conjurors and cobra fights, is to wander past Slave Island, with its picturesque lagoon and groves of palm trees, past blind beggars, sweetmeat sellers, and story tellers, to the native quarter of Pettah.

In this locality–the Whitechapel of Colombo–one is for the first time brought face to face with the true native element. Here may be seen as strange a mixture of races, as will be found anywhere in the East. Humanity of every hue, shape, and dress, crowds the narrow streets: Arabs in flowing burnous; Mahommedans with baggy breeches and high conical hats; Cinghalese dandies in petticoats and European jackets (their glossy black hair neatly rolled up in feminine fashion behind the head, and surmounted with an enormous tortoise-shell comb); Tamuls in loin cloths and naught else but the burnished livery of the sun; yellow-robed Buddhist priests, Kandyans, Malays, and in fact representatives of every Eastern nationality, all intent upon their own business, and nearly all chewing betel-nut.

To a modest man, in whose education the little peculiarities of Eastern customs have formed no part, I can imagine that many of the sights crowded into these streets would be extremely painful. Years ago, we ourselves, unconscious in our innocence, entered the quarter on the one side, to leave it on the other with a blush that had soaked through our skin deep into our underclothing. But since then we have learnt many things, and false modesty has been crowded out. With the natives themselves it is a case of “Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ And all things considered, perhaps it is just as well.

After the native quarter, the Cinnamon Gardens, with their sister quarter of Colpetty, where the fashionable bungalows are situated, are most worth seeing. It would be impossible for an amateur word-painter like myself to do adequate justice to the beauties of the scenery hereabouts: but let me try.

The roads are of a deep vermilion colour, bordered on either side by grassy banks, flowering shrubs, rustling bamboos, and trees whose boundless wealth of blossom intermingling overhead throws a kindly shade upon the passing wayfarer. Elegant bungalows, and Vandyke brown huts, peep out from gardens little short of heavenly, and now and again, through the open doors of these said huts, glimpses may be obtained of the little housewife inside, cumbered like Martha with much serving; while, outside, her tiny brown offspring roll and tumble in the roads, in the full enjoyment of their lives, but in constant peril from passing vehicles.

On the principle, that to be in Ceylon and to see only Colombo, is folly; to be in Ceylon and see Colombo and Kandy, is sense; but to be in Ceylon, and see Colombo, Kandy, and the ancient ruins of Anuradhapura is complete wisdom, we decide to make tracks for Kandy, and thence to attempt to get on to the last named city as best we can.

The train for Kandy, seventy-five miles distant, starts at seven thirty a.m. and is due to arrive about eleven thirty the same morning, I emphasise the latter fact, for the reason that many people decline to believe it, and the inference that the railway authorities are not reckless in the speed of the trains is apt to be misleading. They (both the authorities and the trains) believe in going slow, and at least we can consistently pay them the compliment of saying that they act up to their belief. If you should have a business appointment in Kandy, it would be better to walk than to train, otherwise you certainly won’t keep it.

The trains themselves are pretty toys, with engines built to the Indian gauge, and carriages like pill-boxes; the officials are elaborate individuals, gorgeously upholstered and fully conscious of their own importance.

Having secured our tickets and places, we start. The speed at first is almost desperate, possibly twenty-five miles an hour. The line runs over marshy padi fields, interspersed with lovely clumps of jungle. Now and again we cross roads where the native keeper, with all the fuss of an important government official, waves his flag until we are out of sight, and then retires, to rest and be admired, until the time arrives for him to perform the same function for the evening train.