Читать книгу The Last Voyage: To India and Australia, in the 'Sunbeam' - Brassey Annie - Страница 7

February 22nd.– We had been told that Jinjeera was seventy miles distant from Bombay. Our rate of progress being rather slow, we did not consult the chart until late in the afternoon, when we found great difficulty in making out the place at all. At last we discovered it, marked in the smallest of letters, close to the mouth of the Rajpoori River; Khassia, now in ruins, being on the opposite or north side. Instead of seventy, it proved to be only thirty-five miles from Bombay; so that we had actually overrun it. Knowing that we were expected, there was nothing to be done except to beat our way back against the wind during the night. It would have been a pleasant sail had it not been for the annoying loss of time which it involved.

Just before daybreak we saw the Rajpoori light, and the one at Kennery, twelve miles south of Bombay. About 9.30 a. m. the Nawab's brother came on board, and soon afterwards we proceeded to land. After rowing more than half round a curious island-fort, we arrived at the gateway, a small opening in the thick walls, where we were met by the Nawab himself, dressed in European costume, but wearing a red and gold turban, and surrounded by his native bodyguard.

The landing was rather difficult, for, owing to want of space, the boat had to be pushed in stern foremost. When this feat had been accomplished, some of the Nawab's followers brought chairs, and hoisted us with great dexterity to the top of the steps, where it was no easy matter to alight with the dignity proper to the occasion. Having received the salaams of the Nawab and returned his hearty welcome, we took a long walk all round the curious old fort of Jinjeera, built five hundred years ago. It contains many narrow passages designed for security, for they are entirely independent of the bastions, each of which is provided with its own little water-gate for the admission of supplies or the escape of the garrison in case of necessity. I found the walk very fatiguing owing to the heat, and so did many of the others.

The temperature would indeed have been unbearable but for an occasional puff of cooler air which reached us through the embrasures. Some of the guns were of Spanish manufacture, dated 1665, but most of them were lying useless on the ground. In no case would they avail much against modern ordnance; but the fort, owing to its natural advantages, would be difficult to attack. The present Nawab is of ancient descent, and one of his ancestors was an Admiral in the service of the Grand Mogul. At the time of the disruption of the Kingdom of Delhi the Nawab's State became independent, and has remained so ever since. He has about 70,000 subjects, in whose welfare he appears to take great interest. He has a shrewd face, is very English in appearance, and seems quite capable of looking after his own interests.1

It was delightfully refreshing to be able to rest in a spacious bungalow after our tour of the fort was over; and still more delicious was a curious sort of punkah, peculiar to the district, which fanned us pleasantly. The Nawab accompanied us on our return to the yacht, and afterwards sent us a most acceptable Nazir, or present, of two huge bunches of bananas, as well as other fruits and vegetables, besides milk and ghee.

The Nawab's second wife, whose mother we had met at Bombay, is a pretty little girl of about thirteen. She came on board to see us, but many precautions to preserve the purdah had to be taken. It was necessary to observe this custom in deference to the prejudices of her people rather than to those of her husband. She had never been on board a yacht before, and was naturally much interested in all she saw.

Soon after twelve we resumed our voyage to the southward before a deliciously cool breeze, which lasted for a considerable time. Further on, the coast seems to consist of a series of plateaux, varying in height from 200 to 600 feet, occasionally interrupted by a peak or a narrow strip of white beach, with here and there a small straggling town. At sunset we were off Ratnagiri, an ancient Mahratta fort connected with the mainland only by a narrow sandy neck. Its southern extremity is nearly 300 feet above the sea level, thus forming a headland, surmounted by a line of fortifications and bastions of great strength. The complete isolation of its position has doubtless caused it to be chosen as the place of detention of King Theebaw, who can have but little chance of escape. The entrance to the river lies to the eastward of the fort, and the intermediate space is covered with a luxuriant growth of cocoa-nut palms. The European station is to the northward, for the southern shore is rugged, and ends abruptly in cliffs and huge boulders. Small coasting steamers maintain as well as they can communication with the fort; but the approach is always difficult, and is almost impracticable during the south-west monsoon.

Mr. Crawford, who was formerly Commissioner here, had kindly given notice of our probable visit; for we had been anxious to land if possible to see something of King Theebaw, and to inspect the excellent industrial school established here. The district used formerly to be the great recruiting-ground for the Bombay army; but the young men now prefer entering the school, which, from one point of view, seems a pity. It was with much regret that, after having made preparations for landing, we were obliged to abandon the idea of doing so; for it became both late and dark, thus adding too much to the difficulties, and even dangers, of the proposed expedition. We therefore sailed slowly past, throwing up rockets at long intervals, to indicate that we were proceeding on our course.

As the evening wore on the breeze dropped, and during the night we made but little progress.

February 25th.– A calm and somewhat sultry night. Daylight brought a delicious and welcome sea-breeze, before which we sailed rapidly on our southward course. The morning was devoted to a general tidying up, preparatory to settling down for our long voyage.

Over the memory of the latter portion of this day I wish that I could draw a veil; but, sad as is the story, and little as I desire to dwell upon it, it must be told.

Travelling, visiting, and sight-seeing had so completely occupied our time in India, that I had found upon my return to Bombay a vast accumulation of letters from England and elsewhere requiring attention; and as it was far beyond my strength to deal with them without assistance, I considered myself fortunate in securing the services, as temporary secretary, of a gentleman whom we had met at Bombay, and who had been strongly recommended to us. Mr. Frank White was at that time engaged on the staff of the 'Bombay Gazette,' and, as Special Correspondent, had accompanied the present as well as the former Governor of Bombay upon their official tours. Now, however, he was about to leave India in order to take up an appointment on the staff of the 'Melbourne Argus,' and we, as a matter of mutual convenience, offered him a passage to Australia in the 'Sunbeam,' which he accepted, apparently, with delight. These brief facts will account for his presence on board the 'Sunbeam.'

At luncheon to-day Mr. White was cheerful and full of conversation, giving us an interesting description of the annual migration of the members of the Bombay Government to Poona during the season of rains and monsoons. We had, as usual, coffee, cigarettes, and a little gossip on deck before recommencing our quiet occupations of reading or writing. Mr. White strolled aft, and I soon became immersed in my book. Suddenly I perceived a change in the vessel's movement, as if the helmsman were neglecting his duties, and directly afterwards heard the thrilling cry of 'Man overboard!' Of course a great commotion ensued, the men rushing up from below, all eager to render assistance. I ran aft, whence the cry had proceeded, seizing a life-buoy as I passed, but found that one had already been thrown over by the man at the helm, who exclaimed, 'That gentleman,' meaning poor Mr. White, 'has jumped overboard.' A boat was lowered, a man was sent up to the cross-trees, another on to the deck-house to keep a look-out, and the ship was put about in an incredibly short space of time. In the meanwhile hasty preparation of hot bottles, blankets, and other remedies was made on board, in case the boat should happily be successful in her search. But although she rowed over the exact spot many times, and picked up Mr. White's helmet and the life-buoy, nothing more could be discovered.

The agonised interest with which that little boat was watched by all on board will always live in my memory. Two men had jumped into her just as they had rushed on deck, without shirts or hats to protect them from the burning sun. Another was preparing to spring overboard when he was forcibly restrained by Tom, who saw that it would by this time be utterly useless. All on board worked with a will to get the vessel round and to lower every stitch of sail; no easy matter with every kite set, and the yacht running from ten to twelve knots before the wind.

From letters left behind it was painfully clear that a determination of many days past had just been accomplished. It appeared that Mr. White had questioned the doctor – who little suspected his object – as to how long it would take to stop the vessel when running with studdingsails set before a strong breeze. The unhappy man had constantly complained of inability to sleep, and he had been seen on deck the previous night long after everyone else had gone to bed. Of the motive for the rash act it is impossible to form an opinion. Borne down by physical and mental suffering, he must have been overcome by a temporary aberration of intellect, which rendered him for the moment irresponsible for his actions. I need not dwell on the terrible shock which the dreadful catastrophe caused to our hitherto happy little party. The evening was a sad one, and not even the excitement of making the lights off Goa, bringing the ship up, and anchoring for the night, or the prospect of an interesting excursion to-morrow, could raise our spirits or dissipate the depression caused by the sad event of the afternoon.

February 26th.– Orders had been given for steam to be ready in the launch by six o'clock, so that we might get ashore soon after daybreak, and thus avoid the heat of the midday sun, which is now becoming quite a serious matter. But the painful duty of collecting and packing up all poor Mr. White's things to be sent back to Bombay had first to be performed, and it was nearly half-past seven before we were ready to land.

Just as we were starting, Mr. Norman Oliver, the Assistant Delegate at Goa, arrived alongside in his pretty little schooner yacht, of native design and build, but of English rig. He brought with him a very kind letter from Mr. H.D. Donaldson, the assistant engineer of the new Portuguese Railway, now in course of construction, to connect Goa with the English lines northward to Bombay and eastward to Madras. If only the inhabitants of Goa will make use of the new railway, it ought to be of the greatest value to them. Such, however, is their conservative disposition and so great is their pleasure in obstinately creating and maintaining, in the form of customs-duties, obstacles to commerce and free circulation, that it is considered probable that the railway will have to be continued some fifty miles to the southward, as far as the British port of Carwar, before any perceptible increase in the export of produce can be looked for. The line to Goa is now nearly completed, and will, it is hoped, be opened after the rains. Mr. Donaldson kindly proposed a tempting trip over it to the summit of the Sahyádri Mountains, or Ghâts, which form the eastern boundary of the Portuguese territory. Unfortunately we are already so much behind our time that we shall have to press forward as quickly as wind and waves will allow, if we mean to adhere to the original plan of our voyage with anything like punctuality.

So many difficulties are thrown in the way of would-be visitors to the churches of Goa, that although Mr. Oliver had kindly sent his sepoy on to announce our arrival, and had written to the Administrador to ask leave, we were recommended to wait for an hour or two on board, to allow time for the necessary forms to be complied with. A refreshing sea-breeze was blowing, and at ten o'clock we decided to brave the sun and to proceed under the double awnings of the gig (towed by the steam-launch) across the bar and up the river towards Old Goa.

From the sea, the Portuguese settlement looks like a series of promontories, each crowned by a fort, with the river Mandovi in the centre, running up into the interior between richly wooded banks. Its coast-line is some sixty or seventy miles long from north to south, and its greatest breadth about thirty miles. The entire territory is hilly, and intersected by numerous rivers, of which the Mandovi is the most important. Both the ancient and modern cities of Goa have been built on its banks. The promontories of Bardez and Salsette protect a fine harbour, capable of accommodating vessels of the largest tonnage during the greater part of the year. The climate of Goa is generally healthy, though smallpox and cholera have from time to time broken out there with great virulence.

Never was any place so totally unlike what I had expected – in fact, it did not in the least correspond to the idea which any of us had formed about it. The palace of the Governor (who was for over three centuries called the Viceroy) stands in the city of Pangim, or New Goa, which, as I have already said, has been built on the river Mandovi, about five miles from its mouth. Curiously enough, the present Governor of Goa is our old friend Captain da Carvalho, who commanded the corvette 'Affonso Albuquerque' when she brought the King of Portugal to Plymouth last year, and lay alongside us for a fortnight in lovely Barn Pool, under the shadow of the Mount Edgcumbe trees. As we steamed over the bar and, aided by a strong flood-tide, quickly ascended the river, we next came to the pretty village of Raibandar, passing between low reedy banks fringed with cocoa-nut palms and other vegetation. The distant Ghâts formed a fine background to the picture, which included several white-spired English-looking churches, perched here and there on convenient knolls. The inhabitants of the district, however, composed as they are of descendants of the original natives found here by the Portuguese conquerors at the beginning of the sixteenth century, with a subsequent slight admixture of European blood, bore no resemblance to the British type. Those whom we saw on the river wore scarcely any clothing, and paddled about in little canoes somewhat similar to those used in the South Sea Islands and Ceylon. These boats are extremely narrow, and are provided with an outrigger in the shape of an enormous rough block of wood, connected with the canoes by bent spars some four feet long.

After a pleasant voyage of about eleven miles in tow of the steam-launch, we were suddenly cast off at some steps leading to a small pier, in the midst of a large grove of palm-trees, and were told that we had reached our destination. But where was Goa? We were all expecting to see ruined palaces, churches, and houses; whereas all that was visible was one massive arch and gateway about a hundred yards distant, standing, like the Irishman's 'main gate,' in the centre of a field, with no wall on either side of it. Meaningless as it now looked, this was the celebrated Arco dos Vicereys, or Arch of the Viceroys, originally built in 1599, and composed of blocks of black granite, now partially whitewashed. Through this gateway each successive ruler of Goa passed on his way to the ancient capital; on which occasions it was always splendidly decorated. A statue of St. Catherine, patroness of the city of Goa, occupies an upper niche, while beneath her is a figure of Vasco de Gama, with features somewhat defaced by time. The façade used to be adorned with paintings representing incidents of the Portuguese war in the Indies; but they are now effaced by whitewash. The portico bears an inscription dedicating it to the Immaculate Conception, and commemorating the emancipation of Portugal from Spain in 1656.

By this time the heat had become so great that, finding no carriage was forthcoming, I had almost resolved to give up the idea of visiting the wonderful old palaces and churches which we had taken so much trouble to come and see; but Tom and the Doctor encouraged me to make an effort, and improvised a sort of carrying-chair for me. We accordingly proceeded up a steep hot road, through the aforesaid arch, to the Rua Direita, so called because it once led direct from the Palace of the Viceroys to the Church of Misericordia. The name has lost its meaning, for all that now remains of the splendid palace is a portion of the chief gateway, so small in extent that when we tried to take a photograph of it, the helmet of one of the gentlemen who chanced to stand some distance in front of the camera completely concealed it. Only 250 years ago the palace must have been the most conspicuous building in the city. At that time a large square stood in front of it to the south, surrounded by fine houses. A noble staircase led from this square to the principal hall of the palace, in which were hung pictures of most of the Portuguese ships which had come to India since the time of Vasco de Gama. In an inner hall the Viceroy, who then lived in a style of regal splendour, received ambassadors from the Indian princes, and transacted important business. Da Fonseca, in his historical and archæological description of the City of Goa, states that the Viceroy rarely stirred out of his palace, except to make a royal progress through the city. 'A day previous to his appearance in public, drums were beaten and trumpets sounded, as a signal to the noblesse and gentry to accompany him on the following day. Accordingly, early in the morning about three or four hundred hidalgos and courtiers appeared in the Terriero do Paço, clad in rich attire, mounted on noble steeds with gold and silver trappings glittering with pearls and precious stones, and followed by European pages in rich livery.' The palace began to fall into decay when the city was abandoned; and although from time to time there was an idea of repairing it, the work was never seriously undertaken. In 1820 a considerable portion of the splendid building was ordered to be knocked down; and though the remainder stood for some time, even so lately as up to fifty or sixty years ago, it has gradually fallen to pieces, and its ruins are now covered with vegetation.

The small Church of S. Cajetan was the first place we visited after passing the entrance to the palace. It was built by some Italian friars in 1640, and so closely adjoins the palace that some travellers have referred to it as the Viceregal Chapel. The façade, with its Corinthian columns, and the fine cupola rising behind them, reminds one of St. Peter's at Rome in miniature. Outside the church, exposed to the full heat of the burning sun, a party of half-clad natives were scrubbing with soap and water some fine full-length oil portraits of past viceroys, governors, and archbishops, which had been removed from the sacristy for this purpose. Among them were those of Vasco de Gama, and of Affonso Albuquerque, the first European conqueror of Goa. The church had not yet been opened, so we waited in a long room in the adjacent convent, through which the sea-breeze blew with delicious coolness. After a short rest we went out into a balcony and looked with delight over a forest of tropical vegetation, to the blue river running swiftly through the trees, with the paler grey of the distant ghâts beyond. When at last we gained admittance to the church, we much admired its graceful dome and the fine altar-piece in the principal chapel. Close to and in striking contrast with this grand painting stood a little group of scantily clothed natives, who had evidently taken advantage of the opportunity of inspecting the sacred edifice which our visit afforded. The windows of the church are made of small panes of the thin, semi-transparent inner scale of the pearl oyster, used in place of glass – a fashion still followed in many of the private houses of Goa. These shell windows, the materials for which must formerly have been very plentiful in the neighbourhood, admit a peculiarly soft and tender light.

From S. Cajetan we proceeded to the Cathedral of S. Caterina, one of the oldest buildings of Goa, and the only church in which daily religious service on a grand scale is now held. Albuquerque was the founder of this sacred edifice, which took seventy-five years to build, and has been well described as 'worthy of one of the principal cities of Europe.' Dr. Russell, visiting it with H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, speaks of its 'vast and noble proportions.' We were amazed by the richness of the materials, and the artistic beauty of the elaborate carving which met the eye in every direction. The vaulted ceiling, the mosaic covered side-chapels, and the high altar, near which stands the Archbishop's chair, are the features most worthy of attention. The cathedral is, indeed, a stately pile, the nave being over 70 feet high and 140 feet long, and the total length of the building more than 270 feet. The vestries and sacristies are full of rich vestments and valuable plate, now seldom seen except by a few priests, or an occasional foreign visitor like ourselves, or, at still rarer intervals, by the general public when a grand exhibition is held, to which the faithful flock in crowds. Even the exhibitions have been discontinued of late years, for it was found that the gathering together of a large concourse of people in so unhealthy a locality led to the spread of infectious disorders. The site of Old Goa is, indeed, terribly malarious. The Government having abandoned the city, it was deserted by everybody else, the finest houses, after standing empty for years, gradually falling to pieces, so that literally not one stone remains above another. Old Goa was one of the headquarters of the terrible Inquisition, and until comparatively recent days its most cruel decrees were there executed with stern and heartless rigour. The tower of the Cathedral of S. Caterina contains five bells, the largest of which, still in daily use, is the same which was formerly tolled on the occasion of the auto-da-fé. It was quite thrilling to listen to its deep knell, and to think that those same tones must have fallen upon the agonised ears of the poor victims of an odious tyranny.

Close to the cathedral once stood the Palace of the Inquisition, a vast and magnificent building, the space occupied by which is now filled with dense jungle. It is the home of venomous snakes, not to be met with in any other part of the island. Probably some special shrub or herb which they like grows there and nowhere else. From the cathedral we passed across an open space to visit the Church of Bom Jesus, containing the chapel and tomb of St. Francis Xavier, and a fine altar, in the centre of which stands a colossal image of St. Ignatius of Loyola. St. Francis (who died at Sanchan, in Malacca) rests in a crystal and silver coffin within a magnificent sarcophagus. The body, clad in the richest vestments, is said to be still, after the lapse of three centuries, in a wonderful state of preservation – a fact testified to by the chief surgeon of Goa in an official report made in 1859.

Never was there a city so unlike a city, or even the remains of one, as Old Goa, unless it were Palmyra. Goa is now, in fact, only a forest of palm-trees with patches of jungle here and there, made gay by tropical flowers, such as the scarlet coral-tree, the pimelia with its bright golden convolvulus-like flowers, and scarlet and apricot-yellow euphorbias. From this mass of vegetation the spire of a church rises or the tower of some ancient building occasionally peeps forth. No other traces of its bygone splendour could be seen, whether one looked upward from the level of the earth or downward from the roof of one of the few buildings which still remain.

On our return to the landing-place we found that the railway officials had kindly lent us their large steam-launch, in the cosy little cabin of which, sheltered by venetian blinds, we enjoyed our well-earned lunch, for it was now past three o'clock, and we had breakfasted soon after six. The sea-breeze blew refreshingly as we steamed down the river, and once clear of the land the heat was not at all oppressive.

Pangaum, or Nova Goa, is a nice clean-looking little town, of some 15,000 inhabitants, at the foot of a hill covered with palm-trees. It is of comparatively recent growth; for although the viceregal residence was transferred here from Old Goa in 1759, when a terrible epidemic broke out in that place, it was not until 1827 that any vigorous steps were taken to reclaim the land on which it now stands. In 1843 it was formally declared to be the capital of Portuguese India, and the Governor, the Archbishop, and other authorities and dignitaries now live there. The Causeway of Ribandar, which connects Pangaum with the city of that name, is a wonderful construction, nearly two miles in length, built in 1633 by order of the then Viceroy.

Only the gentlemen landed during our brief stay; and they soon returned from their stroll, having seen most of the objects of interest in the place. I had in the meantime occupied myself in taking some photographs – under somewhat difficult conditions, for the breeze was stiff and strong, and the steam-launch was by no means steady. As soon as we returned on board the 'Sunbeam' we were met by an extortionate demand on the part of the Portuguese officials – which, I am glad to say, was successfully resisted – for the payment of eighty rupees, in return for the privilege of anchoring in the roads without the aid of a pilot. Then we had to bid adieu to kind Mr. Norman Oliver, regretting much that time would not admit of our seeing more of him and making the acquaintance of his wife. The anchor was soon weighed, and the 'Sunbeam' once more spread her wings to the favouring breeze, before which we sailed so quickly, and at such an angle, that the more sensitive members of the party began to fancy it was rough, and would not come down to dinner. Later in the evening it was delightful to sit on deck and watch, by the light of the young crescent moon and the brilliant stars, the vessel racing along through the cool evening air.

In the course of the next day we passed Carwar, about fifty miles south of Goa, and one of the most interesting ports in India. Adjoining it is a backwater, such as are often met with on the south-west coast of India, along which it is possible to sail for many miles in a native boat with great comfort and ease. Further south is Honahwar, whence the famous Falls of Gairsoppa, in Mysore, can easily be reached. Just now the waters of the river Kauri are rather low; else, I think, we should have made an effort to visit the falls (which have a drop of 1,000 feet in one place) notwithstanding the shortness of the time and the difficulties of the journey, which can only be performed in rough country carts.

The wind was light all day; but the old 'Sunbeam' glided gracefully along, and made good progress through the hot air.

February 28th.– The sun becomes perceptibly more powerful each day. At noon we were off Mangalore, formerly a place of considerable importance, where the British forces have stood more than one siege. Like the rest of the ports on this coast, it has been deserted by trade, and has now fallen more or less into a state of decay and ruin.

We have now resumed our usual life-at-sea habits. In the morning we go on deck at a very early hour, to enjoy the exquisite freshness of the dawn of the tropical day. Tom and the Doctor help to man the pumps, sometimes assisted by the children, who appear to like the work of scrubbing decks as much as they did in the old days of our first long voyage round the world. Then we are most of us hosed. An open-air salt-water bath is a luxury not to be appreciated anywhere so thoroughly as in these tropical climates. After an early breakfast we settle down to our several occupations – the children to lessons, till it is time for sights to be taken and calculations made; Mr. Pritchett elaborates the sketches which he has made on shore during our recent wanderings; the Doctor makes himself generally useful, and has plenty of time to devote to this benevolent work, for at present he has hardly any patients. Later on he kindly gives the children a lesson in arithmetic, while Mr. des Graz, assisted by Prior, spends a considerable time in developing, printing, and toning the photographs which we have taken. I have always plenty to do in the way of writing, reading and general supervision. Often do I look wistfully at the many books which I long to read, and think regretfully of the letters and journal that ought to be written; but a good deal of time has to be spent in less interesting, and certainly more prosaic, work. In the afternoon there is more reading, writing, and lessons; and after tea there is a general taking off of coats by the gentlemen, a putting on of suitable costumes by the children, and a grand game of hide-and-seek and romps during the short twilights until the dressing-bell gives warning to prepare for dinner.

Landsmen can never know how delightful it is to be able to sit quietly on deck late in the evening, in the open air, without any tiresome wraps, and to enjoy the soft silvery light of the stars, scarcely dimmed by the brighter rays of the young moon. It is indeed a period of tranquil happiness. One is only agreeably fatigued by the exertions of the day; and one feels so soothed by the beauty and peacefulness of the scene as to be quite content to do absolutely nothing, and to rest satisfied with the mere pleasure of existence. Indeed it is only the recollection of the charms of early rising which induces any of us to leave the deck at last.

February 29th.– By noon to-day we had only run seventy-five miles. The air is still occasionally hot and oppressive. About 3 p. m. a large steamer was seen coming up astern, and with a glass we made her out, by the white band round her funnel, to be one of the British India Line. For some time we seemed to hold our own with her, even after the breeze fell light, almost to a calm; and it was 9 p. m. before she actually passed us, steaming ahead full speed. The 'Sunbeam' sails like a witch in her new suit of light canvas, and we pass the little native craft as if they were standing still, even in the lightest of breezes, for which they are specially built.

March 1st.– However it may mean to go out, March has come in like the quietest of lambs, and we could well do with a little more wind to help us on our course.

At noon we were off Calicut, a curious old town of nearly 50,000 inhabitants, to which belong many ancient stories and traditions. As we all know, it gives its name to that useful and familiar material – calico. This was the first point of India touched at by Vasco de Gama nearly 400 years ago, after his long voyage from Portugal. Not far from Calicut, near Mahé, a high rock rises – one of the few places in India where sea-swallows build their edible nests. Further south is Tellicherry, whence the highly appreciated cardamoms of Waima are exported. The plant (Amomum repens) which produces them is not unlike the ginger shrub in appearance, bearing small lilac-coloured flowers. Cardamoms are so indispensable in all Indian cookery that great pains are taken in their cultivation.

On the other side of the river lies Beypoor, one of the terminal stations of the Southern Indian Railway, whence it is possible to proceed by rail in almost any direction. Mysore, Bangalore, and Seringapatam can be easily reached from here; and last, though not by any means least, one can travel viâ Pothanore and Metapalliam to Ootacamund, that loveliest and healthiest of Southern hill stations in the Neilgherry Mountains, familiarly called 'Ooty.' This delightful place of refuge restores the enfeebled health of the European, and makes it possible for husband and wife, parents and children, to be spared the terrible separations incidental to a career in India; for the climate of Ootacamund is as cool and invigorating as that of England.

March 2nd.– The distance run at noon was 106 knots, the wind during the previous twenty-four hours having been stronger and more favourable.

We passed Cochin in the course of the day, but not near enough to see much of it. It must be an interesting old place, dating, like Calicut, from the ninth century, or even earlier, with inland waterways to Quilon and other ports on the Malabar coast, by delightfully smooth and sheltered backwaters, always navigable for the native boats, even in the full strength of the monsoon. Trivandaram, the capital of Travancore, is near this. The Rajah of Travancore on the occasion of the Great Exhibition of 1851 sent our Queen a most beautifully carved ivory chair, made in his own dominions, which her Majesty now uses whenever she holds a Chapter of the Order of the Garter at Windsor.

One of the bedroom stewards got a touch of sunstroke this morning, and suffered a good deal. I was, of course, very sorry for him, but could not help feeling rather annoyed, for it was entirely his own fault. The men are just like children, and will not or cannot understand the power of the sun and the danger of exposure to it. They will run up on deck bare-headed to look at some passing object, and then are surprised that they at once get a bad headache. They are all well provided with pith hats, and awnings are spread everywhere, so that one cannot feel quite as much sympathy for them as if they were sufferers in the cause of duty.

March 3rd.– An absolutely calm and uneventful day.

We are now getting towards Tuticorin, whence it is a short journey by rail to the splendid temples of Madura, or to Tinnevelly, the great missionary station of Southern India. Tanjore with its famous rock and its wonderful history, and Trichinopoly, with its temples and caves, are also easy of access.

We had hoped to have been able to pay a visit to the great temples on Rameshuwaran and Manaar, two of the islands forming what is known as Adam's Bridge, which partially connect Ceylon with the mainland; but, to our disappointment, we find that they are unapproachable from the westward, and we cannot get through the Pamban Passage, as its depth is but ten feet of water, whereas we draw thirteen. In order to reach the temples it would consequently be necessary for us to make the circuit of Ceylon, which would take far too much time. We shaped, therefore, as direct a course for Colombo as the light and variable breezes would admit of.

March 4th.– To-day was calmer and hotter than ever. At noon we had run eighty-eight knots, from which time until 8 p. m. we were in the midst of a flat oily calm, beneath a burning sun. We were, consequently, all much relieved when, in the course of the evening, fires were lighted, awnings spread, wind-sails set, and we began to make a little air for ourselves.

Sailors are amazingly like sheep in one respect; for if one does anything at all out of the ordinary course, it is ten to one that his shipmates feel bound to follow his example. Yesterday morning, for instance, after the cases of sunstroke of the day before, several of the crew reported themselves to the Doctor as sick, though, upon examination, he found that they were only suffering from the effects of a too-vivid imagination. Some medicine of a nauseous but otherwise innocent character was accordingly prescribed, with the satisfactory result that all the malades imaginaires are 'Quite well, thank you, sir,' this morning.