I HAD to make two voyages to India before I took up my quarters there. In each of these, owing to the exchange of boats at Ceylon, I had to stay in that delightful island a fortnight on each trip. This delay anywhere else would be an abominable nuisance, but there is so much to see in Ceylon, and the people there are so graciously hospitable, that one does not mind the delay—at least, I did not; far from it.

My first visit was on my way to the Paris Exhibition in 1878. At that time Galle was the stopping-place, and the delay did not extend over a couple of days—just time enough to visit Wak-wallah and the surrounding district; long enough, however, to wish for a more extended stay in so delightful an earthly paradise.

Like all fresh arrivals in Ceylon we were rather perplexed as to the sex of its inhabitants. The weather being rather more than tropical, we proposed, prior to dinner, an adjournment to the various bath-rooms of the hotel, and gave orders accordingly. When I entered my bath-room I was rather startled to find there what I considered a rather prepossessing “young person,” who offered to assist in the operation contemplated to cool my body after the exertions of the day. In view of the petticoats, long black hair, high pole-comb, and effeminate appearance of my bath attendant, I felt inclined to resent the intrusion, until perfectly satisfied that this individual belonged to that portion of humanity upon whom the Queen is allowed to confer the companionship of that distinguished order—the Bath.

On my return to Ceylon in 1882 the port of call for nearly all mail steamers had been removed to Colombo—a great improvement on Galle, inasmuch as the city is in every sense superior, while the harbour accommodation is excellent in every respect.

Considering that a trip from Australia barely occupies more than a fortnight, I am surprised that during the winter months there are so few who avail themselves of the facilities afforded almost weekly to spend a month or more in so charming an island. The means of communication on board the P. & O. and Orient steamers is in itself attractive, and at the end an earthly paradise—scenery almost beyond description, a most interesting people to study, and a thorough change of everything in every sense of the word.

Of all countries I ever visited, Ceylon is one I shall always return to with pleasure.

On my second stay at Colombo on my way to Calcutta, I was present at the landing of Arabi Pacha, the Egyptian patriot, whom I often met, and from whom I elicited many interesting details of the events which culminated in his exile. Poor Arabi! I often think of him, and of the harsh cruelty with which he has been treated, not by England, but by his own people. Had it not been for the countenance he got from the British Government—and more particularly the talented, warm-hearted men who undertook and managed his defence—his blood, not his liberty, would have been the price of his patriotic devotion to his country. In selecting Ceylon for his exile, England showed her appreciation of the man’s worth. Besides its loveliness, Ceylon is inhabited by people of the same faith. But all the gilding one may lay on to the cage fails to hide the bars. While Arabi moves in apparent freedom in Colombo, his movements are those of the caged lion.

One cannot be in Colombo many days without feeling an inclination to see Kandy—a trip which can be accomplished without much inconvenience or heavy tax on one’s exchequer. In this instance, however, matters were made even easier. The Colonial Secretary, Mr. (now Sir) J. Douglas had been requested by His Excellency Sir James Langden, the Governor, to invite me to pay him a visit in the hills, so that I only required to pack up my portmanteau and drive to the railway station, where I met my chaperon.

From the very start to the landing at the station in Kandy the scenery is without any exception most charming. Every single thing on the line of road has its charm—the vegetation, the quaint villages, the scenery, baffles description. I did not go there a novice—I had already visited nearly every part of the globe—but I humbly confess the trip to Kandy fairly put the extinguisher on all I had seen until I visited the Himalayas; and even then I have not yet made up my mind whether I prefer the latter; they may be grander, but I doubt if they are better.

WHILST at Kandy I had an opportunity to witness the Parraherra, which is the greatest Buddhist religious ceremony.

One of the greatest “lions” of Kandy is the great Buddhist temple, Delada Maligawa, where the great relics of the god are kept, enshrined in a richly-jewelled casket, and are made an object of special veneration by the votaries of Buddha. This festival is the more attractive by reason of its being made the occasion of a large traffic in precious stones, with which the island of Ceylon abounds. In this way the faithful manage to combine “biz” with devotion.

As the day dawned, vehicles of every conceivable form, size, and shape, streamed into the city. The town became a living hive. All vestiges of filth and wretchedness in the narrow lanes and round the bazaars were hidden beneath long strips of white or coloured linen, garlands of cocoa-nut leaves and flowers, hung around by bands of bright red cloth. Piles of tempting wares were there; beads, bangles, and scarfs to decorate; rice, jaggery, and sweetmeats, to eat; and innumerable liquors to drink, were placed in profusion on every side. The streets and lanes poured forth long strings of humanity, heated with the sun, flushed with drink, bedizened with tawdry jewellery and mock finery; poor tillers of the soil, beggarly fishermen, mendicant devotees, half-starved coolies; lean, sickly women, and poor, ill-fed children—passed onward in the motley throng, burying their everyday misery beneath the wild mirth of a night or two at this great feast of the Paraherra.

Following this living stream of dusky humanity as closely as the heat, the dust, and their strange perfume would allow me, I arrived near the great temple—a grand pile, as it shows half-concealed beneath the luxuriant foliage of cocoa-nut topes, arekas, plantains, and banyan trees. An ocean of human heads filled up the space round the building, from which proceeded the well-known sounds of the reeds and the tom-tom. Gay flags fluttered from the four corners and the lofty pinnacle of the temple; wreaths of flowers, plaited leaves, and ribbons of many colours waved jauntily from roof to door; whilst round the pillars of the walls and the door-posts clustered rich bunches of most tempting fruit.

Close to this busy scene, under a vast shed which acts as a sort of caravanserai, near the temple, other groups were clustered, as closely as they could well stand.

Forcing my way through the crowd, I found that the attraction consisted of a company of Indian jugglers, consisting of two men, a girl, and a child of about three years.

The men were clad in strange, uncouth dresses, with large strings of heavy beads round their necks; the girl was simply and neatly dressed in white, with silver bangles and anklets, and a glittering necklace. It would be impossible to detail all their extraordinary performances, which, however, surpassed anything I had ever seen in that art. The quantity of iron and brass-ware which they contrived to swallow was truly marvellous; tenpenny nails, clasp-knives, and other such like articles were to these natives as so many pieces of pastry or confectionery; and I could readily imagine what havoc they could commit in an ironmongery shop.

Tying up the girl hand and foot with a stout piece of cord, putting her in a close-meshed net; then thrusting her into a wicker basket, and poking the basket through and through with a sharp-pointed sword; then, after a few cabalistic words from the magician, an arm protruded from under the lid of the basket, handing first the net and then the cords; a shrill call from the girl, the basket was opened and found empty!

Such tricks, performed in the midst of a crowd without any apparent appliances, are simply astonishing.

Near the temple all was noise and confusion. It was with great difficulty that I forced my way through the dense crowd, and reached the steps of the sacred shrine. The priest stationed at the entrance made room for me as well as he could, but the pressure inside was intense. Hundreds of men and women pressed eagerly forward to reach the flight of rather steep stone steps which led up to the sacred repository. The progress was so slow that I had ample time to examine and admire the fine antique carved work on the pillars and ceiling of the entrance hall, as well as the pilasters which lined the wide staircase. There is a beauty and finish in these carvings which could not be attained in Ceylon in the present day.

Arrived at length at the inner temple or sacred shrine above, I passed with the crowd between a richly-brocaded curtain, which hung in heavy folds across the entrance at the top of the stairs, and stood before the framed relic of Buddha—or, rather, the jewelled casket which contained it.

Being rather sceptical on the subject of relics, I ascertained that this casket contained a tooth of Buddha! A small donation readily obtained for me a closer examination of the article, and I am now quite prepared to take an affidavit that what I saw had every appearance of a full-grown, sound molar; but at the same time I must beg leave to add that the great eastern prophet must have had a spare set or two at his disposal, inasmuch as, to my certain knowledge, there are several scores of Buddha’s teeth being shown in various parts of the East or China, and history does not mention, that I am aware of, that men—even of the calibre of Buddha—were blessed with more than thirty-two. ArchÆologists, even, do not tell us that dentistry was amongst the learned professions of the ante-Christian era, otherwise it might readily be inferred that this sainted individual had at a moderate outlay been able to distribute “relics” amongst the faithful.

Should I ever have the felicity of being canonized, a relic of your humble servant—similar to that of Buddha—may some day be exhibiting in Ceylon. It happened in this wise. On the day of my departure from the island, wishing to get rid of the Indian coins I had left in my purse, I was bargaining with a hawker for some ebony carvings. His demand was some six or seven rupees in excess of my change. We were both anxious to deal, but I was firmly determined not to part with any more gold. My dressing-case lay open on the table, and in it was—a front TOOTH, set in gold, which I had long discarded as a misfit! The metal attracted the native’s keen eye, and he said—“Give me this; you can have another ‘elephant’ with what you have already selected.” The bargain was struck, and, as I said, who knows what that tooth of mine might be turned into? There are many temples of Buddha that may want a relic. Here, as it is elsewhere, C’est la foi qui sauve.

I felt disappointed at the spectacle here, arising, perhaps, from my taking no interest in the religious ceremony I did not understand, and looking at it merely as an empty show.

The strong glare of hundreds of lamps; the heat, and crowding of so many in so small a place; the sickly perfume of the piles of Buddha flowers heaped before the shrine by the pilgrims; the deafening, discordant din of a score of tom-toms and vile, screeching pipes—made me glad enough to descend the stairs, and, giving a rupee to the priest at the door, to escape once more into the glorious fresh air outside.

Being bent on a thoroughly religious pilgrimage, I left the votaries of Saman, and, following another crowd of a slightly darker colour, I made my way into the Hindoo temple, another gaily decorated and over-crowded building.

Here, to the sound of much music, and by the light of many flaring lamps, a group of young dancing girls were delighting the motley crowd. There were three of them—one a finely-made creature, with graceful movements; the others younger, stouter, but far less pleasing. A great deal of pains and expense had evidently been taken with their dress, which, in embroidery of gold and jewels was, I am credibly informed, worth some hundreds of pounds! The graceful little jacket of one of these dancers sparkled and glittered with an article, to me, quite new in the way of ornament. Along the edge of a pure white garment shone a whole row of “fire-flies,” which by some ingenious contrivance had been inserted in the hem of the dress, and gave a strange but pleasing novelty to the appearance of her attire as the girl swept gracefully round in slow and measured steps. The music to which these people dance is anything but pleasing to an European ear—indeed, there is scarcely any sign of a tune in it—yet they contrive to measure their mazy and intricate dance by its notes with admirable precision, singing whilst they dance a monotonous nasal song, the words being extemporised by the dancer. In this instance, whilst the girl was twisting and turning before me, a Singalese gentleman informed me the theme of her song was a welcome to the white-faced stranger—a compliment which, even in Kandy, implies a “backsheesh” for the Nautch girl as well as the musicians.

Leaving the dancers and priests, I strolled towards the adjoining lake and the broad drive which winds round it. It was one of those lovely moonlight nights of the tropics which baffle description; the palm-shaded banks of the placid sheet of water stood out in the sweetest contrast to the noisy revelry I had just left. The moon was near the full, and rising above the many rich green topes and drooping plantains, lit up the peaceful scene with marvellous radiance. The master-hand of our finest painter might attempt to draw such a picture, but his attempt would be a signal failure.

The next day the bazaars were crowded with dealers in, and buyers of, precious stones. Thousands of Moormen, Chetties, Arabs, Parsees, and Singalese were busily employed in the barter, and a more noisy crowd I never met with—not even at the Paris Bourse, which I always looked upon as the nearest approach to what I imagine Pandemonium must be like.

In this crowd I for the first time saw some Hindoo fakirs, most repulsive objects, depending for subsistence on the alms of the faithful. One of these wretched creatures, in the fulfilment of a vow, or as an act of atonement and righteousness, had held his left arm for so many years erect above his head, that it could not now be moved, and grew transfixed, emaciated, and bony. It looked more like a dry, withered stick, tied to the body, than a part of the body itself.

Another fakir had closed one of his hands for so long that the finger nails had cut through the palm. These miserable objects appeared to do a good trade to judge from the number of pilgrims who contributed alms in response to their importunate begging.

ON the following day, at the table d’hÔte of the Queen’s Hotel, I was not a little surprised to meet Herr Bandman and Miss Beaudet. My surprise became still greater when he informed me that he had come expressly to Kandy to give the good people of that city a “Shakespearian treat”—Hamlet!!—in the large room of the Town Hall, under the most distinguished patronage of His Excellency the Governor, and the noble guests of His Excellency, who were His Highness the Duke of Mecklemburgh, his Grace the Duke of Portland, and——your humble servant!

When I enquired from Bandman whom he had to assist him in his play, he coolly replied—

“Well, you see, I cannot travel with a company; it would not pay. I trust to what I can pick up on my way. Of course, MY Hamlet is unsurpassed, and Miss Beaudet is THE Ophelia par excellence.”

This, I must say, did not prepossess me for the great Shakespearian treat promised. However, the Governor having purposely advanced his usual dinner hour, we proceeded with all vice-regal pomp and escort to the Town Hall, which, of course, in accordance with the liberal amount of billing the wily tragedian made of the distinguished patronage, was crammed to suffocation, though the seats were £1 1s and 10s 6d.

Shall I ever forget that night? The proscenium, a raised platform at the end of the hall; the curtain, several strips of sacking rudely sewn together; the orchestra, a poor, invalided piano, evidently suffering from some dreadful inner complaint, and even in that sad condition tortured by a most indifferent amateur. When the curtain rose—I might say when “the rag was hoisted up”—the scene displayed a further supply of the same material, which some native artist had very late that day attempted to distemper with some very doubtful colouring.

Herr Bandman, gorgeously dressed in black velvet covered with shiny jet ornaments, and most irreproachably got up to represent the demented Prince of Denmark, came to the few smoky lamps intended as footlights and made an apologetic speech, conveying to the audience that owing to disappointments and difficulties he was placed in a most awkward predicament. In fact, as he said, “he had heard how very difficult it had proved for former theatrical managers to play ‘Hamlet’ without the Prince of Denmark, but in this instance he could and would give us the Prince of Denmark, but was unable to produce any other characters of ‘Hamlet’ except Ophelia; and that if we would be content with an hour’s ‘scraps’ from ‘Hamlet,’ he and Miss Beaudet would endeavour to fill the gap by the substitution of a screaming farce—‘The Happy Pair’—in which only two characters were needed.” I must confess that after all we had no reason to complain. The rendering of the two Shakespearian parts were admirably done, and “The Happy Pair” well worthy of a more appreciative audience, considering that except in our party, I doubt if one in ten could follow the dialogue. I need not say that Herr Bandman did not attempt a second representation. He made a good haul on that night. The following morning he discovered that the tropical temperature did not agree with him, and that he had made tracks for some other locality, better provided with Shakespearian performers.

IN order to give his distinguished guests a taste of the sports of Ceylon, the Governor ordered that preparations be made for an elephant hunt. When the fact became known the whole district became alive with excitement. Nothing was talked of except the approaching kraal; half the town would be there. All arrangements having been made, a large number of servants, gaily dressed and turbanned, accompanied by a swarm of coolies bearing provisions, bedding, tents, and other comforts, were sent ahead the day before; and at daylight on the following morning we made a start. The whole day we travelled first by rail, then on horseback, and late at night halted at a native village near the scene of the sport. When we left the village we needed no pilot to guide us to the locality, for the narrow road was crowded with travellers hastening in the one direction—every description of vehicle, from His Highness’s light tandem to the native bullock hackery with its ungreased, squeaking wheels.

The scene at the village was singularly strange and exciting. It was close to the banks of a river, the name of which I cannot now recall to my mind; it was, however, a stream of some size and rapidity. Along the palm-shaded shore were moored numberless boats—many of them large, flat, up-country barges, or padÉ boats, containing whole families, who evidently lived in the hut built on the deck of these barges. The best of the village huts had been taken up, whitewashed, and made comfortable for the “distinguished visitors”; the doors were decorated with strips of red and white cloth, flowers, and pale green leaves of the cocoa palm. When lighted up for the evening they looked extremely picturesque; and, thanks to the excellent management of the servants sent ahead, our quarters—and more particularly the commissariat—were excellent in every respect. Nothing had been neglected, even to an ample supply of ice.

It took quite another day to complete the preparations for the “kraal,” which, literally translated, means a trap—the elephants being caught by partly driving, partly enticing them within a large enclosure or trap. This is, of course, a much safer sport than elephant stalking or shooting—a risk which His Excellency did not wish the two young gentlemen under his charge to run.

Day had barely broken next morning when we were afoot, and having despatched a hurried “chota hazery,” as the first meal is called in all parts of India, we started to explore the wonders of the kraal, followed, of course, by a bevy of servants with guns, ammunition, baskets, boxes, hampers, and innumerable articles of comfort which accompany all white men, even in the densest jungle, throughout the East.

The neighbourhood in which the kraal was formed consisted of rugged, undulating ground, pretty thickly covered with heavy jungle. Low forest trees studded the stony land, interwoven with thorny brambles, cacti, bamboos, and a species of gigantic creeping plant, appropriately called jungle-rope, for it is strong enough to stop the progress of a buffalo. A number of narrow paths had been cut by the coolies leading from the village to the kraal.

About an hour brought us to a halt; we were at the kraal. I looked carefully round, but the only indications of the industry of man I could trace in that wild spot were sundry covered platforms raised amongst the leafy branches of trees some twelve or fifteen feet from the ground. These places were provided with seats, and on some I noticed visitors had already secured a safe and snug place where they could patiently wait for the game and, as they felt inclined, watch the poor brutes fall into the trap, or take a safe shot at their vulnerable points. Neither of these do I call sport. If it be necessary to secure this noble, intelligent, useful animal, let him be trapped; but I certainly fail to see much fun or sport in sitting on a platform, up a tree, and, in cold blood, riddling an inoffensive, unsuspecting animal with bullets. In the open jungle, where he has his chance of escape, or even of revenge, it is a different matter.

However, I am not a sportsman. I hate fire-arms, abhor powder, and shudder at dynamite. I came to this hunt, and, being in it, had better bottle up my sentiments and look on.

The novelty of the situation, the wild solitude of the jungle around us, the picturesque appearance of the many groups of natives within and about the kraal, and the sundry references to the baskets and hampers, all helped to make the day pass away quickly and pleasantly. Evening, however, brought with it a general debate as to what should be done, for there was still no sign of game being near, and very few of us desired to spend the night in that open spot, which, with the setting of the sun, lost a good deal of its attractiveness. The discussion ended by an adjournment to the village and padÉ boats, where we spent another night and slept soundly.

The following day was spent pretty much as had been the first. Some of our party gave strong signs of impatience. I was getting thoroughly disgusted. Lord Portland proposed that we should “move on” and, as he termed it, “shoot the beggars” if we fell in with them. There were evident and unmistakable signs of a mutiny when, towards evening, scouts arrived from the driving posts with injunctions to hold everything in readiness, for the herd were coming on. The torches, which had been already lit up to dispel the growing gloom, were put out. The moon was rising; every tongue was hushed, eyes were eagerly strained towards the opening through which the elephants were expected to rush; every ear was stretched to catch the most remote sounds in that direction. One might have fancied, from the death-like silence that prevailed, that we were awaiting our own fate instead of that of the elephants.

We did not wait long in suspense. A distant shouting burst suddenly upon our startled ears; it drew rapidly nearer, and soon we could discern the violent cracking and snapping of branches of trees and low jungle; then we heard the quick tramp of many huge and ponderous feet. There was no doubt but that the poor animals were close upon us, for torches were now visible in the distance and in the direction from which they were coming. Indeed, the distant jungle appeared to be alive with lights.

Every man looked to his arms, such as they were; and I verily believe that some of our party joined mutually with me in the wish that the “thing” was over. It was, however, too late for reflection. It was quite evident that we were getting into the “gravy of it” now. Our eyes were fixed upon the moving and rapidly-approaching lights. They appeared to burn up brightly as they came nearer; then some disappeared, and soon the whole were extinguished—all was in darkness. Still on came the now furious monsters. Bamboos crashed; the thick jungle flew about in splinters; a heavy tramping and tearing and snapping of branches, and they were safely within the kraal. Then arose from the natives a shout as if heaven and earth were about to meet. I leant forward from my perch to catch a peep at the enemy; torches were again lighted to enable us to witness the proceedings, when a volley of loud imprecations and some hard knocks, freely distributed amongst the hapless and half-dead coolies, added to a renewal of the heavy tramping, growing fainter every moment, showed us that the elephants had proved too cunning or too strong for their captors. They had burst through the enclosure, and were now making their way back to their haunts in the jungle.

I had quite enough of elephant catching. My noble companions, being bent on sport, left me to enjoy a days’ dolce far niente in the village, whilst they, under proper escort, followed on the trail. They afterwards related to me that on the evening of the following day they picked up the herd in an open prairie, where, no doubt, they were enjoying a rest after the hard drive of the previous days. A freshly-cut elephant’s tail, to be carried home as a trophy, seemed to satisfy his lordship for the days’ hard travelling. The victim of this cruel sport, unfortunately for “the conquering hero,” had no tusks to bequeath to his slayer.

Later on I shall have to relate Indian sports, but I cannot refrain from again saying that I think it is almost unwarrantable to destroy useful, inoffensive animal life for mere sport; and whilst I thoroughly enjoyed the trip, the wholesale picnic, of this elephant hunt, I would have been much more pleased had it ended at the bursting of the kraal; but I suppose it would not have satisfied my companions’ chacun À son gÔut. The noble lord carried home his tail—I carried back mine, which I give you for what it is worth. Spell it as you like.

I am dwelling a long while on my reminiscences of Ceylon. But I told you before, Ceylon is my pet country, and this was my first long stay there.

Through the very great hospitality and kindness of my friend Mr. Ferguson, and the guidance of his brother (the late Mr. William Ferguson), I had many opportunities of seeing a good deal of “life in Ceylon,” and to study the quaint yet homely ways of the people. Amongst other “home scenes” which Mr. William Ferguson enabled me to be present at, one is well worthy of a place in these pages. It was the wedding party of his head cook. This narrative, with two or three others, have been already published; but I think they should find a place in this little volume, and I therefore throw them in amongst my “Shavings,” as they form part and parcel of my recollections of bygone days.

IN some parts of the East, and especially in the island of Ceylon, there are many old customs which the progress of civilisation has not as yet effaced; and happily so, for they serve to keep up a kind of friendly feeling between the different classes and races of the country. One of these time-honoured customs is the presence of European or burgher employers at the weddings or family festivals of their native servants, who seldom omit inviting their masters and families on such occasions. Being the guest of an old resident of Colombo, I received an invitation to be present at the nuptials of his head cook, a Singalese of good ancestry, who, it appeared, was to be united to the ayah or waiting-maid of a neighbour. They were both Catholics, and, as such, were to be married at one of the churches with which the native section of the town abounds. From some cause, my host could not attend on the eventful day. I was, therefore, left to make my way alone to the happy scene, which I learnt lay at some distance from his bungalow, at the further end of the long, straggling outskirts.

Noon was the appointed time, the Church of Saint Nicholas the place; and in order that I might examine the locality I was about to visit, and which was entirely new to me, I left my quarters soon after our breakfast of rice and curry. It was a truly tropical day; the sea-breeze had not commenced to blow, and the cool land-wind had been fairly done up an hour since. In mercy to the horse and the runner by his side, I ordered the man to drive slowly. The sky seemed hot and coppery—too warm to look blue; and the great orb of light and heat had a sort of lacquered hue that was oppressive in the extreme. Round the great lake, past the dry, stagnant, putrid fort-ditch, to that part of the Black Town known as Sea street. How different from the quiet, broad Dutch streets, or the cool, shady lanes, and their fine old burgher mansions! Here all was dust, and dirt, and heat. A dense crowd of people, of many of the nations of the East, was passing to and fro, not, as with us, along the pavement—for there was no foot-way—but horses, bullocks, carriages, donkeys, and human beings, all hurried along pell-mell: Arabs, Moormen, Chinese, Parawas, Singalese, Kandyans, Malays, Chitties, Parsees, and Bengalis, were jostling each other in strange confusion. I shuddered as I beheld a brace of over-heated bullocks in an empty cart rush madly past me into the midst of a whole host of men, women, and children; but, strange to tell, no one seemed any the worse. There was, to be sure, a little rubbing of shins, and a good deal of Oriental swearing on the occasion, but no more. A vicious horse broke away from his Arab leader, dashed across a narrow street, and down a narrow turning, where women and children seemed to be literally paving the way; the furious animal bounded over and amongst the living pavement, knocking down children of tender years, and scattering elderly females right and left, but still harmlessly. I felt puzzled at this, and concluded that they were “used to it.”

The thronged street, along which I was slowly travelling, appeared to be the only thoroughfare of any length, shape, or breadth. From it diverged, on all sides, hundreds of dwarf carriage-ways—turnings that had been lanes in their younger days. They were like the Maze at Hampton Court—done in mud and masonry. I have often heard of crack skaters cutting out their names upon the frozen Serpentine; and, as I peeped up some of these curious, zigzag places, it seemed as though the builders had been actuated by a similar desire, and had managed to work their names and pedigrees in huts, and verandahs, and dwarf-walls. Into these strange quarters few, if any, Europeans ever care to venture; the sights and the effluvia are such as they prefer avoiding, with the thermometer standing at boiling-point in the sun. Curiosity, however, got the better of my caution; and, descending from my vehicle, I leisurely strolled up one of these densely-packed neighbourhoods, much to the annoyance of my horsekeeper, who tried hard in broken English to dissuade me from the excursion. Whether it be that the native families multiply here more rapidly, in dark and foul places, I know not; but never had I seen so many thrown together in so small a space. Boys and girls abounded in every corner. As I passed up this hot, dusty, crooked lane of huts, the first burst of the cool sea-breeze came up from the beach, glowing with health and life. I looked to see how many doors and windows would be gladly flung open to catch the first of the westerly wind, and chase away the hot, damp, sickly air within; but I looked in vain. Not a door creaked on its rusty hinges, not a window relaxed its close hold of the frame; the glorious light of day was not to be permitted to shine upon the foul walls and floors of those wretched hovels.

There was business, however, going on here and there. The fisher and his boy were patching up an old worm-eaten canoe, ready for the morrow’s toil; another son was hard at work upon the net that lay piled up in the little dirty verandah. Next door was a very small shoe-maker, sharing the little front courtyard with a cooper, who did not appear to be working at anything in particular, but was rather disposed to soliloquise upon buckets and tubs in general, and to envy the hearty meal which a couple of crows were making of a dead rat in the street. Farther on was a larger building, but clearly on its last legs, for it was held up by numberless crutches. It was not considered safe to hold merchandise of any description; and, as the owner did not desire the trouble and expense of pulling it down, he had let it out to a Malay, who allowed strangers to sleep in it on payment of a small nightly fee. As I passed by, a crowd of poor Malabars, just arrived from the opposite coast of India, were haggling for terms for a night’s lodging for the party, and not without sundry misgivings, for some looked wistfully at the tottering walls, and pointed with violent gestures to the many props.

Wending my slow way back towards the main street, I came upon a busy carpenter’s shop—a perfect model of its kind. In this country some carpenters are also carriage-builders, and the place I then stopped to examine was the home of one of these. It was a long, low, rambling shed, such as we might consider good enough to hold cinders or firewood. The leaf-thatched roof had been patched in many places with tattered matting; the crazy posts were undermined by the pigs in the next yard, where they share the dirt and the sun with a heap of wretched children, and a score of starving dogs. Every kind of conveyance that had been invented since the Flood appeared to have a damaged representative in that strange place. Children’s shattered donkey-carriages, spavined old breaks, and rickety tricycles of the Portuguese period; hackeries of the early Malabar dynasty, palanquins of Singalese descent, Dutch governors’ carriages, English gigs—were all pent up, with irrecoverable cart-wheels, distorted carriage-poles, and consumptive springs. Had I possessed any antiquarian experience, I doubt not I should have discovered amongst the mass an Assyrian chariot or two, with a few Delhi howdahs. The master-mind of this coach-factory was a genuine Singalese who, in company with a slender youth, was seated on his haunches upon the ground, chisel in hand, contemplating, but not working at, a felloe for some embryo vehicle. After one or two chips at the round block of wood between his feet, Jusey Appoo paused, arranged the circular comb in his hair, and took another mouthful of betel; then another chip at the wood; and then he rose, sauntered to the door, and looked very hard up the little lane and down it, as though he momentarily expected some dreadful accident to happen to somebody’s carriage in the next street.

Once more in my vehicle, I threaded the entire length of Sea street, with its little dirty shops; the sickly-smelling arrack-taverns; the quaint old Hindu temple, bedecked with flowers and flags inside, and with dirt outside; and the whitewashed Catholic churches. Little bells were tinkling at these churches; huge gongs were booming forth their brazen thunder from the heathen temples; there was a devil-dance in one house to charm away some sickness, and a Jesuit in the next hovel confessing a dying man. There was a chorus of many tiny lungs at a Tamil school, chanting out their daily lessons in dreary verse; and a wilder, older chorus at the arrack-shop just over the way, without any pretence to time or tune. The screams of bullock-drivers; the shouts of horse-keepers; the vociferations of loaded coolies; the screeching of rusty cart-wheels begging to be greased; the din of the discordant checkoo or oil-mill—all blended in one violent storm of sound—made me glad to hasten on my way, and leave the maddening chorus far behind. The open beach, with its tall fringe of graceful cocoa-palms, and its cool breeze, was doubly welcome. I was sorry when we left it, and drove slowly up a steep hill, on the summit of which stood the Church of St. Nicholas—my destination.

A busy scene was there. Long strings of curious-looking vehicles were ranged outside the tall white church—so white and shiny in the sun that the bullocks in the hackeries dared not look up at it. I felt quite strange amongst all the motley throng; and when I stared about and beheld those many carts, and palanquins, and hackeries, I fancied myself back again in Jusey Appoo’s coach-factory. But then these were all gaily painted, and some were actually varnished, and had red staring curtains, and clean white cushions, and radiant little lamps. Nearer the church were some half-a-dozen carriages with horses—poor enough of their kind, but still horses with real tails. I glided in amongst the crowd, unnoticed, as I too fondly believed; and was about to take up a very humble position just inside one of the great folding-doors, when I was accosted by a lofty Singalese in gold buttons and flowing robes, with a gigantic comb in his hair, and politely led away captive, I knew not whither. Down one side-aisle, and across a number of seats, and then up another long aisle; and to my utter discomfiture I found myself installed, on the spot, in the unenviable position of the “lion” of the day’s proceedings. To a person of modest temperament this was a most trying ordeal. There was not another white face there. Cookey had been disappointed, it seemed, in his other patrons, and knowing of my intended visit, had waited for my appearance to capture me, and thus add to the brilliancy of the scene.

I bowed to the bride with as little appearance of uneasiness as I could manage; but when I turned to the bridegroom, I had nearly forgotten my mortification in a burst of laughter. The tall, uncouth fellow had exchanged his wonted not ungraceful drapery for a sort of long frock-coat of blue cloth, thickly bedecked with gay gilt buttons, and sham gold-lace; some kind of a broad belt of a gaudy colour hung across his shoulders; he wore boots, evidently far too short for him, which made him walk in pain; and, to complete the absurdity of his attire, huge glittering rings covered half of his hands. The lady was oppressed with jewellery which, on these occasions, is let out on hire. She seemed unable to bend or turn for the mass of ornaments about her. White satin shoes and silk stockings gave a perfect finish to her bridal attire.

As the party marched up to the priest, I felt as a captive in chains gracing a Roman triumph. No one of all that crowd looked at the bride: they had evidently agreed among themselves to stare only at me. I felt that I was the bride, and the father, and the best man—in fact, everybody of any importance rolled into one. I looked around once; and what a strange scene it was in the long white church! There were hundreds of black faces, all looking one way—at me—but I did not see their faces; I saw only their white eyes glistening in the bright noon-day sun, that came streaming through the great open windows, as though purposely to show me off. I wished it had been midnight. I hoped fervently that some of the hackery bullocks would break loose, and rush into the church, and clear me a way out. I know nothing of how the marriage was performed, or whether it was performed at all; I was thinking too much of making my escape. But in a very short time by the clock, though terrifically long to me, I found myself gracing the Roman triumph on my way out. The fresh air rather recovered me; and what with the drollery of handing the cook’s wife into the cook’s carriage, and the excitement of the busy scene, and the scrambling for hackeries, and the galloping about of unruly bullocks, I felt determined to finish the day’s proceedings. I knew the worst.

I followed the happy couple in my vehicle, succeeded by a long line of miscellaneous conveyances, drawn by all sorts of animals. Away we went at a splitting pace, knocking up the hot dust and knocking down whole regiments of pigs and children, up one hill and down another, as best our animals could carry us. At last there was a halt. I peeped out of my carriage, and found that we were before a gaily decorated and flower-festooned bungalow, of humble build—the house of the conjugal cook. Up drove all the bullock hackeries, and the gigs, and the carts, but no one offered to alight. Suddenly a host of people rushed out of the little house in the greatest possible haste. They brought out a long strip of white cloth, and at once placed it between the bride’s carriage and the house, for her to walk upon. Still there was no move made from any of the carriages, and I began to feel rather warm. At length a native came forward from the verandah, gun in hand, I supposed to give the signal to alight. The man held it at arm’s length, turned away his head—as though admiring some of our carriages—and “snap” went the flint; but in vain. Fresh priming was placed in the pan, the warrior once more admired our carriages, and again the “snap” was impotent. Somebody volunteered a pin for the touch-hole, another suggested more powder to the charge, whilst a third brought out a lighted stick. The pin and the extra charge were duly acted upon. The weapon was grasped, the carriages were admired more ardently than before, the firestick was applied to the priming, and an explosion of undoubted reality followed. The warrior was stretched on his back. Half the hackery bullocks started and plunged out of their trappings, while the other half bolted. To add to the dire confusion, my villainous steed began to back very rapidly towards a steep bank, on the edge of which stood a quiet, old-fashioned pony, in a gig with two spruce natives seated in it. Before they could move away, my horse had backed into the pony chaise, and the last I saw of them at that time was an indistinct and rather mixed view of the two white-robed youths and the old-fashioned pony and chaise performing various somersaults into the grass-swamp at the base of the bank.

Glad to escape from the contemplation of my misdeeds, I followed the bridal party into the little house. Slowly alighting from her vehicle, the lady was received by a host of busy relations, some of whom commenced salaaming to her; some scattered showers of curiously-cut fragments of coloured and gilt paper over her and her better half—probably intended to represent the seeds of their future chequered happiness and troubles; and then, by way of inducing the said seed to germinate, somebody sprinkled over the couple a copious down-pouring of rose-water. The little front verandah of the dwelling was completely hidden beneath a mass of decorations of flowers, fruits, and leaves, giving it at first sight the appearance of a cross between a fairy-bower and a Covent Garden fruit-stall. The living, dark stream poured into the fairy bower, and rather threatened the floral arrangements outside; the door-way was quickly jammed up with the cook’s nearest and dearest relatives of both sexes; while the second cousins and half-uncles and aunts blocked up the little trap-door of a window with their grizzly, grinning visages. The room we were in was not many feet square—calculated to hold, perhaps, a dozen persons in ordinary comfort; but, on this occasion, compelled to welcome within its festive mud-walls at least forty. A small oval table was in the centre, a dozen or so of curiously-shaped chairs were ranged about the sides, in the largest of which the bride was seated. The poor creature was evidently but ill at ease—so stiff and heavily-laden with ornaments. The bridegroom was invisible, and I felt bound to wait upon the lady in his absence. The little darkened cell was becoming fearfully hot; indistinct ideas of the Black Hole of Calcutta rose to my heated imagination. A feverish feeling crept over me, not a little enhanced by the Oriental odours from things and persons about me. The breeze, when it did manage to squeeze itself in, brought with it the sickly perfume of the myriads of flowers and leaves outside. Upon the whole, the half hour or so which elapsed between our arrival and the repast, was a period of intense misery to me, and vast enjoyment to the cook’s family circle. There was nothing to while away the hot minutes. I had to look alternately at the bride, the company, and the ceiling; the company stared at myself and the lady; while she, in her turn, looked at the floor hard enough to penetrate through the bricks to the foundation below. In the first instance I had foolishly pictured the breakfast, or whatever the meal was to be, set forth upon some grassy spot in the rear of the premises, under the pleasant shade of palms and mangoe trees.

But the vulgar crowd must be kept off by walls; and the little oval table in the centre was to receive the privileged few, and to shut out the unprivileged many. Dishes reeking hot, and soup-tureens in a state of vapour, were passed into the room, over the heads of the mob; for there was no forcing a way through them. A long pause, and then some more steaming dishes, and then another pause, and some rice-plates; and at last, struggling and battling amidst the army of relations, the bridegroom made his appearance—very hot and very shiny, evidently reeking from the kitchen. He had slipped on his blue cloth, many-buttoned coat, and smiled at his wife and the assembled company as though he would have us believe he was quite cool and comfortable.

It devolved upon me to hand, or rather drag the bride to one end of the table; opposite to whom sat her culinary lord and master, as dignified and important as though his monthly income had been ten guineas instead of ten rix-dollars. I seated myself next to the lady of the hut, and resigned myself to my fate; escape was out of the question. Nothing short of fire, or the falling in of the roof, could have saved me. Our rickety chairs were rendered firm and secure as the best London-made mahogany-seats by the continuous, unrelenting pressure of the dense mob behind and around us. The little room seemed built of faces; you might have danced a polka or a waltz on the heads of the company with perfect security. As for the window-trap, I could see nothing but bright, shining eyes through it.

The covers were removed, as covers are intended to be; but, instead of curiously-arranged and many-coloured dishes of pure and unadulterated Sinhalese cookery, as I had, in the early part of the day, fondly hoped, there appeared upon them a few overdone, dried up joints a l’Anglaise; a skinny, consumptive baked shoulder of mutton; a hard-looking boiled leg of a goat; a shrivelled spare-rib of beef; a turkey that might have died of jungle-fever; and a wooden kind of dry, lean ham, with sundry vegetables, made up this sad and melancholy show. All my gastronomic hopes, so long cherished amidst that heated assemblage, vanished with the dish-covers, and left me a miserable and dejected being. Ten minutes previously, I had felt the pangs of wholesome hunger, and was prepared to do my utmost; at that moment I only felt empty and sick. Could I have reached the many-buttoned cook, I might have been tempted to have done him some bodily harm; but I could not move. The host had the wretch of a turkey before him. Well up to the knife-and-fork exercise, he whipped off from the breast of the skinny bird two slices of the finest meat—the only really decent cuts about it—and then, pushing the dish on to his next neighbour, begged him to help himself. Of course, I had to attend to the hostess. I gave her a slice of the sinewy, lean ham before me, with two legs of a native fowl, and began to think of an attempt upon the boiled mutton for myself; but there was no peace for me yet. The bride had never before used a knife and fork, and, in her desperate attempts to insert the latter into one of the fowl’s legs, sent it with a bound into my waistcoat, accompanied by a shower of gravy, and a drizzling rain of melted butter and garlic. Feeling more resigned to my fate, I proceeded to cut up her ham and chicken, and then fancied the task was done; but not so. Her dress was so tight, the ornaments so encompassed her as with a suit of armour, that all her attempts to reach her mouth with her fork were abortive. To bend her arm was evidently impossible. Once she managed to get a piece of ham as high as her chin; but it cost her violent fractures in several parts of her dress; so that I became alarmed for what might possibly happen, and begged her not to think of doing it again, offering to feed her myself. Feverish, thirsty, and weary as I felt at that table, I could scarcely suppress a smile when I found myself, spoon in hand, administering portions of food to the newly-made wife. Never having had, at that period of my existence, any experience in feeding babies, or other living creatures, I felt at first much embarrassed, somewhat as a man might feel who, only accustomed to shave himself, tries, for the first time in his life, to remove the beard of some friend in a public assembly. Fortunately for me, the lady was blessed with a rather capacious mouth; and, as I raised, tremblingly and in doubt, a pyramid of fowl, ham, and onions, upon the bowl of the Brittania-metal spoon, my patient distended her jaws in a friendly and hopeful manner.

During my spoon performances I was much startled at hearing, close to our door, the loud report of several guns fired in quick succession. I imagined at first that the military had been called out to disperse the mob, but as nobody gave signs of any alarm or uneasiness, that could not have been the case; so I settled in my mind that the friends of the family were shooting some game for the evening’s supper. All that I partook of at that bridal party was a small portion of very lean, dry beef, and some badly boiled potatoes, washed down by a draught of hard, sour beer. I essayed some of the pastry, for it had a bright and cheerful look, and was evidently very light. I took a mouthful of some description of sugared puff, light to the feel, and pleasant to look at, but in reality a most heartless deception—a sickly piece of deceit: it was evidently a composition of bean-flour, brown sugar, stale eggs, and cocoanut oil—the latter, although burning very brilliantly in lamps, and serviceable as a dressing to the hair, not being quite equal to Lucca oil when fried or baked. To swallow such an abomination was impossible, and, watching my opportunity, I contrived at length to convey my savoury mouthful beneath the table. This vile pastry was succeeded by a plentiful crop of fruit of all kinds, from pine-apples to dates. Hecatombs of oranges, pyramids of plantains, shoals of sour-sops, mounds of mangoes, to say nothing of alligator pears, rhambatams, custard apples, guavas, jamboes, and other fruit, as varied in name and taste as in hue and form, graced that hitherto graceless board. I had marked for immediate incorporation a brace of custard apples, and a glowing, corpulent alligator-pear, and was even on the point of securing them before attending to my dark neighbour, when a loud shout, followed by a confused hubbub, was heard outside in front. There was a cracking of whips and a rattling of carriage-wheels, and altogether a huge commotion in the street, which at once put an end to our dessert, and attracted attention from the inside to the exterior of the house. My spirits revived from zero to summer-heat, and thence up to blood-heat, when I learnt that the arrivals were a batch of “Europe gentlemen,” friends of the cook’s master, who had come just to have a passing peep at the bride and the fun. Their approach was made known by sundry explanations in the English language, and a noise as of scuffling at the door. How our new friends were to get in was a mystery to me, nor did the host appear to have any very distinct ideas upon the subject. He rose from his seat, and, with his mouth full of juicy pine apple, ordered a way to be cleared for the “great masters;” but he might as well have requested his auditory to become suddenly invisible, or to pass out through the key-hole. There was no such thing as giving way. A few of the first cousins grinned, and one or two maternal uncles coughed audibly, while the eyes of the distant relations at the window were glistening more intensely, and in greater numbers than ever. The stock of British patience, as I rather expected, was quickly exhausted, and in a minute or two I perceived near the door some white faces that were familiar to me at a certain regimental mess-table. Uncles and brothers-in-law were rapidly at a discount, and there appeared every prospect of mere connexions by marriage becoming relations by blood. Some giant of a native ventured upon the hazardous speculation of collaring an officer who was squeezing past him, and received a friendly and admonitory tap in return, which at once put him hors de combat. The cook, enraged at the rudeness of his countryman, dealt a shower of knocks amongst his family circle; the visitors stormed the approaches, and at last carried the covered way; Singalese gentry struggled and pushed, and tried in vain to repel the invaders; the fair sex screamed, and tried to escape; the mÊlÉe became general and furious. I gave my whole attention to the bride, who kept her seat in the utmost alarm; her husband was the centre of attraction to the combatants, and in the midst of a sort of “forlorn hope” of the native forces, the heavily loaded table was forced from its centre of gravity. Staggering and groaning beneath the united pressure from fruit and fighting, the wooden fabric reeled and tottered, and at last went toppling over, amidst a thunder-storm of vegetable productions. It was in vain I pulled at the unhappy bride to save her—she was a doomed woman, and was swept away with the fruity flood. When I sought her amidst the wreck and confusion, I could only discover heaps of damaged oranges, sour-sops, and custard-apples, her white satin shoes, the Chinese fan, and the four silver meat-skewers. By dint of sundry excavations, the lady was fairly dug out of the ruins and carried off by her female friends; the room was cleared of the rebellious Singalese, and a resolution carried unanimously that the meeting be adjourned to the compound or garden at the back. Under the pleasant shade of a tope of beautiful palms, we sat and partook of the remains of the feast. The relations, once more restored to good humour, amused themselves in their own fashion, preparing for the dancing, and festivity, and illuminations that were to take place in the evening. We sat there until some time after sunset, and when I had seen the great cocoa-nut shells, with their flaring wicks, lighted up, and the tom-toms begin to assemble, I deemed it prudent to retire and seek a wholesome meal at the hotel.

TO dwellers in Ceylon, the cocoanut palm calls up a wide range of ideas. It associates itself with nearly every want and convenience of native life. It might tempt a Singalese villager to assert that if he were placed upon the earth with nothing else whatever to minister to his necessities than the cocoa-nut tree, he could pass his existence in happiness and contentment.

When he has felled one of those trees after it has ceased bearing (say in its seventieth year), with its trunk he builds his hut and his bullock-stall, which he thatches with its leaves. His bolts and bars are slips of the bark, by which he also suspends the small shelf which holds his stock of home-made utensils and vessels. He fences his little plot of chillies, tobacco, and fine grain with the leaf-stalks. The infant is swung to sleep in a rude net of coir-string made from the husk of the fruit; its meal of rice and scraped cocoanut is boiled over a fire of cocoanut shells and husks, and is eaten off a dish formed of the plaited green leaves of the trees, with a spoon cut out of the nut-shell. When he goes a-fishing by torchlight his net is of cocoanut fibre; the torch, or chule is a bundle of dried cocoanut leaves and flower-stalks; the little canoe is the trunk of the cocoa-palm tree, hollowed by his own hands. He carries home his net and string of fish on a yoke, or pingo, formed of a cocoanut stalk. When he is thirsty, he drinks of the fresh juice of the young nut; when he is hungry, he eats its soft kernel. If he have a mind to be merry, he sips a glass of arrack, distilled from the fermented juice, and he flavours his curry with vinegar made from this toddy. Should he be sick, his body will be rubbed with cocoanut oil; he sweetens his coffee with jaggery, or cocoanut sugar, and softens it with cocoanut milk; it is sipped by the light of a lamp constructed from a cocoanut shell, and fed by cocoanut oil. His doors, his windows, his shelves, his chairs, the water-gutter under the eaves, are all made from the wood of the tree. His spoons, his forks, his basins, his mugs, his salt-cellars, his jars, his child’s money-box, are all constructed from the shell of the nut. Over his couch when first born, and over his grave when buried, a bunch of cocoanut blossoms is hung, to charm away evil spirits.

This palm is assiduously cultivated in Ceylon, in topes or plantations; and it was long believed that the rude native system of culture was the best, but experience has shown the fallacy of this opinion. Hence, the Singalese continue to find the manual labour, but the Englishman provides skill and implements.

There is a good road to within a couple of miles of the plantation I am about to describe, so that the visitor has little difficulty in performing this much of the journey. The remaining two miles lie through a sandy track of very flat and rather uninteresting country. Here and there, amidst a maze of paddy fields, areca nut topes, and patches of low, thorny jungle, are dotted little white-walled huts. They are much cleaner than any such near the towns of Ceylon; attached to each is a small slip of ground, rudely fenced, and half cultivated, with a few sweet potatoes, some chillies, and a little tobacco and fine grain. It was mid-day when I started on foot to this estate. The sun was blazing above in unclouded glory. Under the shade of a bread-fruit tree, the owner of the first hut I got to was dozing and chewing betel-nut, evidently tasting, in anticipation, the bliss of Buddha’s paradise. The wife was pounding up something for curry; the children were by her side—the boys smoking tiny cheroots, the girls twisting mats. It was fortunate for me that the sandy path was over-shadowed by jungle trees, or my progress would have been impossible. Not a breath of air was stirring amidst that dense mass of vegetation; not a twig or a leaf could be persuaded to move; the long and graceful paddy stalks glittered and sparkled in their watery resting places, as though they were made of the purest burnished gold. The buffaloes had taken to their noon-day watering places. The birds were evidently done up, and were nowhere to be seen; the beetles crawled feebly over the cooler shrubs, but they could not get up a single hum or a buzz amongst them all; even the busy little ants perspired, and dropped their lilliputian loads. Well, the dry ditch and thorny fence that form the boundary and protection of the estate were at last reached, and the little gate and watch-hut were passed. The watcher, or lascoryn, was a Malay, moustachioed and fierce, for the natives of the country can rarely be depended on as protectors of property against their fellow-villagers. A narrow belt of jungle trees and shrubs had been left quite round the plantation, to assist in keeping out cattle and wild animals, which are frequently very destructive to a young cocoanut estate, in spite of armed watchers, ditches, and fences. Passing through this little belt, I found, on entering, an entirely new scene. Before and around me waved gracefully the long shining leaves of three hundred acres of cocoanut palms, each acre containing, on an average, eighty trees. It was indeed a beautiful and interesting sight. Two-thirds of these trees were yielding ample crops, though only in their tenth year; in two years more they will generally be in full bearing. Unlike the rudely-planted native garden, this estate had been most carefully laid down; the young plants had all been placed out at regular intervals and in perfectly straight lines, so that, looking over the estate in either direction, the long avenues presented one unbroken figure, at once pleasing to the eye and easy of access. But if these interminable masses of palms appeared a lovely picture when regarded at some little distance, how much was their beauty heightened on a nearer inspection! Walking close under the shadow of their long and ribbon-like leaves, I could see how thickly they were studded with golden-green fruit in every stage of growth. The sight was absolutely marvellous. Were such trees, so laden, painted by an artist, his production would, in all probability, be pronounced unnatural. They appeared more like some fairy creations, got up for my special amusement, resembling nearly those gorgeous trees which, in my youth, I delighted to read about in the “Arabian Nights,” growing in subterranean gardens, and yielding precious stones. They hung in grape-like clusters around the crest of the tree; the large, golden, ripe nuts below, smaller and greener fruit just above them, followed by scores of others in all stages, from the blossom-bud to the half-grown. It was impossible to catch a glimpse of the stem, so thickly did the fruit hang on all sides. I made an attempt to count them—“thirty—fifty—eighty—one hundred”—I could go no further; those little fellows near the top, peeping up like so many tiny dolls’ heads, defied my most careful numeration; but I feel confident there must have been quite two hundred nuts on that one palm. Above the clusters of rich fruit were two feather-like flowers, white as snow, and smooth and glossy as polished ivory; they had just burst from their sheaths, and a more delicate, lovely picture could scarcely be imagined.

A cocoanut tree in a native Singalese tope will sometimes yield fifty nuts in twelve months; but the average of them seldom give more than twenty-five in the year. It is therefore very evident that European skill may be employed beneficially on this cultivation, as well as on any other.

I was at first rather startled at perceiving a tall, half-naked Singalese away in the distance, with a gun at least half as long again as himself, long black hair over his shoulders, and bunches of something hanging at his girdle. He was watching some game amongst the trees; at last he fired, ran, picked up something, and stuck it in his girdle. What could it be?—parrot, pigeon, or jungle-fowl? It was only a poor little squirrel; and there were at least two scores of these pretty creatures hanging at the waist of the mighty hunter! Fortunately, he could speak a little English, and I was not long in learning the cause of this slaughter. It appeared that in addition to their pretty bushy tails, glossy coats, and playful gambols, the squirrels have very sharp and active teeth, and an uncommon relish for the sweet, tender buds of the cocoanut flower, which they nip off and destroy by scores, and of course lessen by so much the future crop of fruit. Handfuls of the buds lay half-eaten around each tree, and I no longer felt astonished at this species of sporting. The ground had evidently been well cleared from jungle plants, not one of such was to be seen in all this track; a stout and healthy-looking grass was springing up along the avenues; whilst at intervals patches of Indian corn, sweet potatoes, guinea-grass, and other products—intended for cattle-fodder during dry weather when the wild grasses fail—gave tints of varied luxuriance to the scene.

The ground at this part of the estate sloped a little, and I came to an open space, somewhat marshy in appearance. A number of cattle, young and old, were browsing about on the long grass, or sipping a draft from the clear stream which ran through the low ground. They were confined within a rude but stout fence, and on one side was a range of low sheds for their shelter. The cattle appeared in good condition. They were purchased, when very young, from the drovers who bring them in hundreds from the Malabar coast; and many were then fit for the cart, the carriage, or the knife. At the end was a manure shed, and outside stood a keeper’s hut, with a store attached, in which were piled up dried guinea-grass, maize, &c.

The manure pit was deep and large, and in it lay the true secret of the magical productiveness of the trees I had just seen. Good seed, planted in light, free soil, well cleared and drained, will produce a fine healthy tree in a few years; and if to this be added occasional supplies of manure and a few waterings during the dry season, an abundant yield of fruit will most assuredly reward the toil and outlay of the cocoa-nut cultivator.

Leaving this spot, I strolled through the next field to see what a number of little boys were so busy about. There were a dozen dark urchins, running about from tree to tree; sometimes they stopped, clambered up, and appeared to have very particular business to transact at the stems of the leaves; but oftener they passed contented with a mere glance upwards at the fruit. They had a sharp-pointed instrument in the hand, whilst at the wrist of each was hung a cocoa-nut shell. I paused to see what one of these children was searching for, half hid as the little fellow was amongst the gigantic leaves. Intently scrutinising his motions, I observed that he forced the little sharp instrument into the very body of the tree. Down it went to the inmost core of the giant stem; all his strength was employed. He strained and struggled amongst the huge leaves as though he were engaged in deadly strife with some terrible boa or cheetah. At last he secured his antagonist, and descended with something alive, small and black, and impaled on the barbed point of the little weapon. A few questions elicited the whole secret. The cocoa-nut tree, it seems, has many enemies besides squirrels—the elephant, the wild hog, the rat, the white ant, the porcupine, the monkey, and a large white worm, either attack it when young or rob it of its fruit when mature. But the most numerous and persevering enemy which it has to encounter from the age of three years until long after it produces fruit, is cooroominiya, or cocoa-nut beetle; a black, hard-coated creature, with beautiful wings, and a most powerful little tusk, which it employs with fatal activity to open a way into the stems of the palms. Its labours commence in the evening, and by early morning it will be buried half-a-dozen inches deep in the very centre of the tree, where, if not detected and removed, it feeds on the soft, pithy fibres, deposits its eggs, and does not depart in less than two or three days. These holes are always made in the softest and sweetest part of the tree, near the crown; and in young plants they prove seriously hurtful, checking the growth and impairing the health of the future tree. In a morning’s walk an active lad will frequently secure as many as a score of these cooroominiyas, which, after being killed, are strung upon liliputian gibbets about the estate, as a warning to their live friends.

Farther on I perceived, gathered in anxious consultation, three of the lads around a tree that was loaded with fruit; they looked up at the leaves, then at the root, then at the trunk. At last one little fellow started off, swift-footed as a hare, and was soon out of sight. The others began scraping the earth from the root as fast as possible, and all the information they would impart was “ledde gaha,” or sick tree; so that there was nothing for it but to imagine that the little messenger had been despatched for the doctor. He soon came back, not with the medicine-man, but a mamootie, or Dutch hoe, and a cattie, or sharp bill-hook. And then the busy work went on again. In little more time than I take to tell the story, the soil was removed from about the root, a hole was discovered in the trunk, and its course upwards ascertained by means of a cane probe. With the cattie, one of the boys commenced cutting and opening midway in the trunk of the tree. On looking up I perceived that the patient gave unmistakable symptoms of ill health. The long leaves were drooping at the end, and tinged with a sickly yellow; many of the nuts had fallen off, and others had evidently half a mind to follow the example. The flower, which had just burst above, hung down its sickly head, weeping away the germs of what had else been fruit. The hole was now complete; it was large enough for the smallest boy to force his hand in, and it soon brought away a basket full of pith and powdered wood from the body of the tree. There, amidst the ruin, was the enemy that has caused so much mischief and labour. It was an unsightly worm, about four inches in length, and as thick as one’s small finger, having a dull white body and black head. I then began to wonder what had next to be done—whether the tree would die after all this hacking and maiming. Would the medicine-man now be sent for? No. The interior of the wounded tree, as well as the aperture, was thoroughly freed from dirt and decomposed fibre—which might have aided in hatching any eggs left by the worm—and finally the root was covered up, and the opening and inside of the palm tightly filled with clay. I was assured that not more than one of ten trees thus treated ever fails to recover its health.

The nocturnal attacks of elephants are checked by means of lighted fires, and an occasional shot or two during the night. Wild hogs and porcupines are caught in traps and hunted by dogs. The monkeys are shot down like the squirrels, and the white ants are poisoned. In spite of all these measures, however, an estate often suffers very severely, and its productiveness is much interfered with by these depredators.

The soil over which I had as yet passed had been of one uniform description—a light sandy earth, containing a little vegetable matter, and but a little. Afterwards I arrived at a tract of planted land, quite different from its nature and mode of cultivation. It was of a far stiffer character, deeper in colour, and more weedy. This portion of the estate was in former days a swamp, in which the porcupine, the wild hog, and the jackal delighted to dwell, sheltered from the encroachment of man by a dense mass of low jungle, thorns, and reeds. To drive away these destructive creatures from the vicinity of the young palms the jungle was fired during dry weather. It was then perceived that the soil of this morass, although wet and rank from its position, was of a most luxuriant character. A few deep drains were opened through the centre, cross drains were cut, and after one season’s exposure to the purifying action of the atmosphere and rain, the whole of it was planted, and it now gives fair promise of being one day the finest field in the plantation.

From this low ground I strolled through some long avenues of trees on the right; their long leaves protected me from the heat of the afternoon sun, which was still considerable. The trees on this side were evidently older; they had a greater number of ripe fruit; and further away in the distance might be seen a multitude of men and boys busily engaged in bearing away the huge nuts in pairs to a path or rude cart-track, where a cangany, or native overseer, was occupied in counting them as they were tossed into the bullock-cart. The expertness of the boys in climbing these smooth, lofty, and branchless trees, by the aid of a small band formed by twisting a portion of a cocoa-nut leaf, was truly astonishing. In a moment their small feet grasped the trunk, aided by the twisted leaf, whilst their hands were employed above; they glided upwards, and with a quick eye detected the riper fruit, which, rapidly twisted from their stalks, were flung to the ground. Their companions below were busy in removing the nuts, which for young children is no easy task—the nuts frequently weighing fifteen or twenty pounds each, with the husk or outer skins on them. The natives have a simple but ingenious method of tying them together in pairs, by which means the boys can carry two of them with ease, when otherwise one would be a task of difficulty. The nuts have little, if any, stalk; the practice, therefore, is to slit up a portion of the husk (which is the coir fibre in its natural state), pull out a sufficient length without breaking it, and thus tie two together. In this way the little urchins scamper along with the nuts slung across their shoulders, scarcely feeling the weight.

I followed the loaded carts. They were halted at a large enclosure, inside of which were huge pens formed of jungle sticks, about ten feet in height; into these the nuts were stored and re-counted, a certain number only being kept in each, as the pens are all of the same dimensions. Adjoining was another and still larger space, lying lower, with some deep ditches and pits in the midst. Here the outer husk is stripped off, preparatory to breaking the nut itself in order to obtain the kernel, which has to be dried before the oil can be expressed. Into the pits or ditches the husk is flung, and left in ten feet of water ten or fourteen days, when it is removed and beaten out on stones, to free the elastic fibre from dirt and useless vegetable matter. This is a most disagreeable operation, for the stench from the half-putrid husks is very strong. The fibre, after being well dried on the sandy ground, undergoes a rude assortment into three qualities, in reference chiefly to colour, and is then delivered over to the rope-maker, who works it up into yarn, rope, or junk, as required. Freed from their outer covering, the nuts are either sold for making curries, in which they form a prominent feature, or they are kept for drying ready for the oil-mill.

Having learned this much, I strolled through the small green field and along a patch of guinea-grass, to see what was going on in that direction. The neat-looking building adjoining was the superintendent’s bungalow, and the long sheds and open spaces in their front and rear were for drying the nuts into what is termed copperah, in which state they are ground up for pressure. It was a busy scene indeed, and the operations require constant vigilance on the part of the manager; yet all the work is carried on in the rudest way, and with the most simple instruments. Half-a-dozen stout lads were seated cross-legged on the ground, each with a heap of nuts by his side. The rapidity with which they seized these, and, with one sharp blow of a heavy knife, split them precisely in half, and flung them away into other heaps, was remarkable. It seemed to be done with scarcely an effort, yet, on handling the broken nut, one could not help being struck with its thickness and strength. Smaller boys were busily employed in removing these heaps of split fruit to the large open spaces, when others, assisted by a few women, were occupied in placing them in rows close together, with the open part outwards, so that the kernels may be fully exposed to the direct rays of the sun. In this way they remain for two days, when the fruit, partly dried, shrinks from the shell and is removed. Two more days’ exposure to the sun in fine weather will generally complete the drying process. The kernels are then called copperah, and are brittle and unctuous in the hand.

To convert this material into oil, the natives employ a very primitive mill, worked by bullocks, and called a checkoo; this process is very slow, and the oil never clean. Europeans have, however, obviated these objections, and manufacture the cocoa-nut oil by means of granite crushers and hydraulic presses worked by steam power. This is chiefly done in Colombo, to which place, of course, the copperah has to be conveyed. The refuse of the oil-presses, the dry cake (or poonac), is very useful as food for cattle or poultry, and not less so as a manure for the palm-trees when moistened and applied in a partially decomposed state.

Not a particle of this valuable tree is lost. The fresh juice of the blossom, which is broken off to allow it to flow freely, is termed, as I have said, toddy, and is drunk, when quite new, as a cool and pleasantly-refreshing beverage; when fermented, it is distilled, and yields the less harmless liquor known as arrack.

All these operations are not carried on with ease and regularity. The Singalese are an idle race; like many better men, their chief pleasure is to perform as little work as possible. This necessitates a never-ending round of inspection by the European manager, who, mounted on a small pony, paper umbrella in hand, visits every corner of the property at least once a day, often twice. Neither is it unusual for him to make a round during the night. On the whole, therefore, he enjoys no sinecure.

ONE more word on Ceylon, and I will leave it for the present; but in concluding I cannot well omit reference to our trip to the sapphire mines, up the Kaluganga river.

The trip was an exceedingly pleasant and interesting one; and as it is easily accomplished, I would strongly urge on any one having a few days to spare at Colombo not to fail to go there. It is time and money well spent.

In chatting under the verandah of the Grand Oriental Hotel with the dealers in precious stones, I was informed that the sapphires, moon-stones, cat’s eyes, and other gems of value sold in Ceylon, are found in drifts and sunk mines laying at the foot of Adam’s Peak, a mountain 7353 feet high, which is visible from the deck of the steamer when one approaches Ceylon from almost any point of the compass. I was further told that a noble stream—the Kaluganga—taking its source from the great mountain ranges, runs through and fertilises a portion of the island, until it empties its surplus waters into the ocean at a small village called Kalatura, on the Galle road.

I was quite aware that the bulk of the sapphires, moon-stones, cat’s eyes, and other gems sold under the verandah and hawked on board the mail-boats came in “bulk” from the various glass-works in Birmingham; but it is nevertheless a fact that the mines exist, and are most profitably worked by both Singalese and other miners. My old digging recollections being limited to gold, silver, tin, or copper, and being told that the trip to the precious stone mines was a pleasant one, I decided on completing my mining education, and accordingly set myself to beat up recruits for an excursion. We had at the time a few nice people boarding at the British India Hotel, where I usually put up, owing to the fact that it belongs to my friend, Mr. Ephraim, who kept the first hotel I put up at when in Point de Galle in 1878. I broached the idea, called in Ephraim for advice, and before we retired for the night had arranged matters. Ephraim undertook to get traps for the next morning, a guide, and a letter of introduction to a brother boniface who keeps the Kalatura Rest-house or hotel.

Accordingly, after a hasty but hearty breakfast, and armed with a small portable bundle of “necessaries,” we started to catch the early train. Even in Ceylon the electric wire has crushed all romance, but in exchange has brought with its levelling, crushing effects, a certain amount of practical results. In this instance, when the train stopped at the Kalatura station we found a vehicle and an attendant awaiting our pleasure, and the welcome news that breakfast was ready at the Bungalow. This meal, considering the hour, we could not possibly accept as a breakfast, inasmuch as it would have been an insult to the one which we had done ample justice to before leaving Colombo, barely three hours before. We therefore made a compromise with our conscience, and made straight for this Kalatura “tiffin,” which, to our great delight, was preluded by a glorious feast of the most delicious, fresh rock oysters—the regular “claw” shell—which, in the good old days, before the waters of Port Jackson had been disturbed by so many steamers, were known all over Australia as “Sydney rock.” For “auld lang syne” we did ample justice to these. They acted as an aperative, and gave us a keen appetite for the really excellent repast our worthy host had, on Mr. Ephraim’s recommendation and telegram, prepared for us. The “prawn curry” I shall never forget. It was a triumph of Eastern culinary art. We were evidently favoured guests. Mine host had himself cooked the luncheon, and even condescended to wait at table!—to enjoy, no doubt, the well-deserved praise we unanimously gave him: first, for his display of artistic, gastronomic talent; and also for the great honour he conferred on us by waiting in propria persona on such humble travellers.

It seems that all our wishes had been already anticipated, and that between Ephraim and our guide, Kalatura was aware of our intention to sail or pull up the great river as far as Adam’s Peak. Having lit a cigar after a passable cup of coffee—(Bye-the-bye, it is a strange anomaly that in Ceylon, where the very best coffee is grown, it is quite as difficult to get a decent cup of that beverage as it is to buy, even at an enormous price, a sapphire without a flaw)—we strolled down to the banks of the river, and at the foot of an old Dutch fort met our Singalese guide. Wading through a motley group of boatmen and a crowd of coolies busy loading and unloading boats and drays, we were led to a large padÉ boat which had been chartered for our trip by the hotel-keeper. The padÉ boat, as I have already mentioned, is a large barge, upon the centre of which a wooden—or rather straw—hut has been built as a sort of deck-house. This having been thoroughly swept and cleaned, the floor covered with clean white matting, had been supplied from the hotel with a table, some reclining and other chairs, cooking utensils, and even the necessary napery, towels, &c.; a couple of cooks, and a well-filled larder, in which we found also a hamper containing beer, claret, and whisky in sufficient quantity to carry us over many days.

Orders were given to cast off. Favoured by a fresh sea breeze, sails were hoisted, and in a very few moments, in spite of the strong current, we had lost sight of the Kalatura Bridge, and, indeed, all signs of civilisation. In order to avoid the full force of the stream we had to steer close in shore. This gave us full opportunity to admire the wonderful tropical vegetation of this favoured island, as well as occasionally to have a “blaze” at birds, squirrels, monkeys, or other quaint denizens of the thick jungle, which grows with astounding vigour right down to the very water’s edge. This noble river winds and turns like most mountain streams and narrows at places so that its course often runs under a canopy of luxuriant foliage, whilst at others it spreads over a wide area of flat land, giving it a lake-like appearance. In such spots small clusters of huts and patches of cultivated ground break the monotony and solitude of the voyage. We stopped at some of these native hamlets to study Singalese life and purchase fruit, milk, and eggs, all of which we found everywhere to be good, abundant, and remarkably cheap. From the apparent curiosity of the natives, it is evident that they are seldom visited by excursionists. The women and children in particular evinced great pleasure at seeing our party, more particularly if we distributed sweets and nick-nacks amongst them, when they accompanied us on board.

This first day’s excursion was one of endless enjoyment, every turn in the river opening up some fresh and charming scenery. The breeze, as we advanced farther inland, gradually failed us; still, before dusk, we had gone over many miles, which, considering the cumbersome shape of our boat, the size of the sails, and the rapidity of the stream, was very fair travelling. We anchored a short distance from the shore with a stern-line made fast to a bamboo clump. During the short twilight some of our party tried to penetrate through the jungle for sport, but soon returned, having found it an impossibility to make headway—the vegetation being simply prodigious, the trees and under-scrub actually matted together by creepers of all sizes and form, so as to render all progress an utter impossibility.

During the afternoon the native cook and his assistant had made good use of their time. How, where, and when they managed it I never could make out; but as soon as the boat was safely moored, and when we returned from our vain attempt to invade the sanctity of the jungle, we found the table laid, and really a capital dinner—soup, fish, two entrÉes, a roast, the inevitable curry, some pastry, fruits in profusion—the two last courses being the only things in which our chef had not had a finger in. His coffee, even, was passable; but I determined in future to attend to that myself, having some conceit as to my capabilities in that particular line. We had a long day, therefore did not linger—a few cigars, some tough yarns, and one by one dropped off. Beds had been extemporised on cane settees in an adjoining compartment of our floating house.

At an early hour—indeed, at dawn, which is by far the pleasantest part of the day all through India—we got out of bed and made for the bow of the boat, bent on a plunge in the waters of the Kaluganga. Luckily, we had our sleeping suits on, so that the stripping business gave us time to look round. It is quite as well we did. At about six or eight yards off, forming quite a semi-circle, were a number of black spots, which on closer scrutiny proved to be the muzzles of so many alligators! Needless to say that we changed our plans. A tub, if smaller, was decidedly safer. There being only two on board, those who had to wait their turn whiled away the time in “peppering” at the alligators—a harmless sport on both sides, and a great waste of powder. These brutes had a skin so hard and slippery that they only gave a snort and a sneeze when hit, and disappeared.

After our tubbing, and whilst discussing a cup of coffee of MY making, a screaming row overhead drew us out once more to the bow of the floating dwelling, to witness one of the strangest sights imaginable. The roof of our cabin was literally covered with bunches of bananas, baskets of fruit, and other delicacies, which had evidently attracted the attention of myriads of monkeys of all sizes and colour, which swarm in the jungle of Ceylon. The cunning imps had formed a living chain by hanging to one another from the nearest tree-top overhanging the river. The last one was dexterously grabbing our fruit, which, being passed from one to the other, would soon have found its way from our larder to that of these infernal chimpanzees. A rush was made for rifles and revolvers, but with our usual luck, when we were ready to fire the monkeys were gone. We did fire a volley at the grinning brutes, who seemed to enjoy the fun; but, like all preceding game, left us with unstained hands. Indeed, from their grins, it strikes me very forcibly that they turned the tables by making “game” of us.

Sailing was now out of the question. Our men put out their long sweeps, the steersman, perched on the roof of the deck-house, keeping the helm well down. We proceeded on our course at a fair pace, keeping as close in-shore as the length of the oars would permit.

Towards tiffin-time we got well in amongst the mountainous part of the river, where the scenery became grander—in some parts huge piles of hills covered with vegetation, with here and there some capricious, overhanging rocky projections. In the distance, wherever the stream ran straight for the Peak, we had glimpses of that great mountain, which takes its name from our first father—it being firmly believed that Ceylon was THE Garden of Eden, where our first parents learned horticulture, and bartered civilisation for a taste of a fruit which we, their unworthy descendants, can purchase at four a penny; whilst, strange to say, it does not grow on this most prolific island!

Ceylon is certainly an earthly paradise, where serpents are quite abundant enough to scare an unprotected female, and the climate mild enough to warrant the use of vine leaves in preference to heavier clothing.

Of course, we had ample leisure to discuss these various pre-historic points as we lazily glided over the smooth surface of the noble river.

Native settlements as on the previous day, were located when and where the banks were flat enough to admit of easy cultivation. The Singalese do not believe in hard work; and, as I explained before, where he can grow a few cocoa-nut trees, he has only need to provide for the time that elapses between the planting of the nut and the first crop. After that, he and his surroundings are amply provided for.

On the third day we reached our destination. Like a great many other alluvial diggings, these mines are devoid of interest. Some straggling huts, a poor, ill-fed lot of natives and Moormen—very few of the latter, who are merely there to pick up, as cheap as they can, any fairly good stone found. The best part of this excursion is the journey on the river, and more particularly that going up, when everything has the cachet of novelty.

Had we known the topography of the island better, we might have gone back to Colombo by train. However, in this as in many other instances, experience had to be bought. We did not pay much for this—indeed, our return to Kalatura was a dream. Making a start at dusk, we reached our hotel the next day before tiffin. We slept nearly all the way back. What with the current and the sweeps, we travelled at a rare pace.

The summing up of our excursion is—a charming, and certainly most inexpensive trip, which I strongly urge all globe-trotters to make on the same lines, returning to the city overland; and above all, beware of the vendors of precious stones at the mines. If you have to be swindled (which you are sure to be) let it be done in Colombo. The cut glass you purchase there has at all events the appearance of genuine stones, whereas at the mines you will fill your pockets with rough pebbles—warranted genuine sapphires, cat’s eyes, rubies, or moon-stones—intrinsically worth a rupee a cart-load for gravelling garden walks, but utterly valueless for any other purpose. Indeed, the only drawback to Ceylon—and, for the matter of that, the whole of India—is the abominable bore a visitor is subjected to from the myriads of swindling dealers who actually persecute him from morning till night, and beset him everywhere he goes. I had the satisfaction in one solitary instance to pay one of that tribe in his own coin. During one of our morning drives to the Cinnamon Gardens, some hawkers kept pace with our horse, flinging bouquets of flowers, cinnamon walking-sticks, &c., into the carriage, and asking most outrageous prices for their wares. I had exhausted my stock of small change, but wanted to secure one of the bunches of flowers offered; and finding in my purse my Melbourne season ticket for the Opera—a very natty, small, red morocco card, with a bright gold coat of arms on the cover—I tendered it to the fellow, who greedily took it in payment for his bouquet. When he had it examined by an expert, he called at the hotel next day and endeavoured to get a refund, and was much crestfallen to find that for once he was “had.”

The Indian mail having arrived—the Siam, under the command of my very old friend, Captain Ashdown—I moved on board with bag and baggage for Calcutta, taking Madras en route.