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In Eastern Seas. J. J. Smith
Читать онлайн.Название In Eastern Seas
Год выпуска 0
isbn 4057664625779
Автор произведения J. J. Smith
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
The whole scene reminds one of the beautiful places visited by captain Cook, in his voyages. Even the boats are laden with the self-same royal fruits—great green cocoanuts, pine apples, bananas, plantains, and yams.
All those curiosities for which India is famous—every conceivable article which the fancy or ingenuity of man can possibly fabricate out of such commodities, as sandal wood, ebony, ivory, and porcupines' quills, richly and delicately carved, may be had here for a mere song if you possess only patience. Amongst other things there is a brisk trade carried on in precious stones. Some of the dealers in this article have found their way to our lower deck, and proceed to pull little parcels, containing sparkling and pellucid gems from their inner garments. There, before us, in their downy nest, lie rubies, sapphires, opals, and many more real or fictitious stones, seven-eighths of which are probably manufactured at Birmingham, though Ceylon abounds in real gems. It may, I think, be safely conceded that "Jack" very rarely drops in for one such. The dealers ask most fabulous prices for their wares—so many thousand rupees; but after haggling with you for about an hour or so are glad enough to part with them at your own price—a proof, should you need it, of the genuineness of your purchase.
We are rather dubious at first about entering the canoes, for they are so narrow as scarcely to admit of our broad hams being comfortably stowed. However, by dint of a little lateral pressure in that quarter, we at length manage to wedge ourselves in. We find the motion pleasant enough—a sense of security growing with experience.
I suppose we are not the first, nor, unless some sudden calamity undertake the place, are we likely to be the last, who have remarked how exceeding annoying the "boys" at the landing-place are. Guides they call themselves; sailors, in their excellently-terse and rotund way, call them by another name, which certainly does not commence with a "G." These wasps know just sufficient of English to make you disgusted with your mother tongue. The ordinary and generally conclusive argument of applying the toe of one's boot to the region of their quarter galleries does not seem to be effective here. It is one of those things one has to put up with.
The town follows the sinuous windings of the shore for upwards of a mile and a half, under an arcade of cocoa palms, which forms one of the finest promenades imaginable. Under this quivering canopy the fierce rays of the outside sun filter through—a soft, sheeny, mellow light—making his tropic rays deliciously cool, at the same time imparting to them a mystic coloring of gold and emerald green in all their wonderful combinations and capabilities of tone, impossible to set down in writing.
A noticeable thing about all this wonderful profusion, is the number of beautiful shrubs, principally spice or perfume bearing, and the grand harmonies and contrasts of colour they present. Here, for example, is the nutmeg, with its peach-like fruit; here the cinnamon, a tree whose foliage embraces the most delicate gradations of colour, from olive green to softest pink; there an aromatic gum tree, the dark-leaved coffee tree, the invaluable bread fruit, and scores of others beyond my botanical ken.
The houses, examined in detail, are not by any means the captivating objects we took them to be from the ship; and they certainly don't improve on a closer acquaintance. The air in the vicinity is thick and heavy, with a rancid odour of cocoanut oil, emanating from the hair and bodies of the local humanity. Their dwellings are constructed of humble enough materials, in all conscience; for of the four sides, three are of mud, the fourth being left open for the purposes usually supplied by doors, windows, and chimneys amongst ourselves. A sort of blind of cocoanut-fibre covers this aperture to about half way, so that one can easily see what is going on within. Near the door reclines an indolent, almost nude man, in the most convenient attitude for sleep; in the far corner his wife or slave—for the names are synonymous—toiling and moiling at a stone mill—a gaunt, angular, ugly woman, with great rings in her nose and ears, and on her wrists and ankles. Perfectly nude children and mangy-looking curs have all the rest of the apartment to themselves; and from the way in which they are enjoying their gambols, one may judge that for them life is not an unpleasant thing on the whole. The number of brown imps scattered about the streets, threatening to upset your every movement, speaks highly of the prolificness of Singalese matrons; and if a numerous progeny is a desirable thing, then these mammas ought to consider themselves blessed amongst women. Their general aspect, though, conveys the opposite impression.
Everybody is addicted to the vice of chewing the betel-nut, a proceeding which has the effect of dyeing the teeth and lips a brilliant crimson, and gives to this people the appearance of an universal bleeding at the mouth.
Having completed a hasty perambulation of the town we drive boldly into the undergrowth to where a strange-looking building lies half-buried in the foliage. It proves to be a Buddhist temple, an octagonal-shaped structure with a bell-like roof. As we enter within its precincts, boy priests are particularly careful to obliterate the marks of our heathen feet on their beautiful floor of golden sand. Inside are eight figures of the good Buddha, alternately standing and sitting, depicted with that calm, inscrutable countenance so remarkable in the image of this deity wherever this religion prevails. Before each figure is a small altar, littered with flowers, the most conspicuous blossom being the lotus lily, the symbol of this faith. Other than these devotional oblations there is little to be seen; what part in the ceremonies the priests take, or where they perform their functions, does not appear.
At the gate of the Court on our passing out, stands a bold, yellow-robed priest, with a metal salver in his hand, suggestive of donations. We told the old gent with naval bluntness that we were not in the habit of aiding the Society for the propagation of paganism—a remark, by the way, which it was as well, perhaps, he could not understand.
Sunday, October 6th.—Though sailors are excellent singers—especially of hymn tunes—I never before heard a hymn rendered so effectively on board a man-of-war as that beautiful composition by Bishop Heber, commencing
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