We stayed two days in Ceylon, but all attempts to describe this "Garden of Eden" are futile. No one, who has not seen it, can hope to realise the wonderful colouring of the place; the red roads, the red and white houses, deep blue sky, and deep blue lakes; the brilliant dresses of the natives, the large flaming red and blue flowers, the wonderful green of the palms and other tropical plants, and above all, the beauty of that long line of open coast, the great breakers glittering with a thousand opal tints in the sunlight, and beyond them the dark blue ocean, delicately flecked with shimmering white spray, stretching away into the shadowy distance, "farther than sight can follow, farther than soul can reach."
We drove through the Cinnamon gardens, where the still air was heavy with the delicious scent, and out to Mount Lavinia, where, of course, we ate prawn curry. Honestly, I must confess that never before have I tasted anything so truly horrible; but I pretended to like it immensely. I suppose everybody does the same when first introduced to this celebrated dish: it is what might be called "an accrued taste."
I don't think the author of "From Greenland's Icy Mountains" can ever have touched at Ceylon, or how could he have declared that "man is vile"? The Singalese are the most beautiful people I have ever beheld, while the European inhabitants are surely the most hospitable and delightful in the world.
Perhaps, when the poet wrote those lines, he had the Turkish traders in his mind: they certainly are vile. One of them sold me a sixpenny bracelet for ten shillings. They are exactly like the spider of noted memory; they stand at the doors of their fascinating, dark, poky little shops, persuading innocent passers by to enter, "only to look round;" but if the poor victim once venture to "walk into their parlour," he will be indeed clever if he escape without emptying his purse.
"Rickshaws" are charming; I spent every spare minute riding about in one. It is almost as adventurous and exciting as driving in a Marseilles Fiacre, and far more comfortable. I feared I had met with an adventure one day, for my "puller" (I don't know what else to call him) ran away with me, and stopping in a lonely road, began to assure me that I was a "handsome lady." I wondered what would happen next, but soon discovered that he only wanted "Backsheesh," and assuming my very sternest demeanour I repeated "don't bus" ("bus" to stop, being the only word of the language I could remember) several times, and at last induced him to take me back to my companions. What a valuable thing is presence of mind on such an occasion!
It was shortly after leaving Ceylon that our first real adventure befell us. We had all retired early to bed, being weary with the long day on shore; the clatter of tongues and tramp of feet on deck had ceased, and all was silent save for the throbbing of the engines, and the quiet movements of the men on watch.
Suddenly I was awakened by a hurried murmur of voices in the next cabin, then an electric bell rang and I was terrified to hear the cry: "Fire! Fire!"
I sprang up, flung on a cloak, and rushed out into the "Alley Way," which speedily became the scene of the wildest confusion.
All the cabin doors opened, and the occupants hurried confusedly out, arrayed in the first garments that came to hand, asking eager questions, and giving wild explanations.