On we go, now through an avenue entirely composed of the glossy leaved magnolia or another of feathery mimosa, broken only by groves of tufted cocoa palms. Then we reach the military boundary, and returning homewards another way, pass the cemetery where many a Frenchman lies low. Along these shady avenues, deep and cool, we see the walled compounds and overgrown gardens of the bungalows of officers and merchants, of whom about 1700 reside in Saigon. We meet many of them out for their evening drive, flying along in Victorias, to gain as much air as possible. There are many smart-looking officers in white uniforms, with their wives by their side—pale French ladies, but in Parisian fashions. Poor things, they appear sickly and enervated, yet robust compared to the shop-keepers, who look, if they do not say so, as if it was trouble enough to rise on the entrance of a customer, without serving them.
But it should be a great colony. The Governor-General's palace is magnificent—a Versailles, with its long flights of steps and spacious balconies. But his Excellency is always at Hanoi, vainly endeavouring to get things straight in Tonquin. The Cathedral, with its dim aisles and stained glass; the Grecian colonnades of the Palais de Justice; the post-offices; the theatre, with its bi-weekly performances; the Officers' Club, where the punkahs are lyslow waving to and fro in the balconies,—all betoken the great intentions of its founders.
And there are statues of Francis Garnier, the intrepid and disavowed explorer of the way to south-western China, and in the centre of the great boulevard, leading to the Governor's palace, we distinguish a very large stout man on a great pedestal, his stomach far protruding. When we come near, we see whom it represents: Gambetta in the fur coat worn in the balloon whence he escaped from Paris during the siege, to instil life into France, with his outstretched finger pointing in the direction of Tonquin, as in the memorable day when he came to the Chamber, and said, 'Messieurs, au Tonkin!' A dying soldier, in the act of falling, is on one side, and a sailor, with a bayonet peeping round as if in search of the enemy, on the other. The reverse side of this fine monument bears the legend: "À Gambetta, le patriote, défenseur de la politique coloniale."
In the evening some went to the opera, Traviata, played by the subsidized company, to distract the garrison. The sight, however, of the house with its myriad waving fans, was enough for us. We could not face the heat.
What an awful night we passed on board! Four steam winches in charge of seventy shouting French, with ports shut, tropical heat, and mosquitoes by the million. It was over at sunrise like a bad dream. But a sorry sight, the languid heavy-eyed passengers, with not a face but was severely wounded, presented next morning; for none had slept, and all had come off worsted in the conflict with those venomous brutes. Glad we were of daylight to go on shore, and set off in a gharry at seven o'clock to the open arcades where the curio shops are. The black woodwork inlaid with mother-of-pearl that comes from Tonquin is very pretty, but otherwise we only see curiosities common to other countries. We drive past gardens, which, as in France, are unrailed and open to the public, to the market square, with its deep red-roofed market hall, where a busy scene of buying and selling is progressing. We notice many French cafés, the familiar little marble-topped tables, looking strange among the palm trees of the gardens. There are many French officers, in solar topees and cotton umbrellas, strolling in the streets, but though the French element predominates, there is a wonderful mixture of races—of Chinese, Annamites with their heads bound in red cloths, Cinghalese with high tortoiseshell comb, and Indians in sarong; and the languages are as varied, for here the Chinese and natives have learnt French, instead of pigeon English.
By nine o'clock the sun on the top of the gharry is overpowering. We are quite overcome by the heat, and abandoning all idea of going by the steam tramway to Cholons, the neighbouring emporium of the Rice of Annam, return on board. But at eleven o'clock the thermometer in the shade registered 95° Fahrenheit, and in the sun about 130°, and we lay on the deck ready to succumb to the awful breathless heat, just existing through the long midday hours of the worst part of the day.
The tropical vegetation of Saigon had entranced us, but its charms faded before the experience of this equatorial temperature by which alone it can be produced. We were grateful when at five o'clock the twenty-four hours' sojourn required by the Government contract were over, and we left Cochin China on our homeward voyage.
It is a long, long journey home to England, this one of 10,000 miles from Shanghai to London—lasting for five weeks.
Day after day goes by with the same routine, until we feel that we are automatons. Passengers come and go at the various ports, but "we go on for ever." Night and day there is heard the ceaseless throbbing of the engines, like the beating heart of some great monster. It lulls you to sleep, keeps you company in the silence of the night, and greets you in the morning, and when we are in port, we unconsciously feel that something is wanting. It is a cheering noise, for every revolution of the screw brings us nearer home; 4368 times does it revolve in one hour, and it takes 3,600,000 revolutions to bring us to Marseilles. We consume 52 tons of coal a day, or 1800 tons for the whole voyage, whilst 8000 kilos of oil are used for the machinery.