The ship is like a floating city with a cosmopolitan population, for we have over twenty different nationalities on board: French, English, German, Spanish, Italian, Japanese, Russian, Chinese, Dutch, Austrians, Arabians, Indians, etc., and yet all goes smoothly, save for the passing incident of a passionate Frenchman, who came to ask the captain's permission to fight a duel with an officer from Tonquin, for usurping his place at table.
It is a monotonous thirty-six days of life at sea, alternating with frantic rushes to land, when in port, and sometimes sleeping on shore, where, like at Singapore and Colombo, the ship is hermetically sealed for coaling. Then there is dire confusion on board, everyone loses his head, the stewards are beside themselves, and the organization becomes sadly out of gear. We are thankful to put out to sea once more, into the breeze and calm, to sail away into that great trackless space so well defined "as a circle whose centre is everywhere, and whose circumference nowhere."
We touch at Singapore, and spend the night at Government House, noting the growth of the town, and the great improvements since we were there six years ago. Through the Straits of Malacca, past Acheen Head, the extreme westerly point of Sumatra to Colombo—Colombo with its beautiful sea-shore, where amidst palm groves, the blue breakers of the Indian Ocean are ever rolling in, and casting their surf and foam on the golden sands. Through its tropical avenues we drive, past the barracks, where the pipe of the bagpipes is heard, wailing in their far exile, and the handsome Cingalese merchants, with their checked sarongs and tortoiseshell combs, tempt us with precious stones. Mount Adam, with his pillar-like peak, in the centre of Ceylon, does us honour by showing himself (a rare occurrence) as we put out once more to sea, through the magnificent breakwater of Colombo.
Six days' steaming, and we cast anchor under rocky Aden, whose peaks so barren and sterile, are yet picturesquely deformed, and glowing with warm tints of cobalt and carmine. Then we enter the Red Sea, through the Straits of Babelmandeb, by England's key to the Eastern hemisphere, the Island of Perim, and pass fragrant Mocha on the sandy shore.
One hundred hours through this inland sea, and we are at Suez waiting our turn to enter that great highway of nations, that sandy ditch cut through the desert, that connects the eastern with the western globe. In the daytime we have that strange fascination linked to the boundless plain of sand—the mirage flickering on the horizon, the clear pale blue and pink shades that steal over the desert at sundown, with the golden glory of the sunset sinking slowly into the waters of the Bitter Lake, whilst at night the banks of the canal are illuminated by the broad shafts of light, that sweep from the electric lamp in the bows of every ship.
We spend a dreary Sunday at Port Said, amid its dirty streets, rubbishy oriental shops, thievish donkey-boys, and a population which gathers in the scum of the earth.
The Harbour of Alexandria is entered at sunrise next day, and we look in the dull chill of early morning on its quays and forts, its mosqued domes and windmills, but ere the day is really begun we are on our way joyfully cleaving the waters of the Mediterranean, near, so near home now. The chill winds and the grey atmosphere would make us know we are in Europe once more. The hard even-coloured skies of the East, burning with brazen sun, have been left on the other side of the Canal, and now the skies are full of grey and purple clouds, silver-edged, soft and rounded. The Southern Cross has sunk below the horizon, the brilliant starlight nights, with the purple vault of heaven gemmed with diamond stars, have faded into the past.
Now the snow-clad mountains of Candia or Crete rise up from the ocean above low-lying clouds. Then, the danger of avoiding Charybdis to be wrecked on Scylla safely passed, we thread the green Straits of Messina between the toe of Italy and the Island of Sicily. The smoking cone of Etna is invisible, but the little island volcano of Stromboli shoots forth its black column of lava.
The beacon lighthouses of the Straits of Bonifacio mark out our course between the islands of Sardinia and Corsica. And by the next afternoon the vine-terraced mountains and sunny shores of the Corniche are near at hand, with the white villas of Toulon shining in the sunlight.