Horse-dealing, whether in Europe or the Malay islands is synonymous with roguery and deceit. Every morning as soon as we landed we were besieged by natives who had ponies for sale. Knowing our aversion for piebalds, they never offered anything but blacks, bays, or chestnuts; but, unfortunately, few if any of those offered could stand the first scrubbing with hot water and soap—the dye would not stand the test. As to filing teeth and burning age-marks, I’ll back a Malay against the best and most accomplished horse-dealer in Yorkshire.
Our cargo, put on board with fodder and water for fifty days, averaged £4 a-head. They were all good, healthy young ponies, some of them rather cranky-tempered, but all well up to the mark. Having returned to Koepang to land our broker, and after a most affectionate greeting from all our friends, we made sail for Port Louis. Another fine weather and smooth sea trip, when we never once lowered a stan’-sail except to reeve a fresh halyard to prevent its breaking from constant friction in the one place, against the sheave of the block at the yard-arm.
This is not a work intended to describe localities which, more particularly since my day, have been visited by almost every man, woman, or child who has come from or gone for a trip to Europe. I will therefore abstain from descanting on the beauty or picturesqueness of Mauritius. Still, to those who have only known the Isle of France of late years, I must say that it materially differs from what it was thirty-five years ago, and that even then it had very much lost of its originality as I had seen it ten years earlier. For all that, it is a most charming place; and were it not that its old, proverbially healthy condition has gone for ever—were it not for cholera, smallpox, and other such dreadful but periodical visitations—that island would still be a most charming country to visit or reside in. We spent six weeks in Port Louis, did remarkably well with our cargo, bought a cargo of sugar, and once more steered for old Australia.
But alas! not with smooth weather and fair winds. The poor old barque, so buoyant and brisk when in yachting trim, smooth water, and under every inch of canvas spread to the trade winds—became a tub when filled with sugar to the very deck-level, in heavy seas, S.W. gales, and close-reefed topsails.
Shall I ever forget the fifty-four days cooped up in my cabin, water rushing from stem to stern day and night, not a stitch of dry clothing to change! What a welcome sight the Sydney Heads were, and how glad I was to set foot once more on terra firma.
