f the
far interior, remains one of the waste places of the earth, in spite of
a perfect climate and a teeming soil.

Day by day the scenery becomes more wild and dreary; the forests
disappear, and the sun-baked hills encroach on the low brushwood beyond
the white beaches of coves and inlets, without any sign of habitation.
An atmosphere of crystalline purity discloses the highest range of the
interior, a long chain of azure peaks. Our course traverses league upon
league of melancholy solitude, emphasised rather than relieved by the
brilliant sunlight and balmy breezes playing over this realm of
neglected possibilities, where the wants of countless sufferers might
be abundantly supplied. Anchoring for an hour in the deep blue bay of
Tontoli, we come once more into the haunts of men, and two picturesque
_campongs_ buried in cocoa-palms beneath the wooded mountains of Tomini
are pointed out as exclusively peopled by descendants of the pirates
who infested this western coast of Celebes. From this point the
interest of the cruise increases. Pretty _campongs_ line the shore of
every sheltered creek. Boats of quaint form and colour push off to meet
the steamer, quickly surrounded by _sampans_, _blotos_ (the native
canoes), or carved and painted skiffs, all manned by an amphibious race
in Nature's suit of brown, which renders the wearers indifferent to
overturned boats, water-logged _blotos_, and collapsing rafts, though
the encouraging statements of our Malay crew as to the warmth and
shallowness of the water in case of any contretemps, is less reassuring
to the travellers who venture shoreward on the risky craft. The loan of
the captain's boat makes the visit to Dongalla an experience of
unalloyed pleasure, but the people appear morose and sullen. A
dignified youth, in purple turban and checked _sarong_, attempts to do
the honours of his native place, but his comrades, oppressed by vague
suspicions, close the heavy doors of their wooden houses, and peep
through the interstices of the bamboo shutters as we thread the narrow
alleys, escorted by the deck steward. A more genial crowd welcomes us
to the palm-groves of Palehle, where a light-hearted bodyguard of
children shows us every nook and corner of the brown _campong_, with
smiling faces and merry laughter. The heart-whole mirth of these little
savages might brighten the saddest soul. Living in the present, with no
artificial wants to create dissatisfaction, and free from the