ides the smouldering fountains of eternal
fire beneath the vivid splendours of tropical vegetation. The
population of Ternate--native, Malay, Dutch, and half-caste--throngs
the wharf; the pretty schoolmistress, in spotless muslin, waves a
smiling farewell. Though we are to each other but as "ships that pass
in the night," the memory of cheery words and gracious deeds throws
rays of light across the surging seas, and the golden cord of kindness
anchors heart to heart. Passengers are few from these remote parts. A
Dutch officer, with a half-caste wife and two unruly children, whose
violent outbreaks would even give points to the juvenile English of
British India, are returning from a three years' exile at Ternate. The
incompetence of Malay nurses is equalled by the maternal indifference
to kicking and squealing, which threatens pandemonium for the remainder
of the voyage. At the last moment the native Sultan of Batjan embarks
for his island home, after commercial negotiations in Ternate, for this
native prince, a keen-faced man in European dress and scarlet turban,
trades largely in _damar_, the basis of his wealth. When at anchor next
morning in the wooded bay of Batjan, the green State Barge of his
Highness, with drums beating and banners flying, flashes through the
water, the blades of the large green oars shaped like lotus-leaves. A
horse's head carved at the prow, and a line of floating pennants--red,
black, and white--above the gilded roof of the deck-house, enhance the
barbaric effect of the gaudy boat, the brown rowers clad in white,
with gay scarves and turbans.

Although our ship possesses a launch, various modes of landing are
required by the vagaries of the tide, the outlying reefs, and the
position of the ports. A wobbling erection of crossed oars, a plank
insecurely poised on the shoulders of two men, a rocking _bloto_, and
an occasional wade to shore, with shoes and stockings in hand, vary the
monotony of the proceedings. Landing at Batjan is accomplished in a
chair, borne aloft on two woolly black heads, but the shore, being cut
off by a crowd of fishing craft, can only be reached by sundry
scrambles over intermediate boats. The Sultan's modest mansion stands
in the midst of the palm-thatched _campong_, ostensibly guarded by a
grey fort, among rustling bamboos and tall sugar-canes. A friendly
native offers me a palm-leaf basket, filled with nutmeg sprays of
glossy leaves and yellow fruit from a roadside pl