ders in this under-world of
glamour and mystery. Shells, pink and pearly, brown and lilac, scarlet
and cobalt, strew the flower-decked floor with infinite variety,
concave and spiral, ribbed and fluted, fretted and jagged--the satin
smoothness of convoluted forms lying amid rugged shapes bristling with
spines and needles. We gaze almost with awe at the lovely vision of a
dainty Nautilus, sailing his fairy boat down a blue channel fringed
with purple and salmon-coloured anemones, beneath a hedge of rosy
coral. The shimmering sail and carven hull of iridescent pearl skim the
water with incredible swiftness, and tack skilfully at every bend of
the devious course, not even slackening speed to avoid collision with a
lumbering star-fish encountered on the way. These submarine Gardens
contain the greatest natural collection of anemones, coral beds,
shells, and fish, discovered in the ocean world. The richest treasures
of Davy Jones's Locker lie open to view, as the boat glides through the
ever-changing scenery mirrored in the transparent sea. Opalescent
berries resemble heaps of pearls, and the lemon stalks of marine sedge
gleam like wedges of gold in the crystalline depths. The long oars
detach pinnacles of coral like tongues of flame, and a cargo of
seaweed, shells, and anemones, fills the boat as each enchanted grotto
contributes a quota of treasure trove, but the vivid colouring fades
apace when the sea-born flora leaves the native element, and the deep
blue eyes, gazing from their dark stems with weird human effect, lose
their radiance in the upper world.

We land at the pretty valley of Halong, where a rippling brook
traverses a wood of sago-palms, and falls in a white cascade over the
rocks of a sheltered bathing-pool, screened by green curtains of banana
and tall mangosteens, laden with purple fruit. Makassar-trees rain
their yellow blossoms into the water, cloves fill the air with pungent
fragrance, and lychees droop over the clear current. A melancholy Malay
song floats up from the sea, but the sad sweet notes only accentuate
the haunted silence of the fairy glen, with an echo from that distant
past which breathes undying music round these enchanted isles. Woodland
shadows and wayside palms disclose the sweeping horse-shoe curves of
numerous Chinese tombs, the white stone elaborately carved and covered
with hieroglyphics. Plumy cocoanut and tremulous tamarind wave over the
last resting-places of these exiles from the