When I landed in Bombay, in 1855, the journey to the Native State of Mysore, now so easy and simple, was one requiring much time and no small degree of trouble, for the railway lines had then advanced but little—­the first twenty miles in all India having been only opened near Bombay in 1853.  A land journey then was not to be thought of, and as there were no coasting-steamers, I was compelled to take a passage in a Patama (native sailing craft) which was proceeding down the western coast with a cargo of salt which was stowed away in the after-part of the vessel.  Over this was a low roofed and thatched house, the flooring of which was composed of strips of split bamboo laid upon the salt.  On this I placed my mattress and bedding.  My provisions for the voyage were very simple—­a coop with some fowls, some tea, sugar, cooking utensils, and other small necessaries of life.  A Portuguese servant I had hired in Bombay cooked my dinner and looked after me generally.  We sailed along the sometimes bare, and occasionally palm-fringed, shores with that indifference to time and progress which is often the despair and not unfrequently the envy of Europeans.  The hubble-bubble passed from mouth to mouth, and the crew whiled away the evening hours with their monotonous chants.  We always anchored at night; sometimes we stopped for fishing, and once ran into a small bay—­one of those charming scenic gems which can only be found in the eastern seas—­to land some salt and take in cocoa-nuts and other items.  As for the port of Mangalore, for which I was bound, it seemed to be, though only about 450 miles from Bombay, an immense distance away, and practically was nearly as far as Bombay is from Suez.  At last, after a nine days’ sail, we lay to off the mouth of the harbour into which, for reasons best known to himself, the captain of the craft did not choose to enter, and I was taken ashore in a canoe to be kindly received by the judge of the collectorate of South Kanara, to whom I had a letter of introduction.

After spending some pleasant days at Mangalore I set out for Manjarabad, the talook or county which borders on the South Kanara district—­in what is called a manshiel—­a kind of open-sided cot slung to a bamboo pole which projects far enough in front and rear to be placed with ease on the shoulders of the bearers.  Four of these men are brought into play at once, while four others run along to relieve their fellows at intervals.  I started in the afternoon, and was carried up the banks of a broad river by the side of which hero and there the road wound pleasantly along.  In the course of a few hours night fell, and then all nature seemed to come into active life with the hum of insects, the croaking of frogs, and various other indications of an abounding animal life.  Presently I was lulled to sleep by the monotonous chant of the bearers—­sleep only partially broken when changes of the whole set of bearers had to be made—­and awoke the following morning to find myself some fifty miles from