sacred books of the Booddhists and Brahmins are also written on the talipat palm leaves, as are many of their historical records and scientific works.  This mammoth tree sometimes reaches the height of nearly two hundred feet, and its trunk the circumference of twelve feet.  It lives to the age of nearly a century, but blossoms only a single time; during the whole period of its existence.  The flower, some thirty feet in length, bursts with a loud explosion at maturity, and in dying scatters the seeds that are to produce the next generation of trees.  A single leaf will sometimes measure forty feet in circumference; and it is no unusual sight on the Malabar coast, where storms are so fierce and sudden, to see ten or fifteen men finding shelter in a boat over which is spread a single; palm leaf, which effectually shields all from both wind and rain.  When the storm has subsided the huge leaf may be folded up like a lady’s fan, and is so light as to be readily carried by a man under one arm.  The talipat never grows wild, it is said, as do most of the other palms; and it reaches its greatest perfection in the island of Ceylon.  All that I ever met with were under cultivation, being tended and nursed with the utmost care.  Indeed, half a dozen talipat palm trees are a fortune in themselves, the leaves being very profitable as merchandise, while a crop may be gathered every year during a long life, and then the tree be of sufficient value to be bequeathed to the heirs of the owner.

Bidding adieu to our Malayan host, we once more entered the palanquins, and in a little while were set down on the coast, where lay our sampan with flag hoisted and pennons gayly flaunting in the breeze.  First we passed Battu Bliah, “the sailing rock”—­so called from its fancied resemblance to a ship under widespread canvas; then around an abrupt projection of Erskine’s Hill, in a narrow passage between Singapore and Baltan Mateo, we came in full view of the promontory upon the highest point of which is built the palace-bungalow of the old sultan-rajah who held sway over the island previous to its purchase by Sir Stamford Raffles for the British government, in 1819.  The old rajah has passed away, but the bungalow is still occupied by his son, a pensioner on the English Crown, and one of the most daring pirates in all that region—­successful enough to have achieved a fame for prowess, but too crafty ever to be caught.

At Pulo Nanas, where we were to lunch, we found the cloth was already laid on the green grass under the protecting shadow of a huge orange tree, whose ripe golden fruit offered a dainty dessert.  We took our seats with the “professor” at the head, and were soon discussing the merits of boiled chicken, fried fish, omelette, oysters, turtle eggs and sundry fruits and confections with the zest created by seven hours of active exercise in the open air.  Then came the reaction, inclining every one more to repose than research, and the hours would probably