night before the ship makes port—­the night when they have the “concert” and do the amateur wailings and recitations.  He is the tenor, as a rule . . . .  There has been a deal of cricket-playing on board; it seems a queer game for a ship, but they enclose the promenade deck with nettings and keep the ball from flying overboard, and the sport goes very well, and is properly violent and exciting . . . .  We must part from this vessel here.

January 14.  Hotel Bristol.  Servant Brompy.  Alert, gentle, smiling, winning young brown creature as ever was.  Beautiful shining black hair combed back like a woman’s, and knotted at the back of his head —­tortoise-shell comb in it, sign that he is a Singhalese; slender, shapely form; jacket; under it is a beltless and flowing white cotton gown—­from neck straight to heel; he and his outfit quite unmasculine.  It was an embarrassment to undress before him.

We drove to the market, using the Japanese jinriksha—­our first acquaintanceship with it.  It is a light cart, with a native to draw it.  He makes good speed for half-an-hour, but it is hard work for him; he is too slight for it.  After the half-hour there is no more pleasure for you; your attention is all on the man, just as it would be on a tired horse, and necessarily your sympathy is there too.  There’s a plenty of these ’rickshas, and the tariff is incredibly cheap.

I was in Cairo years ago.  That was Oriental, but there was a lack.  When you are in Florida or New Orleans you are in the South—­that is granted; but you are not in the South; you are in a modified South, a tempered South.  Cairo was a tempered Orient—­an Orient with an indefinite something wanting.  That feeling was not present in Ceylon.  Ceylon was Oriental in the last measure of completeness—­utterly Oriental; also utterly tropical; and indeed to one’s unreasoning spiritual sense the two things belong together.  All the requisites were present.  The costumes were right; the black and brown exposures, unconscious of immodesty, were right; the juggler was there, with his basket, his snakes, his mongoose, and his arrangements for growing a tree from seed to foliage and ripe fruitage before one’s eyes; in sight were plants and flowers familiar to one on books but in no other way celebrated, desirable, strange, but in production restricted to the hot belt of the equator; and out a little way in the country were the proper deadly snakes, and fierce beasts of prey, and the wild elephant and the monkey.  And there was that swoon in the air which one associates with the tropics, and that smother of heat, heavy with odors of unknown flowers, and that sudden invasion of purple gloom fissured with lightnings,—­then the tumult of crashing thunder and the downpour and presently all sunny and smiling again; all these things were there; the conditions were complete, nothing was lacking.  And away off in the deeps of the jungle and in the remotenesses of the mountains were the ruined cities and mouldering temples, mysterious relics of the pomps of a forgotten time and a vanished race—­and this was as it should be, also, for nothing is quite satisfyingly Oriental that lacks the somber and impressive qualities of mystery and antiquity.