To the south stands the lighthouse, in a wide green, and beyond it Fort St. George, with its strong walls, smooth-sodded glacis, deep moats and frowning cannon. The banner of Old England floats from its flag-staff, and proclaims her dominion over these wide realms. Still beyond, tall trees conceal the city, with here and there the summits of pagodas and minarets peeping out above their tops. On our right lay the suburb of Royapooram, almost hidden by the cocoanuts and palms in which the Hindu so much delights, and beyond it the solitary shore and surging sea, over which the catamaran, Masulah boat and the Dhoney, (native vessel,) with its dusky sail, are constantly passing to and fro.
At an early hour the native boatmen were on the beach, launching their boats, and pulling for the newly-arrived ship. As they successively reached the vessel, they made fast their unwieldy boats, and very unceremoniously boarded us. Our deck soon swarmed with Hindus, from the almost naked oarsmen in search of employment to the Dubash (interpreter) in all the magnificence of flowing robes, embroidered slippers, jewelled ears, and massive turban. But fine as these gentry looked,
