filthy, proud, and poor. The court of Borneo
has also its fashions. There is, for example, a fasting
month, at the end of which the sultan and
rajahs go in gay procession to cleanse the graves
of their ancestors. On the last day of the said
month, everybody begs pardon of everybody
else for the short-comings of the preceding year.
Then they have professional story-telling, and
lady conjurors. All this is of the East, Eastern.
But there is no real government, no army,
nor fleet, nor police; no regular punishment for
crime. But Borneo is rich in coal-fields yet to
be developed. There is intelligence in many of
its native tribes, and the future lies not without
hope before it.

Saráwak, the territory of Sir James, or Rajah,
Brooke, has been more precocious. It has,
with its present dependencies, a coast range
of three hundred miles: it is nobly watered; it
has an excellent soil; and its productions are
valuable. Not many years ago, the visit of a
schooner was an exciting event, whereas now an
important commerce thrives in the rivers.

The Chinese are old visitors of Borneo.
Chinese gardens and Chinese graves, are
constantly to be met with. The Chinese, too,
know where to wash for gold and diamonds.

Mr. St. John voyaged twice to the neighbouring
islets of the Sulu Archipelago. Cayagan
Sulu, with its three peaks, its jasmine-scented
hills, and lawn-like sward, opened the gate to
Sulu Proper, where an Englishman lived, and
where the sultan, in the midst of a turbaned,
gold-brocaded, and gold-braceleted court,
behaved very like a gentleman, asking, in an
approved coffee-room tone, "Is France quiet?"
In another island of the group civilisation had
ripened early. There was a corner shop in the
town whither a young lady, Gabriella by name,
attracted all the wanderers of those seas.
Country-houses, too, throw open their doors to
strangers, inviting them to drink cocoa-nut
milk, chocolate, or gin. Unluckily, the piratical
hordes of the Indian Ocean still haunt the inlets
of Sulu, notwithstanding the naval crusades of
Spain and the Dutch. One of these marauders
went to Mr. Wyndham, an English resident
trader, and, in selling his brass gun to him, said,
that since the English had been settled in
Labuan there were so many steamers about that it
was no use pirating, so he disposed of his brass
gun, and retired from business. The occupations
of the islanders are more harmless. They
are great pearl-fishers. There was a chief, the
friend of an English merchant, and this chief,
being rich, gambled away his property, pawning
his wife and children, and retaining only a little
slave, with whom he started in a canoe to fish
for pearls. They fished together, and the pearls,
gradually increasing in number, began to fill
their casket; which was a hollow bamboo. But
one pearl for a long time could not be found.
It was that which a man of old had once
actually caught, when it slipped through his
fingers into the water. The big, experienced
pearl-oysters, be it known, are very watchful,
and keep their shells open. Well, it fell out
upon a day that the slave boy, diving, hit upon
the very pearl which had been lost; whereupon
the chief redeemed his wife and children, paid
off his debts, and became once more a respectable
man. "It is a very curious superstition,"
Mr. St. John says, "in those countries, that if
you place gold or pearls in a packet by
themselves, they will certainly decrease in quantity
or in number, and in the end totally disappear;
but if you add a few grains of rice, the treasure
is safe. I have never yet seen a native open a
packet of gold, or pearls, or any precious stones,
without noticing some grains of rice."

BOATING.

OUR eager crew, six merry boys,
    In the completest sailor trim,
Row, laugh, and talk with equal noise—
    The shining eddies whirl and dim:
Beneath each oar an azure cup,
With sudden silver bubbling up.

The hinted summer thrills the scene,
    Like a dear love-tale guessed, not told;
What flutter in Earth's youthful green,
    What wooing in the sun's soft gold!
For Spring but just had passed away,
Veiled in her cloud of falling May.

Fresh'ning her sister's pathway first,
    With scented dawns and showy eves,
Her lily-globes of perfume burst,
    Spread her rich-lying tulip-leaves;
Her gold laburnum founts still shed
Some droppings on June's sunny head.

Alas! this bay of lovely nooks,
    The boys, contemptuous, call a pond,
Bend on the helmsman anxious looks,
    Assure him of dead calm beyond—
Yet loose the sail excitedly,
For he must turn the boat to sea.

And so before our vessel's prow,
    In one grand line meet wave and sky;
Oh, this exuberant stir and glow,
   The strength and the uncertainty
May well the boyish spirit win
To its own nature, so akin!

The glory of the setting sun
    Rains down a dust of gold behind,
A cloud's cast shadow rests upon
    The harbour rocks as moves the wind.
They gloom and glorify, a true
Magnificent dissolving view.

So we float on and on, then turn;
    The boys reluctant furl the sail,
They see the beauteous waters burn,
    But not the warning in the trail;
Steer for those rocks to see the cove
Called ours by right of trésor-trôve—

A tiny inlet out of sight,
    And cool behind its rugged screen,
Filled with a curious pale-green light,
    That ripples through the darker green
So calm, so clear, the emerald flow,
We see the starfish move below.

The seaweed, purple, olive, red,
    It might a mermaid's garden be;
So saith a child, whose curly head
    Is glassed in its transparency.