pillars. It may be that the coats of whitewash conceal and perhaps preserve frescoes more elaborate than those whose vestiges are visible.
Returning to the town from the Portuguese Church wre pass, a little off the road, close to the river, the remains of an old church called Sa,n Lourenvo to-day, but thought to have borne in the past a different title. It is now in utter ruin, roof less, its pillars and walls alone standing, and one tombstone remaining in the floor.
The local Malay industries of Malacca are baskets and lace, specimens of which are often brought round for sale.
Malacca, or the outskirts of it, is full of beautiful drives between which it is hardly possible to judge, but perhaps the road to Tanjong Kling is the most beautiful. The Government Bungalow at Tanjong Kling is seven miles out, and can be occupied if a permit be got from the Resident-Collector. Everything necessary, except food, is provided, and there is a caretaker in charge. Sea-bathing can safely be enjoyed, as an enclosure for it has been made. The house stands on a small hill and catches the breeze from the sea. From under the trees on the lawn is a beautiful view of the coast back as far as the town of Malacca. The seven miles between
Malacca and Tanjong Kling runs through Malay kampongs bordering the sea, and on the landward side are the padi-fields. Some of these kampongs have been bought by wealthy Chinese, who have erected imposing country villas surrounded by beautiful gardens. Though the festivities on New Yeara s day in Malacca bring in the bullock-carts by hundreds and Malays by thousands, any day in the year one may see along the Tanjong Kling road picnic parties of brightly dressed Malays in bullock-carts drawn by the nimble Malacca cattle. The Malacca Malay looks happier and is usually of a handsomer type than that found anywhere else in the Peninsula, possibly for the reason that for just four centuries he and his forbears have enjoyed settled government. The beauty of the women of the Portuguese community is remarkable.
The streets of Malacca are narrow and noisy. It is a relief in the evening to hear the last clash of six on the bell in the signal station on the hill with the bell of the clock tower opposite the Stadthaus, and to climb to Nossa Senhora da Annunciada. With the echoes of the citya s clamour still in our ears we enter into silence and the empty hulk which was once a church ; where once lay, as the inscription records, the body of Saint Francois Xavier, S. J., the Apostle of the Far E?A st, before its translation to Goa in 1553 ; whose choir's voices have yielded to the twitter of the swallowr, to the rush of the wings of the spine-tailed swift. As night draws in there settles down in this old, sad, maimed, misused, abandoned fane a silence we do not care to break. The place has been much abused. The east end was at one time turned into a military magazine. On the outside of the west end is a very ugly tower bearing a fixed light. The roof has entirely disappeared. Windows have been bricked up and doors opened out to suit the needs of four centuries of Portuguese and Dutch and English. Yet some of them cared for the old place, since repairs, with small bricks, are visible everywhere, but the words of Ruskin w ere written too late for it: a Watch an old building with anxious care ; guard it as best you