[Sidenote: 4. Approaching Tuticorin.] We wake at the dawn of the equatorial day which comes almost suddenly at six in the morning. There is bustle on board, for the launch is alongside which is to carry us ashore. The ship is riding in a yellow, turbid sea, and the land is distant some miles to the west, a low dark line along the horizon. At one point are white buildings, which gleam in the increasing light. We cross the broad shoal, and gradually the detail of the coast separates into a rich vegetation of trees, and a city whose most prominent object is a cotton factory with tall chimneys—strange reminder at the very threshold of our journey that we are entering a land which is in process of economic change. The United Kingdom underwent such a change a century ago, when spinning and weaving were removed from the cottage to the steam-driven factory. [Sidenote: 5. Nearer approach to Tuticorin.] India is a land of cotton. The very name calico is derived from Calicut, a town on the Malabar Coast, which was a centre of trade when Europeans first came over the ocean. Lancashire now sends cotton fabrics to India, and the Lancashire power-looms compete seriously with the finer work of the hand looms of India. But India manufactures great quantities of her own coarser cottons, and such a mill as this at Tuticorin is doing more than Lancashire to change the occupations of the Indian people. The beautiful silks, however, worn by the better-to-do women of India are still manufactured by hand loom. [Sidenote: 6. Landing at Tuticorin.] [Sidenote: 7. The Bazaar, Tuticorin.] [Sidenote: 8. Spinning Mill at Tuticorin.] [Sidenote: 9. Ducks at Tuticorin.] We land. Dark gesticulating figures surround us, scantily clad in white cotton. The morning sun casts long shadows, but there is a throng of people, for the work of India is done in the cool of the morning. The express train to Madras is waiting, but we have a short time for that first stroll, which leaves so deep an impression on the traveller setting foot in a new land. Tuticorin is a remote provincial city, a Dover or a Calais, on the passage from Ceylon. Here is a picture of its little bazaar with dark people in flowing white robes; there is a country cart in the street—ox-drawn. Next we have a nearer view of the spinning mill with a half-naked workman in the foreground. Under the shade of these leafy trees is a flock of ducks for sale. At every turn we see something characteristic, and must ask questions.