Chapter XXIII: The Island of Java (2)

I observed also with curious interest the relations of master and servant in this Oriental household. The divisions are very marked. The Regent, for example, is regarded by his retainers with an awe as if he were a sacred person. No one approaches him standing. The theory is, that no inferior must ever be in a position or attitude where his head is higher than his master's. If the Regent but looks at a man, he drops as if shot with a bullet. If a servant wishes to communicate with his master, he falls, not on his knees, but on his haunches, and in this posture shuffles forward till he comes behind his chair, and meekly whispers a word into his ear. He receives his orders, and then shuffles back again. In one way, the division of ranks in Java is more marked even than that of castes in India. The Javanese language, which is a branch of the Malay, has three separate forms of speech--one, that used by a superior addressing an inferior; second, that of an inferior addressing a superior; and a third, that used between equals. Such divisions would seem to cut off all relations between those of different rank. And yet, with all this stooping and bowing, abject as it seems to us, the relation of the master to his dependants is rather patriarchal; and to these same servants the Regent will speak, not only kindly, but familiarly, all the more so as the lines are so drawn that there is no danger that they should ever presume on undue familiarity.

In the morning the Regent took me out for a ramble. We strolled along under the trees, admiring the beauty of the country. After half an hour's walk, suddenly, like an apparition, an open phaeton stood beside us, with two beautiful ponies, into which the Regent invited me to step, and taking his seat by my side, drove me about the town. We returned for breakfast, and then he sent for his musicians to give us a performance, who, beating on drums and other native instruments, executed a plaintive kind of music. With such attentions did this Javanese prince and his wives (none of whom we had ever seen till a few hours before, and on whom we had no claim whatever) win our hearts by their kindness, so that, when the carriage came round to the door, we were sorry to depart. The Regent pressed us to stay a month, or as long as we would. We could not accept a longer hospitality; but we shall remember that which we had. We keep his photograph, with others which we like to look upon; and if these words can reach the other side of the world, they will tell him that his American friends have not forgotten, and will not forget, the kind manner in which they were entertained in the island of Java by the Regent of Magellang.

The drive of to-day was hardly less interesting than that of yesterday, although our pride had a fall. It was a great come-down, after riding with six horses to be reduced to four! But the mortification was relieved by adding now and then, at the steep places, a pair of buffaloes. As we were still in the hill country, we were all day among the coffee plantations, which thrive best at a considerable elevation above the sea. Other products of the island flourished around us in rich abundance: the spices--aloes and cassia, and nutmeg and pepper. And there was our old friend, the peanut. They were gathering perhaps the very nuts that were yet to ornament the stands of the apple-women of New York, and to be a temptation to bootblacks and newsboys. Amid such fields and forests, over mountain roads, and listening to the roar of mountain streams, we came down to Ambarrawa, a place of note in Java, as containing the strongest fortress in the island. It is planted here right in the heart of Middle Java, where, half a century ago, was a formidable insurrection, which was quelled only after an obstinate contest, lasting five years--from 1825 to 1830. Ambarrawa is connected by railroad with Samarang. It is easy to see that both the railroads which start from that point, and which have thus a base on the sea (the one leading to Solo and Jookja, the residences of the Emperor and the Sultan, who might make trouble, and the other to the great fortress of Ambarrawa), have been constructed with a military as well as a commercial purpose.

So the Dutch have had their wars in Java, as the English have had in India; but having conquered, it must be said that on the whole they have ruled wisely and well. The best proof of this is the perfect tranquillity that reigns everywhere, and that with no great display of armed force. What a contrast in this respect between the two most important islands in the East and West Indies--Java and Cuba! They are about equal in the number of square miles. Both have been settled by Europeans for nearly three centuries, and yet to-day Cuba has less than two millions of inhabitants, and is in a chronic state of insurrection; while Java has over fifteen millions (or eight times as many), and is as quiet as Holland itself. The whole story is told in one word--the one is Dutch rule, and the other is Spanish rule.

We spent our Easter in Samarang--a day which is not forgotten in this part of the world, although Sunday is not observed after the manner of Scotland or New England, but rather of Continental Europe, with bands playing on the public square, and all the European world abroad keeping holiday. From Samarang, another two days' sail along the same northern coast, with the grand outline of mountains on the horizon, brought us back to Batavia.

Batavia was not the same to us on the second visit as on the first; or rather it was a great deal more, for now we knew the place, the streets were familiar, and we felt at home--the more so as a Scotch gentleman, to whom we brought a letter from Singapore, Mr. James Greig (of the old house of Syme, Pitcairn & Co., so well known in the East), took us in charge, and carried us off to one of those large mansions which we had so much admired on our former visit, set far back from the street, and surrounded with trees; and constructed especially for this climate, with spacious rooms, wide hall, high ceilings, and broad veranda, and all the devices for mitigating the heat of the tropics. More than all, this hospitable mansion was lighted up by the sweetest feminine presence in one who, though of an old Dutch family well known in Java, had been educated in Paris, and spoke English and French, as well as Dutch and Malay, and who gave us such a welcome as made us feel that we were not strangers. Not only did these friends open their house to us, but devoted themselves till our departure in going about with us, and making our visit pleasant. I do not know whether to call this Scotch or Dutch hospitality, but it was certainly of the most delightful kind.

As we had three or four days before the sailing of the French steamer for Singapore, our friends planned an excursion into the mountains of Western Java, for which we returned to Buitenzorg, and engaged a couple of _cahars_, carriages as light as if made of wicker-work, with the small Javanese ponies, and thus mounted, began to climb the hills. Our route was over the great post-road, which runs through the island to Souraboya--a road which must have been constructed with immense labor, as it passes over high mountains, but which is as solidly built and as well kept as Napoleon's great road over the Simplon Pass of the Alps. Indeed it is very much the same, having a rocky bed for its foundation, with a macadamized surface, over which the carriage rolls smoothly. But it does not climb so steadily upward as the Simplon or the Mont Cenis. The ascent is not one long pull, like the ascent of the Alps, but by a succession of hills, one beyond another, with many a deep valley between, so that we go alternately up hill and down dale. The hills are very steep, so that the post-carriage, which is as heavy and lumbering as a French diligence, has to be drawn up by buffaloes. Thus it climbs slowly height after height, and when it has reached the summit, goes thundering down the mountain, and rolls majestically along the road. But our light carriages suited us much better than these ponderous vehicles; and as our little ponies trotted swiftly along, we were in a very gay mood, making the woods ring with our merry talk and glee. Sometimes we got out to stretch our limbs with a good walk up the hills, turning as we reached the top to take in the landscape behind us, which spread out broader and broader, as we rose higher and higher. At every stage the view increased in extent and in majesty, till the whole island,

"From the centre all round to the sea,"

was piled with mountains, which here, as in Middle Java, showed their volcanic origin by their forms, now rising in solitary cones, and now lying on the horizon in successive ridges, like mighty billows tossed up on a sea of fire, that in cooling had cracked in all fantastic shapes, which, after being worn down by the storms of thousands of years, were mantled thick with the verdure of forests. As in England the ivy creeps over old walls, covering ruined castles and towers with its perpetual green, so here the luxuriance of the tropics has overspread the ruin wrought by destroying elements. The effect is a mingled wildness and beauty in these mountain landscapes, which often reminded us of Switzerland and the Tyrol.

The enjoyment of this ride was increased by the character of the day, which was not all sunshine, but one of perpetual change. Clouds swept over the sky, casting shadows on the sides of the mountains and into the deep valleys. Sometimes the higher summits were wrapped so as to be hidden from sight, and the rain fell heavily; then as the storm drifted away, and the sun burst through the parted clouds, the glorious heights shone in the sudden light like the Delectable Mountains.

The object of our journey was a mountain retreat four thousand feet above the level of the sea--as high as the Righi Kulm, but in no other respect like that mountain-top, which from its height overlooks so many Swiss lakes and cantons. It is rather like an Alpine valley, surrounded by mountains. This is a favorite resort of the Dutch from Batavia. Here the Governor-General has a little box, to which he retires, from his grander residence at Buitenzorg, and here many sick and wounded officers find a cool retreat and recover strength for fresh campaigns. The place bears the musical name of Sindanglaya, which one would think might have been given with some reference to the music of murmuring winds and waters which fill the air. The valley is full of streams, of brooks and springs, that run among the hills. Water, water everywhere! The rain pattering on the roof all night long carried me back to the days of my childhood, when I slept in a little cot under the eaves, and that sound was music to my ear. The Scotch mist that envelopes the mountains might make the traveller fancy himself in the Highlands; and so he might, as he seeks out the little "tarns" that have settled in the craters of extinct volcanoes, where not only wild deer break through the tangled wood of the leafy solitudes, but the tiger and the rhinoceros come to drink. Streams run down the mountain-sides, and springs ooze from mossy banks by the roadside, and temper the air with their dripping coolness. What a place to rest! How this perfect quiet must bring repose to the brave fellows from Acheen, and how sweet must sound this music of mountain streams to ears accustomed to the rude alarms of war!

That we were in a new quarter of the world--far away, not only from America and Europe, but even from Asia--we were reminded by the line of telegraph which kept us company over the mountains, and which here crosses the island on its way to Australia! It goes down the coast to Bangaewangi, where it dives into the sea only to come up on the mainland of the great Southern Continent. Indeed we were strongly advised to extend our journey around the world to Australia, which we could have reached in much less time than it had taken to come from Calcutta to Singapore. But we were more interested to visit old countries and old nations than to set foot on a virgin continent, and to see colonies and cities, which, with all their growth, could only be a smaller edition of what we have so abundantly in the new States of America.

We were now within a few miles of the Southern Ocean, the greatest of all the oceans that wrap their watery mantle around the globe. From the top of the Gede, a mountain which rose above us, one may look off upon an ocean broader than the Pacific--a sea without a shore--whose waters roll in an unbroken sweep to the Antarctic Pole.

From all these seas and shores, and woods and waters, we now turned away, and with renewed delight in the varied landscapes, rode back over the mountains to Buitenzorg, and came down by rail to Batavia.

Before I depart from this pleasant land of Java, I must say a word about the Dutch and their position in South-eastern Asia. The Dutch have had possession of Java over 250 years--since 1623--without interruption, except from 1811 to 1816, when Napoleon had taken Holland; and as England was using all her forces on land and sea to cripple the French empire in different parts of the world, she sent a fleet against Java. It yielded almost without opposition; indeed many of the Dutch regarded the surrender as simply placing the island under British protection, which saved it from the French. For five years it had an English Governor, Sir Stamford Raffles, who has written a large work on Java. After the fall of Napoleon, England restored Java to the Dutch, but kept Ceylon, Malacca, and the Cape of Good Hope. Thus the Dutch have lost some of their possessions in the East, and yet Holland is to-day the second colonial power in the world, being inferior only to England. The Dutch flag in the East waves not only over Java, but over almost the whole of the Malayan Archipelago, which, with the intervening waters, covers a portion of the earth's surface larger than all Europe.

There are some peculiar physical features in this part of the world. The Malayan Archipelago lies midway between Asia and Australia, belonging to neither, and yet belonging to both. It is a very curious fact, brought out by Wallace, whose great work on "The Malayan Archipelago" is altogether the best on the subject, that this group of islands is in itself divided by a very narrow space between the two continents, which it at once separates and unites. Each has its own distinct fauna and flora. The narrow Strait of Bali, only fifteen miles wide, which separates the two small islands of Bali and Lombok, separates two distinct animal and vegetable kingdoms, which are as unlike as are those of the United States and Brazil. One group belongs to Asia, the other to Australia. Sumatra is full of tigers; in Borneo there is not one. Australia has no carnivora--no beasts that prey on flesh--but chiefly marsupials, such as kangaroos.

There are a good many residents in the East who think Holland, in the management of her dependencies, has shown a better political economy than England has shown in India. An English writer (a Mr. Money), in a volume entitled "How to Govern a Colony," has brought some features of the Dutch policy to the notice of his countrymen. I will mention but one as an illustration. Half a century ago Java was very much run down. A native rebellion which lasted five years had paralyzed the industry of the country. To reanimate it, a couple of years after the rebellion had been subdued, in 1832, the home government began a very liberal system of stimulating production by making advances to planters, and guaranteeing them labor to cultivate their estates. The effect was marvellous. By that wise system of helping those who had not means to help themselves, a new life was at once infused into all parts of the island. Out of that has grown the enormous production of coffee, sugar, and tobacco. Now Java not only pays all the expenses of her own government, (which India does not do, at least without contracting very heavy loans,) but builds her own railroads, and other roads and bridges, and supplies the drain of the Acheen war, and remits every year millions to the Hague to build railroads in Holland.

Is it too much to believe that there is a great future in store for South Eastern Asia? We talk about the future of America. But ours is not the only continent that offers vast unoccupied wastes to the habitation of man. Besides Australia, there are these great islands nearer to Asia, which, from the overflow of India and China, may yet have a population that shall cultivate their waste places. I found in Burmah a great number of Bengalees and Madrasees, who had crossed the Bay of Bengal to seek a home in Farther India; while the Chinese, who form the population of Singapore, had crept up the coast. They are here in Java, in every seaport and in every large town in the interior, and there is every reason to suppose that there will be a yet greater overflow of population in this direction. Sumatra and Borneo are not yet inhabited and cultivated like Java, but in their great extent they offer a magnificent seat for future kingdoms or empires, which, Asiatic in population, may be governed by European laws, and moulded by European civilization.

One thing more before we cross the Equator--a word about nature and life in the tropics. I came to Java partly to see the tropical vegetation, of which we saw but little in India, as we were there in winter, which is at once the cold and the dry season, when vegetation withers, and the vast plains are desolate and dreary. Nature then holds herself in reserve, waiting till the rains come, when the earth will bloom again. But as I could not wait for the change of seasons, I must needs pass on to a land where the change had already come. We marked the transition as we came down the Bay of Bengal. There were signs of changing seasons and a changing nature. We were getting into the rainy belt. In the Straits of Malacca the air was hot and thunderous, and we had frequent storms; the heavens were full of rain, and the earth was fresh with the joy of a newly-opened spring. But still we kept on till we crossed the Equator. Here in Java the rainy season was just over. It ends with the last of March, and we arrived at the beginning of April. For months the windows of heaven had been opened, the rains descended, and the floods came; and lo! the land was like the garden of the Lord. Here we had at last the tropical vegetation in its fullest glory. Nothing can exceed the prodigality and luxuriance of nature when a vertical sun beats down on fields and forests and jungles that have been drenched for months in rain. Vegetation of every kind springs up, as in the temperate zone it appears only when forced in heated conservatories (as in the Duke of Devonshire's gardens at Chatsworth), and the land waves with these luxuriant growths. In the forest creeping plants wind round the tall trunks, and vines hang in festoons from tree to tree.

But while the tropical forest presents such a wild luxuriance of growth, I find no single trees of such stature as I have seen in other parts of the world. Except an occasional broad-spreading banyan, I have seen nothing which, standing alone, equals in its solitary majesty the English oak or the American elm. Perhaps there is a difference in this respect between countries in the same latitude in the Eastern and Western hemispheres. An English gentleman whom we found here in charge of a great sugar plantation, who had spent some years in Rio Janeiro, told me that the trees of Java did not compare in majesty with those of Brazil. Nor is this superiority confined to South America. Probably no trees now standing on the earth equal the Big Trees of California. And besides these there are millions of lofty pines on the sides of the Sierra Nevada, which I have seen nowhere equalled unless it be in the mighty cedars which line the great Tokaido of Japan. On the whole, I am a little inclined to boast that trees attain their greatest height and majesty in our Western hemisphere.

But the glory of the tropics is in the universal life of nature, spreading through all her realms, stirring even under ground, and causing to spring forth new forms of vegetation, which coming up, as it were, out of the darkness of the grave, seek the sun and air, whereby all things live.

Of course one cannot but consider what effect this marvellous production must have upon man. Too often it overpowers him, and makes him its slave, since he cannot be its master. This is the terror of the Tropics, as of the Polar regions, that nature is too strong for man to subdue her. What can he do--poor, puny creature--against its terrible forces; against the heat of a vertical sun, that while it quickens the earth, often blasts the strength of man, subduing his energy, if not destroying his life? What can man do in the Arctic circle against the cold that locks up whole continents in ice? Much as he boasts of his strength and of his all-conquering will, he is but a child in the lap of nature, tossed about by material forces as a leaf is blown by the wind. The best region for human development and energy is the temperate zone, where nature stimulates, but does not overpower, the energies of man, where the winter's cold does not benumb him and make him sink into torpor, but only pricks him to exertion and makes him quicken his steps.

The effect of this fervid climate shows itself not only upon natives, but upon Europeans. It induces a languor and indisposition to effort. It has two of the hardest and toughest races in the world to work upon, in the English in India and the Dutch in Java, and yet it has its effect even upon them, and would have a still greater were it not that this foreign element is constantly changing, coming and going, whereby there is all the time a fresh infusion of European life. Here in Java the Dutch have been longer settled than the English in India; they more often remain in the island, and the effect of course is more marked from generation to generation. The Dutchman is a placid, easy-going creature, even in his native Holland, except when roused by some great crisis, like a Spanish invasion, and then he fights with a courage which has given him a proud name in history. But ordinarily he is of a calm and even temper, and likes to sit quietly and survey his broad acres, and smoke his pipe in blissful content with himself and all the world beside. When he removes from Holland to the other side of the world, he has not changed his nature; he is a Dutchman still, only with his natural love of ease increased by life in the tropics. It is amusing to see how readily his Dutch nature falls in with the easy ways of this Eastern world.

If I were to analyze existence, or material enjoyment in this part of the world, I should say that the two great elements in one's life, or at least in his comfort, are sleep and smoke. They smoke in Holland, and they have a better right to smoke in Java; for here they but follow the course of nature. Why should not man smoke, when even the earth itself respires through smoke and flame? The mountains smoke, and why not the Dutch? Only there is this difference: the volcanoes sometimes have a period of rest, but the Dutch never. Morning, noon, and night, before breakfast and after dinner, smoke, smoke, smoke! It seems to be a Dutchman's ideal of happiness. I have been told of some who dropped to sleep with the cigar in their lips, and of one who required his servants to put his pipe between his teeth while he was yet sleeping, that he might wake up with the right taste in his mouth. It seemed to me that this must work injury to their health, but they think not. Perhaps there is something in the phlegmatic Dutch temperament that can stand this better than the more mercurial and excitable English or American.

And then how they do sleep! Sleep is an institution in Java, and indeed everywhere in the tropics. The deep stillness of the tropical noon seems to prescribe rest, for then nature itself sinks into repose. Scarcely a leaf moves in the forest--the birds cease their musical notes, and seek for rest under the shade of motionless palms. The sleep of the Dutch is like this stillness of nature. It is profound and absolute repose. For certain hours of the day no man is visible. I had a letter to the Resident of Solo, and went to call on him at two o'clock. He lived in a grand Government House, or palace; but an air of somnolence pervaded the place, as if it were the Castle of Indolence. The very servant was asleep on the marble pavement, where it was his duty to keep watch; and when I sent in my letter, he came back making a very significant gesture, leaning over his head to signify that his master was asleep. At five o'clock I was more fortunate, but even then he was dressed with a lightness of costume more suitable for one who was about to enter his bath than to give audience.

There is a still graver question for the moralist to consider--the effect of these same physical influences upon human character. No observer of men in different parts of the world can fail to see that different races have been modified by climate, not only in color and features, but in temperament, in disposition, and in character. A hot climate makes hot blood. Burning passions do but reflect the torrid sun. What the Spaniard is in Europe, the Malay is in Asia. There is a deep philosophy in the question of Byron:

"Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?"

But I must not wander into deep philosophy. I only say that great as is the charm of life in the tropics, it is not without alloy. In landing in Java it seemed as if we had touched the shores of some enchanted island, as if we had found the Garden of Paradise lying far off in these Southern seas. We had come to the land of perpetual spring and perpetual summer, where nature is always in bloom, and frost and snow and hail have fled away to the bleak and wintry North. But as we are obliged to go back to that North, we wish to be reconciled to it. We find that one may have too much even of Paradise. There is a monotony in perpetual summer. The only change of seasons here is from the dry season to the rainy season; and the only difference between these, so far as we can see, is that in the dry season it rains, and in the rainy season it pours. We have been here in the dry season, and yet we have had frequent showers, with occasional thunderstorms. If we should stay here a year, we should weary of this unrelieved monotony of sun and rain. We should long for some more marked change of seasons, for the autumn leaves and the winter winds, and the gradual coming on of spring, and all those insensible gradations of nature which make the glory of the full round year.

And what a loss should we find in the absence of twilight. Java, being almost under the Equator, the days and nights are almost equal throughout the year; there are no short days and no long days. Day and night come on suddenly--not instantly, but in a few minutes the night breaks into the full glare of day, and the day as quickly darkens into night. How we should miss the long summer twilight, which in our Northern latitudes lingers so softly and tenderly over the quiet earth.

Remembering these things, we are reconciled to our lot in living in the temperate zone, and turn away even from the soft and easy life of the tropics, to find a keener delight in our rugged clime, and to welcome even the snow-drifts and the short winter days, since they bring the long winter evenings, and the roaring winter fires!

We leave Java, therefore, not so much with regret that we can no longer sit under the palm groves, and indulge in the soft and easy life of the tropics, as that we part from friends. Our last night in Batavia they took us to a representation given by amateurs at the English Club, where it was very pleasant to see so many English faces in this distant part of the world, and to hear our own mother tongue. The next morning they rode down with us to the quay, and came off to the steamer, and did not leave us till it was ready to move; and it was with a real sadness that we saw them over the ship's side, and watched their fluttering signals as they sailed back to the shore. These partings are the sore pain of travel. But the friendships remain, and are delightful in memory. A pleasure past is a pleasure still. Even now it gives us a warm feeling at the heart to think of those kind friends on the other side of the globe.