Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

Looking at that dark-leaved grove on the margin of the water, I thought I had seldom seen nobler trees. Not very tall; but round and broad, great hemispheres of foliage squarely supported on column-like trunks. In their general air and bearing, in the character of the oblong leaves and their elegant poise upon the branch, they somewhat resemble the walnuts of northern countries. The colour is even richer, a vigorous bluish green, swarthy at a distance; and, when seen near at hand, as full of tender beryl-tints as a field of young oats, with watery gleams and glories playing through the depths of the foliage. For a crowning grace, the njamploeng has its blossoms, fragrant, white, and of a wax-like transparency--cups of milky light. Standing under an ancient tree, that overhung the water with trailing branches and a tangle of wave-washed roots, I could see the luminous clusters shining in that dome of dusky leafage, like stars in an evening sky. And the water in the shadow gleamed with pale reflections.

The sea that morning passed through a succession of chromatic changes. The silvery smoothness of an hour ago had been broken by a ripple, that came and went in dashes of ruffled ultra-marine. Then, here and there, purplish patches appeared, which presently began to spread until they touched, and flowed together, and the sea, all along the shore, seemed turned to muddy wine whilst, out in the open, it sparkled in a rich blue-green, rippling and flickering. At noon, the purplish brown had disappeared, and the emerald-like tints had faded and changed to an uncertain olive-green. The sky as yet retained its morning aspect, cloudless and shimmering with a white brilliancy as if all the stars of the Milky Way had been dissolved in it. Under that enduring paleness, the fitful colouring and flushing of the sea seemed all the stranger.

As the day advanced, the heat had steadily increased, and, at last, it was intolerable. About ten, when we swam out into the sea, the water, even where it grew deeper, felt tepid; a little after noon, it was warm. The windless air quivered. And the sand was so hot as to scorch our bare feet when we attempted to step out of the circular shadow of the njamploengs, where a little coolness as yet remained.

A dead quiet lay on sea and land. There was neither wind nor wave, not the thinnest shadow of a sailing cloud, to temper for an instant the unbearable glare. The foliage overhead was the one spot of colour in a white-hot universe. There must be cicadas among the leaves: I had heard them trilling, earlier in the day; but the heat had reduced them to silence. Even the black ants, crawling among the roots, and in the fissures of the rough rind of the trees seemed to move but listlessly. From where I sat, I could see, framed by the circular sweep of the hanging foliage, a stretch of beach, with some huts amidst a banana plantation, and, further down, a native boat lying keel upwards upon the sand. A lean dog crouched in the shadow, panting with tongue hanging out. No other living creature was to be seen.

The afternoon was far gone before there came a change, imperceptible at first, a gradual sobering of colour, and a growing definiteness in the contours of trees and bushes. Then, the air began to cool down. The horizon grew distinct; a curve of rich green against sunlit blue; a short ripple roughened the water; and, suddenly, the breeze sprang up, driving before it a wave that hurried and rose, and broke foaming upon the beach. The tide was coming in.

It was as if the inspiriting hour, that changed the face of land and sea, made itself felt also in the little brown huts under the trees, stirring up the folk into briskness and activity. Merry voices and the cries of children mingled with the sound of hammer strokes, reverberating along the wooded beach. Among the trees, I could discern the figure of a man bending over his boat, tool in hand; and a woman coming out of her door with a bundle of clothes under one arm. Where the lengthening shadow of the njamploeng trees fell on the sunny water, two young girls were bathing; somewhat further down, a swarm of naked urchins waded through the shallows, in search of mother-of-pearl. The yellow sunlight shone on their little brown bodies, and made the ripples sparkle around them as they splashed hither and thither, feeling about with their feet for the flat sharp shards which the tide leaves buried in the sands. Standing still for an instant, when they had found one, they balanced on one foot, whilst, with the clenched toes of the other they picked up the shiny piece, with a supple, monkey-like movement. Presently, along came an old man, in a straw topee broad-rimmed hat and a faded reddish sarong, who entered the sea, and waded towards the spot, where, that morning,--when it was as yet dry land--he had erected his "tero," the pliable bamboo palisade, which, arranged in the shape of a V, with the opening towards the shore, serves as a trap for fish. The hurdle was all but overflowed now, only the points of the bamboo stakes emerging above the rising tide, like the rigging of some wrecked and sunken ship. The old man gave it a shake, to assure himself of having driven it deep enough down into the sand, to withstand the impact of the waves; and, satisfied upon this point, limped away again, with the air of a man who had finished his day's work. He might lie down on his baleh-baleh now, and peacefully smoke his cigarette. Whilst he was taking his ease, the sea would provide for his daily fish. In a few minutes, the tide would have submerged his "tero," and the heedless fish would swim across it; and, as the water ebbed away again, they would be driven against the converging sides of the lattice-work, and, presently, be left gasping upon the bars. Then, the women of the village would come with their baskets, and gather the living harvest, as they might a windfall of ripe fruit; and his grandson, out at sea now, with the other young men, would hang two full baskets to his bending yoke, and with the fire-car go to Batavia, there to sell the fish for much money, a handful of copper doits. Even, if he had caught "kabak" which the orang blandah like, and "gabus," of which the rich Chinese are fond, the boy might bring him home some silver coins. And his grand-daughter would salt and dry in the sun the smaller fry, and make "ikan kring" for him and all the household.

Happy the man who has dutiful children! In his old age, when he is able no longer to earn his sustenance, he will not want; he need not beg, nor borrow from the kampong folk; and he will not be tempted to invoke Kjaï Belorong, the wicked goddess of wealth, who, in exchange for riches, demands men's souls. Do not all in this kampong know of Pah-Sidin, and what became of him after he had prayed to the evil sprite? Here is the tale, as the old fisherman gave it me.

He was a poor man, Pah-Sidin, unlucky in whatever he undertook, and so utterly ignorant as not to know one single "ilmu."[14] So that, though his wife worked from morning till night, weaving and batiking sarongs, and tending the garden and the field, and selling fruit and flowers, things went from bad to worse with him. And at last, there was not a grain of rice left in the house, and the green crop in the field was the property of the usurer. His wife, weeping, said: "O Pah-Sidin! how now shall we feed and clothe our little ones, Sidin, and all the others?" But he, vexed with her importunities, and weary of fasting and going about in faded clothes, without a penny to buy sirih or pay his place at a cock-fight, said: "Be silent! for I know where to find great wealth." Then he went away, and walked along the shore for many days, until he came to a place where there were great rocks, and caves in which the water made a sound as of thunder. Here lives the dread goddess, Njai Loro Kidul, the Virgin Queen of the Southern Seas, whom the gatherers of edible birds' nest invoke, honouring her with sacrifices before they set out on their perilous quest. And here, too, lives her servant, wicked Kjaï Belorong, the money-goddess.

[14] Charm to conjure good fortune.

Pah-Sidin, standing in the entrance of a black and thunderous cave, strewed kanangan flowers, and melatih, and yellow champaka, and burnt costly frankincense, and, as the cloud of fragrant smoke ascended, he fell on his face, and cried: "Kjaï Belorong! I invoke thee! I am poor and utterly wretched! Do thou give me money, and I will give thee my soul, O Kjaï Belorong!" Then, a voice, which caused the blood to run cold in his veins, answered: "I hear thee, Pah-Sidin." He arose, trembling, and, as he turned his head, saw that the cave was a house, large, and splendid, and full of golden treasure. But, as he looked closer, behold! it was built of human bodies; floor, walls, and roof all made of living men, who wept and groaned, crying: "Alas, alas! who can endure these unendurable pains!" And the horrible voice, speaking for the second time, asked: "Pah-Sidin, hast thou courage?"

Pah-Sidin, at first, seemed as though he would have fainted with horror. But soon, reflecting how he was young and strong, and the hour of his death far off as yet, and hoping, also, that, in the end, he might be able to deceive Kjaï Belorong and save his soul, whilst in the meanwhile, he would enjoy great honour and riches, he answered; "Kjaï Belorong, I have courage!" And, the voice spoke for the third time: "It is well! Go back to thine own house now; for, soon, I will come to thee."

So, Pah-Sidin returned to his house, and waited for Kjaï Belorong, saying nothing of the matter to his wife. And, in the night, she came, and sat upon the baleh-baleh, and said: "Embrace me, Pah-Sidin, for now I am thy love." Pah-Sidin would willingly have kissed her, for she seemed as fair as the bride of the love-god. But, looking down, he saw that, instead of legs and feet, she had a long scaly tail; then he was afraid, and would have fled. But Kjaï Belorong, seizing him in her arms, said: "If thou but triest to escape, I will kill thee," and she pressed him to her bosom so violently that the breath forsook his body, and he lay as one dead. Then she loosened her grasp, and disappeared, rattling her tail. But when Pah-Sidin returned to consciousness, he saw, in the faint light of the dawn, the baleh-baleh all strewn with yellow scales, and each scale was a piece of the finest gold.

Pah-Sidin now was as the richest Rajah: he had a splendid house, with granaries and stables, fine horses, great plantations of palms and jambus and all other kinds of fruit, and rich _sawahs_ that stretched as far as a man on horseback could see. He abandoned his wife, who was no longer young, and was worn out with care and labour; and married the daughter of a wealthy Rajah, and three other maidens, as fair as bidadaris. And, whenever he wished for more money, Kjaï Belorong came to him in the night, and embraced him, and gave him more than he had asked for. Thus the years went by in great glory and happiness, until the hair of his head began to grow white, and his eyes lost their brilliancy, and his black and shining teeth fell out. Then, one night, Kjaï Belorong came to his couch, unsummoned, looked at him, and said: "Pah-Sidin! the hour is come. Follow me and I will make thee the threshold of my palace." But Pah-Sidin made answer, and said: "Alas! Kjaï Belorong! look at me, how lean I am! my ribs almost pierce through the skin of my side. Assuredly, thou wilt hurt thy tail in passing over me, if thou makest me the threshold of thy house. Rather take with thee my plough-boy, who is young, and plump, and smooth!"

Then Kjaï Belorong took the plough-boy. And Pah-Sidin married a new wife, and lived merrier than before. Thus ten years went by in great glory and happiness. But, on the last night of the tenth year, Kjaï Belorong again came to his couch, unsummoned, and looked at him, and said: "Pah-Sidin! the hour is come. Follow me, and I will make thee the pillar of my palace." But Pah-Sidin made answer and said: "Alas! Kjaï Belorong! look at me, how weak I am! my shoulders are so bent I can scarcely keep the badju jacket from gliding down. Assuredly, thy roof will fall in and crush thee, if thou makest me the pillar of thy house. Rather take with thee my youngest brother, who is strong, and tall, and broad of shoulders!"

Then Kjaï Belorong took the brother. But Pah-Sidin married yet another new wife, and lived even merrier than hitherto. Thus ten more years went by in great glory and happiness. But, on the last night of the tenth year, Kjaï Belorong for the third time came to his couch, unsummoned, looked at him, and spoke: "Pah-Sidin! the hour is come. Follow me, and I will make thee the hearth-stone of my palace!" And Pah-Sidin made answer, and said: "Alas! Kjaï Belorong! look at me, how cold I am and covered all over with a clammy sweat! Assuredly thy fire will smoulder and go out if thou makest me the hearthstone of thy house. Rather take with thee my eldest son, Sidin, who is healthy, and warm, and dry!" But the wicked Kjaï Belorong, in a voice which made Pah-Sidin's heart stand still, screamed: "I will take none but thee, old man! and, since thou art so cold and wet, I will bid my imperishable fire warm and dry thee!" And with these words the demon seized Pah-Sidin by the throat, and carried him off to her horrible abode, there to be the stone upon which her hearth-fire burns everlastingly.

At the conclusion of this long tale, the old fisherman drew a sigh of relief. "Such is the fate of those who let themselves be conquered by greed and the wiles of wicked Kjaï Belorong. But I, njonja, need have no fear. For my children are dutiful, and provide for all my wants. Nor need any one else in this dessa fear. For we are all pious men, who pray to the Prophet and the Toewan Allah. Thus we are safe."

Indeed, to judge from the appearance of these good-natured, frugal and careless people, I should have fancied that the money-goddess could not make many victims among them.

But their safety is threatened by yet another enemy,--a much more energetic one than Kjaï Belorong to all appearance: to wit "My Lord the Crocodile." The coast swarms with these brutes; and according to official reports, quite a number of people are annually devoured by them.

They infest especially the marshy country around the mouth of the Kali Batawi, where they may sometimes be seen, lying half in the water and half upon a mudbank, their wicked little eyes blinking in the sunlight, their formidable jaws agape and showing the bright yellow of the gullet. There, they wait for the carcases of drowned animals and the offal of all kinds floating down the river. Imprudent bathers are often attacked by them, and they even swim up the water-courses, and venture for considerable distances inland.

The Government, some years ago, put a premium on the capture of crocodiles, a relatively high sum being offered for a carcase. But the measure had to be withdrawn after a while, and this, though, to all appearance, it worked excellently well. Numbers of crocodiles were caught and killed; not a day went by but natives presented themselves at the police stations, exhibiting a limp carcase slung on to a bamboo frame, which a score of coolies "pikoled"[15] along. Harassed officials began to believe in a universe peopled exclusively by Malays and dead or dying crocodiles; and philanthropists rejoiced over an imminent extermination of caymans, and the consequent safety for bathers. But there were those who understood the nature of both natives and crocodiles, and who considered their ways; and they smiled a smile of wisdom and ineffable pity, as they looked upon the dead saurians, and saw that they were young. The philanthropists contended that a little crocodile was a crocodile nevertheless, and would, in its own bad time, be a big crocodile, and one which feasted on the flesh of men and women and innocent children; but those wise men only smiled the more. And, presently one of them took a philanthropist by the hand, and led him by quiet waters, and showed him how men and women sought for the eggs of the crocodile, and gathered them in their bosom, and watched the young come out, and reared them even with a father's care and loving-kindness, to the end that they might wax fat and kick, and be bound with iron chains, and delivered over to the schout.[16]

The crocodiles now are left to multiply and replenish the shores of Java; and nobody molests them, except now and then some adventurous sportsman, upon whom tigers have palled, and who cares but little for "bantengs,"[17] and holds the rhinoceros of no account. And, generally, too, though he lie in wait for a crocodile, he catches only a fever--of a particularly malignant kind, it is true.

[15] To pikol = to carry a load slung on a pole.

[16] A police official.

[17] The wild buffalo.

The Malays, as a rule, do not readily kill crocodiles. They believe that the spirits of the dead are re-incarnated in these animals; so that, what seems a repulsive and dangerous beast, may, in reality, be an honoured father, or a long lamented bride. And they piously prefer the risk of being devoured to the certainty of becoming murderers. Far from injuring, they honour the "cayman" by sacrifices of rice, meat, and fruit, which they send down the river in little baskets of palm-leaves with a light twinkling a-top; a gift offered whenever a child is born, to propitiate the metamorphosed ancestors in river and sea, and implore their protection for this, their newly born descendant. Human feelings and susceptibilities are attributed to them which the Malay carefully abstains from wounding. He never speaks but of "My Lord the Crocodile." And a wayang-play, such as, for instance, Krokosono, the hero of which defeats and kills the King of the Crocodiles, no dalang would dream of representing in a place where caymans could hear or see it. There is one act, however, by which a crocodile forfeits all claim to respect: and that is killing a human being. From his supposed human nature, it evidently follows that this is an act of malice prepense, a crime knowingly committed; and, as such, should be punished as it would be were the perpetrator a man or a woman--that is, with death. It would seem too as if the guilty creature were conscious of his crime, and, sometimes, out of sheer remorse, gave himself up to justice. At least, a story to this effect is told of a certain crocodile, which had devoured a little girl, and this, though the child's parents had duly offered rice and meat and fruit, at the stated times; of which gifts this crocodile had undoubtedly had his share. The parents, weeping, sought a hermit who lived not far from the "dessa" or village, a wise man who understood the language of animals; and implored him to restore at least the remains of their daughter's little body to them, and to visit with condign punishment her brutal murderer. The hermit, moved with pity and indignation, forthwith left his cave, and repaired to the sea-shore. There, standing with his feet in the waves, he pronounced the potent spell which all crocodiles must obey. They came, hurrying, from far and near: the shore bristled with their scaly backs ranged in serried rank and file. When all were present, the hermit addressed them in their own tongue, declaring that one of them had committed the unpardonable crime of murder, murder upon an innocent child, whose parents had offered sacrifices for her at her birth: rice and fruit and meat, of which they all had partaken, in token of amity and good will. So abominable a breach of good faith should not be suffered to remain unpunished. Wherefore, let him who had perpetrated it, stand forth! But all the others, let them withdraw into the sea! The crocodiles heard. The solid land seemed to heave and break up, as the congregated thousands dispersed. But one crocodile remained behind on the beach. It crawled nearer and lay down at the feet of the hermit. And the father of the little girl, approaching, drew his "kris," and thrust it into the creature's eyes, killing it. The holy man then took out of the monster's jaws the necklace of blue beads, which the little girl had worn, and handed it to the father, promising him that, within the year, his wife would bear him another daughter, even fairer than the lost one. But the carcase of the crocodile was devoured by the dogs.

Something in the landscape near Petite Trouville brought back to my memory this tale, heard from a village priest some time ago. It was a fit scene for such events. That brown hut among the bananas might have been the abode of the hapless little maid. The dense wood, behind, might well shelter an anchorite, some old man, wise and humble, content to live on wild fruit and learn from the birds among the branches and the fish in the sea; assuredly, he would stand upon the little spit of land that has the njamploeng on it, and the crocodiles, obedient to his command, would raise their formidable heads from the water, and with their serried ranks cover the shelving beach.... Very peaceful it lay now, in the light of the setting sun. The sea shone golden. And already, among the blossom-laden branches of the njamploeng, there began to rustle the sea breeze, precursor of deepbreathed Night.

OF BUITENZORG

The Javanese Sans-Souci[18] lies cradled in a fold of the undulating country at the base of the Salak, whose blue top, twin to that of the Gedeh, is seen, in fine weather, from the Koningsplein, rising aerially, fresh, and pure, above the dusty glare of Batavia. The village is pretty,--all brown atap houses and gardens full of roses, with the wooded hill-side for a background. One may wander for hours in the splendid Botanical Garden, reputed to be the finest in the world, and a goal of pilgrimage for scientists from every part of the globe. Whoever visits the place in September may combine these tranquil pleasures with the gaiety of the annual races, and the great ball at the Buitenzorg Club, where "all Java" dances. I went in the last week of the month, glad to escape from the town, which, at this time of the year, is unbearable, scorched with the heat of the east monsoon and stifled under a layer of dust, which makes the grass of the gardens crumble away, and turns the "assam" trees along the river and in the squares into grey spectres. The country through which the first part of my road lay, seemed, however scarcely desolate. Nothing but flat monotonous fields, some altogether bare and grey, others still covered with yellowish stubble, through which the cracks and fissures of the parched soil showed. Here and there, a patch of green, where some huddled brown roofs and a group of thin palm-trees denoted a native hamlet, forlorn in the wide arid plain. Then, again, bare brown fields, where no living creature was to be seen, except, now and then, a herd of dun buffaloes wallowing in the ooze of some dried-up pool.

[18] Buitenzorg, literally translated, means "away from sorrow or care."

By and bye, however, the character of the landscape began to change. The rich blue-green of the young rice-crops, seen first in isolated squares and patches, spread all over the gradually-ascending fields. Along the course of a rapid rivulet, a bamboo grove sprang up, lithe stems bending a little under their cascades of waving dull-green foliage. Then the rice-clad undulations of the ground began to rise into little hills, green to the very top, and down the sides of which the water, that fed the terraced fields trickled in many a twisting silvery thread; and suddenly on the left, rose the great triangular mass of the Salak, dull-blue in the sober evening light. It was almost dark when the train stopped at the Buitenzorg station. It stands at some distance from the village; and, as I drove thither, sights and sounds reached me that denoted the hilly country. The wheels of the cab creaked over whitish pebbles clean as gravel from the rocky riverbed. The gardens on each side of the road were full of flowers, that gleamed palely through the semi-darkness. The voices of passers-by, the laughter of children at play, the tones of a flute somewhere in the distance, sounded clear and far through the thinner air. As I entered the village, I noticed that the houses were built of bamboo instead of the brick, which is the usual material in the clayey lowlands.

It is said that these bamboo houses, covered with atap, withstand the shock of earthquakes, frequent in this country, much better than brick buildings with tiled roofs. However that may be, their rural aspect harmonizes with the landscape: and they are delightful to inhabit, cool under the noonday heat, and proof against the torrential rains, which, at Buitenzorg, fall every day, between two and four in the afternoon. I lived for some time in a little pavilion,--wooden floor, pàgar walls, and a roof of atap; a pleasanter abode I never knew. It was almost like living in a hermit's cell out in the woods. I was never sure whether the soft creaking noises heard all night through came from the bamboo grove in the garden, or from the bamboo in my wall. The crickets seemed to sing in my very ears; and a faint, sweet smell pervaded the little room, such as breathes from the leafage, dead and living, of a forest. Like a cenobite's cell, too, my pavilion was not meant for a storehouse of worldly treasures. Even if moths and rust did not corrupt, thieves would have quite exceptional facilities for breaking through and stealing them. "Breaking through" is too energetic and vigorous a term; with an ordinary penknife, one might cut away enough of the walls to admit a battalion of burglars. Reading, one day, a French translation of Don Quixote, I rested the ponderous folio, which tired my arms, against the wall. It instantly gave way, sinking in, as if it had been a canvas awning. I do not doubt that, with my embroidery scissors, I might have cut out an elegant open-work pattern in it.

The morning after my arrival, I was up betimes and on my way to the Botanical Garden. It was early as yet, a little after sunrise, and the air felt as cool and as pure as well-water. A frost-like dew had whitened the grass; shreds of mist hung between the trees, trailed along the hillside, and floated like low white clouds in the depths of the ravine, where the river foamed past over the boulders of its rocky bed. And, in the branches, the birds were twittering and singing their little hearts out. I met some natives on the way to their morning bath hugging themselves in the folds of the "baju," the women among them having the "slendang" drawn over their heads. They walked at a brisk pace, very different from the listless movements of pedestrians in the sultry streets of Batavia. The type was of another kind, a slightly oval face, with a thin nose somewhat aquiline in design, and very brilliant eyes; the complexion of a clear yellowish brown, with a touch of red in the lips. They had an elastic gait, and the free carriage of the head peculiar to hillfolk. Some of the young girls were absolutely pretty.

I asked my way of an old woman who sat by the roadside, complacently smoking a cigarette, and soon found myself within the gates of the Botanical Garden, and in the celebrated waringin avenue, one of the glories of the place. The first impression, I confess, is somewhat disappointing. The avenue is not very long, so that it lacks the depths of green darkness, the prospect along apparently converging parallels of pillar-like trunks, and the bluish shimmer of light afar off, which are the characteristic charms of woodland glades. It seems more like a square, planted with trees on two sides of the quadrangle only, a comparatively narrow space of shadow, abutting on the broad fields of sunlight beyond. After a while, however, one notices the smallness of the figures moving past the trees, men, horses, and bullock-carts. By comparison, one begins to realize the gigantic proportions of it all,--the length and breadth and height of the leafy vault overhead, and the hugeness of those stupendous growths that support it, each of them a grove in itself, congregated hundreds of trees, group by group of stately stems crowding round the colossal parent bole. Then, bye and bye, the sense of grandeur is succeeded by a curious impression of lifelessness. In their vast size, their stark immobility, and their rigid attitudes, these grey masses resemble granite peaks and cliffs rather than trees. The aged trunks, broadbased, are riven and fissured like weather-beaten rocks, showing gnarled protuberances and black clefts from which ferns and mosses droop. Some, rotten to the core--nothing left of the trunk but a fragment of grey gnarled rind, with the fungus-overgrown mould lying heaped up against the base--resemble boulders, covered with earth and detritus. One or two, quite decayed, hang in mid-air, dependent from a dome of interlacing branches, stems, and air-roots, like some gigantic stalactite from the roof of a pillared cavern. And, aloft, the dense masses of foliage, grey against the sunlit brilliancy of the sky, seem like the broken and crumbling vault of this immense grotto. This strange resemblance of living vegetable matter to inert stone ceases only when, issuing from among the stems, one looks at the waringins from a distance, and sees the grey multitude of boles, trunks, and stems disappearing under spreading masses of foliage, resplendent in the sun.

The garden is worthy of this magnificent entrance. Enthusiastic "savants" have sung its praises in all the languages of civilization, and, by common consent, have declared it to be the finest botanical garden in the world, assigning the second place to famous Kew, and mentioning the gardens of Berlin, Paris, and Vienna as third, fourth, and fifth in order of merit. Originally, it was no more than the park belonging to the country-house, which Governor-General Van Imhoff built here in 1754: a house since destroyed by an earth-quake, and on the site of which the present lodge was erected.

In this park, Professor Bernwardt, some eighty years ago, arranged a small botanical garden, a "hortus" as the innocent pedantry of the period called it. The idea was to gather in this fertile spot specimens of all the plants and trees growing in Java, so as to afford men of science an opportunity for studying the flora of the island. By and bye, however, especially under the direction of Teysmann, many plants from other countries were introduced, with a view of acclimatizing them in Java, often with signal success. And, recently, a museum and a library have been established, as well as several laboratories for chemical, botanical, and pharmaceutical research. For the cultivation of such plants as require a cool climate, gardens have been laid out on the terraced hill-side, in ascending tiers that climb up to the heights of Tji-Bodas, where in the early morning, the temperature is 10° Celsius. These ameliorations, for the greater part, are due to the untiring energy of the eminent scientist now directing the garden.

But, that morning, as I wandered through the tall avenues of the Buitenzorg Park, the thought of its importance as a scientific institution disappeared before the perception of its exquisite loveliness. Not a beauty of line and colour merely: it has these--the park is admirably arranged, in broad effects of light and shadow, dark hued groves and avenues contrasting with sunny expanses of lawn and copse and mirroring lake; but there is something over and above all this, an element of beauty as subtle and elusive as the transient sparkle of a sun-beam, or the fitful comings and goings of the summer wind. Perhaps it was the extraordinary brilliancy of the colours, and the shimmer in the rain-saturated atmosphere; or perhaps it was the profound quietude all around, a stillness so perfect that it seemed it must endure for ever. I do not know what may have been the elements that made up the nameless charm. But I yielded myself up to it; and it seemed to me, as if I were walking in a dream, amidst objects at once unreal and singularly distinct. For a long time I sat by the shore of a little lake, that had an islet in the midst of it, all overgrown with brushwood, and great tangles of liana, that opened hundreds of pale violet flowers to the sunlight; in the centre there rose a group of young palms, of the sort that has a bright red stem; and all these colours, the many-tinted green and the lilac and the scarlet were mirrored so vividly in the clear water as to almost make the reflection seem brighter than the reality.... By and by, following a path that wandered out of sunshine into chequered shadow, and out of shadow into sunlight again, I came to a vast sweep of meadowy ground, where herds of reddish deer were feeding as peacefully as in a forest clearing. Presently I found myself in a great dim avenue of kenari-trees, through whose sombre branches the sky showed but faintly; and anon in a bamboo grove where there was a continual rustling and waving of leaves though not the slightest breath of wind could be felt to stir the air.

Here and there through gaps in the trees came a sudden glimpse of the distant valley, with the river shining between the light-green rice fields, and beyond the encircling hills. Everywhere, too, the presence of living water made itself felt, in the cool damp air, and in the delicious smell of moist earth, wet stones, and water-plants. And I would suddenly catch the silvery gleams, between the bushes, of a brooklet hurrying past over its pebbly bed, and foaming in small cascades that be-sprinkled the ferns and tall nodding grasses upon the bank with scintillating spray. Here and there, I heard the murmur and tinkle of a fountain; and I passed by quiet ponds and lakelets, dark green in the shadow of overhanging trees. One of these sheets of water--or rather the streamlet into which it narrows at one end--is completely overgrown with white lotus flowers; and a sight more exquisitely beautiful cannot be imagined. It burst upon me suddenly, as I came out of a long, dark avenue; and, at first, I could not make out what that white splendour was. It seemed to float like a luminous summer cloud, like a snowy drift of morning mist. A breath of wind arose, and the even splendour trembled and seemed to break up into hundreds of white flames and sparks, that for an instant all blew one way, and then shot up again, and stood steadily shining. As I came nearer, I discerned the great, round white flowers, radiant in the sunshine. The circular, purplish brown leaves spread all over the surface of the water, covering it from bank to bank. And, out of these heaps of bronze shields, there rose the straight tall stems, like lances, with the white flame of the flower breaking out at the top--sparks of St. Elmo's fire, such as, on that memorable night, tipped the spears of the Roman cohorts, on their march to battle and victory.

This field of radiant lotus blossoms, and the sombre and solemn waringin avenue, contrasting glories, seem to me to be the crowning beauties of the Buitenzorg garden. The name of Buitenzorg, by the bye, is an innovation. Natives still call the town by its ancient name of Bogor, which it bore in the glorious age when it was the capital of the Hindoo realm of Padjadjaran. A Muslim conqueror, Hassan Udin, son of the Sheik Mulana, destroyed it; and a new town was reared on the ruins, but legends of its bygone glory still haunt the imagination of the country folk. In the tales which they repeat to one another of an evening, the splendour of the ancient empire, and the wisdom and unconquerable valour of its founder are still remembered. Tjioeng Wonara was his name; and his son and successor, the victorious Praboe Wangi, was even greater than he. In the craggy hill-tops of the Gedeh range, popular tradition sees the ruins of the splendid palace he built himself on the heights; the hall where the throne of gold and ivory stood; the temple, where he worshipped the gods; the domes of his harem; and the battlemented towers which his unconquerable warriors kept against the world, a thousand years ago. The southern wall of the Gedeh-crater surrounds, as an impregnable bulwark, the palace and temple courts.

The Hindoo period, however, has left in this neighbourhood records more authentic than Praboe Wangi's fancy-built palace on the heights. Near a native kampong, which derives its name from this proximity, the so-called Batu Tulis is found, a field covered with a quantity of stone slabs, some lying prone, others still upright, adorned with figures in bas-relief and covered with inscriptions. The legend on the largest of these memorial tablets, traced in ancient Javanese characters, has been deciphered; it celebrates the virtues and victories of a Hindoo king. And the worn-away superscriptions and rude effigies discernible on the other stones probably commemorate contemporary princes and warriors. The Bogor country-folk greatly venerate these relics of a glorious past.

Carriers walking by the side of their lumbering, bullock-drawn "pedati," which creaks so leisurely along the sun-scorched roads; labourers on their way to the rice fields, the light wooden ploughshare across their shoulders, driving the patient yoke of oxen before them; women from the hill-villages around, who come to the Bogor market in holiday attire, a chaplet of jessamine blossoms twisted into their "kondeh"--all turn aside from the road, to murmur a short prayer, and offer a handful of flowers, of frankincense and yellow boreh unguent, or even Chinese joss-sticks and small paper lanterns on the consecrated spot. Whether this be an act of homage to those ancient kings and heroes, whose rude effigies adorn the stones, and whose spirits are believed still to haunt the spot; or simply a fetishistic adoration of these blocks of granite and the curious signs engraved thereon, it is difficult to decide; the worshippers themselves hardly seem to know. When asked, they reply that they do as their fathers did before them, and so, therefore, must be right; unless, indeed, they merely smile, and offer the somewhat irrelevant remark that they are true Moslemin. This, indeed, every native of Java (save such few as have been converted to the Christian religion) professes himself to be. And, in a measure, the Javanese are Mohammedans; they recite the Mohammedan prayers and Confession of Faith, go to the Messigit--which is Javanese for mosque--when it suits them, keep the Ramadan very strictly; also, if they can afford it, they perform that most sacred duty of the Mohammedan, the Mecca pilgrimage, and, returning thence, live for ever on the purses of their admiring co-religionists. But for the rest, one may apply to them Napoleon's dictum concerning the Russians--mutatis mutandis. Scratch the Muslim, and you will find the Hindoo; scratch the Hindoo, and you will find the fetish-adoring Pagan. In the same way, too, as they confuse religious beliefs, they distort historical facts and traditions so as to make them tally with the prevalent opinions of the day. This Batu Tulis, for instance; though they venerate it as a record of the Hindoo empire, they yet, at the same time, honour it as a monument of the Mohammedan conquest. According to them, these roughly-fashioned stones, of which, they say, there are over eight hundred dispersed throughout the neighbourhood, are the transformed shapes of Siliwangi, last King of Padjadjaran, and his followers, who, in this spot, their last refuge on flight from the victorious Muslim hosts, were turned into stones by Tuan Allah, as a punishment for their persistent refusal to embrace El-Islam; and the superscription celebrating the Hindoo prince they make out to be the record of this miracle. A touch of romance clings to the grim legend like a tender-petalled flower to a rock. It concerns the impress of a foot, visible on one of the slabs, and a fair princess who left it there, many centuries ago. Alone of all that multitude that fled with Siliwangi, she, the consort of valiant Poerwakali, his son, escaped the general doom, through the influence of an Arab priest who had converted her to the true religion. She could not, however save her husband, whom, before her very eyes, she saw turned into a stone. But, in her faithful heart, love could not die, though the loved one was dead. The victor, vanquished in his turn by her incomparable beauty, implored her in vain. She would not be separated from her husband's inanimate shape, and, building herself a little hut under the waringin trees, she still, day by day, repaired to the stone, which bore Poerwakali's semblance, with sacrifices and prayers, and tears. And, often, in a transport of love and grief, she would throw her arms about the inert mass, closely embracing it, and, into its deaf ear, murmur soft words, and vows of eternal loyalty, and bitter-sweet memories of the days that were no more. Her tears, still flowing, fell on the stone underfoot, day by day, month by month, year by year, until at last it became soft and yielding as clay, and received and retained the impress of those tender feet, which for so long had known no other resting place.

From these memories of an empire overthrown, a religion smitten with the edge of the sword, and a love stronger than death--"old unhappy far off things and battles long ago"--suggested by Batu Tulis, to the gaiety of the Buitenzorg races is a wide step. But our modern souls have grown accustomed to these sudden transitions. In Java, more than in any other country, one must be prepared at any moment to pass from the fairy lands forlorn of history, to contemporary Philistia. Let me hasten to add, in justice, that I found that high festival of Philistinism in Java, the Buitenzorg races, both amusing and full of interest. The crowded Stands gave one an "impression d'ensemble" of society in the colony, such as would be expected in vain on any other occasion--formal functionaries and business men from the hot towns with their exquisitely dressed, palefaced wives and daughters, mingling with sunburnt planters from the interior, and rosy-cheeked girls from the neighbouring hill-stations, in white muslin frocks, brightened up by flowers such as those grown at home. And the spectacle of the races, exciting in itself, is rendered the more interesting by the changes and transformations which an essentially northern sport has suffered under the sun of the tropics--by the substitution of Sandalwood and Battak ponies for horses, of native syces, who clutch the stirrup with bare toes, for jockeys, and of silent multitudes brightly garbed, for the black-coated crowds that shout and huzza at Epsom or Longchamps.

IN THE HILL COUNTRY

Among other Western ideas and institutions, the Hollanders have imported into Java that of health-resorts. Erstwhile lonely hills now bear hotel and "pavilions" upon their disforested summits; picnics are held in glades where, a few years ago, the timid antelopes fed; and Strauss's waltzes have reduced to silence the noisy cicadas. In the country south and east of Batavia, in the Gedehhills, and in the Preanger district, there are several of these hill-stations. There, the air is pure and cool, in the months when the hot east monsoon scorches the plains. There is Tji-Panas, Tji-Bodas, Sookaboomi, Sindanglaya, Tjandjoor, the country round about Bandong, and, somewhat farther east, Garoot, all of which places are easily accessible from Batavia. The hotels are generally airy, roomy, and clean, if not elegant; the food is fairly good, and the charges moderate, about four dollars a day, the average rate throughout Java.

The Preanger district, in which Garoot, Bandong, and Tjandjoor are situated--the "Garden of Java" as it is fitly named--in more than one respect reminds the traveller of the hillcountry. There is the same clearness in the profiles of the mountain-ranges; the same transparency of the air, which causes distant objects to appear quite near, and reveals their contour rather than their modelling; the same jewel-like sparkle in the colouring of the landscape, in the clear-hued green of valley and hillside, in the changeful hues of the water, and in the blue, opal, and roseate violet of the distances under an azure sky. The thin pure air is as wellwater; in the evenings one has to kindle a fire in order to keep warm; and walks of several hours cause neither heat nor fatigue in this bracing climate, which makes even natives quicken their naturally slow movements, and which tinges their brown complexions with a flush of healthy red. In the fields, corn is seen instead of rice, and, in places, golden wheat waves. The gardens are fragrant with mignonette, heliotropes, and carnations; mossroses flourish, velvety pansies, geraniums, fuchsias, phlox in all its countless varieties of brilliant colours, and the tender forget-me-nots of northern brooksides. Strawberries, along with clusters of the blue and white grape show between the dense foliage of the vines. At certain seasons of the year, the hills are purple with the blossoms of the rasamala tree,--a magnificent growth which throws out its first branches at a height of a hundred feet, and the summit of which reaches an altitude of a hundred and eighty. The most splendid orchids are found in the woods side by side with mushrooms of extraordinary dimensions, some of three feet in diameter, and of strange and brilliant colours. On all sides, too, there is sparkle of living water as limpid as the air itself, leaping down the rocky hill-sides in innumerable cataracts and shining in broad tranquil lakes that mirror the encircling hill-tops and the clouds sailing overhead. As one reaches higher levels, from about four thousand feet above the sea level to six thousand and upwards, the changes in the landscape become more and more marked. The Flame of the Forest, the kambodja, the champaka, and all the countless host of large-flowered trees, characteristic of the tropics, disappear. The type of the foliage changes: it is less fantastic in shape, less luxuriant, and differently tinted from the leafage of the lowland forests. To the sombre green of the plains, which under the glaring sunlight, assumes tones of an almost blackish blue, succeeds a vivid emerald, touched with tender yellow. Then come dense forests of "tjemara", a coniferous tree, the dim greyish foliage of which resembles a drift of autumnal mist; and, by and bye, trees of the oak and chestnut kind appear, and the maple that balances its fan-like leaves on bright red stalks. Violets open their purple chalices in mossy hollows. On the cloudy mountain heights of Tosari, one may gather flowers such as grow on the Alps. The scenery here is grand beyond description--a landscape of vast hill ranges, cataracts, and precipices, and heaving seas of cloud. The temperature is almost too low; big fires are kept burning all day in the hotel, through the verandahs of which the clouds float past. The one thing that still reminds the traveller of the tropics is the wonderful splendour of the orchids that grow here. In the fourth zone, at an altitude of from seven thousand to ten thousand feet, the orchids, too, disappear. A European vegetation covers the summits of the mountains and the chill "plateau" of the Djeng, where four wonderful lakes of green, and blue, and yellow, and pure white water sparkle in the sunlight, and the nights are frosty.

These wonders of the Javanese hill-country are well known, from the descriptions of many able pens, and from the enthusiastic reports of travellers. But, here and there, in the folds of the lower hills, there are pleasant nooks and corners, all but ignored of the multitude, and hardly inferior in beauty to these famous sites, albeit beauty of a very different character. And, among these places, the idyllic grace of which has not yet been marred by railroads and hotels, few can surpass in loveliness the country round about Tjerimai, where it was my good fortune to spend several pleasant days, last June.

Tjerimai, a spur of the lofty Preanger range, is situated on the confines of the Preanger Regencies and the Cheribon district, the broad green plains and marshy coast of which its finely shaped summit dominates--a landmark to sailors.

From Batavia, the way thither leads through some of the loveliest scenery in Java--past Buitenzorg and Bandong, straight across the Preanger. Rantja-ekkek, a village in the vast plain which begins an hour or so east of Bandong, is the last railroad station on the route. There, the noise, the hurry, and the bustle of western civilization cease, as if arrested by some invisible barrier; and the traveller enters the real Java, the Java of the Javanese, the tranquil land of plenty, the inhabitants of which lead their leisurely lives without much more thought of the morrow than the tall gandasoli lilies of their fields. When we two--the friend whom I accompanied to her home among the hills, and myself--reached this stage of our journey, the day was still young. The summits of the hills, which bound the plain on the west, had already assumed their sober day colours--greyish brown and dark green. But the distant eastern range stood out in violet gleams against a sky of crimson and orange; and the intervening plain was a lake of whitish, waving mist. The air had a peculiar, sweetish taste--like an insipid fruit--which reminded me of early autumn mornings at home. It was cold, too. Our native servants went with head and shoulders wrapped up: and the breath of the ponies waiting for us at the station made little clouds about their heads. We were grateful for the plaids which we found in the carriage.

The road lay straight before us--a long white streak through the soft misty green of the plain. As we drove along, the pink sheen, which rested on the hazy hillside to our left, like a handful of scattered roses, began to spread and glide down into the valley, kindling as it flowed, until the whole vast vapoury plain was suffused with purple. The mist began to dissolve, and float upwards in little crimson drifts. Suddenly, the great golden sun leaped up from behind the eastern summits, and day streamed in upon us. The country-folk had already begun the labours of the day. Children met us on the road, driving powerful grey buffaloes before them; in a hamlet which we passed, the women were pounding rice, breaking the silence of the morning with the rhythmic click-clack of the wooden pestles. And, here and there, groups of labourers moved through the rice fields, weeding. Overhead, larks were soaring and singing; it was the first time I had heard their sweet shrill note in Java. After a while, a partridge flew up with a whirr of hurrying wings, almost from between the hoofs of the horses. They are plentiful in this neighbourhood. At certain seasons of the year, large parties of sportsmen assemble here to shoot them.

On starting from the railway station, I had thought that, in half an hour or so, we should have reached the hill-range, which bounded the plain in the north. But the clear atmosphere has a perspective of its own, confusing to eyes unaccustomed to it. After about two hours of rapid driving we were still in the valley--on either side of us, immense tracts of soft bluish green, full of the thousand lights and shades that form the peculiar beauty of these terraced rice-fields; and, all around, the circling summits which seemed no sensibly nearer than at first.