From Egypt to Japan

by Henry M. Field

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE ISLAND OF JAVA.

Most travellers who touch at Singapore sweep round that point like a race-horse, eager to be on the "home stretch." But in turning north, they turn away from a beauty of which they do not dream. They know not what islands, embowered in foliage, lie in those Southern seas—what visions would reward them if they would but "those realms explore." The Malayan Peninsula is a connecting link between two great divisions of the globe; it is a bridge hundreds of miles long—a real Giants' Causeway, reaching out from the mainland of Asia towards the Island World beyond—a world with an interest all its own, which, now that we were so near, attracted us to its shores. Leaving our fellow-travellers to go on to Siam or to China, we took the steamer of the Netherlands India Company for Java. It was a little boat of but 250 tons, but it shot away like an arrow, and was soon flying like a sea-bird among islands covered with palm groves. On our right was the long coast of Sumatra. Towards evening we entered the Straits of Rhio, and in the night crossed the Equator. When as a child I turned over the globe, I found this line indicated by a brass ring, and rather expected that the ship would get a thump as she passed over it; but she crossed without a shock, or even a jar; ocean melted into ocean; the waters of the China and the Java seas flowed together, and we were in the Southern hemisphere.

The first thing on board which struck us strangely was that we had lost our language. The steamer was Dutch, and the officers spoke only Dutch. But on all these waters will be found passing to and fro gentlemen of intelligence, holding official positions here, but who have lived long in Europe, and who speak English or French. At Rhio we were joined by the Resident, the highest official of that island, and by the Inspector of Schools from Batavia; and the next day, as we entered the Straits of Banca, by the Resident of Palembang in Sumatra—all of whom were very polite to us as strangers. We saw them again in Java, and when we parted, felt almost that they were not only acquaintances, but friends. They were of course thoroughly informed about the new world around us, and were ready to enlighten our ignorance. We sat on deck at evening, and as they puffed their cigars with the tranquillity of true Dutchmen, we listened to their discourse about the islands and people of the Malayan Archipelago.

This part of the world would delight Mr. Darwin by the strange races it contains, some of which approach the animal tribes. In the island of Rhio the Resident assured me there were wild men who lived in trees, and had no language but cries; and in Sumatra the Resident of Palembang said there were men who lived in the forests, with whom not only the Europeans, but even the Malays, could have no intercourse. He himself had never seen one. Yet, strange to say, they have a petty traffic with the outer world, yet not through the medium of speech. They live in the woods, and live by the chase. They hunt tigers, not with the gun, but with a weapon called a sumpitan, which is a long tube, out of which they blow arrows with such force, and that are so keen of point, and touched with such deadly poison, that a wound is almost immediately fatal. These tiger skins or elephant tusks they bring for barter—not for sale—they never sell anything, for money is about the most useless thing they could have; they cannot eat it, or drink it, or wear it. But as they have wants, they exchange; yet they themselves are never seen. They bring what they have to the edge of the forest, and leave it there, and the Malays come and place what they have to dispose of, and retire. If the offer is satisfactory, when the Malays return they find what they brought gone, and take what is left and depart. If not, they add a few trifles more to tempt the eyes of these wild men of the woods, and so at last the exchange is effected, yet all the while the sellers keep themselves invisible. This mode of barter argues great honesty on both sides.

This island of Sumatra is a world in itself. The Resident of Palembang has under him a country as large as the whole of Java. The people of Palembang are Malays and Chinese, thousands of whom live on rafts. In the interior of the island there are different races, speaking a dozen different languages or dialects. But with all its population, the greater part of the country is still given up to forest and jungle, the home of wild beasts—of the tiger and the rhinoceros. Wild elephants range the forests in great numbers. He had often seen them in herds of two or three hundred. It seemed strange that they were not tamed, as in India and Burmah. But such is not the habit of the people, who hunt them for ivory, but never attempt to subdue them, or use them as beasts of burden. Hence they become a great nuisance, as they come about the villages and break into the plantations; and it is only when a grand hunt is organized for their destruction, that a neighborhood can be for a time rid of the pest.

But if these are uncomfortable neighbors, there are others that are more so—the reptiles, which abound here as in India. But familiarity breeds contempt or indifference. The people are not afraid of them, and hardly notice them, but speak of them in an easy sort of way, as if they were the most harmless things in nature—poor innocent creatures, which might almost be pets in the family, and allowed to run about the house at their will. Soberly, there are certain domestic snakes which are indulged with these liberties. Said Mr. K.: "I was once visiting in Sumatra, and spending a night at the house of a friend. I heard a noise overhead, and asked, 'What is that?' 'Oh, nothing,' they said; 'it's only the serpent.' 'What! do you keep a family snake?' 'Yes,' they said; it was a large black snake which frequented the house, and as it did no mischief, and hunted the rats, they let it roam about wherever it liked." Thinking this rather a big story, with which our friend might practise on the credulity of a stranger, I turned to the Resident of Palembang, who confirmed it. He said this domestication of serpents was not uncommon. There was a kind of boa that was very useful as an exterminator of rats, and for this purpose the good Dutch housekeepers allowed it to crawl about or to lie coiled up in the pantry. Sometimes this interesting member of the family was stretched out on the veranda to bask in the sun—a pleasant object to any stranger who might be invited to accept hospitality. I think I should have an engagement elsewhere, however pressing the invitation. I never could "abide" snakes. From the Old Serpent down, they have been my aversion, and I beg to decline their company, though they should be as insinuating as the one that tempted Eve. But an English merchant in Java afterwards assured me that "snakes were the best gardeners; that they devoured the worms and insects and small animals; and that for his part, he was rather pleased than otherwise when he saw a big boa crawling among the vines or in the rice-fields." I thought that the first instance of a serpent's gardening was in Paradise, the effect of which was not encouraging, but there is no disputing about tastes. He said they frequently came around the houses, but did not often enter them, except that they were very fond of music (the dear creatures!); and sometimes in the evening, as doors and windows were left open for coolness, if the music was very fine, a head might be thrust in of a guest that had not been invited.

But our conversation was not limited to this harrowing topic, but ranged over many features of Sumatra—its scenery and climate, soil and vegetation. It is indeed a magnificent island. Over a thousand miles long, and with more square miles than Great Britain and Ireland together, it is large enough for a kingdom. In some parts the scenery is as grand as that of Switzerland. Along the western coast is a range of mountains like the Alps (some peaks are 15,000 feet high), among which is set many an Alpine valley, with its glistening lake. That coast is indented with bays, on one of which is the Dutch capital, Padang. East of the mountains the island spreads out into vast plains, watered by noble rivers. The soil is very rich, yielding all the fruits of the tropics in great abundance. The tobacco especially is of a much finer quality than that of Java, and brings twice as much in the market. This fertility will attract population both from Asia and from Europe, and under a good government this island may yet be the seat of an empire worthy of its greatness.

But just now the Dutch have a task to bring it into subjection. They have an enemy in the North harder to subdue than tigers and wild elephants. These are the terrible Malays, against whom has been kept up for years the war in Acheen—a war waged with such deadly and unrelenting hate and fury, that it has taken on a character of ferocity. Of the right or wrong of this savage contest, I cannot judge, for I hear only one side of the story. I am told that the Malays are a race of pirates, with whom it is impossible to live in good neighborhood, and that there can be no peace till they are subdued. At the same time, one cannot refuse a degree of sympathy even to savages who defend their own country, and who fight with such conspicuous bravery. To this all the Dutch officers bore testimony, saying that they fought "like devils." The Malays are very much like our American Indians, both in features and in character—a proud, high-spirited race, capable of any act of courage or devotion, but full of that hot blood that resents an insult. "If you have a Malay servant," I heard often in the East, "you may scold him or send him away, but never strike him, for that is an indignity which he feels more than a wound; which he never forgets or forgives; but which, if he has an opportunity, he will avenge with blood." Such a people, when they come into battle, sacrifice their lives without a moment's hesitation. They have a great advantage, as they are in their own territory, and can choose their own time and place of attack, or keep out of the way, leaving the enemy to be worn out by the hot climate and by disease. Of course if the Dutch could once bring them within range of their guns, or entice them into a pitched battle, European skill and discipline would be victorious. But the Malays are too wary and active; they hide in the fastnesses of the hills, and start up here and there in unexpected quarters, and after a sudden dash, fly to the mountains. They have a powerful ally in the pestilential climate, which brings on those deadly fevers that kill more than perish in battle. Such a war may drag on for years, during which the Dutch territory will not extend much beyond the places occupied by troops, or the ports defended by the guns of the fleet. If the Dutch hold on with their proverbial tenacity, they may conquer in the end, though at an immense cost in treasure and in life. If the Malays are once subdued, and by a wise and lenient policy converted to some degree of loyalty, they may prove, like the Sikhs in India, the brave defenders of the power against which they fought so well.

With such conversation to lighten the hours, they did not seem long, as we were running through the Java Sea. On the third day from Singapore, we came among the Thousand Islands, and in the afternoon descried on the horizon the mountains of Java, and just at sunset were in the roads of Batavia. There is no harbor, but an open roadstead; and here a whole fleet of ships were riding at anchor—ships of war and merchant ships from all parts of the world. It was two or three miles from the quay, but as the evening drew on, we could see lights along the shore; and at eight o'clock, just as the gun was fired from the flagship of the Dutch Admiral, we put off in a native boat, manned by a Malay crew. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and we seemed to be floating in a dream, as our swarthy boatmen bent to their oars, and we glided silently over a tropical sea to this unknown shore.

At the Custom House a dark-skinned official, whose buttons gave him a military air, received us with dignity, and demanded if we had "pistolets," and being satisfied that we were not attempting an armed invasion of the island, gave but a glance at our trunks, and politely bowed us to a carriage that was standing outside the gates, and away we rattled through the streets of Batavia to the Hotel Nederland.

The next morning at an early hour we were riding about to "take our bearings" and adjust ourselves to the situation. If we had not known where we were, but only that we were in some distant part of the world, we could soon guess that we were in a Dutch rather than in an English colony. Here were the inevitable canals which the Dutch carry with them to all parts of the earth. The city is intersected by these watery streets, and the boats in them might be lying at the quays of Rotterdam or Amsterdam. The city reminds us a good deal of the Hague, in its broad streets lined with trees, and its houses, which have a substantial Dutch look, as if they were built for comfort and not for show. They are low and large, spreading out over a great deal of surface, but not towering ambitiously upwards. A pretty sight it was to see these fine old mansions, standing back from the street, with ample space around them, embowered in trees and shrubbery, with lawns and gardens kept in perfect order; and with all the doors and windows wide open, through which we could see the breakfast tables spread, as if to invite even strangers, such as we were, to enter and share their hospitality. Before we left Java, we were guests in one of these mansions, and found that Dutch hospitality was not merely in name.

Among the ornaments of the city are two large and handsome public squares—the King's Plain and Waterloo Plain. The latter name reminds us that the Dutch had a part in the battle of Waterloo. With pardonable pride they are persuaded that the contingent which they contributed to the army of Wellington had no small part in deciding the issue of that terrible day, and they thus commemorate their victory. This plain is used as a parade-ground, and the Dutch cavalry charge over it with ardor, inspired by such heroic memories.

It may surprise some of my readers accustomed to our new American cities, to learn how old is Batavia. About the time that the Pilgrim Fathers sailed from Holland, another expedition from the same country carried the Dutch flag to the other side of the world, and Batavia was settled the year before the landing on Plymouth Rock. Of course it was a very small beginning of their power in the East, but slowly the petty trading settlement grew into a colony, and its territory was extended by degrees till, more than a hundred years after, it took in the whole island. In the old palace on Waterloo Plain, now used as a museum, are the portraits of Dutch governors who have ruled here for two hundred and fifty years.

But the capital of Java—at least the residence of the Governor-General—is not at Batavia, but at Buitenzorg, nearly forty miles in the interior, to which one can go by railroad in two hours. As we took our seats in the carriage we had the good fortune to meet Mr. Fraser, an English merchant, who has lived many years in Java, and is well known and highly respected throughout the island, who gave us information of the country over which we were passing. The plains near the sea had at this time an appearance of great beauty. They were laid out in rice fields which have a more vivid color than fields of grain, and now shone with an emerald green. It was the time of the gathering of the harvest, and the fields were filled with reapers, men and women, young men and maidens. But one hears not the click of the reaper. I am told that the attempt to introduce a mowing machine or a patent reaper would make a revolution in the island. All the rice of Java is cut by hand, and not even with the sickle, which is an instrument much too coarse for this dainty work, but with a knife three or four inches long, so that the spears are clipped as with a pair of scissors. Taking a few blades gently, they cut them off, and when they have a handful bind it in a tiny sheaf about as large as a bunch of asparagus. When they have cut and bound up five, one is laid aside for the landlord and four go to the cultivators.

This slow progress might make a young American farmer very impatient. Perhaps not, if he knew all the charms of the rice field, which might make a country swain quite willing to linger. Mr. Fraser explained that this season was the time, and the rice field the scene, of the matrimonial engagements made during the year! Ah, now it is all explained. Who can wonder that the gentle reapers linger over the rice blades while they are proposing or answering questions on which their whole life may depend? No doubt in merry England it has often happened that hay-making and love-making have gone on in the fields together. And we cannot wonder that such rural arts should be known in a land warmed by a tropical sun.

But the food of the natives is not found in the rice fields alone; it is brought down from the top of the cocoanut palm, and drawn up from the bottom of caves of the earth. "Do you see yonder small mountain?" said Mr. F. "That is a famous hunting-ground for the edible birds' nests, which are esteemed such a delicacy by the Chinese. The birds are swallows and build their nests in caves, into which the hunters are let down by long bamboo ropes, and drawn up laden with spoil. So great has been the yield, and so highly prized, that the product of that hill exported to China in one year returned a profit of £4,000. Of late this has been much reduced, owing to the diminished production, or that the Chinese are not ready to pay so much for such dainty luxuries."

At Buitenzorg the low land of the coast is exchanged for the hills. We are at the foot of the range of mountains which forms the backbone of the island. To give an idea of the character of the scenery, let me sketch a picture from my own door in the Bellevue Hotel. The rooms, as in all tropical climates, open on a broad veranda. Here, stretched in one of the easy chairs made of bamboo, we look out upon a scene which might be in Switzerland, so many features has it which are Alpine in their character. The hotel stands on a projecting shelf of rock or spur of a hill, overlooking a deep gorge, through which flows, or rather rushes, a foaming mountain torrent, whose ceaseless murmurs come up from below; while in front, only three or four miles distant, rises the broad breast of a mountain, very much like the lower summits or foothills of the Alps, which hang over many a sequestered vale in Switzerland or in the Tyrol.

But here the resemblance ends. For as we descend from the broad outlines of the landscape to closer details, it changes from the rugged features of an Alpine pass, and takes its true tropical character. There are no snow-clad peaks, for we are almost under the Equator. The scene might be in the Andes rather than in the Alps. The mountain before us, the Salak, is a volcano, though not now in action. As we look down from our perch, the eye rests upon a forest such as is never seen in the Alps. Here are no dark pines, such as clothe the sides of the vale of Chamouni. In the foreground, on the river bank, at the foot of the hill, is a cluster of native huts, half hidden by long feathery bamboos and broad-leaved palms. The forest seems to be made up of palms of every variety—the cocoanut palm, the sago palm, and the sugar palm, with which are mingled the bread-fruit tree, and the nutmeg, and the banana; and not least of all, the cinchona, lately imported from South American forests, which yields the famous Peruvian bark. The attempt to acclimatize this shrub, so precious in medicine, has been completely successful, so that the quinine of Java is said to be even better than that of South America. In the middle distance are the rice fields, with their intense green, and farther, on the side of the mountain, are the coffee plantations, for which Java is so famous.

Buitenzorg has a Botanical Garden, the finest by far to be found out of Europe, and the richest in the world in the special department of tropical plants and trees. All that the tropics pour from their bounteous stores; all those forms of vegetable life created by the mighty rains and mightier sun of the Equator—gigantic ferns, like trees, and innumerable orchids (plants that live on air)—are here in countless profusion. One of the glories of the Garden is an india-rubber tree of great size, which spreads out its arms like an English oak, but dropping shoots here and there (for it is a species of banyan) which take root and spring up again, so that the tree broadens its shade, and as the leaves are thick and tough as leather, offers a shield against even the vertical sun. There are hundreds of varieties of palms—African and South American—some of enormous height and breadth, which, as we walked under their shade, seemed almost worthy to stand on the banks of the River of Life.

Such a vast collection offers an attraction like the Garden of Plants in Paris. I met here the Italian naturalist Beccari, who was spending some weeks at Buitenzorg to make a study of a garden in which he had the whole tropics in a space of perhaps a hundred acres. He has spent the last eight years of his life in the Malayan Archipelago, dividing his time, except a few months in the Moluccas, between Borneo and New Guinea. The latter island he considered richer in its fauna and flora than any other equal spot on the surface of the globe, with many species of plants and animals unknown elsewhere. He had his own boat, and sailed along the coast and up the rivers at his will. He penetrated into the forest and the jungle, living among savages, and for the time adopting their habits of life, not perhaps dressing in skins, but sleeping in their huts or on the ground, and living on their food and such game as he could get with his gun. He laughed at the dangers. He was not afraid of savages or wild beasts or reptiles. Indeed he lived in such close companionship with the animal kingdom that he got to be in very intimate, not to say amicable, relations; and to hear him talk of his friends of the forest, one would think he would almost beg pardon of a beast that he was obliged to shoot and stuff in the interest of science. He complained only that he could not find enough of them. Snakes he "doted on," and if he espied a monster coiling round a tree, or hanging from the branches, his heart leaped up as one who had found great spoil, for he thought how its glistening scales would shine in his collection. I was much entertained by his adventures. He left us one morning in company with our host Carlo, who is a famous hunter, on an expedition after the rhinoceros—a royal game, which abounds in the woods of Java.

The beauty of this island is not confined to one part of it. As yet we have seen only Western Java, and but little of that. But there is Middle Java and Eastern Java. The island is very much like Cuba in shape—long and narrow, being near seven hundred miles one way, and less than a hundred the other. Thus it is a great breakwater dividing the Java Sea from the Indian Ocean. To see its general configuration, one needs to sail along the coast to get a distant view; and then, to appreciate the peculiar character of its scenery, he should make excursions into the interior. The Residents of Rhio and Palembang called to see us and made out an itinéraire; and Mr. Levyssohn Norman, the Secretary General, to whom I brought a letter from a Dutch officer whom we met at Naples, gave me letters to the Residents in Middle Java. Thus furnished we returned to Batavia, and took the steamer for Samarang—two days' sail to the eastward along the northern shore. As we put out to sea a few miles, we get the general figure of the island. The great feature in the view is the mountains, a few miles from the coast, some of which are ten and twelve thousand feet high, which make the background of the picture, whose peculiar outline is derived from their volcanic character. Java lies in what may be called a volcano belt, which is just under the Equator, and reaches not only through Java, but through the islands of Bali and Lombok to the Moluccas. Instead of one long chain of equal elevation in every part, or a succession of smooth, rounded domes, there is a number of sharp peaks thrown up by internal fires. Thus the sky line is changing every league. European travellers are familiar with the cone-like shape of Vesuvius, overlooking the Bay of Naples. Here is the same form, repeated nearly forty times, as there are thirty-eight volcanoes in the island. Around the Bay of Samarang are nine in one view! Some of them are still active, and from time to time burst out in fearful eruptions; but just now they are not in an angry mood, but smoking peacefully, only a faint vapor, like a fleecy cloud, curling up against the sky. All who have made the ascent of Vesuvius, remember that its cone is a blackened mass of ashes and scoriæ. But a volcano here is not left to be such a picture of desolation. Nature, as if weary of ruin, and wishing to hide the rents she has made, has mantled its sides with the richest tropical vegetation. As we stand on the deck of our ship, and look landward, the mountains are seen to be covered near their base with forests of palms; while along their breasts float belts of light cloud, above which the peaks soar into the blue heavens.

At the eastern end of the island, near Souraboya, there is a volcano with the largest crater in the world, except that of Kilaccea in the Sandwich Islands. It is three miles across, and is filled with a sea of sand. Descending into this broad space, and wading through the sand, as if on the desert, one comes to a new crater in the centre, a thousand feet wide, which is always smoking. This the natives regard with superstitious dread, as a sign that the powers below are in a state of anger; and once a year they go in crowds to the mountain, dragging a bullock, which is thrown alive into the crater, with other offerings, to appease the wrath of the demon, who is raging and thundering below.

Wednesday morning brought us to Samarang, the chief port of Middle, as Batavia is of Western, and Sourabaya of Eastern Java. As we drew up to the shore, the quay was lined with soldiers, who were going off to the war in Acheen. The regiments intended for that service are brought first to Java, to get acclimated before they are exposed to what would be fatal to fresh European troops. These were now in fine condition, and made a brave sight, drawn up in rank, with the band playing, and the people shouting and cheering. This is the glittering side of war. But, poor fellows! they have hard times before them, of which they do not dream. It is not the enemy they need to fear, but the hot climate and the jungle fever, which will be more deadly than the kris of the Malay. These soldiers are not all Dutch; some are French. On our return to Batavia, the steamer carried down another detachment, in which I found a couple of French zouaves (there may have been others), one of whom told me he had been in the surrender at Sedan, and the other had taken part in the siege of Paris. After their terms had expired in the French army, they enlisted in the Dutch service, and embarked for the other side of the world, to fight in a cause which is not their own. I fear they will never see France again, but will leave their bones in the jungles of Sumatra.

But our thoughts are not of war, but of peace, as we ride through the long Dutch town, so picturesquely situated between the mountains and the sea, and take the railway for the interior. We soon leave the lowlands of the coast, and penetrate the forests, and wind among the hills. Our first stop is at Solo, which is an Imperial residence. It is a curious relic of the old native governments of Java, that though the Dutch are complete masters, there are still left in the island an Emperor and a Sultan, who are allowed to retain their lofty titles, surrounded with an Imperial etiquette. The Emperor of Solo lives in his "Kraton," which is what the Seraglio is among the Turks, a large enclosure in which is the palace. He has a guard of a few hundred men, who gratify his vanity, and enable him to spend his money in keeping a number of idle retainers; but there is a Dutch Resident close at hand, without whose permission he cannot leave the district, and hardly his own grounds; while in the very centre of the town is a fort, with guns mounted, pointing towards his palace, which it could soon blow about his ears. Thus "protected," he is little better than a State prisoner. But he keeps his title "during good behavior," and once a year turns out in grand state, to make an official visit to the Resident, who receives him with great distinction; and having thus "marched up the hill," he "marches down again." We had a letter to the Resident, and hoped to pay our respects to his Majesty, but learned that it would require several days to arrange an audience. It is a part of the Court dignity which surrounds such a potentate, that he should not be easily accessible, and we should be sorry to disturb the harmless illusion.

But if we did not see the "lion" of Solo, we saw the tigers, which were perhaps quite as well worth seeing. The Emperor, amid the diversions with which he occupies his royal mind, likes to entertain his military and official visitors with something better than a Spanish bull-fight, namely, a tiger-fight with a bull or a buffalo, or with men, for which he has a number of trained native spearmen. For these combats his hunters trap tigers in the mountains; and in a building made of heavy timbers fitted close together, with only space between for light and air, were half a dozen of them in reserve. They were magnificent beasts; not whelped in a cage and half subdued by long captivity, like the sleek creatures of our menageries and zoölogical gardens; but the real kings of the forest, caught when full grown (some but a few weeks before), and who roared as in their native wilds. It was terrific to see the glare of their eyes, and to hear the mutterings of their rage. One could not look at them, even through their strong bars, without a shudder. A gentleman of Java told me that he had once caught in the mountains a couple of tigers in a pit, but that as he approached it, their roaring was so terrific, as they bounded against the sides of the pit, that it required all his courage to master a feeling of indescribable terror.

Adjoining the dominion of Solo is that of Jookja, where, instead of an Emperor, is a Sultan, not quite so great a potentate as the former, but who has his chateau and his military guard, and goes through the same performance of playing the king. The Dutch Resident has a very handsome palace, with lofty halls, where on state occasions he receives the Sultan with becoming dignity—a mark of deference made all the more touching by the guns of the fort, which, from the centre of the town, keep a friendly watch for the least sign of rebellion.

This part of Middle Java is very rich in sugar plantations. One manufactory which we visited was said to yield a profit of $400,000 a year. Nor is this the product of slave labor, like the sugar of Cuba. Yet it is not altogether free labor. There is a peculiar system in Java by which the government, which is the owner of the land, in renting an estate to a planter, rents those who live on it with the estate. It guarantees him sufficient labor to work his plantation. The people are obliged to labor. This is exacted partly as a due to the government, amounting to one or two days in the week. For the rest of the time they are paid small wages. But they cannot leave their employer at will. There is no such absolute freedom as that which is said to have ruined Jamaica, where the negro may throw down his tools and quit work at the very moment when the planter is saving his crop. The government compels him to labor, but it also compels his master to pay him. The system works well in Java. Laborers are kept busy, the lands are cultivated, and the production is enormous—not only making the planters rich, but yielding a large revenue to Holland.

At Jookja the railroad ends. Further excursions into the country must be by a private carriage. Some thirty miles distant is an ancient ruin, which is in Java what the Great Pyramid is in Egypt, with which it is often compared. To reach this, we ordered a carriage for the next morning. Probably the landlord thought he had a Milord Anglais for his guest, who must make his progress through the island with royal magnificence; for, when we rose very early for our ride, we found in front of the door a huge carriage with six horses! The horses of Java are small, but full of spirit, like the Canadian ponies. On the box was a fat coachman, who outweighed both of us inside. Behind us stood two fellows of a lighter build, whose high office it was to urge our gallant steeds by voice and lash to their utmost speed. They were dressed in striped jackets, like circus-riders, and were as agile as cats. Whenever the mighty chariot lagged a little, they leaped to the ground, and running forward with extraordinary swiftness, shouted and lashed the horses till, with their goadings and their cries, the beasts, driven to madness, reared and plunged and raced forward so wildly, that we almost expected to be dashed in pieces. Such is the price of glory! What grandeur was this! When we were in Egypt, riding about the streets of Cairo with two "syces" (servants dressed in white, who run before a carriage to clear the way), I felt like Joseph riding in Pharaoh's chariot. But now I felt as if I were Pharaoh himself.

Our route was through long avenues of trees, of palms and bamboos. The roads, as everywhere in Java, are excellent, smooth as a floor, solidly built, and well kept. To construct such roads, and keep them in repair, must be a work of great difficulty, as in the rainy season the floods come in such force as would sweep away any but those which are firmly bedded. These roads are said to be owing to a famous Dutch governor, Marshal Dændels, who ruled here in the early part of this century. According to tradition he was a man of tremendous will, which he enforced with arbitrary and despotic authority. He laid out a system of highways, and assigned to certain native officers each his portion to build. Knowing that things moved slowly in these Eastern countries, and that the officers in charge might try to make excuses for delay, he added a gentle admonition that he should hold each man responsible; and by way of quickening their sense of duty, he erected gibbets at convenient intervals along the road, and if an official failed to "come to time," he simply had him executed. The spectacle of a few of these native gentry hanging by the roadside had such an enlivening effect on the Javanese imagination, that the roads were built as if by magic. Perhaps the system might be applied with excellent effect to "contractors" in other parts of the world!

But on the best roads this speed could not be kept up for a long time. The stages were short, the relays being but five miles apart. Every three-quarters of an hour we changed horses. The stations were built over the roads, something in the style of an old-fashioned turnpike gate; so that we drove under the shelter, and the horses, dripping with foam, were slipped out of the carriage, and left to cool under the shade of the trees, or rolled over in the dust, delighted to be free.

As we advanced, our route wound among the hills. On our right was Merapé, one of the great mountains of Java—his top smoking gently, while rice-fields came up to his foot. This middle part of the island is called the Garden of Java, and it might be called one of the gardens of the world. Nowhere in Europe, not even in Lombardy nor in England, have I seen a richer country. Every foot of ground is in a high state of cultivation. Not only are the plains and valleys covered with rice-fields, but the hills are terraced to admit of carrying the culture far up their sides. Here, as in Western Java, it was the time of the harvest, and the fields were filled with joyous reapers. To this perfect tilling of the earth it is due that this island is one of the most populous portions of the globe. The country literally swarms with inhabitants, as a hive swarms with bees; but so few are their wants, that everybody seems to "live and be merry." We passed through a number of villages which, though the dwellings were of the rudest, yet had a pretty look, as they were embowered in foliage of palms and bamboos. As the country grew more hilly, our progress was not so swift. Sometimes we went down a steep bank to cross a river on a boat, and then it was not an easy task to draw up the carriage on the opposite bank, and we had to call on Cæsar for help. Almost a whole village would turn out. At one time I counted eighteen men pushing and tugging at our wheels, of course with no eye to the small coin that was scattered among them when the top of the bank was reached. So great was the load of dignity we bore!

At noon we reached the object of our journey in the famous ruins of Borobodo. Sir Stamford Raffles says that all the labor expended on the Pyramids of Egypt sinks into insignificance when compared with that bestowed on the grand architectural remains of Java; but after seeing this, the greatest on the island, his estimate seems to me very extravagant. This is much smaller than the Great Pyramid, in the space of ground which it covers, and lower in height, and altogether less imposing. But without making comparisons, it is certainly a wonderful pile. It is a pyramid in shape, some four hundred feet square, and nine stories high, being ascended by a series of gigantic steps or terraces. That it was built for Buddhist worship is evident from the figures of Buddha which cover its sides. It is the monument not only of an ancient religion, but of an extinct civilization, of a mighty empire once throned on this island, which has left remains like those of ancient Egypt. What a population and what power must have been here ages ago, to rear such a structure! One can imagine the people gathered at great festivals in numbers such as now assemble at pilgrimages in India. Doubtless this hill of stone was often black with human beings (for as many could stand on its sides as could be gathered in the Coliseum at Rome), while on the open plain in front, stretching to a mountain in the background, a nation might have encamped, like the Israelites before Sinai, to receive the law. But the temple is in ruins, and there is no gathering of the people for worship any more. The religion of the island is changed. Buddhism has passed away, and Islam has taken its place, to pass away in its turn. It was Good Friday, in 1876, that I stood on the top of this pyramid, and thought of Him who on this day suffered for mankind, and whose religion is yet to possess the world. When it has conquered Asia, it will cross the sea, and take this beautiful island, from which it may pass on to the mainland of the continent of Australia.

In such musings we lingered for hours, wandering about the ruins and enjoying the landscape, which is one of the most beautiful we have seen in all our travels—the wide sweep in the foreground reminding us of the view from Stirling Castle in Scotland.

But the carriage is waiting, and once more the driver cracks his whip, his horses prance, and away we fly along the roads, through the valleys, and over the hills. At evening we reached Magellang, the centre of one of the districts into which Java is divided, and a town of some importance. It is a curious geographical fact that it stands exactly in the centre of the island. One spot is called the Navel of Java. The Javanese think a certain hill is the head of a great nail, which is driven into the earth and holds the island firm in its place. If this be so, it is strange that it does not keep it more quiet. For if we may use the language of the brokers, we might say with truth that in Java "real estate is active," since it is well shaken up once or twice a year with earthquakes, and is all the time smouldering with volcanoes.

But however agitated underground, the country is very beautiful above it. Here as in all the places where the Dutch "most do congregate," there is a mixture of European civilization with the easy and luxurious ways of the East. Some of the villages are as pretty as any in our own New England, and reminded us of those in the Connecticut valley, being laid out with a broad open square or common in the centre, which is shaded by magnificent trees, and surrounded by beautiful residences, whose broad verandas and open doors give a most inviting picture of domestic comfort and generous hospitality. There is a club-house for the officers, and music by the military band. The Residents always live very handsomely. They are the great men in every district. Each one has a spacious residence, with a military guard, and a salary of six or eight thousand dollars a year, with extras for the expense of entertaining or of travelling, and a liberal pension at the close of twenty years of service.

Magellang is marked with a white stone in our memories of Java, as it was the scene of a novel experience. When we drove into the town, we found the hotel full, which obliged us to fall back upon our letter to the Resident. He was absent, but his secretary at once took us in hand, and requested the "Regent" (a native prince who holds office under the Dutch government, and has special oversight of the native population) to entertain us. He responded in the most courteous manner, so that, instead of being lodged at a hotel, we were received as guests in a princely residence. His "palace" was in the Eastern style, of but one story (as are most of the buildings in Java, on account of earthquakes), but spread out over a large surface, with rows of columns supporting its ample roof, presenting in front in its open colonnade what might be regarded as a spacious hall of audience; and furnishing in its deep recesses a cool retreat from the heat of the tropical sun. A native guard pacing before the door indicated the official character of the occupant. The Regent received us with dignity, but with great cordiality. He was attired in the rich costume of the East. His feet were without stockings, but encased in richly embroidered sandals. He could speak no English, and but a few words of French—only Malay, Dutch, and Javanese. But he sent for a gentleman to dine, who was of Spanish descent, and who, though a native of Java, and had never been out of it, yet spoke both French and English, and thus we were able to converse.

The Regent had a wife, and after a time she entered the hall, and welcomed my niece with a cordiality almost like that of two school-girls meeting. She was simply dressed, in the lightest costume, with bare feet, but in gold-embroidered slippers. Everything in her attire was very plain, except that her ears were hung with diamonds that fairly dazzled us with their brilliancy. She began talking with great volubility, and seemed not quite to comprehend why it was that we did not understand Malay or Javanese. However, with the help of our interpreter, we got along, and were soon in the most confidential relations. She had very vague ideas of the part of the world we came from. We tried to make her understand that the world was round, and that we lived on the other side of the globe. We asked why the Regent did not go abroad to see the world? But she signified with a peculiar gesture, as if counting with her fingers, that it took a great deal of money. She asked "if we were rich," to which we replied modestly that we had enough for our wants. As she talked of family matters, she informed us that her lord had another wife. Of this she spoke without the least reserve. It was quite natural that he should desire this. She (his first wife) had been married to him over twenty years, and was getting a little passée, and he needed a young face to make the house bright and gay. Presently the second wife entered, and we were presented to her. She was very young—I should think not twenty years of age. Evidently the elder occupied the first place in the household, and the younger took the second. They seemed to stand in a kind of sisterly relation to each other, without the slightest feeling of jealousy between them. Both were very pretty, after the Malayan type—that is, with mild, soft eyes, and skins, not black, like Africans, but of a rich brown color. They would have been even beautiful if they had had also, what the Africans so often have, dazzling white teeth; but this is prevented by the constant chewing of the betel-nut and tobacco.

At half-past eight o'clock we went to dinner. C—— had the honor of sitting between the two wives, and enjoyed the courtesy of both, who prepared fruit for her, and by many little attentions, such as are understood in all parts of the world, showed that they belonged to the true sisterhood of woman. The position of woman in Java is somewhat peculiar. The people are Mohammedans, and yet the women are not secluded, nor do they veil their faces; they receive strangers in their houses and at their tables; thus they have much greater freedom than their sisters in Turkey or Egypt. The Regent, being a Mussulman, did not take wine, though he provided it for his guests. After the dinner, coffee was served, of a rich, delicious flavor—for Java is the land of coffee—followed by the inevitable cigar. I do not smoke, but could not allow my refusal to interfere with the habits of those whose guest I was, and could but admire the ineffable satisfaction with which the Regent and his friend puffed the fragrant weed. While they were thus wreathed in clouds, and floating in a perfect Nirvana of material enjoyment, the gentler sex were not forgotten. The two wives took their pleasure in their own fashion. A small box, like a tea-caddy, was brought on the table, full of little silver cups and cases, containing leaves of the betel-nut, and spices, cassia and gambier, a little lime, and a cup of the finest tobacco. Out of these they prepared a delicate morsel for their lips. With her own dainty fingers, each rolled up a leaf of the betel-nut, enclosing in it several kinds of spices, and filling it with a good pinch of tobacco, which, our Spanish friend explained, was not so much for the taste, as to make the morsel plump and round, large enough to fill the mouth (or, as a wine-taster would say of his favorite madeira or port, to give it sufficient body); and also, he added, it was to clean the teeth, and to give an aromatic fragrance to the breath! I repeat, as exactly as I can recall them, his very words.

Whether the precious compound had all these virtues, certainly these courtly dames took it with infinite relish, and rolled it as a sweet morsel under their tongues, and looked on their lord with no jealousy of his enjoyment of his cigar.

Here was a picture of conjugal felicity. The family was evidently an affectionate and happy one. The Regent loved both his wives, and they sat side by side without envy or uncharitableness, happy in the sunshine of his face, and chewed their betel-nut with a composure, an aspect of tranquil enjoyment, which many in more civilized countries may admire, but cannot equal.

In the morning, when the family came together, I remarked that the first wife, who then apparently saw her husband for the first time, came forward, and bending low, kissed his jewelled hand; and soon after the second wife entered, and kissed the first wife's hand, thus observing that natural order of precedence which is so beautiful in every well-regulated family.

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 Gédé, 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.