The River-Bath.
One of the most fascinating scenes is that of the bath in the river, soon after sunrise: at Batavia, I have frequently watched it from the Tanah Alang embankment. The early sunlight,—a clear yellow, with a sparkle as of topazes in it—makes the dewy grass to glisten, and brightens the subdued green of the tamarind-trees along the river; between the oblique bars of shadow the brownish water gleams golden. On the bank, scores of natives are stripping for the bath. The men run down, leap into the stream, and dive under; as they come up again, their bare bodies shine like so many bronze statues. The women descend the slope with a slower step; they have pulled up their sarong over the bosom, leaving their shapely shoulders bare to the sun. At the edge of the water they pause for an instant, lifting both arms to twist their hair into a knot on the summit of the head; then, entering, they bend down, and wet their face and breast. Young mothers are there, leading their little ones by the hand, and coaxing them step by step further into the shallow stream. Crowds of small boys and girls have taken noisy possession of the river, plunging and splashing and calling out to each other, as they swim about, kicking up the water at every stroke of their sturdy little feet. Half hidden in a clump of tall-leaved reeds by the margin, young girls are disporting themselves, making believe to bathe, as they empty little buckets, made of a palmleaf, over each other's head and shoulders, until their black hair shines, and the running water draws their garments into flowing, clinging folds, that mould their lithe little figures from bosom to ankle. Then, perhaps, all of a sudden, a bamboo raft will appear round the bend of the river; or a native boat, its inmates sitting at their morning meal under the awning; and some friendly talk is exchanged between them and the bathers, as the craft makes its way through the slowly-dividing groups. One day I saw a broad, brick-laden barge, that had thus come lumbering down the stream, run aground on the shallows; the men jumped out, and began pulling and shoving to get it afloat again. The water dripped from their tucked-up sarongs, and their backs gleamed in the sunshine, as, almost bent double, they urged the ponderous thing forward. But still, the bright red heap remained stationary. Suddenly, a young boy, who had just stripped for the bath came down the embankment with a running leap, and giving the boat a sudden sharp push, sent it darting forward. Then he stood up, laughing, and shook back the shock of black hair which had fallen over his eyes. He looked like a dusky young river god, who out of his kindness had come to assist his votaries.
A laundry in the river.
The flower-market too is a scene of idyllic grace, when, after their early bath in the river, the women come trooping thither, and stand bargaining, their hands full of red and pink roses, creamy jessamine, and tuberoses whiter than snow. The Javanese have a great love of flowers, though, apparently, they take no trouble to raise them in their gardens. In Batavia, at least, I never saw any growing near their cottages in the kampong; save perhaps the sturdy hibiscus in hedges, and that large white, odoriferous convolvulus which the wind sows along roadsides and hedgerows—the "beauty-of-the-night." And they do not seem to care for a handful of flowers in a vase, to brighten the semi-darkness of their little pàgar huts.
Native lady travelling in her litter.
A Litter.