From Egypt to Japan

by Henry M. Field

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.