When an Aruan dies, his kinsmen at once assemble and destroy all the goods and chattels he has accumulated during his lifetime; breaking even the gongs in pieces, which are carefully thrown away. The body is next laid out on a small mat, and propped up against a ladder for three or four days; after which the relatives again assemble, and apparently to prevent further decay, cover the exposed parts with lime. Meanwhile the hut is filled with the fumes of burning dammar or resin, and the guests sit in the perfumed atmosphere drinking large draughts of arrack, and of a spirit which they contrive to distil from the juice of some indigenous fruit. The stimulant soon does its work; they give vent to their feelings in violent shouts, which mingle with the howls and wails of the women and the hoarse discord of the gongs. Food is offered to the deceased, and the mouth crammed with various kinds of edibles, rice, and arrack.
By this time all the friends and relatives of the departed have assembled—as at a Scotch funeral; the body is placed on a kind of bier, which is strewn with numerous pieces of cloth according to the wealth of the deceased; while large dishes of China porcelain are set beneath to catch any moisture that may fall from it. A high value is afterwards set upon these dishes. Being taken out of the house, the body is supported against a post, and another effort made to induce it to eat. The hollow jaws are again stuffed with lighted cigars, rice, fruit, and arrack; and the mourners join in a loud chant, inquiring whether the sleeper will not awake at the sight of so many friends and fellow-villagers. Alas, the long slumber continues! The body is again placed upon its bier, which is carried into the forest, and it is hoisted upon the summit of four posts. A tree, usually the Pavetta Indica, is then planted near it; and at this final ceremony none, it is said, but naked women are allowed to be present. This is called the sudah buang, and signifies that the body is thenceforth abandoned to the silence of the wilderness as unable any longer to see, hear, think, or feel.
The religion of savage or uncivilised men is, necessarily, coloured and determined by the natural influences that surround them, and according as they live in the African desert or the American forest, among the snows of Siberia or on the table-land of Tibet, will bear its distinctive and appropriate character. We do not doubt, therefore, but that Sherard Osborn is right in the explanation he offers of the superstitious credulity of the Malays, that the wonderful phenomena peculiar to the seas and islands of the great Eastern Archipelago could never be intelligible to an uneducated and highly imaginative race except on the supposition of supernatural agency. Of course, this superstitious temperament is not confined to the Malayan race. It is found, as we have said, in all savage peoples, and springs from that profound though often vague and undefinable sense of an overruling and mysterious Power which the influence of Nature impresses on the heart of man.
There were proofs by the thousand among the Malays with whom Admiral Sherard Osborn came in contact, of that connection with the Unseen World which men in every stage of civilisation seem to accept and to be desirous of developing. And he relates a striking instance of their great credulity, which we may quote here as not wholly without illustrative value.
Sherard Osborn’s gunboat was lying one night close to the southern point of the Quedah river, where it flows into the Strait of Malacca. The air was chill and damp, and the sky obscured with clouds, through which a young moon sped occasional shafts of silver light.
About eleven o’clock his attention was directed to his look-out man, a Malay, who, seated upon the fore-deck gun, was spitting violently, and giving rapid utterance to expressions apparently of reproof or defiance. Another Malay quickly joined him; pointed towards the jungle-loaded shore; and then he too began the spitting and ejaculatory process. After awhile, with an evident air of relief, the second Malay went down below. Unable any longer to restrain his curiosity, Sherard Osborn walked forward. The look-out man had turned his back to the jungle, but ever and anon threw a furtive glance over his shoulder, and uttered sentences in which the name of “Allah” frequently occurred. He seemed delighted at the coming of his captain, and, springing to his feet, saluted him.
“Anything new?” said Osborn; “any prahus in sight?”
“Teda, Touhan—no, sir,” was the reply; and then observing that his officer was looking in the direction of the jungle, he made signs that it was better to look anywhere but there.
Calling Jamboo, his interpreter, Osborn desired him to ask the Malay what he saw in the jungle. Judge his astonishment at the reply: