Equally blamable are the Dutch in having neglected to teach their Asiatic subjects the full value of their native soil and climate, and for their shortsighted policy in keeping from them a knowledge of American machinery, by means of which labor would have been made a hundred times more productive, and the people prosperous. This is especially exemplified, as we shall now see, in the present state of the cotton manufactures in these islands.
For the greater part of our journey, we found the banks upon both sides of the river covered with dense jungle: here and there, however, there were extensive tracts of cleared land, upon which hundreds of women were busily engaged.
“A glorious country for lazy men!—for it is only the women who labor in the fields,” said Martin.
“Aye, they are picking cotton,” replied Prabu; and afterwards we learned that Bali was famous for its production of cloth, and that the labors of the loom, and the whole operation which the raw material undergoes, from the moment it is brought from the field until it is fit for apparel, is performed by women only. It is not very gallant, truly, but then it only shows a rude state of society; for such was originally the case among the great nations of Asia—the Arabians, Persians, Hindoos, and Chinese, although, ages since, they have passed that era in the art. Then their process of weaving is so rude and unskilful, and consequently so expensive, that it is scarcely too much to say, that Nature’s rich gift of a soil to produce the raw material seems wasted upon them. But, as I have said, the shortsighted, avaricious Dutch are to blame for this, for they might have introduced the American processes, by which they would have no less enriched themselves than the natives. Picture to yourself, my reader, such a substitute for calico-printing as is described below, in a country over which Europeans have ruled for nearly two centuries and a half!—
Of calico-printing the Javanese are entirely ignorant, but they have a singular substitute. The part not intended to be colored, or that which forms the ground in a web of cloth, they daub over with melted wax. The cloth thus treated is thrown into the dyeing-vat, and the interstices take the color of the pattern; if a second or third color is to be added, the operation is to be repeated on the ground preserved by the first application of wax—more wax is applied, and the cloth is once, or oftener, consigned to the vat. The greater refinement attempted, the more certain seems to be the failure. Moreover, this awkward substitute for printing costs 100 per cent., at least, on the price of the cloth; but notwithstanding the unskilful manufacturing industry of the Javanese, it generally excels that of the other islanders. The natives of Celebes and the people of Bali are the only tribes besides that may be called considerable manufacturers of cloth.
But to return to my narrative. Upon reaching the capital, we were visited by a Bopartis, or governor. This dignitary ordered us to remain on board until he had reported our arrival, and its purport, to the Rajah. That same night, however, he returned to the prahu, with orders from the Rajah to conduct us to his own house, within the Karaton, until his highness should be pleased to grant Prabu an audience. But a few words about these buildings, for they are amongst the most notable of the antiquities of Java and the immediately adjacent islands.
These Karatons (residences of princes) are, in fact, walled cities;—the palace occupying the center of the town, and being surrounded on all sides by the habitations of the attendants, retainers, and followers of the prince and the members of his family. The empty spaces are occupied by the prince’s gardens, and by tanks and ponds. The area is intersected by an endless labyrinth of walls, the whole being concealed, at any considerable distance, by a profusion of ornamental and fruit trees. The great approach to the Karaton is to the north, and through a square or court of considerable extent, called the alun-alun, a constant appendage of every Javanese palace. It is in this open space that the sovereigns, once in eight days, in conformity to Oriental usage, show themselves to their subjects. Here all tournaments are exhibited; all public processions are formed; and here the retainers of the nobles wait, while the chiefs themselves pay their respects to the sovereign. A row of Indian fig-trees adorns the sides of the square; and in the center, each surrounded by a wall, are to be invariably seen two great trees of the same kind, the space between which is that allotted for public executions. These trees, by the way, are considered almost sacred, and may be looked upon as remnants of Buddhism; for the Indian fig-tree is consecrated by the followers of that sect. Wherever they are found, even in the most desolate parts of the country, we are able to trace the palace or dwelling of some ancient chief or prince.
After passing through the great square, we arrive at the Paseban, a place shaded by a canopy, supported on pillars, and intended to afford temporary accommodation to the nobility while they await to be summoned into the presence. From the Paseban, a spacious flight of steps brings us to the Sitingil, a handsome terrace, in the center of which is one of the usual Pandrapa. It is here the sovereign seats himself at all public festivals—occasions when a degree of barbaric magnificence is displayed, that approaches to those dreams of Eastern grandeur which the minds of Europeans imbibe from books, but which are soon dissipated by an experience of the tameness of the reality. From the Sitingil the visitor descends by another stair, parallel to that by which he has entered, and, by a variety of winding passages, is conveyed through a series of gates and brought in succession to the different palaces of the prince, each dignified by pompous epithets, drawn from the copiousness of an exuberant language.
Well, it was in a spacious residence belonging to the Bopartis, in the Karaton, that we found ourselves comfortably lodged and awaiting the promised audience. Upon the morning of the third day, as Prabu, my brother and I were squatting upon our mats partaking the morning meal, we were aroused by the most terrible discord—howling of women and men. Martin and I ran to the veranda: the open space before the house was filled with people—not a stationary crowd, but a moving throng, all groaning, shrieking, and screaming as they passed along.
“What on earth is the meaning of all this?” said I.