Shortly after daybreak we anchored in a small natural harbor or bay, about half-way up the creek. “Now comes the tug of war,” said Martin; adding, “When do we commence, Prabu?”
“To-morrow, at sunrise,” answered Prabu. “To-day I must see the chief who guards the caves; but my young masters can, if they please, come with me, for they will find a welcome for the day and the night in the village.”
Then, having given orders to Kati to send six of the men to join us in the morning, bringing with them all things necessary for the expedition, we followed Prabu up a steep hill.
“Truly, this may be a village,” said Martin, when we reached the top, “but it’s inhabited by the dead.”
My brother was right. It was a cemetery—one of those cities of the dead, for the simplicity yet beauty and taste of which, in laying out, the Javanese are not surpassed by any people. The whole summit and portion of the opposite slope of the hill was clad with a verdant sward, and laid out in groves of samboza trees, a plant which, even when young, from the fantastic growth of its stem, has a solemn aspect. The little mounds of earth, with their head and foot stones strewn with flowers, at the root of each of these trees, bespoke at once the last resting-place of a beloved one, and the pious care of the living. The flowers were in all their freshness, for the previous day the festival annually held in honor of ancestors had taken place. On this occasion, the men, women and children, attired in their best, repair to the cemeteries, and pass the day in devotion; each family strews the tombs of its progenitors with the flowers of the salasi, or Indian tulse, a plant cultivated in great quantities for this express occasion.
With like simplicity and good taste, and without the extravagant superstitions of most Eastern nations, do the Javanese (for the greater part Mahommedans) conduct their funerals. But they are sufficiently curious for description. The corpse is carried to the place of interment on a broad plank, which is kept for the public service, and lasts for many generations. It is constantly rubbed with lime, either to preserve it from decay or to keep it pure. No coffin is made use of, the body being simply wrapped in white cloth. In forming the grave, after digging to a convenient depth, they make a cavity in the side at the bottom, of sufficient dimensions to contain the body, which is there deposited on its right side. By this mode the earth literally lies light upon it; and the cavity, after strewing flowers in it, they stop up by two boards, fastened angularly to each other, so that the one is on the top of the corpse, while the other defends it on the open side, the edge resting on the bottom of the grave. The outer excavation is then filled up with earth, and little white flags, or streamers, are stuck in order around.
They likewise plant a shrub bearing a white flower, and in some places wild marjoram; the women who attend the funeral make a hideous noise, not much unlike the Irish howl. On the third and seventh day, the relations perform a ceremony at the grave; and at the end of twelve months, that of Legga batu, or setting up a few long, elliptical stones at the head and foot, which, being scarce in some parts of the country, bear a considerable price. On this occasion, they kill and feast on a buffalo, and leave the head to decay on the spot, as a token of the honor they have done to the deceased in eating to his memory. The ancient burying-places are called krammat, and are supposed to have been those of the holy men by whom their ancestors were converted to the faith; they are held in extraordinary reverence, and the least disturbance or violation of the ground, though all traces of the grave be obliterated, is regarded as an unpardonable sacrilege.
For nearly an hour we lingered about that silent city, hallowed by so many loving hearts. To me there is ever a melancholy satisfaction in such places; they recall to my mind the departed, and fix my thoughts upon the future; but then I stood pondering over one particular mound of earth, for it reminded me of my mother’s grave, in that far distant American cemetery. What changes had happened since my father, brother, and I had stood, almost broken-hearted, at its side! We had become aliens in a foreign land; a dearly-loved father dead, perhaps foully slain—who knew? an unknown uncle; a cousin, known long enough to have become endeared to us—all, all passed away! With such ponderings my mind was absorbed; sighing, sobbing, I had no thought but of my own sorrow, when Martin, taking my arm, but with big tears trickling down his own cheeks, said——
“Don’t, Claud, don’t! Be a man now!”
“Have men no tears, Martin, for the memory of those they have loved?”