Insulinde: Experiences of a Naturalist's Wife in the Eastern Archipelago. By Anna Forbes [aka Annabella Keith, Mrs. Henry Forbes] (-1922). Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1887. [vt. Unbeaten Tracks in Islands of the Far East as released by Oxford University Press, 1987].

INSULINDE

INSULINDE

EXPERIENCES OF A NATURALIST'S WIFE

IN THE EASTERN ARCHIPELAGO

BY

ANNA FORBES

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

EDINBURGH AND LONDON

MDCCCLXXXVII

All Rights reserved

Dedicated

TO
ISABEL, COUNTESS OF ABERDEEN
AS AN EXPRESSION OF THE WRITER'S ADMIRATION
OF HER LADYSHIP'S BENEVOLENT INTEREST
IN HER FELLOW-CREATURES

PREFACE

SINCE my narrative explains itself, I have little to say here beyond accounting for a certain resemblance in these pages to the latter part of the work issued by my husband last year. After I joined him, we shared for the most part the same experiences; but we looked upon them from an entirely different standpoint. Many of my own sex who might turn from 'A Naturalist's Wanderings' because of the admixture of scientific matter, may find some interest in reading my simpler account.

I have told my life as I lived it, with its interests and pleasures, its drawbacks and discomforts, neither romancing nor withholding. I may confess that I did not write these letters en route. For this I had neither time nor strength, as I was never one single fortnight free of fever after entering the tropics. The following pages are pieced together from letters actually written home, from my journal, and from recollections that can never be dimmed. I consider it an advantage to write when time has removed the exaggerations with which the mood of the moment might have distorted facts or influenced feelings; while I have also had opportunity for maturer consideration of, and authentic information on, many points.

It is with pleasure that I acknowledge my indebtedness to my sister Carrie, and my friend Mr D. M. J. James, Forres, without whose aid these pages had never reached their present form. The former has transcribed this little work throughout; and the latter, on a sudden call to me to join my husband in New Guinea, has taken my manuscript from my hands, entailing on himself the no inconsiderable labour necessary for the completion of a book even after the actual composition is accomplished.

ANNA FORBES.

RUBISLAW DEN, ABERDEEN,
     6th March 1886.

CONTENTS.

THE EASTERN ARCHIPELAGO.

CHAPTER I.

EASTWARD HO! – COLOMBO – THE JAVA COAST – BATAVIA – HOTEL LIFE – THE SARONG AND KABIA – A BATAVIAN BREAKFAST – THE NEW TOWN – CHINESE PEDDLERS – THE JAVANESE.

YOU have doubtless long ago heard by telegram of my safe arrival in the East; but you must be impatient to learn some details of my experiences.

Forty-one days after leaving England by the Queensland mail we had passed through the Sunda Straits, and were winding among the Thousand Isles towards the port of Batavia. Before reaching the Dutch Indies, I had a foretaste of tropical beauty in a day on shore at Colombo in Ceylon; and partly because all was so new to me, partly that we had been many days at sea, I was perhaps the more ready to receive the impressions of delight with which my introduction is associated. But it was made under particularly favourable circumstances. Heavy rain had fallen in the night before we landed; and as we rapidly drove through the bright clean streets of novel architecture, past natives familiar in pictures, by neat gardens under the rich unwonted foliage in the scent-laden air, my anticipations were more than realised; and when towards evening we drove back to the ship through the Cinnamon Gardens, gazing on a picture of surpassing splendour as the sinking sun diffused his rich colour in a thousand hues over the sky, lit up the earth, and mirrored his dying glory in a long crimson gleam on the Lake, I ended a day not only of unmixed satisfaction but of keen enjoyment.

After another fortnight at sea, it was pleasant again to look on land; and all that last day of the voyage we never wearied of standing, glass in hand, watching on the right the amphitheatre-like slopes of the Java coast, laid out in coffee-gardens and rice-terraces, and on the left the more distant, deeply indented coast of Sumatra. The lovely islets which stud the ocean recalled at once Max Havelaar's exquisite simile, where he speaks of "Holland's magnificent empire of Insulinde, which winds about the equator like a garland of emeralds." These islets we passed now so close as to see distinctly the forms of tropical vegetation, the huts, and even the dusky inhabitants; again at such a distance that we could only contrast the rich hues of their verdure with the deep blue of the sea. The coast of Java, nearer Batavia, presents a singular appearance: for miles into the interior it seems elevated above the sea-level scarcely more than the height of the trees that cover it, and nothing can be seen save the sea-fringe of vegetation in front of a green plain, behind which rise the hills of Bantam and the Blue Mountains, as the old mariners call the peaks of Buitenzorg.

It was already dark when we moored in the roads of Batavia, one of the greatest centres of commerce in all these seas, where rides a fleet flying the flags of all nations. H., who had returned to Batavia from a prolonged tour in Sumatra to meet me, now joined me, and took at once all responsibility. Transferred into a steam-tender, we approached the mouth of the long canal by which the town of Batavia is reached; and having passed on shore at the Custom House, where we had moored, we entered a carriage drawn by two fleet ponies of the famous Sumbawa breed. We sped on for some miles through what seemed an endless row of Chinese shops and dwellings, before which the occupants, visible in the lamplight as we flashed past, sat smoking at their ease. Thence we emerged into a more genial atmosphere, where trees margined the street, and brilliantly lighted residences and hotels with pillared marble fronts gleamed through the delicate curtains of foliage which intervened between them and the roadway.

Apartments were ready for me in the Hotel der Nederlanden, and there I remained some days; but as I found the heat very oppressive, we have come here to Buitenzorg, some thirty miles inland, and considerably above the sea-level, where the climate is much pleasanter.

But I must try to give you some idea of my first impressions of life in the East, – how different from Western life and ways you must come here fully to learn.

About 5.30 of the morning after my arrival, I was awakened by the rattle of cups in my verandah. Coffee was already there, but, except to notice that it was neatly served, I did not heed that refreshment, for curiosity and wonder at the scene before me. Hotels here are all rather similar in plan. Imagine a quadrangle, the front of which is isolated from the three other sides of the square by the carriage-ways which lead into the centre. In this front block is the reception-hall, fronted by a verandah. The verandah is paved with marble, and disposed in it are numerous small tables, chairs, and lounges. Towards evening it is brilliantly lighted, and is the resort of the occupants of the hotel before and after dinner. Passing from the verandah through the reception-hall, you find the dining-room extending back into the square. It is simply roofed, and flowers in pots and pendent creepers fill the open sides. A few bedrooms have place in this front block: they are perhaps cooler, and are generally occupied by bachelor gentlemen who permanently reside in the house. For my part, I prefer one of those out in the courtyard formed by the remaining three sides of the square, for these have each a verandah, furnished with a table and a lounging-chair, making as it were a parlour for the occupant of the bedroom behind. I could best picture these rooms by comparing them to a row of cottages; but instead of a porch to each, imagine a continuous verandah the length of the row. They are of one storey; the floors are of flags, for coolness, with mats thrown here and there, and very simple furniture. The beds, however, are the largest. I have ever seen, and are curtained top and sides with mosquito-screens: they are not furnished with any upper sheet or covering.

My room was quite at the end of the row, and had a verandah at the end, as well as in front, with blinds drawing to the ground, which screened me from the gaze of passers-by, but through which I could easily see them. When I looked out that first morning, the occupants of the various "cottages" were just emerging, and, seating themselves in their sleeping attire, sipped their morning coffee. I had been told that the bath-house was at the farther end of the square, and, summoning all my courage, I set off, armed with towel and sponge, to find it. Far down, I espied a lady companion of the voyage, who had been in Batavia before, and was therefore not so bewildered as I. She explained to me the Eastern mode of bathing, by having pails of water poured over the head, otherwise I should have been puzzled on entering the bath-room to know whether I was expected to climb into the large vat which stood there. The bath-rooms are arranged so as to be unspoilable from splashing: a wooden net-work, on which one stands, covers a floor of flags, and the water flows quickly out by a wide drain. The manner of bathing is exceedingly refreshing, and is less fatiguing than a plunge-bath. As I returned to my room, at every "cottage" door sat the occupants, the gentlemen lying back in their chairs, with their bare feet extended over the long ledges which are there for the purpose. Ladies sat by them, and baboos and "boys" (male servants, waiters and valets, men of all ages, are "boys" here) hurried hither and thither; the bustle of day had already commenced. Did you ever have a nightmare, the misery of which was that you imagined you were walking out in your night-dress? That was exactly my feeling; and the fact that I wore a dressing-gown made me an object of greater curiosity and regard, so that it was with the utmost thankfulness that I gained the shelter of my own room.

All this publicity of private life is the effect of climatic influence. The easy attitudes and negligé costumes I describe appear fitted for a high-walled garden, or a country retreat, not for a public hotel; but gradually one comes to feel that these habits are natural in the climate.

You have heard of the sarong and kabia? You can recall the description which we read in Max Havelaar, and which we thought so extraordinary: "Mrs Havelaar was dressed in a long white gown or robe without waist-band, which descended to her knees. Instead of a respectable skirt, she wore underneath a piece of dark linen, covered with flowers, which seemed to be wrapped round her body and knees very tightly." The sarong and kabia form the native dress, adopted by European ladies for comfort and convenience in the climate, and worn by them as sleeping attire, as also during the day in a richer form, in which the skirt is of costly stuff, and the jacket of fine lawn muslin or linen, daintily trimmed with lace or embroidery. It is not worn when receiving formal visitors, and young unmarried ladies are not expected to be seen in it beyond their private apartments; but, with an apology for the liberty, it is worn almost constantly, except in the evening, when every one wears European costume for a few hours. In this country part, I see some ladies take the morning stroll in sarong and kabia, and I must confess I envy them, they look so lightly clothed and comfortable; and when the eye is accustomed to the costume, it is really becoming. I am actually, despite the amazement I experienced on first seeing it, now inclined to say it is pretty. "Describe it, then," you say. Yes; but how? Imagine a piece of calico, two yards long, cut from a web. Sew together the two raw edges, and you have a petticoat, without band or hem. Imagine it covered with floral patterns, or curious devices of crawling creatures, or having a village with houses and scenes from daily life depicted on it, and you see a sarong or skirt. Put this over your head, draw all the fulness in front, and form of this a large plait; put round your waist, to hold it firm and confine it, a cord with a rich tassel depending, or a gay silk sash. Then put on a peignoir, or dressing-jacket, of fine lawn trimmed with lace; loosen your hair and let it fall down your back; slip your stockingless feet into Indian-looking pantoffles, with gilt or silver embroidery, and with no upper heels, but very high wooden ones. Take now a fan in your hand, and promenade before your mirror, and you have some idea of the figures which my surprised eyes saw moving about the quadrangle of the Hotel der Nederlanden on the first morning after my arrival. After all, is it so extraordinary? The European fashion at present is to have the dress drawn towards the back until it is really difficult to walk: all fulness of the skirt is disposed behind. The arrangement of the sarong is simply this reversed, with the advantage that walking is not impeded. And how cleanly is the kabia. A lady puts on a fresh one twice or thrice a-day, – a frequency with which one could scarcely put a dress aside as soiled; and the wearer always looks cool and at ease.

Gentlemen wear a very loose and untrimmed form of the kabia, and wide, gay-patterned pyjamas as sleeping-dress, which they do not put off until it is time to dress for the day. They walk about the courtyard and even beyond for a short stroll, with the addition only of a short tweed shooting-jacket, and are very ludicrous figures as the wind blows out the loose garments like sails in a breeze. This dress does not become them!

Between 7 and 9 breakfast is laid out in the dining-room, and when it suits you, you enter: one of the many waiters brings coffee and eggs, and draws within reach a few of the numerous plates of sliced cold meat and sausage which are spread over the table. To one accustomed to an English breakfast, that offered here is very unappetising, but it is simply a go-between, and a good appetite awaits breakfast or tiffin at 12 or 12.30, when no one could complain of want of substantials or variety. It is called by the Dutch the "rice table." On a large soup-plate you help yourself to rice offered on an immense platter, and over this you put a few spoonfuls of Malay curry, which has the appearance of a pale yellow soup. Then in close succession are offered fish, cooked in various ways, fried, stewed, curried; fowl, likewise in different forms; stewed beef, rissoles of pork, mince patties, fritters of maize, omelette, fried eggs, various vegetables, with many Eastern delicacies and piquant side-dishes. To these, a small portion of each having been taken, are added various condiments – pickles, sliced cucumber, chili, chutnee – which are offered prettily arranged on a large china tray. Then the whole is mixed with spoon and fork, the mixture having, I am told, a delicious flavour not otherwise obtainable. I have not yet tried it. I form a wall of rice between the fish and the fowl, and allow most of the dishes to pass. H. says I shall learn, however, to enjoy the rice table soon.

Beefsteaks with fried potatoes follow this course, fritters of pine-apple and other sweets succeed, and the meal ends with coffee and fruits. How very rapidly it is got through! But one needs to be initiated how to proceed. I noticed an English family who had come on shore from a passing vessel for the day, who really got almost nothing. They took a little rice and curry and a morsel of fowl, and proceeded to discuss these leisurely, refusing with a surprised air the many dishes offered. They then wished some of the good things which others had partaken of, but they had all disappeared into the courtyard towards the kitchens, and it was only on H.'s intervention that they were served with some beefsteak.

After this mid-day meal, all who are not forced by business engagements to return to town retire to rest, and silence like night falls on the house. No one is seen stirring: even the servants fall asleep in corners until about 4 o'clock. Then tea is brought, and along the "cottage" row the scene of early morning is repeated. One after another appears with towel on arm proceeding to the bath-houses, and about half-past 5 all are ready in European toilet for an evening stroll or drive, previous to dinner at 7.30. It seems that the fashion so long prevalent of ladies going out at this hour in demi-toilet is passing away, bonnets and close dresses being now in vogue; but many still hold to the old fashion, and the effect is rather pretty as they promenade under the great avenues or flash past in carriages in the gathering dusk. Gentlemen, however, still go with uncovered heads.

Taking the opportunity of the comparative coolness of early morning and early evening, We saw not a little of Batavia during the few days of my stay. I call it a beautiful city, and you must not imagine it behind the world, for steam tram-cars puff along its streets. There is an old town and a new. The old town – close, fatal-climated Batavia of past days – lies near the strand, scarcely at all above the sea-level. A traveller dropped down here by chance might make a very good guess at the nationality of the dominant power. Canals intersect the town in every direction; and dear are these placid water-roads to the heart of a Hollander, as to a Highlander his heather hills. On the banks of these are the Government offices, the Town-house, and the various consulates and banks; and round this European nucleus cluster the native village and the Arab and Chinese Quarters. In this low-lying, close neighbourhood, devoid of wholesome water, scorched in the day-time, chilled by the cold sea-fogs at night, the Eastern merchant of long ago resided as well as traded. Out of this, however, if he survived the incessant waves of fever, cholera, and small-pox, he returned home in a few years, the rich partner of some large house, or the possessor of a great fortune.

All this is changed now. The open salubrious suburbs of the new town can be reached by train in a few minutes. The King's Plain, which is a mile square, is flanked by fine residences standing among groves of trees. In this district the Governor-General has his official palace; and here are built the barracks, the clubs, the hotels, and the best shops, dotted along roads shaded by leafy hibiscus shrubs.

Not far from the Hotel der Nederlanden is the Harmonie, a fine club-house, the grounds of which presented a charming scene when I first entered. Brilliant moonshine made fairyland of the rich foliage, sweet heavy scents of tropical plants pervaded the air, a band discoursed faultless music, and hundreds of gaily dressed people moved to and fro between the lamp-glare and the dimmer moonlight, or sat playing or talking at small tables in Continental fashion.

Every morning we drove to the hospital, a large and splendidly conducted institution in a beautiful situation, to see an English friend of H.'s, who was lying there. Coming back we generally met the children going to school, – little bands of them, with faces about as white as their garments. Girls wear simply a pinafore, or chemise if you will, of white starched muslin, over rather long drawers, white stockings, and long black boots. The effect is rather odd, and my impression on first seeing them was that a number were setting off to bathe still half-dressed. I was also much interested in watching the gay and busy scene on the canal near our hotel, – tiny barges, busy washers, and black bathers enlivening it from daybreak to sunset.

Batavia contains many thousands of Chinese inhabitants. Without this element, indeed, she might almost close her warehouses and send the fleet that studs her roads to ride in other harbours, for in every branch of trade the Chinaman is absolutely indispensable. Many of them possess large and elegantly fitted-up shops, filled with European, Chinese, and Japanese stores. Their workmanship is generally quite equal to European, and in every case they can far undersell their Western rivals. Numbers of a poorer class go about as peddlers, carrying all sorts of wares, from a silk dress to a linen button, from a China service to a thimble. When you emerge from the bed-chamber to the verandah to sip your morning coffee, John Chinaman is before you. His wares are already undone. He presses you to buy with a persistence to which at first you fall a prey, were it only to rid you of his importunity. He makes the most ridiculous overcharges to the simple purchaser, who is not consoled to learn that his loss is the gain of the next 'cute buyer, who purchases at a figure under the real value of the article, while a fair profit is enjoyed by the vendor between the two extremes. How patiently he undoes all his bundles, and lays out the contents of his boxes, never retorting a word to your angry dismissal! Although amused the first day, and interested in seeing his novel wares, I soon tired of the unceasing interruption. One has hardly gone when another succeeds him, and I took refuge in pretending that I neither saw nor heard, while the peddler tried first broken English, then phrases of French, until I could not resist laughing aloud. Arabs are sometimes seen engaged in this line of business, but they are not so patient or so politic. A Chinaman always waits till his predecessor goes ere he comes forward with his goods, An Arab was one morning spreading before me boxes of tortoise-shell and sandal-wood, embroidered slippers, jewellery, fans, muslins, &c., when another pushed forward, saying in the most laughable English, "Madam, do not buy from that man, – he tells lies, and he is a Mohammedan; I am Christian, and I will not cheat you." But his face belied him. The Arabs, too, do a little business in the town as shopkeepers and money-lenders, but in a much quieter and less obtrusive way than the Chinese. They are oftener owners of some sort of coasting craft, with which they trade from port to port, and to the outlying islands.

Some of the most elegant mansions in Batavia are owned by wealthy Chinese and Arabs; but strong restrictions are laid upon both nationalities because of their intriguing disposition, limiting even the number of horses that may be run in their carriages, while they are prohibited from trading in the interior of the island.

The Javanese do not perform the most menial work. They have an exceedingly refined cast of feature, are highly intelligent, have a different bearing and wear a different dress from the Natives, as one calls the Sundanese and coast Malays. These natives are vehicle-drivers, small traders, and assistants to the Chinese, but the bulk of them are coolies. The more intelligent are household servants, but as a rule their intelligence is not of a high order, while they are very lazy and inclined to dishonesty.

CHAPTER II.

JAVA, BUITENZORG – BOTANIC GARDEN – MORNING WALKS – VISITS OF CEREMONY – SONG OF THE CICADS – MOSQUITOES – LIFE IN THE TROPICS – A NATIVE FEAST – THE THEATRE – DANCES – OUR ROUTE.

BUITENZORG.

WE are here established in the Hotel du Chemin de Fer, where the French host and hostess are very kind. Buitenzorg (the word means "freedom from care") is one of the chief holiday and health resorts of sick Batavians, and possesses not only a magnificent climate, but scenery of great beauty and picturesqueness. It is overlooked by two large and, at present, harmless volcanic mountains – the Salak, with its disrupted cone, into whose very heart one looks through the terrible cleft in its side; and the double-peaked Pangerango and Gede, out of whose crater is ever lazily curling up white vapoury smoke from the simmering water which at present fills the summit of its pipe. Besides the fine views to be had in its neighbourhood, Buitenzorg is chiefly remarkable for its botanic garden, perhaps the finest in the world, which surrounds the Governor-General's unofficial residence. Every morning finds us in these gardens. I have already learnt that if you wish any enjoyment of the tropical day you must be up before the sun, and get out when his light is just coming over the horizon. The freshness of this hour, when a soft wind blows, bearing sweetest scents, almost compensates for the great heat, which comes too soon, and which the dusk does not relieve, for the earth still sends off a heated air that makes the wind warm. H. has been in Buitenzorg several times; he knows the gardens well, and shows me many beautiful details I might have passed unnoticed. On the right, the garden descends through groves and arbours, whose luxuriance of growth and richness of leaf are new to my eye, to its boundary stream, now (for it is the rainy season) rushing and foaming over the great boulders of rock which lie in its bed. Standing on the terrace by its bank, under a canopy of tall palms that form a shade from the early sun, and looking over the torrent to stretches of fresh green fields, we taste the sweetness of a tropical morning. A beautiful vista towards the other side of the town has recently been opened near the palace, of which the photograph I send gives only the faintest idea. The foreground has been cleared by the felling of a wide strip of great trees, and in their place is now a smooth lawn, studded with plots of many varieties of flourishing roses, from which the eye lifts itself to the towering heights of the Salak mountain, whose distant, bare, burnt sides are in strong contrast to the verdure close at hand.

A long wide avenue of kanarie-trees, which interlace high overhead in a superb leafy canopy, traverses the garden; and by the stream, another of great banyan-trees forms a tunnel-like corridor. On the left of the central walk are two others less striking, but more remarkable. One is of Brazilian palms, whose globular base and smooth-ringed stems, straight and symmetrical, as if turned in a lathe, contrast strongly in their whiteness with the deep green of the leaf-sheaths and crown of foliage; the other of bamboos, of various species and most luxuriant growth. A slight breeze generally rises about 10 A.M., and in the deep shade of these avenues one can walk or drive at noon in comfort. We never miss a daily visit to a seat under an umbrageous India-rubber tree, in front of which a fountain plays into a circular pond, dotted with blue and white flowers of water-lilies and Victoria regias.

Occasionally we extend our morning walk to the environs, past the dwellings of the natives, whom we meet coming to market. If we stop a casual passer-by, and inquire the name for any tree, or flower, or bird, or insect that attracts us as we walk along, he can at once answer, explaining its use or habit. How neat their wares look in the deftly plaited case of strips of leaves or grass, or in a morsel of banana leaf, kept firm with a long thorn. How cleverly they utilise leaves, cocoa-nut shells, the bamboo, and other such products laid ready to their hand, as culinary utensils and tools for daily toil. Yes; nature is kind in this sunny land. One's heart need not ache for the starving, ill-clad, shelterless poor. Times of famine and waves of epidemic do occasionally distress the inhabitants, but these are rare. With sunshine, and comparative leisure to enjoy it, they are happy. It does one good to see the satisfied air of the humble natives, whose homes, though very poor, are not squalid or miserable.

All visits of ceremony are made in the evening, between sundown and 8 o'clock. It is customary to intimate in the morning your intention to call, and an answer is sent to let you know if your friends will be at home. A carriage costs the same for four hours as for one, and when you are going to call or to dine, it is ordered as soon as the declining sun makes it cool enough, and the fleet little steeds have taken you away out into the country before the short twilight ends. When your visit is over, they come back, flashing past the native houses, where fires for the evening meal burn red, and into the European neighbourhood, where guests are being received in brilliantly lighted verandahs.

When one does not wish to receive, the fore verandah is not so lighted. If at home, the family keep in the inner hall, or sit at one end of the verandah reading by a single lamp, or sway to and fro fanning themselves in the rocking-chairs; which are the chief furniture of all verandahs.

At the approach of dusk the ear is surprised by such a strange tumult that one eagerly asks, "What is it?" Is it the rush of distant water? Is it the noise from a thousand overcharged gas-burners? Is it the creaking of an overstrained mill, – that stridulous, rushing, whirring, buzzing sound, which rises and falls, and dies and swells again? It is only the song of the cicads, the bark of the frogs, the chirp of the lizards – a sort of glee from the inhabitants of the trees, bushes, and hedges.

Like all new-comers, I am tormented by mosquitoes. No precaution is absolute protection from this pestering little foe. One wishes he were more tangible, that he might be combated; but so cleverly does he accomplish his cruel persecution that he is soaring off, buzzing his triumph, before one begins to feel the tickling which is but the precursor of days of irritation from his little puncture. A lady advises me never to retire without a candle (to search for him), a towel (to slay him), and a bottle of eau de Cologne (to allay his annoying wounds); but despite such precautions he will sting the hand raised to annihilate him, even while you are watching for him to flit past. Death has been known to ensue from a mosquito's bite. A friend related to me that on first coming to the Dutch Indies she all but lost her foot through one. She was writing, and, intent on her occupation, did not notice that she had been scratching an inflamed bite with her shoe. Shortly the foot commenced to swell, and soon presented such an appearance as to cause her great alarm. From this wound she was confined to her sofa for a month, and it was for some time under debate whether it would be necessary to amputate the foot. A gentleman who came on shore for the night in Batavia had his arm so swollen from two punctures that he was unable to dress next day, the inflammation being as severe as from vaccination. Mosquitoes are most annoying in the rainy season, for then they seek the shelter of the house; but always in the evening they buzz about near the lamp. Sometimes to read or write by lamplight is quite impossible. They do not allow one moment's peace; the only plan is to give yourself up to self-defence, and sit down with a fan and eyes on the alert;. When the salon is arranged for the evening, shields are hung over the backs of the open canework chairs to prevent the mosquitoes stinging between the shoulders, where it is so difficult to relieve the tickling by rubbing.

Do I like life in the tropics? Yes, indeed, I am enchanted with all I see, I enjoy many indescribable sensations of delight – but do not envy me; you have compensating pleasures in England. When you walk among the scented pines, and the glinting sunbeams disclose in the modest seclusion of the tall grass the tiny starwort and the pretty veronica; when you go to meet the fresh wind blowing over a gorse-clad moor with step that bounds to the lark's mad carolling overhead, know that you have an enjoyment never to be had here. Here is no joyous spring; here reigns for ever an oppressiveness of richness, a monotony of profusion, which cannot have the charm of the sweet June-tide, the crown of the year. There are no "sunless days when autumn leaves wear a sunlight of their own," and you may never see the fairy-like freaks of Father Frost.

I was fortunate enough, through the kindness of our host of the hotel, to see a native feast, given in honour of the son of the chief butler, who had just finished his studies at school with considerable credit. About 10 o'clock of a perfect moonlight night we set off for the scene of the entertainment, some distance from the town, and approached a greensward shut in by tall trees, through arches festooned with greenery and gay decorations of flowers. In the open air, in this natural enclosure, the tables were already spread. Preparations, we were told, had been in progress for over a month, and the quantity of substantial viands and confections of attractive colour and skilful composition showed that the time must have been busily employed. We found the guests already seated, talking and gazing at the tiers of plates containing the eatables, – for it is only after hours of patient restraint that the feasting commences on a signal being given. Several hundreds occupied the tables arranged for the general company; at a little distance, almost curtained in by draperies of flowers and foliage, by a white-covered table sat natives of rank and importance in gay costumes and glittering jewels, relieved by the black coats of a few European gentlemen. We did not mean to partake, so were led to a canopied and carpeted dais, where, however, we had set before us some of the daintiest of the confections. Beyond the invited guests were hundreds more of onlookers, who feast in their own way, purchasing from the many vendors mingling in the crowd. All, however, enjoy alike the theatre and the dance. The former is a ludicrous exhibition of a series of grotesque hobgoblin creatures, which are represented on a large sheet by a magic lantern. The advent of each fresh figure is greeted by the beholders with screams of delight, which sink into murmurs of criticism till the next moves on the scene.

The dance is the performance of a youth and a maiden, in which, however, the latter takes the more prominent part. Her hair was very neatly arranged, and decked with white flowers. She was gaily attired in a sarong of spangled purple velvet, and a bodice, compressing her shoulders like a vice, of the same. Over the purple skirt was another of green satin, edged with gold fringe; and she not ungracefully manipulated an embroidered sash, casting it now over her shoulder, again round her wrists, as she contorted the hands and arms into attitudes outvying the achievements of a danseuse. The part played by the feet is very insignificant – simply a gentle shuffling motion from the one to the other. At intervals the youth shuffled towards her from the edge of the circle, and after much preamble embraced her, wearing a countenance as expressionless as her own; but this climax calls forth loud applause, which is responded to by a silly grin.

The monotonous clanging and tinkling of a native band suit well the slow movements of the dance. The chief instrument is the gamelau, consisting of a series of eight or ten gongs graduated in size, set in a bamboo frame, and played on much as the harmonica is, but with two sticks. We are told that in the hands of a skilful player very pleasing music is produced. A thinner sound is emitted from a similar series of anvil-looking blocks of metal, and these instruments are supported by numerous flutes and primitive two-stringed violins, as well as by cymbals and tinkling instruments. Through all booms the deep note of a large single gong, set in a tripod frame, the whole forming a massive if not over-musical orchestra. Each member of it seemed to play with heart and soul, making ludicrous facial contortions and genuflections, and swaying the body to and fro, as if carried away by the enchantment of the music he produced.

We take passage on the 15th of this month from Batavia to Amboina. You remember our destination is Timor-laut or Tenimber Islands, a small group shown on the map as lying between the considerable islands of Papua or New Guinea and Timor. We shall get as far as Amboina, in the Moluccas, by the Netherland India steamer Bromo, and find other means of proceeding thence to Timor-laut. A steamer of this company makes the tour of the archipelago once a month, going from Macassar northwards, coasting Celebes, calling at Amboina and Timor, and passing through the Flores Straits to Macassar, one journey, and reversing the route the next. We happen to go by the southern route. I shall do my best to post some news of our progress at Macassar.

CHAPTER III.

AT SEA – DUTCH OFFICIAL MIGRATIONS – SAMARANG – STRAITS OF MEDNEA – SURABAYA – MERMEN AND MERMAIDS – CARGO OF BIRDS – CHARACTERISTICS OF JAVA – THE DUTCH COLONIAL SYSTEM.

MACASSAR SEA

WITH daylight on the 15th April we were speeding from the Hotel der Nederlanden, in Batavia, to the wharf, to embark in the steam-tender waiting to take us out to the roads, where the Bromo was riding at anchor. We had dined the previous evening in the suburbs, and afterwards attended a fancy-dress ball in the public gardens, returning after midnight to finish packing and make ready for the start early next morning. After this night of fatigue, the rapid drive in the cool morning air was delightfully refreshing, and I wished it could have lasted some hours instead of thirty minutes. The sun rose too quickly, and waiting on the steam-tender till all was ready was indeed trying. Officers looked overburdened in their cumbersome uniforms, and ladies seemed distressed in European clothing. One lady fainted, and every one suffered until we set off and caught the breeze from the sea: when we had climbed to the deck of the Bromo it was comparatively cool.

The bulk of the passengers by this route are officials changing residence from one part to another of the Dutch possessions, or military officers changing their station. We learn that when such a change is ordered, the furniture of the old home is sold, because transport is so very dear. With the proceeds of the sale all debts are paid, and a fresh start is made. But in some remote parts furniture could not be purchased, and all that is needful must be taken. All have some household gods to which they cling: there are flowers, and the children's domestic pets cannot be left behind, so the ship is like a garden and menagerie combined, while furniture not only crowds the deck, but is hung in every available space overhead, so low that one must always be looking out to avoid being bumped.

We are a considerable company, a floating village. Besides the saloon passengers on our deck, there are the maid and men servants, who are in constant attendance on the families with whom they are going to the new home. There is no defined place for these boys and baboos: they sleep on the floor of the saloon, without pillow or mat, wearing the dress of the day-time. Going down in the dim lamplight, one has to be careful to avoid falling over some dusky slumbering form; and despite the utmost heedfulness, an arm or foot extended by the unconscious sleeper trips you up, and sends you stumbling on to the head of another.

The cabins receive no attention from the ship servants, and one who has not learnt this arrangement suffers considerable discomfort, for no persuasion avails to induce them to keep one's cabin clean and in order. This seems equally strange to another party on board, the family of the governor-elect of Portuguese Timor, who are on their way from Portugal. The ladies of this party are the only Europeans who, like myself, wear European dress. We had not been half an hour on deck when the Dutch ladies appeared in sarong and kabia, looking greatly relieved in the light clothing. Common-sense must admit that, for suitability to the climate, no dress can compare with it. How very different the scene is from that on an English steamer! I find endless amusement in simply looking on.

In two days we moored off Samarang, having seldom lost sight of the much-indented coast of Java, which presented to our view ranges of undulating hills, backed by imposing mountains. The shallowness of the harbour of Samarang does not admit of anchorage within several miles from the mouth of the canal, which, as at Batavia, leads to the town. Being still fatigued from the exertions of the days preceding our departure, we did not attempt to go on shore. The heat was insufferable as we lay these two days motionless in the bay, and it was the greatest relief to start for the next port, Surabaya, where it is required that all disembark with their whole possessions for five days. Sailing straight to Amboina, without any stoppage, would take about one week. The expense of a voyage, and the loss of time, are considerable when you must go all round the archipelago, and wait at different ports until the vessel is ready to proceed. But there is absolutely no other means of travel: this company has a monopoly, and voyagers have no alternative except the risks and dangers of a native prahu, to face which the experience of another traveller did not invite us. Mr Wallace spent thirty-eight days on a voyage which should have been accomplished in twelve, and had to struggle constantly against wind and tide.

We passed through the Straits of Mednea in the night, and early in the morning of the 19th April were in the bustle of disembarking for the five days, until the steamer should resume its voyage. There is the same level foreshore as at Batavia and Samarang, and the same manner of approaching by a long canal. The row from the ship to the canal was over before the heat of the day commenced, and we were ready to be towed along from the custom-house by eight o'clock. Men tow on each bank by long ropes, and manage very cleverly to keep clear of the barges and boats of all kinds which crowd the canal. Some ships and tenders of considerable size passed us, and the gay dresses of the crews, and the bright-painted vessels, made this canal scene a most animated picture. We landed at our hotel simultaneously with the Da França family, having kept up from our several boats a conversation on the novel sight passing us. We gained its shelter with some thankfulness, after our long exposure to the sun.

The hotel resembles greatly in construction the one in which we lived in Batavia: our room this time, however, is in the front part of the building. I am now accustomed to hotel life in Java, and amuse myself at my ease, looking on the busy scene. The same round goes on, the early rising, the busy morning, the ample lunch, the afternoon of rest, and the gay evening. How refreshing it is to go driving at the sunset hour with those sharp-trotting ponies. If you wish to go beyond the town any considerable distance, it is the rule to drive with four horses. One such excursion we had occasion to take, and as the scenery of the environs of Surabaya is exceedingly pretty, we had no slight pleasure in the drive.

The town is of no mean size, and is a busy seat of trade: its importance is added to by a large dock, where ships from all parts are repaired. There is, besides, a Government arsenal, and these industries bring a considerable European population. Their pleasant homes are in a suburb which we had occasion several times to visit, to enjoy the hospitality of kind friends. Public gardens laid out with much taste are a great amenity, and it is customary to descend for half an hour in the course of the evening drive to walk in the shrubberies and hear the excellent music of the band.

Entering a Chinaman's shop in the crowded part of the town to make some purchases, we saw a wonderful collection of curiosities. Among these were some carved statues of great value and interest, but most curious to us were a mummified merman and mermaid. These I had always thought to be fabulous creations of simpleminded seafarers, but those we saw were certainly sufficient to give origin to the tales we have heard of them. The upper part of the body is quite human in form, and is smooth-skinned; the face is ape-like, but human enough to suggest the comparison, only there is no hair on the head. The fore-limbs are arms with five fingers. The lower part of the body is that of a fish with scales and fins.

We saw also a cargo of birds just arrived from New Guinea, and ready for despatch to Europe – 2000 skins of the orange-feathered bird of paradise, 800 of the king-bird, and a various lot of others. This, remember, was only one cargo, and the traffic will go on the whole season. Such a fearful slaughter of these lovely birds is really distressing. Soon we shall have lost off the face of the globe these unique and most gorgeous of the feathered tribes. There were also some skins of the rare, six-shafted or golden paradise bird. It is figured by Mr Wallace in his 'Malay Archipelago,' but the illustration gives no idea of its velvety plumage.

Surabaya is low-lying and sultry, but the heat at mid-day is not by any means so trying as on shipboard. The early mornings at sea are delightfully fresh, and with the sunset hour comes a welcome wind, while the evening is cool: the afternoon, however, is almost unendurable, especially when lying still in harbour. The double awnings are baked, the decks are hot, the glistening sea reflects pitilessly the powerful sun, giving no relief to the tired eyes, and sending up only an air as from an oven: nowhere is there any escaping from the strong heat. Here, in a dwelling constructed for coolness, it is by no means unbearable. Sometimes, seated in a shady verandah, listlessly rocking to and fro, one is lulled into dreams of home, and visions flit through the mind of winter evenings and blazing hearths, and the comfort of listening to the fierce wind whistling in the gables; and, involuntarily, comparisons will intrude of the respective merits of chilblains and prickly heat.

Our next port is Macassar, which we reach after a sail of two days and two nights. We leave behind us the most beautiful, as well as the most fertile, most productive, and most populous tropical island in the world, of which I regret that I am able to say so little, for I have scarcely more than coasted it. Java is magnificently varied with mountain and forest scenery, and is by no means inaccessible to the tourist. The famous Daendals, while Governor-General of the Dutch Indies from 1808 to 1811, caused roads to be made that even now excite the admiration of every visitor. Important railway routes have been opened up within the last two years; but in many districts posting is still necessary, a mode of travelling which the nature of the country renders full of excitement and danger. I have good authority for stating that no post-horses in Europe can compare with those of Java.

Let me quote a few sentences for your information:–

"This island possesses many mountains, some rising ten or twelve thousand feet high; the abundant moisture and tropical heat of the climate causes them to be clothed with luxuriant vegetation often to their very summit, while forests and plantations cover their lower slopes. The animal productions, especially the birds and insects, are beautiful and varied, and present many peculiar forms found nowhere else upon the globe. The soil throughout the island is exceedingly fertile, and all the productions of the tropics, together with many of the temperate zones, can be easily cultivated. Java, too, possesses a civilisation, a history, and antiquities of its own, of great interest. The Brahminical religion flourished in it from an epoch of unknown antiquity till about the year 1478, when that of Mahomet superseded it. The former religion was accompanied by a civilisation which has not been equalled by the conquerors; for, scattered through the country, especially in the eastern parts of it, are found buried in lofty forests, temples, tombs, and statues of great beauty and grandeur, and the remains of extensive cities, where the tiger, the rhinoceros, and the wild bull now roam undisturbed."

"To the ordinary English traveller, the Malay Archipelago is perhaps the least known part of the earth. Few persons realise that as a whole it is comparable with the primary divisions of the globe, and that some of its separate islands are larger than France or the Austrian Empire. The traveller soon, however, acquires different ideas. He comes to look upon this region as one apart from the rest of the world, with its own races of men and its own aspects of nature; with its own ideas, feelings, customs, and modes of speech, and with a climate, vegetation, and animated life altogether peculiar to itself."

Although I had read that this archipelago contains three islands larger than Great Britain, and that it would stretch over an expanse equal to that of all Europe from the extreme west far into Central Asia, the associations of my childhood have so chained my mind, that till now I have been unable to dissever the tiny specks depicted on the map between Asia and Australia from their Liliputian proportions.

Holland adopts a different system from our own in her subject possessions. She accommodates herself to the natives, conducting intercourse of all kinds in their language. The construction of the Malay tongue is most simple, and I find it exceedingly pleasant to the ear; there are, besides, no impossible sounds. I have seldom heard the Javanese language; it is much more difficult to acquire, but has a more elegant and refined sound.

We are now nearing Macassar. The Da França family are our constant companions. H. speaks a little Portuguese, while they all speak French as fluently as their own tongue. They are a party of fourteen, – Monsieur and Madame, their eldest son and his wife, two young ladies, and six young children. Their good bonne, old Jacinthe, is the thirteenth, and accompanying them is Monsieur Fontes, a naval officer going to command the Government vessel which rides in the Bay of Timor.

CHAPTER IV.

MACASSAR – ITS TRADE – GATHERING COCOA-NUTS – MACASSAR PRAHUS – THE DUTCH AND THEIR NATIVE SERVANTS – CATHOLIC SETTLEMENT – CROSSING THE BANDÀ SEA – CUPANG – TIMOR BEADS – A CHINESE GENTLEMAN – THE GOVERNOR OF TIMOR.

Coasting FLORES, 30th April.

IT has been very rough and almost cold crossing from Macassar to Sumbawa, and we were truly thankful to gain the shelter of the Bay of Bima. When you are fairly in, no outlet can be seen, and the general aspect of the bay with its mountainous surroundings vividly suggests Loch Lomond. A few short hours, and we were out again on the troubled waters. To-day, however, we are running along the coast of Flores, the Land of Flowers of the early Portuguese mariners, in more placid waters, and I make an attempt to continue.

We lay four days at Macassar, and had ample opportunity to see all that is to be seen. Let me first say that I saw no Macassar oil. I looked in every window, and read every signboard, and scanned every building that might be a factory, and asked every one I came in contact with, but no one knew anything about Macassar oil!

Macassar is the point from which the products of Western civilisation are disseminated through the barbarous East, and is one of the great emporiums of the native trade of the archipelago. Rattans from Borneo, sandal-wood and bee's-wax from Flores and Timor, tripang from the Gulf of Carpentaria, cajeput-oil from Bouru, wild nutmegs and mussoi-bark from New Guinea, – are all to be found in the stores of the Chinese and Bugis merchants of Macassar, along with the rice and coffee which are the chief products of the surrounding country. There is also the trade to the Aru Islands, of which almost the whole produce comes to Macassar in native vessels, to contribute to the luxurious tastes of the most civilised races. Pearls, mother-of-pearl, and tortoise-shell find their way to Europe, while edible birds'-nests and tripang, or sea-slug, are sent off by ship-loads for the gastronomic enjoyment of the Chinese.

Near the wharf Macassar has quite a business aspect. Here for the first time we had the comfort of being moored to the shore; by simply crossing the gangway we were on terra firma. Passing from the wharf, one enters a long street where European, Chinese, and Arab warehouses and shops are closely wedged; it opens into a broad avenue of stately trees which skirt a green sward. The grounds of the Government mansions open from the avenue, and here also are the best European houses, with a good club-house or reading-room, where the 'Graphic' and many good papers may be seen. An imposing fort, very white against the grass, fills one end of the green. I like walking when possible, one gets so cramped on board ship, so each morning we made our way to the outskirts, passing frequently through some native village. In one of these I first tasted the milk of the cocoa-nut, and saw the expert way of obtaining the nuts from the tall trees. Slight notches are cut all up the stem at the distance of a stride, by which with unfaltering steps the gatherer mounts, placing the great toe in the notches. A cocoa-nut tree is exceedingly beautiful; the long, smooth, upright grey stem is just fit to be crowned with the feathery plumes that bend so gracefully over it. The nut gathered fresh is very different from the fruit as seen sold in our markets. The colourless liquid which issues on the nut being opened has the appearance of water, but has a slightly sweet flavour, and is most refreshing. The natives allowed us to enter their dwellings, and seemed as pleased to have a white visitor as she was to make herself acquainted with the interior of a bamboo-hut.

In one long street edging the beach there is a series of miniature shipbuilding yards, where the famous Macassar prahus are built. These vessels are of such curious construction that a short description might interest you. Looking at a native prahu, you would scarcely care to trust yourself to a voyage of some thousands of miles in it, but they cruise all over the archipelago with as few casualties as any other sort of craft. The shape suggests a Chinese junk. Some are as small as a fishing-coble – I speak of one of about eighty tons burden, with about thirty of a crew. The deck slopes greatly down to the bows: it is thus the lowest part of the vessel which cuts the waves. The strangest part of its construction, and a source of much apprehension to any called to trust their life in a prahu for a considerable voyage, is a large hole about a yard square which runs through the after-part of the vessel three feet above the water line, and which is actually open to the hold. It is quite puzzling how these boats weather a storm without being swamped by the first half-dozen seas.

The fittings and appliances are all of native material, and there is an absence of the qualmish smells incident to a steamer, – "no grease, no oil, no varnish; instead of these, bamboo, rattan, and palm thatch, all pure vegetable fibres, which, if they smell at all, smell pleasantly, and recall quiet scenes in the green and shady forest." Mr Wallace says of a twenty days' voyage in one that he never travelled with so little discomfort, and this he attributes to the absence of paint, pitch, tallow, and new cordage, to the freedom from all restraint of meal hours and of dress. This last consideration is by no means insignificant. It is often simply a trial to the flesh to sit out dinner in the saloon of a steamer in the usual dress. The large company in the limited space, the many servants, the smoking dishes, create a temperature which, long ere the tedious meal is finished, induces a streaming perspiration, and one leaves the table with garments almost as wet as if one had been bathing instead of dining in them. Still if one is anxious to reach a destination in a given time, the steam-vessel has doubtless the advantage over a Macassar prahu.

Numbers of these prahus, as well as many steamers and sailing-vessels of varied build, with the large white guard-ship, make the Macassar roadstead gay and animated; and although to us, leaving behind the busier centres, it seems the first taste of rusticity, I can imagine that on a return from the seclusion of the isles around, it must seem the gate of life. In Macassar resides one of the three governors that are under the Governor-General of the Dutch Indies. The position of these is kept up with some dignity. Visits were exchanged between the Governors of Timor and Macassar, and the latter's carriage, with four fleet cream-coloured ponies, was morning and evening at the Da França family's disposal.

I had the first touch of fever I have experienced just after leaving Macassar: probably I had been out in the sun too much. It was not severe, – just sufficient to produce an unconquerable lassitude. Lying on a sofa one evening at dusk, apparently asleep, when all the others. were down dressing for dinner, I heard a continual talking near by me: gently turning, I saw one of the governor's little lads seated within a circle of chairs, stools, and footstools. In childish fashion he was holding over again the reception which his father had that afternoon given to the Governor of Macassar and suite, and with bows and compliments and the most gracious manner was conversing with the imaginary circle of visitors. I was intensely amused, and dared not move lest I should discomfit the boy by the discovery that he was observed.

This voyage gives an excellent opportunity of seeing the relations of the Dutch with their native servants. These, both male and female, loll or crouch about the deck all day, ready to run down-stairs on an errand for the mistress or children, or bring a light for master's cigar. Children all speak Malay, and repeat their little tales and rhymes in that language. Their Dutch speech until they go to school is very imperfect.

At Larantuka, before entering the strait of that name, some of the gentlemen went on shore to visit a Catholic settlement: it was then raining so heavily that we could not accompany them. The wooded slopes, as we approached the village, seemed to invite nestling villas and turreted chateaux, while the tiny spire of the chapel looked a promise of peaceful safety. But there is a reason for the closely crowded monastery buildings and the strong stockade which we could see encircling them. The natives, except the villagers who have come under the civilising influence of the priests, live in the mountains, and every now and again come down and make a night-raid on the establishment, in such force that they always have the best of the fray.

The priests were evidently glad to have European visitors, and treated our party with every kindness. H. bought a pair of shell armlets, which were with the utmost difficulty withdrawn from the wearer's arm; another tried to get hers off, but it was found impossible. These ornaments are put on in childhood, and as the person grows they form a groove in the arm, from which it is surprising that strangulation of the limb does not ensue.

Crossing the BANDA SEA.

We were in Cupang, the capital of the Dutch half of the island of Timor, the day after our passage through the beautiful Flores Straits. As soon as our anchor dropped in the bay, we were surrounded by small boats, whose rowers had quite a distinctive appearance, arising from their dressy attire, which, however, is simple enough when examined. On their shoulders they wear a fringed plaid hanging in the graceful fashion of the Highland costume. Their hats – such wonderful hats! – are made of the pale spathe of the Borassus palm-tree, and besides the neatly constructed crown and "Devonshire" brim, they are elaborately ornamented with a mass of flowers and plumes, wonderfully modelled from chips of the spathe. Such a hat would be most becoming to a fair English girl; but to these male wearers, with their sooty skins and wild frizzly mops, they gave the most grotesque appearance.

On going on shore we were delighted to find there an Englishman, who took us to his home and left us to the good care of his wife and daughter, by whose hospitable kindness we enjoyed a pleasant change from shipboard, and had the opportunity of seeing and learning a deal of life in Cupang. The ladies insisted that I should get off my English clothing and try the comfort of the sarong and kabia. Mrs Drysdale informs me that every Dutch lady takes pride in her store of these garments, and a dozen dozens of the jacket is not considered an over-stock. She showed me beautiful examples of the skirt, some almost cloth-of-gold from the quantity of it inwoven, while others were curious specimens of patterns of native fancy. I saw for the first time a fashion of belt worn by some to support the skirt instead of the usual sash: it is of pure beaten gold of native workmanship, richly chased all round, though only the clasp is ever seen on a chance opening of the jacket. There was also one of silver, less elaborate. These belts are highly valued, and handed down as heir-looms. I also learnt that there is considerable art in the proper arrangement of the sarong. On each of the poorest as well as of the richest make there is a strip called the kapala, which must fall straight down the left leg just on the top of the fold containing the fulness. It is part of the costume to wear a medallion or pretty ornament on a necklace amongst the lace of the neck of the kabia, which is made slightly open for the purpose, while jewelled studs are worn to fasten it instead of buttons.

As soon as it was cool enough we walked out, and found Cupang a bright, clean, neatly laid-out town, situated at the base of abrupt hills. It has a considerable Dutch population, living in pretty substantial houses, embowered in greenery. The true natives of Timor we did not see: they come down from their mountain homes only occasionally to meet purchasers of bee's-wax, dammar for torches, and such products; but no intercourse can be established, for they will not conform to civilisation. Trade is conducted by barter, tobacco being a favourite article of exchange; but they will strive for years to get the means of purchasing a species of bead of a reddish colour, evidently a sort of soft stone, giving for it more than its weight in gold. Whence these beads come is quite unknown; the natives say they are pulled off the grass blades in certain spots very early in the morning. The counterfeit beads made in Birmingham for the Chinese traders are excellent imitations, but the native is not to be deceived into giving the price of the genuine article. A complete string of eight or nine inches costs about £12.

Trade in Cupang is in the hands chiefly of Chinese and Arabs: the dark race we met in the streets are natives of the island of Solor, who are imported for servants and coolies.

From Macassar to Cupang we had a Chinese gentleman as saloon passenger, and as I had never before occasion to be so near a member of the Celestial Empire, I took the opportunity to study his tout ensemble. How does it come that John Chinaman has a rich development of unusual length, where John Bull has only a shining bare patch? One afternoon when H. was talking to our Chinese companion, I seated myself close behind and examined his distinctive feature. Every bit of the head is clean shaved except this patch on the crown, which, thick enough itself, is reinforced by a quantity of red silk, which is interwoven with it, and forms a fringe at the point. Our friend's white calico jackets and spacious trousers were specimens of perfect laundry-work, while the loose coats of cloth or silk which he wore in the cooler hours were beautifully tailored, and ornamented with jewelled buttons set in gold. As we were walking through the town, he hailed us from his door, and invited us in to have tea. His little sons, evidently in holiday attire to celebrate their father's return home, served us with the pale liquid as they drink it, without sugar or cream; his ladies did not appear further than to stand peeping round a screen. His house was handsomely furnished in Chinese style, with numerous pagodas and cabinets and much gilding. Surely home is as dear to a Chinaman as to an Englishman: this good man sustained the part of master of the house with evident pride, and seemed complacently happy on his return to the familiar surroundings.

The poor class of Chinese wear blue trousers, white being reserved for the rich. But all alike have the white jacket, which is always clean and fresh, for the Chinese are prized as laundry-workers all over the East. Some have white silk inwoven in the pig-tail, the elderly substituting black, for thus the growing scantiness of age is not so apparent. Even an old man of eighty has a creditable plait, and the pride of all wearers is evinced by the frequency with which the appendage is drawn round and gazed at, and felt and stroked.

There is in Cupang a large Chinese and Arab population, and I could not help contrasting the two races. The Chinaman everywhere has a bright, clean, active look: he moves with a briskness refreshing to see in that land of loitering, and always seems on business intent. The Arab, again, is all folds and twists. His dress has undoubtedly the more picturesque appearance. His loose flowing apparel of various colours, richly embroidered vest, jacket, and gay turban, attract the eyes far off: you watch him approach with majestic carriage, until he is before you with his noble features, soft dark eyes, and curling locks. You find him much bejewelled, generally with paltry rings and chains, though the rich often possess very valuable ones.

A heavy shower in the afternoon gave us the opportunity of seeing the natives use their primitive umbrella, a single leaf of lontar palm, which forms an excellent shelter. They rush along, crouching under the leaf as if they had plumes and satins to spoil.

A lovely moonlight night succeeded, and being joined by the Da França family from the ship, we walked together to the outskirts to examine the elaborate tombs which stud the slopes round the town, erected within no defined graveyard, but on any spot chosen by the owners.

This was our last evening together. Next forenoon we were at Dilly, their destination, the capital of Portuguese territory in the eastern half of the island. We parted with deep regret from our courteous and accomplished companions; but with the hope that it will at some future time be possible to avail ourselves of their cordial invitation to visit Timor, his Excellency having offered every aid in his power should H. wish to travel in the interior. "Little Madame," as we call her, to distinguish her from her stately mother-in-law, and Mademoiselle Isabel have been my principal companions, but we have all been much together, and have so enjoyed our intercourse that it seems as if there could be no more pleasure in the rest of the voyage.

They landed under a salute from the fort, with a great show of ceremony; and after the governor had received the keys of office in the church, we joined them at lunch and saw them installed in their new home. The palace has an imposing enough aspect from the bay, but on a nearer approach it is seen to be rather dilapidated, and I grieve for their sakes to learn that Dilly is most unhealthy. The supreme evil of the town is that it is built on a low morass, causing incessant fever, which robs the inhabitants of all energy, and explains at once the rather miserable aspect of this compared with other towns of similar size.

Quantities of large red-painted cases were discharged from our vessel and piled on the shore here, as at every other port we had called at. These contain bottles filled with a coarse fiery gin, which is used greatly in barter with the natives by traders, and is only too eagerly accepted.

CHAPTER V.

BANDA – FIRE MOUNTAIN – ARAB SCHOOL – NUTMEG WOODS – LIFE ON SHIPBOARD – CLOTHING FOR THE EAST – BAY OF AMBOINA.

6th May.

THERE had been much talk during the voyage of the islands of Banda, the chief nutmeg-garden of the world, and we were naturally curious to see them for ourselves.

Banda is the most lovely spot we have yet visited. Coming on deck early, we found ourselves approaching a dense and brilliant vegetation, in strong contrast to the bare spurs of Timor, which we had left a few days before. Steaming in through a narrow winding entrance, which seemed after giving us passage to glide together, we found ourselves in a deep-blue inland lake. But only apparently. The Banda group is composed of four small islands, three of which form this secure harbour. Three of the four are covered over almost their entire surface with nutmeg-trees. As though to form an offset to this luxuriance and fertility, towers the terrible fire-mountain Gunung Api, which reeks eternally from its shapely cone, like a fierce guardian of these gardens of Paradise. A sulphureous smoke ever rises from its bare and scarred summit, but its base and flanks are green with trees, amid whose shade a white dwelling here and there peeps out, heedless of the internal fires that blister the smouldering cone. How strange it was to lean on the ship's rail, and gaze down into the tranquil harbour, whose waters are so transparent that living corals, and even the minutest objects, are plainly seen on the volcanic sand at a depth of seven or eight fathoms; then to lift the eyes to the smoking mountain, and picture the terrible tumult in the fiery caverns within!

Passing from the shore, along which runs a row of clean-looking whitewashed houses, the steep shady path to the left leads to the gardens; keeping to the right, you ascend to the town. Following one street and then another, having on each side Arab, Chinese, and Malay shops, where all necessities, such as food, clothing, and coffins, are displayed for purchase, you emerge on a green level bordered by some good houses and a church. On the sward is the village well, where there seems always to be a group of busy washers; and in the centre is a large school, where every educational advantage may be enjoyed, so that European residents need not, as formerly, send their children to distant parts to be educated. On its left rises the battlemented fort built by the Portuguese, but now flying the Dutch ensign, from the top of which a magnificent view is to be had of the surrounding islands and out over the boundless sea. Sitting on the topmost of a long flight of steps, we looked down on the Banda isles, so small in their vast setting, – on the volcano, from whose crest the vapour-cloud had temporarily lifted, leaving the whole symmetrical outline clearly defined, – on the reposeful town, heedless of the terrible devastation which has overwhelmed, and at any moment may again overwhelm it from the overshadowing fire-mountain, – on the land-locked bay, bathed in sunlight and gently ruffled by the breeze, which floated out the flags on the shipping, – and down on the old fort, which tells how the spice-gardens of Insulinde were valued in other centuries.

We called each day of our stay at Bin Saleh's, an Arab, whose cases of paradise and other gay birds' skins from New Guinea and other islands of the archipelago, ready for despatch to the Paris markets, were a great attraction. He invited us into his inner room, where he showed us a small bunch of tortoise-shell, for which he said he could readily get £50 in Singapore. In his back-court is an Arab school, and I was allowed to look in on the company of little fellows, who were squatted round their teacher, and whose sing-song, simultaneous repetition of their lesson resounded through the neighbourhood.

Starting with the sun one morning, we climbed the slope to the left by a path overhung with gracefully bending bamboos and overgrown with lycopods, which leads into the nutmeg woods. The nutmeg-trees are rather sparsely planted, and form a thin grove under a canopy of tall kanarie-trees, which interlace high overhead. The paths through the woods are as wide as a carriage-way, and well made. Tired of the ship, we wandered on for miles, till we came to one of the plantation houses, a small village of buildings, where men, women, and children were employed preparing the nuts and mace for export. Neither of these products is at all like what we see at home, the rich colours being quite lost in drying. Now and then we met a gatherer, a picturesque object in his bright clothing among the green foliage. With a pole jointed like a fishing-rod he nips the stalk of the ripe nuts by two claw-like prongs with which the tip of his rod is armed, when they drop into a little basket-like cage worked to the stem some inches below. We stopped him to look at his creel full of the ripe fruit. The shining chestnut-brown nut, broidered with the deep scarlet mace, nestles in the half-open pale yellow shell, and is indeed a thing of beauty. The nutmeg is the favourite food of the large pigeons we heard booming their note in the quiet woods. These pigeons are frequently seen tame about homesteads, and are very pretty creatures. They are rather larger than a guinea-fowl, but not so large as a pea-hen, while the shape is quite that of a pigeon. The plumage is a deep slate grey, with a tinge towards bluish-purple, and a tuft of fine delicate feathers gives it its name of crown pigeon.

By the shore, just on the wharf, are the depots from which the fruits and mace are despatched, with wood-yards where the packing-cases are made. The cases are all of one size, and are carefully finished and caulked. The produce of the nutmeg-tree forms as cleanly an article of cargo as could be wished. A box measuring about three feet by two by one contains £20 worth of nutmegs, and such a box will hold from £30 to £40 worth of mace.

We are now steaming straight for Amboina, where this stage of our journey to the Tenimber Islands ends. I am now quite familiar with the manner of life on shipboard. I take full advantage of the privilege, denied to ladies on English vessels, of appearing on deck before certain hours. Here all come up with daylight, all equally in negligé costume, to enjoy the freshness of the morning wind. Coffee is offered as soon as one appears on deck. Breakfast, with cold meat and eggs, is on the saloon table for several hours after 7, and one descends to partake or has it brought on deck at will. About 10, soup with toast is offered, or if the day is intensely hot, some liqueur with effervescent water. About 12, the advent of a stand with gin and bitters, vermuth and sherry, announces that lunch will be served in half an hour, and it is the habit of most Dutch gentlemen to whet the appetite with the first of these, while vermuth is taken by the ladies as a tonic. Lunch consists of the "rice table," such as I described when writing from Batavia; then about 3, when people begin to rise from the sofas on deck, and emerge from cabins after the siesta, tea is ready. When the afternoon heat has sufficiently passed to make it possible, all go down to dress in European attire. When we return to deck, the beautiful sunset hour has come with a cool breeze, and it is customary to walk to and fro on the deck till the liqueur-stand reminds us that we must soon go down to dine. After dinner at 7.30, the European dress is quickly discarded, and all seek retired nooks on the dimly lighted deck to enjoy the evening wind. You can have no idea of the lassitude felt at the close of a day on shipboard in the tropics. One gets very disinclined for exercise towards the end of a protracted voyage, and it becomes more and more difficult to occupy one's self in any way. I sometimes wish I had not promised to take you with me in my travels!

I forget if I told you that children of both sexes play all day in a sort of very loose "combination," of striped calico generally, their sole garment, – for not even shoes and stockings do they wear. But one cannot grudge them the comfort of this simple costume: think how quickly it is put on, how readily changed, how easily washed. A Dutch lady on board tells me that when a journey is contemplated, friends and neighbours lend linen both for personal and for household use for some time before departure, and so the traveller has the advantage of starting with everything clean.

I have learnt that any kind of clothing containing dye is objectionable, and also that for us, who are constantly travelling, quantities of linen clothing are a nuisance. It accumulates in the cabin for one thing, and when one comes to port and gives it out to be hastily washed, the destruction of all finer things is heart-breaking, while every button is sacrificed. Besides, the starch used is either sour or gets so in the moist climate, and the clothes have a most unpleasant odour if shut up for any time in a box. It seems to me that clothing of pure undyed wool is most suitable. If you contemplate travel in the tropics, I should recommend you to study Dr Jaeger's 'Woollen System.' I should also recommend you to try to get a good native or, better, Chinese maid. A European would be of no use, besides that there is no proper accommodation either in hotels or on steamers for white servants.

May 7th.

We are now steaming into the Bay of Amboina; the scenery is very beautiful, but I am too anxious to speak of that at present. We go straight to visit the Resident on landing, and hope for a kind reception. A Resident is, as it were, a sub-governor, but in this remote part – nearly a month by mail from the capital of the archipelago – he is practically an autocrat, and our success really now depends upon his goodwill. But why should we fear? We have every reason to expect his co-operation, and indeed every right, for H. bears the warmest recommendations from the Government. Besides, the Dutch are proverbially hospitable; and H. has enjoyed such kindness during all his travels, that we may look for a continuance of it now.

CHAPTER VI.

AMBOINA – A CRUSHING DISAPPOINTMENT – THE CAPTAIN OF THE CHINESE – PASO – A PEACE CELEBRATION – AMBOINESE CHRISTIANS.

AMBOINA, 12th May.

SUPPOSE you were to undertake a long journey with some special and laudable object, and were furnished with hearty recommendations to the lord of the place of your destination, who alone could further your work; suppose yourself landed there, and seated with high hope in the gentleman's presence, talking of all sorts of subjects, hearing of the capabilities of the land and of his excellent opportunities of acquainting himself therewith, while he shows you the treasures he has collected. You have presented your introductions, you expect that in time conversation will turn to your errand, and that the aid you looked for will be readily volunteered.

But supposing it is not, what would you do? You would in due time take your leave, with a dazed feeling somewhat as if you had been forcibly ejected; after a little you would probably come to yourself and say, "What shall I do? I can only go home. I shall go meanwhile to some hotel and, enjoy a good dinner, and to-morrow morning I shall take the first train back." But suppose there were no hotel, and no way of getting back? You read my parable? If I had had good news, I should not have held it back so long. This is to break to you that we have had a crushing disappointment in Amboina, and I should be heartily glad to shake its dust from my feet. But that is not easy on an island.

There is no hotel in Amboina, chance travellers being so very rare that there is no inducement to maintain one. Any new arrivals are officials ordered here, who take the place of the one who has left, and step into his house, or receive the hospitality of some other until they can arrange their own home. It was about mid-day when we called on the Resident of Amboina, and during that long walk back from the Residency to the ship it is impossible to describe our feelings. Neither of us dared look the other in the face. But where were we going? To the ship? It would soon sail. Where was the baggage to be housed, where were we to sleep that night? The subject had to be faced. H. proposed that we should camp in a field, or by the road-side. Fresh from European ways, I stoutly objected. One does not mind setting up a tent on a savage shore, but in a civilised town like Amboina I simply could not bear the idea. I proposed calling at some respectable house, stating our position, and asking to be boarded. H. objected that it was most unlikely that any one would believe us; if the Resident had given us the cold shoulder, they would conclude there was good reason to do the same; he could not face another rebuff. ¹

The steamer, fortunately, did not sail till the morrow, and we remained on it that night. Towards evening, next day, it was suggested to us to apply to the Captain of the Chinese, and to his house we immediately repaired. He welcomed us cordially, and asked us to be seated with him in the verandah. He at once offered the use of a house of his own, just built, and sent one of his sons along with H., that he might see if it would suit. I could only speak very little Malay, not sufficient to keep up a conversation, but it turned out that the Chinese gentleman spoke a very little English. "Take house one monce, two monce, tree monce," he said, as he swayed gently to and fro in his rocking-chair. You would expect that from me in my rocking-chair would come the response, "Thanks; you are very kind." It was excusable: my feelings had been so pent up all the time, and H. was gone. I covered my face with my hands and wept. A gentle voice close to me, conveying in its tones a world of sympathy, said, "You got fazer? you got mozer? you got home?" The good old gentleman knew I was home-sick. I must ever feel kindly towards his race for his sake.

Our friend made the house habitable for us, and I am now writing under its roof. It would be a delightful house if furnished; it looks rather empty as it is. But, since we are here only till we decide on some course of action, it is useless to think of buying furniture.

The authorities in Batavia expected that the Government boat would be leaving Amboina for the Tenimber Islands about the time of our arrival, and by it we have the privilege to travel. The Resident returned from that cruise only four days before we came. Just lately, a tri-monthly steamer has commenced to run to New Guinea, and touches at the Tenimber group. It is due on the 18th of June, and we have decided meanwhile to go into the interior of Amboina for some weeks. By the aid of our kind friend, the Chinese gentleman, we procured an old man to act as cook, and another boy, Jacobus or Kobez: on their tender mercies we are cast. My ignorance of Eastern ways and of Malay prevents my taking any but a very submissive part in our impromptu menage. Two hunters to shoot birds and collect butterflies are engaged, and we start early to-morrow.

PASO, 15th May.

This village is only a few hours by prahu from Amboina. We started early on a breathless morning, and thought we should surely see the marine garden, of which another traveller says, "No description can do justice to its surpassing beauty and interest: for once, the reality exceeded the most glowing accounts I had ever read of the wonders of the coral sea." But ere we got out from the shore a breeze sprang up, causing a ripple which quite hid the bottom, lessening, however, the heat, as the sun rose in its strength.

About noon we were thankful to sail close under the shade of the foliage on the shore. You must remember that this was my first experience off the beaten track. Till now I had been in highly civilised surroundings; and although in many cases they have been quite novel, all bore the trace of European influence. But here was only the forest, and the quiet shore, and the native at his daily avocation, quite unconscious that the small boat passing held beneath its slight awning eyes more curious than usual.

On arrival at Paso we found the Rajah (the chief of the village, an official appointed by Government, without any territorial possession) preparing to leave for a week, to attend a native festival. But he has kindly offered us a room in his house – a bamboo erection, very neat and clean. The whole village is in a bustle. The feast is to celebrate the continuance for two hundred years of amicable relations between this chief's line and another. The Rajah's entire household, except the old and infirm, and about three hundred villagers, set off, after no little shouting and hurrying to and fro, to the boats, the final start for which was made from the church door. The last thing done was to rake and tidy the space in front of the church: – "for if proper respect were not paid to Tuan Allah, perhaps some misfortune might befall one or other of the prahus."

So we have the village pretty much to ourselves, and there is at most times a stillness like that of a Scotch Sabbath. Sounds suggest it as well as silence. The few remaining at home attend church diligently, and singing like that of a country kirk is frequently heard. It seems they observe Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday as holidays: Thursday because Christ died on that day, Saturday as a day of preparation, and Sunday as we do. Thursday is observed almost as rigorously as Sunday. No boisterous play or shouting is permitted, nor, until after service, the daily avocations. But this devotion is purely ceremonial; their life is not influenced by the moral precepts of Christianity, and they have no intelligent comprehension of its tenor. "Christians" are inveterately lazy, and think themselves too much the equals of the: Europeans whose religion they have adopted to serve them. Their change of religion has done much for them in many ways as a community, but they have benefited little individually. Intoxication; forbidden in the Mohammedan faith, is too frequent, and they are altogether less reliable than their Islamite brethren.

Service is conducted in Malay, and is a copy of the Dutch form of worship, singing, prayer, and sermon following each other. The native clergyman wears a very old and ill-fitting dress-suit, with white tie; and all the congregation men and women, wear black, the sign that they are Sirani or "Nazarenes."

It is several centuries since the Portuguese brought Christian influences amongst these Malays through the teaching of the Romish Church, and in Paso there is the ruin of a stately edifice in use in the time of Lusitania's power, but now greatly out of keeping with the bamboo erections surrounding it. It is now roofless, except for the arches of a magnificent tree which takes root in the centre of the building, and whose foliage overshadows the massive walls and depends in graceful tracery over the shapely windows.

Paso is situated at the apex of a well-rounded bay, measuring about eight miles, and encircled by richly wooded slopes, behind which mountains tower. There is a sort of method in the laying out of the village, and easy paths cross its length and breadth. One straight before our door leads to the beach, our favourite walk. Through the long hot days, as we sit at work in the verandah, we can see the ever-varying colours on the lovely bay, and far beyond the island of Haruka, the stillness broken only by the monotonous plash of the gentle waves on the shore.

But this is too near a centre of life to be of much use as a hunting-ground, and we are anxious to get on to Waai

CHAPTER VII.

PASO – THE RETURN OF THE RAJAH – OBSTACLES TO TRAVELLING – TENGAH-TENGAH – BREAD-FRUIT – VILLAGE OF WAAI – SAGO MAKING – PROVISIONS – THE CENSUS – PEOPLE OF WAAI – NATURAL TREASURES – FOREST EXCURSIONS – TROPICAL FLOWERS.

WAAI, 30th May.

WE are quite surprised to find ourselves here, we had such difficulty in getting away. The Rajah of Paso came back with his company on the sixth day, all looking inexpressibly jaded after their prolonged bout of feasting, drinking, dancing, and broken repose. On such occasions the true spirit of the native comes out, and in their revels they are still truly aboriginal. But on Sunday a large congregation, sobered and clothed and in their right mind, gathered to offer thanksgiving for preservation from danger during the feast.

Their return with noise and shouting seemed an intrusion on the quiet we had enjoyed, but we had had great difficulty in getting on in the absence of the Rajah. For three days we had been trying to get away to Waai, but no one would agree to row us. The people are so inveterately lazy that they would much rather do without the wage than earn it. One man might have had his disinclination overcome had we felt inclined to accede to his modest demand of forty rupees, £3, 6s., for rowing us to Tengah-tengah, three hours distant. As half a rupee, or 10d., to each rower, and 5s. for the boat, is the proper fare, you will see that our friend has missed his proper vocation, – he was evidently destined for a London "cabby."

We required an extra box to pack things which we had collected in Paso. After much talking, a man brought an old shabby trunk, so worm-eaten that it would have fallen to pieces with a kick. For this article, worth about sixpence, he asked only six rupees. We did without it.

We were all ready to start on the morning before we really got off. Every box was locked and at the door, when the men who had arranged to take us refused to go unless they had double pay. After spending the whole day in vain attempts to arrange the matter or get another boat, we were told at night that a prahu would return to Waai next morning at 5 A.M., having come to Paso with merchandise that evening. At that hour, accordingly, we were in waiting, only to discover that it was the very prahu in which we should have gone the previous morning: the men had come round, but covered their submission with this story about its being from Waai. So much for their veracity.

We had to wait two hours on the beach till the crew had finally mustered; but once fairly away, we soon forgot all the vexations of the few previous days in the delight of coasting thus leisurely a tropical shore.

At Tengah-tengah our rowers refused to go further, saying the strong tide had so fatigued them that they could not take us all the way. So we paid them the full fare, at their demand, in order to save time, and proceeded to ask the Rajah to order another boat out for us.

The appearance of the Mohammedan village of Tengah-tengah and the manners of the inhabitants are marvellously different from those of the Christian villages of Paso and Waai. Though the people are poor, and much less advanced in civilised ways, they are courteous and unassuming. Their sole wealth is the bread-fruit tree, which lines each terrace, the village being built on a sharp slope. The harvest of the bread fruit was not yet ready; but as Mr Wallace's account had made us curious to see it, one specimen very nearly ripe was discovered and climbed up for. "It is generally about the size of a melon, a little fibrous towards the centre, but everywhere else quite smooth and puddingy, something in consistence between yeast-dumpling and batter-pudding. We sometimes made curry or stew of it, or fried it in slices; but it is no way so good as simply baked. It may be eaten sweet or savoury; with meat and gravy it is a vegetable superior to any I know, either in temperate or tropical countries. With sugar, milk, butter, or treacle, it is a delicious pudding, having a very slight but characteristic flavour, which, like that of good bread and potatoes, one never gets tired of." Probably ours was badly cooked, or perhaps was not ripe enough. I think it suggests vegetable marrow.

We scarcely understood the Tengah-tengah people: they speak the old language of the country, quite different from the Amboinese Malay, and they wear the sarong and headcloth, discarded as derogatory by the Christianised Amboinese. Curious vagaries are played with the hair of the little boys. The head is shaved, except a straight tuft, which is allowed to grow. That of one little fellow seemed specially designed to annoy him; it was just long enough to touch his nose, and appeared constantly to be either tickling that member or getting into his eyes.

Having after some delay obtained a boat and rowers, we started for Waai. When at length, in the middle of the afternoon, we arrived opposite our destination, the whole place seemed as if laid under some enchanter's spell, – not one sign of life was to be seen or heard. We almost felt guilty of desecration as we stole towards the sleep-bound village, and reached the house of the Rajah, who presently appeared in full sleeping costume, evidently bewildered at the unwonted apparition of two white strangers in his verandah. I longed to say, "How are you, Mr Rip Van Winkle?" Having explained the object of our visit, we came to terms with him for an unoccupied house, a stone erection, a short distance from his own dwelling. We have plenty of room, but a bamboo-pile hut is much preferable to an occasionally opened stone building. The soft sand floor is damp, and lacks an air of cleanliness.

The village of Waai is laid out in squares, divided by perfectly straight streets. The gardens open into these streets, which are lined with overarching trees, and margined by ditches edged with pink crocus-like plants. The credit of this is in a measure due to the efforts of the people, but luxuriant nature does much. With hand-to-hand work and sympathetic treatment, Waai might be a garden of romance. I like to be astir early, to meet the inhabitants wending under the grand avenues towards the stream: with the intermingling colours of the garments of the loitering water-carriers and the soft lights, the scene is somewhat Italian-like.

The stream comes fresh from the mountains, cool and sparkling, and is met in the village by a shallow pond, above which water for domestic use is taken, and in which the villagers bathe and wash. In the centre of the pond is an enclosure with house attached. This is the Rajah's bathing-place, and its use is permitted to us – a delightful luxury.

In the pond the children disport themselves like fishes; mites who can just run can swim and enjoy the fun like the others. The elders make the bath more of a business, and I must say I have considerable respect for their cleanliness. They use a stone in lieu of soap, carefully choosing a particular kind from the smooth pebbles on the edge; and when they have industriously bathed, they dip the finger in the silvery sand, and with it polish the teeth!

There is a large church in Waai, quite out of proportion in size and grandeur to the population and intellectual elevation of the place. We came on it by chance one Sunday morning, and were so amused and interested that we did not notice the congregation gathering. Then we hurried away, for beside the decent company we felt ashamed of our travel-stained and un-Sunday-like garments. The area of the church is set with cane-bottomed chairs instead of fixed pews. On one side, raised a few feet above the floor, is a suite of seats reserved for the Rajah's use, canopied, carved, and richly gilded, with his coat of arms emblazoned in front. The pulpit is also much carved and gilded, and the church altogether is tastefully fitted, and is abundantly lighted with petroleum lamps. The services are conducted in High Malay by a European missionary (he is absent at present on a tour to distant stations), and in his absence by the native schoolmaster, who with moderate regularity instructs the children five days a-week. Amboinese Rajahs keep no state, and wear no special dress, except on Sundays. To-day we had the honour of seeing the potentate of Waai proceed to church in state. He was attired in black trousers – which, being rather short, displayed a length of white cotton stocking – black "swallow-tail" coat, made for a stouter and taller individual than himself, probably his father, and a beaver hat, tall and narrow, of an ancient pattern, while over his head a youth carried his gilded state umbrella. The whole population attended the service, all of them in black calico attire.

This black dress is a relic of Portuguese influence. The Rajah of Paso informs us that the garments pass from one generation to another, being worn only on Sundays and holidays. The freshness is renewed at will by dipping in a. dye of their own making, after which the garment is hung in the breeze and repeatedly brushed one way to bring on the pretty gloss.

Some women wear a beaded belt, and we learn that these are wives of burghers – i.e., men who do no forced labour. A soldier who has served a long term is made a burgher, and his wife wears a beaded belt. Wives of non-burghers wear combs, which mark their position. The women's dress, you must remember, is in the form of sarong and kabia. The men have ill-shapen trousers coming to the ankle, and the loose kabia jacket, all of the same black material. Those in mourning are distinguished by a long kabia, which must be very uncomfortable in walking, since it trips up the wearer at every step. For nearest relations mourning is worn a year, and six months for those more distantly connected. The women of the Rajah's household are an exception to the wearing of black on special occasions; and they must wear diamond ear-rings, a gold comb, and shoes.

I am distressed by the appearance of the children in all these parts. A healthy-looking child is a rare sight, nearly all being afflicted with an unnatural distension of the stomach, caused by the almost unvaried diet of sago, eaten without any further cooking than the baking which moulds it into cakes. The arms and legs are miserably thin, every rib shows clearly, and there is often a sad expression along with this unhealthy state. And yet the men are strong and sinewy enough.

Sago as they use it would be unrecognisable to you. The first time I saw it was as we rowed up the bay of Amboina: the men were eating hard rust-coloured cakes, which seemed to me made of sawdust. And such they in a sense are. Unlike rice or barley, sago is not the fruit of a tiny stem, – it is the pith of the trunk of a great tree. The tree is felled, the pith – a soft fibrous wood – is scraped out, then it is beaten fine, and laid in a trough with water to steep. The water passes through a sieve into another trough, carrying with it the starch in the wood, and this settles at the bottom. The sediment is sago in its first stage – a fine powder, which is at once packed into cylinder-like cases for export. The neighbouring island of Ceram supplies most of the surrounding islands with their daily bread, and while we were at Paso boats frequently landed laden with this product.

In these cylinders the sago forms into a caked mass. To bake it, it is broken up and dried, when it becomes a fine flour; this is placed in a heated mould with some five or six divisions, and from these the baked cakes are turned out. When hot they are soft and very sweet; when cold they become hard, and are in this condition the daily food of the natives.

Dried in the sun the cakes will keep for years. We mean to take a store of them to Timor-laut; indeed our men could ill subsist without them – they are accustomed to them all their lives, and prefer them to rice. Soaked and boiled, the cakes make a delicious pudding: we have it daily, sweetened with the coarse native sugar and eaten with cocoa-nut milk. These combined have a flavour I would not give for the most delicate pudding you could offer me. Sago loses greatly in taking the form of the article of commerce, just as exceedingly refined sugar or flour loses the special flavour of its rougher state.

Although little used by the natives, tapioca is also abundant here. We cannot perceive any resemblance even in flavour to the delicate article familiar at home tables. Tapioca, again, is a root of oblong shape, and about twice the size of a very large potato. We use it as a vegetable, cut in pieces and boiled, and thus treated it is not bad.

The variety of fish is surprising. All sizes and shapes abound; the Rajah declares that he does not exaggerate in stating that 800 different kinds come into their nets. A celebrated Dutch specialist has given a catalogue of 780 species found in Amboina, a number almost equal to those of all the seas and rivers of Europe. Our choice ranges from the size of minnows to that of huge cod, and the quality is excellent.

Fowls are abundant also; but as they live simply on what they can pick up, they are generally rather meagre. Broods in every stage of development range in the gardens and by the roadsides. I believe the owner never gives them a thought till they are of marketable size. There are no cows here, but the natives need not lack flesh; there are the wild pig, the deer, and the cuscus. This last is a curious creature the size of a hare, but as different as may be in habit and action from that agile quadruped. The. cuscus seems to be ever sleeping, and lives clinging to the stems and branches of trees, feeding solely on the leaves. We have two young ones, which I carefully feed and tend, and which interest me greatly. They grasp their food between the two fore paws, and eat – I was going to say like squirrels, but there is nothing frisky or vivacious in their movements; they munch with great gravity, staring pathetically the while from their bright eyes. My pets do not seem to thrive; they suffer from being out of their element probably. The young are brought up as kangaroos are, in the mother's pouch.

Fruits and vegetables abound; with a judicious use of the various kinds of food at command, the natives need not suffer from the painful-looking sores and eruptions which disfigure such a large proportion of them. To tend a wound does not seem to occur to them: they walk with it bare, and exposed to accidental knocks and scratches in the forest, as well as to the irritation of flies and ants, and the same sore often remains unhealed for years.

One cannot restrain a little mild indignation against the Waai people. Their naturally beautiful village could be so beautified; abundance, even wealth, is pressed upon them by the luxuriant productiveness of nature; and yet all they care for is to be allowed to vegetate. No energy, no aspiration, ever disturbs them. As I have said, civilising influences have not really raised their moral status; they have become more independent – not, however, for their own good. I fancy it is beneficial for such a people to be under an autocratic ruler. The Rajah tells us his authority is now a mere name. He was once called to attend a conference at Amboina. The men who rowed him "struck" half-way, and turned the boat homewards. They were arrested, and sentenced to eight days' imprisonment, after which they came back with such a tale of the good time they had had – feeding well without any labour or cost, and playing cards all day with pleasant companions – that more harm than good was effected by the punishment.

That they are not sensitive in conscience, we find to our cost. Their end in life at present is to obtain all they can out of us; and in pursuance of this aim they beset our door with all sorts of things for sale – insects, birds, plants, food, &c. – which they offer at prices that are a constant source of amusement to us. A meagre chicken is offered for 1s. 8d., while the highest price that would be given in the Amboina market would be one-third of this. For a fair-sized fish a rupee and a-half is complacently asked, though the vendor takes 60 cents, and knows he has had a fair bargain. We met a woman by the shore bringing a basketful of tapioca roots from the gardens, and we tried to bargain for some, but thought her price of 25 cents each rather exorbitant. Next day we were offered at our own door four for 10 cents.

And the guile of those children! They walk boldly up to us in the verandah with a bright flower, which has dropped from some tree, stuck upon a twig pulled from a hedge-"Fifty cents, master. Very rare; never seen before!"

Another follows with a butterfly whose wings are all bruised and broken, and a beetle mutilated beyond having any further value.

H. "I do not care for any which are not perfect."

"But, master, this is the kind of the insects in Waai. There are many such here, I assure you."

H. often gives a trifle for worthless specimens, that they may not be discouraged from seeking, and perchance finding something rare. When a little fellow has made up his mind to a certain sum and receives less, you should see the disdain with which he flings down the coin; and, if it were worth picking up, we might find the flower or insect on the path, thrown down by him as he walks off laughing contemptuously.

I am beginning to enter into the joys of a naturalist, and have grown quite learned in long names of birds and insects, and can help H. in labelling and arranging. The later hours of every afternoon are looked forward to by both of us as the most pleasant of the day, when the hunters' spoils are displayed for our admiration. The gay parrots and beautiful kingfishers, the curious maleos, whose terra-cotta eggs are a table luxury, and those wonderfully plumaged pigeons, give us special delight. Strolling along the bay, on whose beach the east wind has been throwing a wealth of sponges, hydroids, and shells, we spend many hours examining them and watching the fields of shore-crabs, with their richly coloured pincer limbs, and the curious fishes which come up out of the water and hop along the shore in their odd way.

When H. goes with the men to the forest, I accompany as far as I am able. Several shallow rivulets find their outlet round Waai, and there is no way of reaching the surrounding country except by crossing some one of them. When we start, I am carried through the streams by Lopez if there are no stepping-stones. But these boulders, thrown in by the natives; and easily grasped by their unbooted feet, are simply a snare to us; we invariably slip off them into the water. The rest of the walk is then taken without any regard to boots and stockings, and on my return alone I splash quite unconcernedly through the streams.

Sometimes the forest path leads through a deep glade under high-arching trees, where the undergrowths are lit up by rich blossom or gorgeous tree-fruit; sometimes through stretches of open field, from which we can look out on the pleasing scenery of the environs. I find H.'s warning, not to expect a wonderful profusion of fine flowers in the tropics, not to have been needless. Speaking of Sumatra, he says: "This [the flower] is just one of the products of the Garden of the Sun that the traveller fails to see, unless he search very well and very closely. The vegetation at the lower elevations leaves the impression of a tangled heterogeneous mass of foliage of every shape and shade, mingled together in such unutterable confusion that not one single plant stands out in anything like its own individuality in his mind. The great forest-trees are too high for him to be able to see whether they bear either fruit or flowers. It is only on rare occasions – and then the sight repays him for many a weary mile – that he alights on a grand specimen whose top is ablaze with crimson or gold; more generally he knows that some high tree is performing its functions by seeing broken petals or fallen fruit spread over yards of the ground. Hours and hours, sometimes days even, I have traversed a forest-bounded road without seeing a blossom gay enough to attract admiration. A vast amount of tropical vegetation has small, inconspicuous flowers, of a more or less green colour, so that when they do occur the eye fails to detect them readily. The fresh green, the rich pink, and even scarlet, of the opening leaves are beautiful beyond description, and the autumn-tinted foliage never ceases through all the seasons; but I had little idea as I rounded the cape of Gibraltar, leaving to the north of me purple hills of heather, scarlet fields of poppies, and rich parterres starred with cistus and orchids, with anemones and geraniums, and sweet with aromatic shrubs and herbs, that I should encounter nothing half so rich or bright amid all the profusion of the summer of the world."

Even the flowers cultivated in gardens do not yield the pleasure of a bouquet at home. They are either scentless, or scent so heavily that they are sickening. They fade quickly when gathered; but they are really scarcely suitable for an ornament in a room, – they need their own setting of ample greenery to tone their gorgeousness.

CHAPTER VIII.

WAAI – THE RAINS – THE RAJAH – NATIVE SKIFFS – FISH "MAZES" – AQUEOUS LIFE – DANGEROUS CURRENTS.

1st June.

RAIN has commenced in earnest, and we take rather ill with the restraint of staying indoors. The roof leaks badly, and there is scarcely a dry yard under the verandah. Two of the men have had fever, and have added to the dismal aspect of things by constant moaning and groaning. Pedros is kept in good humour with an occasional glass of gin. He does his clumsy best to fill the place of our cook, and waits on the sick, but we shall be glad to return to our normal ways. Pedros is a very good fellow, besides being an excellent bird-skinner. We are anxious that he should go with us to Timor-laut, but he cannot make up his mind to part from his family. He is rather fond of gin, but never gets intoxicated. To-day he was picking some seeds, the contact with which caused an irritating tickling on the hands. To allay this we poured some gin over them. What dismay overspread his countenance to see the precious potion thus wasted! Then he was called and saw the bottle, he evidently thought he was to be offered a drink as compensation for the discomfort he was suffering. All he could do was to lick his hands!

Sometimes it clears about sundown, when we hasten out, generally to the shore, where we need not brush through dripping foliage. One evening a scene of rare beauty gave us an hour of deep delight. Waai is situated on a wide bay, facing the island of Haruka. The lofty peaks of Ceram shut in the view to the left, to the right is the narrow outlet to the sea beyond, and numerous foliage-clad islands stud the enclosed expanse, which, but for the outlet between Haruka and the mainland, might be a small inland sea. We stood on the shore at ebb-tide, in front of a background of lofty trees of richest green which belted the shore for miles, the dusky figures of the natives in their gay clothing relieving the scene as they wend their way homeward bearing their burdens, or stand fishing on the water's edge. The peaks of Ceram rise grand and grey, Haruka shows intense dark-blue, the opening is just catching the crimson of the sunset, the motionless glittering sea is reflecting the golden sheen; piled masses of purple, and crimson, and pink, and soft grey, and pure white cloud are banked up even to the enclosing vault of the blue heaven, where a few stars peep through, "candles to the pale moon" that shows occasionally between the shifting clouds. It seemed but a minute ere the descent of a mountain blast changed the scene to a grey, stormy aspect, – the sea rises in ripples, the tall cocoa-palms fringing the shore sway in the breeze, and the whole forest moans in the disturbance. While we yet stand admiring, this phase of beauty gives way to the placid moonlight. During the short struggle day has died; night takes its place, dominated by the full moon, whose light shimmers on the now smooth sea and sheds its rays over the whole prospect. Which is the lovelier, – the rich glory of the Eastern sunset or the soft intensity of its moonlight? We turn away, compensated for many discomforts of travel and pangs of home-sickness.

The Rajah is a quiet unobtrusive man, and during our stay we have seen little of him. Yesterday, however, we had more of his company than we cared for. There has been for some time a dearth of alcohol in Waai, and on the arrival of fresh supplies he has evidently been making up for previous privation. He came about eight in the morning, inspired with a valiant desire to go to the chase, and begged the loan of a gun and some powder and shot. But he had indulged so deeply that the intoxicant had made him purposeless, and it was hours before he rose to go. H. sent one of our men in his rear to see that he did not by mistake shoot himself, or some of his equally incapable companions, and we were relieved when towards evening they all came back safe. The chief stumbled to a chair, from which he did not manage to rise for hours, prating on with thick utterance till we were heartily tired. How changed from his sober hours!

Natives sail round the coast, and even to the adjacent islands, in tiny skiffs, scooped from a log, which they have under such control that they are in perfect safety. Some are fitted with outriggers, which make capsizing impossible, but they prefer them without this incumbrance, for on coming in, riding on the crest of a wave, the rower picks up his boat and marches off with it on his shoulders. The usual size is just wide enough to seat one, and about five feet in length. One evening when the sea was perfectly calm, we hailed a man who was approaching the shore to take us out to some fishing "mazes." These mazes consist of lines of close bamboo palisades, which terminate in deep water in a circular well, where fish that have entered during high tide are enclosed and captured, escape being prevented by the ebb. On these palisades a species of water-bird, of which H. was anxious to get a specimen, settles every evening. There is always, even in calmest seas, a slight surf on the shore, and there is no time to lose if you will catch a boat when it comes in on a wave before it recedes again. There was just room for us both;the rower had to perch himself at the stern, where he propelled the boat with a single oar. It was not a very comfortable sail, but we were thoroughly compensated. The narrow skiff cuts the water without dimming the surface by ripples, the oar disturbs only the water behind, and in a calm sea the wonders of the sea-gardens can be seen to perfection. I was fairly excited with delight. I too could say that "the reality exceeded the most glowing accounts I had ever read of the wonders of a coral sea." Such wondrous forms of aqueous life, sprays and spikes, clusters and wreaths of coral, I had never formed any conception of. Brilliant blue and red sponges and æsthetic-coloured jelly-fish took the place of flowers in the nooks of the chasms and sides of the hillocks of the uneven surface of the marine gardens; while fishes, banded, spotted, and streaked with brightest hues, darted out and in from their hiding-places. We found that our boatman was a diver, and he went below for anything which caught our fancy, amusing us greatly as he swam about seeking at our direction the coral or fish we wanted, and came puffing with it to the surface. Although the native makes no scruple of jumping into the sea to pick up his boat, and wades through a swollen river without a thought, all seem to shrink from rain. In the rainy season the clothesless children go to fetch water under a large leaf, which opens exactly as does a sheet of note-paper, and under this same sort of covering the grown people carry their wares. Some have a hat of such dimensions, that it also serves the purpose of an umbrella; without some such protection no one stirs from the door.

To-morrow we return to Amboina, if fine. The roads will soon be very difficult, and our house lets in rain, so that it is most uncomfortable. We must go by land to Paso, a march of fourteen miles. It would be much easier to go by sea, were the currents not dangerous owing to the state of the monsoon. We thought this was a shifting excuse, until we made an attempt to go to the island of Haruka, on the opposite side of the bay, when we had a narrow escape from being swamped. A strong breeze suddenly sprang up, and when we got out into the open sea, our boat seemed a very plaything on the high waves which were running, and the men declared that it would become unmanageable if we persisted in crossing. After the boat had twice been all but capsized, we had to abandon our project and return.

CHAPTER IX.

DEPARTURE FROM WAAI – THROUGH THE FOREST – BRILLIANT COLOURS – BACK TO PASO – VOYAGE TO AMBOINA – GAIETIES – THE TOWN OF AMBOINA – TRACES OF THE PORTUGUESE – EVENING SCENES – OUR CHINESE FRIEND – MANGOSTEENS – THE DURIAN – WAITING FOR THE STEAMER – TRASSI – EN ROUTE FOR TIMOR-LAUT – A RAJAH PILOT.

AMBOINA, 12th June.

WE really got away from Waai on the 9th. The previous evening the Rajah had been earnestly enjoined to have everything in readiness, and with the first streaks of dawn we were waiting to start. However, only thirteen of the eighteen men necessary to carry me and the baggage turned up, and before the five defaulters were routed out and the loads arranged in lots on the carrying-poles, the cool hours of the morning were gone, and the march was commenced when it was already too hot for comfort. My palanquin was an old-fashioned, cumbrous affair, formerly used by the Rajah and his family. One-third of the size would have held me, and would have been less troublesome in the forest, where it was too wide for the paths, and caused the men great discomfort from stumbling against roots and twigs. When heavily laden, carriers proceed at a sharp trot, urging each other on with shouts and indulging in constant groans. Now and again, when there was shade, I came out and walked; but though this was a pleasure to me, and a rest to H., who had not been