The native quarter is remarkable for the picturesque medley of its people and their houses. There are also in the Chinese Campong many fine private houses, which are furnished with courtyards, and elaborately finished. In the decorations of the roof the favourite form of the Chinese dragon is constantly repeated, and extraordinary effects are produced by a sort of mosaic work, with which the spaces over the doorways and windows are filled, and which has a shiny surface almost like majolica ware.

Weltevreden has many handsome buildings, and some which are interesting. Most of them are grouped round the two great squares or parks, the King's Plain and the Waterloo Plain. The former is lined by four magnificent avenues of tamarind trees (Poinciana regia), which form a graceful arch of small-leaved foliage, broken here and there by a still wider-spreading waringin tree. On the west side stands the museum, which contains a very perfect collection of the antiquities and industries of the island. There is also a library, and new buildings are in course of erection. It is governed by a directory, which consists in full of eleven members, who have power to fill up any vacancies which may occur. There is a president, a vice-president, a secretary, and a librarian. This latter gentleman is generally to be found at the museum, and a little conversation with him, and a few hours spent in the ethnological and antiquarian sections, form the very best commencement of a tour through the island. Directly opposite the museum is the Weltevreden station and the great black dome of the Dutch church. This latter is noticeable as being the place where the few people who do go to church in Batavia attend, and where marriages are solemnized after the preliminary ceremony at the registrar's.



The Waterloo Plain is not nearly so large as the King's Plain. On two sides it is lined by officers' bungalows; and the east side is occupied by a large pile of Government offices, called the Palace, and by the military club, the Concordia. In front of these buildings there are some prettily laid out gardens, in the centre of which is a statue of Jan Pietersen Van Koen, the first Dutch Governor of Batavia. In the centre of the plain is the monumental pillar from which it takes its name. It consists of a round column with a square base, some forty feet in height, surmounted by a Belgian lion. On the base the following inscription is to be read in plain Roman characters and excellent Latin:—

"In aeternam, celeberrimae diei duodecimae ante Kalendas Julii MDCCCXV, memoriam, quo, fortitudine et strenuitate Belgarum eorumque inclyti ducis Wilhelmi, Frederici, Georgi Ludovici, principis arausiaci, post atrocissimum in campis Waterlooae proelium stratis et undique fugatis Gallorum legionibus PAX ORBIS RELUXIT...." [William Frederick Charles, Vice-king of India, erected this monument in the year 1827.] "To the perpetual memory of that most famous day, June 20, 1815, on which, by the resolution and activity of the Belgians and their famous General, William Frederich George Ludovic, Prince of Luxemburg, after a terrible conflict on the plains of Waterloo, when the battalions of the French had been routed and scattered on every side, the peace of the world dawned once more."

Most people will admit that the facts of the famous victory are scarcely detailed with sufficient accuracy by the inscription. And, indeed, the American gentleman who accompanied me on my visit remarked that "he guessed the lion at the top was on the whole inferior in size to the lyin' at the bottom of the pillar."

Just outside this plain, and opposite one of the small bridges which leads into the native street termed Pazer Baroe, is the theatre, which is the most picturesque of the modern buildings of Batavia.

In the main road which leads through that part of the town which covers the site of the original Sundanese capital, Jakatra (meaning "the work of victory"), there is a desolate-looking house which the visitor will do well to include in his archaeological investigations. Over the walled-up entrance of this house the remains of a skull spiked on a pike are still to be seen. Underneath is a tablet with the following inscription:—

"In consequence of the detested memory of Peter Elberfeld, who was punished for treason, no one shall be permitted to build in wood or stone, or to plant anything whatsoever, in these grounds from this time forth for evermore. Batavia, April 22, 1722."[11]

[Footnote 11: I have taken this inscription as I found it translated in D'Almeida's "Life in Java," from which I have also abridged the story.]

This Peter Elberfeld was one of the many natives who conspired from time to time against the Dutch. According to Raffles, the Dutch administration of Java was distinguished from the very first by a "haughty assumption of superiority, for the purpose of overawing the credulous simplicity of the natives, and a most extraordinary timidity, which led them to suspect treachery and danger in quarters where they were least to be apprehended." But large allowances must be made for the precarious position of a handful of Europeans living in the midst of a hostile and numerous population. In the case of the conspiracy in question, the historical outlines of the story are tinctured by an element of romance.

Peter Elberfeld was a half-caste who had acquired considerable wealth, but who was possessed by an intense hatred of the Dutch. Uniting the native princes in a league, he formed a conspiracy to extirpate the entire white population of the island by concerted massacres. When his plans were fully formed and ready for execution, an unexpected circumstance revealed the plot and brought destruction upon the chiefs of the conspiracy. Elberfeld had a niece living with him, who, so far from sharing her uncle's hatred of the Dutch race, had secretly fallen in love with a young Dutch officer. Knowing her uncle's aversion to their foreign masters and jealousy of their power, she did not dare to ask for his consent to the marriage. At last she arranged to elope with her lover. On the night previous to that fixed upon for this event she was unable to sleep, from a feeling of remorse at conduct which seemed ungrateful to one who had at least been indulgent and affectionate to her. As she stood upon the verandah, looking out upon the darkness of the night, she became conscious that some persons, unseen in the darkness, were moving around her. She made her way in alarm to her uncle's chamber, but found it empty. She then went to the dining-room. The door of this room was shut, but, bending down, she perceived that the room itself was filled with people, and listened to their whispered consultations. Overwhelmed with horror at the cruel nature of the conspiracy, and at the terrible ceremonies by which they bound themselves at the same time to mutual loyalty and vengeance on their enemies, she yet hesitated to betray her uncle. Finally love for her betrothed prevailed, and she communicated the particulars of the conspiracy to him. He at once informed the Dutch authorities. On the following night—the night fixed for the elopement—Elberfeld's house was surrounded, and the conspirators were captured as they were on the point of departing to their various stations. Most of the native princes were punished by mutilation, but Elberfeld was reserved for a signal vengeance. Each of his arms and legs were tied respectively to one of four horses, which were then driven by lashes of whips in four different directions. Finally his head was severed from the trunk of his body and impaled. To this day it remains a ghastly memorial of the turbulent past. The most unsatisfactory part of the story is the fact that the girl who had made such sacrifices in her lover's behalf was after all not permitted to be his bride.

The population of Batavia is, in round numbers, 110,000. Of these 7000 are Europeans. In respect of total population it is inferior to Soerabaia, the eastern capital, which has 140,000 inhabitants. There are, however, fewer Europeans at Soerabaia than at Batavia. Samarang, which ranks third in size, has a population of 70,000.

Sir Stamford Raffles, who was Governor of Java during the short period of English occupation, was so impressed with the commercial importance of Batavia, that he persuaded the British Government, upon the cession of the island, to found a rival port on the opposite side of the Straits of Malacca. Singapore, the town due to this act of political foresight, is built upon a small island at the extremity of the Malay peninsula. Although it is almost exactly on the equator, it enjoys a more temperate climate than its older rival. It also possesses vastly superior accommodation for shipping. While Batavia, owing to the silting of the river already mentioned, is now some miles from the sea, Singapore possesses two commodious harbours, and has far outstripped the older town in commercial importance. There is a monument marking the spot where Lady Raffles was buried in the green glades of the gardens at Buitenzorg; but the statue of Sir Stamford Raffles looks forth to the sea from the centre of the broad grass-clad esplanade of Singapore.



CHAPTER V.

THE HINDU TEMPLES.

The temple remains generally—The connection between Buddha and Brahma—The Boro-Boedoer—Loro-Jonggrang.

Of the temple ruins of Java, considered generally, Mr. Wallace says, "It will take most persons by surprise to learn that they far surpass those of Central America, perhaps even those of India."[12] Yet it is only recently that these great works have been recovered to the world. A Dutch engineer who was sent to construct a fort at Klaten, in 1797, found that a number of architectural remains existed in the neighbourhood of Brambanan, of which no account had been given. The natives, it appeared, regarded them as the work of some local deity, and, indeed, were in the habit of worshipping one conspicuous statue. He also found much difficulty in sufficiently clearing the ruins of the overgrowth of vegetation, so as to get an adequate view. Eventually he succeeded in making some rough sketches of them. In the year following the English occupation (1812), Colonel Colin MacKenzie visited Brambanan, and made an accurate survey of the ruins in that neighbourhood, which he sketched and described. At the instance of the Governor, Sir Stamford Raffles, Captain Butler was then sent to make drawings of the buildings, and to report upon them. This was the first methodical exploration of the Hindu ruins in Java; but it was only partial, and related almost exclusively to the Brambanan neighbourhood. A quarter of a century later, when the discovery of photography had made an exact reproduction of the sculptures possible, the Dutch Government instituted an exhaustive survey of the Boro-Boedoer temple. In July, 1845, M. Shaefer was commissioned to execute photographs of the bas-reliefs, but he was only partially successful. Two years later, an engineer, M. F. C. Wilsen, was sent out from Holland, and, after giving satisfactory proofs of his skill, definitely appointed in 1849, by a decree of the Council of Netherlands India, to make drawings of the bas-reliefs and statues of this temple. He was assisted by M. Schoenburg Mulder. They commenced in April, 1849, and completed the whole of the task they had undertaken in the year 1853. M. Mulder's drawings proved, however, to be useless, and a new assistant, M. Mieling, was appointed. After various troubles, the drawings were finally completed in 1871, and the letterpress and plates published in 1874. This great literary work, consisting of several hundreds of large lithographed plans and drawings of sculptures and statues, with a complete account written by Dr. C. Leemans, director of the Public Museum at Leiden, was produced under the direction of the Dutch Minister of the Colonies. But even this splendid account of the Boro-Boedoer temple is not complete; since the date of its publication a new series of bas-reliefs have been discovered, and are being gradually photographed. In connection with the temples of Brambanan and Kalasan, also, new and interesting discoveries are being made from year to year. Indeed, images and sculptured stones are continually found all over the island. At Gunong Praue, forty miles south-west of Samarang, and further east, at Kediri and in Malang, there are large tracts of ruins; but the most imposing and interesting for the traveller are to be found in the centre of the island, in the neighbourhood of Magalang and Djokja, in positions indicated by the accompanying map. I shall endeavour first to give the reader a general idea of the extent and nature of these remains, and then, after a few remarks on the connection between Buddha and Brahma, to describe more at length the Boro-Boedoer temple, and that of Loro-Jonggrang, near Brambanan, the former of which is Buddhistic, and the latter Brahmanic, or Saivite.

[Footnote 12: "Malay Archipelago."]



At Boro-Boedoer, ten miles from Magalang, there are the remains of the vast temple of that name; and about a mile distant, on the nearer bank of the Prago river, is the small and externally insignificant temple of Mendoet. Inside this latter is a vaulted chamber, the roof of which springs from walls twenty feet in height, and rises to sixty feet in the centre, covering a fine statue of Buddha.

At Brambanan, a village near Djokja, there is a large mass of ruins, of which the most important are the temple of Loro-Jonggrang and a group of small temples called Tjandi Sewoe, or Thousand Temples. In the neighbourhood of the former ruins there are six large and fourteen small temples, twenty separate buildings in all. The ruins of the latter group cover a space of six hundred, square feet, and contain many splendid colossal figures. They are arranged in five regular parallelograms, consisting of an outer row of eighty-four temples, a second of seventy-six, a third of sixty-four, a fourth of forty-four, and a fifth (forming an inner-parallelogram) of twenty-eight. The centre is occupied by a large cruciform temple, ornamented with sculpture, and surrounded by flights of steps. All of these remains are greatly marred by the luxurious growths of tropical vegetation which cover them.

Half a mile further are the Tjandi Kali Bening, or Temples of Kalasan. Here there is a very fine and well-preserved temple, seventy-two square feet in extent, of which Mr. Wallace says that it is "covered with sculptures of Hindu mythology that surpass any that exist in India." There are also other ruins of palaces, halls, and temples in the neighbourhood.[13]

[Footnote 13: For this general account of the ruins in the neighbourhood of Djokja I am indebted to the accounts of Raffles and Wallace.]

The stones used for the construction of the Boro-Boedoer and other temples in Java, and for the images found throughout the island, are of volcanic origin. They are supplied by the numerous volcanoes in the island, and carried down the sides of the mountains to the plains below in lava streams. To-day such stones are used largely for making roads. There is, however, a little limestone found in the southern districts of the island.

In the Boro-Boedoer, at Mendoet, and in the Tjandi Sewoe, Buddha was worshipped; but in the Temple of Loro-Jonggrang at Brambanan, and in the Temples of Kalasan, Siva (the third person of the Hindu Trinity—Brahma, Vishnu, Siva) was the central object of adoration. As the connection between the religion of Buddha and Brahma has been often misunderstood, a few words on this point may be of service to the reader.

Brahmanism, which was the established worship of the Hindus when Buddha taught, was a religion which admitted of many sects; and Buddha, although his ethical system was independent of Brahmanic theology, recognized the existence of the popular deities. The distinction, then, between Brahmanism and Buddhism is purely arbitrary; the latter is merely a new growth of the former, and they both exist in British India at the present day. In China also there is a similar fusion of religious beliefs, where there are three established cults—those of Brahma, Confucius, and of the Taoeists, or nature-worshippers. The Confucian religion is rather a system of ethics than a cult; but the rites of the Buddhist and Taoeist temples are attended indiscriminately by the majority of the Chinese, the priests of the separate temples alone confining themselves to the worship of a particular deity. In India, however, the special followers of the two systems do not exhibit an equal liberalism of sentiment; while the worship of Brahma is considered orthodox, the cult of Buddha is regarded as heretical. The Buddhistic temples of Java, coming midway between the oldest Buddhistic temples of India and the modern shrines in Burmah, Ceylon, and Nepaul, the present seats of the cult, supply an interesting lacuna in the antiquities of Buddhism. The Javan form of this religion is especially allied to that of Nepaul. It bears a general resemblance to the Buddhism of Northern India, but is distinct from that of Ceylon and the south. It is not surprising, therefore, that ruins of temples dedicated to the services of both religions should exist side by side, nor that the grosser and more popular Brahmanic forms should have developed more largely than the more spiritual worship of Buddha, both in India to-day and in Java previously to the Mohammedan conquest.



The temple of Boro-Boedoer is built upon a slight rounded eminence, the last of a chain of hills on the eastern bank of the river Prago. The entire edifice rests upon an equilateral base of six hundred and twenty feet, situated due N.S.E. and W., and rises gradually in terraces adapted in design to the form of the hill. These consist of two lower terraces which are square in form; four galleries (or passages, with sculptures on either side), which are still rectangular in form, but have twenty angles to admit of their following the rounded contour of the hill; and four terraces, of which the first has twelve angles, while the remaining three are circular, adorned with cupolas, each containing a statue of Buddha; and finally the whole is surmounted by a huge cupola, fifty feet in diameter, in which rests the central figure of Buddha. Access from one terrace to another is gained by four flights of steps, running up the centre of each front, at the several entrances of which are placed two huge lion-monsters. Dr. Leemans, in his account of the building, enumerates five galleries; but in reality there are only four, since the outside of what he calls the first gallery is merely a second basis for the whole structure, as is shown by the nature of its decoration, viz. simple architectural designs and groups of deities. The lower terrace, of which Dr. Leemans only guessed the existence, is now being excavated and photographed section by section. Only one section is kept open at any given time, because the earth is necessary to support the vast mass of stonework which forms the entire building, and it was for this reason, namely, to prevent the structure from breaking up, that this terrace was formerly banked up. It is found that this lower terrace is decorated with sculptures representing ordinary mundane scenes, the world being the basis on which all the higher religious phenomena rest. In the first gallery (Leemans' second), the bas-reliefs represent a continuous selection of scenes from the historical life of Buddha; in the second, there are sculptures of the lesser deities recognized in the Brahmanic worship, such deities having been adopted into the Buddhistic pantheon; in the third the higher deities are represented, where the shrine, and not the deity, is worshipped; in the fourth there are groups of Buddhas; and in the central dome there is the incomplete statue of the Highest Buddha—Adibuddha. This is unfinished by design, in order to indicate that the highest deity cannot be represented by human hands, having no bodily but only a spiritual existence.

"OM, AMITAYA! measure not with words Th' Immeasurable; nor sink the string of thought Into the Fathomless. Who asks doth err, Who answers, errs. Say nought."

Such is the design of this great religious monument, of which even the bare ruins, in their melancholy magnificence, inspire the mind of the spectator with mingled feelings of wonder and solemnity.

The temple of Loro-Jonggrang is one in which, as at Kalasan, the object of worship was Siva, and not Buddha. This god, as already stated, was the third of the three persons of the Hindu Trinity; the first being Brahma, or the Creator, and the second Vishnu, the Preserver. Siva, the Destroyer, is also the Reproducer, and appears in Java to have been worshipped under three forms: (1) as Mahadeva, or the Great God; (2) as Mahayogi, or the Great Teacher; and (3) as Mahakala, or the Destroyer. Guru (or Goeroe) is an alternative name for Siva Mahayogi, and his statues in this temple are so called. The edifice is greatly inferior in size to that of Boro-Boedoer; it rests upon a rectangular basement having twelve angles, and measuring some eighty feet across in either direction. Like the former temple, its position is almost exactly square with the points of the compass. The basement is ornamented with ordinary religious ornaments, consisting of sacred trees and lions. Above this is a gallery, of which the parapet on the inner side is decorated with scenes taken from the Ramayana (the second of the two great Indian epics), while the opposite wall of the temple is adorned with forms of deities. In the centre or body of the temple are four chambers, one of which—the principal—is itself larger, and contains a larger image than the others. They are each alike approached by flights of steps in the centre of the four sides of the edifice. The deities represented are—in the northern chamber, Durga; in the western, Ganesa; and in both the southern and eastern, Guru. Now, according to the Brahmanic pantheon, Durga (the Goddess) was the mother, and Guru the father, of Ganesa, the elephant-headed God of Wisdom. The connection between Siva and the Rama epic is this. The Ramayana is the history of the incarnation of Vishnu as Rama, and contains an account of the war waged by Rama with the giant Ravana, the demon king of Ceylon. In the poem mention is made of the Vedic god Indra and his Maruts. Subsequently Siva, the world destroyer, was identified with Indra in the form of Rudra, the god of tempests; hence the appropriateness of scenes from this story on a Saivite temple. It only remains to add that the name of the temple, Loro-Jonggrang, is simply the native name given to the particular Durga (or Goddess of Efficient Virtue) represented in the shrine, and means literally the "Maiden with beautiful hips."

NOTE.—In view of the late appearance of the Adibuddha (probably the tenth century), I have thought it desirable to state that the theory of the general design of the Boro-Boedoer contained in the text is based upon a very interesting conversation which I had with M. Groeneveldt, who is a member of the Council of Netherlands India and Director of the Museum at Batavia. Professor Rhys Davids has pointed out an interesting distinction between the Boro-Boedoer and the Buddhist shrines in India, viz. that, whereas the cupolas at Boro-Boedoer are hollow, the dagabas of British India are always solid. In the Annex will be found a detailed account of the various routes and the cost, etc., of travelling from Batavia to the temple districts in the centre and east of Java.



ANNEX TO CHAPTER V.

THE ROUTES TO THE TEMPLES.

Supposing that the traveller has been landed at Batavia, and wishes to visit the ruins in the east of the island, he will have the choice of three routes. First, he may sail by a Netherlands India boat to Samarang (or Soerabaia, if, as often happens from December to February, it is impossible to land at the former place owing to the surf); this occupies about thirty-six hours. There is an excellent hotel at Samarang—the Pavilion—where the night can be spent, and the following day the train will carry him to Amberawa, a distance of 50 miles by rail (or 30 by road). Here the railway stops, and a carriage must be taken to Magalang, the next town (with splendid views of the two volcanoes, Merbaboe and Merapi), which is some 20 miles further on, and where a halt must be made for the night. Ten miles' driving will take him to the Boro-Boedoer; the drive is one of extraordinary beauty. After visiting the Boro-Boedoer and the neighbouring temple of Mendoet, it is usual to return by way of Djokja (25 miles), which is the centre of numerous ruins. If, however, it is intended to travel overland, there are two routes available. The first is the regular posting route along the northern coast; the second lies to the south, and is perhaps more interesting. If the regular route is chosen, the traveller will proceed by rail as far as Bandong, a distance of some 90 miles; and then drive to Cheribon (80 miles), a place on the northern coast; and then, following the coast-line, from Cheribon to Tegal (40 miles); from Tegal to Pekalongan (35 miles); and from Pekalongan to Samarang (68 miles). In all these places there are good hotels, but two horses, and in some places four (as in the last stage, where the road passes over mountains), would be necessary. Such a journey in a carriage would cost (apart from hotel expenses) L20, or, if it were done in a cart (sadoe) and two horses, half that sum.

If he pursues the second route, he will not leave the railway before Garoet. From Garoet he will proceed to Kalipoetjan (100 miles) by carriage; this occupies two days, and Manongyaya (with a hotel) is passed, and Bandar, where there is sleeping-accommodation to be had. From Kalipoetjan he will make his way to Tjilatjap by native canoe, crossing the Kinderzee, a large lagoon, in eight or nine hours, and passing some villages built on piles. There is also a curious cave and some edible swallow-nests to be seen. In travelling by this route it is necessary to take a servant to interpret with the natives. From Tjilatjap the railway runs to Djokja. This town is about 25 miles from the Boro-Boedoer temple; the road is bad, and at times covered with dust to the depth of a foot or more, so that three horses are necessary. Even then the journey occupies four or five hours, although it is quite possible to return on the same day. There is an inn at the small village near the temple, but it is not sufficiently inviting to merit more than a transitory visit; at the same time, there is nothing to prevent the gentlemen of the party from staying the night at Boro-Boedoer if they felt so inclined. From Djokja, of course, the railway extends to Samarang and to Soerabaia. Especially the town of Solo (or Soerakarta), which is the junction where the line branches north or east, is worthy of a visit, as being the best centre for seeing native ceremonies. In conclusion I append a table of distances, means of conveyance, and cost (this latter being approximate only as depending upon individuals).

NOTE.—The regular hotel charge all through Java is five or six florins a day (= 10s.). Twelve florins = L1.

FIRST ROUTE.

Places. Means of Cost. Number Time. Conveyance. of Miles.

Batavia to Steamboat 60 florins 240 36 hours. Samarang

Samarang to Train 8 " 50 Amberawa

Amberawa to {Cart 10 " } 20 Magalang {Carriage 20 " }

Magalang to {Cart 5 " } 10 Boro-Boedoer {Carriage 10 " }

SECOND ROUTE.

Batavia to Train — " 90 Bandong

Bandong to {Cart 30 " } 80 10 " Cheribon {Carriage 60 " }

Cheribon to {Cart 15 " } 40 4 " Tegal {Carriage 50 " }

Tegal to {Cart 15 " } 35 4 " Pekalongan {Carriage 60 " }

Pekalongan to {Cart 30 " } 50 11 " Samarang {Carriage 70 " }

THIRD ROUTE.

Batavia to Train — " 100 Garoet

Garoet to Carriage 29 " 100 2 days. Kalipoetjan

Kalipoetjan to Native 15 " — 8 or 9 hours. Tjilatjap Canoe

Tjilatjap to Train — 90 Djokja



CHAPTER VI.

BUITENZORG.

Batavian heat—To Buitenzorg by rail—Buitenzorg— Kotta Batoe—Buffalo—Sawah land—Sketching a Javan cottage.

Once in Java, and a visit to Buitenzorg is a matter of course. In the first place, Buitenzorg is to the Dutch possessions in the East what Simla is to British India; and, in the second, it possesses a strong attraction in its famous Botanical Gardens.

After a week of Batavia, the European or Australian traveller begins to want a change. It is not that there is at any time any extraordinary thermometrical heat to be encountered. It is simply that, not being an orchid, he finds it does not suit him to live in the warm damp atmosphere of a hothouse. What he suffers from most is the want of sleep. Probably he has not learnt to take two solid hours of sleep in the afternoon. He says to himself, "Pooh! this is nothing to the sun in India." He remembers that when he was in Australia the thermometer frequently registered 20 deg. higher than it does here. It is all nonsense to call this a hot country, he thinks. So he hails a sadoe and drives off to the Kali Bezar to see the agent of his steamship company, when he ought to have been dressed in the luxurious freedom of pyjamas, and sleeping peacefully upon his great square bed, with the mosquito curtains securely drawn.

When night comes, the heat is apparently just as intense, and he lies awake, saying bad words about the mosquitoes which buzz around him, until the small hours of the morning. When his "boy" wakes him at six o'clock, he feels as if he had had no sleep at all. All the same it is a little cooler now; so he gets up to enjoy the fresh air outside in the verandah. After he has had his coffee and some bananas or a slice of pomelo, and taken his bath, he feels tolerably alive. This impression is heightened by a gallop over the King's Plain; and by the time he has had his breakfast he feels as "fit as anything." So he hardens his heart and does the same thing again to-day, except that, knowing the uselessness of trying to sleep before the temperature falls after midnight, he plays billiards at the club until he is turned out, and then spends the rest of the evening on a friend's verandah, seated in a long chair, consuming long drinks, and smoking long cigars.

It is not surprising, therefore, that the average globe-trotter finds a week of Batavia about enough at a time. He confides his emotions to his friend, who is a resident. This latter says, "Can't sleep? You should go to Buitenzorg; you'll sleep all night there." So he leaves his heavy luggage behind in the hotel, and packs a bag, jumps into a sadoe, and in less than two hours he finds himself in one of the healthiest climates in the world, and in the midst of surroundings as novel as they are delightful.

The train by which I had arranged to travel to Buitenzorg left the Weltevreden station at the convenient hour of half-past four in the afternoon. It only stopped once, and accomplished the distance in the fairly good time of one hour and twenty minutes. Here, again, as at Tanjong Priok, I was agreeably surprised with the size and convenience of the stations. The railway employes were Chinese and Javanese. The latter were dressed in peaked caps and blue serge coats and trousers, but wore rather unnecessarily waist-clothes and head-bands on the top of their European dress.

In Java, as elsewhere, the Anglo-Saxon abounded. The occupants of the railway carriage were, with two exceptions, English, like myself. There was a member of the Upper House of one of our colonial legislatures and his wife, the sister of a prominent English politician. With them I was already acquainted. But an English gentleman, who occupied one of the corner seats of the compartment, engaged in reading the Field, was a stranger.

The train passed by rice-fields, plantations of sugar cane, of bananas, and of Indian corn. On either side of us was a rich and highly cultivated country. There were hedgerows as neat as those which separate our English fields; and here and there a fox-hunter would have observed with disgust that barbed wire fences had spread as far as Java. At regular intervals, bamboo cottages with red-tiled roofs had been built for the signalmen. Among the fields were scattered groups of tropical trees, palms, and bamboos; and more than once we caught far-off glimpses of high mountains. The whole landscape was clothed in a supreme verdure.

As we approached the neighbourhood of Buitenzorg, the sky suddenly became overcast. Tremendous masses of dense black clouds rushed up from the horizon, throwing into relief the slopes of the mountains on which the sun was still shining brilliantly, and deepening the verdure of the rice-fields by their shadows. A few minutes of pelting rain and a flash or two of vivid lightning low down on the horizon, and once more the sky was clear and the landscape smiling and peaceful.

The town of Buitenzorg is situated on the slopes of the great volcanic mountain Salak, in 106 deg. 53' 5" east longitude, and 6 deg. 35' 8" south latitude. Although the elevation is only seven hundred feet above sea-level, the heat is never overpowering in the daytime, and the nights are delightfully cool. The mean temperature at noon, as indicated by the thermometer, is 82 deg. Fahrenheit; but in the dry season as much as 88 deg. is sometimes registered. Moreover while on an average there are five months of dry weather in Java and three in Batavia, three weeks without rain is considered unusual in Buitenzorg. The heat of the sun, therefore, is tempered by a rainfall which is not only very heavy, but very uniform; and when Batavia is steaming with moist heat, and the plains of the interior are scorched and dry, in Buitenzorg the gardens are still verdant and the air still tonic.

Besides Salak, which rises to a height of seven thousand feet, there is another and still loftier mountain mass in the immediate neighbourhood of the town. This is the double-peaked Pangerango and Gede. All three mountains are volcanic. Salak, however, has been silent since the eruption of 1699, and the peak of Pangerango is an extinct volcanic cone; the only sign of activity is the light wreath of smoke which is generally to be seen hanging over the summit of Gede. The slopes of these great mountains are clothed with a foliage which is kept perennially fresh by the abundant rains. Seen from rising ground, they enrich the landscape with the beauty of their graceful elevations; from the lower levels of the town, and in contrast to the foliage of palm or bamboo, their sheer height is manifested by the intense blueness of the background they afford.

Buitenzorg has long been the favourite resort of the officials and merchants of Batavia. In course of time the train service will no doubt be improved; as it is, busy men run down to see their families, or merely to enjoy the comparative coolness of the air for the "week end," or even for a single night.

The town itself contains a population of four thousand inhabitants. It has an excellent club, a museum, a race-course, and several good hotels. The summer residence of the Governor-General is in the centre of a large and beautifully wooded park, in which a number of deer are kept. It is an extensive building, consisting of an elevated central portion with wings on either side. It is built in the usual classical style affected by the Dutch for their public buildings, and is ornamented with pilasters and pediments. Part of the park is occupied by the famous Botanical Gardens, which form the supreme attraction of the place to the scientific visitor. The Governor-General, as the highest official in the Dutch East Indies, receives a salary of 160,000 florins a year. While this personage is at Buitenzorg he may be frequently observed driving down the great avenue of Kanarie trees in his state coach drawn by four horses. In close connection with the palace (as the Governor-General's residence is called), but at some distance from the town, large and convenient barracks have lately been completed for the better accommodation of the European troops.

I had been told not to omit to visit Batoe Toelis, "the place of the written stone," where there is an ancient inscription, and Kotta Batoe with its celebrated bath presided over by a Chinaman. My first expedition was to this latter place. There were three of us bent upon a swim before breakfast, and in order to save time we took a sadoe. The beauty and extent of the view increased as we ascended the slopes of Mount Salak. When we had driven some three miles we left the sadoe, with strict injunctions to the driver to wait till we returned, and proceeded to accomplish our quest on foot. There were three baths in all, natural basins of rock fed by streams of mountain water, and shaded by the dense foliage of lofty trees. One of them is circular in form, and the water is curiously coloured, by some trick of reflection or refraction, to a dull steely blue. A plunge in the clear cool water was well worth the trifling fee we paid to the celestial, and we returned to our hotel with a famous appetite for breakfast.

It was on the occasion of this drive that I first made the acquaintance of that useful domestic animal, the buffalo (Bos Sondaicus). He is a very "fine and large" animal of a mouse colour, with white legs and a patch of white on his quarters; and has long horns lying back on his neck, where they cannot be the slightest use to him. His Javan masters find him very docile, but he has an awkward way with strangers. He is generally to be found under the care of a small boy, who is seated on his broad back, and who touches him with a rod on this side or that according to the direction which he desires the animal to take. I have already described the simple but effective plough to which he is yoked when working the sawahs,[14] and the methods employed by the natives for the cultivation of rice.

[Footnote 14: In Chapter III.]

From almost any elevated point it is possible to get views of the sawahs in the neighbourhood of Buitenzorg. The form and extent of the separate fields divided by the water-courses vary with the nature of the country. Each field is itself perfectly level, and is separated by as little as half a foot, or as much as four feet, from those immediately above and beneath it. The slopes of Gede are covered with such a series of vast and irregular terraces. Seen from Buitenzorg the general effect is not unlike that of the tiers of a theatre, while in the distance the individual terraces show smooth surfaces varying in colour from emerald green to saffron yellow, or flashing with the brightness of still and sunlit waters.

Indeed, there is much to be seen at Buitenzorg with but little expenditure of time or trouble. Close at hand is the Campong, or Chinese town, with its quaint shops and busy market-place. Immediately beneath the hotel numberless bamboo cottages crowded with Javanese peasants can be found for the looking. They lie in the midst of groves of cocoanut palms, hidden away almost as completely as if they were a hundred miles instead of a hundred yards from the Belle Vue.



I spent one whole morning sketching a cottage which I found within a stone's throw of the hotel. Without any ceremony, I walked into the midst of the family circle, and seated myself under the shelter of a wood shed. Had I known enough Malay, I should certainly have first asked permission before I ventured upon such an intrusion, for I have found a sketching-book an almost universal passport to civility. As it was, I assumed an air of conscious innocence, which I trusted would soon remove any awkward suspicions which might arise in the mind of the owner of the house, and proceeded to unpack my sketching-traps. I then quickly sketched in the group on the verandah, consisting of the mother and children. Before I had finished they all ran away in alarm, and for the next half-hour the front of the house was entirely deserted. I suppose they made up their minds at last that I was harmless, for they gradually came back and resumed their usual manner of life. The mother was occupied with keeping two small children in order. Besides these, there was a little boy and a girl. This latter was the oldest of the family. She was not so shy as her mother; on the contrary, she arranged herself in a most becoming attitude against the front of the verandah. Every now and then the mother showed her teeth and spoke crossly to the baby, and once when it cried she whipped it with a bit of palm-leaf until it came to a better mind—which it did promptly. After a time, a Chinaman called and had a talk with the lady of the house. I think he wanted a load of firewood. An old lady also came. I could not fathom her business, but, from the interest she manifested in the children, I expect she was a relative of the family.

About noon the father came back with a load of wood. He was a man of the world, and knew all about the performance. After he had looked at the sketch, the children, and finally the mother, all came round my stool and had a good long look at my work. Even so the mother would not let the children dab their toes into my paints, or generally become a nuisance. For this unexpected manifestation of a sense of the fitness of things, I felt grateful to her, and, before I went away, found a way of recompensing the children for the sorrow they must have felt at being compelled to relinquish such a rare opportunity for getting into mischief.

Every morning I found some quaint figure with which to enrich my sketch-book—a sarong-weaver, or a beggar crouching by the wayside, or a Hadji, with his large umbrella and green turban, the latter marking the fact of his having accomplished a pilgrimage to Mecca. But, interesting as were these human studies, my pleasantest recollections of Buitenzorg centre in the visit which I paid to the Botanical Gardens, under the guidance of the curator, Dr. Treub.

My account of this, however, and of the gardens generally, I reserve for the next chapter.



CHAPTER VII.

THE BOTANICAL GARDENS.

History of the Buitenzorg gardens—Teysmann— Scheffer—Three separate branches—Horticultural garden—Mountain garden—Botanical garden— Dr. Treub—Lady Raffles' monument—Pandanus with aerial roots—Cyrtostachys renda—Stelecho-karpus— Urostigma—Brazilian palms—Laboratories and offices—Number of men employed—Scientific strangers.

Among the twenty or thirty tropical gardens established in the colonial possessions of the various European Powers, three stand pre-eminent—those of Calcutta, the Peradenia Gardens in Ceylon, and the Dutch gardens at Buitenzorg. It is only natural that a people so distinguished for horticulture as the Dutch should have turned to account the floral wealth of the Malay Archipelago, perhaps the richest botanical hunting-ground in the world. The Buitenzorg gardens, however, owe their present celebrity more to individual energy than to Government patronage.

Originally established in 1819, in a corner of the park surrounding the residence of the Governor-General, the exigencies of colonial finance subsequently required the withdrawal of almost all the provision originally made, and only a sum sufficient to support a single European gardener was left. The salary of this single official was taken from the funds appropriated to the maintenance of the park. It was to this post that J. E. Teysmann was appointed in 1830. Educated at one of the primary schools in Holland, and originally employed as an under-gardener, he had in that capacity accompanied Governor Van den Bosch to Java. Like our own Moffat (also an under-gardener), Teysmann rose by his energy and devotion to "great honour," and, half a century later, received a remarkable proof of the esteem in which he was held in the scientific world, consisting of an album, within which were inscribed the signatures of the donors—one hundred famous naturalists, ranging from Darwen to Candolle, the Genevan. It bore the inscription—

"Celeberrimo indefessoque J. E. Teysmann cum dimidium per saeculum Archipelagi indici thesaurum botanicum exploravit, mirantes collegae."

During the period that the gardens ceased to exist as an independent institution—1830 to 1868—Teysmann continued to search throughout the islands of the Archipelago for rare and undiscovered plants with which to enrich them. He also published catalogues embodying the discoveries he had made, and finally arranged the plants and trees upon an excellent system, in which they are grouped in accordance with their natural relationships.

In 1868 the gardens once more became a public institution, with a curator and a recognized revenue. The new curator was Dr. Scheffer, of Utrecht, who in 1876 founded, in addition to the botanical gardens, a school of agriculture with a garden attached to it. This useful institution was subsequently suppressed by the Government, but the garden still survives alongside its parent at Buitenzorg. Dr. Scheffer died in 1880, when only thirty-six years of age. He was succeeded by the present curator, Dr. Treub.

The Dutch Government gardens in Java, known to the scientific world as the Hortus Bogoriensis,[15] and to the official as the Nederlands Plantentuin te Buitenzorg, contain three separate branches—the botanical gardens, a horticultural garden, and a mountain garden. Of these, the last is situated at some distance from the town, on the slopes of Mount Gede. It occupies seventy-five acres of land at an altitude of between 4000 and 5000 feet, and is provided with a staff of ten natives working under a European gardener. I was told that, while all European, Australian, and Japanese flowers would grow there, it was found impossible to cultivate the fruits of such temperate regions, owing to the difficulty experienced in securing the necessary period of rest. I have since heard that in Fiji the difficulty is overcome by exposing the roots for some months, and thus preventing the sap from rising. Why not adopt this method in Java?

[Footnote 15: Bogor is the native name for this place; Buitenzorg means "beyond care," and is therefore the equivalent of the French sans sourci.]

The horticultural garden adjoins the botanical gardens, and occupies forty acres. As already mentioned, it owes its existence to Dr. Scheffer, and it is, of course, devoted to strictly practical objects. Consequently, everything is arranged in such a manner as to make the most of the space. All the paths are at right angles or parallel to each other, and the garden generally is laid out with monotonous regularity. Yet no small part of the success of the Government gardens as an institution depends upon the produce of this department. It has for many years enabled the Government to distribute gratuitously the seeds and plants required for various colonial enterprises. Within its trim beds are contained tea and coffee plants, sugar-canes, caoutchouc and gutta-percha trees, Erythroxylon coca for cocaine, and trees producing tannin and oils. Various medicinal plants are also to be found here, and such as afford useful nourishment for cattle. The necessary labour for this garden is supplied by a head-gardener and seventy natives.

The botanical gardens occupy ninety acres of the southern corner of the park, which itself forms their northern limit. On the east they are bounded by the river Tjiliwong, and on the west and south by the high-road from Batavia. Through the centre there runs the famous Allee des Kanaries (Canarium commune), the boughs of which form an arched roof one hundred feet from the ground. Leading right and left from this central avenue run other smaller avenues, roads, and paths, conducting to the different plots in which the various families of plants are contained, in accordance with the system of arrangement introduced by Teysmann. Some of these paths, especially those leading to the lower level by the river-bank, are paved with pebbles after the manner of the "cobbled" streets of our English villages. To this Mr. Wallace, in his "Malay Archipelago," takes exception on the score of discomfort. I was assured, however, that they are a necessary evil, and that the heavy rains to which Buitenzorg was liable, made it necessary to have the firmest kind of pathway in such places. At either end of the avenue there are lodges, but no gates, and the gardens are left open day and night without any fear of injury. This fortunate condition of affairs is not unusual in Java, but in this case security is partly ensured by the proximity of a large military force and the frequent presence of the Governor-General.

As Dr. Treub had kindly offered to act as my guide, I found my way one morning to his house at the early hour of half-past seven. The residence provided for the curator is situated on the left side of the southern entrance. The deep verandah is furnished with some brilliant groups of flowers. Opening on to it is a little morning-room hung with some elegant engravings—reproductions of Salon pictures. Here I found Dr. Treub waiting for me.

After a few moments' conversation we left the house and passed down the avenue. Some hundred yards onwards, to the right, there is a stone monument interesting to Englishmen. It consists of a circular roof supported by pillars, protecting a funereal urn placed upon a square pedestal. On the pedestal the following inscription is engraved:—

"Sacred to the memory of Olivia Mariamne, wife of Thomas Stamford Raffles, Lieutenant-Governor of Java and its dependencies, who died at Buitenzorg on the 26th of November, 1814."

Although the site of this monument is more humble than that of Sir Thomas Raffles' statue at Singapore, it is scarcely less interesting; and the repair and preservation of the stonework is secured by a special clause in the treaty of cession. I think it was just here that Dr. Treub turned away from the Canary Avenue, and, taking one of the paths to the right, led me forward towards the river.

I had asked him if he would point out any trees specially worthy of being sketched, and he had very readily acceded to my request. After we had walked a few minutes, however, he said—

"I am in a difficulty; I do not know what to show you. We have some most curious plants in the garden, but there is nothing remarkable about them externally. I suppose you want something with a cachet for the public?"

I said he was quite right in his supposition. What I wanted was something of interest from a picturesque point of view to the general public.

"There," he said, pointing to a tall tree with a growth and foliage of no distinct character, "is a strychnine tree; from the berries of that tree we get nux vomica; but if you drew that, they would say, 'Why, it is an apple-tree; it is not worth going to the tropics to see that.'"

By this time we had almost reached the banks of the Tjiliwong, and again turning to the right, where grew the pandans, "There," he said, "is a tree with aerial roots. It comes from the Nicobar Islands, just north-west of Sumatra. I think it is about twenty-eight feet in height. No, the roots do not contribute to its nourishment; they are useless but very curious." From the pandans we passed to the palms. First we noticed a specimen of comparatively low growth, with its leaves springing from the ground like the leaves of a primrose—Ladoicea Sechellarum. It bore, I was told, the largest fruit and the largest leaves of any known tree, the former being two, and the latter ten, feet in diameter. "Unfortunately, there is no fruit on it," said Dr. Treub, "but you can see that in any museum. You see, the stems of the leaves are as hard as iron." Indeed, they gave quite a metallic ring as he drove the ferrule of his walking stick against them. A few steps further brought us to a tree which Dr. Treub said had no special characteristics, but was a perfect natural specimen of the palm family. It stood about forty feet in height, and was furnished with foliage which hung gracefully suspended from a straight tapering stem. Then at the next corner, where its beauty showed to advantage, we came upon a group of red-stemmed palms from the little island of Banka. A fortnight later I was anchored off Mentok, the capital of that island, in a Dutch mail boat; but at this time I had no knowledge of the habitat of this fair tree—nor, indeed, had I seen it before, although a few weeks afterwards I found two fine specimens growing on either side of the entrance of a private house at Singapore. It needs an expert to describe so rare a combination of brilliant colours and graceful form. Mr. Forbes, the naturalist, in his account of his "Wanderings in the Eastern Archipelago," tells how he passed down through "plots of amaryllideae, iris, and other water-loving plants" in this quarter of the garden; and how he found the "glory" of "the richest palmetum in the world—the Cyrtostachys renda, whose long bright scarlet leaf-sheaths and flower-spathes, and its red fruit and deep yellow inflorescence hanging side by side, at once arrest the eye."

From this point we again ascended to the higher level of the garden by a path paved with pebbles and cut into steps. Then "faring on our way," we reached the division marked Anonaceae, and there my eye came upon a sight which rivalled in wonder the golden bough of the sixth AEneid which the doves of Venus showed to AEneas:

"Tollunt se celeres, liquidumque per aera lapsae, Sedibus optatis geminae super arbore sidunt, Discolor unde auri per ramos aura refulsit."

In this case the "contrasting golden beam" shone not from the foliage, but, stranger still, from the black trunk of a tall tree. It was a stelecho-karpus, or stem-flowering tree. The trunk from which the deep saffron flowers sprang was about one foot and three inches in diameter, and the flowers themselves were much like bunches of primroses, only darker in colour and divested of their leaves. Unlike AEneas, we passed forward without any floral spoils—for, indeed, we had no such awkward personage as Charon to reckon with—among dark, cool, tree-arched avenues of figs and banyans to the northern limit. On our way we paused once to notice a fine "sacred fig" of India (urostigma), a tree with remarkably angular boughs; and again when Dr. Treub stopped, and, pointing to the frangipane blossom, said, "That is the flower of religion in India, being sacred to Buddha; the Malays here call it the 'flower of the dead.'" In this quarter the trees were larger and of more robust growth, and the appearance of the garden more natural to my Northern eyes. A sudden turn brought us to a projecting spur, on which was built a little summer-house commanding a view of the surrounding country. Far away the double mountain Pangerango and Gede rose blue and shadowy, with just a wreath of smoke showing from the volcanic peak. In the middle ground stretched masses of tropical forests edging the bright green terraces of the savah land. At our feet the river ran bubbling and fretting over the brown stones.

In returning we skirted the central lake, and, having crossed the avenue, passed down a broad roadway lined with rich foliage. This was so arranged as to afford a view of Mount Salak to the southern windows of the Governor-General's residence. It was one of the many glimpses which appeared of a sheer height of dark azure contrasted with the bright green of palm or bamboo. Leaving this, we passed down an avenue of Brazilian palms, running parallel to the Canary Avenue. Each tree was almost too faultlessly perfect in its graceful foliage and smooth rounded stem, and of apparently equal height. Round the surfaces of these stems the green leaves and purple flowers of convolvuli clung. A few yards beyond the termination of this avenue we left the path and entered a wilderness of climbing plants. Carefully advancing (for there were arms stretched out on every side ready to pluck flesh or clothing), we took our stand opposite the coils of a huge climbing palm.

"There are branches," said Dr. Treub, "from this plant six hundred feet in length; it passes, as you see, from tree to tree."

On reaching the path, I found that we had completed the circuit of the gardens, and were once more in the neighbourhood of the nurseries and buildings. These latter are numerous and extensive, for the curator of the Buitenzorg gardens aims not only at obtaining a wide range of vegetable products, and thus serving the needs of colonial industries, but also at accomplishing researches in the pathology and physiology of plants. In this way Dr. Treub expects a useful development for the tropical gardens generally, which he considers have only lately become genuine centres of scientific research. At Buitenzorg, in addition to a museum containing an extensive herbarium and a botanical library of over five thousand volumes, there are numerous laboratories and offices accommodating the curator and his three assistants, and draughtsmen, who are competent to employ the methods of photography and lithography in reproducing the forms of plants. Under the direction of this staff there are employed a number of natives, including three Malays with special botanical knowledge, a head-gardener, and nine under-gardeners, and scarcely less than a hundred coolies. Altogether there are nine thousand distinct species of plants contained in the gardens. On our way to the strangers' laboratory we passed a number of trellis-work houses, with creepers trained over their sides and roofs. "You see," said Dr. Treub, with a smile, "we have cool houses here instead of hot houses. They are for forest plants accustomed to coolness and shelter."

I was especially asked to notice the completeness of the arrangements made for scientific visitors. The laboratory is seventy-five feet in length, and opposite each of the ten windows (five on either side) is placed a table fitted with optical instruments and other necessary means of botanical research. It is also provided with a small library and herbarium. In reference to the strangers' laboratory, Dr. Treub remarked that he specially desired to see Englishmen avail themselves of it. German and French savants had come to Buitenzorg to study, but no Englishmen as yet.

I visited these gardens on several occasions during my short stay at Buitenzorg, and often wandered among the dark tree-arched paths and avenues. On each occasion I found some new beauty. One day it was a lakelet covered with great water-plants; another day a gorgeous plot of orchids, or a fresh piece of landscape. These subsequent visits, however, lacked that which gave so great a charm to my first walk through the gardens—the spontaneous courtesy and graceful learning of the curator.



CHAPTER VIII.

FROM BUITENZORG TO TJI WANGI.

View of Mount Salak—Railway travelling in Java— Soekaboemi—No coolies—A long walk—Making a pikulan—Forest path—Tji Wangi at last.

It is two in the afternoon, and I have just taken the curious Javan meal called rice-table. Everyone else in the hotel, visitors and servants alike, are asleep. The doors of my rooms are all open, and there is a through draught from the courtyard to the verandah, where I am seated in a long easy chair with arms extending at will after the manner of the tropics. By my side on a table are placed cigars, a glass of iced claret and water, and a novel.

The view from the back rooms of the Hotel Belle Vue at Buitenzorg is famous. This afternoon I am looking at it for the last time, and it seems more wonderful than ever. Let me try to describe it.

Immediately in front is the great triangular mass of Mount Salak. The peak is 7000 feet above sea-level, and, like most of the Javan mountains, it rises to its full height almost clear from its base. The lower levels are luxuriantly covered with tropical forests, a covering which gradually thins and dwindles until the apex of the triangle stands out sharply against the sky. Between the hotel and the mountain there stretches a sea of waving treetops. In the distance it is deep blue; as it approaches it grows more and more green; then separate forms of palms and bamboos can be distinguished, with red-tiled or brown-thatched roofs showing between them. Immediately beneath me is the brown river Tjiliwong, with bamboo cottages on its banks and natives bathing in its waters.

Inside the courtyard no one is stirring. The dreamy silence is only broken by the voices that rise from the river below, by the clacking of the sarong weaver's shuttle or the dull boom of a far-away tom-tom.

Under such circumstances the conditions necessary for perfect physical enjoyment are very fully realized. Yet it is at such moments that one is apt to reflect how unimportant are these material considerations compared with the advantages of strenuous and reasoned action. One longs for the stir of life as it is felt in the great centres of European population;

"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay."

Well, I was going to see some European energy on the morrow. At Batavia an English resident had said, "When you are at Buitenzorg you should go on to Soekaboemi and see a coffee plantation.' Subsequently he wrote that his friend H—— would expect me on Tuesday at his coffee plantation with an unpronounceable name in the Preanger district. The morrow was Tuesday.

Soekaboemi was only thirty or forty miles away, but I left Buitenzorg at eight o'clock in order to escape the discomfort of travelling in the middle of the day. It goes without saying that trains in the tropics do not carry you along as quickly as the Flying Dutchman or the Scotch express. But I found the carriages comfortable enough, being built in the American fashion, and furnished with Venetians to keep out the sun and let in the air. Except the station-masters, all the officials were Chinese or Javan natives. The guard who looked at my ticket wore the traditional peaked cap and cloth uniform, but over his European garments he had appended as usual his airy native costume. Of the four classes of carriages two are reserved for Europeans, one for Chinese, and one for the natives.

In leaving Buitenzorg I made the mistake of taking a first-class ticket. In the first place, the carriage had not been dusted, and a cooly came in and disturbed me with his brush. He made such a cloud of dust that I had to beat a retreat. On my return I found the carriage clean, but the dust transferred to my baggage. In the next place, all the Dutch officials, and the planters and their wives, were travelling second class, and I was left to enjoy (?) my compartment in solitary grandeur. Had there been any one in the carriage, I should have found out that Soekaboemi was not the right station for H——'s plantation. As it was I could open and shut windows at will, and I was free to make the best of my opportunities for sight-seeing—an object towards which the slow pace of the train and the frequent and lengthy stoppages materially contributed. Indeed, the crowds of natives at the stations were as well worth studying as the mountains and plantations. I never saw elsewhere, even in Java, such rainbow mixtures of colours as they contrived to bring into their cotton jackets and dresses; and as for their plaited hats, there was every possible variety of shape and size, from an umbrella to a funnel.

For the first few miles the line ran southwards between Salak and Gede. On either side I could see stretches of mountain slopes luxuriously wooded, while the brown stream Tji Sadanie, a tributary of the Kali Besar, or "great river" of Batavia, playing hide-and-seek with the railroad, afforded more than one charming "bit" of river, tree, and mountain.

As we get away from the mountains the view widens. Masses of palms, dark green bamboos, and other tropical growths fill up the distance. In the foreground are irrigated rice terraces, with gleaming waters and the freshest of verdure. Here copper-coloured natives are at work. Men are ploughing the wet soil of the sawahs with buffaloes; women—often with their babies slung on their backs with their long scarfs—are hoeing, or weeding, or reaping. As the average monthly temperature does not vary more than two degrees all the year round in Java, the process of preparing the ground, sowing, and reaping go on simultaneously in the ricefields. Every now and then we come across a queer little Noah's-ark cottage in the midst of bananas and bamboos, with a tall palm or two waving overhead. Salak remains long in sight. At first it towered in its pride of greatness, then it grew soft in the blue distance. At last the railway turns abruptly at Karan Tenjak, and it is gone.

As the train nears Soekaboemi the character of the country changes. Plantations of sugar in the level country and of tea on the uplands take the place of ricefields. The name Soekaboemi means "pleasant place," and the town is the centre of the planting interest in Java. In its immediate neighbourhood are coffee, cinchona, and tea plantations.

At a quarter to eleven the train drew up in a large and excellently arranged station. I at once made my way outside. Here I looked in vain for the horses and coolies I expected to meet me. After waiting some moments, I confided my troubles to a bystander, addressing him in French, which is spoken by the Europeans in Java almost as much as Dutch. Fortunately Tji Wangi—the unpronounceable name of H——'s plantation—seemed to be well known, and he grasped the situation at once.

"You ought to have gone to Tji Reingass," he said; "the coolies will be there."

"How far am I from Tji Wangi? Is it within driving distance?" I inquired.

"Yes."

"Can I take a sadoe?"

"Yes, certainly."

There were several sadoes outside the station at Soekaboemi. As my knowledge of Malay, the recognized language for communication between natives and Europeans, was strictly limited, I asked my new friend to find out if the Malay "boy" knew where Tji Wangi was. This he readily did, and told me that it was all right; that he would take me to Tji Wangi. So I got into the sadoe, expecting to be driven promptly to my destination.

But the thing was not so simple. After an hour and a half of driving over mountain roads, the Malay pulled up suddenly under the shelter of a wayside inn. While I was wondering why he stopped, he coolly took out my luggage and planted it in the middle of the road in front of the sadoe. After this very broad hint, I got out too.

"Mana Tji Wangi" ("Where is Tji Wangi")? I said.

For answer he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the mountain.

"Brapa lama" ("How long")?

"Suku jam" ("A quarter of an hour"), was the mendacious and unhesitating reply.

Meanwhile a cooly, who had been summoned from the ricefields, appeared upon the scene and took up my Gladstone bag. Nothing remained for me but to pay my mendacious Malay half the number of florins he demanded and follow my new guide.

As a matter of fact, Tji Wangi was ten miles away on the other side of the Goenoeng Malang, or Cross Mountain. This, of course, I did not know, and so I set off cheerfully up the side of the mountain. Although it was midday, the heat was not oppressive at this altitude (two thousand feet), and I was clothed for the tropics. When an hour had passed and there were still no signs of the plantation, I began to feel less cheerful. I stopped and interrogated the cooly. He smiled blandly. He at least was suffering from no misgivings. Like the young man in "Excelsior," he pointed upwards. We met some natives; I accosted them with "Mana Tji Wangi?" They too pointed up the mountain. At any rate, we were travelling in the right direction. I noticed that the natives we met behaved very differently from the saucy sadoe-drivers in the towns. As we passed they stood on one side with their heads uncovered. When I spoke to them, they squatted down and sat with their legs tucked up under them and their hats off in a most uncomfortable way. I afterwards learnt that these traditions of Oriental etiquette were preserved by the Dutch and English planters in the interests of discipline. As the plantations are often long distances apart, the Europeans have to rely upon moral force to maintain their ascendency. Another half-hour passed and still no signs of Tji Wangi. We had met no Europeans, and I was beginning to get uneasy, when we came to a second inn.

Here I ordered a halt. The shade of the projecting roof was very welcome. My eyes could not reach the dark interior, but they ranged hungrily—I had eaten nothing since my early breakfast—over the edibles laid out in front. There were fruits and cakes, little messes of vegetables, dried fish, and other odd-looking delicacies on plates. I decided on a big bunch of bananas. In payment I gave a half-florin—worth rather less than a shilling of English money—and I received in return quite a handful of silver and copper coins. I concluded that bananas were not expensive in Java.

While I was eating my bananas, my cooly set to work to make a pikulan, or shoulder-piece. He took a long bamboo and stripped off the leaves and branches with his gaulok, a long knife which every native carries at his waist. By the aid of this contrivance—borrowed from China—the Javan natives carry burdens up to half a hundredweight without apparent exertion for long distances. The spring of the bamboo eases the pressure on the shoulder. On the same principle, an Australian carries his swag with a lurch forward.

While he was busied with the pikulan, the cooly talked over the affairs of the Tuan Ingris (English gentleman) to a crowd of natives. Suddenly I heard the word kuda. Fortunately kuda (horse) was one of the words I knew: and I at once ordered the kuda to be brought. Half a dozen natives set off to find it. It turned out to be a very diminutive pony, but I was not prepared to criticize.

We set out from the inn under brighter auspices. The cooly slung my Gladstone bag at one end of the pikulan, and another small bag, with a big stone to balance, at the other. He moved with an elastic step, as if there was no greater pleasure in the world than carrying bags up mountain paths, and beat the kuda hands down.

Relieved of the fatigue of walking, I could admire the mountain scenery. As we climbed higher and higher, the stretches of green country grew more extensive, and the blue mountains seemed to grow loftier in the distance. Once over the saddle of the mountain, we descended rapidly into a region of almost virgin forest. Ferns and large-leaved trees overhung the path; from the verdant undergrowth there sprang at intervals the vast round trunks of the rosamala trees. In the branches high above, and beyond the range of any gun, the wild pigeons fluttered and cooed. The spaces between the great trees were filled by a background of dense forest.

About five o'clock the red roofs of the plantation came in sight. In another five minutes I was being-welcomed with Anglo-Saxon heartiness. "Ah!" said H——, as he looked at my little pony. "I sent you down a horse that would have brought you up within the hour. You should have gone to Tji Reingass; that is our station, not Soekaboemi. Johnston ought to have known. Come in."

In H——'s comfortable den I soon forgot the various contretemps of my journey to Tji Wangi.



CHAPTER IX.

THE CULTURE SYSTEM.

Financial system previous to the British occupation— Raffles' changes—Return of the Dutch—Financial policy—Van den Bosch Governor-General—Introduction of the culture system—Its application to sugar—To other industries—Financial results of the system— Its abandonment—Reasons of this—Present condition of trade in Java—Financial outlook.

As I have already mentioned, the Colonial Government succeeded the Dutch East India Company in the administration of Java towards the end of the last century. During the period antecedent to the British occupation, the revenue of the Government was derived from two monopolies: (1) that of producing the more valuable crops, and (2) that of trading in all products whatever. Meanwhile the mass of the natives were left entirely to the mercy of the native princes, by whom they were subjected to all manner of exactions.

The financial results of this state of things were seen in the fact that in 1810 the gross revenue of Java was only three and a half million florins,[16] a sum wholly inadequate to the requirements of administration.

During the five years of British occupation (1811-1816) Sir Stamford Raffles was Lieutenant-Governor. He at once introduced reforms. The native princes were displaced; the village community, with its common property and patriarchal government, was modified; a system of criminal and civil justice, similar to that in force in India, in which a European judge sat with native assessors, was introduced; the peasants were given proprietary rights in the soil they cultivated; and complete political and commercial liberty was established. An inquiry into the nature of the respective rights in the soil of the cultivator, the native princes, and the Government resulted in establishing the fact that, of the subject territory the Government was sole owner of seven-tenths. Of the remainder, two-tenths belonged to the Preanger Regents, and one-tenth was occupied by private estates, chiefly in the neighbourhood of Buitenzorg and Batavia. In order to teach the native the western virtues of industry and independence, Raffles determined to introduce the Ryotwarree system. The property in the land vested in the Government was handed over to individual peasant proprietors. In return for his land each proprietor was made individually and personally responsible for the payment of his land tax, and his land was liable to be sold in satisfaction of his public or private debts.

[Footnote 16: 12 florins = L1.]

Before the English administration the peasant had paid—(1) a land rent for his rice lands to the native princes, amounting to a sum equivalent to one-half of the produce of sawah (irrigated) and one-third of tegal (unirrigated) lands; and (2) a tax of forced labour to the Dutch Government, which took the form of unpaid labour in the cultivation of the produce for export. Raffles abolished both, and in place of them he established a fixed money payment equivalent to a much smaller proportion of the produce of the land than had been paid before to the native princes alone.

The Dutch regained their East Indian possessions by the Treaty of London. On their return to Java, they restored the village community with its joint ownership and joint liability, and abolished all proprietary rights of the natives in the soil, only allowing ownership of land to Europeans. They contend that this attempt of Raffles to apply Western principles to an Eastern society had already proved disastrous. The peasants, on the one hand, had not acquired the habits necessary for the successful development of their holdings, but, on the other, through their inability to pay the land rent, were becoming hopelessly involved in debt to the Chinese and Arab money-lenders. The broad fact, however, remains that during the short period of British rule the revenue rose from three and a half to seven and a half million florins, and the population from four to five and a half millions.

As the old monopolies from which the chief part of the revenue had formerly been derived had been abolished by the policy of unrestricted commerce introduced by Raffles, it was necessary to find some other method of raising money. It was decided to retain the land tax as a basis of revenue, but, in order to make it more profitable, a return was made to the original principle of land tenure under native rule, by which the cultivator paid one-fifth of his labour and one-fifth of his produce in return for the usufruct of the land. One day of gratuitous labour in seven (the European week) was substituted for one day in five formerly given to the landlord. In certain districts, namely, those of which the Dutch became possessed by treaty and not by conquest, this contribution in kind and labour was paid to the native princes, and not to the Government. On private estates, again, as the Government had parted with their feudal rights in alienating the property, a tax of three-fourths per cent, on the estimated value of the property was substituted. This tax, called verponding, was at most equivalent to one-fifth of the net yearly income.

As before, the produce due from the peasants cultivating Government lands was commuted into a money payment assessed upon the rice crops; but this payment was made, not by the individual peasants, but by the wedanas, or village chiefs, on behalf of the whole community. Beside the land tax, an additional source of income remained in the profit arising from the sale of coffee, grown either by the Preanger Regents and sold to the Government at prices fixed by treaty, or on the coffee plantations established by Marshall Daendels, which were now restored.

These two methods of raising revenue were resorted to by the Dutch upon their return to the island, and continued in force during the period 1816-1833. They were wholly inadequate. Whether the Dutch were right or not in characterizing Raffles' reforms as a failure, it is certain that nothing could be more desperate than the state of the island in the years immediately preceding the introduction of the culture system. At the end of the period 1816-1833 both revenue and population seem to have become stationary. The mass of the natives were becoming so impoverished that they ceased to be able to keep a supply of domestic animals and implements necessary for the cultivation of their lands. Apart from the princes, there was no class, merchants or tradespeople, possessing any wealth that could be taxed. Not only was the revenue stagnant, but, owing to a war with the sultans of the interior, a debt of over 35,000,000 florins was incurred by the Government. In a word, the colony seemed likely to become an intolerable burden to Holland. It was at this crisis that General Van den Bosch proposed the culture system as a means of rescuing the island from its financial and social difficulties.

The immediate object of the culture system was to extend the cultivation of sugar, coffee, and other produce suited for European consumption; its ultimate object was to develop the resources of the island. This latter was, of course, the most important. Van den Bosch saw that the natives would never be able to do this by themselves. In the first place, they were still organized on the patriarchal model in village communities; and, in the second, owing to the tropical climate and the extreme ease with which life could be sustained in so fertile a country, they were naturally indolent and unprogressive. He therefore proposed to organize their labour under European supervision. By this method he thought that he would be able both to raise the revenue and to improve the condition of the peasants by teaching them to grow valuable produce in addition to the rice crops on which they depended for subsistence. Van den Bosch became Governor-General of Java and its dependencies in 1830. Before leaving Holland he had made his proposals known, and obtained the approval of the Netherlands Government. He took with him newly appointed officials free from colonial traditions, and his reforms inspired such confidence, that a number of well-educated and intelligent persons were willing to emigrate with their families to Java in order to take up the business of manufacturing the produce grown under the new system. Upon his arrival in the island, a special branch cf the Colonial Administration was created. The first work of the new department was to found the sugar industry. It was necessary to supply the manufacturers with both capital and income. Accordingly, a sum amounting to L14,000 was placed to the credit of each manufacturer in the books of the department. Of this sum he was allowed to draw up to L125 per month for the expenses of himself and his family during the first two years. From the third year onwards he paid back one-tenth annually. Thus at the end of twelve years the capital was repaid. The manufacturer was to apply the capital so advanced to the construction of the sugar-mill, which was to be fitted with the best European machinery, and worked by water-power. Free labour, and timber from the Government plantations, was supplied; and the customs duties upon the machinery and implements imported were remitted. The building of the mills was supervised by the controleurs, the officials of the new department, and had to be carried out to their satisfaction. The department also undertook to see that the peasants in the neighbourhood of each mill should have from seven hundred to a thousand acres planted with sugar-canes by the time the mills were in working order. In Java, as in other Eastern countries, the landlord has the right of selecting the crop which the tenant is to plant, and therefore the peasants saw nothing unusual in this action of the Government. The controleurs ascertained, in the case of each village, how much rice land was necessary for the subsistence of the village, and they then ordered the remainder, usually one-fifth, to be planted with sugar-canes. At the same time, they explained that the value of the crop of sugar would be much greater than that of the rice crop, and promised that the peasants should be paid not only for the crops, but also for the labour of cutting the canes and carrying them to the mill. When, at the end of two years, the mills had been built and the plantations established, another advance was made by the department to the manufacturers. This was capital sufficient to pay for the value of the sugar crop, estimated as it stood, for the wages of the peasants, and generally for the expenses of manufacture. This second advance was at once repaid by the produce of the mill. At first the department required the manufacturer to deliver the whole amount of produce to them at a price one-third in excess of the cost of production. Subsequently he was allowed the option of delivering the whole crop to Government, or of delivering so much of the produce only as would pay for the interest on the crop advance, together with the instalment of the original capital annually due. Working on these terms, large profits were made by the manufacturers, and there soon came to be a demand for such new contracts as the Government had at their disposal.



As for the peasants, they were undoubtedly benefited by the introduction of the system. While the land rent continued to be calculated as before, on a basis of the produce of ricefields, the value of the sugar crop was so much greater than that of the rice, which it partially displaced, that the money received for it amounted on the average to twice the sum paid to Government for land rent on the whole of the village land. Moreover, although the estimated price of the crop was paid to the wedanas, or village chiefs, the wages for cutting and carrying were paid to the peasants individually. The value of the crop, the rate of wages, and the relations between the peasants and the manufacturers generally, were settled by the controleurs.

In 1871, when the culture system was in full operation, there were 39,000 bouws, or 70,000 acres, under sugar-cane, giving employment to 222,000 native families, and ninety-seven sugar-mills had been started. One-third of the produce was delivered to Government at the rate of eight florins per picul,[17] and the remaining two-thirds were sold by the manufacturers in open market. In the five years 1866-1870 the Government profit on sugar amounted to rather more than 25,000,000 florins.

[Footnote 17: The picul = 135 lbs.]

Subsequently the cultivation of coffee, indigo, cochineal, tobacco, pepper, tea, and cinchona was added to that of sugar. The system pursued was not identical in the case of all produce. Cochineal, indigo, tea, and tobacco were cultivated in a manner similar to that adopted for sugar. But in the case of coffee, cinnamon, and pepper it was not found necessary to have any manufacturers between the controleurs and the peasants. Of these coffee, the most important, is grown on lands having an elevation of from 2000 to 4500 feet. Each head of a family is required to plant a certain number of trees in gardens (the maximum was fixed in 1877 at fifty a year), and to keep a nursery of young trees to replenish the plantations. These gardens and nurseries are all inspected by native and European officials. The process of harvesting the berry is similarly supervised, but after that is accomplished the peasants are left to dry, clean, and sort the berries by themselves, and are allowed to deliver the crop at the coffee stores at their own convenience. Finally, private persons contract for periods of two or three years to pack and transport the coffee to the central stores at the ports. Of the coffee produced on Government account, one-fifth only is sold in Java, and the remainder is sent home to Europe and sold there.

The culture system was so successful as a financial expedient, that between the years 1831 and 1875 the colonial revenue yielded surpluses to Holland amounting to 725,000,000 florins. This total seems the more remarkable when we know that from 1838 onwards, the colonial revenue was charged with 200,000,000 florins of the public debt of Holland, being the proportion borne by Belgium before the separation of the two countries, which took place at that date.

In 1876, however, the long series of surpluses ceased, and they have since been replaced by deficits almost as continuous. These deficits are due to three well-ascertained causes: (1) the Achin war, (2) public works, and (3) the fall in the price of sugar and coffee. In order to show that this remarkable change in the financial fortunes of Java is in no way due to the culture system, it is necessary to go somewhat more into detail.

(1) Before the outbreak of the Achin war in 1873, the average expenditure of the Colonial Government for military purposes was 30,000,000 florins annually. During the period 1873-1884 this expenditure rose to an average of 50,000,000 florins, and the total cost of the war during that period amounted to 240,000,000 florins. Since 1884 the expenditure has been reduced by confining the operations of the troops to such as are purely defensive; even then the average annual expenditure has reached 40,000,000 florins.