every leaf and flower, has nothing in common with the prodigal and
passionate beauty of the tropical landscape, where the wealth of earth
is flung broadcast at our feet in mad profusion. Day by day the
marvellous gardens of Buitenzorg take deeper hold of mind and
imagination. The early dawn, when the dark silhouettes of the palms
stand etched against the rose-tinted heavens, the hot noontide in the
shadows of the colossal kanari-trees, the sunset gold transfiguring the
foliage into emerald fire, and spilling pools of liquid amber upon the
mossy turf, or the white moonlight which transmutes the forest aisles
into a fairy world of sable and silver, invest this vision of Paradise
with varied aspects of incomparable beauty. The surrounding scenery,
though full of interest, seems but the setting of the priceless gem,
and when inexorable Time, the modern angel of the flaming sword, at
length bars the way, and banishes us from our Javanese Eden, the exiled
heart turns back perpetually to the floral sanctuary, the antitype of
that Divinely-planted Garden on the dim borderland of Time which
revealed and fulfilled the primeval beauty of earth's morning hours.

SOEKABOEMI AND SINDANGLAYA.

Soekaboemi (Desire of the World), a favourite sanatorioum of the Dutch,
is approached by an exquisite railway, curving round the purple heights
of forest-girt Salak. The usual afternoon deluge weeps itself away,
palm plumes and cassava boughs, overhanging the silvery Tjiligong, drop
showers of diamonds into the current, and giant bamboos creak in the
spicy wind, redolent of gardenia and clove. The hills, scaled by green
rice-terraces, each with tiny rill and miniature cascade, are vocal
with murmuring waters. Lilac plumbago, red hybiscus, and golden
allemanda mingle with pink and purple lantana, yellow daisies, and
hedges of scarlet tassels, enclosing wicker huts in patches of banana
and cocoanut. Brown girls, in blue and orange _sarongs_, occupy the
steps of a basket-work shrine, from whence an unknown god, smeared with
ochre, extends a sceptred hand, for Hinduism left deep traces on
inland Java, dim with the dust of vanished creeds. The expense and
trouble of former travel by the superb post-roads, made at terrible
sacrifice of life in earlier days, is now done away with, though the
noble avenues and picturesque shelters, erected for protection from sun
or rain, suggest a pleasant mode of leisurely progress. No trains may
run at night