tural features still intact conveys an
impression of permanence rather than of ruin.

For six centuries, Boro-Boedoer was blotted from the memory of the
people, and the heavy pall of tropical verdure which veiled the vast
Temple remained unlifted. Superincumbent masses of trees, parasites,
and strangling creepers wove their intricate network of root, branch,
and stem round the monumental record of a dead faith and a buried
dynasty. The riotous luxuriance of tropical Nature triumphed over the
glories of Art, hewn with incalculable toil and skill in the living
rock. Seeds borne on the wind, or sown by wandering birds, filled
every interstice of the closely-matted verdure; stair and terrace, dome
and spire, sank out of sight into the forest depths, and when English
engineers arrived to excavate the monumental pile, the task of clearing
away the tangled masses of foliage occupied two hundred coolies during
six weeks of arduous toil. The brief English occupation of the island
necessarily left the work unfinished, but Dutch archaeologists continued
the labour, though with slower methods and feebler grasp of the
situation. A transient cult sprang up among the Javanese populace as
the ancient sanctuary revealed itself anew. The statues were invoked
with reverential awe, incense was offered; the saffron, used as a
personal decoration on festive occasions, was smeared over the
impassive faces, unchanged in the eternal calm of a thousand years, and
fragrant flower petals were heaped on the myriad altars. Vigils were
kept on the summit, and the sick were laid at the feet of favourite
images. This spurious devotion, hereditary or instinctive, sprang up in
responsive hearts with simultaneous fervour, though the forgotten
doctrines of Buddhism were never reinstated. Sentiment survived dogma
in the subconscious soul, and the faint shadow cast by an immemorial
past indicates the depths plumbed by the early creed in the abyss of
Eastern personality. The vague simulacrum quickly faded, like a
flickering flame in the wind which fanned it into life; but simple
souls, as they pass Boro-Boedoer in the brief twilight, mutter
incantations, and brown hands grasp the silver amulets which ward off
the powers of evil, for the deserted temple is still regarded as the
haunt of unknown gods, who may perchance wreak vengeance on the world
which has forsaken them.

The long scroll of ancient history, unrolled by the sculptured
terraces, represents the