James Braithwaite, the Supercargo: The Story of his Adventures Ashore and AfloatKingston, William Henry Giles
History
James Braithwaite, the Supercargo: The Story of his Adventures Ashore and Afloat
Kingston, William Henry Giles
Great Britain -- History, Naval -- 19th century -- Fiction
As I looked down from the terrace, I could see the tops of the houses of
the poorer class of people, which surrounded the palace of the chief.
They were all in the midst of gardens, and had walls round them. I
found, indeed, that I was in the centre of a town, or large village,
though in coming along I had scarcely seen any habitations, so
completely shut in were they by trees and shrubs. I had thus an example
of the fertility of Java, and of the industry of its inhabitants. With
regard to the habitations of the barbarians whose lands I visited, I
must observe that, though there were exceptions to the rule, they were
generally far superior in respect to the wants of the occupants than are
the dwellings of a large number of the poorer classes in Scotland, and
especially in Ireland, and in some districts even in England. They are
in good condition, clean, sufficiently furnished, and well ventilated.
Granted that the materials of which they are built are cheap, that from
the fertility of the land a man by labouring three days in the week can
supply all his wants for the remaining four, and has time to repair his
house and furniture, and that he has no rates and taxes to pay, still I
cannot help believing that there is something wrong somewhere, that God
never intended it to be so, and that it is a matter it behoves us to
look to more than we have done. Though distance seemed to increase my
love for Old England, it did not blind me to her faults, and I often
blushed when I found myself among heathen savages, and saw the
superiority of some of their ways to ours. These or similar thoughts
occupied me while I stood on the terrace gazing on the fine prospect
around, and waiting for the appearance of the chief.
After some time the chief appeared at the entrance of the hall of
audience, with a gay coloured umbrella borne over his head, a slave
carrying the indispensable betel-box by his side, a handsome turban on
his head, and his sash stuck full of jewel-hilted daggers with golden
scabbards, while all his attendants stood round with their bodies bent
forward and their eyes cast to the ground, as a sign of reverence. I
thus knew that I was in the presence of a very important person. I was
rather puzzled to discover who he took me for, that he treated me with
so much state. How we were to understand each other, and I was to
ascertain the truth, I could not tell. I think I mentioned that I
learned a little Dutch, which I had practised occasionally with Peter
Klopps, my old cousin's butler.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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