atters. How short-sighted his policy is, in this point of view, it
would be no difficult task to prove.

The pleasantest months of the year, in Batavia, are, June, July, and
August, when the sun is to the northward. I have frequently found a
blanket necessary at this season: indeed, the nights, throughout Java,
are generally sufficiently cool to allow the European to enjoy a
refreshing sleep, after which he will find no difficulty in getting
through a hot day. The public health is generally very good from May
till September inclusive. In April and October, strangers, particularly
the recently arrived European, are apt to suffer from colds and fever,
caused, in a great measure, by the breaking-up of the monsoon, which
takes place in those months. In November or December, the north-west
monsoon brings on the rains, which certainly then come down in torrents,
and render the city of Batavia a perfect charnel-house for those poor
Natives and Chinese who are unfortunately compelled to remain in it. I
have seen it entirely flooded with water, to the depth of four or five
feet in some parts. The malaria occasioned by the deposit of slimy mud
left all over the town by the water, on its retiring, causes sad havoc
among the poorer Chinese and Malays, who reside in the lowest parts of
the town, and inhabit wretched hovels. These floods seldom annoy the
inhabitants of the suburbs; yet I well remember, in the season of 1828,
a friend of mine lay down on a sofa and went to sleep, about eight
o'clock in the evening: at three next morning, he awoke with the water
just reaching his couch, much to his surprise and no small alarm, till,
on becoming collected, he bethought him of the cause. The neighbouring
river had risen, from mountain rains, whilst he was asleep, and had
completely flooded his house, to the depth of eighteen inches, together
with the garden and neighbourhood.

I know no market, east of the Cape of Good Hope, better supplied with
fruit than that of Batavia. Among the choicest, I would name the
mangistan, the durian, and the pumaloe or shaddock. The first is unknown
beyond eight degrees from the Equator, and is, perhaps, the best fruit
with which nature has blessed the tropical regions. It is about the size
of an orange, its rind of a dark purple, and its pulp divided into parts
like the contents of an orange, as white as driven snow. Its taste I
cannot attempt to describe, knowing nothing to which I can compare it.
The b