,
and the storm only dies away when we start at dawn for Tosari, the
mountain sanatorium of the Tengger. The flat and flooded land glows
with the vivid green of springing rice, tremulous tamarind and
blossoming teak bordering a road gay with pilgrim crowds, for the great
volcano of the Tengger remains one of Nature's mystic altars, dedicated
to prayer and sacrifice. Moslem girls in yellow veils jostle brown men
with white prayer-marks and clanking bangles. The _sari_ of India
replaces the _sarong_ of Java, with fluttering folds of red and purple;
children, clad only in silver chains and medals, or strings of blue
beads, dart through the crowd, from whence the familiar types of Malay
and Javanese personality are absent. We change carts in a busy roadside
_passer_, which drives a roaring trade in rice-cakes and fruit, syrups
and stews, to mount through changing zones of vegetation, where palms
give place to tree ferns, and luscious frangipanni or gardenia yields
to rose and chrysanthemum. From the half-way house of Poespo, a forest
road ascends to Tosari. Sombre casuarina, most mournful of the pine
tribe, mingles with teak and mahogany in dense woods falling away on
either side from the shadowy path. Innumerable monkeys swing from bough
to bough, eating wild fruits, and breaking off twigs to pelt the
intruders on their domains. At length the sylvan scenery gives place to
endless fields of cabbage, potatoes, maize, and onions, for the cool
heights of the Tengger range serve the prosaic purpose of market-garden
to Eastern Java, and all European vegetables may be cultivated here
with success. A patchwork counterpane of green, brown, and yellow,
clothes these steep slopes, but the extent of the mountain chain, and
the phantasmal outlines of volcanic peaks, absorb the incongruities
grafted upon them. Valerian and violet border the track between swarthy
pines with grey mosses hanging down like silver beards from forked
branches, and sudden mists shroud the landscape in vaporous folds, torn
to shreds by gusts of wind, to melt away into the blue sky, suddenly
unveiled in dazzling glimpses between the surging clouds. A long flight
of mossy steps ascends to the plateau occupied by the Sanatorium, with
wide verandahs and a poetic garden, like some old Italian pleasaunce,
with fountain and sundial, espaliered orange boughs, and ancient
rose-trees overhanging paved walks, gay parterres, and avenues of
myrtle or heliotrope. Flowers are