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It is only the wives of the nobles that are secluded in the istana isaras, or women palaces, according to Mohammedan law; the women of the poor are as free as the more civilized countries of Europe. They bask in the sun with their brown babies on their laps, or wander among the cocoanuts that always surround their palm-thatched homes, happy and contented, with no thought for the morrow. The trees furnish them their food, and a few hours before their looms of dark kamooning wood each week keep them supplied with their one article of dress–the sarong. They never heard of the Bible, but they are very religious, and at sunrise and sunset, at the deep-toned boom of the hollow log that hangs before their little thatched mosques, they fall on their faces and pray to “Allah, the All Merciful and Loving Kind.”

When the Crown Prince had stepped modestly back among his brothers and cousins, a holy man in green robes and turban came forward and read an address in Arabic. He recited the glories of the Prophet, the promises of the Koran, and then told of the ancient greatness of Johore,–how it once ruled the great peninsula that forever points like a lean, disjointed finger down into the heart of the greatest archipelago of the world,–how its ruler was looked up to and made treaties with, by the kings of Europe,–of the coming of the thieving Portuguese and the brutal Dutch,–of the dark, bloody years when the deposed descendants of the once proud Emperors of Johore turned to piracy,–of the new days that commenced when that great Englishman, Sir Stamford Raffles, founded Singapore,–down to the glorious reign of the present just ruler, Abubaker.

Our eyes wandered from time to time out through the cool marble courts and tried vainly to pierce the botanic chaos that crowded close up to the palace grounds. Banian and sacred waringhan trees covered great stretches of ground, and dropped their fantastic roots into the steaming earth like living stalactites. The fan-shaped, water-hoarding traveller’s palm formed a background for the brilliant magenta-colored bougainvillea. The dim, translucent depths of an orchid-house lured us on, or a great pond covered with the sacred lotus, blue lilies, and the flush-colored cups of the superb Victoria regia commanded our admiration. Palms, flowering shrubs, ferns, and creepers rioted on all sides. Monkeys swung above in the ropelike tendrils of the rubber-vines, and spotted deer gamboled beneath the shade of mango trees.

The brilliant audience listened with bated breath to the dramatic recital of their nation’s story. Even we, who did not understand a word, were impressed by their flushed faces and eager attention, and when the band in the columned corridors beyond broke forth into the national anthem of Johore and the vast concourse outside took up the shouts of fealty that began within, I, for one, felt an almost irresistible desire to join in the shouts and do honor to the kindly old Sultan and his graceful son.

After his Highness, the Sultan, had spoken, through the mouth of his Prime Minister, to the nobles, and commended his son to their care, we crowded forward and congratulated him in the names of our respective countries.

We filed through the grand salon, with its luxurious medley of divans, tapestries, and rugs, through a great hall whose walls were hung with heroic-sized paintings of the English royal family, down a flight of steps, across the marble reception room, and into the open doors of the royal dining room.

From its polished ceiling of black billion wood hung great white punkahs, which half-nude Indians on the outside kept gently swaying back and forth.

In the centre of the vast table stood a golden urn filled with delicate maidenhair ferns and dragon orchids. Against a great plate-glass mirror, at the far end, rested massive salvers of gold, engraven with the arms of Johore, and in its flawless depths shone the jewels that decked the entering throng and the splendid service of plate that dazzled our eyes.