OTHER noticeable objects when travelling about the central provinces are tall stones of rough undressed granite, from eight to twelve feet high, called Vàtolàhy (i.e. “Male stones”), which have been erected in memory of some bygone worthy, or of some notable event, now forgotten, and which often crown the top of prominent hills. They are also sometimes memorials of those who went away to the wars of olden times, and who never returned to their homes. In these cases a square of small stones—at least three sides of one—is formed as part of the memorial, as a kind of pseudo-tomb. These little enclosures are from eight to ten feet square. A wonderful variety of lichens is often to be seen on these tall stones—red, yellow, grey of many shades, black, and pure white embroidering the rough stone. Some have supposed, from the name of these memorials, that we have here a relic of phallic worship.

A very prominent feature of the social life of the Malagasy is the system of holding large open-air markets all over the central province on the various days of the week. The largest of these is naturally that held in the capital every Friday (Zomà), at which probably from twenty thousand to thirty thousand people are densely crowded together, and where almost everything grown or manufactured in the province can be purchased. But two or three of the other markets held within five or six miles of Antanànarìvo do not fall far short of the Zomà market in size, especially those at Asabòtsy (Saturday) to the north, and at Alàtsinainy (Monday) to the north-east. To a stranger these great markets present a very novel and interesting scene, and a good idea may be obtained as to what can be purchased here by taking a stroll through them and noticing their different sections. In one part are oxen and sheep, many of which are killed in the morning, while the meat is cut up and sold during the day; here are turkeys, geese, ducks and fowls by the hundred; here are great heaps of rice, both in the husk, and either partially cleaned, as “red rice,” or perfectly so, as “white rice”; here are piles of brown locusts, heaps of minute red shrimps, and baskets of snails, all used as “relishes” for the rice; here is màngahàzo, or manioc root, both cooked and raw, as well as sweet potatoes, earth-nuts, arum roots (saonjo) and many kinds of green vegetables, and also capsicums, chillies and ginger. In another quarter are the stalls for cottons and prints, sheetings and calicoes from Europe, as well as native-made cloths of hemp, rofìa fibre, cotton and silk; and not far away are basketfuls and piles of snowy or golden-coloured cocoons of native silk for weaving. Here is the ironmongery section, where good native-made nails, rough hinges, and locks and bolts, knives and scissors can be bought; and formerly were the sellers of the neat little scales of brass or iron, with their weights for weighing the “cut money,” which formed the small change of the Malagasy before foreign occupation. (The five-franc pieces were cut up in pieces of all shapes and sizes, so that buying and selling were very tedious matters.) Then we come to the vendors of the strong and cheap mats and baskets, made from the tough peel of the zozòro papyrus, and from various kinds of grass, often with graceful interwoven patterns. Yonder a small forest of upright pieces of wood points out the timber market, where beams and rafters, joists and boarding can be purchased, as well as bedsteads, chairs and doors. Not far distant from this is the place where large bundles of hèrana sedge, arranged in sheets or “leaves,” as the Malagasy call them, for roofing, can be bought; and near these again are the globular water-pots or sìny for fetching and for storing water. But it would occupy too much space to enumerate all the articles for sale in an Imèrina market. Before the French occupation it was not uncommon to see slaves exposed for sale, but happily that and slavery are now things of the past.

In the old times of Malagasy independence there were few more interesting scenes than that presented by a great national assembly or Kabàry. These were summoned when new laws were made, or a new government policy was announced, and also when war was imminent with France, both in 1882 and again in 1895. On such occasions the large triangular central space near the summit of the capital, called Andohàlo, was filled with many thousands of people from early morning. Lines of native troops kept open lanes for the advance of the queen’s representative, generally the Prime Minister, who was always attended by a number of officers in a variety of gorgeous uniforms. At the eastern or highest portion of Andohàlo a place was kept open for the royal messengers, whose approach was announced by the firing of cannon. Taking his stand so as to be seen by the vast assembly, the Prime Minister would draw his sword and commence the proceedings by turning towards the palace and giving the word of command for a royal salute, all the troops presenting arms, and all the cannon round the upper portion of the city being fired. The next officer in rank then took the word, and the troops all saluted the Prime Minister, who stood bareheaded, acknowledging the respect due to his high position. He then proceeded to give the royal message, or read the new laws, often with a great deal of eloquence, for the Malagasy are ready and clever speakers. At passages where the national pride or patriotism was touched, much enthusiastic response was often aroused, especially as each paragraph of the speech was followed by a question: “Fa tsy izày, va, ry ambànilànitra?” (“For is it not so, ye ‘under-the-heaven’?”) These questions were replied to with shouts of “Izày!” (“It is so!”) from the assembled multitude. But the greatest pitch of loyal enthusiasm was generally evoked by the chiefs of the different tribes, as they, one after another, replied to the queen’s message and gave assurances of obedience and loyalty. Surrounded by a small group of their fellow-clansmen, they would wind their làmba round their waists, brandish a spear, and at the conclusion of each part of their speech they also demanded: “Fa tsy izày va?” And sometimes the whole of the people would leap to their feet, the officers waving their swords, the soldiers tossing up their rifles, and the people dancing about in a perfect frenzy of excitement.

We noticed just now the signs of the ancient villages and towns in the central province; but something may be added here as to the existing villages we see as we travel through it. The ancient towns were, as we have seen, all built for safety on the top of hills, and many of those now inhabited by the people are still so situated, although in several districts the French authorities have obliged them to leave the old sites and build their houses, with plenty of space round each, on the sides of the newly made roads. But a good number of the old style of village still remain, and it is these I want to describe. They mostly have deep fosses, cut in the hard red soil, surrounding them, about twenty to thirty feet across, and as many feet deep, sometimes still deeper; and before guns and cannons were brought into the country they must have formed very effective defences against an enemy, especially as there is often a double or even treble series of them. The gateways, sometimes three deep, are formed of stone, often in large slabs, and instead of a gate a great circular stone, eight or ten feet in diameter, was rolled across the opening and was fitted into rough grooves on either side, and wedged up with other stones inside the gate. I have slept in villages where it was necessary to call several men before one could leave in the morning, until they had answered our inquiry: “Who shall roll us away the stone?” In these fosses, which are of course always damp, with good soil, ferns and wild plants grow luxuriantly; and the bottom forms a plantation in which peach, banana, guava and other fruit trees are cultivated, as well as coffee, arums and a variety of vegetables. Tall trees often grow there, so that these hàdy or fosses are often the prettiest feature of the village. It must be added that the paths between and leading to the gateways are often winding, and formed by a thick mass of prickly plants.

In some parts of the central provinces the villages have no deep trenches round them, but they are protected by a dense and wide plantation of prickly pear. The thick, fleshy, twisted stems, the gaily tinted flowers, and even the fruits, are all armed with spines and stinging hairs; and it is no easy matter to get rid of the minute little needles, if they once get into one’s skin. So one sees that a thick hedge of prickly pear was a very effectual defence against enemies, especially since the people wore no shoes or any protection for legs and feet. In many places, instead of prickly pear, the fence round the village is made of tsiàfakòmby (“impassable by cattle”), a shrub with bright yellow flowers and full of hook-like prickles. In some cases, instead of a door at the gateway, a number of short poles are hung from a cross-piece at the top, which passes through a hole in each of them; and one has to hold up two or three poles in order to pass through.

Here, however, we are at last inside the village, and we see at once that it is a very different place from an English village, with the turnpike road passing through it, its trim houses and cottages, with neat gardens and flower-beds, its grey old church, and its churchyard with elms and yews overshadowing the graves.

There is nothing at all like this in our Malagasy village. There are no streets intersecting it, and the houses are built without much order, except in one point—namely, that they are almost all built north and south, and that they have their single door and window always on the west side, so as to be protected from the cold and keen south-east winds which blow over Imèrina during a great part of the year. The houses are mostly made of the hard red earth, laid in courses of a foot or so high. They are chiefly of one storey and of one room, but they generally have a floor in the roof, which is used for cooking; and, if of good size, they are sometimes divided into two rooms by rush and mat partitions. On the east of Imèrina, near the forest, the houses are made of rough wooden framing, filled up with bamboo or rush, and often plastered with cow-dung. In the neighbourhood of the capital, and indeed in most places, the houses are now often made of sun-dried bricks, in two storeys, with several rooms, and often with tiled roofs.

Here and there throughout the province one comes across a village which was formerly the capital of a petty kingdom, where we find several strong and well-built timber houses. Such a place was Ambòhitritankàdy (I say “was,” because it now no longer exists), one of the villages in my mission district. It was on a high hill, and in the centre of the village were ten large houses of massive timber framing and with very high-pitched roofs, with long “horns” at the gables, and these were arranged five on each side of a long oblong space sunk a couple of feet below the ground. Here, in former times, bull-fights took place, and various games and amusements were carried on. One of the houses, where the chief himself resided, was much larger than the rest, and the corner posts, as well as the great central posts supporting the ridge, were very massive pieces of timber. It was all in one great room, without any partitions, the whole being well floored with wood, and the walls covered with fine mats. Similar houses might be seen at most of the chief towns of Imèrina; but the house I have just described was the largest and finest of any, not excepting those in the capital and at Ambòhimànga. Sad to say, except at these two places, where two ancient timber houses at the first one, and one at the other, are still preserved as a kind of curiosity, almost all these fine structures have been demolished in order to get well-seasoned timber for furniture and buildings. They have been superseded by much less picturesque, but perhaps more comfortable as well as cheaper, houses of sun-dried or burnt brick.

There is no privacy or retirement about the houses in the village, no back-yard or outbuildings, although occasionally low walls make a kind of enclosure around some of them. Here and there among the houses are square pits, four or five feet deep, and eight or ten feet square, called fàhitra. These are pens for the oxen, which are kept in them to be fattened, formerly especially for the national festival of the New Year. As may be supposed, these are very dirty places, and in the wet season are often just pools of black mud; indeed the village, as a whole, is anything but neat and clean. All sorts of rubbish and filth accumulate; there are no sanitary arrangements; frequently the cattle used to be penned for the night in a part of the village, and the cow-dung made it very muddy in wet weather, and raised clouds of stifling dust when it was dry. Frequently the cow-dung is collected and made into circular cakes of six or eight inches diameter, which are then stuck on the walls of the houses to dry. This is used as fuel for burning; and splitting off large slabs of gneiss rock, which are employed by the people in making their tombs.

In the centre of the village may often be seen the large family tomb of the chief man of the place, the owner of much of the land and many of the neighbouring rice-fields. If he is an andrìana, or of noble birth, the stonework is surmounted by a small wooden house, with thatched or shingled roof, and a door, but no window. This is called tràno màsina, “sacred house,” or tràno manàra, “cold house,” because it has no hearth or fire.

Seen from a distance, these Malagasy villages often look very pretty and picturesque, for “distance lends enchantment to the view.” Round some of them tall trees, called àviàvy, a species of ficus, grow, which are something like an English elm in appearance. In others one or two great amòntana trees may be seen; these are also a species of fig-tree, and have large and glossy leaves. The amòntana is evergreen, while the àviàvy is deciduous. A beautiful tree, called zàhana, is also common, with hundreds of pink flowers and sweetish fruit like a pea-pod. In the fosses is often seen the amìana, a tall tree-nettle, with large deeply cut and velvety leaves with stinging hairs. Many kinds of shrubs often make the place gay with flowers, especially in the hot season.

But what are the Hova children like? How are they dressed? And what do they play at? They are brown-skinned, some very light olive in colour, and some much darker. As a rule they have little clothing; perhaps some of the boys may have a straw hat, but no shoes or stockings, and they are often dirty and little cared for. On Sundays and on special occasions the girls are often dressed in print frocks, and the boys in jackets of similar material, and with a clean white calico làmba overall; but on weekdays a small làmba of soiled and coarse hemp cloth often forms almost their only clothing. Of course the children of well-to-do people are sometimes very nicely dressed, although they too often go about in a rather dirty fashion. I am here, however, speaking of the majority of the children one sees, those of the poorer children of a village.[10] One day some of us went for a ride to a village about two miles from Ambòhimànga. A number of children followed us about as we collected ferns in a hàdy, and, as a group of seven or eight of them sat near us, we calculated that the value of all they had on would not amount to one shilling!

Poor children! they have little advantages compared with English boys and girls, and they have few amusements. They sometimes play at a game which is very like our “fox and geese”; the boys spin peg-tops and play at marbles; the little children make figures of oxen and birds, etc., out of clay; the boys are fond of a game resembling the lassoing of wild oxen, by trying to catch their companions by throwing a noose over them; and the big boys have a rough and violent game called mamèly dìa mànga, in which they try to throw an opponent down by kicking backward at each other, with the sole of the foot, which is darted out almost as high as their heads. Ribs are sometimes broken by a violent kick. Perhaps the most favourite amusement of Malagasy children is to sit in parties out of doors on fine moonlight nights and sing away for hours some of the monotonous native chants, accompanying them with regular clapping of hands.

In about a fourth of these villages, where there are churches, a mission day school is still carried on, and here may be seen, if we look in, a number of bright-looking children repeating their a, b, d (not c), reading and writing, doing sums, learning a little grammar and geography, and being taught their catechism, and something about the chief facts and truths of the Bible. And perhaps there is no more pleasant sight in Madagascar than one of the larger chapels on the annual examination day, filled with children from the neighbouring villages, all dressed in their best, eager to show their knowledge, and pleased to get the Bible or Testament or hymn-book or other prize given to those who have done well.

A few words may be said here about the aspect of the heavens in Imèrina, especially at evening and night. We are highly favoured in having sunsets of wonderful beauty; the western sky burns with molten gold, orange and crimson; and as the sun nears the horizon, the ruddy landscape to the east is lighted up more and more intensely every moment with glowing colour, the natural hue of the soil being heightened by the horizontal rays; the distant lines of hill, range after range, are bathed in every shade of purple light, and the long lines of red clay walls glow like vermilion in the setting sunshine. How often have we watched this glorious display of light and colour, and thanked God for this beautiful world!

But the nights, especially near the time of full moon, are also very enjoyable. The moon appears more brilliant and her light more intense than in England; it is a delight to be out of doors and to walk in the fresh bracing air, and to have the rough paths illuminated for us by the silvery radiance, which gives a picturesque beauty to the most commonplace objects and scenes.

Perhaps the starlit skies of the evenings of the summer months are the most beautiful of all the year. At this season some of the finest of the northern constellations are seen at the same time as several of the southerly ones. The Great Bear stretches over the northern sky; higher up is the Northern Crown; the Pleiades,[11] and Orion with his many brilliant neighbours, are overhead; the Southern Cross, with its conspicuous “pointers” in the Centaur, is high in the southern heavens; and the Magellan Clouds are clearly seen nearer the horizon; and all across the firmament is the Galaxy, or, as the Malagasy call it, the èfi-taona, “the division,” or “separation of the year.” And then, as the circling year revolves, the great serpentine curve of Scorpio appears, and Sirius, Capella, Canopus, and many another glorious lamp of heaven light up the midnight sky with their flashing radiance.

The month of August, the closing one in this review of the year, is often the coldest month of all, cold, that is, for a country within the tropics. All through August the keen south-eastern trades generally blow strong, and although in sheltered places the afternoon sun may be quite warm, the mornings and evenings are very cold, and during the night the mercury will often descend to very near the freezing-point. The mornings are frequently misty; on some days there are constant showers of èrika or drizzly rain, alternating with bright sunny days and clear skies; these latter seem the very perfection of weather, bracing and health-giving. But this cold weather often brings disease to the Malagasy, especially a kind of malarial fever, which sometimes attacks great numbers of them, and also brings affections of the throat and chest, to which many fall victims. At such times their thin cotton clothing seems ill adapted for protection against the climate. This circumstance has often struck me as showing how difficult it is to change the habits of a people; for centuries past the Hova have lived in this cool highland region, yet, until very lately, few comparatively have made much change in their dress, which was well enough adapted for the purely tropical region from which they originally came, but very unfitted for the cool air of the winter months of a country about five thousand feet above sea-level.

The great rice-plain to the west of the capital and all the broader valleys still lie fallow, although in various places extensive sheets of water show that irrigation is commencing. In the lesser valleys and at the edge of the larger rice-plains the landscape is enlivened by the bright green of the kètsa grounds, where, as already described, the rice is sown broadcast before transplanting into the larger fields.

There are not many deciduous trees in Imèrina, so the numerous orchards, chiefly of mango-trees, look fresh and green throughout the year. But the Cape lilac, which does cast its leaves, is beginning to put out its bright green fronds; the peach-trees are a mass of pink blossom, unrelieved as yet by any leaves, and the sòngosòngo (Euphorbia splendens), in the hedges is just beginning to show its brilliant scarlet or pale yellow bracts. Wild flowers are still scarce, but the lilac flowers of the sèvabé (Solanum auriculatum) bloom all through the year. The golden-orange panicles of the sèva (Buddleia madagascariensis), which has a sweetish scent, now appear. Nature is arousing from the inaction of the cold season, and the few trees now flowering give promise of the coming spring. And so, from year to year, every month brings some fresh interest in tree and flower, in bird and insect, in the employments of the people, and in the changing aspects of the sky by day and in the starry heavens by night.

Note.—I may add here that of late years, through foreign influence preceding and following the French occupation, many new trees have been introduced into Madagascar, which have materially altered the look of the country in some provinces, especially in the Bétsiléo district. Millions of trees, chiefly species of eucalyptus, have been planted, especially along the roadsides, as well as mimosa, blackwood and filào. The beautiful purple bracts of the bougainvillea, and the large brilliant scarlet ones of the poinsettia, now give a much brighter appearance to gardens and public places, since they have been extensively planted in the capital and other large towns, as well as zinnias, crotons and cannas.