The following is an account of some experiences on an up-river trip, when McDougall, Ray, and myself accompanied Dr. Charles Hose, the Resident of the Baram District of Sarawak, Borneo, on one of his administrative journeys.

The Baram is the second largest river in Sarawak; it rises about 3° 10′ north latitude in the unnamed and unexplored mountains which form the division between Sarawak and Dutch Borneo, and enters the China Sea at the end of a prominent spit at 114° east longitude.

The Government station and fort are situated at Marudi, or Claudetown, about seventy miles up the river; here is also a large Chinese bazaar. Hose and the Assistant Resident, Mr. Douglas, are the only two Europeans resident in a district that comprises at least ten thousand square miles.

About thirty miles above Marudi the Tinjar joins the Baram; this affluent is almost as large as the main stream, and for a hundred miles it runs a course roughly parallel to the sea coast, but distant from it about thirty to sixty miles, as the crow flies.

On February 6th (1899) we started for a trip up the Tinjar. Only three or four white men had previously been up this river, and practically nothing has been written about it; consequently we were to all intents and purposes breaking fresh ground. But my object in writing this account is not solely to describe a few incidents of our visit to some of the interesting and unspoiled aborigines of Borneo, but also to give an idea of the personal method of dealing with native peoples, which is the keynote of the Sarawak theory of government.

On the 7th of February we visited a Lelak village at Long Tru. The village, as is often the case, consisted of a single house of great length, and built on piles some ten feet high. The long houses of this district of Sarawak are built along the banks of the rivers; usually a notched tree trunk is laid on the slope of the steep bank, and other logs are placed end-wise from this to the house to serve as a causeway across the slippery and often foul mud. A house consists of two portions—a verandah extending along the whole length of the river frontage, and a series of domiciles opening on to the verandah.

The verandah is entered at the end, and by two or three doorways at the side. The ladder consists of one or more notched tree trunks, usually with a slight hand-rail, the use of which is as often as not dispensed with by the nimble, bare-footed inhabitants, and even the dogs have learnt to go up and down these precarious ladders. Sometimes light, broad ladders are erected, of which the rungs are quite far apart.

On entering a verandah the first thing that one sees is the long wooden partition, about eight to ten feet in height, that separates the verandah from the dwelling apartments; this is pierced at fairly regular intervals by wooden doors, each of which gives access to a separate house. Each house, which, by-the-by, is always spoken of as the “door,” is divided into variously sized rooms or cubicles; generally a narrow passage opens into a central room, which is the living-room by day and a sleeping-room at night; the cooking may be done here or in a separate small kitchen. The wife has a separate bedroom, or if there are two wives, each has her own room, and the elder girls usually also have one. A long house numbers from ten to fifty, or even as many as eighty or ninety doors, so that there may be from fifty to five hundred people, men, women, and children, in one of these strange dwellings.

The privacy of the home is thoroughly respected, but the society of the neighbours can always be enjoyed on the verandah, which is a broad, open space that extends along one side of the house. This is practically divided into an inner common gangway on to which the doors open, and a portion that runs along the outer wall of the house, and is generally slightly raised above the general level of the floor. The space of this outer portion of the verandah opposite each house belongs to the owner of the house, and, according to his taste or means, he keeps the space in good order and lays down mats. It is here visitors are received, the public business transacted, and neighbours sit and gossip and smoke or chew betel.

Most interesting is it to lounge and watch the daily life of the village, the men and women going to or returning from their gardens, and girls bringing up water. In some tribes the pounding of the rice in heavy wooden mortars is done on the verandah, and one is never tired of watching the rhythmic movements of the nearly nude women as they husk the rice with long thick poles, and gracefully push the grain into the mortars with their feet; the sinuous motions of lithe damsels are particularly fascinating. After the husking is finished the rice is winnowed in plaited trays by standing or crouching women. Then there are the jolly children, half fearful of the white-skinned stranger, yet always ready for a game. Happy, contented little mortals they are, very rarely squabbling among themselves, and still more seldom troubled by their elders.

Hanging from the rafters of the verandah in most houses are trophies of human skulls. They may be fastened to a circular framework looking something like a ghastly parody on the glass chandeliers of our young days, or they may be suspended from a long board, which in one house that I visited was painted and carved at one end into a crocodile’s head, and the board itself was suspended from carved images of men who represented captives taken in war.

The skulls are smoke-begrimed and otherwise dirty, and interspersed among them are streamers of dried palm leaves, which all over Borneo are invariably employed in all ceremonies connected with skulls. Usually close by the skulls are pronged skewers on which pieces of pig’s meat may be stuck, and short sections of a small bamboo so cut as to form cups ready for the reception of borak (a spirit made from rice), when it is desired to feast the skulls or their spirits. Below the chandelier of skulls there is always a fire which is kept continually burning, for it is believed the skulls like to keep warm, and that if they are kept comfortable and their wants supplied, they will bring good luck to the house and ensure plentiful harvests.

The artistic taste of the people often manifests itself in the decoration, by painting or carving, of the doors or of the wooden partition of the verandah. On the latter are often hung shields, gongs, and the large ornamented women’s hats, which have a really fine decorative effect.

When one is tired of the sights of the verandah one can turn round and look over the low-boarded parapet towards the river with the prospect beyond. Sometimes jungle alone can be seen, but usually there are padi fields on the low hills, and perhaps some plantations of yams and clumps of bananas.

The word “Long,” which enters into so many Bornean names of villages, means the mouth of a river, and as many villages are situated at the spot where one river enters another, they are named from the smaller stream. This village took its name from the Tru River, but it sometimes happens that when a village shifts its quarters the old name is retained, and some confusion may arise.

The domicile at one end of the Long Tru house had projecting from the partition into the verandah a queer wooden sleeping bunk with lattice windows; a notched pole served as a ladder. It is not uncommon to find sleeping bunks for men built on the verandah, but one attached to the wall like a meat-safe is very unusual. By the side of the door of the same dwelling stood a rudely carved wooden image (butiong), in this instance a female figure, which represented a goddess who protected the house from any harm or sickness, but should there be any illness previous to the placing of the butiong in the house, she would prevent it from becoming worse. Stuck on to the wall of another dwelling was a portrait of Lord Kitchener!

About twenty miles up the Tinjar is the Bok River, and we left the steamer and paddled up this tributary in canoes to visit a small community of Punans. The Punans are, as I have already stated, essentially a nomad people, who inhabit the jungles of Sarawak and do not build permanent habitations. They do not cultivate anything, but they collect jungle produce which they sell and barter amongst the more settled tribes, who further trade these with Malays or Chinamen. The Punans are an interesting folk, and may be the remains of an ancient aboriginal population. The settled Punans were very dirty, and looked miserable; they lived in a tumble-down house. But one must not expect much from people who are making the first step out of absolute savagery.

The wilder Punans we saw later were a better-looking people, and compared with the settled Punans it really seemed as if the latter were paying rather dearly for their slight advance in civilisation; but probably a fixed though squalid home is preferable to a temporary leafy shelter.

On the night of February 8th we slept at Taman Liri’s village at Long Tegin. On the verandah against the partition-wall was the sarcophagus of a child. It consisted of a sort of decorated wooden case with a lean-to roof of palm leaves. From one end of the case projected a gaily-painted board carved to represent a head, neck, and arms. The head with its upright ears looked very much like that of a tiger, but we were assured it was intended to be the effigy of the dead boy who lay in the hidden coffin; hanging over this was the boy’s hat. Suspended from the eaves of the tomb were wooden models of a sword, knife, kris, paddle, spear-head, and other objects, and leaning against it were a couple of large gongs. On one side of the sarcophagus were hen-coops, a gong, a basket containing plates and a small bamboo vessel; on the other side were a gong and a jar. On the partition-wall were three hats, two fish traps, and a fishing net.

Although Taman Liri is a penghulu, or head chief, he complained that the Long Tobai people had left him and had gone to live with Aban Abit at Long Tisam, a little higher up the river, the latter chief having enticed them away. Hose questioned some of the friends of the Long Tobai people, who stated that the reason for the latter not wishing to live with Taman Liri was that he constantly shifted his house, and that he did not fulfil his annual promise of building a really good house. They were sick of living in this unsatisfactory manner, and therefore went to live with Aban Abit, who also was a Barawan, and who had a very good house at Long Tisam. Hose told Taman Liri it was unreasonable to expect people to shift their house every year, as the greater part of their time was taken up in house-building, and their plantations suffered in consequence.

We next visited Aban Abit, who certainly has a much better house than Taman Liri. Owing to the influx of people the house was being extended. When we walked over the framework of the extension we were cautioned to be careful not to fall through. This warning was not given solely to save us from injury, although a fall of some fifteen feet would not be particularly pleasant, but because if anyone fell off a house in process of building a new house would have to be built elsewhere, as would also be the case if a dog were killed in the house. We stayed here a couple of days and measured a number of men, and I made some sketches and photographs.

Soon after our arrival Aban Abit gave each of his new visitors a present, a nice spear falling to my lot. Before leaving I gave his two wives some white calico. On another occasion Tama Bulan, the most famous chief of the Baram district, gave me a large shield decorated with hair, and a Dayak fortman once gave me a musical instrument. But these were the only presents I received from natives; indeed they very rarely give presents, in our sense of the term, in any country I have visited.

It was here I first saw the ceremony of divination by means of a pig’s liver. A live pig with its legs tied was brought on to the verandah. Aban Abit took a lighted brand and slightly scorched it, at the same time praying to the Supreme God, and the pig was asked to give the message to the god, who was requested to make his will known by means of the liver of the pig. When the scorching was over the suppliant kept the fingers of his right hand on the flanks of the pig, so that he was in touch with the animal all through his address, at the same time slightly prodding it with his fingers to make the pig pay attention to what he was saying. Finally a spear was thrust into the neck of the pig, and as soon as all the kicking was over the side of the pig was ripped open, and the liver rapidly and dexterously extracted and placed on a dish. The old men crowded round and discussed the augury. The size and character of the various lobes of the liver, the appearance of the gall bladder, and the amount of fat and tendon, are objects of the closest scrutiny, and these all have a definite significance.

Divination by means of a pig’s liver is resorted to on most important occasions. If anything special is wanted they inquire of the pig. If they fear any enemies are coming, or ill luck or sickness, they ask the pig whether it is a fact that this will happen. They tell the pig not to mislead them, and to convey the message to the Supreme Being. The pig may even be told that they are not going to kill it or eat it; but the pig is killed the instant they have finished talking, lest the message should be altered by the pig if it knew it was to be killed.

There is always great difficulty in arriving at the true explanation of any particular custom; probably in many cases there is no single explanation which is universally admitted by the natives themselves. It rather seems as if in this pig ceremony the soul of the pig was directly addressed, and that on the death of the pig it was liberated, and thus was able to convey the message to the Supreme Being. The application of the lighted brand may be a secondary custom, introduced from the analogy of the cult of the omen animals. I am indebted to McDougall for this latter suggestion, who also thinks that the primary proper function of fire in a rite is to carry the message to birds or distant powers in case no other messenger, such as a pig’s soul, is at hand.

Knowing that I was very anxious to obtain some human skulls for the collection at Cambridge, Hose negotiated with Aban Abit for some. This was a very difficult matter, as skulls are sacred, and not only bring good luck if well treated, but contrariwise they may do harm if they are offended. It is no small matter to prevail upon a man to part with skulls under such circumstances, as he feels he is running great risks, and natives fully realise that wealth can be bought too dearly. What gain is it to have an extra gong if the harvests are bad, if sickness comes, if troubles accumulate?

The following is the way in which the skulls were propitiated. A fowl was obtained, a very little one, for these wide-awake people recognise that it is the idea at the back of the sacrifice rather than the worth of the victim that is efficacious, so there is no need to extravagantly make use of a full-grown fowl when a fledgling will do as well. The chirping chicken was waved over the skulls, and the skulls were told that those of them that were going to be taken away were given and not sold (for here, as in our folk-tales at home, it is very easy to deceive spirits), that they would be well taken care of, and they were entreated not to be angry, as everything was “quite correct,” and that the white man would take the whole responsibility and bear all the risks. Then the head and wings of the luckless chicken were torn off, and the spurting blood sprinkled on the skulls and charms, and even on the notched pole which served as a ladder. Hose had to provide a piece of iron, an old spear-head in this case, as a gift to the man who took down the skulls. It was only the great influence that Hose has over the natives and his generous offer, combined with his knowledge of and deference to native customs, and their personal regard for him, which enabled him to obtain these and other skulls.

In the evening we had a performance on the phonograph, which gave great enjoyment to the natives of both sexes and all ages. As in New Guinea, the reproduction of their own songs pleased the people much more than hearing the band-music and songs on the cylinders we had brought with us from England. Later on several of the natives performed some of their dances for us.

We were informed that people were spreading a scare similar to that known as the Panyamun scare of five years previously. Reports of all kinds were rife as to the originators of the trouble; some said the Malangs started it, others that it arose among the Sĕbops or the Barawans, while some thought it had come from the Baram River.

Hose explained fully to the people the stupidity of circulating and believing in such rumours, which always caused them a great deal of trouble, and they could not have forgotten that, owing to the last Panyamun scare, several people lost their lives. It was, therefore, his intention during this visit to the Tinjar to trace the originators of the false rumours, and if the evidence was sufficient to convict them, they would be heavily punished. It was consequently to everybody’s interest to assist in the discovery of these troublesome people.

During the greater part of the year 1894 a remarkable and widely distributed panic spread over Sarawak, and all the races of the Raj, Chinese, Malays, Sea Dayaks (Iban), and various inland tribes were alike affected.

The Malays of Sarawak and Brunei started a rumour all through the country that the Rajah was anxious to obtain a number of human heads to lay in the foundations of the new high-level reservoir at the waterworks at Kuching, and that men were sent out at night to procure them. Similar stories with accompanying panics have occurred elsewhere in the East during the execution of large public works; as, for example, in Singapore, when the cathedral was built.

Professor E. P. Evans states[4] that as the Siberian railway approached the northern boundaries of the Chinese Empire, and surveys were made for its extension through Manchuria to the sea, great excitement was produced in Pekin by the rumour that the Russian minister had applied to the Empress of China for two thousand children to be buried in the road-bed under the rails in order to strengthen it. He also informs us that some years ago, in rebuilding a large bridge which had been swept away several times by inundations in the Yarkand, eight children, purchased from poor people at a high price, were immured alive in the foundations. As the new bridge was firmly constructed out of excellent materials, it has hitherto withstood the force of the strongest floods, a result which the Chinese attribute, not to the solid masonry, but to the propitiation of the river god by the offering of infants.

I have elsewhere[5] alluded to this barbarous custom which has been widely spread over the “Old World,” and which has left its mark in modern Greek folk-song, and can still be traced in the singing-game of “London Bridge” played by village children in the British Isles.

Sir Spenser St. John writes in his recent book Rajah Brooke: “Another intelligent native remarked that the English must have been a barbarous race, as formerly they sacrificed a human victim every time they prepared to take the Sacrament, but that in more modern days they had become more civilised, as now they only sacrificed dogs, a reference to the periodical destruction in British settlements of all stray animals. What a perverse interpretation of missionary teaching!”

Many Sarawak natives went so far as to assert that they had met with the head-hunters among the villages. Great anxiety was caused amongst all classes; at one time numbers of people left their plantations, refusing to do any outdoor work except in large parties; even Chinese padi planters in some instances left their isolated houses and crowded into the bazaars.

Other equally absurd stories were circulated and believed in. About fifty Ulu Simunjan Land Dayaks came down in September the same year to the station at Sadong and stated that their district was infested with spirits and ghouls. They asked for leave to hunt down the hantus (spirits) in the jungle, as these came by night into the kampongs and shoved sticks and weapons through the walls of their houses, much to their alarm and fright. The Land Dayaks were warned against making this an excuse for molesting anyone without just cause, for it was by no means improbable that mischief would ensue if they were allowed to hunt down hantus indiscriminately. Thousands of people living many miles apart were panic-stricken simultaneously, and believed it was unsafe to walk about at night unless armed, and that death would result if a hantu caught a man. One result of this particular scare was that coolies refused to do any sort of work unless they could be safely back in their houses before nightfall, and married couples who lived by themselves crowded into the larger houses, which were already full.

Evilly disposed persons were not slack in utilising this panyamun, or “robber,” scare for their own nefarious purposes, and numerous murders were perpetrated, the murderers pleading that they thought the victims were prowling round for heads.

It can be readily understood that the whole country was in an excited and unsettled state, and this feeling was more or less answerable for various crimes and tragedies. One example of each must suffice.

At the close of the year a man named Newa with four followers was killed at Long Balukun on the Apoh River. A Kenyah named Mawa Obat asked Newa, when sitting in his canoe, to give him some tobacco, and murdered him whilst he was in the act of complying with his request. The Resident believes that one Remau, a worthless Undup Iban, who had married a Kenyah woman residing in the Long Balukun house, was to a great extent the cause of the death of these five men. Remau made up a story about the spear being thrust through the floor of his room, which spear he said belonged to Newa, and afterwards, when it was proved that the spear could not reach the floor of the house, as it was built very high off the ground, he said it was through the wall that the spear was thrust. The Long Balukun people were very short of food at the time, and there is very little doubt that Newa and his party were murdered for the eight bags of rice and fifteen katties of tobacco they had.

In January, 1895, Kempieng, an Iban, and his wife, were visiting Radin, who had married Jerieng, the sister of Kempieng’s wife, and who lived on the Beradong, an affluent of the Rejang River. One night, about 9 p.m., Jerieng left her room to go out on the tanju, or outside platform, her husband, who accompanied her, going first. Kempieng and his wife were sleeping in the ruai (verandah), and as Jerieng passed them he sprang up and speared her. Kempieng admitted the facts at his trial, but pleaded that the people in Radin’s house were in a disturbed state, and kept their weapons handy owing to a scare of panyamuns, or hantus (robbers or spirits). On the night in question, hearing someone moving near him, he arose and took his spear down; whilst doing so he accidentally kicked the lamp over and it went out. He did not thrust with his spear, but held it before him, and the deceased ran against it. It is, however, more probable that he got up in a state of alarm, and, without calling out, blindly lunged with his spear, and thus killed his sister-in-law. For this he was sentenced by the Rajah to three years’ imprisonment with hard labour.

I was informed that some Brunei Malays, who had grudges against people who owed them money, or who would not pay any longer the repeated calls which these piratical traders made for fictitious debts, stirred up the Kenyahs of the Baram against the Iban (Sea Dayaks). They said the Rajah had sent out Iban to kill people for the purpose stated above, and they pointed to the Iban who worked gutta near their villages, knowing full well that this had long been a grievance of the Kenyahs against the Iban. The Brunei Malays reminded the Kenyahs of one or two cases of assassination of their people by Iban, and even went below Kenyah houses at night and thrust spears through the flooring in order to make their report appear more real.

At last the Kenyahs were roused, and killed twelve Iban. The Sĕbops of the Tinjar followed suit and murdered two Chinamen, and the Long Patas, seeing the Kenyahs had commenced, took the opportunity to go over into the Limbang, and, as I have already narrated, killed three innocent Kadayans.

Trade was at a standstill, and everybody was miserable; but by being continually on the move up and down the river, and by going familiarly amongst the people, Hose with great difficulty managed to stop any further spread of the scare, and he effectively proved to the natives that the trouble did not arise from any action by the Government. Having thoroughly disgusted everyone throughout the district, the Brunei Malays bolted back to Brunei. By this time they owed a good deal of money in the bazaar at Marudi, and could not get any more credit.

It was no wonder, then, with the recollection of this unsettled and anxious time fresh in his memory that Hose was determined to stamp out what might prove to be the commencement of a similar panic.

Long Semitan was next visited. The Malangs who live in this village requested that a Bakatan, who lived all alone in a Chinaman’s store, should be told to leave the village, as he had done no work for months and stole on every opportunity. The people described him as a savage brute, of whom they were afraid, and he constantly threatened to do harm to people if they refused him food, or indeed anything that he asked for. The man was sent for, and Hose inquired of him what he was doing there. He said he was waiting for a month or two before going into the jungle to look for gutta, and denied that he had stolen anything. Hose decided to send him down to Marudi, and told him he must follow a party of Bakatans, Iban, or other people when they went gutta hunting, or he must return by the first steamer to his own country up the Rejang River. He strongly objected to go, although the Malangs had provided him with a boat and food. Eventually he was ejected by force, and all had the satisfaction of seeing this worthless loafer paddle down stream. It was evident that he had done nothing for his own living for months past, and the Chinaman stated that Aban Abit turned him out of his house two months ago, when he shifted to Long Semitan with the intention of sponging on the Malang people. Most probably he had really stolen, but unfortunately there was not sufficient evidence to convict him.

We reached Long Aiah Kechil on the evening of the 13th. The headman of this Sĕbop village is termed Tamoing. On our arrival a great wailing was set up, because very shortly after Hose’s last visit the chief of the village had died, and his return reminded his followers of their loss; but they were soon comforted. The Barawans and Balmali people in the neighbourhood appear to have had several quarrels with regard to farming lands. Taman Aping Buling, the Sĕbop penghulu, had done his best to settle their differences, but there was still a considerable amount of discontent. The Tinjar is rather crowded here, and Hose considers it would be a good thing if some of the people moved further down the river.

The Sĕbops probably belong to the aboriginal population of Borneo. Those we measured were distinctly narrow-headed, their cephalic index being about 75·5. These people are constantly chaffed by other tribes about their procrastinating habits. If a man has to go on a journey he gets ready and packs his basket, and when just about to go down to the boat he may suddenly turn round and say, “Sagum” (“to-morrow”), and then may go on for a number of days until he is perforce obliged to go. The Kenyahs are fond of telling the following fable to illustrate the dilatoriness of the Sĕbops:—

A monkey and a frog who were chums were sitting together in the jungle when it came on to rain very heavily. It rained all that day and night, and the monkey, cold and wet, said to the frog, “This is wretched weather; to-morrow let us beat out a bark cloth from one of those kumut trees.” “All right,” said the frog, “this incessant rain is very disagreeable.” When daylight appeared the rain ceased and the sun shone brightly. The frog hopped on to a fallen stump and basked in the sun, and the monkey climbed to the top of a tree and felt jolly again. Presently the monkey called to the frog, “Oh, comrade, how about that bark cloth we were going to beat out to-day; let’s start in and do it.” “Oh,” said the frog, being unwilling to move from his pleasant spot, “I’m not cold any longer.” As night came on the rain began to pour down once more, and the friends, shivering with cold, agreed that to-morrow they must really get the bark cloth. This happened time after time, until at last the monkey became disgusted with the frog always putting off making the covering, and he said it was useless to be friends with a person of so little energy; so he cleared off and left his old friend. The frog still hoots and howls when the rain comes down, but sits silent in the sunshine.

It had long been arranged by our good friend Hose that one of the special features of this trip up the Tinjar was to be an ascent of Dulit, a mountain whose name is well known to those interested in the birds of Borneo, for reasons that I shall shortly narrate. As Hose had a good deal of administrative work to do, he did not intend accompanying us, and, indeed, it would have been no novelty to him, as he has ascended it four times, and spent at least six weeks on or near the summit during those visits.

We made an early start on the morning of February 14th from Long Aiah Kechil, which is the nearest village to the mountain. As we were paddling down the Tinjar, quietly enjoying the swift gliding between banks of rank verdure, a joyous shout and noisy exclamations startled my reverie, and quickly our crews paddled to the bank. To the uninitiated but a small thing had happened, merely that an inconspicuous little bird had flown across the river from right to left. But this was no commonplace bird; it was an “isit,” one of the omen birds, who come as messengers from the gods to warn mortals of impending danger, or to encourage them in what they are undertaking.

This was fortunately a favourable omen, hence the delight with which it was hailed, and immediately on seeing it flashing into the open our boatmen called upon it by name, and asked it to “make everything clear and sweep away all difficulties and obstacles from the path, and to make the white men strong in the legs, so that they can climb up Dulit.”

In this manner is a bird “owned,” and on hearing the prayer the bird assumes all responsibility and takes the petitioners under its protection.

Our friends landed on the steep bank of the river, and, cutting down some undergrowth, whittled a couple of sticks, so that they had a frilled appearance. A match was struck, and as soon as the shavings flamed, they asked the fire to tell the bird to inform the gods of the message, which was then repeated.

An unexpected episode of this sort is very refreshing. Here was illustration of that religious spirit which is so universally distributed among mankind. Our men were encouraged by the knowledge of divine sanction, and, moreover, their petition was unaccompanied by sacrifice, gifts, or promises; the human words were simply wafted godwards by the smoke. It is easy to call this paganism, to sneer at it as superstition, but such practices are essentially religious ceremonies, and of a refined character too, which require no intermediary between the spiritual powers and the ordinary individual.

We resumed our way, and shortly entered a small river which Hose has named the Scott-Keltie River, in honour of the Secretary of the Royal Geographical Society. In the muddy banks at its mouth are immense quantities of leaves, which give the alluvium a very characteristic laminated appearance. When consolidated and turned into rock, these beds will form ligneous shales, or earthy coal beds, such as we constantly find in various geological formations.

We landed a short distance up this stream, and ran our boat high and dry in a creek. Hose then left us, and we started on our way; our party consisted of Aris, my Malay “boy,” three Iban fortmen, three Naroms (a branch of the Mĕlanaus), and four Sĕbops from Long Aiah Kechil, McDougall, and myself.

At first we walked for an hour or so on the alluvial plain through plantations, some of which were abandoned and overgrown; then we struck the Scott-Keltie River, and waded some distance along its rocky and gravelly bed; later we forded it several times, as our direct route through the jungle cut across its sinuosities.

Our path for some distance lay through “New Jungle,” but as we ascended we passed into “Old Jungle.” In the earlier part of the day there was a good deal of rain; when this ceased there was an aftermath of continual dripping off the trees, and all the undergrowth was reeking wet, but this was of little moment, as we wore woollen garments, and the heat of the atmosphere and the continual exercise prevented our getting a chill. There was the usual profusion of fallen, rotting trees, over, under, and along which we had to pass. The soil was the yellow, slippery clay that is met with in so many places in Sarawak. This laterite, as it is called by geologists, is widely spread over the tropics. When our feet slipped we clutched at what was nearest to hand, sometimes it was a thorny climber, or perhaps a rotten sapling that looked strong enough, but which was as weak as touchwood, owing to its being permeated by corroding fungi. Our caps and clothes were continually caught by the fine thorny filaments of a species of ratan or by other prickly plants.

Several men always preceded me to cut down the lianas and other impeding vegetation, and they also served to collect on their legs some of the land leeches, which, reaching out from the leaves of low shrubs, seek whom they may devour. At every halt we overhauled ourselves, and pulled off these tough, elastic worms.

We soon reached a ridge-like spur of the mountain, on each side of which we could hear a river rushing over its stony bed. This spur had very steep sides owing to the cutting down of the streams, but it was covered with deep vegetation, which acted as a kind of umbrella, and so prevented the heavy rains from denuding it down to a low watershed between the two streams.

About three o’clock we went a little way down to the Scott-Keltie River, and followed it up as far as a fine waterfall, some three hundred or four hundred feet in height. Here we built a hut, and after a bathe and a good meal felt very comfortable, and all except myself passed a good night. Fortunately there was no rain.

We awoke early next morning, but it was nearly eight o’clock before we started, owing to the dilatoriness of the Sĕbops in taking up their burdens. Before starting, and also on the previous evening, I photographed the Scott-Keltie Falls. The upper part of the falls is hidden by trees; the central portion consists of two large quadrangular faces of rock, one above the other, with a combined height of a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet. Below the fall proper is a steep declivity of fallen blocks of rock, many of huge dimensions, over which the water pours. Indeed, for a considerable distance down the steep river-bed is a mass of boulders which practically forms a continuous cascade. The vegetation about the falls was lovely, the masses of ordinary forest trees being relieved by graceful palms and shrubs of varied foliage (Frontispiece).

We ascended the mountain, leaving the falls on our right. It was very steep walking, and at places we had practically vertical escarpments of rock to negotiate, which were slippery owing to recent rains. The roots of trees and the stems of creepers afforded secure grip and foothold, but at a few places I was glad of the assistance of a ratan. We were in a mist the whole day, and every now and again a rift gave us tantalising glimpses of the outer world that far below us stretched out in all its tropical luxuriance and beauty. Sometimes we saw a bit of the river, and could just distinguish a village, when the view dissolved; then a neighbouring wooded spur of the mountain would shape itself out of the mist, only to disappear in the steamy atmosphere.

We pitched our camp about three o’clock, and made a long hut on the crest of a steep ridge at an elevation of over four thousand feet. Fortunately there was no rain all day, so our clothes were fairly dry, and we had no rain during the night. Of course it was chilly, but it was only really cold when the wind rose.

We got up on Thursday morning at 5.30. As soon as breakfast was finished, McDougall and all the carriers except Aris and one Sĕbop, who had a sore leg, continued the ascent. I was not very well, and did not feel equal to the climb, so I spent a quiet day, writing, and letting the influences of the jungle soak into me. It was a strange sensation perched high up on a narrow ridge in a tropical jungle and screened from the world by a mist!

McDougall returned about 3.30. He had ascended the highest point, which Hose has since named Cambridge Peak, but had not obtained a satisfactory view. He had some difficulty in climbing the uppermost escarpments. As the cliffs were absolutely vertical, the natives made ladders which they leaned against trees projecting from the cliff, and from one tree another ladder was raised to a tree above it, till the summit was reached. Mount Dulit is, in geographical terminology, a partially dissected block mountain of Carboniferous sandstone, the beds of which dip in a southerly direction.

There was rain early next morning, but it soon cleared for a short time, and we started on our homeward journey. We had a scanty lunch at the Scott-Keltie Falls. The water was now a thin stream, indeed we had noticed a difference in the amount on the Wednesday morning as compared with that which fell during our first evening there. We retraced our steps as quickly as possible, but I took several photographs of the falls and river. We got back to our boat about 3.30, and returned to Long Aiah Kechil before dark.

I was particularly interested in Mount Dulit, as it has been a happy hunting-ground for Hose during some years past. He was the first European to ascend the mountain, and he has made natural-history collections on it from top to base. Hose here discovered a high-altitude fauna, more particularly among the birds, which, like that of the famous Kina Balu in British North Borneo, has affinities with the fauna of the Himalayas.

The island of Borneo lies at one edge of an immense submarine bank, while the islands of Java and Sumatra are situated at its southern and western sides, and the island of Celebes and the archipelago that stretches from Java to Ombasi are annexes. The hundred-fathom contour line embraces this vast area, and indeed a considerable portion of the sea between Borneo and Java on the one hand, and Siam and the Malay Peninsula on the other, is only fifty fathoms deep. In other words, the trivial elevation of this area to three hundred feet would connect Borneo and Java with the mainland of Asia. This continental shelf may be termed the Malay shelf.

I have already pointed out that the physical features of Borneo prove that there are indications that it has undergone changes of level in recent geological times. The geological structure of the island shows that it formed part of a continent, as it contains formations of the Palæozoic, Mesozoic, and Cainozoic periods, and is thus very different from what are termed oceanic islands, that is, islands composed solely of recent volcanic rocks or built upon coral banks. As Wallace[6] points out: “A subsidence of five hundred feet would allow the sea to fill the great valleys of the Pontianak, Banjarmassing, and Coti rivers, almost to the centre of the island, greatly reducing its extent, and causing it to resemble in form the island of Celebes to the east of it.”

About a hundred and forty species of mammals have been discovered in Borneo, and of these “more than three-fourths,” according to Wallace, “are identical with those of the continent. Among these are two lemurs, nine civets, five cats, five deer, the tapir, the elephant, the rhinoceros, and many squirrels, an assemblage which could certainly only have reached the country by land.”

The most interesting of those species peculiar to the island, that is not found elsewhere, are the long-nosed monkey and the tailless porcupine. These peculiar forms, which amount to something over thirty in number, “do not, however, imply that the separation of the island from the continent is of very ancient date, for the country is so vast, and so much of the once connecting land is covered with water, that the amount of speciality is hardly, if at all, greater than occurs in many continental areas of equal extent and remoteness.” The same story is told by the birds, although one would imagine that possessing power of flight their distribution would be more uniform than it is. Wallace concludes that the majority of forest birds are restricted by narrow watery barriers to an even greater extent than mammals.

Mr. John Whitehead has made some valuable collections on Mount Kina Balu, the highest mountain in Borneo. “The Chinese Widow” is an isolated mountain mass which rises to a height of 13,698 feet; at an elevation of about 4,000 feet Mr. Whitehead began to find traces of a new fauna which linked that mountain with the Himalayas. Hose has made a similar discovery on Mounts Dulit and Mulu, so that Dr. R. B. Sharpe has stated (Ibis, 1894, p. 542): “it is evident that Mount Mulu belongs to the same system of the Himalayan offshoots, such as Kina Balu, Dulit, and Kalulong” (The Geographical Journal, i. 1893, p. 203).

Hose has stated that “the fauna of Mount Dulit resembles that of Kina Balu in a great number of instances, but it is a curious fact that all the species above 2,000 feet are found at a higher altitude on Kina Balu than they are on Mount Dulit. This, I think, can be accounted for by the fact that Mount Kina Balu has been cleared of all the old jungle, and farmed by the natives to a height of about 2,000 feet, whilst on the Dulit there are no traces of human habitation within miles of the mountain [this is a slight exaggeration on Hose’s part]. I think it is reasonable to suppose that many of the Kina Balu birds and animals, which prefer to live in the old jungle, have been in this way driven to a higher elevation” (Proc. Zool. Soc., 1889, p. 228).

In a paper on the mammals of Kina Balu, Mr. Oldfield Thomas points out the affinity of the mammalian fauna of the mountain at great heights with that of the Himalayan region. For example, a water-shrew (Chimarrogale himalayica) had previously been recorded from Sikhim, Assam, and the Katchin Hills in the north of Burmah. On the other hand, a certain mouse (Mus musschenbroecki) was previously known from Celebes, and its occurrence on Kina Balu suggests that other members of the Oriental element in the peculiar Celebean fauna may also prove to have survived on the tops of the Bornean mountains. Dr. R. B. Sharpe (Ibis, 1892, p. 430) also states that some of the Kina Balu species of birds have been obtained in high Sumatra.

There is evidence that during the Miocene Age Java was at least three thousand feet lower than it is now, and, as Wallace suggests, “such a depression would probably extend to considerable parts of Sumatra and Borneo, so as to reduce them all to a few small islands.

“At some later period a gradual elevation occurred which ultimately united the whole of the islands with the continent. This may have continued till the glacial period of the northern hemisphere, during the severest part of which a few Himalayan species of birds and mammals may have been driven southward, and have ranged over suitable portions of the whole area.

“Java then became separated by subsidence, and these species were imprisoned in the island, while those in the remaining part of the Malayan area again migrated northward when the cold had passed away from their former home,” with the exception of those forms which were cut off on isolated mountain masses, where they survived in those places where the conditions were not very dissimilar from those they were accustomed to.

In other words, these more northern forms retreated from the deluge of the typical Malayan fauna up the mountains. The lower mountains were overwhelmed by the equatorial forests and the profusion of animals that are adapted for that peculiar condition of existence. The lesser spurs of the high mountains shared the same fate, but the struggle between the rival faunas became less keen at altitudes of three or four thousand feet. Here the temperature is cooler, and so the conditions of life become less favourable for the tropical lowland fauna, and more so to the relic-fauna of the northern mountains, and in consequence we have these faunistic islands.

Somewhat later the Malay continental shelf was submerged, and Borneo and Sumatra became isolated.