There Was No Air, And The
British Ensign In Front Of The House Hung Limp On The Flag-Staff.
Below
there is a village, with clusters of Chinese houses on the ground, and
Malay houses on stilts, standing singly, with one or two Government
offices bulking largely among them.
A substantial flight of stone steps
leads from the river to a skeleton jetty with an attap roof, and near
it a number of attap-roofed boats were lying, loaded with slabs of tin
from the diggings in the interior, to be transhipped to Pinang. A
dainty steam-launch, the Abdulsamat, nominally the Sultan's yacht,
flying a large red and yellow flag, was also lying in the river.
Mr. Bloomfield Douglas, the Resident, a tall, vigorous, elderly man,
with white hair, a florid complexion, and a strong voice heard
everywhere in authoritative tones, met me with a four-oared boat, and a
buggy with a good Australian horse brought me here. From this house
there is a large but not a beautiful view of river windings, rolling
jungle, and blue hills. The lower part of the house, which is supported
on pillars, is mainly open, and is used for billiard-room, church,
lounging-room, afternoon tea-room, and audience-room; but I see nothing
of the friendly, easy-going to and fro of Chinese and Malays, which
was a pleasant feature of the Residency in Sungei Ujong. In fact, there
is here much of the appearance of an armed post amidst a hostile
population.
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