January 1st, 1891.—Sitting by an impromptu wood-fire in a little hut on the summit of Adam’s Peak—nearly midnight—a half-naked Caliban out of the woods squatting beside me, and Kalua and the guide sleeping on the floor. But I find it too cold to sleep, and there is no furniture in the hut.
Altogether an eventful New Year’s day. Last night I spent at Kandy with Kalua and his brother in their little cabin. They were both very friendly, and I kept being reminded of Herman Melville and his Marquesas Island experiences—so beautiful the scene, the moon rising about ten, woods and valleys all around—the primitive little hut, Kirrah cooking over a fire on the ground, etc. We were up by moon and starlight at 5 a.m., and by walking, driving, and the railway, reached Muskeliya at the foot of the peak by 2.30 p.m. There we got a guide—a very decent young Tamil—and reached here by 7.30 or 8 p.m. Our path lay at first through tea-gardens, and then leaving them, it went in nearly a direct line straight up the mountain side—perhaps 3,000 feet—through dense woods, in step-like formation, over tree-roots and up the rocks, worn and hacked into shape through successive centuries by innumerable pilgrims, but still only wide enough for one. Night came upon us on the way, and the last hour or two we had to light torches to see our route. Elephant tracks were plentiful all round us through the woods, even close to the summit. It is certainly extraordinary on what steep places and rock sides these animals will safely travel; but we were not fortunate enough to see any of them.
This is a long night trying to sleep. It is the wretchedest hut, without a door, and unceiled to the four winds! Caliban makes the fire for me as I write. He has nothing on but a cotton wrap and a thin jersey, but does not seem to feel the cold much; and the guide is even more thinly clad, and is asleep, while I am shivering, bundled in cloth coats. There is something curious about the way in which the English in this country feel the cold—when it is cold—more than the natives; though one might expect the contrary. I have often noticed it. I fancy we make a great mistake in these hot lands in not exposing our skins more to the sun and air, and so strengthening and hardening them. In the great heat, and when constantly covered with garments, the skin perspires terribly, and becomes sodden and enervated, and more sensitive than it ought to be—hence great danger of chills. I have taken several sun-baths in the woods here at different times, and found advantage from doing so.
[Since writing the above, I have discovered the existence of a little society in India—of English folk—who encourage nudity, and the abandonment as far as possible of clothes, on three distinct grounds—physical, moral, and æsthetic—of Health, Decency, and Beauty. I wish the society every success. Its chief object, as given in its rules, is to urge upon people “to be and go stark naked whenever suitable,” and it is a sine quâ non that members should appear at all its meetings without any covering Passing over the moral and æsthetic considerations—which are both of course of the utmost importance in this connection—there is still the consideration of physical health and enjoyment, which must appeal to everybody. In a place like India, where the mass of the people go with very little covering, the spectacle of their ease and enjoyment must double the discomforts of the unfortunate European who thinks it necessary to be dressed up to the eyes on every occasion when he appears in public. It is indeed surprising that men can endure, as they do, to wear cloth coats and waistcoats and starched collars and cuffs, and all the paraphernalia of propriety, in a severity of heat which really makes only the very lightest covering tolerable; nor can one be surprised at the exhaustion of the system which ensues, from the cause already mentioned. In fact the direct stimulation and strengthening of the skin by sun and air, though most important in our home climate, may be even more indispensable in a place like India, where the relaxing influences are so terribly strong. Certainly, when one considers this cause of English enervation in India, and the other due to the greatly mistaken diet of our people there, the fearful quantities of flesh consumed, and of strong liquors—both things which are injurious enough at home, but which are ruinous in a hot country—the wonder is not that the English fail to breed and colonise in India, but that they even last out their few years of individual service there.]
There is a lovely view of cloudland from the summit now the moon has risen. All the lower lands and mountains are wrapped in mist, and you look down upon a great white rolling sea, silent, remote from the world, with only the moon and stars above, and the sound of the Buddhist priests chanting away in a low tone round the fire in their own little cabin or pansela.
This is a most remarkable mountain. For at least 2,000 years, and probably for long enough before that, priests of some kind or another have kept watch over the sacred footmark on the summit; for thousands of years the sound of their chanting has been heard at night between the driven white plain of clouds below and the silent moon and stars above; and by day pilgrims have toiled up the steep sides to strew flowers, and to perform some kind of worship to their gods, on this high natural altar. The peak is 7,400 feet high, and though not quite the highest point in the island, is by far the most conspicuous. It stands like a great outpost on the south-west edge of the mountain region of Ceylon, and can be seen from far out to sea—a sugar-loaf with very precipitous sides. When the Buddhists first came to Ceylon, about the 4th century b.c., they claimed the footmark as that of Buddha. Later on some Gnostic Christian sects attributed it to the primal man; the Mahomedans, following this idea, when they got possession of the mountain, gave it the name of Adam’s Peak; the Portuguese consecrated it to S. Eusebius; and now the Buddhists are again in possession—though I believe the Mahomedans are allowed a kind of concurrent right. But whatever has been the nominal dedication of this ancient “high place,” a continuous stream of pilgrims—mainly of course the country folk of the island—has flowed to it undisturbed through the centuries; and even now they say that in the month of May the mountain side is covered by hundreds and even thousands of folk, who camp out during the night, and do poojah on the summit by day. Kalua says that his father—the jolly old savage—once ascended “Samantakuta,” and like the rest of the Cinghalese thinks a great deal of the religious merit of this performance.
Ratnapura, Jan. 3rd.—Sunrise yesterday on the peak was fine, though “sunrises” are not always a success. The great veil of clouds gradually dissolved, and a long level “rose of dawn” appeared in the eastern sky—Venus brilliant above it, the Southern Cross visible, and one or two other crosses which lie near it, and the half moon overhead; a dark, peaked and castellated rampart of lower mountains stretched around us, and far on the horizon were masses of cumulus cloud rising out of the lowland mists, and catching the early light; while the lower lands themselves remained partly hidden by irregular pools and rivers of white fog, which looked like water in the first twilight. A great fan-like crown of rays preceded the sun, very splendid, of pearly colors, with great beams reaching nearly to the zenith. We could not see the sea, owing to mists along the horizon, nor was any habitation visible, but only the great jungle-covered hills and far plains shrouded in the green of coco-nut groves.
The shadow of the peak itself, cast on the mists at sunrise, is a very conspicuous and often-noted phenomenon. Owing to the sun’s breadth, the effect is produced of an umbra and penumbra; and the umbra looks very dark and pointed—more pointed even than the peak itself. I was surprised to see how distant it looked—a shadow-mountain among the far crags. It gradually fell and disappeared as the sun rose.
There is another phenomenon which I have somewhere seen described as peculiar to Adam’s Peak; though this must be a pious fraud, or one of those cases of people only being able to see familiar things when they are in unfamiliar surroundings, since it is a phenomenon which can be witnessed any day at home. It is that if when there is dew or rain upon the grass, and the sun is not too high in the heavens, you look at the shadow of your head on the grass, you will see it surrounded by a white light, or ‘glory.’ It arises, I imagine, from the direct reflection of the sunlight on the inner surfaces of the little globules of water which lie in or near the line joining the sun and the head, and is enhanced no doubt by the fact that the light so reflected shows all the clearer from having to pass through a column of shadow to the eye. Anyhow, whatever the cause, it is quite a flattering appearance, all the more so because if you have a companion you do not see the ‘glory’ round his head, but only round your own! I once nearly turned the strong brain of a Positivist by pointing out to him this aureole round his head, and making as if I could see it. He of course, being unable to see a similar light round mine, had no alternative but to conclude that he was specially overshadowed by the Holy Ghost!
The sripada—“sacred foot”—is better than I expected: a natural depression in the rock, an inch or so deep, five feet long,[1] of an oblong shape, and distantly resembling a foot; but they have “improved” it in parts by mortaring bits of tile along the doubtful edges! There are no toes marked, though in “copies” of it that I have seen in some Buddhist shrines the toes are carefully indicated. The mark is curiously situated at the very summit of the rock—which is only a few feet square, only large enough, in fact, to give space for the foot and for a little pavilion, open to the winds, which has been erected over it; and on the natural platform just below—which (so steep is the mountain) is itself encircled by a wall to prevent accidents—are some curious bits of furniture: four old bronze standard lamps, of lotus-flower design, one at each corner of the platform, a bell, a little shrine, and the priests’ hut before mentioned. Looking into the latter after dawn, I beheld nothing resembling furniture, but a pan in the middle with logs burning, and three lean figures squatted round it, their mortal possessions tied in handkerchiefs and hanging from the roof.