[1] Captain Knox, above quoted, speaks of it as “about two feet long”; but he does not appear to have actually seen it.
The priests were horribly on the greed for money, and made it really unpleasant to stay on the top; but I delayed a little in order to watch Caliban doing poojah at the little shrine I have mentioned. He brought a hot ember from the fire, sprinkled frankincense on it, burned camphor and something that looked like saltpetre, also poured some kind of scented water on the ember, causing fragrance. Very ancient gnarled rhododendron trees, twenty or thirty feet high, rooting in clefts and hollows, were in flower (carmine red) all round the top of the rock. No snow ever falls here, they say; but there are sometimes hoar frosts, which the natives mistake for snow. I don’t suppose the temperature that night was below 50° Fahr., but it felt cold, very cold, after the heat of the lowlands.
The sun rose soon after six, and at 7.30 we started downwards, on the great pilgrim-track towards Ratnapura. The final cone, for about 1,500 feet, is certainly a steep bit of rock. I have seen it from several points of view, but the summit angle was always under 90°. Steps are cut nearly all down this part, and chains hang alongside in all places of possible difficulty—chains upon chains, things with links six inches long, all shapes and curiously wrought, centuries and centuries old—the pious gifts of successive generations of pilgrims. Here and there are long inscriptions, in Cinghalese characters, on the rock-faces; and everywhere signs of innumerable labor of successive travelers in hewing and shaping the path all the way—not to mention resting-sheds and cabins built in convenient spots lower down. These however are largely fallen to decay; and indeed the whole place gives one the impression that the sripada has come somewhat into disrepute in these modern times, and is only supported by the poorer and more ignorant among the people.
Ratnapura is only 150 feet or so above the sea; and for twenty-four miles the path to it from the summit—well-marked but single file—goes down over rocks and through vast woods, without coming to anything like a road. Nearly the whole, however, of this great descent of 7,000 feet is done in the first twelve miles to Palábaddala—a tiny hamlet at the very foot of the mountains—and I don’t know that I ever felt a descent so fatiguing as this one, partly no doubt owing to the experiences of the day and night before, and partly no doubt to the enervation produced by the climate and want of exercise; but the path itself is a caution, and the ascent of it must indeed be a pilgrimage, with its huge steps and strides from rock to rock and from tree-root to tree-root, and going, as it does, almost straight up and down the mountain side, without the long zigzags and detours by which in such cases the brunt is usually avoided. All the same it was very interesting; the upper jungle of rhododendrons, myrtles, and other evergreen foliage forming a splendid cover for elephants, and clothing the surrounding peaks and crags for miles in grey-green wrinkles and folds, with here and there open grassy spaces and glades and tumbling watercourses; then the vegetation of the lower woods, huge trees 150 or even 200 feet high, with creepers, orchids, and tree-ferns; the occasional rush of monkeys along the branches; butterflies and birds; thick undergrowth in parts of daturas, pointsettias, crotons, and other fragrant and bright-colored shrubs; down at last into coco-nut plantations and to the lovely Kaluganga, or Black river, which we forded twice; and ultimately along its banks, shadowed by bamboos and many flowering trees.
Although, curiously enough, the fig is not grown as a fruit in Ceylon, yet the ficus is one of the most important families of trees here, and many of the forest trees belong to it. There is one very handsome variety, whose massive grey stem rises unbroken to a great height before it branches, and which in order to support itself throws out great lateral wings or buttresses, reaching to a height of twelve or twenty feet from the ground, and spreading far out from the base of the trunk,—each buttress perhaps three or four inches thick, and perfectly shaped, with plane and parallel sides like a sawn plank, so as to give the utmost strength with least expenditure of material. This variety has small ovate evergreen leaves. Then there are two or three varieties, of which the banyan (ficus Indica) is one, which are parasitic in their habit. The banyan begins existence by its seed being dropped in the fork of another tree—not unfrequently a palm—from which point its rootlets make their way down the stem to the ground. With rapid growth it then encircles the victim tree, and throwing out great lateral branches sends down from these a rain of fresh rootlets which, after swinging in air for a few weeks, reach the ground and soon become sturdy pillars. I have thus seen a banyan encircling with its central trunk the stem of a palm, and clasping it so close that a knife could not be pushed between the two, while the palm, which had grown in height since this accident happened to it, was still soaring upwards, and feebly endeavoring to live. There is a very fine banyan tree at Kalutara, which spans the great high-road from Colombo to Galle, all the traffic passing beneath it and between its trunks.
Some of the figs fasten parasitically on other trees, though without throwing out the pillar-like roots which distinguish the banyan; and it is not uncommon to see one of these with roots like a cataract of snakes winding round the trunk of an acacia, or even round some non-parasitic fig, the two trees appearing to be wrestling and writhing together in a fierce embrace, while they throw out their separate branches to sun and air, as though to gain strength for the fray. The parasite generally however ends by throttling its adversary.
There is also the bo-tree, or ficus religiosa, whose leaf is of a thinner texture. One of the commonest plants in open spots all over Ceylon is the sensitive plant. Its delicately pinnate leaves form a bushy growth six inches to a foot in depth over the ground; but a shower of rain, or nightfall, or the trampling of animals through it causes it to collapse into a mere brown patch—almost as if a fire had passed over. In a few minutes however after the disturbance has ceased it regains its luxuriance. There are also some acacia trees which droop their leaves at nightfall, and at the advent of rain.
There are two sorts of monkeys common in these forests—a small brown monkey, which may be seen swinging itself from tree to tree, not unfrequently with a babe in its arms; and the larger wanderoo monkey, which skips and runs on all fours along the ground, and of which it is said that its devotion to its mate is life-long. Very common all over Ceylon is a little grey-brown squirrel, with three yellow longitudinal stripes on its back; almost every tree seems to be inhabited by a pair, which take refuge there at the approach of a stranger, and utter a sharp little whistle like the note of an angry bird. They are very tame however, and will often in inhabited places run about the streets, or even make their appearance in the houses in search of food.
The Hindus take no pleasure in killing animals—even the boys do not, as a rule, molest wild creatures—and the consequence is that birds and the smaller four-footed beasts are comparatively bold. Not that the animals are made pets of, but they are simply let alone—in keeping with the Hindu gentleness and quiescence of disposition. Even the deadly cobra—partly no doubt from religious associations—is allowed to go its way unharmed; and the people have generally a good word for it, saying it will not attack any one unless it be first injured.
On the whole the trouble about reptiles in this country seems to me to be much exaggerated. There are some places in the forests where small leeches—particularly in the wet seasons—are a great pest. Occasionally a snake is to be seen, but I have been rather disappointed at their rarity; or a millipede nine inches long. The larger scorpion is a venomous-looking creature, with its blue-black lobster-like body and claws, and slender sting-surmounted tail, five inches long in all; but it is not so venomous as generally supposed, and most of these creatures, like the larger animals—the chetah, the elk, the bear, the elephant, etc.—keep out of the way of man as well as they can. Of course native woodmen and others tramping bare-legged through the tangles occasionally tread on a snake and get bitten; but the tale of deaths through such casualties, though it may seem numerically large, taken say throughout Ceylon and India, is in proportion to the population but a slight matter—about 1 in 15,000 per annum.