Colombo — Kandy — Anuradhapura

IT is certainly very good to be ashore again, and moreover to me Colombo is a pleasure that never palls. It is astonishing how little is changed; every thing seems just as when we left it last. The same coolies, the same barges, the same impulsive tongues jabbering all round us. The same boatmen shriek and quarrel in our honour, the same money-changers offer us a small but appreciative welcome; and when we leave the landing place and enter the street, to find the rickshaw coolies, just as of old, sitting on their shafts, chewing betel-nut and chattering in the well-remembered fashion, we begin to believe we have never been away at all.

A little naked beggar boy runs beside us, flicking his plump sides, and imploring backsheesh in heart-rending tones, till we say something in the vernacular which causes him to flee and curse us in safety from afar; then some one playing with a mongoose in a corner, hearing what has passed, looks up with a grin which is so full of sympathy that we know and feel we are at home once more.

Now, if there is one place in this world more than another where sooner or later, if you but exercise patience, you shall meet whomsoever you wish, the name of that place is the Grand Oriental, Colombo. Into this caravanserai, day and night, clatter men and women from the uttermost parts of the earth. Dining in the great saloon, or smoking in the verandah, one may meet and converse with yellow-skinned tea men from Hong Kong, grey-bearded squatters from Australia, keen-eyed merchants from Japan, pink and white tourists from England, pearlers from Torres Straits, and explorers and adventurers from everywhere this side of the great Unknown. They arrive today, to depart tomorrow, and as they say ‘goodbye,’ more come to take their places. And so the everlasting game goes forward, but the Grand Oriental changes not.

The first thing to be done on arrival is to secure rooms, and after this is accomplished, to enjoy a bath. The water is refreshingly clear and cool, and the view from the bathroom window overlooking the hotel garden, is as beautiful as anything to be found in the East. Here, palms of seemingly endless variety, graceful ferns, brilliant yellow and purple hibiscus, tamarinds, and the fragrant champac, grow side by side in grandest luxuriance, while beneath their shelter thrive begonias, bromelias, fuchsias, petunias, and countless varieties of flowering plants. Through this exquisite tracery look in the roofs of houses, each with its tiles of different tint; a perfume of flowers suggestive of the Lotos Isles comes with the view, and the cloudless sapphire sky crowns all.

Dressed again, there are many old friends to be visited: friends who, though living in the midst of ever changing faces, seem never to forget. Two there are in the main street, Mahommedans both, and dealers in precious stones. Immediately we appear, touts from all the shops surround us, imploring our patronage for their respective masters; but our friends suddenly sight us, and though it is years since we saw them last, remember us instantly, and dash out to disperse the noisy crowd, and to beg us to take seats inside their shop, that they may make us welcome in proper form.

This proper form is without any attempt at business, and takes the shape of lemon — squash and sweetmeats, mixed up with many compliments and recollections of bygone days.

Thence we pass on to another and yet another, always with the same kindly welcome greeting us. Before we have paid our last call, the sun is down, and it is time to return to dinner.

After our al fresco meals on board ship, a real dinner, well cooked, and served on china and clean linen, with its accompanying glass and silver, has a peculiar charm. We linger over each course, pay befitting attention to a dish of mangoes, and finally come to an anchor, with cigars, in the broad verandah, where white-robed servants move silently about, attentive to our wants.

The noises of the streets are hushed. An almost painful quiet reigns. The subdued chatter of a knot of rickshaw coolies, across the road, blends so harmoniously with the starlight, that the cries of the boatmen, from among the myriad harbour lights, come almost as a relief to the general stillness. A man in a neighbouring chair says sleepily to his companion, ‘My dear fellow! I know the whole facts of the case — he got into trouble with one of the rajahs, and shot himself for a Lucknow dancing girl.’ Trying to imagine the rest of the story gives me a waking nightmare. But even their voices gradually drop down, till at peace with all the world we climb the cool stone stairs to our respective chambers, and almost before our heads touch the pillows, are sound asleep.

Of all hours of the twenty-four in tropical countries, there can be no doubt that those of the early morning are the most enjoyable. Rising with the day and turning out, pyjama clad, into the divisioned verandah of my room, to watch the city coming back to life, and the sun appearing like a giant refreshed above the fluted tiles of the house-tops is to me a pleasure always new. And again I like the Indian and Cinghalese fashion of serving the Chota-hazare in one’s bedroom verandah. To sit,’ cat, and watch the crowds of natives pass chattering by to their daily occupations, and whilst so doing to ward off the onslaught of voracious crows, is an experience one will not soon forget. Anything like the impudence and persistent thieving of these abandoned birds, I have never met with elsewhere.

Void of shame and moral responsibilities, deaf to entreaties, threats, and expostulations, they carry on their nefarious trade unabashed. Happen but for one moment to turn from your breakfast table, and a marauder swoops down, with the result that your choicest morsel is gone. You are amazed, but it does not strike you as anything to be annoyed at, in fact you think it rather amusing than otherwise, and butter another. Then your next door neighbour appears in his verandah and wishes you good morning. You turn for a moment to reply to him, —— a flutter of wings, a caw of triumph, and your second tit-bit has gone the way of the first. Then, if you are properly constituted, you become annoyed. but while you are arranging your feelings, another brigand, with a deep design in his heart, of which you, poor innocent, have no idea, flutters down and perches on the verandah rail.

‘Ha, ha! my friend!’ you chuckle, ‘you shall pay for this,’ and resolving to annihilate him on the spot, you dash into your bedroom for a stick. But this, believe me, is exactly what he wants. He has lured you from your guard, and when you return it is to find that the remainder of your breakfast has flown to a neighbouring house-top. Noting your discomfiture, half a dozen miscreants assemble on an adjacent tree, and perform a paean of victory, the theme of which seems to be somewhat after this fashion:

Tenors. ‘Caw, caw! got him again!’

Basses (with marvellous regard for time). ‘Caw, caw, caw! We’ve got him, we’ve got him, we've got him, got, got, got him again!’

Being new at the game, you shake your fist at them, and while wondering if you shall order some more breakfast, run up the scale of your abusive vocabulary.

But at this juncture the native barber appears with his case of razors and a lime, which latter, as it is Christmas week, he begs you will accept as his gift, and so your thoughts are distracted. While shaving you (and this is shaving, not tomahawking), he recalls the fact that he had the honour of performing the same service for you ten years ago. Further than that, he may possibly be able to set you right as to the room you then occupied, the day you arrived, and the boat by which your honour sailed. You are visibly filled with wonder, but say nothing lest you prove how little worthy of such remembrance you are.

When you have breakfasted, the most instructive way to spend a Colombo morning, unless your soul hankers after conjurors and cobra fights, is to wander past Slave Island, with its picturesque lagoon and groves of palm trees, past blind beggars, sweetmeat sellers, and story tellers, to the native quarter of Pettah.
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In this locality — the Whitechapel of Colombo — one is for the first time brought face to face with the true native element. Here may be seen as strange a mixture of races, as will be found anywhere in the East. Humanity of every hue, shape, and dress, crowds the narrow streets: Arabs in flowing burnous; Mahommedans with baggy breeches and high conical hats; Cinghalese dandies in petticoats and European jackets (their glossy black hair neatly rolled up in feminine fashion behind the head, and surmounted with an enormous tortoise-shell comb); Tamuls in loin cloths and naught else but the burnished livery of the sun; yellow-robed Buddhist priests, Kandyans, Malays, and in fact representatives of every Eastern nationality, all intent upon their own business, and nearly all chewing betel-nut.

To a modest man, in whose education the little peculiarities of Eastern customs have formed no part, I can imagine that many of the sights crowded into these streets would be extremely painful. Years ago, we ourselves, unconscious in our innocence, entered the quarter on the one side, to leave it on the other with a blush that had soaked through our skin deep into our underclothing. But since then we have learnt many things, and false modesty has been crowded out. With the natives themselves it is a case of ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’ And all things considered, perhaps it is just as well.

After the native quarter, the Cinnamon Gardens, with their sister quarter of Colpetty, where the fashionable bungalows are situated, are most worth seeing. It would be impossible for an amateur word-painter like myself to do adequate justice to the beauties of the scenery hereabouts: but let me try.

The roads are of a deep vermilion colour, bordered on either side by grassy banks, flowering shrubs, rustling bamboos, and trees whose boundless wealth of blossom intermingling overhead throws a kindly shade upon the passing wayfarer. Elegant bungalows, and Vandyke brown huts, peep out from gardens little short of heavenly, and now and again, through the open doors of these said huts, glimpses may be obtained of the little housewife inside, cumbered like Martha with much serving; while, outside, her tiny brown offspring roll and tumble in the roads, in the full enjoyment of their lives, but in constant peril from passing vehicles.

On the principle, that to be in Ceylon and to see only Colombo, is folly; to be in Ceylon and see Colombo and Kandy, is sense; but to be in Ceylon, and see Colombo, Kandy, and the ancient ruins of Anuradhapura is complete wisdom, we decide to make tracks for Kandy, and thence to attempt to get on to the last named city as best we can.

The train for Kandy, seventy-five miles distant, starts at seven thirty a.m. and is due to arrive about eleven thirty the same morning, I emphasise the latter fact, for the reason that many people decline to believe it, and the inference that the railway authorities are not reckless in the speed of the trains is apt to be misleading. They (both the authorities and the trains) believe in going slow, and at least we can consistently pay them the compliment of saying that they act up to their belief. If you should have a business appointment in Kandy, it would be better to walk than to train, otherwise you certainly won’t keep it.

The trains themselves are pretty toys, with engines built to the Indian gauge, and carriages like pill-boxes; the officials are elaborate individuals, gorgeously upholstered and fully conscious of their own importance.

Having secured our tickets and places, we start. The speed at first is almost desperate, possibly twenty-five miles an hour. The line runs over marshy padi fields, interspersed with lovely clumps of jungle. Now and again we cross roads where the native keeper, with all the fuss of an important government official, waves his flag until we are out of sight, and then retires, to rest and be admired, until the time arrives for him to perform the same function for the evening train.

About half-past nine we leave Rambukana behind us (the names are as delightful as the country) and commence our ascent, wriggling like a gigantic snake through scenery that would hold the veriest pagan spell-bound. No words put on paper, could give an idea of a thousandth part of its beauty. Waterfalls, ravines, forest vistas, ferns and creepers greet the eye in bewildering confusion at every turn. The nearest thing to a description would perhaps be the utterance of a fair young American, who, in company with her husband or lover, shares our carriage, and for five minutes (the only five minutes throughout the journey) has sat spell-bound. ‘Jim,’ she says, in an awed whisper, ‘if you ask me, I reckon that fairly licks creation.’ And so it does!

Zigzagging up and up, here, there, and everywhere, one moment passing through thick forests, only the next to leap out on to the bald face of mountains, we obtain views of the lovely misty valley beneath us, and of other peaks stretching still further to the southward.

But the acme of all is attained, when we open out on to Sensation Rock, so called from being the place where the Kings of Kandy were wont to throw their prisoners over in days gone by. (What a pleasant sensation it must have been for the folk thrown over!) Here on one side, the masses of overhanging rock seem certain to fall upon and crush us; while on the other, we can look down, nigh upon two thousand feet, sheer drop, into the valley below. It is indeed a sight to be remembered, but the sensations produced are not as enjoyable as they might be. To my fancy, it is too much like hanging by the tips of one’s fingers from the cross of St. Paul’s, to be really pleasant.

Further along the line we come to Peredeniya, famous for its botanical gardens, to reach which a bridge must be crossed, over the Mahawella Ganga, having one span of something like seven hundred feet. These gardens are among the most celebrated in the world, and boast many and extraordinary botanical treasures, among others the lovely Thunbergia creeper, and a magnificent avenue of India-rubber trees (Ficus elastica.)

Shortly after eleven thirty, satiated with scenic loveliness, we reach our destination, the ancient capital of Ceylon. Kandy, once the residence of kings, situated about sixteen hundred feet above sea level, in a sort of mountain cup, surrounded by hills, can, however, only claim to have been the capital of the island for about the last three hundred years. Before she came into being, the principal city and seat of government, was Polonarua. now a vast ruin, situated far away in the north, and famed in history as a city of marvellous beauty and splendour. Yet again, this wonderful place cannot claim to be the oldest, for going still further back, even as far as to five hundred years before the Christian era, we find in the ancient chronicles of the Buddhists, mention made of a still greater city, named Anuradhapura: a city which even up to very late years has been regarded as almost mythical, but the ruins of which, situated about ninety miles due north, now He open for all the world to visit.

On arrival in Kandy, we make haste to see all that is to be seen. Our first visit is to the Palace of the Kings, a building wearing a decidedly European air, accounted for by the fact that it was built by the Portuguese, when they held the island in about the year sixteen hundred. It has, of course, long since lost its ancient use, and is now reserved only for government purposes. Standing on the edge of a lovely lake, it looks away across the blue waters towards the Matale Hills, where Hunasgeriya Peak shows faintly through the clouds. The view from the terrace is one that will not soon be forgotten.

In the centre of the lake is a tiny island, now used as a government powder magazine, which, in days gone by, had the honour of being the king’s harem, and about which, if one cares to believe all one hears, many curious stories are related.

At no great distance from the palace stands the far-famed Maligawa Dalada, or the Buddhist temple of the Sacred Tooth; a spot which marks to the followers of that religion, one, if not the most sacred, of the many sacred spots upon the island. From the outside it presents few attractive features, and the prospect on entering is gloomy and sombre in the extreme. The dresses of the priests and pilgrims, and the never failing supply of flowers on the altars, are the only touches of colour in the scene. But when the visitor has penetrated fairly into the heart of the building, all this is changed. Suddenly, and without warning, he is brought face to face with a staggering fortune, in the shape of a solid silver door, set in carved ivory. This door opens into a small inner chamber, where stands a table of the same precious metal, fronting the first sacred shrine. Within this shrine are five others, all blazing with gems and goldwork. Inside the innermost shrine of all, resting on a lotus leaf of pure gold, lies the most sacred relic of Buddhism — the tooth of Buddha.

Strange to say, considering the veneration paid to it, it is neither the tooth of Buddha, nor the tooth of anyone else, but is simply, so it is said, a molar of human workmanship, and a very bad molar at that. Once every year this sacred relic is exposed to the gaze of the vulgar, but only for the space of a few seconds. For the rest of the time it reposes upon, what is of much more value, its lotus leaf of gold. In the temple is also treasured the sacred alms pot about which so many strange yarns have been invented. We wanted to handle all these things for ourselves — particularly the silver door, and the lotus leaf of gold — but the authorities seemed disinclined to permit it. I suppose they had good and sufficient reasons for their refusal.

To me the most striking part of the whole affair was the priest who showed us round. He was small and spare, with glittering, dark eyes, a shaven head, and an odour of his own. He wore a coarse yellow robe turned back over the shoulder, leaving the right breast bare. From this exposure I argued that a good bath would have done him no harm.

These priests are purely a mendicant order, and are popularly supposed to live only on what is given them by the people, to eat no flesh, and to consume what things they do partake of before noon. Moreover, they are compelled to practise celibacy, and it is one of the rules of their order that they shall carry a fan, in order that they may cover their eyes when passing such vanities as women. Their duties are to keep the temple spick and span (in which they certainly fail), to conduct the services, and to watch the sacred lamp, which, year in, year out, must constantly be kept burning. In their odd moments they go out into the highways and byways in search of provender.

Having explored Kandy to our satisfaction, we made up our minds, with a gravity befitting such an important undertaking, and determined to try for the ruined city of Anuradhapura, located in the jungle, about ninety miles due north. Accordingly, once more commending ourselves to Providence and the railway commissioners of Ceylon, we set off, and duly landed at Matale, a straggling little town (once a royal residence), whence, at intervals, a coach runs to Damboola, another town of considerable importance. We found this latter place, after a lovely drive through mountain gorges, situated at the base of an immense dark red crag, of curious shape, rising to a height of about five hundred feet, at the junction of the plain country with the mountains. From the crag a superb view may be obtained of the green sea of jungle stretching away to the northward, and of the varied coloured valleys which lie behind it. It was in this northern jungle that we were to seek the cities of the dead.

Evidently there must be some life in that mysterious region, for on inquiry we were informed, by an ancient of the place, that Her Majesty’s royal mail was daily despatched to the district, and moreover, that the coach would leave Damboola precisely at sundown. Being of a garrulous nature, our informant went on to say, that should we desire it, we could, by payment of an extra fee, retain the whole coach for our own special and private use. As this seemed the only way of reaching Anuradhapura, we were compelled to avail ourselves of it, and to leave unvisited what we so much desired to see, the famous cave temples of Damboola.

To have the grandeur and dignity of Her Majesty’s mail entirely for ourselves was too great a temptation to resist, so accordingly, giving our friend the wherewithal, we bade him retain it for us, and continued our inspection of the township, conscious of our increased importance.

Shortly before sundown we were back again in the main street, awaiting the arrival of the coach, and momentarily expecting the blast of the horn and the appearance round the corner of the four prancing bays. Five minutes went by, ten minutes, and even a quarter of an hour, and still no sign of our equipage. Visions of deception and appropriated money began to flit before our eyes; we gazed with suspicion upon our native adviser, who with many salaams continued to inform us that it would be here instantly without fail!

Just as our patience was giving way, there appeared round the corner a shabby old bullock bandy, drawn by a couple of trotting bullocks, and driven by a native scarecrow pitiful to behold.

Our friend’s satisfaction knew no bounds.

‘Sahibs!’ he said, ‘see, it is here. Her Majesty’s mail!’

Down toppled our pride like a house of cards.

‘What!’ we shrieked, ‘do you mean to tell us that that old go-cart is Her Majesty’s mail, and that you suppose we glorious Sahibs from a far country are going to ride all night in that old hearse? No, my ancient, take our advice and trot out your Oxford “High-flyer,” or there will be serious trouble in the camp.’

But it was no use arguing, he only nodded his head like a mandarin, and repeated continually.

‘Her Majesty’s mail-cart; very superb and much magnificent!’

Putting our dignities in our pockets, we proceeded to stow ourselves in with the mailbags, feeling that there was every prospect of our passing a picturesque and horrible night. But we did not start.

Inquiring the meaning of the delay, we were informed that the mail could not be despatched until the arrival of the mailman, who presently, in the shape of a villanously scarred and half obliterated Tamul, unclad save for a loin cloth, made his appearance. Bound his neck was suspended a peculiar bugle, evidently his badge of office. While regarding it, we felt constrained to say to him: ‘Sonny! we’re grateful to you for your thoughtfulness, but while travelling it is our custom to make our own music; perhaps the mayor of the town or the custodian of the museum would take charge of that relic till you come back. Leave it, we implore you.’

But he paid no attention, only rolled his betel-nut, spat on and annihilated a caterpillar, then gave the signal to start. The driver roused up his team, two curs intended to run after us and bark but thought better of it, and presently we were dashing down the jungle track at a comparatively furious pace. Dangling our legs over the tailboard we silently contemplated nature, and wondered what would happen if the bottom of the cart fell out, or a tiger should pounce upon us by the way. But neither of these things happened, and we soon discovered that the only adventure we need fear was an insane desire for music on the part of the mailman. He was an enthusiast, and even rupees wouldn’t stop him; he took them, and blew the harder.

Save when the stars managed to get a look at us through the overhanging foliage, the night was dark as pitch. The thick jungle on either hand loomed black and lonesome, and despite the beauty of the fireflies flitting through the picturesque Mana grass, it needed very little imagination to conjure up the near presence of all sorts of horrible and noxious animals. Presently the moon rose, and her coming developed a fairy-like picture that was more like the transformation scene in a pantomime than anything else.

Every six miles we came upon a cluster of native habitations built on clearings in the dense Chenar jungle. Apparently they had no business there but the production of a fresh pair of bullocks in exchange for our jaded beasts. These villages were always a surprise to us. The first intimation we received of our approach to them was a long and furious blast of the mailman’s horn, a peculiar and melancholy music, ventriloqual in its effect. I call it ventriloqual because there was no possible chance of locating it. It seemed to start from somewhere in the region of the axle, then to sneak off into the jungle, to finally come back upon us in q, caterwaulish moan from the trees overhead. Twice we bore it without complaint; then, encouraged perhaps by the fact that he was still alive, he attempted a single variation — only one: just a short heart-rending scream, followed by a long-drawn sob. Before, however, he was properly through with it we were upon him, shaking our fists in his face and daring him under threats of instant death to attempt such a thing again. He retreated to the side of the driver, whence ever and anon he cast suspicious glances in our direction. Personally, I never contemplated murder with such equanimity before.

So the night wore on. Every hour found us, by reason of our cramped positions, growing more and more stiff and tired. First one leg went to sleep, then the other; then we developed internal pains, and began to realise what it must be to have cramp in the stomach, liver disease, rheumatism, and lumbago, all at once and all in aggravated forms. Every time we stopped to change bullocks, we got down and stamped around in the hope of introducing a little, circulation into our blood, but no sooner were we back in our places than the old pains recommenced, and kept us waiting in speechless agony for the end of the next six miles. Finally, we both dropped off into an uneasy doze.

But we were not destined to enjoy this long, for the sudden stoppage of the cart, together with a shriek so awful, so full of human suffering, brought us instantly wide awake again, quaking in an ecstasy of terror. Leaping to the ground, we turned to see what had happened, fully expecting to find two or three natives in deadly peril, or, at the very least, three children run over by the cart. Day was just breaking and we looked and looked, but only a few native huts peering out of the mist and a couple of bullocks placidly awaiting our arrival, were to be seen. Then we noticed our mailman edging away to a safe distance, and the fact slowly dawned upon us that, taking advantage of our slumbers, he had again been giving vent to his uncontrollable musical ambition. Registering a vow to exterminate him on the first convenient opportunity, we retook our places and proceeded.

An hour later the sun was high above the tree tops, innumerable birds fluttered through the jungle or flew screaming across our path, monkeys of all sizes and in all stages of imbecility passed the time of day to us from the trees, while above all, not more than three miles distant, towered a monstrous dome, the Dagoba of Abhayagiri, built nearly a hundred years before the birth of Christ. By this we knew that we were in sight of Anuradhapura.

The present appearance of this far-famed city is, to say the least of it, disappointing. In the first place a thriving modern village, with a court-house, a government rest-house, and a population of 1,500 souls, stands upon what must once have been the very centre of the vast metropolis. We drew up before the rest-house.

Now a rest-house is not always a synonym for comfort, but it has at least the advantage of being a government institution, and as such, it is a matter of instant dismissal for the landlord if he be found guilty of either incivility or extortion. By his agreement he is compelled to find accommodation for travellers for three days at a fixed rate, and on this score we had no reason to be dissatisfied.

A bath and breakfast having been attended to, we hunted up authorities, and, before starting on our voyage of discovery, satisfied ourselves as to the best things to see first.

When one considers that these scattered ruins are all that remain of a city whose size was fifty-two miles in circumference, or, in other words, sixteen miles across from gate to gate, covering a space of 256 square miles, some vague idea will be gained of the power of time to obliterate, and a city to crumble away.

With commendable zeal the government of Ceylon has taken up the exploration of these ruins, and the result is that under the superintendence of an able archaeologist, a large amount of interesting and valuable work has been accomplished.

The most striking and characteristic of the buildings of Anuradhapura are the lofty Dagobas1 whose domes rise high into the heavens on every hand. In construction they are simply gigantic masses of red brickwork, hemispherical in shape, intended originally to act as receptacles for sacred remains. Round these monster buildings, between the stones of which innumerable trees have taken root, run platforms of masonry, while here and there tiny shrines have been arranged, before which offerings of flowers are continually deposited.

1 From ddy a relic, and geha, a receptacle.

The principal Dagobas are the Ruaniwelle (signifying gold dust), one hundred and fifty feet high, standing on a terrace commanding a fine view of the city, and according to the chronicles, built by one Gaimono B.C. 150. The Thuparamaya, built B.C. 500, and intended for the reception of Buddha’s collar-bone; the Jaitawanarama, once three hundred and fifteen feet high, but now barely two hundred and sixty, erected a.d. 310; and the Abhayagiri (fortress of safety), B.C. 87. This latter, perhaps the finest of .all, was built to commemorate a national victory, and stood no less than four hundred and ten feet high, or equal to the tallest cathedral spire in England. At the base it is nearly four hundred feet in diameter, and it is computed to contain nearly twenty million feet of masonry.

Leaving the great Dagobas we find ourselves surrounded by massive ruins, broken pillars, formless blocks of masonry, delicately traced and fluted columns, and sarcophagi of all descriptions, mixed up in hopeless confusion with rude stone figures of bulls and elephants. Returning to the back of our rest-house, we again hunt up authorities, and discover the Lowa mahapaya, or Great Palace of Brass, once the chief glory of this departed city, but the only remaining signs of it now are sixteen hundred columns of granite, each twelve feet high and three feet thick, giving evidence of having once been beautifully spaced and arranged. Two centuries before Christ they formed part of a palace beside which many of our great buildings of the present day would be as naught. Built in the form of a square, with sides two hundred and thirty feet long, it was, so the chronicles affirm, nine stories high, and contained no less than one hundred rooms on each floor. For a roof it possessed a solid sheet of burnished brass, an item in itself which must have been a winking wonder for miles around. Today its grandeur has departed, and its brazen roof has vanished into the lumber-room of eternity, the grandly frescoed walls have crumbled into dust, and where may once have stood the high priest’s throne of ivory, we found an old hen foraging for her chicks. And so perhaps, in the centuries yet unborn, when Time, the remorseless, has crushed between his fingers the grandeurs that today we think so imperishable, will an old hen scratch for her brood on the soil above the altar stones of Westminster. Overcome with the thought, we returned by way of Great King Street to our abode for tiffin.

After the meal, replacing our helmets, we started forth once more, this time to explore the greatest curiosity of all, the Temple of the Sacred Bo-tree. Here still flourishes what is beyond doubt the oldest known tree in the wide wide world. It was planted (so I am told by my never-failing friend, the Chronicle Mahawanso) by one Devenipiatissa, in the year B.C. 288, which gives it an age therefore of two thousand one hundred and eighty one years. Never has its wood been defiled by steel, and day after day and hour by hour the leaves, which must on no account be touched until they fall, are reverently gathered up by the everlasting stream of pilgrims visiting the shrine. According to the Buddhist belief, this tree was once part and parcel of the tree under which Gautama Buddha sat at the time of his death or apotheosis. Standing in the centre of the topmost of three platforms of masonry and surrounded by an iron railing, its branches, tenderly supported, straggle and twine all over the courtyard. Yellow-robed priests watch beside it continually, and every possible care is taken to ensure its preservation. Neatness is evidently not one of the obligations imposed upon the monks, for the courtyard is strewn with offerings of rice, broken begging bowls, and fragments’ of lamps used at midnight worship, remembrances of the thousands of pilgrims who pass in and out of this holy place.

We of a far country and a far different religion, one whose age beside that of this ancient tree is as a poplar tree to a giant oak, stand and watch the ceaseless quivering of its leaves with an attempt to grasp something of its history. But it is impossible — the distance of time is too vast. As we look, the yellow-robed ministers of this ancient faith pass to and fro, their vestments contrasting artistically with the dull brickwork around them. On a high wall gorgeous peacocks preen themselves against the sun-light, while hordes of monkeys slip, busily chattering, from branch to branch, waiting for chances to descend and loot the offerings of the faithful.

On the whole, if one excepts the tree itself, the temple has little to recommend it, but to’ except the tree would be to liken it to Westminster Abbey without its monuments, and for this reason alone we will not criticise too closely. As we leave the building, a party of pilgrims approach the red-tiled gateway, and raising their hands above their heads, cry in sacred greeting, ‘Sadhu! Sadhu! Sadhu!’ It was an impressive little incident — a fitting termination to our visit to the ancient shrine.

By this time the sun like a ball of red fire is resting on the tree-topped horizon, throwing long shafts of golden light through the ruined streets and upon the great Dagobas, till it seems to us that we are standing in the City of the Living Fire. An intense hush clasps everything, and this becomes even more marked when the sun sinks below the horizon. With his departure a strange chill creeps across the world, and we begin to feel that we are no longer in the city of the living fire, but really in the city of the dead.

We return to our abode, struggling with a feeling akin to sadness. It is Christmas Eve: a night for happy thoughts, a night on which to make merry with one’s friends. But is this a place for merry-making, with the destruction of twenty-four dead centuries around us? No! a thousand times no! So after dinner drawing our chairs into the verandah, and while waiting for the moon to rise, we sit and talk in hushed voices of the past, the great, mysterious past.

When with slow and stately progress the orb of night sails into the heavens, it is a ghostly scene that she illumines. We look across monster Dagobas,

Strange stone pillars, ruined masonry — monuments of a long dead age — towards the weird, unearthly jungle. Hardly a sound disturbs the stillness. A few lamps twinkle here and there, and while we watch, as if to add still further to the feeling of intense loneliness, a solitary jackal lifts up his voice among the ruins and laments the passing of the world.

And what a city this must have been more than two thousand weary years ago. In the Mahawanso we read that it was a place of magnificent streets, the chief of which alone was computed to contain no less than eleven thousand houses. We are told that it had its temples in which, day and night, services were conducted with glorious pomp and pageantry. We know that it had its palace, whose great brazen roof shone like a jewelled casket in the sky, covering many hundred rooms inlaid with gold, silver, and ivory. We know that it had its places of mart and of amusement, its crowded streets, barracks, alms-houses, and public baths; and last of all we are told that it contained a population amounting to something like three million souls. Kings’ retinues marched along her public ways, religious processions were to be met with at every turn, and gorgeously caparisoned state elephants, with ponderous tread, swung through the crowds. Tradesmen cried their wares, keen-eyed men of business jostled lovers blind to everyone and everything save themselves. And tonight, where are they all? Where are the kings and soldiers, the tradesmen, priests, men of business and lovers? Gone, gone, gone! disappeared into the great darkness behind the veil of time, at rest these twenty-four long centuries. And that city? What remains of her? Only a mass of irrecognisable ruins, through which the night winds moan and lonely jackals howl!

And yet above all, throwing strange shadows across the burnt-up earth, and smoothing with loving hand the ravages of time, looks down the moon, just as she gazed upon the city in its grandeur, so many hundred years ago. Silent and cold the goddess of night watches over these ruins, as she watched over Babylon and stately Egypt; and just as she saw the building of the pyramids, and the destruction of Pompeii, so has she seen the city of Anuradhapura, both in her pride and in her desolation.

The long shadows deepen. A melancholy chant, part of some midnight service, rises from the great Dagoba. A soft wind sighs among the palm trees. It is getting cold, let us to bed, before we come to believe that we, too, have been dead these long two thousand years.