KANDY
Tombs of the queens—Court dress—Titles—Kandyan ladies—A chief’s jungle
feast—Pandals—Masks—Musical instruments—Leeches—How to avoid them—
Peradeniya Botanical Gardens—India-rubber trees—Palms—Talipot palm—
Bamboo—Other gardens—Flying foxes—Various nests.
After a happy peaceful week at the Bishop’s little bungalow at
Pallagolla, during which we saw many friends, all on their way down from
Nuwara Eliya to lower levels, we also followed, halting at Rambodda
(between the red and white waterfalls), where there was quite a
gathering of the planting community to attend a christening in the neat
little church. Thence by coach to Gampola, whence the railway carried us
through lovely country and across the wide Maha-velli-ganga, the ‘Great
Sandy River,’ to Kandy, a beautifully situated little town clustering
round an artificial tank, and surrounded on every side by beautiful
hills. Here the vegetation of the hills meets that of the plains, and
all the lovely varieties of foliage peculiar to each mingle in rank
luxuriance.
It was the home of the latest Singhalese kings, and the last place to
fall into the hands of foreigners. Now it is one of the three seats of
the English Government. Being only 1,680 feet above the sea, with a warm
moist climate, it forms a half-way house between Colombo, on the
sea-level, and Nuwara Eliya, which has an elevation of 6,240 feet.
Comfortable bungalows, each in a pleasant shady garden, surround the
lake, and are dotted all over the green hills overlooking the valley.
[Illustration:
KANDY, LOOKING TO THE MATELE HILLS.
(Shows the Temple of the Tooth, Buddhist Library, Government House,
&c.)
]
Of course people who live on the level of the lake are practically at
the bottom of a deep cup, and are apt to find the steamy heat
oppressive; but the homes on the upper roads not only enjoy fresher air,
but far more extensive views, for beyond the red-tiled monasteries,
temples, and churches, which are reflected in the blue mirror far below,
rise the steep slopes of the verdant valley, where luxuriant foliage
blends with vividly green expanses of lemon and guinea grass, and far
beyond the green goblet stretch beautiful mountain-ranges—the lovely
Matale Hills and Hunasgeriya Peak; the latter, which is nearly 5,000
feet in height, often towering above clouds.
Such a view as this, generally seen through a fairy-like frame of
feathery bamboos and palms, is a perpetual joy, whether in the clear
early morning, under the bright blue sky of noonday, or when bathed in
the soft golden light of evening. I thought the finest point of view of
any was that selected many years ago by a friend of my childhood, Simon
Keir, who was one of the earliest European settlers here.
Kandy is indebted for its lake to Sri Wikrema Raja Singha, the last of
the Kandyan kings, who, for the embellishment of his capital, flooded
the paddy-fields in this, as also in a lower valley. The latter has been
restored to its original use, but the lake at Kandy happily remains as a
thing of beauty round which the inhabitants take their daily three-mile
drive with most monotonous regularity. It is surrounded by a very
ornamental low stone wall, with niches to contain small lamps for
illumination on certain festivals, especially at a feast of lanterns in
November.
A small island in the lake was reserved for the special enjoyment of the
ladies of the royal zenana. When the British took possession, this was
utilised as a powder-magazine, but now is restored to more than its
primitive beauty, being a miniature paradise of flowering shrubs.
Though this lakelet is the making of Kandy, its creation in the
beginning of the present century is said to have been an occasion of
grievous hardship to the people, having been entirely made by compulsory
labour—the Raja-karia, which was always enforced by the native kings,
and by means of which the gigantic tanks for irrigation and other great
works were produced. In this case, however, the bloodthirsty cruelty of
the king made work done for him peculiarly oppressive, and rich and
poor, priests and soldiers, are said to have all rejoiced when in 1815
their hateful tyrant was deposed by British arms.
He was captured in a mountain-cave, and was deported to the Fort of
Vellore, near Madras, where, solaced by the company of his four queens,
he was retained until his death, seventeen years later. He was the last
of a series of a hundred and sixty-five kings, whose reigns extended
over a period of 2,358 years.
Judging from an official report made by Major Johnston in 1804, the
condition of the people cannot have been luxurious. Even rice, which,
although the mainstay of Eastern races, we deem such very simple fare,
was then throughout Ceylon, but especially in the Kandyan province,
reserved for the higher classes, and, he says, ‘is a luxury of which the
lowest order of the people seldom partake, their chief food being a sort
of grain that grows on the hills, with little cultivation, and without
watering. This, together with a root dug from the bottom of the tanks,
and a decoction of the bark of a tree found in abundance in the forests,
constitute their principal means of support.’
In those days, whatever was deemed a luxury was reserved for the king
and the priests. It is said that even windows, tiled roofs, and white
walls were prohibited for the use of subjects; so that, with the
exception of the king’s palace and the Buddhist temples and monasteries,
the old town of Kandy consisted chiefly of thatched mud hovels. Even in
1844, Hoffmeister speaks of ‘the filthy streets of this poverty-stricken
city.’ It now numbers about 20,000 inhabitants, of whom about 250 are
British; and their comfortable homes and the spires and towers of
Christian churches of various denominations are pleasant features in the
scene.
But the really characteristic buildings are the Buddhist monasteries and
colleges; an octagonal building, in which are stored treasures of
Oriental literature; the palace of the old kings, now the residence of
the Government Agent; and the ancient Hall of Audience, which is now
used as the District Court of Kandy, and which is a very striking hall
supported by many richly carved wooden pillars. Close to this hall is
the Maligawa, the far-famed Temple of the Dalada or Tooth, which, though
a mere piece of ivory half the size of my first finger, is supposed to
have been a veritable tooth of Gautama Buddha, and is reverenced
accordingly by all the millions who profess to be his followers.
Naturally, in this stronghold of Buddhism, the chief characteristic of
the human element is the large proportion of the brethren of the yellow
robe of all ages and sizes—from reverend old men down to quite small
boys—all alike with shaven head, and drapery in flowing lines like a
Roman toga. At Kandy almost all are members of the Siamese sect which
wears the robe with one end thrown over the left shoulder, but the right
shoulder and arm always bare—thus producing a fine harmony in brown and
yellow. A yellow palm-leaf fan completes the picture, and is carried in
order that the holy brother may veil his eyes as he passes anything so
distracting or so evil as a woman. I cannot say that I have ever
observed the fan used for this purpose!
It is whispered that some of these priests have taken the yellow robe as
the simplest method of getting a divorce from an unloved wife. They are
at liberty at any moment to throw off their robes and return to the
position of ordinary mortals—beginning life anew with a new wife. But
while they wear the robe they are bound to be very strict; and I must
plead guilty to having occasionally, for malicious fun, cordially shaken
hands with friendly brethren, wondering what terrible penance they would
feel bound to perform in consequence!
At Kandy I was most hospitably received and lionised by Mr. and Mrs.
Philip Templer, and with their kind aid and that of other friends who
sympathised in my wish to see everything of interest, I think there were
few, even of the most out-of-the-way corners, left unvisited or
unsketched.
Amongst those somewhat off the beaten track are the tombs of the Kandyan
queens—not beautiful in themselves, and somewhat ruinous, but, as is
invariably the case in Ceylon, glorified by the surrounding foliage. The
red-tiled double roof, shaded by luxuriant palms loaded with nuts and
blossom, each crown a study in green and gold and brown; gnarled old
temple-trees filling the air with fragrance; and yellow-robed priests
laying offerings of yellow flowers before small dome-shaped
relic-shrines, beneath huge bo-trees with spiritual-looking white stems
and light foliage, which, like that of our own aspen, quivers
ceaselessly even when there is scarcely a perceptible breath of air.
As regards the Kandyan kings, their funeral rites were invested with a
strange veil of mystery and awe. As ‘children of the Sun’ the royal race
were entitled to supreme reverence from a people who worshipped the
heavenly host. In order to deepen this veneration, many ceremonies were
observed. The funeral pyre was so great, and was so constantly renewed,
that it burnt for ten days, when it was extinguished, and the ashes of
the pyre were collected in an earthen urn.
A masked figure in dark robes then appeared and, taking the urn, mounted
an elephant, and, heading a solemn funereal procession, led the way to
the Maha-velli-ganga. On reaching the brink of the river he descended
from his high seat, and, carrying in one hand the urn, in the other a
drawn sword, he silently took his place in a dark canoe, which was
covered with cocoa-nut blossoms and green leaves. The canoe was then
towed to the middle of the stream, when the dark figure rose and,
holding up the urn in presence of the multitude, cut it in two by one
blow of his sword, thus consigning to the sacred waters the precious
dust of the royal race of the Sun. Then, diving beneath the surface, the
dark-robed mask disappeared; and the frail canoe drifted down the
stream, with its cargo of flowers.
The men who had collected the ashes were conveyed to the other side of
the river, and certain death was supposed to await them should they ever
return. The elephant that had borne the sacred urn was thenceforth
himself sacred. He, too, was sent to the opposite shore, there to end
his days in idleness. Thus was the royal dust disposed of; and
straightway a new child of the Sun was ready to shine on the darkness of
his people, for just so long as his next of kin were content to await
their little hour,—the rapidity of succession in these Singhalese annals
being strikingly suggestive of Oriental impatience in that respect.
We made expeditions to various Buddhist temples, which are invariably
nestled into some very picturesque corner, and the drive or ride to them
was always through lovely scenery. In one of these—a white temple beside
a dark rock, and which has the peculiarity of being three storeys high—
we were interested by the wall frescoes, all in the crudest primitive
colours, depicting scenes in Buddhist mythology, and the penalties of
divers sins. Bright blue devils with red-hot tongs are shown pulling out
the teeth of one wretched victim, while the reward of cruelty is
exemplified by a hunter being torn into fragments by blue dogs.
In a side chapel lay a reclining image of Buddha fifty-seven feet long,
and in the inner shrine worshippers were laying graceful offerings of
rosy lotus-blossoms and pale yellow roses. In the upper storey treasures
of gold and silver work, small figures of Buddha, and bo-trees finely
wrought in metal, are stored within a fine bronze dagoba, and all were
courteously exhibited by their yellow-robed guardians.
To me all the rock temples have a special attraction: they are always
picturesquely niched, and involve something of a scramble. We drove from
Kandy to see one at Hindo Galla—ascending by steep rock steps to a
red-tiled, white-pillared temple, nestling beneath a huge boulder of
chocolate-coloured rock with yellow and grey on the under side, and a
group of yellow-robed monks supplying a perfect touch of colour, with
surroundings of dark rocks, kitool palms, and a temple-tree loaded with
fragrant blossom. Also a fine large bo-tree, surrounded by several
terraces of masonry all lined with triangular niches for lamps, and
glowing with yellow marigolds—sacred on account of their colour.
All through this month of May I find in my journal perpetually recurring
entries of rain, rain, rain—including some magnificent thunderstorms.
However, no one seemed to mind the weather, except the luckless natives
who are not provided with waterproofs, and who here, as in India, are
exceedingly sensitive to the smallest fall of temperature—especially
dreading the delicious coolness of early dawn.
On two days there were races at Peradeniya, which were attended by every
one, notwithstanding the rain. Happily the intervening day was glorious.
I might say, of course it was, as it was the day chosen for the Queen’s
birthday levee, and a very pretty and curious sight it was. It was held
in the audience-hall of the old palace of the Kandyan kings, a low dark
hall supported by a double row of handsome wooden pillars. Their
capitals are richly carved, and both on these and on the walls are shown
flights of the geese sacred to Buddha.
The distinctive feature of the scene was, as it ever must be, the very
handsome and very extraordinary court-dress of the Kandyan chiefs; and I
may remark once for all, that, as compared with a grand Indian durbar,
this is the one only phase of gorgeousness quite peculiar to Ceylon, and
in which no invidious comparison is possible. To give an idea of the
dress by mere description is almost impossible.
In the first place, though the Kandyan chiefs are naturally a fine
handsome set of men, their object seems to be to make themselves appear
very much bigger; therefore, to begin with, instead of wearing a single
piece of cloth as a _comboy_ or long kilt, they wear seven pieces of
very fine silk or muslin, probably embroidered in gold, and heavily
fringed, each nine yards in length. These sixty-three yards are wound
round and round the waist, caught up so as to form a divided skirt over
tight white trousers, which end in a neat frill above the bare brown
feet. I was assured that some of the very great swells literally
contrive to wind on 150 yards! The folding is so contrived that the
figure gradually tapers from the ankle up to the waist, round which (of
course, many inches wider than the real waist) is fastened a broad
gold-embroidered velvet belt. The shape of the man thus adorned is that
of a peg-top!
Over a shirt or vest fastened with splendid studs is worn a short jacket
with very large gigot sleeves to above the elbow. These jackets are of
the brightest coloured brocaded silks or velvet, all gold-embroidered,
as are also the very peculiar and gorgeous velvet hats, of which you
never see two alike, though in shape all are like very large rather flat
pincushions, and surmounted with an eccentric ornament like a miniature
Christmas-tree of gold and jewels. The gold embroidery makes these
head-dresses exceedingly heavy. The long black hair is parted on the
forehead like a woman’s, and is fastened at the back in the usual
_kondé_ or knot. An enormous ring worn on the third or fourth finger,
completes a costume whose gaudiness is effectually harmonised by the
rich brown colour of the dark-eyed chief, and a group of fifty or sixty
of these very fine birds in their very fine feathers is a sight well
worth seeing. Some wear a full-plaited muslin tippet over the jacket.
Only think how inconvenient this wonderful official dress must have been
in the reign of the Kandyan kings, in whose presence the highest chiefs
were bound to crouch in lowly humility, and if obliged to pass in front
of him, even at a considerable distance, they were compelled to stoop so
low as apparently to be creeping! Happily under British rule all men may
walk upright, and the common-wear costume of these gorgeous
Ratemahatmayas is the semi-European dress adopted in the colleges,—the
_comboy_ or waist-cloth, the _kondé_ or knot of long back-hair, and the
tortoiseshell comb being the only distinctive features, all other
articles of dress being British.
The court dress of the minor head-men is marked by a simplicity by no
means unbecoming. Their only distinctive feature is the saucer-shaped
hat, but theirs is of plain white material. Their only other garment is
the simple long loin-cloth, and a cloth or belt wrapped round the waist.
Thence upwards they are clad in nature’s own suit of silky brown.
Besides these there was a great display of distinctive dresses, the
variety of turbans and other head-dresses alone forming quite a study.
Prominent in the crowd are the Mudaliyars, Singhalese officials in their
quaint, half native, half Dutch dress. Their jet-black hair is rolled up
at the back in the usual _kondé_, into which is stuck the very high
tortoiseshell comb, while the usual semicircular comb is worn round the
back of the head, with the ends above each ear. Instead of trousers they
retain the long _comboy_ worn to the feet, but these are encased in
white stockings and patent-leather shoes; the upper man is clothed in a
long Dutch-looking official coat of dark-blue cloth with large gold
buttons, a white waistcoat displaying gorgeous buttons and large gold
chain, and high shirt-collar and silk neck-tie; and a gold belt, with a
small curved sword, complete this hybrid but eminently respectable
costume. The little sword is often studded with gold and gems.
The Mudaliyars are officials of the low country, and are of three ranks;
the lowest are chief revenue officers of large districts. About twenty
are called Mudaliyars of the Governor’s Gate, and are described as
equivalent in standing to our ‘captain and aide-de-camp.’ The Maha (or
Great) Mudaliyar is the Governor’s chief interpreter. Below all these
rank the Muhandirams and Arachchis.
Many of these gentlemen are burdened with such stupendous names as may
well make them envy simple Tom Brown or John Smith. Here is one name,
‘Solomon Dia-Abayawikrama Jayatilaka Senawiratna Raja Kumararesan
Kadakorala Bandaranayaka.’ Another is, ‘Peter Abraham Dias Abayawikrama
Jayatilaka Bandaranavaka.’ And yet another, ‘Mahawasala Kurana Liyana
Mudianslage Don Abraham Karunatilika Abavaratna.’ These are taken almost
at random from the official list.[77]
-----
Footnote 77:
I recently received an account of the funeral in January 1888 of Mr.
Rajapakse, a greatly respected Mudaliyar of the Governor’s Gate. The
funeral procession, which was upwards of a mile in length, was
preceded by the pipers of the 1st Battalion of Argyll and Sutherland
Highlanders playing coronachs. Then followed eighty-three Buddhist
priests of both the Amarapura and the Siam sects, led by three high
priests. The hearse, which was drawn by four black horses, was
followed by upwards of two hundred carriages (native and European);
then came nearly three hundred servants and dependants from the
principal estates of the deceased, and seven hundred mourners from
other districts, also a file of fifty of the Lascorien Guard, in full
official dress, and a band of piping musicians in strange ancient
costume. To the music of the latter were added the efforts of
forty-five tom-tom-beaters, who played the Dead March in real Oriental
fashion.
At the grave the Buddhist priests chanted stanzas, a high priest
delivered a funeral oration, and jasmine flowers were thrown into the
grave.
-----
Other titles of the low country are: Ralahami, Mahatmaya, Nilame, and
Appuhami, which respectively describe a headman, a gentleman, a
high-officer, or a man of middle-class. A Disawa governs a province
subject, of course, to the British Government agent, while the gorgeous
Kandyan officials, whose court dress I have just described, are
Ratemahatmayas. The chief of a district is an Adigar. A village chief is
a Gamarala, the chief officer of a village is the Arachchila, and his
subordinate is a Vidana. These are but a few out of many.
The ladies are distinguished by titles as varied as those of their
lords. The wife of a chief is Kumarihami, other ladies of high birth are
Walawwe-mahatmayo, of which title, Mahatmayo simply means madam, and is
applicable to any lady. The wife of a minor chief is Menikê, and Etani
and Lamahami mark the feminine of other grades.
I was present one evening at a grand reception of Kandyan ladies at the
Pavilion (as the Government House at Kandy is called—a pleasant house,
two storeys high, with broad cool verandahs and delicious gardens, with
shrubberies extending far up the hill). The ladies, who do not aim at
increasing their apparent bulk, looked strangely diminutive in
proportion to their magnificent lords. Their plain modest dress
consisted of the simple _comboy_—_i.e._ skirt of fine white muslin, with
a gold stripe running through it, and neat little gold-spangled jacket;
their long black hair caught in a loose knot behind, and fastened with
gold pins—never any covering on the head; and though their fine old
family jewels will repay close inspection, the mode of cutting and
setting is such, that they have none of the brilliancy which we prize in
gems.
Whatever other title she may own, a Singhalese lady is generally
described as Menikê, _i.e._ ‘The Jewel’—a pleasant suggestion of honour,
well carried out by the fact that the enforced seclusion of zenana life
is unknown in Ceylon, where women enjoy freedom as absolute as that of
their Western sisters.
Most of the chiefs who attended the reception could talk more or less
English, but the ladies were as deficient therein as we were in Kandyan,
so the evening was decidedly stiff.
Speaking of official titles, I must not omit those connected with the
Buddhist temples. The principal lay officer in charge of the Temple of
the Tooth is the Diyawadana (or Dewa) Nilame, and the lay incumbent of
the temple is the Basnayaka Nilame. All these official titles were
formerly conferred annually, but I believe that now each is bestowed for
life. The chief high priest is styled Maha Nayaka Annanse, and the
second chief high priest is Anunayaka. Priests and deacons are
Terunnanse and Ganinnanse. A Kapuwa is the officiating priest in what is
called a Devil Temple, which is a form of Hindooism even more debased
than the original; a Yaka-dura is a devil-dancer, and a Wedarale is a
native doctor, whose science of healing is generally much on a level
with that of the aforesaid devil-dancers.
I fear this page will prove as dull reading as a chapter of genealogy,
but to any one travelling in the Isle it is interesting to understand
the titles which so often meet the ear.
The Queen’s birthday was also celebrated by a pretty ball at the
Pavilion, followed by a club ball, at both of which the planting
community mustered strong, with that hearty enjoyment of a good dance,
and of life in general, which is so very characteristic of society in
Ceylon.
Of various pleasant dinner-parties, the most interesting was one to the
Government agents of the Central, Northern, North-Western, Western,
Southern, and Eastern Provinces. I believe that in the days of native
rule, seven kings reigned over seven little kingdoms, but under English
rule Ceylon was divided into six Provinces until 1873, when a seventh
was created, namely, the North-Central, of which Mr. Dickson[78] was
appointed first Government agent. A few years later the great neglected
district of Uva, in the south-east of the Isle, was created a separate
province; and finally, in January 1889, the district of Sabaragamua,
lying between the Central and Southern Provinces, was also created a
province, thus making a total of nine.
-----
Footnote 78:
Now Sir John F. Dickson.
-----
Specially interesting to me was a grand breakfast in the real old
Kandyan style, given in honour of the Governor by the Dewa Nilame and
another gorgeously apparelled native official. The occasion was that of
inspecting the land near the river, in view of proposed measures for
irrigation. It was a beautiful drive through lovely scenery, and as we
approached the scene of action, the road was thronged with gaily dressed
natives, and fifteen elephants with grotesque housings. There is a much
larger muster of elephants at some of the Temple festivities, but even
fifteen suffice to stir up a good deal of dust on a hot day.
If India excels in ‘barbaric pomp,’ there is one detail in which Ceylon
has the field quite to herself—namely, in the erection of pandals, which
are a peculiarly graceful style of triumphal arch. In no other country
have I seen anything like these structures, which are generally very
light, and always in good taste.
This was my first introduction to these arches of welcome, so they had
the additional fascination of novelty. Their construction is generally
very simple, but always effective and very varied, and the rapidity with
which they are run up, to do honour to any guest of mark, is surprising,
as is also the lavish destruction of fruit-bearing palms and
palm-blossoms, which are used for the perpetually recurring decorations—
often on a very extensive scale. Indeed it is whispered that their
creation is by no means an unmixed joy to those most closely concerned—
namely, the villagers, whose head-men require them to find the bamboos,
arecas, and other materials, to say nothing of days and days of unpaid
work,[79] all for the honour and glory of welcoming a stranger.
-----
Footnote 79:
Where land is held on the condition of performing all such services
when required.
-----
In the first instance the skeleton framework, though sometimes composed
of tall bamboos, is often made of the perfectly upright stems of the
areca palm. These are frequently thickly entwined with long trails of
the exquisitely graceful and delicate climbing ferns, or with a very
rich species of stag’s-horn moss, which grows luxuriantly in many
places. (Its native name is _badal-wanassa_, which I believe means ‘The
Goldsmith’s Curse,’ so called because a luckless jeweller is said to
have been driven mad in the effort to reproduce it in gold at the
bidding of the king.) To this groundwork are perhaps affixed the white
young leaves of the cocoa palm or leaves of the so-called sago palm, or
graceful fronds of the Kitool or jaggery palm, which are so like
gigantic leaves of maiden-hair fern. Several kinds of fern are freely
used, varying of course with the district. Sometimes a light
trellis-work is all covered with lovely mosses such as we cherish in
hothouses and stoves, relieved here and there with bright blossoms, or
with the white leaves and blossoms of the candle-nut.
On some of the most effective pandals, only three or four varieties of
foliage are employed, in others almost every type of fruit and flower is
represented; pine-apples and screw-pines, green and gold oranges,
clusters of the large rich golden-brown nuts of the palmyra palm,
clusters of the small areca-nut, or of cocoa-nuts of all ages from
ivory-like infants to full-grown green or yellow nuts, long trailing
bunches of the grape-like berries of the Kitool, large yellow shaddocks—
in short, whatever fruit is available, but always so put together as to
produce an effect of fairy-like lightness, with the almost invariable
finishing touch of several plumes of cocoa or areca palm blossom, which
is quite unique in its pure beauty.
Of course, in British lands, even these materials might be so massed as
to look heavy, but a Singhalese pandal is always elegant. Latterly,
however, the occasional use of bunting, numerous small flags, and strips
of scarlet and white calico marks a departure from the primitive
artistic simplicity. I must not omit to mention the spires and pinnacles
of deftly-woven palm-leaves, nor the singularly light effect produced by
a fringe of large yellow banana-leaves torn into ribbons, which is
sometimes suspended all along either side of the road where the honoured
guest is to pass.
There was a full attendance of the Kandyan chiefs in court dress, each
carried in the old style in a hot stuffy palanquin. These were preceded
by a company of musicians and devil-dancers in most fantastic attire,
each wearing a large breastplate, and a sort of harness of shells and
beads. Also a very curious silver head-dress like a crown, combined with
a tall hat with a peak whence flows a long streamer. Others wore
extraordinary and most hideously grotesque masks. One of the strangest,
with horrid teeth and large tusks, had a cobra with distended hood over
the forehead, and one above each glaring eye; while on either side, two
dancing figures projected like ears.
There is a considerable variety of these monstrosities, all of which are
strictly reproduced from very ancient patterns. They are made of plaster
gaudily coloured, and are manufactured at Bentota, half-way between
Colombo and Galle. These alarming ugly masks are worn by the
professional exorcists, who are called in, in cases of grievous illness,
to scare the malignant devils to whose influence all suffering is
attributed. They continue their noisy incantations the live-long night
beside the miserable patients: no wonder that these so often die of the
would-be remedy. Less repulsive masks are borne by the actors in village
comedies, which, of course, are intended to be funny.
As to the musicians, I fear that Oriental music can never be other than
torture to Western ears, and the musical instruments of Ceylon consist
of shrill ivory horns, drums, and ‘tom-toms,’ which are a sort of
tambourine made of well-cured sheepskin tightly stretched over a wooden
frame. This is struck with the fingers, and men, women, and children
seem never to weary of it, as the accompaniment to interminable songs.
In all the temples huge chank shells are blown as trumpets, and produce
ear-splitting blasts, with which the priests delight to murder the sleep
of their neighbours all through the night. Happily, when Europeans live
near a temple, a hint from the local authorities places some limit on
the hours of these dreadful ‘services of praise.’
Only think how terrible must have been the effect when, as recorded in
old Pali chronicles, the military band of the Singhalese King
Dutuagaimunu was composed of sixty-four kinds of drums, which produced a
roar as of thunder, while the shrieks of numberless great chanks rent
the heavens. Assuredly if, as we are credibly informed, a whole English
army ran away at the blast of a hundred Scotch pipers, the foes of the
Singhalese army might well fly at the blast of even a score of temple
chanks. That was 300 B.C., and happily most of those drums have ceased
to exist. We voted the survivors quite bad enough, as the dancers and
musicians danced and played for our benefit till all our heads ached.
One of the dances was very funny. A man on stilts represented a giant
towering above all his fellows. This was to illustrate the dignity of
royalty or its representative as compared with ordinary mortals.
On reaching our destination we found a most imposing group of temporary
bungalows of bamboo and palm-leaves run up for the day, a large central
bungalow in which was spread an excellent breakfast, and a series of
beautiful dressing-rooms for all the different sets of guests, those for
the most honoured guests being hung with white calico, with delicate
ferns pinned on in graceful tracery. White, being the royal colour,
denotes special respect—a royal gift is wrapped in white and carried on
the head; white cloths are spread over the seats prepared for great
folk, and in ancient days over their pathway also. The rooms for lesser
folk were hung with strips of bright calico or other material. Among the
hangings of the breakfast hall was a large Cumming tartan shawl, which,
of course, was said to be specially in my honour! From the fact of its
being so very bright (emerald green and scarlet, with black and white
stripes), this, my clan tartan, finds special favour with Oriental
races, so that I have frequently seen it in most unexpected and remote
places, occasionally worn as a turban.
Happily this day the weather proved perfect, which was more than we
could always say, for England itself could scarcely have given us a more
uncertain climate than our experience of Kandy in May. However, we
walked or drove in every direction, sketching temples and foliage,
river, lake, and distant mountains, and returning with our dresses so
embroidered with the sharp spikes of Spanish grass that it was a good
half-hour’s work every evening to pick them out. Moreover, there were
few days when, if we ventured to leave the beaten tracks, we did not
bring home some land-leeches! They are little brown creatures, about
half or a quarter of an inch in length; but they can stretch themselves
till they are a couple of inches long and thin as a thread. They
literally swarm in the moist grass and foliage. I suppose that in a
general way they contrive to exist on water (on the principle ‘_Quand on
n’a pas ce que l’on aime, il faut aimer ce que l’on a!_’); but certainly
they lose no chance of securing a good drink at the expense of any
animal, human or otherwise, which they can possibly attack.
Strange to say, they totally disappear in dry weather, and what becomes
of them no one knows; but no sooner does rain fall, even a single heavy
shower, than they are again swarming, and you see them sitting up on end
(the thickest end), with the thread-like point, which is the head,
furnished with five pairs of eyes, waving in every direction watching
for their prey. (I have already referred to these pests, but verbal
repetition may help to suggest their too frequent presence in real
life!)
Should you incautiously venture to sit down on the cool inviting grass
in pleasant green shade, it is as though you issued a general invitation
to the thirsting legions, for straightway you see them approach from
every side, advancing by a succession of jerks. They fix their head on
the ground, the body forming an arch, then bring up the tail, and again
dart the head forward; and while you are flicking them off in one
direction others are stealthily approaching, and making their way
through the meshes of your stockings, whence they travel all over you,
and feast unnoticed till your attention is attracted by little streams
of blood. Probably you never discover them till you get home again, and
then woe betide you if you pull them off: in that case the bite is very
likely to fester, especially in the case of any one who is out of
health; whereas if you let them drink their little fill they will fall
off, and the application of a drop of sweet oil secures a speedy and
clean healing. But if you object to being treated as the leeches’
wine-vat, and have a little salt, lime-juice, or brandy at hand, a touch
of either of these will cause them to relax their hold. Indeed, a
preliminary application of lime-juice generally wards off their attack.
On some of our marches through the dense jungle, where the narrow
footpath only allowed us to travel single file, or when, after rain, we
crossed plains clothed with rank grass, it seemed as though the advance
of the riders sounded a call to the approaching feast, so that the
horsekeepers following on foot were severely attacked, their bare legs
sometimes streaming with blood at the end of a march. The horses also
suffered considerably.
But to horses, cattle, dogs, and other animals, a much more serious foe
is the cattle-leech, which abounds in the rank vegetation around the
neglected tanks and other stagnant pools, and which attaches itself to
the muzzle or nostrils of creatures coming to drink, often passing
thence into the throat, and causing great suffering and sometimes death.
The familiar leech formerly so largely used in medicine (well do I
remember the large glass jar in which our old nurse used to keep about a
dozen of these ugly creatures, and how on one occasion they escaped, and
kept us in a state of terror for several days, till the housemaids
retrieved the full tale of corpses in the course of carpet-sweeping!)—
these useful allies of the two-legged leech are found in the swampy
rice-fields, but are about twice the size of their European cousins, and
are thirsty in proportion.
I had gained some experience of leeches when camping in the Himalayas,
where the water-leeches proved peculiarly trying to dogs, and where the
small land-leeches infest the lower spurs of that great mountain-range.
Europeans try to defend themselves against these vexatious little foes
by wearing leech-gaiters; but as the wily creatures generally contrive
to wriggle their way inside, we concluded that these really tended to
their feasting in peace, so we generally preferred to dispense with
them.
The land-leeches in Ceylon are very local. Thus, while they swarm all
about Kandy and Matelé, at Nalande, which is only distant about fifteen
miles, we saw none, and were assured that the place was free from them.
In case of alarming timid travellers, I ought to state that people who
are content to stick to beaten tracks may leave the Isle without even
seeing one of these pests; but I speak from an artist’s experience, ever
on the look-out for the best possible point of view, even if to reach it
involved climbing through stiff jungle or tall grass (which is fairly
safe if you always rattle a stick in front of your feet, to give lurking
serpents time to get out of your way, as they are delighted to do when
possible).
[Illustration: AVENUE OF INDIA-RUBBER TREES, PERADENIYA.]]
In Ceylon, however, I found that many of the loveliest sketching-grounds
were absolutely untenable to a defenceless artist; so necessity, as
usual, proved the mother of invention. I always carried a large
waterproof rug, and had also a large waterproof sack, which secured my
bedding from rain or dust, as the case might be. So, whenever the
desirable sketching ground was likely to prove very leechy, I commenced
operations by spreading the waterproof rug on the ground, with the sack
in the very middle, and my paint-box and sketching-block in position.
Then, divesting myself of muddy boots, I stepped into the sack, which I
then tied securely under my arms, and thus prepared, set to work, at the
same time keeping a watchful eye on the rug, so as to flick off all
adventurous assailants—and many they always were.
By this means I was enabled to secure many sketches which would
otherwise have been quite impossible, especially one in the beautiful
botanical gardens at Peradeniya, four miles from Kandy, of a glade where
the exquisite Thunbergia, starred with myriads of blue-grey blossoms,
climbs from a carpet of the freshest, richest grass to the very summit
of a large group of trees, thence drooping in graceful festoons, and
linking them all together into one fairy-like sanctuary, haunted by
dainty birds and radiant butterflies. I always remember the sunlight
falling through that exquisite veil of delicate green and lavender as an
ideal of tropical perfection. Like many other flowers which now grow so
luxuriantly in Ceylon, the Thunbergia is not indigenous, having been
imported from Burmah.
My anti-leech panoply also enabled me to secure a large and careful
study of the magnificent avenue of old india-rubber trees just outside
of Peradeniya Gardens. Surely no other botanical gardens in the world
have so stately and unique an approach. One of these grand trees might
well be the pride of any garden, and here we have a double row of
giants, interlacing their great boughs so as to form a complete canopy
of glossy dark-green foliage, while the smooth silvery grey stems are
buttressed by a labyrinth of huge snake-like roots, overspreading the
whole ground for about a hundred feet round each tree, and of course all
coiled and intertwined like a nightmare of writhing pythons! But when
you look closer, you see that these roots are all flattened, so that
they really form a maze of low walls.
Of course this noble avenue of _Ficus elastica_ is prized for its
beauty. But now that Ceylon so fully recognises the necessity of the
greatest possible variety in her products, attention has been turned to
the cultivation of various species of trees, which, when wounded, weep
the large solid tears which trickle down the stem, and harden into the
india-rubber of commerce. These tears are really the milk of the tree,
totally distinct from the sap, and flowing in separate channels: being
of the nature of an excretion, and the tree being nowise dependent on it
for nourishment, its removal does the plant no injury.
It is obtained by bleeding the young trees with a pricker, which can be
done daily for a considerable part of the year (as many as 240 days are
spoken of as possible), the instrument used being either a small double
wheel like a spur with sharp points, or else one shaped like a =𝗩=, with
sharp cutting edges, which stabs right through the outer bark. Coolies
engaged in stabbing the trees and scraping off the tears shed on the
previous day, can collect about half a pound in the course of a day’s
work.
This quantity, however, varies greatly, the yield of the _Ficus
elastica_ being only about ten per cent. of pure milk, whereas the Para
rubber (_Hevea brasiliensis_) which is the most valued in commerce,
yields about thirty per cent. The Ceara rubber also yields much milk of
excellent quality, and would grow well at no cost of cultivation beyond
that of planting on thousands of acres now abandoned to weeds or
thickets of lantana and guava. But the trees are slow-growing, and it is
as yet a question whether the crop can be made to pay the expense of
collecting it.
This cultivation is therefore experimental, as is also that of the
various gutta-percha yielding trees of Malacca and the Malayan
Archipelago—trees whose thick white milk, lying between the bark and the
wood, is collected in the Malayan forests by cutting down the whole
tree, and even then only extracting a very small proportion of the milk,
not more than 1/38th it is said! though it is believed that, by pounding
and boiling the bark, the whole might be obtained. No wonder that Sir
Joseph Hooker has said that ‘the time cannot be far distant when the
natural sources of gutta-percha will be definitely used up.’
Seeing how very large and ever-increasing is the demand for both
caoutchouc and gutta-percha, it would certainly be satisfactory if their
cultivation in a British colony can be made to pay.
I returned again and again to the stately India-rubber Avenue, and
became a familiar visitor in the cool shady gardens, for which it would
be impossible to imagine a more perfect situation than this beautiful
semi-tropical basin, secure alike from the parching heat of Colombo, and
from the sharp frosts of Nuwara Eliya. Here the heat is tempered by the
heavy rainfall attracted by the surrounding mountains, producing a warm
steaming atmosphere, in the highest degree favourable to luxuriant
growth.
The garden is so called by courtesy, for it rather resembles a
combination of park and shrubbery: the late Director, Dr. Thwaites, who
for so many years was the presiding genius here, deemed flowers of very
small account, his affections being all absorbed by trees and foliage.
But viewed as a park, it is beautiful. There is none of the stiffness of
a botanical garden; nursery grounds are kept well out of sight; and all
manner of ornamental shrubs and clumps of noble trees, with here and
there some gigantic specimen of the sacred banyan or other member of the
great fig family, are picturesquely sprinkled over well-kept verdant
lawns.
Several magnificent groups of foreign palms are especially attractive.
The king-palm of Havannah, the oil-palm of Guinea, all the most
remarkable members of the great palm family to be found in India, China,
Africa, and South America; palms from Seychelles and from Brazil, with
huge fan-shaped leaves, or gigantic feathery fronds—all meet here as on
a neutral ground, where they unite to form one beautiful combination, a
most admirable family gathering! Nor are the indigenous palms lacking:
all are here assembled in one noble group, including the strange
_Katu-kittul_, ‘the thorny palm,’ the stem of which grows to a height of
about eight feet from the ground, and is thickly coated with long sharp
thorns—a most unpleasant tree to crush against in a thick jungle.[80]
There is also a species of dwarf date-palm, only four or five feet high,
which is indigenous in the hottest parts of Ceylon, but its fruit is
almost worthless; and there is a sago-palm which, however, the natives
do not take the trouble to cultivate for the sake of the pith, though
they do prepare a beautifully white flour from the nuts, which grow in
clusters like those of the areca. This also is a dwarf palm, rarely
exceeding fifteen feet in height, and peculiar to the hot dry districts.
Its foliage is very light and feathery. The flour prepared from the nuts
makes excellent cakes, which, with wild bees’ honey, have sometimes
proved precious to sportsmen in remote jungle villages.
-----
Footnote 80:
This used to be called the _Caryota horrida_, but I believe modern
botanists class it as a thorny species of areca palm.
-----
The Seychelles contribute a fine specimen of their own particular palm,
the _coco-de-mer_, which was so long known only by the great double-nuts
(shaped like a kidney when cut open) which tidal currents floated far
out on the Indian Ocean and to the shores of the Maldive Islands, where
they were occasionally picked up by sailors and brought home to puzzle
botanists. It was not till last century that the parent palm was
discovered in the Seychelles, and it was found that the palm, with a
fruit like twin cocoa-nuts, bears a crown of huge fan-shaped leaves,
akin to those of the Palmyra palm, crowning a stem a hundred feet high.
The garden covers about a hundred and fifty acres—a most fertile
peninsula of rich alluvial soil, encircled on three sides by the
Mahavelli-ganga.
Among the lovely things which grow wild in rank profusion on the banks
of that beautiful river, and which in all that part of the country is so
abundant as to be considered rather a troublesome weed, is the delicate
sensitive plant,[81] with its dainty blossoms like balls of pink floss
silk, and the fragile jointed leaves like fairy branches, each edged
with tiny leaflets, of which we treasure such poor little specimens in
our English greenhouses, and, as children, watch with ever new pleasure
to see how, at the gentlest breath, or the accidental touch of a fly,
all the little branches droop, and the leaflets fold themselves closely
together.
-----
Footnote 81:
_Mimosa sensitiva._
-----
Here you watch a lizard or a squirrel run down a tree and brush the
nearest leaves, and as they instantly shrink and fall, all the others
take alarm, and you see them closing their leaflets as though an
electric thrill has passed from one to the other.
Do you remember how Longfellow refers to these sensitive leaves when
speaking of Evangeline’s strange forebodings of ill?—
‘As at the tramp of a horse’s hoof on the turf of the prairies,
Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrinking mimosa,
So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings of evil,
Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of doom has attained it.’
The unconscious action of these leaves always seems to me a perfect
illustration of that sense of dull aching anxiety which is so nearly
akin to physical suffering, and which is so expressively described as
_serrement du cœur_—a phrase for which we have no English equivalent.
Splendid clumps of bamboo, imported from Java and Malacca, are mirrored
in the broad glassy stream, and truly in the whole vegetable world I
know nothing more beautiful than these monarchs of the grass kingdom,
with their jointed stems, like polished green or yellow marble, and
exquisite plumes of feathery foliage, growing in clumps upwards of a
hundred feet in height, and curving gracefully like branches of gigantic
ostrich feathers.
[Illustration: GIGANTIC BAMBOOS, PERADENIYA.]
It is scarcely possible to realise that such stately growth can all be
the work of one season, but so it is, for, though some species are about
thirty years before they flower at all, yet, in common with the humblest
grasses of the field, the bamboo flowers but once and then dies, to
renew its glory in the following year. On an average, each clump numbers
about sixty stems, all springing from one hidden root, which creeps
beneath the ground, throwing up stems here and there. These peep above
ground during the rains, about July, and shoot up at the rate of twelve
inches in twenty-four hours.[82] The Malacca bamboo, which is the
largest known species, continues growing till it attains a height
sometimes considerably above a hundred feet, with an average diameter of
nine inches. The common bamboo indigenous to Ceylon is a very much
smaller plant with a yellow stem.
-----
Footnote 82:
Hence one form of the diabolic Eastern methods of execution by
impaling. The victim was firmly secured in a sitting posture over a
vigorous young bamboo, and was there left to perish by its growth.
-----
Strange to say, some species of bamboo flower gregariously, all those in
one district coming to maturity in the same year, after which no flowers
of that species will blossom till a new generation has come to full age.
The male and female plants are distinct: the latter are by far the most
numerous, and yield the light hollow stems, jointed at regular intervals
by thick wood forming distinct partitions, so that each bamboo is in so
many water-tight compartments, ready to be divided into so many buckets
or boxes. In the gardens a section of the large green stem is sometimes
used as a secure packing-case wherein to send cut-flowers to a distance.
Joints of bamboo form the handy flower-pots in which baby plants are
reared, and tough palm-leaves supply the tickets on which their names
are inscribed.[83]
-----
Footnote 83:
I have already described many of the innumerable uses of the bamboo as
food and drink, salve and physic, instruments of music and of war,
domestic and agricultural, in ‘In the Himalayas,’ pp. 505-507.
Published by Chatto & Windus.
-----
The stems of the male plant are all solid, and, though very light, form
a strong prop. They are used in administering corporal punishment—that
_bamboo backsheish_ with the promise of which some Europeans in Eastern
lands are wont so pleasantly to encourage their servants!
(In some countries forest fires have, apparently with good reason, been
attributed to the friction of dead clumps of bamboo, ceaselessly rubbing
against one another during a strong breeze. Of course the tiniest spark
thus kindled would find the most inflammable of fuel in the mass of dry
dead leaves, and a single clump would form such a magnificent bonfire as
might well start a fearful conflagration.)
Had these gardens done nothing but naturalise these and many other
ornamental trees and shrubs, they would have done good service to the
colony. They render more practical benefit, however, by supplying seeds,
plants, and cuttings for gardens in all parts of the Isle, and by the
experimental culture of all products likely to prove remunerative in the
hands of planters in the various districts, highland or maritime.
In order to carry out this mission more practically, Government gardens
have been established at various altitudes. One here; a second, as we
have seen, within the influence of frosts, on the flanks of Hak-galla
beyond Nuwara Eliya; a third at Henaratgoda; a fourth in the north-west,
in the very dry heat of Anuradhapura, where its existence has only
become possible since the restoration of the ancient tanks; and a fifth
at Badulla, in the south-east. These embrace climates so varied that
there are few desirable plants which cannot be successfully cultivated
in one or the other, and thereafter multiplied for the use of all
desirous of varying their investments.
One charm of these gardens is that all manner of beautiful
climbing-plants, trails of the glossy betel-vine, orchids, and
pitcher-plants have been encouraged to establish themselves, and so to
clothe and veil many of the trees as to do away with all the stiffness
one is wont to associate with a botanic garden. Moreover, all harmless
living creatures are here protected; so birds are numerous, especially
the flights of bright green parrakeets with scarlet bills, and, alas!
most unmelodious voices.
Some trees find special favour with the flying-foxes—_woulla_, as the
natives call them—and a whole colony, numbering perhaps from fifty to a
hundred, of these strange bird-beasts hang themselves up to the boughs
by their hind claws, and there sleep all day, swaying gently in the
breeze, and resembling some odd, large, dark-brown fruit. At sunset they
awaken, unfold themselves, spread their heavy wings, flap them, raise
their heads, finally unhook their hind claws, and fly off on their
nocturnal foraging expeditions in search of fruit, fluttering about the
fruit-bearing trees in the twilight, to make sure of finding just what
they like best for their nocturnal feast. They are endowed with very
sharp teeth. They really are hideous large bats, with leathery skin and
wings coated with reddish hair, and measuring about four feet from tip
to tip of wings. Though always interesting to watch, they are certainly
not agreeable to the sense of smell, and the corners habitually haunted
by these creatures are decidedly unpleasant.
Very different is the fascinating flying squirrel, which is found
chiefly in this neighbourhood, from Rambodda to Matelé, a soft furry
pet. Though larger and softer, it considerably resembles our own as it
springs from tree to tree; but suddenly, when leaping from some high
bough, it expands its four legs, which are connected by a fur-covered
membrane, and it appears transformed into a flat square of fur, silently
floating at will, without any apparent exertion beyond that of a slight
depression of the long bushy tail, which acts as a rudder—apparently a
delightfully easy mode of travelling. When the creature alights on grass
or trees, it folds up the wing-like membrane which lies along either
side, and it resumes its appearance as a squirrel.
As to other squirrels, they are allowed to scamper in peace all over the
place, so I suppose they are not so destructive to timber as we find
them in Scotland. Active little lizards of various sorts dart in and out
of their hiding-places, or bask in the sun; and sometimes we saw strange
creatures of the mantis family, leaf-insects and stick-insects, which we
could scarcely believe to be anything but brown or bright-green leaves,
or else leafless twigs. Some of these are vegetarians; but I am sorry to
say that the very devout-looking ‘praying mantis,’ which uplifts its
arms so reverently, as if in prayer, is a very ferocious cannibal, and
those arms really act as swords with which to help its strong jaws in
cutting off the heads of its weaker relations.
Sometimes you may find what look like little seeds, with five or eight
sides, adhering to a leaf. These are the eggs of certain of this family,
and I suppose they hatch some sort of caterpillar which spins the rough
white cocoon from which the mantis eventually comes forth.
Another curious thing which you may have the luck to find hanging from
some branch is a little bundle of sticks, from four to six inches long,
all laid lengthways like a tiny bundle of firewood. On examination you
will find this to be lined with fine spun silk, and you will learn that
it is the nest of a moth,[84] which the Singhalese believe to have once
been a human being guilty of stealing wood, and therefore, in the
natural course of nature, reborn in this humiliating form, and condemned
thus to keep its sin ever in remembrance. In like manner the pretty
black bird, with the tuft of white at the end of its long tail feathers,
now known as the cotton-thief, is said to have really so sinned in a
previous existence.
-----
Footnote 84:
Of the family _Eumenidæ_.
-----
Indeed, there is nothing animate or inanimate which may not at some time
have been a human being, doomed for divers sins to pass through endless
transmigrations, so that if you kill a scorpion or a centipede you may
possibly be murdering your own grandfather! The comparative degrees thus
represented are certainly not flattering to woman,—for a man to be
reborn as a woman is a far deeper humiliation than to become a plant or
a serpent!
But of all forms of transmigration, that most dreaded is to be born
again as a dog or a crow, both being addicted to carrion, and therefore
abhorred. This objection, however, applies to pigs, leopards, buffaloes,
and many other animals.
Among the creatures in whom one would rather not recognise an ancestor
are the millepedes, which we constantly saw crawling about in dry
places, or lying curled up like a watch-spring. At first sight one is
apt to mistake them for some sort of snake, as they are nearly a foot
long and as thick as a man’s thumb. Happily, however, they are quite
harmless, and only bite vegetables. They are of a glossy jet black, one
kind being distinguished by a scarlet stripe down the back, but all
alike have upwards of a hundred very short bright yellow legs. After a
while one learns to look on them without repulsion, which is more than I
can say of any of the myriapods, though that family includes not only
all manner of hateful centipedes, but also some very useful long-legged
creatures[85] which devour woodlice and cockroaches.
-----
Footnote 85:
Cermatia.
-----
Another most innocent creature, which to a new-comer is somewhat
startling, is a gigantic earth or rain-worm, thicker than a man’s
finger, and often upwards of five feet in length. It is of a bluish-grey
colour, and as you meet it wriggling along, it naturally inspires
something of the instinctive shrinking one feels towards a serpent. But
after a while you become interested in this useful fellow-creature,
which works so busily turning up the soil and throwing up large mounds
of fine mould. It only comes out after rain.
I fear these allusions may give you a somewhat creepy impression of the
beautiful gardens (and indeed in this Eden you must never forget the
possible presence of the serpent), so I must just refer to one more
attraction, namely, the security in which all manner of birds here build
their nests. The daintiest of all is that of the tiny honey-sucker,
which is built of moss and wool on the very tip of a branch, where it is
rocked by every breath of wind. The opening is covered by a neat
diminutive porch, so that the little mother is well protected from any
sudden attack.
Another wise builder is the tailor-bird, which, having built a nest
neatly lined with moss and hair, proceeds to make a waterproof cover;
so, using its own slender bill as a needle, it selects a strip of strong
bark fibre (when near human homes it sometimes finds a piece of thread
or coloured wool!), and therewith stitches together the leaves of the
shrub, laying one over the other, as a slater overlaps his slates. This
bird lays very peculiar dark-reddish eggs, like polished mahogany. It
is, moreover, musical, and has a pleasant song.
But perhaps the most ingenious of all nest-builders is the weaver-bird
or grossbeak, which weaves a nest of fine grass about two feet in
length, and shaped like a chemist’s glass retort, with the funnel end
downwards. By this long passage the bird enters the pear-shaped nest,
wherein the young birds are reared safe from the attacks of snakes and
other foes. These delicate structures are suspended from the extreme tip
of a branch, so that no enemy can glide up to them, and of course they
sway with every breath of air.
These pretty little birds are as gregarious as rooks; so if one selects
a suitable tree as its home, so many will colonise beside it that the
nests might be mistaken for some strange fruit. Thirty or forty nests
together form quite a moderate colony, hundreds of nests having
sometimes been counted on one tree.
It is said that the weaver-bird loves to make her home attractive by an
illumination of fairy lanterns, which are living fireflies; and lest
they should wander, she fastens them with adhesive clay to the light
twigs from which her nest hangs suspended by deftly woven cords. Her
mate finds a perch near her, and is said likewise to provide himself
with a goodly supply of living candles, on which he doubtless breakfasts
when he awakes.