A SACRED TREE
Do you remember that just about this time last week we were crouching in
a hole in a muddy bank waiting for the thunderstorm to pass on? How
different now, though we are still in Ceylon and, as crow flies, not so
many miles from the Hunters' mountain-side. It is a gorgeous tropical
afternoon, the bits of sky we can see through the feathery-leaved trees
are of the deepest blue, and we are resting, because it seems too hot to
move a limb. In front of us there stretches a sheet of limpid water
which might be a lake except that it is surrounded by a raised bund, or
bank, artificially made, with hewn granite slabs as steps going down at
one end. We are glad of the shade of the trees falling across the short
turfy grass, and we are seated on some broken blocks of granite,
keeping a sharp look out for snakes. They will hardly be likely to
trouble us here, but in that jungly bit behind it wouldn't be at all
safe to rest like this. Even to sit on the short grass might be
unpleasant, as there are all sorts of unknown insects here which bite
and sting and stab, but we are safely raised on stones and are wearing
thick boots. Examine that slab of granite there beside you; do you see
that it has a most wonderfully carved snake upon it--a cobra with seven
heads? It is so clear-cut it might have been done yesterday, yet it is
part of the ruins of a mighty city, a city as large as London, which
once stretched its busy streets over this quiet glade. The cobra was a
sacred beast to the Hindus, and a seven-headed one was peculiarly so,
seven being a mystic number.
What a glorious butterfly! Its body is as big as a small bird, and its
great velvety wings are the sharpest black and white. No, I don't for a
moment suppose you'll catch it, so it is no use getting hot! I'm glad
you can't, for we have no proper apparatus here, and it would only be a
crushed mass to take home. Don't go headlong into the tank, though, in
your frantic efforts; it might be awkward. No, I don't think there are
any crocodiles, only a few sacred tortoises perhaps. Look! there is a
tiny one--that small yellow thing that is walking away with the
melancholy dignity of a retired general. Pick it up if you like
certainly, see it wag its head and legs helplessly. I wish we could take
it home. As you replace it, it continues its grave walk in the same
direction as if it had never been rudely interrupted. At that instant a
hare darts across an open glade and disappears in the thick undergrowth.
What a country! AEsop's Fables in real life, where hares and tortoises
live together!
"Was this city here at the same time as Rameses II. was living?"
No. Egypt was past its best days before this city, which was called
Anuradhapura (Anarajapura), was built, and you must remember Rameses II.
was by no means one of the earliest kings of Egypt, he came quite late
on in his country's history. His date was about thirteen hundred years
before Christ, and it must have been about eight hundred years after
that, though still you notice, 500 B.C., that this city was founded by
some Cingalese who are supposed to have come over from India. That makes
it between two thousand and three thousand years old, which we should
think ancient enough if we hadn't visited Egypt first. Anuradhapura
flourished for centuries as the capital of the Cingalese kings, who
often carried on savage battles with the Tamils when they came over from
India also.
Turn round now and examine that hill you wanted to climb a little while
ago and tell me if you can see anything peculiar about it. No, I don't
mean that large grey monkey who has just peeped at us in an impudent way
and then swung himself into hiding, though I admit he is very
interesting. I mean something odd about the hill itself. It is covered
with trees and jungle scrub certainly, as any ordinary hill might be,
but it is oddly steep and the sides rise very sharply from the ground.
It is an even shape too, more like an inverted bowl than a hill; or,
better still, just try to imagine some giant cutting off the dome of St.
Paul's and setting it down here in the jungle, wouldn't it look
something like that?
You don't quite agree, for you say that this has trees and bushes
growing on it and St. Paul's dome would be bare. That is so, but if St.
Paul's dome had been left for many hundreds of years in a country where
vegetation grows as fast as it does here, wouldn't it probably be grown
over too?
Yes, I _do_ mean it. That isn't a hill at all, but a huge brick
building called a dagoba, made by the same race of men who dug out this
tank, and whose descendants to-day, with tortoise-shell combs in their
hair, wait on us in the Colombo hotels.
[Illustration: LARGE GREY MONKEY.]
We will go back now to the place where we left that native cart and
driver and we'll find a dagoba which has been stripped of its trees, so
that we can see what it really looks like.
Hush! Do you hear that curious singing like a chant? Wait; there is a
procession of pilgrims. They come swinging round the corner of the road
in their picturesque flowing garments, and just at the turn they stop
and kneel with their hands held palms together before their faces, and
they bow repeatedly before marching on again. Let us go and find out
what it was that stopped them. We soon come to it and find that it is
the seated figure of a man with one hand falling over his knee and the
other on his lap, while his legs are crossed tailor-wise. It is painted
white and it is not very much larger than life. This is Buddha, of whom
you heard in Kandy, and all over here, and in Burma, and in a less
degree in India, you will find images of him set up to remind his
followers of the precepts he left for them to follow.
Our driver is dead asleep under a tree, but we manage to wake him and
soon we are rattling along a tree-shaded road in the queer little cart
to Ruanveli, the best known of all the dagobas. When we arrive in full
view of it we dismiss the driver and climb on to a slab of stone that is
raised from the ground and tilted slightly like a table with two legs
higher than the others. Here we can gaze upon this extraordinary
monument which rises about one hundred and fifty feet into the air, and
is about two and a half times as much across, just the shape of a
pudding basin, you see. It is not a temple, not even a tomb, as the
Pyramids are, but a solid block built of millions and millions of bricks
with a tiny chamber inside containing an infinitely precious relic,
nothing less than a few of Buddha's hairs. So they say! Only the priests
were allowed to go into this sacred chamber, with the exception of one
king, who had this priceless privilege granted to him. It is not very
many years since mighty monuments were rediscovered, because the jungle
had grown up all around them and no one knew even where Anuradhapura had
stood; but now there are men who spend their whole time uncovering and
preserving them, just as many men are working at the excavations in
Egypt; and the trees and overgrowth have been stripped from Ruanveli,
which stands forth sharp and clear-cut against this beautiful sky.
Men are very much alike all the world over! This great dagoba was put up
by one of the Cingalese kings, Dutugemunu, to celebrate his great
victory over the Tamils, just as Rameses II. put up the inimitable
temple of Abu Simbel to celebrate his victory over the Syrians. Before
Dutugemunu came to the throne the Tamils had usurped all power and made
one of their own men, called Elala, king, and the young prince, exiled
from his capital city, met them in battle outside the walls. He fought
with great bravery, and in the end the issue of the day was decided by a
single combat between him and Elala, both mounted on huge elephants.
That must have been a fight indeed! Dutugemunu killed Elala and regained
the throne of his fathers, but he must have been a singularly
enlightened prince for his age, for he not only buried his fallen foe
with great honour but he gave orders that henceforth all music should
cease when bands were marching past his tomb, and that royalties were to
alight from their horses or palanquins and walk past on foot to do
honour to the mighty dead. Even in the nineteenth century one of the
princes from Kandy, who was flying from capture, obeyed the order and
would not allow himself to be carried past the spot! So the memory of
Elala and the great fight he made were kept alive as Dutugemunu had
intended they should be.
On this very slab where we are now sitting it is said that Dutugemunu
died. If not the actual stone, it is probably the spot. It was about 140
B.C., and when he knew he was dying he gave orders that he should be
carried out here, that his fast failing eyes might look their last on
the greatest monument of his reign. In the midst of his great city, with
its fine buildings and the great tanks he had caused to be made to give
the people water, he thought most of all of Ruanveli, partly because of
the sacred relic enclosed, but partly also because he had done a
wonderful thing in paying for all the labour that was used in its
building, instead of forcing his subjects to work for nothing, as was
the custom in his time.
There is much to examine in Ruanveli; we can see the casing of granite
running up the sides, we can examine a statue of the king himself and
many wonderful carvings; around the dagoba runs a magnificent granite
platform wide enough for six elephants to walk abreast, as no doubt they
did many times in the gay processions on festival days.
Behind the dagoba, not far off, is an immense lake, or tank, much larger
than that we saw this morning. It was considered a peculiar work of
merit for kings to make these tanks so that water could be stored up for
the use of the people, and they are found all over Ceylon; there is one
twenty miles in length!
The sun has fallen low by the time we pass on to the Brazen Palace. At
first, when we near it, we see merely a forest of columns with nothing
brazen about them; they are not very high, about twice the height of a
man perhaps, and they are set in rows very near together. Altogether
there are one thousand six hundred of them! There is no roof now, but in
the days of its glory this great house, which was built for the priest,
had nine, and was finished by a sheet of burnished copper which caught
the sun's rays and flashed far and wide beneath the clear blue sky. The
walls were decorated with glittering stones and the fittings were of the
most costly and beautiful kind. The wonder is how the priests found room
to walk about between those multitudinous columns which so filled the
space in their halls.
[Illustration: THE BRAZEN PALACE, CEYLON.]
One more sight in this city of ancient glory. Do you see across that
park-like space of short grass some fires glimmering weirdly in the dusk
which has now fallen round the most sacred object in Anuradhapura; I
won't say what it is. Come nearer. A heavy scent, like that of
tuberoses, greets us as we approach; it comes from the white waxy
blossoms of the frangipani lying in that cardboard saucer with all the
heads put outwards like the spokes of a wheel. In the centre is a pink
blossom. Those flowers are sold as offerings in this sacred place. Don't
stumble over that dark bundle, it is a sleeping child. Step cautiously
between the bright-eyed people who watch, furtively alert, like shy
woodland creatures, as they crouch low over their fires, for the evening
has suddenly become chilly with the loss of the sun. These are pilgrims
come from afar, and they will lie down to sleep just as they are in the
open. There are very few at this time of the year; but in June and
July, which are the principal months, thousands and thousands arrive
here, having crossed weary leagues to come. It is strange how the world
is linked up by its pilgrimages. We saw the pilgrims in the Holy Land
coming from afar to the Christian shrines, humble and devout, believing
all that was told them and carrying out in their poor lives much of
Christ's teaching; we saw them in crowded and uncomfortable ships
journeying from Mecca, the shrine of Mohammedanism; and now we see them
here reverently drawn to the only sacred place they know, there to pray
to something unseen and unknown, that they may be helped by a power
stronger than themselves. In all ages and all races man yearns for a
god, and if he knows not God he still worships dimly any strange god he
hears of.
We cross some brick pavement, and climb up a few worn steps on to a
platform surrounded by a railing. Out of the middle of it there grows a
gnarled and ancient tree with crooked boughs splitting asunder with
hardly any leaves on them.
_Now_ do you see?
You only see monkeys looking like little black demons against the
afterglow still lingering in the sky as they leap from the tall palm
trees near, but this tree is not a palm.
Suddenly a leaf, shaped like that of a poplar, but much larger, floats
down, and in an instant a slight dark figure, tied up in a bundle of
loose clothes, falls upon it, and holding it between the palms of the
hands bows again and again. That leaf is a precious relic, for this is
the sacred Bo tree, said to be at least two thousand years old!
[Illustration: SWAYING ITS LEAN UNLOVELY BODY TO AND FRO IN TIME WITH
THE TUNE.]
After the Cingalese had come over from India and settled here, a monk
came and converted them to Buddhism; he was followed by his sister, a
princess, as he was a prince, and she brought with her, so it is said, a
branch of the actual tree under which Buddha sat when he considered all
the problems of life and found an answer to them, which he left to his
people. This branch, being planted, became a tree itself. So the story
goes; and that there has been a tree here worshipped for untold ages is
true, and if that is so, whatever its origin, this also to us is a
sacred spot, hallowed by the thousands of poor souls who, knowing not
the light, yet have come here with yearnings towards the light and to
the "unknown god."
After dinner we wander out again into the tree-shaded road near, and a
sight of extraordinary splendour startles us. Every tree is brilliantly
illuminated as if by a million points of electric light. You have seen
an arc-light which seems to scintillate rays? These lights might be very
tiny arc-lights, for each one vibrates in the intensity of its
luminousness. We can see the outlines of the trees clearly. It is a
wonderful evening for fire-flies. No one knows why on some nights they
appear like this in countless thousands, and on other nights, apparently
the same, there is not one to be seen. It looks almost as if they had
parties and agreed to do their best on certain occasions. They have
evidently done their best for us to-night, for the other people
following us out of the hotel, who have been here longer than us, are
entranced.
"Never saw anything like it, not even in the West Indies," says one man.
"Puts a Christmas tree in the shade," remarks another.
Catch one, he doesn't burn; don't grab him so as to hurt him, just take
him gently; that is right; bring him into the light and open your hand a
little. You see he is a flat, greenish beetle, with head set on a funny
hinge so that he could nod it violently if he liked. Half shut your hand
and turn away from the light; now you see two round green eyes glowing
like emeralds. He doesn't seem embarrassed by all this attention, but
you might let him go back to his party!
When we have let him go we will walk down the avenue of living light,
where is one thing more to see to-night. It is only ten minutes' walk
and as we near it it gleams in the dim light of the brilliant stars, a
ghostly white object. As our eyes grow accustomed to the light we see a
building like a snow-white bell. It is small compared with the gigantic
dagobas we have examined already to-day, for the very tip of the
pinnacle, rising above the bell-shaped part, is only sixty-three feet,
but it is very graceful and is considered the most sacred of all the
dagobas, for it was built to enshrine Buddha's collar-bone!
We haven't seen the half of Anuradhapura yet, and there are numbers of
other ancient cities in Ceylon to explore, to say nothing of
rock-temples with strange paintings and carvings; but we mustn't be here
too long or we shan't get through India and Burma before the hot weather
comes, which no European can endure.
The white coating of this dagoba is a stuff called chunam, a kind of
lime. It is startlingly white and looks beautiful at night, but
otherwise it is just a sort of whitewash, clean enough but not
particularly attractive. There are numbers of the same square-cut
granite columns that we saw at the Brazen Temple falling about near the
dagoba, some this way and some that. A good place for snakes, that is
why we came round by the road and walked so carefully.
Hullo! There is one! Keep still! Did you see him wriggle across among
the interlacing shadows of the trees? A large one too! Thank goodness he
has gone harmlessly! I wonder what sort he was? We ought not to have
come out, let us get back as quickly as we can.
[Illustration: A BULLOCK CART.]