of pilgrims that wear its crags with their patient feet.  Can I hope to succeed when so many with prayers so much more holy have failed?  Even as I write, its unmoved face is mocking the fire of heaven.  I dream of the mountain; night and day it has come to fill my life with dark terror.  I am not by nature timid or despondent, but it is hard to have to wait here day after day and watch this goal of my hopes—­so near, yet seemingly so forbidding of access.

“On looking back I find I have said nothing about the house where I am now staying.  It lies in the Kolpetty suburb, in the midst of most lovely gardens, and is called Blue Bungalow, from the colour in which it is painted.  I have made many excursions with Mr. Eversleigh on the lagoon; but for me the only object in this land of beauty is the great Peak.  I cannot endure this idleness much longer.  Colliver seems to have vanished:  at least, I have not seen him.

“Jan. 25th, 1849.—­I have been in no mood lately to make any fresh entry in my Journal.  But to-morrow I start for Adam’s Peak.  At the last moment my host finds himself unable to go with me, much as he protests he desires it; but two of his servants will act as my guides.  It is about sixty miles from Colombo to the foot of the Peak, so that in four days from this time I hope to lay my hand upon the secret.  The two natives (their real names I do not know, but Mr. Eversleigh has christened them Peter and Paul, which I shall doubtless find more easy of mastery than their true outlandish titles) are, as I am assured, trusty, and have visited the mountain before.  We take little baggage beyond the necessary food and one of my host’s guns.  I cannot tell how impatient I am feeling.

“Feb. 1st.—­My journey to the Peak is over.  Whether from fatigue or excitement I am feeling strangely light-headed to-day; but let me attempt to describe as briefly as I can my adventure.  We set out from Colombo in the early morning of Jan. 26th.  For about two-thirds of our journey the road lies along the coast, stretching through swampy rice-fields and interminable cocoanut avenues until Ratnapoora is reached.  So far the scenery does not greatly differ from that of Colombo.  But it was after we left Ratnapoora that I first realised the true wonders of this land.  Our road rose almost continuously by narrow tracks, which in some places, owing to the late heavy rains, were almost impassable; but Peter and Paul worked hard, and so reduced the delay.  We had not left Ratnapoora far behind when we plunged into a tangled forest, so dense as almost to blot out the light of day.  On either hand deep ravines plunged precipitately down, or giant trees enclosed us in black shadow.  Where the sun’s rays penetrated, myriads of brilliant insects flashed like jewels; yellow butterflies, beetles with wings of ruby-red or gold, and dragonflies that picked out the undergrowth with fire.  In the shadow overhead flew and chattered crowds of green