380 
CEYLON 
gun-carriages were to be seen. At the highest point was a naval 
signalling station still rigged with yards, blocks, and halyards, but 
there was no flag, no one in charge; one missed the neatly dressed 
man with a telescope, the respectful salute, the cheery gossip, and 
wondered listlessly how long it might be before the halyards would 
rot and the yard would fall. A few paces further, at the point, lay 
the latest instrument of destruction, a “ 9*2/’ But it had no breech- 
piece and no elevating gear; each end was plugged with wood, its 
muzzle propped up by a baulk of timber. I suppose it had cost 
the British tax-payers over £10,000 to make that gun and place 
it there. 
An exceptionally fine Palmyra Palm must have seen many 
changes since it first raised its proud head, at least a century ago. 
Two half-tame Deer wandered about in peaceful possession, waiting 
for the time when the rapidly invading jungle should have driven 
away all recollection of their old masters, from whose hands they 
had doubtless often taken food. 
A solitary Dove was an appropriate living symbol of the changed 
times, and the only warlike thing still in commission was the Spear- 
grass. 
Doubtless ere long Port Frederick may afford quite good collect¬ 
ing, as it was I found Papilio hector where I should have seen a 
signal-man, and Catopsilia pyranthe appropriately enough fast asleep 
close by; several Blues—a female Tarucus theophrastus, Fabr. (the 
only one seen in Ceylon), a male Azanus jesous, a female Zizera 
lysimon , a male Catochrysops strabo, and a female O. cnejus. Then 
there were Telchinia violae (it was just the sort of place it likes), 
Yphthima ceylonica and quite a number of Temcolus amatus. On 
a wall of a deserted building was a delicate greeny-blue Wasp, 
Sceliphron bengalense , Dahl. 
To me there is always something inexpressibly sad about 
abandoned military works, especially if they be in a remote part 
of the world. One thinks of the brave men of old who attacked or 
defended them, performing deeds of heroism now totally forgotten. 
Certainly the makers of treaties and framers of policies never think 
of those men. 
Exceedingly sorrowful and depressed I walked across the Maidan 
to the Kest-house, distinguished from all others by a flagstaff smartly 
rigged in man-o’-war fashion. Its large dining-hall is covered with 
photographs of Naval Officers and ships-of-war, with heads of deer 
interposed here and there. The wizened old Kest-house keeper, 
“ Tamby ” by name, and his still older waiter, who had both attended 
