Dusty roads, a cloudless sky and dazzling
sunshine astonish the thoroughly-soaked traveler, who rides out
of the rain and mist into a genial climate, as though he passed
through a curtain. The wet weather terminates at a mountain
called Hackgalla (or more properly Yakkadagalla, or iron rock).
This bold rock, whose summit is about six thousand five hundred
feet above the sea, breasts the driving wind and seems to command
the storm. The rushing clouds halt in their mad course upon its
crest and curl in sudden impotence around the craggy summits.
The deep ravine formed by an opposite mountain is filled with the
vanquished mist, which sinks powerless in its dark gorge; and the
bright sun, shining from the east, spreads a perpetual rainbow
upon the gauze-like cloud of fog which settles in the deep
hollow.
This is exceedingly beautiful. The perfect circle of the rainbow
stands like a fairy spell in the giddy depth of the hollow, and
seems to forbid the advance of the monsoon. All before is bright
and cloudless; the lovely panorama of the Ouva country spreads
before the eye for many miles beneath the feet. All behind is
dark and stormy; the wind is howling, the forests are groaning,
the rain is pelting upon the hills.
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