down the roll, and spread it open outside the
door. It turned out to be a huge Talipot leaf,
which he assured me was the only shelter he
had possessed for nearly two months, and that,
too, during the rainy season. It might have
measured ten feet in length, and possibly six
in width; pretty well for a leaf: it was used
by fastening a stout pole lengthways to two
stakes driven in the ground; the leaf was
hung across this ridge-pole, midway, and the
corners of it made fast by cords: common mats
being hung at each end, and under the leaf.

The "Lines," a long row of mud huts for
the coolies, appeared to be much more
comfortable than their master's dwelling. But
this is necessarily the case, for unless they
be well cared for they will not remain on a
remote estate, such as this one was then
considered. The first thing a good planter sees
to is a roomy and dry set of "Lines" for the
people: then the "Nursery" of coffee plants,
and thirdly, a hut for himself.

The Superintendent assured me that none
but those who had opened an estate in a
remote district, could form any idea of the
difficulties and privations encountered by the
planter. "Folks may grumble as they like,
down in Colombo, or in England," said my
friend, "about the high salaries paid to
managers, but if some of them had only a
month of it up here, in the rains, I suspect
they'd change their notions."

He had had the greatest difficulty at first
in keeping but a dozen men on the place to
clear ground for lines and nurseries: so
strong is the objection felt by Malabars to
new and distant plantations. On one occasion
he had been quite deserted: even his old
cook ran away, and he found himself with only
a little Cingalese boy, and his rice, biscuit and
dried fish all but exhausted. As for meat, he
had not tasted any for many days. There
was no help for it, he saw, but to send off the
little boy to the nearest village, with a rupee,
to buy some food, and try to persuade some
of the village people to come up and assist
him. When evening came on there was no
boy back, and the lonely planter had no fire
to boil his rice. Night came on and still he
was alone: hungry, cold, and desolate. It
was a Sabbath evening, and he pointed out to
me the large stone on which he had sat down
to think of his friends in the old country; the
recollection of his distance from them, and of
his then desolate, Crusoe-like, position, came
so sadly upon him that he wept like a child.
I almost fancied I saw a tear start to his large
eye as he related the circumstance.

Ceylon planters are proverbially hospitable:
the utmost stranger is at all times sure of a
hearty welcome for himself and his horse.
On this occasion my jungle friend turned out
the best cheer his small store afforded. It is
true we had but one chair amongst us, but
that only served to give us amusement in
making seats of baskets, boxes, and old books.
A dish of rice, and curry, made of dry salt
fish, two red herrings, and the only fowl on
the estate, formed our meal; and poor as the
repast may appear to those who have never
done a good day's journey in the jungles of
Ceylon, I can vouch for the keen relish with
which we all partook of it.

In the afternoon we strolled out to inspect
the first piece of planting on the Soolookande
estate. It was in extent about sixty acres,
divided into fields of ten acres by narrow
belts of tall trees. This precaution was
adopted, I learnt, with a view to protect the
young plants from the violence of the wind,
which at times rushes over the mountains
with terrific fury. Unless thus sheltered by
belts or "staking," the young plants get
loosened, or are whirled round until the outer
bark becomes worn away, and then they
sicken and die, or if they live, yield no fruit.
"Staking " is simply driving a stout peg in
the ground, and fastening the plant steadily
to it; but it is an expensive process. The
young trees in these fields had been put out
during the previous rains of July, and though
still very small, looked fresh and healthy. I
had always imagined planting out to be a
very easy and rough operation; but I now
learnt that exceeding care and skill are
required in the operation. The holes to
receive the young coffee-plant must be wide
and deep; they can scarcely be too large; the
earth must be kept well about the roots of
the seedling in removing it; and care must
be taken that the tap-root be neither bent, nor
planted over any stone or other hard
substance; neglect of these important points is
fatal to the prosperity of the estate. The
yellow drooping leaves, and stunted growth,
soon tell the proprietor that his superintendent
has done his work carelessly; but
alas! it is then too late to apply any remedy,
save that of re-planting the ground.

I left this estate impressed with very
different notions concerning the life and trials of
a planter in the far jungle, from those I had
contracted below from mere Colombo gossip;
and I felt that superintendents were not so
much overpaid for their skill, patience,
privations, and hard work.

CHAPTER THE SECOND.

HAVING seen almost the commencement
of the Soolookande Coffee Estate, I felt a
strong desire towards the end of the year
1846, to pay it a second visit, while in its
full vigour. I wished to satisfy myself as
to the correctness of the many reports I
had heard of its heavy crops, of its fine
condition, its excellent works, and, not least,
of the good management during crop-time.
My old acquaintance was no longer in charge;
he had been supplanted by a stranger.
However, I went armed with a letter from the
Colombo agents, which would ensure more
attention than a bed and a meal.

I journeyed this time by another and
rather shorter route. Instead of taking the