Matelle road, I struck off to the right, past
Davy's Tree, celebrated as the scene of the
massacre of a large body of British officers
and troops by the treacherous Kandians, and
crossing the Mahavilla Ganga at Davy's
Ferry, made the best of my way across the
beautiful vale of Dombera, and thence towards
the long range of mountains forming one
flank of the Kallibokke Valley. At the
period of my former excursion this long tract
of fertile country was one unbroken mass of
heavy jungle; now a dozen large estates, with
bungalows and extensive works, were to be
seen, enlivening the journey, and affording a
much readier passage for the horseman; for
wherever plantations are formed, good jungle
paths are sure to be made. The ride was a
most interesting one; mile upon mile of
coffee lay before and around me, in various
stages of growth, from the young seedling
just put out, to the full-bearing bush, as
heavily laden with red ripe coffee berries as
any currant-bush in England with its fruit.

It was then the middle of November, and
the very height of the planter's harvest. All
appeared busy as I rode along, gathering on
the old properties; weeding and "supplying"
or filling up failures on the young estates. I
halted but once for a cup of good, wholesome
coffee, and gladly pushed on, so as to reach
my destination in good time for breakfast.

The many lovely prospects opening before
me caused some little delay in admiration;
and, by the time I had ridden through the
last piece of jungle, and pulled up at the upper
boundary of "Soolookande," it was not far
from midday. The sun was blazing high
above me, but its rays were tempered by a
cool breeze that swept over from the
neighbouring mountain-tops. The prospect from
that lofty eminence was lovely in the
extreme: steep ridges of coffee extended in all
directions, bounded by piles of mossy forest;
white spots, here and there, told of bungalows
and stores; a tiny cataract rushed down some
cleft rock, on one side; on the other, a rippling
stream ran gently along, thickly studded with
water-cresses. Before me, in the far distance,
lay outstretched, like a picture-scroll, the
Matelle district, with its paddy fields, its
villages, and its Vihares, skirted by a ridge of
mountains and terminated by the Cave Rocks
of Dambool. At my feet, far below, lay the
estate, bungalow, and works, and to them I
bent my way by a narrow and very steep
bridle-path. So precipitous was the land just
here that I felt rather nervous on looking
down at the white buildings. The pathway,
for a great length, was bordered by rose-bushes,
or trees, in fullest blossom, perfuming
the air most fragrantly: as I approached the
bungalow, other flowering shrubs and plants
were mingled with them, and in such
excellent order was everything there that the
place appeared to me more like a magnified
garden than an estate. How changed since
my former visit! I could scarcely recognise
it as the same property. The bungalow was
an imposing looking building, the very
picture of neatness and comfort. How different
to the old Talipot-leaf, and the dirty little
mud hut! The box of a place I had slept in
six years before would have stood, easily, on
the dining-table in this bungalow. A wide
verandah surrounded the building, the white
pillars of which were polished like marble.
The windows were more like doors; and, as
for the doors, one may speak, of them as
lawyers do of Acts of Parliament, it would be
easy to drive a coach-and-six through them.

The superintendent was a most gentlemanly
person, and so was his Bengalee servant.
The curry was delightfully hot; the water
was deliciously cool. The chairs were like
sofas; and so exquisitely comfortable, after
my long ride, that, when my host rose and
suggested a walk down to the works, I
regretted that I had said anything about them,
and had half a mind to pretend to be poorly.

The store was a zinc-roofed building, one
hundred feet in length, by twenty-five wide;
it was boarded below, but the sides upwards
were merely stout rails, for ensuring a
thorough circulation of air through the
interior. It presented a most busy appearance
Long strings of Malabar coolies were
flocking in, along narrow paths, from all sides,
carrying bags and baskets on their heads,
filled with the ripe coffee. These had to pass
in at one particular door of the store, into the
receiving-floor, in the upper part of the
building. A Canghany was stationed there
to see each man's gathering fairly measured;
and to give a little tin ticket for every bushel,
on the production of which the coolies were
paid, at the end of the month. Many coolies,
who had their wives and children to assist
them in the field, brought home very heavy
parcels of coffee.

Passing on to the floor where the measuring
was in progress, I saw immense heaps of
ripe, cherry-looking fruit, waiting to be passed
below to the pulpers. All this enormous pile
must be disposed of before the morning, or it
will not be fit for operating on, and might be
damaged. I saw quantities of it already
gliding downwards, through little openings in
the floor, under which I could hear the noise of
some machinery in rapid motion, but giving out
sounds like sausage-machines in full "chop."
Following my guide, I descended a ladder,
between some ugly-looking wheels and shafting,
and landed safely on the floor of the
pulping-room. "Pulping" is the operation
of removing the outer husk, or "cherry,"
which encloses the parchment-looking husk
containing the pair of coffee beans. This is
performed by a machine called a "pulper."
It is a stout wooden or iron frame, supporting
a fly-wheel and barrel of wood, covered with
sheet copper, perforated coarsely outwards,
very like a huge nutmeg-grater. This barrel
is made to revolve rapidly, nearly in contact
with two chocks of wood. The coffee in the