The summing up of our excursion is—a charming, and certainly most inexpensive trip, which I strongly urge all globe-trotters to make on the same lines, returning to the city overland; and above all, beware of the vendors of precious stones at the mines. If you have to be swindled (which you are sure to be) let it be done in Colombo. The cut glass you purchase there has at all events the appearance of genuine stones, whereas at the mines you will fill your pockets with rough pebbles—warranted genuine sapphires, cat’s eyes, rubies, or moon-stones—intrinsically worth a rupee a cart-load for gravelling garden walks, but utterly valueless for any other purpose. Indeed, the only drawback to Ceylon—and, for the matter of that, the whole of India—is the abominable bore a visitor is subjected to from the myriads of swindling dealers who actually persecute him from morning till night, and beset him everywhere he goes. I had the satisfaction in one solitary instance to pay one of that tribe in his own coin. During one of our morning drives to the Cinnamon Gardens, some hawkers kept pace with our horse, flinging bouquets of flowers, cinnamon walking-sticks, &c., into the carriage, and asking most outrageous prices for their wares. I had exhausted my stock of small change, but wanted to secure one of the bunches of flowers offered; and finding in my purse my Melbourne season ticket for the Opera—a very natty, small, red morocco card, with a bright gold coat of arms on the cover—I tendered it to the fellow, who greedily took it in payment for his bouquet. When he had it examined by an expert, he called at the hotel next day and endeavoured to get a refund, and was much crestfallen to find that for once he was “had.”
The Indian mail having arrived—the Siam, under the command of my very old friend, Captain Ashdown—I moved on board with bag and baggage for Calcutta, taking Madras en route.
