planted under tea in India and Ceylon, employing over one million
people--all British subjects. Just imagine employing a fifth of the
population of London for the production of one article! Then, again,
look at the thousands of people who are employed in the tea trade at
home--merchants, dealers, brokers--all dependent on this one article of
consumption for their bread-and-butter!
And yet hardly ten per cent. of these know anything about tea
manufacture, or have ever given a thought to the one million of people
employed in its production.
The duty paid to the Customs during the past twelve months on Indian
and Ceylon tea amounted to £3,805,935, to say nothing of the revenue
accruing to the Indian and Ceylon Governments in taxes and a hundred
and one little charges, all helping to swell the coffers of State, and
enabling hundreds of thousands of people to maintain a living.
[Illustration: TURNING THE LEAVES FOR FERMENTATION.
_Bourne & Shepherd,_
_Photo, India_]
Surely all these things should induce the patriotic British public to
drink only British-grown tea, grown as it were by their own people--for
are not India and Ceylon British? and are not the people of Great
Britain and India and Ceylon one, under one Sovereign?
The plucking of the tea plant generally commences about the middle of
March, and goes on till the end of November, except in Ceylon, where it
goes on more or less throughout the twelve months, there being no cold
weather to check the "flush" and allow the bushes to lie dormant.
A tea bush is not considered fully ripe for plucking until about five
years of age, though a little "tipping" is done on low-lying gardens
during the third and fourth years. It is generally carried on by the
coolie women and children; the former are rapid and expert workers, and
are paid so much for every pound of green leaf plucked. As the leaves
are plucked they are thrown into baskets, the contents of which are
taken to the factory twice a day for weighing.
There are many ideas as to how plucking should be carried out, and how
many leaves should be taken off, but the most general system is to
pluck two leaves and a bud, not separately but together.
[Illustration: PICKERS HAVING THEIR TEA LEAVES WEIGHED.
_Bourne & Shepherd Photo, India_]
Some planters, who prefer quantity to quality, pluck the half or whole
of the third leaf as well.
It must be thoroughly understood that all the leaves are not "ripped"
off the bushes, but only the young shoots. It is a very delicate
operation, requiring great care and skill, and is usually carried out
under the eye of the assistant manager.
It is usual to get round a plantation once in six to eight days, and
woe be to him who cannot cope with the leaf, or lets it run away from
him, as it will show the result both in the dry leaf and liquor.
The leaf, when plucked, is brought into the factory, weighed, and put
through the following process of manufacture. The first process is
called withering. The leaf is thinly spread on wire meshing, stretched
from end to end of the loft or withering-house, the object being to
allow a certain percentage of moisture to evaporate, and to get the
leaf into a pliable condition for rolling, so that it will not break
during this process. Properly withered leaf should be as flexible as a
soft kid glove.
Then comes the rolling, the object of which is to break the cells of
the leaf one into the other, so as to free the juice and to give a
"twist" or "roll" to the leaf. Care has to be taken that too much juice
is not expressed, which would be detrimental to the liquor when in the
household pot.
The old and dirty method of rolling by hand, which is still carried out
by our Chinese friends, is quite extinct in India and Ceylon, where
rolling machines or tables are used.
The religion of the natives of India compels them to be cleaner in
their habits than the Chinese, so it would not matter how much they
handled the leaf.
[Illustration: HOW THE LEAVES ARE WITHERED.
_Bourne & Shepherd Photo, India_]
The next process through which the unfortunate tea leaf has to go, and
which is considered by many planters as the most critical in the whole
manufacture, is fermentation, as good leaf can easily be spoiled.
After coming out of the rollers, the leaf is taken into a separate
room, generally built off the factory, away from the heat, as it is
essential to keep the fermenting leaf cool and moist. It is then spread
in little heaps on the floor or trays, having to be constantly turned
over to keep cool. It soon begins to oxidise, and change from a bright
green to a bright coppery colour, the young leaves being as bright as a
new penny.
[Illustration: PLUCKING THE TEA LEAVES.
_Bourne & Shepherd_
_Photo, India_]
Some planters sift these young leaves from the coarse directly after
the rolling, so as to try and get a more even colour, but it is a most
difficult task, as the leaves are sticky and cling together. It is
usual, as soon as the desired copper colour is obtained, to give the
leaves another roll just before firing.
The object to be obtained in the next process--firing--is to remove all
the moisture, without losing any of the constituents which add to the
commercial value of the tea. Most factories are equipped with modern
firing machines, and these are of many kinds. Heated air drawn over the
leaf by revolving fans is the method of most machines. The temperature
used is different on nearly every estate, according to the ideas of the
planters. Some men give two firings. First the leaf is fired 70% dry at
a certain temperature, and then taken to another machine, where the
final firing takes place.
Then comes the sorting of the dry leaf into the various grades, the
names of which are pretty well known to most people, _i.e._ Pekoe, P.
Souchong, etc. This is done, as the photograph shows, by revolving flat
sieves of varying sizes, after which it is refired, weighed, and packed
ready for despatch to market. It will be seen that the manufacture of
tea is somewhat of an art, requiring all the skill of the planter. He
sometimes has to turn out two or three times a night to see that
nothing is overlooked. Climatic influence plays an important part both
in the quality of leaf and during manufacture. Sometimes it is
impossible to get your leaf to wither and ferment, flirt with it as you
will; at others the change is so rapid that it is almost impossible to
cope with it. Nothing is so disappointing as the manufacture of tea,
for, having done all in your power, and watched each process carefully
with untiring energy, under most unfavourable circumstances, you
possibly receive a broker's report on the samples, with a polite letter
from your agent telling you that the tea is unsatisfactory.
[Illustration: SORTING THE LEAVES ACCORDING TO QUALITY.]
Our photographs are by Bourne and Shepherd, Calcutta.
[Illustration: A VERY CLOSE FINISH.
_Photo by C. M. Ward, Edinburgh_]
STATISTICS GONE MAD.
WITH APOLOGIES TO THE STATISTICAL SOCIETY AND MR. HOLT SCHOOLING.
BY J. G. GRANT.
_Illustrated by the Author's diagrams._
Of late years our magazines have been overrun by the statistical fiend,
and I propose to show how the thing is done.
I shall have the honour of laying before the reader a few startling
statistics of facts and phenomena discovered by myself. These
discoveries might have been made by anybody who would take the trouble,
and the great point about them is what Mr. Jerome terms their hopeless
veracity.
But let me plunge at once _in medias res_; and let me mention, before
we proceed further, that my statistics will be illustrated by
scientific diagrams, invented by myself without the assistance of any
man, woman, or child whatsoever.
Any ordinary intelligent person must have observed that human beings
differ in many things, and especially in personal appearance. This is
an absolute fact. And here is a terrible field for the fiend
aforementioned. I begin at once, and I herewith give a diagram, which I
am able to produce after years of observation. The number of dots
inside the circle in Fig. 1 represents, with great accuracy, the number
of men--and women, for that matter--in every hundred, who are born
bald. In order to spare the reader the trouble of counting the dots, I
have counted them myself, and find there are one hundred. The reader
can count them in Fig. 2 for himself, without any undue strain. This
figure represents the percentage of men with green whiskers.
[Illustration: FIG. 1. THESE 100 DOTS SHOW HOW MANY PEOPLE PER CENT.
ARE BORN BALD.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2. PERCENTAGE OF MEN WITH GREEN WHISKERS.]
Talking of hair reminds me, and so in Fig. 3 I give another diagram,
which shows at a glance the number per cent, of red-headed men who are
thoroughly convinced that their hair--if any--is any colour under the
sun _except_ red. I have counted the crosses in the hundred squares,
and find there are ninety-eight; the ninety-ninth man is colour-blind
as a rule, and the hundredth hasn't got any hair; so neither cares a
rap.
[Illustration: FIG. 3 SHOWS THE NUMBER PER CENT. OF RED-HEADED MEN WHO
DENY THE RIGHT COLOUR OF THEIR HAIR.]
From hair we pass, by an easy transition, to the average monthly
magazine. Let us put down its average composition diagramatically. Let
us represent by the first cube the size of the paper, the whole paper,
and nothing but the paper. The other three cubes explain themselves and
that, by the way, is what scientific diagrams are sometimes not very
guilty of.
[Illustration: FIG 4. THE AVERAGE MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
The size
of its paper.
The comparative bulk
of its advertisements.
The amount
of its fiction.
Its
maximum
of
truth.
]
Do any of you ever go to smoking concerts? Yes? Very well, you will
appreciate the next scientific diagram for its mathematical exactness.
I have a friend called Smith--he spells it Smythe, but that's
nothing--and the diagram refers to certain events which (as the
descriptive reporter would say) sometimes transpire.
Fig. 5 A shows the number of keyholes observed in the door by Smith
(or Smythe) as he is about to operate with his latch-key on returning
home from business at 5 p.m. Fig. 5 B shows the number he sometimes
sees when he returns from his club about 11.30 p.m. As a rule he
attempts, on this occasion, with great perseverance to put the right
key in the wrong hole, or _vice versá_. Fig. 5 C shows the number he
doesn't see when he returns home even later than 11.30 p.m.
[Illustration: THE TRAGEDY OF A KEYHOLE.
Fig. 5 represents the number of keyholes seen by Smythe in the same
door at different times of the day and night.]
Let us change the subject, my friends, as it must be very painful to
you to read such things about my poor friend Smith (or Smythe). I can
easily change it--it is all the same to me. I will now give you an
"easy one"--so easy that it can be comprehended by a person of the
meanest intelligence. Fig. 6 merely shows in a simple and unobtrusive
manner how many beans make five. There is no answer to this.
We may now attempt something more difficult and elaborate. In point of
fact, let us proceed to "trace a curve," as we say in the differential
and integral trigonometry. The curve explains itself, and to those who
are not acquainted with the Higher Mathematics the diagram may seem a
bit mixed; but the same may be said of most things in this wicked
world.
It is evident that diagrams such as Fig. 7 might be manufactured _ad
infinitum_, also _ad nauseam_.
At this stage of the proceedings I may say that I challenge and defy
the whole world to controvert, deny, or disprove any one of my
statistics.
But, really, if anyone has any faculty for statistic-mongering, and
wishes to exercise that faculty, let me cordially recommend him to try
his hand on statistics taken from astronomy, and, if he emerges
scatheless from the fray, he may thank his stars (no pun intended).
He might, for example, calculate how long a London Chatham and Dover
train would take to travel from Capella to the Great Bear, supposing it
ran(!) day and night. Or again, he might reckon how long it would take
an average bargee to circumnavigate the canals of Mars.
[Illustration: FIG. 6 ACCURATELY TELLS HOW MANY BEANS MAKE FIVE.]
Or yet again he might work out how many threepenny pieces it would
require piled one above the other to reach from Whitechapel to the
Moon.
[Illustration: FIG. 7.]
0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
Number of hams in Tottenham Court Road X
George Washington's "Record" X
Number of Graces X
Number of "Macs" X
Number of fingers on the human hand X
Total number in a half-dozen X
Number of lives possessed by a cat X
Number in an octave X
Number of wet days in a week X
Number of sides to a square X
Scientific diagrams of such things as these would be extremely
interesting, and nearly as useful as those of the present article.
[Illustration: "IT WAS ALL I COULD DO TO GUARD MYSELF FROM THE FURIOUS
LUNGES OF THE COUNT."]
"A PRINCESS IN GREEN AND TAN."
THE STORY OF A BLOOMSBURY SENSATION.
BY ARTHUR PRESTON.
_Illustrated by A. Rackham._
Never did my prospects seem worse or more gloomy than in the winter of
188-.
I had returned to England from a five years' sojourn in the more
unsettled parts of British Columbia, after an unsuccessful pursuit of
fortune in that land of gold, mountains, and timber. It was at
Felixstowe--that charming watering-place, where my people then had a
house--that I first came into relation with those who were afterwards
to exercise such influences for good or evil on my life.
I was walking round the place renewing my acquaintance with the English
life, when I was confronted with the most beautiful face I have ever
seen. It belonged to a young girl of eighteen or nineteen, quietly
dressed in a green walking-skirt and tan jacket, while her blue eyes
looked out from under a mass of golden hair, in turn surmounted by a
sailor hat.
As her eyes for a moment met mine, I was conscious of that magnetic
thrill which I was told afterwards my mistress exercised on all those
with whom she came in contact. She was accompanied by a lady somewhat
older than herself, and whom, from her likeness, I mentally set down as
being, if not her sister, at any rate her near relative. As soon as I
conveniently could, I turned round and followed them, and noticed them
enter a house which--as a perusal of the Felixstowe visitors' list,
hastily bought and perused, informed me--was at present occupied by Mr.
and Mrs. Delaine.
I was both astonished and delighted at this, as this Mrs. Delaine was a
person upon whom my mother had by mutual friends been asked to call.
That very afternoon, I determined, should obtain for me at least a
bowing acquaintance with her. Alas for my dreams! Our ring at the bell
produced a man-servant, who stated that Mrs. Delaine was away from
home, and he did not know when she would return. From then on I haunted
the walks about Felixstowe, meeting my divinity over and over again,
but never once could I see that she betrayed the least knowledge that
these frequent momentary meetings were anything but the results of
accident.
At last a day came when I no longer saw her. In vain I walked up and
down the promenade and through the town. Felixstowe was full indeed,
but to me it was empty, for the golden hair, the blue eyes, the tan
jacket, and the green skirt no longer greeted my longing and expectant
gaze.
* * * * *
It was in Piccadilly--that world in miniature, and the scene of so many
strange occurrences--that the first act of the drama took place, of
which the foregoing was merely the prelude.
I was strolling down the thoroughfare, nearly a month after the
disappearance of my lady (for so I called her to myself), and thinking,
as indeed I always was, of her, when my own immediate affairs and
embarrassments did not fill my mind, when I met her face to face. The
thing was at once so natural and at the same time so coincident with my
own thoughts, that I could do little more than stare blankly after her.
It was nearly noon, and the well-dressed crowd jostled and pushed me as
I stood there. Mechanically I turned to follow after her, when she was
joined by the lady who had been with her at Felixstowe, and the two,
hailing a hansom, were driven away rapidly, leaving me staring stupidly
after the fast disappearing vehicle.
As I was retracing my steps I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I
perceived a tall man of about thirty-five or forty years of age, his
keen grey eyes surmounted by heavy black eyebrows and lashes, while a
big moustache almost hid his firm mouth, and drooped down to his heavy
square chin.
"You know that lady?" he queried, more with the air of stating a fact
than of asking a question.
"I know that I am not in the habit of answering lunatics, or
impertinent strangers," I answered, hotly--for my temper is hasty, and
the man's manner was abrupt.
"Nevertheless, you do know her," he answered, doggedly.
[Illustration: A PRINCESS IN GREEN AND TAN.]
I turned, leaving the man there, and walked into Sackville Street. I
had not gone twenty yards, when I heard his hurrying step behind me.
"She is in danger, Mr. Darcy," he hissed into my ear.
This time I turned round, amazed at the man's knowledge of my name.
"And she needs help," he said, looking me full in the face.
"You know my name," was all I could say, stupidly.
"It is my business to know things," he said, impatiently; "but will you
help her?" he added.
"Help whom, man?" I replied, testily.
"The lady who was at Felixstowe, and ten minutes ago got into a cab,"
he answered.
"But there were two," I said.
"Only one needs help," he replied, grimly; "the other----" He broke off
abruptly. "But come to my rooms where we can talk without
interruption," he added.
I was so amazed that I followed the man unquestioningly to a quiet
turning off Burlington Street.
"Now," he said, when he had waved me to a chair and seated
himself--"now we can talk freely."
"You ask for my help," I said, "and on behalf of some lady who is in
danger. You talk in riddles, man; I----"
"Is it possible you do not know who she is?" he interrupted.
"No," I said, "I do not, nor do I know you either. All I know of the
lady I can tell you in a few words," and then and there I told him of
my meeting her at Felixstowe, my call at the house, her disappearance,
and my recognition of her again in Piccadilly, which he himself had
witnessed. "But I have never spoken to her," I concluded.
"But of the lady with her?" he interrupted eagerly, "the lady who met
her in the street, and accompanied her in the hansom--was she there
all the time?"
"The lady with her?" I repeated, slowly. "I hardly noticed her." And in
very truth I had indeed hardly done so, having no eyes for anyone but
my lady, and beyond the fact that she was pretty (as indeed she must
needs be to so closely resemble my lady) I had not paid any attention
to her. "There was a lady closely resembling her with her all the
time," I continued, "and at one time another woman, and once a man."
"Dark, and with a scar on one cheek?" interposed my companion.
"Yes," I answered, slowly, for now he mentioned it I clearly recalled
noticing a scar on the fellow's cheek.
My companion mused for a few seconds, then--
"I had better give you the whole story," he said, and commenced as
follows:--
"My name is Von Bieberstein, at one time equerry to Her Serene Highness
the Princess Elsa, Hereditary Princess of Schwannenwald, but I was
dismissed from her service through the machinations and false
representations of her enemies and mine, though God knows Her Highness
has no truer servant than I.
"She is the younger of the two ladies you have seen; the elder is Her
Highness's first cousin, the Grand Duchess Hedwig, also of
Schwannenwald, and heir after her cousin in the direct line to the
throne of Schwannenwald. She is an ambitious woman, and a fiend
incarnate, and as wicked as she is beautiful. The man with the scar was
her equerry, Von Zahn, and the two combined are as unscrupulous and as
dangerous a couple as you could find."
[Illustration: "'SHE IS IN DANGER,' HE HISSED."]
"But, man," I broke in, "we are in London, and in the nineteenth
century. You cannot imagine Her Highness's life to be in danger."
"No, I don't," he answered, grimly, "I _know_ it. Do you suppose crowns
are less valuable now than in the seventeenth century, or that when a
throne is at stake our boasted civilisation does not peel off as easily
as an old glove? It was a glimmering of this plot that cost me my
place, and almost my life."
As he spoke he bared his chest, and showed me the small round white
scar of a bullet wound. "Fired, if not by the Grand Duchess's finger,
at least by her direction," he said, with a grim smile. "But the
question is, will you help me?"
"I am a total stranger to you," I commenced, "and----"
"The affair at Eagle's Nest is not unknown even in Schwannenwald," he
said, with a smile.
I started. The affair to which he alluded had happened during my third
year in British Columbia, when a party of three white men (of which I
was one) and a lady had been surrounded in a log cabin by hostile
Indians. I was lucky enough at some little risk to escort the lady to a
place of safety.
Von Bieberstein rang, and ordered his man to bring up a bottle of
champagne and glasses.
"I have a health to give you," he said; "you can wait, John," he added
to the man. When the glasses were filled, Von Bieberstein rose to his
feet.
"To the health of Her Serene Highness the Princess Elsa," said he.
"And confusion to her enemies. May she never lack a plain English
gentleman to do her bidding for the sake of his lady and her own bonny
face!" I added, ecstatically.
Von Bieberstein looked at me for a moment, then--
"Spoken like the man of Eagle's Nest. Can you use a sword?" he said.
"I studied under Andretti at Milan in '84," I said, "but----"
"Let us try," he said, briefly, reaching a couple of foils from a
corner.
We fought for some few minutes, when with a quick movement he disarmed
me with a wrench.
"You are well enough," he said. "Nay, do not look so downfallen, man."
He smiled, noticing my foolish look. "It was but a trick of the wrist,
and better men than you have deemed it no shame for Von Bieberstein to
disarm them. Now, listen," he continued, laying aside his foil.
"To-night the Duchess Hedwig holds a council of the chief of her
supporters in the house she and her sister the Princess have taken in
Great Coram Square, Bloomsbury. The council will be held after the
Princess Elsa has retired to her own apartments in a different wing of
the house. It is there I must see her, and lay such proof of the plot
before her as will persuade her to fly. You, for your part, will be an
unobserved observer of the Duchess's council, for the double purpose of
identifying the persons present, and of guarding me against possible
interruption."
"But of the danger to the Princess," I began. "Is she not----"
"The fact of her being at liberty to-day is an indication that no
immediate villainy is contemplated," broke in my companion.
"But how in the world can she be harmed here in London?" I exclaimed.
"She cannot be poisoned or shot, without investigation exposing the
whole dastardly plot."
"A very different medium will be employed," he replied. "I have good
reason for believing that dynamite----"
"Dynamite!" I exclaimed, incredulously.
"Ay, dynamite, man!" he replied, grimly. "You have already told me we
are not in the seventeenth century, and in a modern crime the
perpetrators will undoubtedly use modern weapons."
"But how, man?" I commenced, by no means convinced.
"There are always the Anarchists," said my companion, "and London,
thanks to the British Government, is known to be a hot-bed of them. Her
Highness has several times received threatening letters, and for the
rest the thing is easy. Come," he said, smiling, "you are on her side
now, and she sorely needs help. Meet me in Great Coram Square to-night
at ten, and bring a sword. A long cloak and a hansom will hide the
incongruity of the weapon in modern London. There may be use for it,
and for obvious reasons they will not use firearms."
"But----" I began, and paused, for I had a natural reluctance to
confess to this comparative stranger that the state of my purse
precluded the purchasing of swords and the taking of hansoms.