May  i,  1893.] 
THE  TROPICAL  AGRICULTURIST. 
693 
And  here,  before  I proceed  to  show  you  how  the 
failure  of  coffee  in  its  stronghold  has  become  the 
salvation  of  tea,  I may  be  permitted  to  digress  for 
a minute  in  order  to  point  out,  or  rather  to  suggest, 
how  the  lovely  island  of  Ceylon  might  be  made,  with 
a little  capital  and  a fresh  infusion  of  English  energy, 
the  great  sanatorium  of  the  world,  In  my  travels  so 
far  I have  not  met  with  one  single  individual  who 
has  not  voted  enthusiastically  for  Ceylon  as  one  of  the 
most  charming  spots  on  earth.  Egypt  and  Ceylon 
run  a very  good  race  for  supremacy  in  the  matter 
of  climate.  You  may  remember  how  I basked  on 
the  terrace  of  Shepheard’s  Hotel,  at  Cairo,  and  saw 
the  sunset  between  the  old  Pyramids,  walking  round 
the  Citadel  where  Tommy  Atkins  protects  our  British 
interests.  You  may  recall  a journey  up  the  Nile,  aud 
a donkey-ride  across  the  desert  to  Saharah.  You 
cannot  have  forgotten  how  I told  you  how  the 
invalids  chased  out  of  Torquay  and  Bournemouth, 
driven  by  one  doctor  to  the  Cape  and  another  to 
Australia,  exposed  to  all  the  many  discomforts  as 
well  as  the  so-called  rest  of  a long  sea  journey, 
found  themselves  ultimately  banished  to  Luxor, 
there  to  recover  or  to  be  laid  to  rest  with  the 
mummies  in  the  Egyptian  sand.  It  was  of 
these  same  invalids  that  I thought  one  lovely 
January  morning  as  I sat,  after  breakfast,  under  a 
tree  glorious  in  blossom,  in  the  garden  of  the 
mountain  hotel  at  Nuwara  Eliya,  in  an  atmosphere 
as  pure  and  soothing  as  any  sick  person  could  desire. 
In  a very  few  hours  you  can  be  transported  by  the 
mountain  railway  from  the  heat  of  the  plains,  to  the 
cool  of  the  hills,  and  it  would  cost  no  considerable 
exhaustion  to  the  invalid  to  breakfast  in  the  bright 
morning  at  Colombo  and  dine  in  the  delicious  even- 
ing at  Nuwara  Eliya.  Kandy  has  its  many  advan- 
tages, and  so  have  countless  hill  stations  ; but  the 
enterprising  folk  who  are  always  ready  to  build 
hotels  for  the  strong  and  the  sick  should  think 
seriously  of  Nuwara  Eliya  as  the  spot  for  a mountain 
sanatorium  at  Ceylon.  The  climate  there  is  equable, . 
never  too  hot  and  seldom  too  cold.  The  mountain 
ranges  are  superb,  the  whole  district  grand  in  flower 
and  foliage.  Already  this  favoured  paradise  has  its  club, 
its  racecourse,  and  its  tree-sheltered  bungalows.  Here 
are  walks  and  drives  and  mountain  excursions 
without  number,  and  if  a fashionable  doctor  or  so  in 
London  could  be  induced  to  write  a pamphlet  on 
“ Ceylon  as  a Health  Resort,”  I doubt  not  that  there 
would  be  plenty  of  visitors  every  winter  to  sip  tea  in 
the  very  heart  of  its  own  tea  bushes,  with  cinnamon 
on  the  one  hand  for  their  invalid  puddings,  and  as 
much  quinine  on  the  other  as  they  could  conveniently 
consume.  And  then  think  how  comparatively 
easy  it  is  to  reach  Ceylon  by  innumerable 
popular  lines  of  steamers.  The  P.  & O and  the 
Orient  lines  make  for  Ceylon  direct  on  their  way  to 
Australia,  so  that  the  “passenger”  could  embark  in 
the  fogs  of  the  Thames,  and  arrive  in  the  sunshine 
and  gaiety  of  Ceylon  Harbour. 
And  now  I must  get  back  to  my  tea  bushes  and 
try  to  explain  how  they  supplanted  the  far  prettier 
growth  of  the  ruby-berried  coffee.  Some  mysterious 
fungus,  or  blight,  or  insect,  or  parasite  suddenly 
descended  on  Ceylon  and  threatened  the  commer- 
cial interest  and  the  planters  with  ruin.  Despair 
stared  them  in  the  face.  There  was  no  resisting 
the  baleful  disease.  They  tried  to  wash  it  out  and 
smoke  it  out ; they  treated  the  soil  chemically  and 
tenderly,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Acre  after  acre 
was  devastated,  and  in  far  worse  fashion  than  in 
the  vineyards  of  France.  But  the  bold  planter 
held  on.  First  he  tried  spices,  and  then  he  tried 
quinine,  till  at  last  one  fine  day  an  ingenious  person 
suggested  the  obvious  alternative  to  coffee— tea. 
Now,  your  tea  plant  is  a most  extraordinary 
little  shrub.  The  more  you  ill-treat  it  the  better 
it  appears  to  thrive.  When  it  begins  to  “flush” 
you  pick  the  very  life  out  of  it.  When  it  is 
determined  to  flourish  into  verdure  you  hack  it 
down  with  a pruning-knife.  When  it  wants  to 
blossom  you  give  it  up  in  despair.  All  that  the 
tea-plant  needs  is  plenty  of  moisture,  plenty  of 
rain,  and  plenty  of  sun,  and  then  it  will  grow  before 
your  very  eyes,  Tea  is  a most  accommodating  little 
plant.  It  will  grow  anywhere — down  in  the  plains 
or  up  on  the  hills.  You  send  up  an  army  of  coolies 
into  the  mountain  forests  untraversed  yet  by  human 
foot,  and  these  expert  natives  cut  away  at  the  trees 
and  shrubs,  and  in  a few  days  the  trees  come 
crashing  down  into  the  valley,  the  hillside  is  a 
desolation,  only  to  be  studded  with  transplanted  tea- 
bushes  a few  months  after.  Out  of  the  nursery 
come  the  young  plants  ; they  are  arranged  in  lines 
and  rows  and  “ quincunxes  ” in  true  Virgilian 
fashion,  under  the  keen  eye  and  direction  of  the 
planter,  and  then  all  the  baby  plant  asks  is  a deluge 
of  rain  and  a blaze  of  sun  to  make  it  sprout  and  flush, 
to  the  great  joy  of  the  planter  and  the  picker.  Never 
was  a thriving  infant  more  mercilessly  mauled  and 
picked  about.  Up  comes  the  fresh  young  shoot, 
or,  as  the  planters  call  it,  “ two  leaves  and  a bud  ” ; 
pick,  pick  go  the  black  fingers,  be  they  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  in  goes  the  tender  leaf  into  the  basket ; 
from  there  on  it  passes  into  the  canvass  bag ; in  a 
few  minutes  more  it  is  whizzing  down  the  telegraph- 
wire  shoot  thousands  of  feet  below,  into  the  valley 
miles  beyond,  to  arrive  at  the  factory,  there  to  be 
sorted,  dried  by  machinery,  washed,  curled, 
and  made  into  what  we  call  tea,  and  ready  to  be 
packed  and  sent  home  for  the  breakfast  table  next 
morning. 
It  was,  thanks  to  the  great  kindness  of  the 
Ceylon  ageDt  to  one  of  Mr.  Lipton’s  gigantic  tea 
estates  far  away  on  the  hills,  that  I was  able,  wbeu 
spendit  g a few  days  in  the  island,  to  become  more 
practically  acquainted  with  the  g<  owth  aud  manufacture 
cf  tea.  In  the  course  of  a busy  life  I have  again 
and  again  been  compelled  with  my  will  and 
and  against  my  will  to  be  taken  over  huge  manu- 
factories. 1 have  been  down  coal  mines  and  salt  mines 
aod  copper  mines  by  means  of  a hideous  invention  known 
as  a “ mau  engine,”  which  nearly  co-t  me  my  life  aud 
whose  ghastly  refrain  of  “ change  ” will  ring  in  my 
ears  till  I die,  I have  seen  how  doth  is  made  and 
pens  are  shaped  and  razors  are  manufactured  and 
lir.en  is  woven,  and  have  submitted,  as  all  must  do, 
to  the  tyranny  of  your  guide  and  counsellor. 
They  never  let  you  oft  half-way  when  you  are 
dropping  down  with  fatigue,  are  maddened  with 
wheels  aod  cogs  and  ropes  and  wires  and  the  roar 
and  scream  of  machiuery  that  makes  your  brain  ready 
to  burst.  No,  on  you  must  go  and  see  every  detail 
of  the  industry,  from  the  door  into  whioh  the  work- 
men enter  down  10  the  very  stacks  of  wood  from 
which  the  packing  cases  are  made.  It  is  considered  an 
insult  if  you  pass  by  one  room  or  one  ear. piercing 
loom.  1 remember  onoe  that  I visited  some  manu- 
factory in  th9  North  with  my  deer  old  friend  J.  L. 
Ttole,  the  most  cheery  of  companions  and  amiable  of 
men,  but  a perfect  victim  to  the  provincial  manu- 
facturer, who  considers  that  to  be  taken  over  one  ot 
these  houses  of  direful  din  is  the  greatest  treat  in 
the  world  to  the  novice.  I could  see  that  my 
companion  was  breaking  down  under  the  weight 
of  commercial  knowledge,  but  I was  not  prepared 
for  the  sudden  revolt.  “ Now,”  said  our  guide, 
“yon  must  come  to  the  room  where  thousands  of 
artisans  are  employed  on  ten  thousands  of  cases , 
where  they  turn  out  so  many  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  articles  in  so  many  seconds.”  Judge  of  my  sur- 
prise when  the  cheerful  J.  L.  Toole  answered,  “No; 
I am  bothered  if  I do.  I won’t  move  a step  further, 
and  wild  horses  shall  not  drag  me  another  yard,  j 
don’t  care  if  I never  Bee  another  pen  nibbed  or  razor 
ground  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  I may  possibly  go 
over  a brewery  or  a wine-cellar  on  a hot  day  when 
there  is  a little  tasting  to  be  done;  bn  I uou’t  want 
to  write  any  letters  or  to  get  shnv.d,  and — besides, 
we  want  to  go  to  lunch\”  We  struck,  and  1 uas  never 
happier  to  ;get  free  irom  the  din  anu  into  iruah  air 
again. 
But  there  are  none  of  these  discomforts  of  disagree- 
ables in  visiting  a tea  estate  at  Oeylin.  In  lact,  it 
is  an  A'pice  excursion  on  a small  scale,  aud  it  is 
necessary  to  map  out  your  progress  with  great  care, 
with  a ,view  to  , getting  sleeping  accommodation  at 
the  various  mountain  “ rest-houses  ” and  the  neces- 
