702 
THE  TROPICAL  AGRICULTURIST. 
[May  i,  1893. 
on  the  surface.  This  gradually  spreads  through  solu- 
tion, and  on  evaporation  an  oxidized  extractive  matter 
remains  which  is  insoluble  in  water.  If  grren  tea  is 
wetted  aLd  rcdried  with  exposure  to  the  air,  it  will 
be  found  to  be  nearly  as  dark  in  color  to  ordinary 
black  tea.  The  conclusion  then  is,  that  the  peouliar 
characteristics  and  chemical  differences  which  dis- 
tinguish black  tea  from  green  tea  are  to  be  attributed 
to  a species  of  heating  or  fermentation,  eceompanied 
with  oxidation  by  exposure  to  the  air,  and  not  to 
being  submitted  to  a higher  temperature  in  the  pro- 
cess of  manufacture,  as  has  generally  been  thought. 
Thoso  who  have  seen  tea  manufartured,  I think,  will 
agree  that  this  is  the  rational  result  of  the  process. 
For  the  purpose  of  black  tea  the  leaves  are  allowed  to 
remain  in  bulk  exposed  to  the  air  for  some  little  time 
before  being  fired;  whereae,  for  green  tea,  the  freshly 
picked  leaves  ere  fired  at  once,  without  delay,  at  a 
high  temperature,  fired  and  rolled  again  and  again, 
assisted  sometimes  by  a fanning  operation  to  drive 
off  the  moisture,  and  always  with  brisk  agitatiou  un  il 
the  drying  is  completed.  It  is  during  this  firing  that 
the  grten  powder  is  added  that  produces  the  green 
color  of  the  so-called  yreen  teas  sold  in  the  European 
and  American  markets,  about  one  peund  of  coloring 
matter  being  required  for  every  hundred  pounds  of 
tea  leaves.  That  the  color  of  black  tea  is  not  owing 
to  the  fire  is  evident  from  the  following  facts  : When 
the  leaves  are  dried  in  the  sun  the  same  color  is  ob- 
tained, and  on  the  olher  side,  if  roasted  by  fire,  with- 
out the  process  of  fermentation  or  withering,  and 
then  finished  in  the  Poy-long,  a kind  of  green  tea  is 
produced. — American  Grocer. 
THE  TEA  TABLE. 
'Tis  there  all  meet. 
# * * « * 
The  downright  clown,  and  perfectly  well-bred. 
Blair’s  Grave. 
Though  all  unknown  to  Greek  and  Homan  song 
The  paler  Hyson,  and  the  dark  Souchong ; 
Though  Black  nor  Green  the  warbled  praises  share 
Of  knightly  Troubadour  or  gay  Trouver, 
Yet  scorn  not  thou,  as  alien  quite  to  numbers, 
That  friend  to  prattle,  and  that  foe  to  slumbers, 
Which  Kien  Long,  imperial  poet,  praised 
So  high,  that  cent  per  cent  its  price  was  raised  ; 
Which  Pope  himself  would  sometimes  condescend 
To  place  commodious  at  a couplet’s  end : 
Which  the  sweet  bard  of  Olney  did  not  spurn, 
Who  sung  the  music  of  the  “ hissing  urn  ” : 
Let  her,  who  bade  me  write,  enact  the  Muse, 
Inspire  my  genius,  and  my  Tea  infuse : 
So  shall  my  verse  the  hovering  Sylphs  delight, 
And  critic  Gnomes  relinquish  half  their  spite. 
Clear,  warm,  and  flowing  as  my  liquid  theme, 
As  sweet  as  sugar,  and  as  soft  as  cream. 
May  it  awhile  engage  the  gentle  fair, 
Then  gambol  gaily  in  the  morning  air, 
Twined  in  the  tendrils  of  her  nut-brown  hair  ! 
Who  has  not  read  in  chronicle  or  fable, 
Of  good  King  Arthur  and  his  famous  Table, 
Where  Kay  and  Tristrem  talk’d  by  tits  and  starts, 
Of  love  and  murder,  broken  heads  and  hearts  ? 
Like  this  the  modern  talk  at  time  of  tea, 
Of  the  Round  Table  and  its  chivalry, 
Who  speak  with  even  voice  and  equal  zest, 
Of  hearts  ensnared,  an!  heads  absurdly  drest. 
’Tis  true  a softer  race  the  board  environ, 
Who  corslets  wear  indeed,  but  not  of  iron ; 
Who  play — but  seldom  combat  by  the  card, 
And  drink— but  drink  not  through  the  helmet  barr’d. 
The  fair  alone  with  Chalybean  proof, 
Support  their  busts,  their  lovers  keep  aloof. 
The  Muse  is  female,  and  may  dare  reveal 
What  I have  heard,  and  some,  perhaps,  may  feel. 
King  Arthur  kept  his  Court  in  Oamelot, 
But  the  Round  Table  graces  every  cot. 
Palace  and  farm  enjoy  the  gentle  feast 
That  blends  the  products  of  the  West  and  East. 
Where’er  a British  ground,  our  footsteps  roam. 
We  find  is  still,  and  find  it  too  at  home. 
Whether  ti  1 eight  the  formal  guests  delay, 
Or  meet  at  seven  in  a friendly  way  : 
Sooner  or  later,  till  the  board  is  crown’d — 
The  lacquer’d  tray  and  argent  spoon  resound — 
The  homely  delft  or  far-sought  porcelain, 
In  circling  ranks  are  marshall'd  on  the  plain. 
The  polished  chest  with  curious  art  inlaid, 
Or  quaintly  wrought  by  some  ingenious  maid, 
Displays  the  lawful  spoils  of  venturous  trade. 
But  not  alike  in  every  place  and  time, 
The  social  banquet  that  provokes  my  rhyme; 
Not  social  there,  where  law  or  logic  lovers, 
At  inns  of  court,  or  academic  bowers : 
In  silent  sip  the  solitary  tribes 
Of  lank-jaw  d students,  and  of  sallow  scribes. 
Pot  after  pot  is  drain'd,  yet  not  a word 
From  lady’s  lip  in  those  coufines  is  heard; 
Nought  save  the  knell  of  “ midnight's  dreary  noon,” 
And  the  dull  jingle  of  the  circling  spoon. 
Hie  we  from  thence,  nor  shall  we  long  delay. 
About  the  homely  meal  of  every  day  : 
For  the  dear  comforts  of  domestic  tea 
Are  sung  too  well  to  stand  in  need  of  me, 
By  Cowper  and  the  Bard  of  Rimini. 
Besides,  I hold  it  for  a special  grace 
That  such  a theme  is  rather  common-place. 
The  joyous  blazing  of  the  new-stirr ’d  fire, 
The  mother’s  summons  to  the  dozing  sire ; 
The  whispers  audible,  that  oft  intrude 
On  the  forced  silence  of  the  younger  brood : 
The  blooming  daughter's  ever-ready  smile, 
So  full  of  meaning  and  so  void  of  guile  ; 
With  all  the  little  mighty  things  that  cheer 
The  closing  day  from  quiet  year  to  year, 
I leave  to  those  whom  more  benignant  fate 
Or  merit  destines  to  the  wedded  state. 
A stranger  I,  a wanderer  upon  earth, 
A thriftless  prodigal  of  tears  and  mirth, 
Must  learn,  without  a cherish 'd  hope,  to  see 
The  loving  looks  that  look  not  love  to  me; 
Happy,  if  time  at  length  shall  teach  me  this, 
To  find  my  proper  joy  in  o'her’s  bliss: 
But  ne’er  be  mine  the  selfish  heart  forlorn 
The  tear  of  envy,  or  the  laugh  of  scorn. 
I grow  too  grave,  and  must  in  haste  return 
To  the  frail  China,  and  resplendent  Urn. 
Behold  the  Table  spread,  the  lady  set; 
Matrons  and  spinsters,  all  are  duly  met : 
The  younger  belles  dispos’d  in  scatter ’d  troops. 
In  rows  demure,  or  gaily  whispering  groups  ■ 
The  female  elders  chat  the  time  away, 
(I  often  wonder  what  they  find  to  say), 
Or  sort  the  pearly  fish  in  painted  pools, 
(Their  light  exchequers,)  while  their  coffee  cools. 
What  various  tones  from  female  organs  flow 
How  briskly  smooth,  or  languishingly  slow  ; ’ 
The  pretty  creatures  laugh,  and  weep,  and  rail 
In  all  gradations  of  the  vocal  scale, 
From  fell  Xantippe’s  emphasis  of  brass 
To  the  soft  murmur  of  the  melting  lass  • 
The  smoking  board  sets  all  their  tougues’in  motion. 
Like  many  billows  of  the  voiceful  ocean  ; 
From  note  to  note  the  keen  remark  descends, 
In  squalls  begins,  and  in  a whisper  ends 
For  loud  and  shrill  the  bulky  bourgeoise’ 
Accosts  the  beauty  of  departed  days — 
With  accents  tuned  with  unavailing  skill, 
The  Vestal  answers  to  the  Matron  shrill  • 
With  temper’d  melody  of  cautious  speech  ’ 
The  Hostess  doubts,  and  yet  accords  with  each : 
Then  round  and  round  the  breezy  murmurs  glide 
And  every  absent  Miss  is  named  a Bride 
Yon  rosy  lassy,  just  arriv’d  from  school, 
Where  all  must  look,  and  think,  and  feel  by  rule 
Uneasy  novice  of  an  order  strict, 
That  on  her  tongue  has  laid  an  interdict, 
With  her  small  hands  the  weighty  secret  spells 
And  weaves  her  fingers  into  syllables. 
Of  things  like  these  my  infant  mind  took  note 
Ere  yet  my  limbs  had  left  the  strait  cullotte  • 
111  could  I else  by  human  wit  divine 
What  Ladies  do,  when  (Tents  are  at  their  Wine. 
At  length  the  summons  of  the  simpering  maid, 
