Nature deserves to be called an art, the Chinese are certainly most
accomplished experts; but what can we think of the taste, or want of
taste, which prefers pigmies three feet high to the lofty and
far-shadowing trees which embellish our English parks and gardens? Why
should a civilized people put Nature in fetters, and delight in checking
her growth, in limiting her spontaneous energies?

Here are some particulars about the tea-plant:--In the plantations around
Canton, it is not allowed to grow higher than six feet, and is
consequently cut at intervals. Its leaves are considered good from the
third to the eighth year; and the plant is then cut down, in order that
it may throw off new shoots, or else it is rooted out. Three gatherings
take place in the year; the first in March, the second in April, and the
third, which lasts for three months, in May. So fine and delicate are
the leaves of the first gathering, that they might easily be mistaken for
the blossom; which undoubtedly has originated the error that the
so-called "bloom or imperial tea" consists of the flowers and not of the
leaves of the plant.

When gathered, the leaves are thrown for a few seconds into boiling
water, and then placed on flat iron plates, inserted slantwise in stone-
work. While roasting over a gentle fire, they are continually stirred.
As soon as they begin to curl a little, they are scattered over large
planks, and each single leaf is rolled together; a process so rapidly
accomplished that it requires a person's sole attention to detect that
only one leaf is rolled up at a time. This completed, all the leaves are
again placed in the pans. Black tea takes some time to roast; and the
green is frequently coloured with Prussian blue, an exceedingly small
quantity of which is added during the second roasting. Last of all, the
tea is once more shaken out upon the boards, and submitted to a careful