somewhat metaphorically called, drove "the
old national kettle, the pride of the fireside,"
into the kitchen. Nor do we know whether the
English urn of classical shape is an imitation
of the Russian samovar, which is not heated by
a concealed iron, but by a small fire of red hot
charcoal, far more efficacious. The urn is an
imposing and pleasant summer friend, but is
not nearly so useful as it is ornamental. Yet
it is a pleasure to see him in the hands of a
neat handed Phyllis, thumping, hissing, and
throbbing like a little undeveloped locomotive,
the whiff of white steam waving like a thin
plume from his bronze crest; but when his
youthful ardour dies away, and one or two
faint sighs are symptoms of the gradual
declining of the heat, the result upon the second
cup of tea is certainly most deplorable.

How pleasant to revive recollections of
pleasant tea-times long since passed! The meal
(generally after a late dinner rather a work of
supererogation) used to begin, as far back as we
can remember, with a jangle and clatter of spoons
and cups, and a stirring of restless saucers in
the neighbourhood of the kitchen. We younkers,
stirred by the sound, roused ourselves for the
impending meal. The tea-tray would at last
appear borne in by Susan (we are recalling
an especial period of youth), the palladium of
the family (the silver tea-pot) conspicuous as
a monarch among those lesser retainers the
slop-basin, the sugar-basin, the milk-jug, and
that regiment of household troops the tea-cups,
of Worcester china. It was usually the custom
of us younkers to shout at the appearance of the
tea-tray, hunger being strong within us, and a
meal the chief pleasure of our existence. Then
the tea-poy was opened, and the fragrance that
arose we always associated with pagodas,
willow-pattern plates, and pig-tails. When we had an
opportunity we used to like to dip small hands
and pretend to be Hong merchants sorting
teas. Next the kettle arrived on the scene, and
this kettle had a strong individuality of its own.
It had always a swathe of soot on the side, and
beyond that a prismatic streak where the fire
had painted rainbows on it. The way it began
to softly sing was a perpetual wonder to us,
and might have led, if Watt had not been
so quick, to the discovery of the steam-engine.
A little purring note faint and distant, then
grew gradually louder and fiercer till the lid
began to vibrate and the water to gallop.

The pouring out, too, of the first strong
brown cup, gradually paling as it mixed with
the milk, the springing of the bubbles from the
melting sugar (strong basis, those bubbles,
of discrimination touching money) how familiar
the sights to us now, how fresh and new and
wonderful then. There was a new delight to
us children when the pot had to be filled with
a jet of steaming transparent water from the
kettle, and then, before the dregs of the cups
were emptied, we had other divinations to
perform with the grounds, that raised us in our
own estimation almost to the dignity of
magicians.

The Chinese, it is now well known, do not
use the flowers of the tea plant, fragrant though
the yellow blossoms are. The different sorts of
tea are easily discriminated. The Pekoe
consists of the first downy leaflets, picked from
young trees in the earliest spring. In May,
the growth succeeding these forms the
Souchong. The third gathering is the strong
flavoured Congou. Bohea is a late leaf from
a special district. In green teas, the Hyson is
a gathering of tender leaflets. The Gunpowder
is a selection of hyson; the coarser and
yellower leaves are the Hyson Skin. The Twankay
is the last gathered crop.

The tea drinker must not think that he is any
surer of a pure unadulterated article than is the
wine drinker. Tea in its finest state never
reaches, never can reach, England. It is
over-dried for our market, and the over-drying
destroys the aroma, which is still further
impaired by the sea voyage. Canton bohea is
composed of last year's refuse mixed with fresh
inferior sorts, all over-dried to fit them for
transportation. The Chinese not only adulterate
tea with other leaves, but they give the leaf an
artificial bloom with indigo and gypsum, and
scent it with resinous gums and buds of fragrant
plants. They turn damaged black leaves into green
by drying them over charcoal fires and colouring
them with turmeric and indigo. Then comes
the English cheat. In 1828 a manufactory
was discovered where ash, sloe, and elder leaves,
were dried to imitate tea, and then coated with
white lead and verdigris to give colour and bloom.

If tea can only be grown in Assam, there may
be soon found a remedy for all this cheating. In
1835 tea was found growing wild in Upper
Assam—a country which we took from the
Burmese. The climate is like that of China.
At present, the tea from Assam rather resembles
a coarse strong Congo, and is better for dilution
with inferior growths that have more flavour,
than to be used by itself.

We can only blame the use of tea when
carried to excess. Tea is but an infusion of
a herb in warm water, and half a pint of warm
water at one meal is enough for any one.

WINIFRED.

I.

SWEET Winifred sits at the cottage door,
The rose and the woodbine shadow it o'er,
And turns to the clear blue summer skies
The clearer blue of her soft young eyes—
Turns to the balmy wind of the south
Her feverish, supplicating mouth,
To ask from Heaven and the sunny glow
The health she lost long, long ago.

II.

The rose on her cheeks is rose too red,
The light in her eyes is lightning sped,
And not the calm and steady ray
Of youth and strength in their opening day;
Her hands are lily-pale and thin,
You can see the blood beneath the skin;
Something hath smitten her to the core,
And she wastes and dwindles evermore.