No. 278. View in the Roemer Berg, Francfort. A specimen that possesses some fine ariel tones in the distance, and great strength of colour in the foreground, and a much closer resemblance to nature than we remember to have seen in this artist's former works. No. 328. The Battle of Flodden Field. C. H. Weigall and H. Warren.-This is a noble picture, and does honour to the united talents of these distinguished artists.

No. 53. E. Corbold. There are many excellent parts in this picture; the distance is well managed, but the left corner is very sombre, and the legs of the horses thick and clumsy.

No. 182. The Tour de Beurre, Rouen Cathedral. A. K. Penson.-A fine specimen of the ancient architecture of France; the old buildings in the centre of the picture are too prominent, and do not harmonize with the cathedral in the distance: but we understand Mr. Penson is a very young artist.

No. The River Wye. Lindsay.-A beautifully-depictured representation of romantic and pure British Scenery, with peasants naturally grouped in the foreground: the whole displaying great talent.

No. 241. Mackerel fishing, fishermen laying their nets off the Gull Stream Light: sunset. Duncan.-The general tone of this picture partakes too much of the colour of copper, and the artist has not been quite so happy in this as in many of his former productions. [We cannot help expressing our regret that noblemen and gentlemen possessing large galleries, do not ornament them more frequently with this most fascinating style of painting; and we cannot devise any reason why the National Gallery should not have their walls embellished with some specimens of this truly British mode of painting.

It is impossible to mention all the works of merit in this gallery within our crowded columns, but we shall pay another visit to this enchanting place, and perhaps give a second notice.]

DISCOVERY OF THE TEA-PLANT IN BRITISH INDIA.

(Continued from page 251.)

THE following is the method of making Black Tea, as now practised at Sudeya, in Upper Assam, by the Chinamen sent thither for that purpose:-In the first place, the youngest and most tender leaves are gathered; but when there are many hands, and a great quantity of leaves to be collected, the people employed for the purpose nip off, with the forefinger and thumb. the fine end of the branch with about four leaves on, and sometimes even more, if they look tender. These are all brought to the place where they are to be converted into tea; they are then put into a large, circular

The baskets with leaves are put in this frame to dry in the sun, and are pushed up and down by a long bamboo, with a circular piece of wood at the end. The leaves are permitted to dry about two hours, being occasionally turned; but the time required for this process depends on the heat of the sun. When they begin to have a slightly withered appearance, they are taken down and brought into the house, where they are placed on a frame to cool for half an hour. They are then put into smaller baskets, of the same kind as the former, and placed on a stand.

People are now employed to soften the leaves still more, by gently clapping them between their hands, with their fingers and thumb extended, and tossing them up and letting them fall, for about five or ten minutes. They are then again put on the frame during half an hour, and brought down and clapped with the hands as before. This is done three successive times, until the leaves become to the touch like soft leather; the beating and putting away being said to give the tea the black colour and bitter flavour. After this the tea is put into hot cast-iron pans,

spread in such a manner that all the leaves may get the same degree of heat. They are every now and then briskly turned with the naked hand, to prevent a leaf from being burnt; when the leaves become inconveniently hot to the hand, they are quickly taken out and given to another man, with a close-worked bamboo basket ready to receive them. A few leaves that may have been left behind are smartly brushed out with a bamboo broom: all this time a brisk fire is kept up under the pan. After the pan has been used in this manner three or four times, a bucket of cold water is thrown in, and a soft brickbat and bamboo broom used, to give it a good scouring out; the water is thrown out of the pan by the brush on one side, the pan itself being never taken off. The leaves, all hot, on the bamboo basket, are laid on a table that has a narrow rim on its back, to prevent these baskets from slipping off when pushed against it. The two pounds of hot leaves are now divided into two or three parcels, and distributed to

as many men, who stand up to the table with the leaves right before them, and each placing his legs close together; the leaves are next collected into a ball, which he gently grasps in his left hand, with the thumb extended, the fingers close together, and the hand resting on the little finger. The right hand must be extended in the same manner as the left, but with the palm turned downwards, resting on the top of the tea leaves. Both hands are now employed to roll and propel the ball along; the left hand pushing it on, and allowing it to revolve as it moves; the right hand also pushes it forward, resting on it with some force, and keeping it down to express the juice which the leaves contain. The art lies here in giving the ball a circular motion, and permitting it to turn under and in the hand two or three whole revolutions, before the arms are extended to their full length, and drawing the ball of leaves quickly back, without leaving a leaf behind, being rolled for about five minutes in this way 3

(fig. 3). The ball of tea leaves is from time to time gently and delicately opened with the fingers, lifted as high as the face, and then allowed to fall again. This is done two or three times, to separate the leaves; and afterwards the basket with the leaves is lifted up as often, and receives a circular shake to bring these towards the centre. The leaves are now taken back to the hot pans, and spread out in them as before, being again turned with the naked hand, and when hot taken out and rolled; after which they are put into the drying basket, and spread on a sieve, which is in the centre of the basket, and the whole placed over a charcoal fire, the fire being very nicely regulated.

When the fire is lighted, it is fanned until it gets a fine red glare, and the smoke is all gone off; being every now and then stirred, and the coals brought into the centre, so as to leave the outer edge low. When the leaves are put into the drying basket, they are gently separated, by listing them up with the fingers of both hands extended far apart, and allowing them to fall down again: they are placed three or four inches deep on the sieve, leaving a passage in the centre for the hot air to pass. Before it is put over the fire, the drying basket receives a smart slap with both hands, in the act of lifting it up, which is done to shake down any leaves that might otherwise drop through the sieve, or

to prevent them from falling into the fire and occasioning a smoke, which would affect and spoil the tea. This slap on the basket is invariably applied throughout the stages of the tea manufacture. There is always a large basket underneath to receive the small leaves that fall, which are afterwards collected, dried, and added to the other tea; in no case are the baskets or sieves permitted to touch or remain on the ground, but always laid on a receiver with three legs. After the leaves have been half dried in the drying basket, and while they are still soft, they are taken off the fire and put into large open-worked baskets, and then put on the shelf, in order that the tea may improve in (To be continued.) The Nobelist.

colour.

THE TIGER HUNT.

THE day broke over a green and luxuriant valley of Hindostan, with a sudden glory peculiar to the East. A flood of gorgeous light flushed the sky and fell among the wet flowers, the trees and the flowing vines, with that radiant and yet balmy influence, which makes the beautiful contrast between morning and noon, in that burning climate. Never did light dawn over a more lovely spot than the valley we have mentioned. "The Vale of Flowers," it might well be called. On either hand towered abrupt

hills, loaded with leafy trees, and broken here and there by a precipice, down whose sides budding vines shed their rich, heavy foilage like a drapery. A forest of roses spread away, wave after wave, down the heart of the valley, swelling at intervals up the sides to the rife green foliage on the acclivity, which walled the blooming space with one vast leafy rampart. Near the foot of the valley the hills were cut in twain, and two corresponding gorges led to the open country on the east and on the west, so that a man standing within the jaw of the gorge, on either side, with his face turned valleyward, might see only a high broken pass, with a long strip of the adjacent country undulating away to a soft amber sky, without dreaming of the beautiful nook to which they gave an outlet. On the brow of a steep hill, which formed one of these gorges, stood a stately dwelling commanding a view of the pass, the valley, and the surrounding country. It was inhabited by a native Rajah, who derived his revenues from the ottar distilled from the valley of roses, which at once composed his wealth and made his home a paradise.

The morning breeze was sighing balmily through the open blinds and lattices of this dwelling, when the Rajah's daughter left her perfumed mattrass, and stepped out on the veranda which overlooked the valley. Beautiful was the flowery nook which lay, bathed in dew and sunshine beneath her feet. Myriads of roses had burst to blossom during the night. Gem like insects flashed among them in and out, now in the sunshine, again sending their soft hum from the clustering flowers, or fluttering high in the air like a cloud of "winged buds " floating away from the overburthened thickets. Gorgeous singing-birds ruffled their plumage in the warm sunshine, or sent out strains of melody from their nestling places in the green leaves. On every hand bright and beautiful things presented themselves to the Hindoo maiden. She girded the embroidered sash which confined her pearampoor more tightly about her slender waist, shook back the braids of her redundant hair, and with a light leap sprang from the veranda. A moment after, she was wandering away up the blooming heart of the valley.

An hour after, the Rajah's daughter ascended the hill which formed one wall of the eastern pass. Her dwelling stood on the opposite precipice, and the sunlight poured hotly through the gorge. The maiden was scarcely weary with her walk, but she stopped in the shadow of a clump of thorns to brush away the dew which had sprinkled her silken slippers, and dimmed the golden border of her pearampoor. She had performed her task, and stood leaning against the trunk of a young tree, with her red lips parted in a smile of pleasant enjoyment,

and her large black eyes fixed on the opposite hill-where the sunbeams were playing about her dwelling and bathing the trees with a stream of silvery light-when the thicket above was agitated, and a shower of snowy petals fell over her from the disturbed branches. She started, gave a quick glance at the thicket, and fled from the spot with a wild cry of terror. A huge tiger lay crouched among the matted branches of the thorn, his eyes glaring upon her, and his limbs gathered up for a spring. She had scarcely made one desperate leap for safety, when her foot became entangled in the long grass, and, with another wild cry for help, she fell forward upon her face. It was her salvation. The claws of the ferocious beast grazed her garments as he shot over her with an impetuous spring, which carried him sheer over a precipice that walled a ravine some thirty feet beneath the place where she had fallen. She heard the crash of his fall, and the fierce, cat-like howl which followed; then the sharp cry of an elephant, the shout of many human voices, and the report of a musket sounded in her ears, and she became senseless.

The wounded tiger dragged himself along the bottom of the ravine, leaving a trail of blood in his progress, and now and then uttering a low howl of pain, till he came to the open gap in which it terminated. Here, with brute instinct, he slunk together and crouched down in the rank grass, for a party of European huntsmen, with elephants and native attendants, had been arrested with his cries, and now halted in the gap. The leading elephant, an old sagacious animal, stopped and drew slowly back when he entered the pass. Then curling his trunk, and fixing his eyes on the mouth of the ravine, he rushed forward with a force that nearly dislodged his riders, and uttering a cry that seemed almost human, he plunged his tusks down into the long grass where the wounded tiger was striving to conceal himself. A howl of terrible agony burst up the ravine, and the goaded beast leaped up into the open space with a desperate effort at escape. But the elephant wheeled his ponderous frame with astonishing dexterity, and tossing the poor creature on a little embankment which formed the lip of the ravine, he planted his heavy foot on him, and deliberately gored him through the body with both his tusks. The death howl of the tortured animal was hor ridly mingled with the sound of crashing bones, and the low fierce cries of the victor. A native rushed forward and fired upon him; but it was a useless waste of powder: blood and foam were already oozing from his open jaws, and his limbs lay, with the life literally trodden out of them, beneath the massive foot of the elephant. The huge victor stood for a moment, his trunk rolled tightly under his nether jaw, his huge form swelling with

rage, and his small eyes dilated and fixed with sagacious fierceness on his crushed enemy, as if deliberately enjoying the agony of his death-throes. When no struggle or sign of life remained, he withdrew his foot, and, after slightly shaking himself, allowed his riders to resume their equilibrium, without retaining any appearance of conflict save the red stain which died his tusks.

"There was a human voice-the cry of a woman in fear, I am certain," said the leader of the party to his companion, as they resumed their seats on the victorious elephant. "It came from above the ravine, yonderhere, take my gun while I dismount."

"You will find that it was but the moan of the tiger: their cry is strongly human at times," replied his companion.

"I will see, however; the poor beast there must have had a very musical voice, if that was his."

The speaker was a young English nobleman, who had just entered on his station as governor of the province. He had brought all the fresh and vigorous feelings of his climate and age to India, and filled with the excitement of his first hunt, was eager for any new adventure that might present itself. He dropped lightly down the side of his ele. phant, and running up the brow of the hill, disappeared among the trees on the summit. A few moments elapsed, and he re-appeared, bearing the Rajah's daughter in his arms. She was still insensible. One slender hand

hung helplessly over his shoulder, and the braids of her long hair almost swept the as he bore her rapidly down the hill.

grass

"Bring wine-wine-she has fainted from terror," exclaimed the young governor, as he came on a level with his party, and stood panting with his lovely burthen still in his

arms.

Wine was forced through the Hindoo maiden's lips, and at length she recovered sufficiently to point out the path which led up from the valley to her father's dwelling. The sun was getting high; our party of huntsmen had secured the slain tiger to the back of an elephant, and remained in the gap, impatient for the appearance of their leader. They had watched the old Rajah's dwelling a full hour, when a messenger was sent with word that the party might return home; and that the governor would follow

in the cool of the afternoon.

A few days after the tiger hunt, the same old elephant which had filled so prominent a part in it, knelt within the gap which opened to the "Vale of Flowers." Native servants were disencumbering him of a bale of rich scarlet cloths and other costly presents, which the young governor of the province had sent to the Rajah in exchange for his daughter; and in the shadow of the old man's dwelling, four slaves supported a gorgeous palanquin, ready to convey her from

the home of her nativity. Again the Hindoo maiden came out upon the veranda. A brilliant expression of happiness sparkled in her dark eyes, and gave a richer beauty to the rare loveliness of her features. Jewels glowed upon her bosom, and shed their light around her arms and small naked ankles. She bowed herself a moment before the old Rajah, her father, and then entered the palanquin. Smiling one more adieu, she sunk back to its cushions of damask silk, drew its azure curtains about her, and was conveyed away from the home which had in all things been to her a " Vale of Flowers."

A feeling of bereavement was for a moment busy at the father's heart, as he caught a last glimpse of the palanquin, when it was carried through the gorge; but his eye fell on the sack of rupees and on the princely gifts for which he had sold his daughter, and his heart was comforted.

(To be continued.)

New Books.

The Suburban Gardener.-By J. C. Loudon, F. L. S. Longman and Co. [THE Encyclopædia of Horticulture, the Encyclopedia of Agriculture, the Hortus Britwith useful knowledge, have already earned tanicus, and several other works teeming for Mr. Loudon a distinguished place in the list of literary benefactors of mankind. But the present publication will render him still ragement of all classes who would wish to more deserving of the gratitude and encousee the gardens and plantations of Britain laid out according to the rules of good taste, and managed in such a way as is best calculated to ensure the fullest reward

for the expense and labour bestowed on them. Mr. Loudon, whom a recent reviewer has aptly called the Evelyn of the present day, has here given very valuable instructions and suggestions for the most judicious and economical arrangement and management of gardens and plantations of all dimensions, elevations, and aspects, and plans for the construction of lodges, tool-houses, quently elucidated by wood-cuts. The work and other buildings, the subject being frealso contains several interesting observations of a more general nature, as the following extracts will show :-]

Fishponds in Gardens.

The custom of keeping fish in the grounds of country residences is much less common now, than it was in the days when, from the whole country being Catholic, fish was an essential article of food two days in every week; and when the communication between the interior and the sea was so slow, as to be unavailable for the transport of fish. ponds, wherever they can be made, are not only sources of beauty in the landscape, but of interest and use with reference to the fish

Fish

that may be reared and fed in them. In every garden, however small, and even in every green-house or conservatory, there may be a vase or small basin for gold and silver fish. These require very little care, except breaking the ice in winter, to admit air. Should the fish, however, be intended to breed, the pond must be in a warm situ ation, fully exposed to the sun, so as to raise the temperature of the water early in the season; and the margin must be shallow and sandy, as it is only in shallow water on a sandy bottom, or on roots or bundles of sticks, that fish will deposit their spawn. The carp, the tench, and the perch are the most conveniently managed in artificial ponds; and, throughout Europe, they are more used for this purpose, than any other kinds. Of these, the carp is the best, on account of its astonishing fecundity, its large size, and the rapidity with which it grows when well fed, notwithstanding the great age which it has been known to attain. To manage carp properly, three ponds are requisite; one for breeding, another for rearing, and a third for feeding. In the spawning or breeding pond, full grown fish should be put early in spring; the season for spawning being from the latter end of May till the beginning of July, the time varying according to the warmth of the season. After spawning, the old fish are put back into the feeding-pond, and the young fry left to themselves till the spawning season approaches in the following year. They are then removed to the nursing-pond, where they remain about two years, the time varying according to their growth. Every season the nursing pond is drawn, and all the fish which are above 5 in. in length, put into the feeding-pond; whence the largest are taken out as wanted for use. When wanted of extraordinary size, they may be kept in stews, and fed with garbage, boiled potatoes, bread, boiled rice, or any soft substance which does not require mastication. Their natural food consists of insects, worms, and soft aquatic plants. The pond in which the feeding fish are kept, should be rather deep, and have a soft marly or muddy bottom, and a warm exposure; the water should be soft, and this it generally is on marly soils when carp are fed in stews, they should be kept in rain water. A carp will usually at tain the weight of 3 lbs. in six years, and 6 lbs. in ten years. The largest ever caught was not quite 20 lbs. weight. They are in season from October to April. The whole business of stocking ponds, and raising and fattening carp, is reduced to a regular system, which is practised extensively in the interior of France and Germany, and more particularly of Prussia. But in suburban gardens, it may be tried with a single pond; taking care to reduce the number of fish by using some of the largest every year in the proper season. From 300 to 400 carp to an

acre, is the number allowed in the feeding-, ponds in Prussia; but in these ponds very little food is given, and hence the range required is the greater. The tench is generally kept in the same pond as the carp, and requires the same treatment. It will, however, thrive, and even attain an extraordinary size, in situations, and in stagnant fetid wa ter, where no other fish would live. The tench is very tenacious of life, and requires less oxygen than any other fish. Mr. Yarrell, in his excellent work on the British Fishes, says, that the tench can breathe when the quantity of oxygen is reduced to the 5000th part of the bulk of the water; ordinary river water usually containing the 100th part of oxygen. Hence, tench will thrive in deep muddy holes, where no other fish could exist; though, in this case, they should be kept a week or ten days in clear water, before using for the table, in order that the muddy taste may go off. The tench is covered with a thick slimy matter, which is said to heal other fish, if they rub themselves against it when they are wounded; and, hence, the tench is vulgarly called the fishes' physician.

The perch requires clearer water than either the carp or the tench, and will thrive in rivers, where the current is not too rapid. When kept in stews, there should be a stream of water constantly running through these. The perch eats worms, flies, und young fish of its own kind, and also minnows, and small roach, dace, &c. The eel thrives in deep, muddy, shady ponds, where, however, the water must not be stagnant. Eels attain the greatest size in mill-ponds, or in muddy rivers, in the soft banks of which they can bury themselves 12 or 16 inches deep, while the stream continues constantly running its course over the mud, and where they are frequently found, and dug out or separated, in the winter. In stews they may be fed at discretion, with snails, frogs, worms, &c.; and will attain a large size, but they are seldom kept in ponds, as they destroy other fish. The eel in the summer season, frequently quits the water during the night, and wandera among grass in search of slugs, frogs, and worms; and where there is a mill-pond, or a dam between two ponds, large eels may often be seen in a warm summer's evening, when the meadows are wet with dew, making their way, with an undulating, or wriggling, though not very rapid motion, through the long grass, in search of food, or from one pond to the other. The pike grows to a large size in stews or ponds, where it requires clear and hard water; but its keep is very expensive, as it devours all the other fish, and even all the fry of its own species that come within its reach. "Eight pike," says Mr. Jesse, "about 5 lbs. weight each, consumed nearly 800 gudgeons in three weeks." "In default of other fish," says