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appear now next to the thumb, tip to painting, now return to their place back in the reverse position. Generally speaking the Chinese are very good copiers. I saw a copy of Raphael's Madonna in a reduced size, brought from Berlin and another made from it here by a Chinese: it's difficult to distinguish one from the other. They themselves only paint flowers and insects well, copying each little leaf of a flower, each little butterfly's wing with such thoroughness, that they seem to be glued on to the paper. Much beauty is brought to these drawings by the paper itself which is like fine velvet and which the English call rice-paper but which is actually made from the pith of a plant belonging to the family araliacea and known in Chinese as den-tsao i.e. the lamp plant because lamps are made from its thin stems. It is said to grow exclusively on the island of Formosa, at least it is only there that they cultivate it and make paper from it. Paper used primarily for making artificial flowers.
That same ability of the Chinese - to be satisfied with little together with their imitativeness results in that all artisans and workers here, as well as all household servants - are of their number. A Chinese tailor will guilelessly offer you to chose from a fashion picture of three to four years earlier; a Chinese stone-mason builds magnificent houses according to European plans. But for whatever kind of work it might be it is easier to find a Chinese man than a Chinese woman; and that is why positions which are elsewhere occupied by female servants are here mainly occupied by men. And if it is strange to see a footman in a long tunic and with a long plait by the table, then it is stranger still, as is often the case, to see a similar Chinese in the role of a children's nanny.
In Hong Kong I had the opportunity of seeing for the first time the drying of tea; and although it was not the preparation of tea from fresh leaves, but the drying of tea that had become slightly damp, the process is nevertheless in essence the same. Cauldrons, in the form of hemispheres, are fixed into the hearth at an incline: their back part is raised sufficiently to allow the plane of the opening to make an angle of up to 50° with the horizontal. A worker, standing before each such cauldron continuously stirs the tea placed there with his hand always in one direction, thus imparting to it a circular motion until, with the fire burning under the cauldron the tea dries as required.
Talking of tea, it would be opportune to mention an incident which occurred while I was in Hong Kong. A vessel carrying tea sank; the cargo was salvaged and sold at public auction. The dealer-speculator, who bought it, took