Part 21

With a statement of these properties before us, and the interesting description of the process by your Shanghai correspondent, the whole riddle of green-tea coloring and facing is solved. The Prussian blue and soapstone being mixed together when dry in the manner described, the soapstone adheres to the surface of the particles of blue, and imparts to them not only a pale greenish color, but also its own unctuous, adhesive, and polishing properties. The mixture being well stirred in with the tea-leaves, covers them with this facing, and thus gives both the color and peculiar pearly lustre characteristic of some kinds of green tea. I should add that the soapstone, like the other ingredient, is insoluble, and therefore perfectly harmless.

Considering the object to be attained, it is evident from the above that John Chinaman understands his business, and needs no lessons from European chemists. It would puzzle all the Fellows of the Chemical Society, though they combined their efforts for the purpose, to devise a more effective, cheap, simple, and harmless method of satisfying the foolish demand for unnaturally colored tea-leaves.

When the tea-drinking public are sufficiently intelligent to prefer naturally colored leaves to the ornamental stuff they now select, Mr. Chinaman will assuredly be glad enough to discontinue the addition of the Prussian blue, which costs him so much more per pound than his tea-leaves, and will save him the trouble of the painting and varnishing now in demand.

In the meantime, it is satisfactory to know that, although a few silly people may be deceived, nobody is poisoned by this practice of coloring green tea. I say “a few silly people,” for there can be only a few, and those very silly indeed, who judge of their tea by its appearance rather than by the quality of the infusion it produces.

With these facts before us it is not difficult to trace the origin of the oft-repeated and contradicted statement that copper is used in coloring green tea. One of the essential ingredients in the manufacture of Prussian blue is sulphate of iron, the common commercial name which is “green copperas.” It is often supposed to contain copper, but this is not the case.

Your Shanghai correspondent overrates the market value of soapstone when he supposes that Chinese wax may be used as a cheap substitute. In many places—as, for instance, the “Lizard” district of Cornwall—great veins of this mineral occur, which, if needed, might be quarried in vast abundance, and at very little cost on account of its softness. The romantic scenery of Kynance Cove, its caverns, its natural arches, the “Devil’s Bellows,” the “Devil’s Post-office,” the “Devil’s Cauldrons,” and other fantastic formations of this part of the coast, attributed to his Satanic Majesty or the Druids, are the natural results of the waves beating away the veins of soft soapstone, and leaving the deformed skeleton rocks of harder serpentine behind.

“IRON FILINGS” IN TEA.

I have watched the progress of the tea controversy and the other public performances of the public analysts with considerable interest; it might have been with amusement, but for the melancholy degradation of chemical science which they involve.

Among the absurdities and exaggerations which for some years past have been so industriously trumpeted forth by the pseudo-chemists who trade upon the adulteration panic and consequent demand for chemical certificates of purity, the continually repeated statements concerning the use of iron filings as a fraudulent adulterant of tea take a prominent place. I need scarcely remark that, in order to form such an adulterant, the quantity added must be sufficiently great to render its addition commercially profitable to an extent commensurate with the trouble involved.

The gentlemen who, since the passing of the Adulteration Act, have by some kind of inspiration suddenly become full-blown chemists, have certified to wilful adulteration of tea with iron filings, and have obtained _convictions_ on such certificates, when, according to their own statement, the quantity contained has not exceeded 5 per cent in the cheapest qualities of tea. Now, the price of such tea to the Chinaman tea-grower, who is supposed to add these iron filings, is about fourpence to sixpence per pound; and we are asked to believe that he will fraudulently deteriorate the market value of his commodity for the sake of this additional 1-20th of weight. Supposing that he could obtain his iron filings at twopence per pound, his total gain would thus be about 1-10th of a penny per pound. But can he obtain such iron filings in the quantity required at such a price? A little reflection on a few figures will render it evident that he cannot, and that such adulteration is utterly impossible.

I find by reference to _The Grocer_ of November 8th, that the total deliveries of tea into the port of London during the first ten months of 1872 were 142,429,337 lbs., and during the corresponding period of 1873, 139,092,409 lbs. Of this about 8½ millions of pounds in 1873, and 10 millions of pounds in 1872, were green, the rest black. This gives in round numbers about 160 millions of pounds of black tea per annum, of which above 140 millions come from China. As the Russians are greater tea-drinkers than ourselves—the Americans and British colonists are at least equally addicted to the beverage, and other nations consume some quantity—the total exports from China may be safely estimated to reach 400 or 500 millions of pounds.

Let us take the smaller figure, and suppose that only one fourth of this is adulterated, to the extent of 5 per cent, with iron filings. How much would be required? Just five millions of pounds per annum.

It must be remembered that _coarse_ filings could not possibly be used; they would show themselves at once to the naked eye as rusty lamps, and would shake down to the bottom of the chest; neither could borings, nor turnings, nor plane-shavings be used. Nothing but _fine_ filings would answer the supposed purpose. I venture to assert that if the China tea-growers were to put the whole world under contribution for their supposed supply of fine iron filings, this quantity could not be obtained.

Let anyone who doubts this borrow a blacksmith’s vice, a fine file, and a piece of soft iron, then take off his coat and try how much labor will be required to produce a single ounce of filings, and also bear in mind that fine files are but very little used in the manufacture of iron. As the price of a commodity rises when the demand exceeds the supply the Chinaman would have to pay far more for his adulterant than for the leaves to be adulterated. As Chinese tea-growers are not public analysts, we have no right to suppose that they would perpetrate any such foolishness.

The investigations recently made by Mr. Alfred Bird, of Birmingham, show that the iron found in tea-leaves is not in the metallic state, but in the condition of oxide; and he confirms the conclusions of Zöller, quoted by Mr. J. A. Wanklyn in the _Chemical News_ of October 10th—viz., that compounds of iron naturally exist in genuine tea. It appears, however, that the ash of many samples of _black_ tea contains more iron than naturally belongs to the plant; and, accepting Mr. Bird’s statement, that this exists in the leaf as oxide mixed with small siliceous and micaceous particles I think we may find a reasonable explanation of its presence without adopting the puerile theory of the adulteration maniac, who, in his endeavor to prove that everybody who buys or sells anything is a swindler, has at once assumed the impossible addition of iron filings as a makeweight.

In the first place we must remember that the commodity in demand is _black_ tea, and that ordinary leaves dried in an ordinary manner are not black, but brown. Tea-leaves, however, contain a large quantity of tannin, a portion of which is, when heated in the leaves, rapidly convertible into gallo-tannic or tannic acid. Thus a sample of tea rich in iron would, when heated in the drying process, become, by the combination of this tannic acid with the iron it contains, much darker than ordinary leaves or than other teas grown upon less ferruginous soils and containing less iron.

This being the case, and a commercial demand for _black_ tea having become established, the tea-grower would naturally seek to improve the color of his tea, especially of those samples naturally poor in iron, and a ready mode of doing this is offered by stirring in among the leaves while drying a small additional dose of oxide of iron, if he can find an oxide in such a form that it will spread over the surface of the leaf as a thin film. Now, it happens that the Chinaman has lying under his feet an abundance of material admirably adapted for this purpose—viz., red hæmatite, some varieties of which are as soft and unctuous as graphite, and will spread over his tea-leaves exactly in the manner required. The micaceous and siliceous particles found by Mr. Bird are just what should be found in addition to oxide of iron, if such hæmatite were used.

The film of oxide thus easily applied, and subjected to the action of the exuding and decomposing extractive matter of the heated leaves, would form the desired black dye or “facing.”

The knotty question of whether this is or is not an adulteration is one that I leave to lawyers to decide, or for those debating societies that discuss such interesting questions as whether an umbrella is an article of dress. If it is an adulteration, and, as already admitted, is not at all injurious to health, then all other operations of dyeing are also adulterations; for the other dyers, like the Chinaman, add certain impurities to their goods—the silk, wool, or cotton—in order to alter their natural appearance, and to give them the false facing which their customers demand, but with this difference, if I am right in the above explanation: that in darkening tea nothing more is done but to increase the proportion of one of its natural ingredients, and to intensify its natural color; while in the dyeing of silk, cotton, or wool, ingredients are added which are quite foreign and unnatural, and the natural color of the substance is altogether falsified.

The above appeared in the _Chemical News_ November 21, 1873, when the adulteration in question was generally believed to be commonly perpetrated, and many unfortunate shop-keepers had been and were still being summoned to appear at Petty Sessions, etc., and publicly branded as fraudulent adulterators on the evidence of the newly-fledged public analysts, who confidently asserted that they found such filings mixed with the tea. Some discussion followed in subsequent numbers of the _Chemical News_; but it only brought out the fact that “finely divided iron” exists in considerable quantities in Sheffield,—may be “begged,” as Mr. Alfred H. Allen (an able analytical chemist, resident in Sheffield,) said. The fact that such finely divided iron is thus without commercial value still further confirms my conclusion that it is not used for the adulteration of tea. If it were, its collection would be a regular business, and truck-loads would be transmitted from Sheffield to London, the great centre of tea-importation. No evidence of any commercial transactions in iron filings or iron dust for such purposes came forward in reply to my challenge.

The practical result of the controversy is that iron filings are no longer to be found in the analytical reports of the adulteration of tea.

CONCERT-ROOM ACOUSTICS.

The acoustics of public buildings are now occupying considerable attention in London. The vast audiences which any kind of sensational performance in the huge metropolis is capable of attracting, is forcing the subject upon all who cater for public amusement or instruction. There was probably no building in London, or anywhere else, more utterly unfit for musical performances than the Crystal Palace in its original condition; but, nevertheless, the Handel Festival of last week was a great success. I attended the first of these immense gatherings, and this last; but nothing of the kind intermediate, and, therefore, am the better able to make comparisons.

My recollections of the first were so very unsatisfactory that I gladly evaded the grand rehearsal of Friday week, and went to the “Messiah” on Monday with an astronomical treatise in my pocket, in order that my time should not be altogether wasted. Being seated at the further end of the transept, in a gallery above the level of the general ridge-and-furrow roof of the nave, the plump little Birmingham tenor, who rose to sing the first solo, appeared, under the combined optical conditions of distance and vertical foreshortening, like a chubby cheese-mite viewed through a binocular microscope. Taking it for granted that his message of comfort could not possibly reach my ear, I determined to anticipate the exhortation by settling down for a comfortable reading of a chapter or two, but was surprised to find I could hear every note, both of recitative and air.

It thus became obvious that the alterations that have gradually grown since the time when Clara Novello’s voice was the only one that could be heard across the transept are worthy of study; that the advertised success of the “velarium” is something more than mere puffery. I accordingly used my eyes as well as my ears, and made a few notes which may be interesting to musical and architectural, as well as to scientific readers.

Sound, like light, heat, and all other radiations, loses its intensity as it is outwardly dispersed, is enfeebled in the ratio of the squares of distance; thus at twenty feet from the singer the loudness of the sound is one fourth of that at ten feet, at thirty feet one ninth, at forty feet one sixteenth, at fifty feet one twenty-fifth, and so on; that is, supposing the singer or other source of sound is surrounded on all sides by free, open, and still air.

But this condition is never fulfilled in practice, excepting, perhaps, by Simeon Stylites when he preached to the multitude from the top of his column. If Mr. Vernon Rigby had stood on the top of one of his native South Staffordshire chimney-shafts, of the same height above the ground as the upper press gallery of the Crystal Palace is above the front of the orchestra, and I had stood on the open ground at the same distance away and below him, his solo of “Comfort ye, my People” would have been utterly inaudible.

What, then, is the reason of this great difference of effect at equal distances? If we can answer this question, we shall know something about the acoustics of concert-rooms.

The uninitiated reader will at once begin by saying that “sound rises.” This is almost universally believed, and yet it is a great mistake, as commonly understood. Sound radiates equally in every direction—downwards, upwards, north, south, east, or west, unless some special directive agency is used. The directive agency commonly used is a reflecting or reverberating surface.

Thus the voice of the singer travels forward more abundantly than backward, because he uses the roof, and, to some extent, the walls and floor of his mouth, as a sound reflector. The roof of his mouth being made of concave plates of bone with a thin velarium of integument stretched tightly over them, supplies a model sound reflector; and I strongly recommend every architect who has to build a concert or lecture-room, or theatre, to study the roof of his own mouth, and imitate it as nearly as he can in the roof of his building.

The great Italian singing masters of the old school, who, like the father of Persiani, could manufacture a great voice out of average raw material, studied the physiology of the vocal organs, and one of their first instructions to their pupils was that they should sing against the roof of the mouth, then throw the head back and open the mouth, so that the sound should reverberate forwards, clear of the teeth and lips. For the first year or two the pupil had to sing only “la, la,” for several hours per day, until the faculty of doing this effectually and habitually was acquired.

The popular notion that sound rises has probably originated from the fact that in our common experience the sounds are produced near to some kind of floor, which reflects the sounds upwards, and thus adds the reflected sound to that which is directly transmitted, and thereby the general result is materially augmented.

But if we would economize sound most effectively, we must have not only a reflecting floor, but also a reflecting roof and reflecting walls on all sides of the concert room. These are the conditions that were wanting in the original structure of the Crystal Palace transept, for then the sound of the singer’s voice could travel upwards to that lofty arch and sidewise in all directions, almost as freely as in the open air.

This defect has been remedied to a very great extent by the velarium stretched across from the springing of the great arch of glass and iron, and forming a ceiling to the concert-room part of the building. Besides this, a wall of drapery is stretched across each side of the transept, and the orchestra has its special walls, roof, and back. There are other minor arrangements for effecting lateral reverberation; that is, for returning the sound into the auditorium proper instead of allowing it to wander feebly throughout the building.

The general result of these arrangements is to render that portion of the building in which the reserved seats are placed a really luxurious and efficient concert-room, of magnificent proportions; but, very unfortunately and inevitably, these conditions, which are so favorable for the happy eight or nine thousand who can afford reserved seats, render the position of the other half-dozen thousand outsiders more disappointing and vexatious than ever. For my own part I would rather spend a holiday afternoon in the mild atmosphere and the quiet, soothing gloom of a coal-pit than be teased and irritated by a strained listening to the indefinite roar of a grand choir, and the occasional dying vibrations of Sims Reeves’ “top A.”

I have in the above advocated reverberation as a remedy for diffusion of sound. This may, perhaps, appear rather startling to some musicians who have a well-founded dread of echoes, and who read the words _echo_ and _reverberation_ as synonymous. This requires a little explanation. As light is transmitted, reflected, and absorbed in the same manner as sound, and as light is visible—or, rather, renders objects visible—I will illustrate my meaning by means of light.

Let us suppose three apartments of equal size and same shape, one having its walls covered with mirrors, the second with white paper, and the third with black woollen cloth, and all lighted with central chandeliers of equal brilliancy. The first and second will be much lighter than the third, but they will be illuminated very differently.

In the first, there will be a repetition of chandeliers in the mirrored walls, each wall definitely reflecting the image of each particular light. In the second room there will be reflection also, and economy of light, but no reflection of definite images; the apartment will appear to be filled with a general and well-diffused luminosity, rendering every object distinctly visible, and there will be no deep shadows anywhere.

In scientific language, we shall have, in the first room, _regular reflection_; in the second, _scattering reflection_; in the third room we should have comparative gloom, owing to the _absorption_ of the light by the black cloth.

We may easily suppose the parallels of these in the case of sound. If the velarium and side walls of the transept and orchestra were made of sheet iron, or smooth, bare, unbroken vibrating wooden boards, we should have a certain amount of _regular_ reflection of sound or echo. Just as we should see the particular lights of the chandelier reflected in the first room, so should we hear the particular notes of the singer or player echoed by such regularly vibrating walls and ceiling.

If, again, the velarium and side drapery of the transept and orchestra had been thick, soft woollen cloths, the sound, like the light, would have been absorbed or “muffled,” and, though very clear, it would be weak and insufficient.

The reader will now ask—What, then, is the right material for such velarium and walls? I cannot pretend to say what is the best possible, believing that it has yet to be discovered. The best yet known, and attainable at moderate expense, is common canvas or calico, washed or painted over with a mixture of size and lime, or other attainable material that will fill up the pores of the fabric, and give it a moderately smooth face or surface. Thus prepared, it is found to reflect sound, as paper, ground glass, etc., reflect light, by scattering reverberation, but without definite echo.

It will now be understood how the velarium acted in rendering the solos so clearly audible at the great height and distance of the Upper Press Gallery. Instead of being wasted by diffusion in the great vault above, they were stopped and reflected by the velarium, but not so reflected as to produce disagreeable repetition notes, just audible at particular points, as the lights of the mirror reflections of the chandeliers would be.

Flat surfaces reflect radially, while concave surfaces with certain curves reflect sound, light, heat, etc., in parallel lines. The walls and roof of a music-hall should scatter their reflections on all sides, and, therefore, should be flat, or nearly so, excepting at the angles, which should be curved or hollowed. From the orchestra the sound is chiefly required to be projected forward as from the singer’s mouth; and, therefore, an orchestra should have curved walls and roof.

Space will not permit a dissertation here on the particular curve required. This has, I believe, been carefully calculated in constructing the Crystal Palace orchestra. Viewed from a distance, the whole orchestra is curiously like a huge wide-opened mouth that only requires to close a little and open a little more, according to the articulations of the choir, to represent the vocal effort of one gigantic throat.

There is, I think, one fault in the shape of this mouth. It extends too far laterally in proportion to its perpendicular dimensions. The angles of the mouth are too acute; the choir extends too far on each side. The singers should be packed more like those of the Birmingham Festival Choir.

There is an acoustic limit to the magnitude of choirs. Sound travels at about 1100 feet per second, and thus, if one of the singers of a choir is 110 feet nearer than another singer to any particular auditor, the near singer will be heard one-tenth of a second before the more distant, though they actually sing exactly together. In rapid staccato passages this would produce serious confusion, though in such music as most of Handel’s it would be scarcely observable.

Some observations which I have made convince me that the actual choir of the Handel Festivals has reached, if not exceeded, the acoustic limits even for Handel’s music, and decidedly exceeds the limits permissible for Mendelsshon and most other composers.

I found that when standing on the floor of the building in front of the orchestra, and on one side, I could plainly distinguish the wave of difference of time due to the traveling of the sound, and in all the passages which required to be taken up smartly and simultaneously by the opposite sides of the choir, the effect was very disagreeable.