Chapter II: Part 2

Tho' all unknown to Greek and Roman song,
The paler hyson and the dark souchong,
Tho' black nor green the warbled praises share
Of knightly troubadour or gay trouvère,
Yet deem not thou, an alien quite to numbers,
That friend to prattle and that foe to slumbers,
Which Kian-Long, imperial poet, praised
So high that, cent per cent, its price was raised;
Which Pope himself would sometimes condescend
To place commodious at a couplet's end;
Which the sweet Bard of Olney did not spurn,
Who loved the music of the "hissing urn."
. . .
For the dear comforts of domestic tea
Are sung too well to stand in need of me
By Cowper and the Bard of Rimini;
Besides, I hold it as a special grace
When such a theme is old and commonplace.
The cheering lustre of the new-stirr'd fire,
The mother's summons to the dozing sire,
The whispers audible that oft intrude
On the forced silence of the younger brood,
The seniors' converse, seldom over new,
Where quiet dwells and strange events are few,
The blooming daughter's ever-ready smile,
So full of meaning and so void of guile.
And all the little mighty things that cheer
The closing day from quiet year to year,
I leave to those whom benignant fate
Or merit destines to the wedded state.
. . .
'Tis woman still that makes or mars the man.
And so it is, the creature can beguile
The fairest faces of the readiest smile.
The third who comes the hyson to inhale,
If not a man, at least appears a male.
. . .
Last of the rout, and dogg'd with public cares,
The politician stumbles up the stairs;
Whose dusky soul nor beauty can illume,
Nor wine dispel his patriotic gloom.
In restless ire from guest to guest he goes,
And names us all among our country's foes;
Swears 'tis a shame that we should drink our tea,
'Till wrongs are righted and the nation free,
That priests and poets are a venal race,
Who preach for patronage and rhyme for place;
Declares that boys and girls should not be cooing.
When England's hope is bankruptcy and ruin;
That wiser 'twere the coming wrath to fly,
And that old women should make haste to die.

Condensed from a poem published in _Fraser's Magazine_,
January, 1857, and ascribed to Hartley Coleridge.

_LADIES, LITERATURE, AND TEA_

In spite of the fact that coffee is just as important a beverage as tea, tea has been sipped more in literature.

Tea is certainly as much of a social drink as coffee, and more of a domestic, for the reason that the teacup hours are the family hours. As these are the hours when the sexes are thrown together, and as most of the poetry and philosophy of tea-drinking teem with female virtues, vanities, and whimsicalities, the inference is that, without women, tea would be nothing, and without tea, women would be stale, flat, and uninteresting. With them it is a polite, purring, soft, gentle, kind, sympathetic, delicious beverage.

In support of this theory, notice what Pope, Gay, Crabbe, Cowper, Dryden, and others have written on the subject.

"The tea-cup times of hood and hoop,
And when the patch was worn"

--wrote Tennyson of the early half of the seventeenth century.

What a suggestive couplet, full of the foibles and follies of the times! A picture a la mode of the period when fair dames made their red cheeks cute with eccentric patches. Ornamented with high coiffures, powdered hair, robed in satin petticoats and square-cut bodices, they blossomed, according to the old engravings, into most fetching figures. Even the beaux of the day affected feminine frills in their many-colored, bell-skirted waistcoats, lace ruffles, patches, and powdered queues.

Dryden must have succumbed to the charms of women through tea, when he wrote:

"And thou, great Anna, whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes take counsel, and sometimes tay."

From the great vogue which tea started grew a taste for china; the more peculiar and striking the design, the more valuable the tea-set.

Pope in one of his satirical compositions praises the composure of a woman who is

"Mistress of herself though china fall."

Even that fine old bachelor, philosopher, and humorist, Charles Lamb, thought that the subject deserved an essay.

In speaking of the ornaments on the tea-cup he says, in "Old China":

"I like to see my old friends, whom distance cannot diminish, figuring up in the air (so they appear to our optics), yet on terra firma still, for so we must in courtesy interpret that speck of deeper blue which the decorous artist, to prevent absurdity, has made to spring up beneath their sandals. I love the men with women's faces and the women, if possible, with still more womanish expressions.

"Here is a young and courtly Mandarin, handing tea to a lady from a salver--two miles off. See how distance seems to set off respect! And here the same lady, or another--for likeness is identity on tea-cups--is stepping into a little fairy boat, moored on the hither side of this calm garden river, with a dainty, mincing foot, which is in a right angle of incidence (as angles go in our world) that must infallibly land her in the midst of a flowery mead--a furlong off on the other side of the same strange stream!"

The _Spectator_ and the _Tatter_ were also susceptible to the female influence that tea inspired. In both of these journals there are frequent allusions to tea-parties and china. At these gatherings, poets and dilletante literary gentlemen read their verses and essays to the ladies, who criticised their merits. These "literary teas" became so contagious that a burning desire for authorship took possession of the ladies, for among those who made their debut as authors about this time were Fanny Burney, Mrs. Alphra Behn, Mrs. Manley, the Countess of Winchelsea, and a host of others.

One of the readers of the _Spectator_ wrote as follows:

"_Mr. Spectator:_ Your paper is a part of my tea-equipage, and my servant knows my humor so well that, calling for my breakfast this morning (it being past my usual hour), she answered, the _Spectator_ was not come in, but that the tea-kettle boiled, and she expected it every minute."

Crabbe, too, was a devotee of ladies, literature, and tea, for he wrote:

"The gentle fair on nervous tea relies,
Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes;
And inoffensive scandal fluttering round,
Too rough to tickle and too light to wound."

What better proof do we want, therefore, that to women's influence is due the cultivation and retention of the tea habit? Without tea, what would become of women, and without women and tea, what would become of our domestic literary men and matinee idols? They would not sit at home or in salons and write and act things. There would be no homes to sit in, no salons or theatres to act in, and dramatic art would receive a blow from which it could not recover in a century, at least.

In the year 1700, J. Roberts, a London publisher, issued a pamphlet of about fifty pages which was made up as follows:

Poem upon Tea in Two Cantos . . . 34 pages
Dedication of the poem . . . . . . 6 "
Preface to the poem . . . . . . . 2 "
Poem upon the poem . . . . . .. . 1 "
Introduction to the poem . . . . . 4 "
To the author upon the poem . . 1 "
Postscript . . . . . . . . . .. . 3 "
Tea-Table . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 "

The poem--_pièce de résistance_--which is by one Nahum Tate, who figures on the title-page as "Servant to His Majesty," is an allegory; and although good in spots is too long and too dry to reproduce here. "The poem upon the poem," "The Introduction," and the "Tea-Table" verses will be found interesting and entertaining.

_ON OUR ENGLISH POETRY AND THIS POEM UPON TEA_

See Spanish Curderon in Strength outdone:
And see the Prize of Wit from Tasso won:
See Corneil's Skill and Decency Refin'd;
See Rapin's Art, and Molier's Fire Outshin'd;
See Dryden's Lamp to our admiring View,
Brought from the Tomb to shine and Blaze anew!

The British Laurel by old Chaucer worn,
Still Fresh and Gay, did Dryden's Brow Adorn;
And that its Lustre may not fade on Thine,
Wit, Fancy, Judgment, Taste, in thee combine.
Thy pow'rful Genius thus, from Censure's Frown
And Envy's Blast, in Flourishing Renown,
Supports our British Muses Verdant Crown.
Nor only takes a Trusty Laureat's Care,
Lest Thou the Muses Garland might'st impair;
But, more Enrich'd, the Chaplet to Bequeath,
With Eastern Tea join'd to the Laurel-Wreath.
--R. B.

_TO THE AUTHOR ON HIS POEM UPON TEA_

Let Rustick Satyr, now no more Abuse,
In rude Unskilful Strains, thy Tuneful Muse;
No more let Envy lash thy true-bred Steed,
Nor cross thy easy, just, and prudent Speed:
Who dext'rously doth bear or loose the Rein,
To climb each lofty Hill, or scour the Plain:
With proper Weight and Force thy Courses run;
Where still thy Pegasus has Wonders done,
Come home with Strength, and thus the Prize has Won.
But now takes Wing, and to the Skies aspires;
While Vanquish'd Envy the bold Flight admires,
And baffled Satyr to his Den retires.
--T. W.

_THE INTRODUCTION_

Fame Sound thy Trump, all Ranks of Mortals Call,
To share a Prize that will enrich 'em All.
You that with Sacred Oracles converse,
And clearly wou'd Mysterious Truths rehearse;
On soaring Wings of Contemplation rise,
And fetch Discov'ries from above the Skies;
Ethereal TEA your Notions will resine,
Till you yourselves become almost Divine.

You statesmen, who in Storms the Publick
Helm Wou'd Guide with Skill, and Save a sinking Realm,
TEA, your Minerva, shall suggest such Sense,
Such safe and sudden Turns of Thought dispense,
That you, like her Ulysses, may Advise,
And start Designs that shall the World surprise.

You Pleaders, who for Conquest at the Bar
Contend as Fierce and Loud as Chiefs in War;
Would you Amaze and Charm the list'ning Court?
First to this Spring of Eloquence resort:
Then boldly launch on Tully's flowing Seas,
And grasp the Thunder of Demosthenes.

You Artists of the AEsculapian Tribe,
Wou'd you, like AEsculapius's Self, Prescribe,
Cure Maladies, and Maladies prevent?
Receive this Plant, from your own Phoebus sent;
Whence Life's nice Lamp in Temper is maintain'd,
When Dim, Recruited, when too fierce, restrained.

You Curious Souls, who all our Thoughts apply,
The hidden Works of Nature to descry;
Why veering Winds with Vari'd Motion blow,
Why Seas in settled Courses Ebb and Flow;
Wou'd you these Secrets of her Empire know?
Treat the Coy Nymph with this Celestial Dew,
Like Ariadne she'll impart the Clue;
Shall through her Winding Labyrinths convey,
And Causes, iculking in their Cells, display.

You that to Isis's Bark or Cam retreat,
Wou'd you prove worthy Sons of either Seat,
And All in Learning's Commonwealth be Great?
Infuse this Leaf, and your own Streams shall bring
More Science than the fam'd Castalian Spring.

Wou'd you, O Musick's Sons, your art Compleat,
And all its ancient Miracles repeat,
Rouse Rev'ling Monarchs into Martial Rage,
And, when Inflam'd, with Softer Notes As swage;
The tedious Hours of absent Love beguile,
Charm Care asleep, and make Affliction smile?
Carouse in Tea, that will your Souls inspire;
Drink Phoebus's liquor and command his Lyre.

Sons of Appelles, wou'd you draw the Face
And Shape of Venus, and with equal Grace
In some Elysian Field the Figure place?
Your Fancy, warm'd by TEA, with wish'd success,
Shall Beauty's Queen in all her Charms express;
With Nature's Rural Pride your Landscape fill
The Shady Grotto, and the Sunny Hill,
The Laughing Meadow, and the Talking Rill.

Sons of the Muses, would you Charm the Plains
With Chearful Lays, or Sweet Condoling Strains;
Or with a Sonnet make the Vallies ring,
To Welcome home the Goddess of the Spring?
Or wou'd you in sublimer Themes engage,
And sing of Worthies who adorn the Age?
Or, with Promethean Boldness, wou'd aspire
To Catch a Spark of the Celestial Fire
That Crowned the Royal Conquest, and could raise
Juverne's Boyn above Scamander's Praise?
Drink, drink Inspiring TEA, and boldly draw
A Hercules, a Mars, or a NASSAU.

_THE TEA-TABLE_

Hail, Queen of Plants, Pride of Elysian Bow'rs!
How shall we speak thy complicated Pow'rs?
Thou Won'drous Panacea to asswage
The Calentures of Youths' fermenting rage,
And Animate the freezing Veins of age.

To Bacchus when our Griefs repair for Ease,
The Remedy proves worse than the Disease.
Where Reason we must lose to keep the Round,
And drinking others Health's, our own confound:
Whilst TEA, our Sorrows to beguile,
Sobriety and Mirth does reconcile:
For to this Nectar we the Blessing owe,
To grow more Wise, as we more Cheerful grow.

Whilst fancy does her brightest beams dispense,
And decent Wit diverts without Offense.
Then in Discourse of Nature's mystick Pow'rs
And Noblest Themes, we pass the well spent Hours.
Whilst all around the Virtues' Sacred Band,
And list'ning Graces, pleas'd Attendants, stand.

Thus our Tea-Conversation we employ,
Where with Delight, Instruction we enjoy;
Quaffing, without the waste of Time or Wealth,
The Sov'reign Drink of Pleasure and of Health.

_DR. JOHNSON'S AFFINITY_

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON drew his own portrait thus:

"A hardened and shameless tea-drinker, who for twenty years
diluted his meals with the infusion of this fascinating plant;
whose kettle had scarcely time to cool; who with tea amused the
evening, with tea solaced the midnight, and with tea welcomed
the morning."

_EARLIEST MENTION OF TEA_

According to a magazinist, the first mention of tea by an Englishman is to be found in a letter from Mr. Wickham, an agent of the East India Company, written from Japan, on the 27th of June, 1615, to Mr. Eaton, another officer of the company, a resident of Macao, asking him to send "a pot of the best chaw." In Mr. Eaton's accounts of expenditure occurs this item:

"Three silver porringiys to drink chaw in."

_AUSTRALIAN TEA_

In the interior of Australia all the men drink tea. They drink it all day long, and in quantities and at a strength that would seem to be poisonous. On Sunday morning the tea-maker starts with a clean pot and a clean record. The pot is hung over the fire with a sufficiency of water in it for the day's brew, and when this has boiled he pours into it enough of the fragrant herb to produce a deep, coffee-colored liquid.

On Monday, without removing yesterday's tea-leaves, he repeats the process; on Tuesday da capo and on Wednesday da capo, and so on through the week. Toward the close of it the great pot is filled with an acrid mash of tea-leaves, out of which the liquor is squeezed by the pressure of a tin cup.

By this time the tea is of the color of rusty iron, incredibly bitter and disagreeable to the uneducated palate. The native calls it "real good old post and rails," the simile being obviously drawn from a stiff and dangerous jump, and regards it as having been brought to perfection.

_FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA_

There is a fallacy among certain tea-fanciers that the origin of five-o'clock tea was due to hygienic demand. These students of the stomach contend that as a tonic and gentle stimulant, when not taken with meat, it is not to be equalled. With meat or any but light food it is considered harmful. Taken between luncheon and dinner it drives away fatigue and acts as a tonic. This is good if true, but it is only a theory, after all. Our theory is that five o'clock in the afternoon is the ladies' leisure hour, and that the taking of tea at that time is an escape from _ennui_.

_TEA IN LADIES' NOVELS_

What would women novelists do without tea in their books? The novelists of the rougher sex write of "over the coffee and cigars"; or, "around the gay and festive board"; or, "over a bottle of old port"; or, "another bottle of dry and sparkling champagne was cracked"; or, "and the succulent welsh rarebits were washed down with royal mugs of musty ale"; or, "as the storm grew fiercer, the captain ordered all hands to splice the main brace," _i. e._, to take a drink of rum; or, "as he gulped down the last drink of fiery whiskey, he reeled through the tavern door, and his swaying form drifted into the bleak, black night, as a roar of laughter drowned his repentant sobs." But the ladies of the novel confine themselves almost exclusively to tea--rarely allowing their heroes and heroines to indulge in even coffee, though they sometimes treat their heroes to wine; but their heroines rarely get anything from them but Oolong.

_SYDNEY SMITH_

One evening when Sidney Smith was drinking tea with Mrs. Austin the servant entered the crowded room with a boiling tea-kettle in his hand. It seemed doubtful, nay, impossible, he should make his way among the numerous gossips--but on the first approach of the steaming kettle the crowd receded on all sides, Mr. Smith among the rest, though carefully watching the progress of the lad to the table.

"I declare," said he, addressing Mrs. Austin, "a man who wishes to make his way in life could do no better than go through the world with a boiling tea-kettle in his hand."--_Life of Rev. Sydney Smith_.

_DR. JOHNSON AGAIN_

The good doctor evidently lived up to his reputation as a tea-drinker at all times and places. Cumberland, the dramatist, in his memoirs gives a story illustrative of the doctor's tea-drinking powers: "I remember when Sir Joshua Reynolds, at my home, reminded Dr. Johnson that he had drunk eleven cups of tea. 'Sir,' he replied, 'I did not count your glasses of wine; why should you number my cups of tea?'"

At another time a certain Lady Macleod, after pouring out sixteen cups for him, ventured mildly to ask whether a basin would not save him trouble and be more convenient. "I wonder, madam," he replied, roughly, "why all ladies ask such questions?" "It is to save yourself trouble, not me," was the tactful answer of his hostess.

_A CUP OF TEA_

_From St. Nicholas, December, 1899_.

Now Grietje from her window sees the leafless poplars lean
Against a windy sunset sky with streaks of golden green;
The still canal is touched with light from that wild, wintry sky,
And, dark and gaunt, the windmill flings its bony arms on high.
"It's growing late; it's growing cold; I'm all alone," says she;
"I'll put the little kettle on, to make a cup of tea!"

Mild radiance from the porcelain stove reflects on shining tiles;
The kettle beams, so red and bright that Grietje thinks it smiles;
The kettle sings--so soft and low it seems as in a dream--
The song that's like a lullaby, the pleasant song of steam:
"The summer's gone; the storks are flown; I'm always here, you see,
To sing and sing, and shine, and shine, and make a cup of tea!"

The blue delft plates and dishes gleam, all ranged upon the shelf;
The tall Dutch clock tick-ticks away, just talking to itself;
The brindled pussy cuddles down, and basks and blinks and purrs;
And rosy, sleepy Grietje droops that snow-white cap of hers.
"I do like winter after all; I'm very glad," says she,
"I put--my--little--kettle--on--to make--a cup--of--tea!"
--HELEN GRAY CONE.