  Harry paid twenty pounds of sterling metal, To risk his life in a balloon, which burst; Tom and his friends, pic-nicking, boil'd a kettle, Which Harry (tumbling) fell into head first; But long ere what it was they well could settle, Arose unhurt from where he'd been immersed— And, "Ah! why, Tom," said he, "how do, my buck?— "You see I've just dropp'd in to take—pot-luck!" "Is your tea agreeable, my dear Miss Dibsley?" "Thank you, dear Mrs. Hipson; quite pleasant; very much as I like it; all green with some black in it; a bit more sugar if you please." "Glad you like the flavour; I've just changed my tea-dealer, and—" "And new brooms sweep clean, as the saying is," tittered Miss Dibsley; "a trifle more cream,—thank you." "Brooms!" ejaculated Mrs. Hipson gravely; "um! I hope you don't mean—by your mention of brooms—I assure you I ordered the very best seven shilling—" "Oh dear, quite the reverse," returned Miss Dibsley, helping herself to another tea-cake. "With some very superior green," proceeded Mrs. Hipson, "at eight-and-six, which I do think quite a catch; but really it's extremely difficult to find good teas now-a-days, for since this curious business with China—" "Oh! pray do tell me something about that," said Miss Dibsley; "for I never yet found anybody who knew, and never had patience to listen if they did. What has this Emperor of Delf been doing? The cream—thank you." "Why, my dear, I've luckily had it all explained to me by a gentleman deeply concerned in the Potteries, who consequently understands everything connected with China—it's his business—and he informs me on the best authority that the disturbance originally broke out thus:—You see there happens to be a place in America called the Boundary-line, the natives of which employed a gentleman named McLeod to seize upon one of our East India ships and destroy its cargo of tea—these Boundary-line people being jealous, as I'm told, of the spread of temperance in this country. Whereupon our merchants in India naturally became incensed; and they applied, it seems, to the Emperor of China for a considerable quantity of opium—of opium, don't you see?—with the view of selling it to America at a very reduced price, so that the Boundary-line people might be tempted to buy the injurious drug, and thus become the instruments of their own punishment." "Now I begin to understand," said Miss Dibsley. "Euphemius Hipson, my dear, you can assist me to another lump of sugar?" "Oh! yes Miss Dibsley," said the young gentleman, jumping up nervously and spilling his tea over his new pepper-and-salt habiliments; "and if you'd like a bit more of this cake, here's such a nice—" "Euphemius, my darling," cried Mrs. Hipson, "Silence! Would you like to take some more cake, Miss Dibsley? Euphemius, go and sit down. Well, my dear, as I was saying, the Emperor of China, secretly instigated by his political crony, old Mehemet Ali—a very clever man, I need not tell you—positively refused to supply any opium to our merchants; and he seems to have acted with great obstinacy, for the French king and the Sultan together vainly endeavoured to counteract the policy of the Pacha, who had succeeded in persuading the Emperor that we wanted all this opium for home-consumption—in fact (only think!) that the British were going to destroy themselves with opium, and that thus he should lose his best customers for tea." "I see it all," remarked Miss Dibsley; "Euphemius, take my cup; and I think I'll try the bread and butter." "Well, the opium we could not get, though the applications that Lord Palmerston made were unknown; however we could punish Mehemet Ali for his part in the transaction, and you know as well as I how matters ended in Syria. I must tell you that his Celestial Majesty never once interposed to protect the Pacha, but "Cream, Euphemius," said Miss Dibsley. "We refused to take tea——" "There's a good lad: a little bit more sugar." "We refused to take their tea without the supply of opium;—the Emperor grew more and more incensed—told all manner of falsehoods, and asserted that our merchants had been administering opium to the Chinese, (where should they get it, I should like to know!) with the view of producing sleep and plundering the tea-factories. He then, it is said—though I don't understand this part of the story—flung his chops in the faces of the British, and at length provoked our sailors to make an attack on everything in the shape of junk that they could find. And so to war we went—all, as you perceive, through the people of the Boundary-line, and the meddling of Mehemet Ali." "I never clearly understood the matter before," observed Miss Dibsley, stirring her fourth cup: "but what has the Emperor been doing lately?" "Lately, why haven't you heard? My dear, to prevent the British from being supplied, he has been ordering all his people to destroy their stocks of teas—hyson, souchong, bohea, congou—all they have, and promising to indemnify them every sixpence." "Well to be sure!" exclaimed Miss Dibsley; (a little more gunpowder in the pot would improve the next cup, my dear madam;) "only think! But isn't this a good deal like cutting his own nose off?" "Of course it is, and what his Celestial Majesty will be doing next, I can't guess—I must ask my friend in the Potteries his opinion." "I shouldn't at all wonder," returned Miss Dibsley, "if he were to hang himself up on one of his own tea-trees by his own pigtail, as a scarecrow to frighten away the barbarians." "But if this destruction of tea is to go on, what are we to do? What is to become of the tee-totallers, Miss Dibsley?' "Can't say, my dear Mrs. Hipson, unless they turn coffee-totallers." "It's a melancholy affair, love." "It is indeed, dear. That last crisp little biscuit there is positively tempting,—and now I think of it, I'll just venture on half a cup more tea; that sprinkling of gunpowder holds out deliciously. That'll do—thank you—charming!—These Chinese, I believe, have nothing of a navy?" "I'm credibly informed," responded Mrs. Hipson, "that their ships are all made of earthenware—in the shape of milk-pots." "Yes, and their cavalry are all mounted on tea-kettles, and go by steam." "By the way—Oh! Miss Dibsley, I had almost forgot—you have never seen the sweet copy of verses that our dear Euphemius has been inditing on this curious Chinese business. Euphemius, my darling, show them to Miss Dibsley. He actually pictures the Celestial Emperor sitting on a teapot!—a teapot for a throne; how imaginative! I assure you—but I shouldn't like it to go farther—that our friend in the Potteries thinks them quite remarkable, and says that the youth's knowledge of facts is surprising: Euphemius is hardly seventeen yet—quite a child! What an age of genius this is! Euphemius, my dear, will you read?—Martha, you can take away.—Beg pardon, any more tea, Miss Dibsley? No!—not half a cup?—Take away, Martha. Euphemius, dear, proceed with your poetry."—"Hadn't I better read it for myself?" said Miss Dibsley. "No, I thank you," returned Euphemius; "you won't find out the jokes so well as I shall, 'cause I haven't put 'em all in italics." (Euphemius reads.) The world rests on a tortoise, And a teapot rests on that, And on the teapot sitteth Earth's Emperor fierce and fat. He's brother to ten Comets, And a dozen Suns and Moons; The ocean is his slop-basin, And his subjects are all spoons. Forty cups of tea he taketh Every minute of the day, And he's owner of a milk-walk, Called by men the milky way. But for all his mighty emperorship, I wouldn't be in his shoes, For there's steam enough about him To stew the chops he issues. If stronger he his tea makes, 'Twill blow out half his teeth; For hot's the water under him, And there's gunpowder beneath. Yet danger can't convince him, Though it grow more strong and hot; Of "green" he's proved a sample; He's "a spoonful for the pot." "Tu doces" means "thou tea-chest," But to teach old China's tribe, We must read it thus, "Two doses," Such as Nelson would prescribe. As sure as that's a teapot, He'll go upward with a whiz, And be, though more Celestial, Less Majestic than he is. As sure as that same crockery Community are crackt, Their spouts, and lids, and handles, Will go smash, and that's a fact. Though t be first and last of it, In them there'll be no trust, Till "with your leaf, or by your leaf," Death turns them to "fine dust." How puzzled be their crania Beneath our cannon's roar! They never tasted anything But "cannister" before. They'll wonder what it's all about, When shot yet more abounds; They look into their teacups, And can't understand the grounds. While they fancy that there's nothing With their own tea on a par, I wonder what they think of The British T-a-r. This fact, Celestial Emperor, From experience we may know, If amongst the quick we leave you, You will leave us—to the sloe. "Very good indeed, Euphemius;" cried Miss Dibsley, with a slight yawn; "capital; if you live long enough I haven't a doubt that you'll cut a very pretty figure as a poet in the pages of the Stoke Poges Gazette, or Wormwood Scrubbs and Bullock-Smithey Register." |
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