Rum-punch and poets—Alcohol as a stimulant—The king of the tea-drinkers—Dr. Johnson's teapot—Jonas Hanway's attack—Eloquence inspired by tea-drinking—A delightful tea-story—An absent-minded poet—George Dyer's breakfast-party—An empty cupboard—Hazlitt a prodigious tea-drinker—Barry Cornwall disgusted with Hazlitt's teetotal principles—Wordsworth's love of sugar in his tea—Testimony of other authors—Tea as a tonic—Tea denounced—Tea at St. Stephen's—Lord Palmerston, Mr. Gladstone, and M. Clemenceau quoted—Hartley Coleridge's poem on tea.
When James Hogg, the "Ettrick Shepherd," visited Keswick, he invited Southey to his inn. The invitation was heartily accepted. Southey stayed half an hour, but showed no disposition to imbibe. "I was," says Hogg, "a grieved as well as an astonished man when I found that he refused all participation in my beverage of rum-punch. For a poet to refuse his glass was to me a phenomenon, and I confess I doubted in my own mind, and doubt to this day if perfect sobriety and transcendent poetical genius can exist together; in Scotland I am sure they cannot." No doubt; but, since Burns and Hogg have passed away, a new generation has arisen. The poet, the essayist, the historian, and the journalist no longer write under the influence of alcohol. As Mr. George R. Sims says, the idea that drink quickly excites the brain is exploded. Healthier stimulants have taken its place. It cannot be denied that some good work has been done under the influence of tea. Look at Dr. Johnson, for instance. That fine old Tory is worthy of the title of the king of the tea-drinkers. He loved tea quite as much as Porson loved gin. Tea was Johnson's only stimulant. He drank it in bed, he drank it with his friends, and he drank it while compiling his dictionary. One of his friends thus describes his mode of life: "About twelve o'clock I commonly visited him, and frequently found him in bed, or declaiming over his tea, which he drank very plentifully. He generally had a levee of morning visitors, chiefly men of letters. He declaimed all the morning, then went to dinner at a tavern, where he commonly stayed late, and then drank his tea at some friend's house, over which he loitered a great while, but seldom took supper." At his house in Gough Square, off Fleet Street, he frequently drank tea with his dependants, some of whom were blind, and some were deaf. Boswell has left us a graphic picture of these interesting gatherings:—"We went home to his house to tea. Mrs. Williams made it with sufficient dexterity, notwithstanding her blindness," though he describes her putting her fingers into the cups to feel if they were full; but then it was Johnson's favourite beverage, and he adds, "I willingly drank cup after cup, as if it had been the Heliconian Spring. There was a pretty large circle there, and the great doctor was in very good humour, lively and ready to talk upon all sorts of subjects." Mr. F. Sherlock, a fertile writer on the temperance question, claims Dr. Johnson as a teetotaler, and has placed him in his gallery of "Illustrious Abstainers." If the learned doctor was an abstainer from alcoholic drinks, he made up for his abstinence from wine by indulging to excess in the milder and less dangerous stimulant of tea. If he did not write his dictionary by the aid of the Chinese drink, his teapot was never far away from his writing-table. "I suppose," said Boswell, "that no person ever enjoyed with more relish the infusion of that fragrant leaf than Johnson. The quantities which he drank at all hours were so great, that his nerves must have been uncommonly strong not to have been extremely relaxed by such an intemperate use of it; but he assured me he never felt the least inconvenience from it."
Johnson's indulgence did not escape the notice of Jonas Hanway, who was so alarmed for the safety of the nation that he wrote an essay on "Tea and its Pernicious Consequences," pronouncing it the ruin of the nation, and of every one who drank it. Johnson replied to the attack, and described himself as a "hardened and shameless tea-drinker, whose kettle has scarcely time to cool; who with tea amuses the evening, with tea solaces the midnight, and with tea welcomes the morning." Johnson's defence did not, however, silence, his critics. Sir John Hawkins characterized tea-drinking as unmanly, and, like John Wesley, almost gave it the colour of a crime. The worthy lexicographer, it must be confessed, was a thirsty soul, for his teapot held at least two quarts. But Mr. Philip Gilbert Hamerton writes of a clergyman whose tea-drinking indulgences exceeded those of Johnson. This self-denying Christian, who "from the most conscientious motives denied himself ale and wine, found a fountain of consolation in the teapot. His usual allowance was sixteen cups, all of heroic strength, and the effect upon his brain seems to have been altogether favourable, for his sermons were both long and eloquent."
Dr. Gordon Stables offered prizes for original anecdotes about this delightful and healthful beverage, but he laments that he obtained none worthy of printer's ink, and has come to the conclusion that tea is not the drink of his beloved country; that, had he offered prizes for anecdotes about whisky-drinking, "Scotia, my auld, respected mither, would have shown out in a different light." No doubt; Scotland has long been famous for rigid orthodoxy, combined with a love of whisky; but Mr. Stables must have forgotten the delightful tea-story told by Barry Cornwall about George Dyer. Dyer seems to have been as absent-minded as Bowles,[2] the poet.
Barry Cornwall says,—
"Poor George Dyer—whom Lamb has celebrated—formed one subject of conversation this evening. He invited some one—I think it was Llanos, the author of 'Esteban' and 'Sandoval'—to breakfast with him one day in Clifford's Inn. Dyer, of course, forgot all about the matter very speedily after giving the invitation; and when Llanos went at the appointed hour, he found nothing but little Dyer, and his books, and his dust—the work of years—at home. George, however, was anything but inhospitable, as far as his means or ideas went; and on being told that Llanos had come to breakfast, proceeded to investigate his cupboard. He found the remnant of a threepenny loaf, two cups and saucers, a little glazed teapot, and a spoonful of milk. They sat down, and (Dyer putting the hot water into the teapot) commenced breakfast. Llanos attacked the stale crust, which Lazarillo de Tomes himself would have despised, and waited with much good-humour and patience for his tea. At last, out it came. Dyer, who was half blind, kept pouring out—nothing but hot water from the teapot, until Llanos, who thought a man might be guilty of too much abstinence, inquired if Dyer had not forgot the tea. 'God bless me!' replied Dyer, 'and so I have.' He began immediately to remedy his error, and emptied the contents of a piece of brown paper into the teapot, deluged it with water, and sat down with a look of complete satisfaction. 'How very odd it was that I should make such a mistake!' said Dyer. However, he now determined to make amends, and filled Llanos' cup again. Llanos thought the tea had a strange colour, but not having dread of aqua tofana before his eyes, he thrust his spoon in and tasted. It was ginger! Seeing that it was in vain to expect commonplaces from the little absentee, Llanos continued cutting and crumbling a little bread into his plate for a short time, and then departed. He went straight to a coffee-house in the neighbourhood, and was just finishing a capital breakfast when Dyer came in, to read the paper, or to inquire after some one who frequented the coffee-house. He recognized Llanos, and asked him how he did; but felt no surprise at seeing him devouring a second breakfast. He had totally forgotten all the occurrences of the morning."
Hazlitt, like Dr. Johnson, was a prodigious tea-drinker, and his peculiar habits and manners were minutely photographed by his friends. His failings were, no doubt, greatly exaggerated, but we believe ourselves on safe ground in quoting Patmore's account of his friend's devotion to the teapot:—
"Hazlitt usually rose at from one to two o'clock in the day—scarcely ever before twelve; and if he had no work in hand, he would sit over his breakfast (of excessively strong black tea, and a toasted French roll) till four or five in the afternoon—silent, motionless, and self-absorbed, as a Turk over his opium-pouch; for tea served him precisely in this capacity. It was the only stimulant he ever took, and at the same time the only luxury; the delicate state of his digestive organs prevented him from tasting any fermented liquors. He never touched any but black tea, and was very particular about the quality of that, always using the most expensive that could be got; and he used, when living alone, to consume nearly a pound in a week. A cup of Hazlitt's tea (if you happened to come in for the first brewage of it) was a peculiar thing; I have never tasted anything like it. He always made it himself, half filling the teapot with tea, pouring the boiling water on it, and then almost immediately pouring it out, using with it a great quantity of sugar and cream. To judge from its occasional effect upon myself, I should say that the quantity Hazlitt drank of this tea produced ultimately a most injurious effect upon him, and in all probability hastened his death, which took place from disease of the digestive organs. But its immediate effect was agreeable, even to a degree of fascination; and not feeling any subsequent reaction from it, he persevered in its use to the last, notwithstanding two or three attacks, similar to that which terminated his life."
From Barry Cornwall, also, we have similar testimony concerning Hazlitt's indulgence. Proctor was as much disgusted with Hazlitt's spare diet as Llano's was with Dyer's, and wrote,—
"I saw a great deal of Hazlitt during the last twelve or thirteen years of his stormy, anxious, uncomfortable life. In 1819 he resided in a small house in York Street, Westminster, where I visited him, and where Milton had formerly dwelt; afterwards he moved from lodging to lodging, and finally went to live at No. 6, Frith Street, Soho, where he fell ill and died. I went to visit him very often during his late breakfasts (when he drank tea of an astounding strength), not unfrequently also at the Fives Court, and at other persons' houses; and once I dined with him. This (an unparalleled occurrence) was in York Street, when some friend had sent him a couple of Dorking fowls, of which he suddenly invited me to partake. I went, expecting the usual sort of dinner; but it was limited solely to the fowls and bread. He drank nothing but water, and there was nothing but water to drink. He offered to send for some porter for me, but, being out of health at the time, I declined, and escaped soon after dinner to a coffee-house, where I strengthened myself with a few glasses of wine."
PRESSING BAGS OF TEA. PRESSING BAGS OF TEA.
Proctor would have fared little better had he visited the Lake poets; for, according to Miss Mitford, "the Wordsworths have no regular meals, but go to the cupboard when hungry, and eat what they want." Wordsworth, by the way, appears to have liked his tea well sweetened; for, when he visited Charles Lamb, at his lodgings in Enfield, one of the extra "teas" in the week's bill was charged sixpence. On Lamb's inquiry what this meant, the reply was, that "the elderly gentleman"—meaning Wordsworth—"had taken such a quantity of sugar in his tea." Proctor, on the other hand, seems to have [Pg 89]
[Pg 90]
[Pg 91]had a deep-rooted antipathy to tea, and to have found a wife who shared his feelings. Writing to his "lady-love," he said, "Will your friend give me some blanc-mange? but no, I don't like blanc-mange. I hate nothing but green tea, and my enemies, and insincerity, and affectation, and undue pretence. It is partly, I believe, because you have none of these that I love you so much." No; he liked something stronger than tea, and wrote of "brains made clear by the irresistible strength of beer." But some of the sweetest poems, the brightest novels, and the finest essays have been written without the aid of either wine or beer. Shelley's beverage, for instance, consisted of copious and frequent draughts of cold water, but tea was always grateful. Bulwer Lytton's breakfast consisted of dry toast and a cup of cold tea, or hot tea impatiently tossed into a tumbler half full of cold water. De Quincey said that he usually drank tea from eight o'clock at night to four in the morning. Kant's breakfast consisted of a cup of tea and a pipe of tobacco, and on these he worked eight hours. Motley, the historian, usually rose before seven, and, with the aid of a cup of tea or coffee, wrote until the family breakfast-hour. That revolutionary poet, Victor Hugo, drinks tea, but fortifies it with a drop of rum.
More than three hours a day at the work of literary production is generally considered destructive; but a case is known to the author in which a well-known writer has been engaged in literary composition from seven to ten hours a day for at least ten years. The work he has accomplished in every department of literature during this period is truly astonishing: and its quality is admittedly high. Yet his only stimulant is tea. He is practically a life abstainer, and has never used tobacco. After a spell of work extending over three hours, a cup of tea and a break of half an hour have enabled him to resume his work and to continue writing far into the night. Tea is becoming the favourite stimulant of brain-workers; and although De Quincey drank laudanum for some time, he was enthusiastic in his praise of tea. He said,—
"For tea, though ridiculed by those who are naturally coarse in their nervous sensibilities, or are become so from wine-drinking, and are not susceptible of influence from so refined a stimulant, will always be a favourite beverage of the intellectual; and, for my part, I would have joined Dr. Johnson in a bellum internecinum against Jonas Hanway, or any other impious person who should have presumed to disparage it. But here, to save myself the trouble of too much verbal description, I will introduce a painter, and give him directions for the rest of the picture.... Paint me, then, a room seventeen feet by twelve, and not more than seven and a half feet high, ... and near the fire paint me a tea-table; and (as it is clear that no creature can come to see one on such a stormy night), place only two cups and saucers on the tea-tray; and if you know how to paint such a thing, symbolically or otherwise, paint me an eternal teapot—eternal À parte ante and À parte post; for I usually drink tea from eight o'clock at night to four in the morning. And as it is very unpleasant to make tea, or to pour it out for oneself, paint me a lovely young woman sitting at the table."
But even a "lovely young woman" would have failed to satisfy the tastes of the historian Buckle, who was a most fastidious tea-drinker. "No woman," he declared, "could make tea until he had taught her." The great thing, he believed, was to have the cups and even the spoons warmed. Commenting upon the confession of William Cullen Bryant, that he never took coffee or tea, William Howitt said,—"I regularly take both, find the greatest refreshment in both, and never experienced any deleterious effects from either, except in one instance, when by mistake I took a cup of tea strong enough for ten men. On the contrary, tea is to me a wonderful refresher and reviver. After long-continued exertion, as in the great pedestrian journeys that I formerly made, tea would always, in a manner almost miraculous, banish all my fatigue and diffuse through my whole frame comfort and exhilaration, without any subsequent evil effect. I am quite well aware that this is not the experience of many others—my wife among the number—on whose nervous system tea acts mischievously, producing inordinate wakefulness, and, its continuous use, indigestion. Yet," he wisely adds, "this is one of the things that people should learn and act upon, namely, to take such things as suit them, and avoid such as do not." This is, as a rule, the safest course to pursue, and it is adopted by all sensible persons.
To that brilliant historian, Mr. Justin McCarthy, M.P., tea is not only the most useful stimulant, but the best defence against headache. "I have," he writes, "always been a liberal drinker of tea. I have found it of immense benefit in keeping off headache, my only malady. Probably tea-drinking, even if not immoderate, does some hurt to the nerves; but I have never been able to satisfy myself that this is so in my case. Certainly, few men have worked harder and suffered less from ill-health than myself." Another famous man of letters testifies to the value of tea: "The only sure brain-stimulants with me," writes Professor Dowden, "are plenty of fresh air and tea; but each of these in large quantities produces a kind of intoxication; the intoxication of a great amount of air causing wakefulness, with a delightful confusion of spirits, without the capacity of steady thought; tea intoxication unsettles and enfeebles my will; but then a great dose of tea often does get good work out of me (though I may pay for it afterwards), while alcohol renders all mental work impossible." "Tea is my favourite tonic when I am tired or languid," confesses Mr. George R. Sims, "and always has a stimulating effect." And the Rev. John Clifford, an able and scholarly Baptist minister, testifies that tea has enabled him to accomplish some very hard work. He says,—
"For at least a quarter of a century I have attempted to solve the problem how to get the maximum of power out of a somewhat feeble body, and retain the maximum of health; but having been a total abstainer for nearly twenty-eight years, I have no experience of the relation of alcoholics and narcotics to the solution of the problem. In preparing for a succession of examinations (B.A., M.A., LL.D., and B.Sc.) at the London University, whilst I had to discharge the duties of a London pastorate, I drank tea somewhat copiously, on an average thrice a day. I worked twelve and sometimes fourteen hours a day over extended periods, preached regularly to the same congregation thrice a week, directed the affairs of an aggressive church, conducted several classes for young men, and at the same time matriculated in the First Class, took a First Class B.A., was bracketed first at the M.A., took honours at the LL.B. and at the B.Sc. in three subjects; and I found that on tea I could work longer, with a clearer head, and with more sustained intensity, than on any other beverage. But I am convinced that good as tea-drinking is for prolonged mental strain, it was very prejudicial to me, and has permanently lowered the digestive force. Raisins (as suggested by Sir W. Gull) and grapes I have found in more recent years a most convenient and effective method of reinforcing mental strength whilst at work; but the wisest course is to keep as robust health as possible, by horse exercise, or daily walks in the early morning, and before retiring to rest, by the use of dumb-bells and the gymnastic bat."
Harriet Martineau strongly condemned the use of alcohol by brain-workers, and said that her stimulants were fresh air and cold water; but this remarkable old maid dearly loved a cup of tea. Maclise sketched her sitting by the fireside, her feet on the fender, steadying with one hand a pan on the fire, teapot, cup and saucer and milk-jug on the table by her side, and her cat nestling on her shoulder. Miss Ellen Terry also finds tea the best stimulant. In reply to the question, "What do you drink?" put to her by a Chicago reporter, she stated that her favourite beverage was tea. She takes tea after every meal, and also the first thing in the morning.
Professor Everett, of Belfast, on the other hand, says that he has frequently suffered more from nervous excitability due to tea or coffee, than from any other kind of stimulant. Mr. Philip Gilbert Hamerton, the artist, confesses that at one time he did himself harm by drinking tea, but has given up coffee as well as tea. The Rev. Henry Solly, who has laboured for many years among workingmen, has abstained from tea and coffee during the last fifteen years, as they caused nervous excitement, prostration, sleeplessness, and great inequality of spirits. He hardly likes, however, denouncing the use of tea, as it seems to him the only refuge (except coffee, which to some constitutions is more injurious) for those persons who, though of a nervous and excitable temperament, cannot persuade themselves to give up all stimulants, and yet desire to discountenance the use of alcohol. But he is quite sure that it causes or promotes many nervous diseases, particularly neuralgia, and not seldom leads to that "sinking" and depression which is so frequent a cause of resort being had to "nips" in the shape of glasses of wine or spirits.
Mr. Solly is not alone in his unwillingness to denounce the use of tea, because, whatever maybe said against tea-drinking, its objectors cannot but admit that it is the least harmful of stimulants.[3] What is there to take its place? "Once," remarks Dr. Inman, of Liverpool, "I was an unbeliever in tea, and during the many days of solitary misery which I had to endure in consequence of the delicacy of children and their absence with mamma at the seaside, I tried to do without it. Hot water and cold, milk and cream, soda water and brandy, water and nothing at all, were tried in succession to sweep those cobwebs from the brain, which a dinner and a consequent snooze left behind them. It was all in vain—I was good for nothing, and the evenings intended to be devoted to work were passed in smoking, gossip, or novel-reading. I took to tea, and all was changed; and now I fully believe that a good dinner, 'forty winks,' and a cup of strong tea afterwards will enable a man to 'get through' no end of work, especially of a mental kind."
Replying to the argument that as the lower animals do without tea and coffee, so ought we, Dr. Poore emphasizes the fact that we are not lower animals; that we have minds, as well as bodies; and that since these substances have the property in common of enabling us to forget our worries and fatigues, to make light of misfortunes, and generally to bear "the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune," let us accept them, make rational use of them, and be thankful. The super-dietetic-purists, who caution us against "those poisonous liquids, milk, water, and tea," have furnished Mr. George R. Sims with a congenial topic for his facile pen. From "The Drinker's Dirge" we quote the following lines:—
"In trying from all things our lips to debar,
Hasn't Science just gallop'd his hobby too far?
Let the nervous go thirsting, they shan't frighten me
With this nonsense concerning milk, water, and tea."
Turning from literature to politics, we find that Lord Palmerston resorted to tea to refresh him during the midnight hours he spent at St. Stephen's. Mr. Gladstone confessed a short time ago at Cannes, that he drank more tea between midnight and four in the morning than any other member of the House of Commons; and strange to say, the strongest tea, although taken immediately before going to bed, never interferes with his sleep. M. Clemenceau, the leader of the French Radicals, is also reported to have owned himself an intemperate bibber of tea. Both wondered how, before tea was imported into Europe, our forefathers got on without it.[4] It was remarked that manners had become more polite and nations more humane since the introduction of the Chinese beverage, on hearing which Mr. Gladstone exclaimed, "Oh! there were great and admirable characters in the Middle Ages."
Although Sir Charles Dilke grows wine, he never drinks it, finding in tea a better stimulant. At one time Cobden was an abstainer from intoxicating drinks, which he declared useless for sustaining strength; "for the more work I have had to do, the more I have resorted to the pump and the teapot." The hero of the Anti-Corn-Law League felt more at home drinking tea than dining with great people. The formalities of dinner parties were extremely irksome to him. "I have been obliged," he says, "to mount a white cravat at these dinner-parties much against my will, but I found a black stock was quite out of character." In another letter he writes, "I assure you I would rather find myself taking tea with you than dining with lords and ladies." But as the leader of a great movement, he found it necessary to sacrifice personal tastes and to endure the afflictions of dinner-parties, for the sake of securing the support of the aristocracy.
Turning to the literature of the subject, it is interesting to learn that Hartley Coleridge was in his youth fond of tea. In Blackwood's Magazine (vol. 55, 1857) appears "An Unpublished Poem," by Hartley Coleridge, with the following note by the editor: "This early production of the late Hartley Coleridge may not be without interest, as it describes a state of social manners which is already passing away, in a style of composition which belongs in some measure to the past." The poem commences thus:—
"Though all unknown to Greek and Roman song,
The paler Hyson and the dark Souchong,
Though black, not 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 plead commodious at a couplet's end;
Which the sweet bard of Olney did not spurn,
Who loved the music of the 'hissing urn,'
Let her who bade me write, exact the Muse,
Inspire my genius and my tea infuse,
So shall my verse the hovering sylphs delight,
And critic gnomes relinquish half their spite,
Clear, warm and flowing as my liquid theme,
As sweet as sugar and as smooth as cream."
Happy would it have been for the young poet if he had remained a tea-drinker, and had never known the taste of alcohol.
But Cowper is the poet of the tea-table. He it is whom the amateur reporters love to quote, or, rather, misquote, when they describe the friends at a tea-party, "partaking of the cup that cheers, but not inebriates." What the poet really said is found in Book the Fourth of the "Task."
"Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in."
