Chapter 2

[Illustration: tea06]

TEA-DRINKING IN OTHER LANDS

While tea-drinking outside of Japan and China is not attended with any "high-days and holidays," still there are countries where it is just as important element of the daily life of its people as it is in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Among the Burmese a newly-married couple, to insure a happy life, exchange a mixture of tea-leaves steeped in oil.

In Bokhara, every man carries a small bag of tea about with him. When he is thirsty he hands a certain quantity over to the booth-keeper, who makes the beverage for him. The Bokhariot, who is a confirmed tea-slave, finds it just as hard to pass a tea-booth without indulging in the herb as our own inebriates do to go by a corner cafe. His breakfast beverage isSchitschaj--tea in which bread is soaked and flavored with milk, cream, or mutton fat. During the daytime he drinks green tea with cakes of flour and mutton suet. It is considered a gross breach of manners to cool the hot tea by blowing the breath. This is overcome by supporting the right elbow in the left hand and giving an easy, graceful, circular movement to the cup. The time it takes for each kind of tea to draw is calculated to a second. When the can is emptied it is passed around among the company for each tea-drinker to take up as many leaves as can be held between the thumb and finger; the leaves being considered a special dainty.

An English traveller once journeying through Asiatic Russia was obliged to claim the hospitality of a family of Buratsky Arabs. At mealtime the mistress of the tent placed a large kettle on the fire, wiped it carefully with a horse's tail, filled it with water, threw in some coarse tea and a little salt. When this was nearly boiled she stirred the mixture with a brass ladle until the liquor became very brown, when she poured it into another vessel. Cleaning the kettle as before, the woman set it again on the fire to fry a paste of meal and fresh butter. Upon this she poured the tea and some thick cream, stirred it, and after a time the whole. Was taken off the fire and set aside to cool. Half-pint mugs were handed around and the tea ladled into them: the result, a pasty tea forming meat and drink, satisfying both hunger and thirst.

M. Vámbéry says: "The picture of a newly encamped caravan in the summer months, on the steppes of Central Asia, is a truly interesting one. While the camels in the distance, but still in sight, graze greedily, or crush the juicy thistles, the travellers, even to the poorest among them, sit with their tea-cups in their hands and eagerly sip the costly beverage. It is nothing more than a greenish warm water, innocent of sugar, and often decidedly turbid; still, human art has discovered no food, invented no nectar, which is so grateful, so refreshing, in the desert as this unpretending drink. I have still a vivid recollection of its wonderful effects. As I sipped the first drops, a soft fire filled my veins, a fire which enlivened without intoxicating. The later draughts affected both heart and head; the eye became peculiarly bright and began to glow. In such moments I felt an indescribable rapture and sense of comfort. My companions sunk in sleep; I could keep myself awake and dream with open eyes!"

Tea is the national drink of Russia, and as indispensable an ingredient of the table there as bread or meat. It is taken at all hours of the day and night, and in all the griefs of the Russian he flies to tea and vodka for mental refuge and consolation. Tea is drunk out of tumblers in Russia. In the homes of the wealthy these tumblers are held in silver holders like the sockets that hold our soda-water glasses. These holders are decorated, of course, with the Russian idea of art.

In every Russian town tea-houses flourish. In these public resorts a large glass of tea with plenty of sugar in it is served at what would cost, in our money, about two cents. Tea with lemon is so general that milk with the drink, over there, is considered a fad.

The Russians seem to like beverages that bite--set the teeth on edge, as it were.

The poor in Russia take a lump of sugar in their mouths and let the tea trickle through it. Travelling tea-peddlers, equipped with kettles wrapped up in towels to preserve the heat, and a row of glasses in leather pockets, furnish a glass of hot tea at any hour of the day or night.

The Russian samovar--from the Greek "to boil itself"--is a graceful dome-topped brass urn with a cylinder two or three inches in diameter passing through it from top to bottom. The cylinder is filled with live coals, and keeps the water boiling hot. The Russian tea-pots are porcelain or earthen. Hot water to heat the pot is first put in and then poured out; dry tea is then put in, boiling water poured over it; after which the pot is placed on top of the samovar.

We all know about tea-drinking in England. It is not a very picturesque or interesting occasion, at best. To the traditional Englishman's mind it means simply a quiet evening at home, attended by the papers, and serious conversations in which the head of the house deals out political and domestic wisdom until ten o'clock. During the day, tea-taking begins with breakfast and rounds up on the fashionable thoroughfares in the afternoon. Here one may see the Britishers at their best and worst. These places are called "tea-shops," and in them one may acquire the latest hand-shake, the freshest tea and gossip, see the newest modes and millinery, meet and greet the whirl of the world. An interesting study of types, in contrasts and conditions of society, worth the price of a whole chest of choice tea.

We are pretty prosaic tea-drinkers in America. Is it because there is not enough "touch and go" about the drink, or that we are too busy to settle down to the quiet, comfort, and thoughtful tea-ways of our contemporaries? Wait until a few things are settled; when our kitchen queens do not leave us in the "gray of the morning," and all of our daughters have obtained diplomas in the art and science of gastronomy.

However made or taken, tea at best or worst is a glorious drink. As a stimulant for the tired traveller and weary worker it is unique in its restful, retiring, soothing, and caressing qualities.

THE TEA-TABLETho' all unknown to Greek and Roman song,The paler hyson and the dark souchong,Tho' black nor green the warbled praises shareOf 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, praisedSo high that, cent per cent, its price was raised;Which Pope himself would sometimes condescendTo 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 teaAre sung too well to stand in need of meBy Cowper and the Bard of Rimini;Besides, I hold it as a special graceWhen 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 intrudeOn 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 cheerThe closing day from quiet year to year,I leave to those whom benignant fateOr merit destines to the wedded state.. . .'Tis woman still that makes or mars the man.And so it is, the creature can beguileThe 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 inFraser's Magazine,January, 1857, and ascribed to Hartley Coleridge.

THE TEA-TABLE

Tho' all unknown to Greek and Roman song,The paler hyson and the dark souchong,Tho' black nor green the warbled praises shareOf 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, praisedSo high that, cent per cent, its price was raised;Which Pope himself would sometimes condescendTo 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 teaAre sung too well to stand in need of meBy Cowper and the Bard of Rimini;Besides, I hold it as a special graceWhen 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 intrudeOn 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 cheerThe closing day from quiet year to year,I leave to those whom benignant fateOr merit destines to the wedded state.. . .'Tis woman still that makes or mars the man.And so it is, the creature can beguileThe 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 inFraser'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!"

TheSpectatorand theTatterwere 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 theSpectatorwrote 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, theSpectatorwas 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.

[Illustration: tea07]

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 pagesDedication 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 TEASee 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 FrownAnd 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 TEALet 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 INTRODUCTIONFame 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 PublickHelm 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 BarContend 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 bringMore 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 FaceAnd Shape of Venus, and with equal GraceIn 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 fillThe Shady Grotto, and the Sunny Hill,The Laughing Meadow, and the Talking Rill.Sons of the Muses, would you Charm the PlainsWith 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 aspireTo Catch a Spark of the Celestial FireThat Crowned the Royal Conquest, and could raiseJuverne's Boyn above Scamander's Praise?Drink, drink Inspiring TEA, and boldly drawA Hercules, a Mars, or a NASSAU.THE TEA-TABLEHail, Queen of Plants, Pride of Elysian Bow'rs!How shall we speak thy complicated Pow'rs?Thou Won'drous Panacea to asswageThe 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'rsAnd 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.

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 FrownAnd 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 PublickHelm 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 BarContend 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 bringMore 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 FaceAnd Shape of Venus, and with equal GraceIn 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 fillThe Shady Grotto, and the Sunny Hill,The Laughing Meadow, and the Talking Rill.

Sons of the Muses, would you Charm the PlainsWith 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 aspireTo Catch a Spark of the Celestial FireThat Crowned the Royal Conquest, and could raiseJuverne's Boyn above Scamander's Praise?Drink, drink Inspiring TEA, and boldly drawA 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 asswageThe 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'rsAnd 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 AFFINITYDR. 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."

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 fromennui.

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.

[Illustration: tea08]

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 TEAFrom St. Nicholas, December, 1899.Now Grietje from her window sees the leafless poplars leanAgainst 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.

A CUP OF TEA

From St. Nicholas, December, 1899.

Now Grietje from her window sees the leafless poplars leanAgainst 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.

[Illustration: tea09]

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