A Tea Reader (3 page)

The Spectator on Tea

A
UTHOR
U
NKNOWN

Excerpted from an essay in
The Outlook
magazine,
January 19, 1907.

¹
The Spectator confesses to an unmanly weakness for tea. Not the tea of the drawing-room, be it understood, that implies social amenities and an acrobatic style of chit-chat for which the Spectator has no sort of genius. What he wants when he is jaded, body, soul, and spirit—when the day is glowering into the unsympathetic twilight of early winter, and he has before him the long journey into Suburbia—is the soothing effect of the fragrant cup sipped solitary, or with only a good companion who knows the mercy of silence. If his office were only in London, now, he could despatch the office-boy to the nearest “A.B.C.”
²
for a steaming pot, a plate of paper-thin bread and butter, jam, and perhaps a buttered scone. Imagine the result should he send the
Outlook
's Billy, or James, or Jonathan on such an errand! What is there disgraceful about tea? The Spectator supposes that he could step out and get a cocktail without forfeiting the office-boy's respect. But he doesn't like cocktails. They fret him instead of soothing. Indeed, there are times when he fancies that the nervous tension of New York business life is founded upon the cocktail, and that if we could substitute the English teacup we should accomplish as much and wear out less rapidly.

Perhaps the tea-table of the drawing room is the entering wedge. Mrs. Spectator reports a growing tendency among the men who drop in of an afternoon to look upon the tea she offers as something more than a compliment well meant but embarrassing. But we have by no means come to realize the full value of the Boon of the Orient. The Spectator had this forcibly borne in upon him not long ago when business called him to the little town of Peabody, Massachusetts, a suburb of Salem. The afternoon was chill and gloomy with fine rain. Trains are sixty minutes apart at the little Peabody station, and the Spectator's business detained him so that he caught just a glimpse of the departing four o'clock express. Fresh from an English summer, he at once be-thought him of consolation to be found in some cozy tearoom where the hour might be idled away pleasantly enough. A glance up and down the dull little street banished abruptly his dream of consuming toothsome cakes by the glow of a leaping fire. This was not England. Still, the Spectator fancied the automobile might have developed some nice private refectory where he might stay the cravings of the inner man. He inquired, “A tearoom? Oh yes. There was Banning's, with the blue sign.” The Spectator sought out Banning's. But alas for his comfortable anticipations! A fly specked window coldly warned him. Inside a dingy, two-by-twice shop, dense with the odors of untold successions of ill-cooked meals, was a bald lunch counter set forth with slabs of unspeakable leaden pie. A tearoom indeed!

The Spectator ultimately discovered little cakes of bakerish suggestion at a confectioner's, and beef-tea at a soda fountain. But as he sat bolt upright on a revolving stool and consumed the hot and so far comforting beverage, he could not help thinking how much the poetry of the exercise was dissipated by the surrounding drugs and nostrums, nor how cozily the kettle simmers, for native and stranger alike, in a thousand bright, clean little shops scattered through the tiniest villages of Old England.

For the matter of that, it's not in shops alone that you find the cheering cup. Does it not invite you, hot and fragrant, at the very door of your railway compartment every time the train stops? Do not the coaches upon the post-roads of Devon, Cornwall, and, for aught the Spectator knows, the Lakes, draw up at tea time at some posting-house that the passengers may perform the graceful rite without which no English day is complete? The Spectator will not soon forget an October drive from Porlock over moor and forelands to Lynton. The hunt was out, the posting stations noisy with riders dashing in for fresh mounts, the whole countryside thrilling with the music of the horns. From all this heartening bustle the coach climbed up to the solitude of the moors. The sun dropped into a deep bank of cloud, a “nipping and eager air” awoke on the moor, and the Spectator began to find himself, as the guard said, “perishin' cold.” It was after hours of brisk cantering over the long, red Devonshire road, when the Spectator's blood was congealing in his veins, that the coach drew up at a crossroads. And there, apparently miles from any house, sat a little old woman nursing a tea-tray! Off came a deep-padded cozy, and wreaths of beneficent steam began to rise on the frosty air. Nobody asked the Spectator whether he would have a cup of tea, and as he was perched on the highest seat of all, and the ladder was not forthcoming, he began to despair of getting any, when the guard came clambering up, dexterously balancing a full cup. And even now he did not ask if the Spectator would take it, merely demanding sixpence as if it were part of the road-fare. From his point of view it would have been as incomprehensible that a sane man should refuse tea as that he should profess to scorn bed and breakfast. Never shall the Spectator forget the genial glow that pervaded his whole being as he plied himself with bread and butter and piping-hot tea, nor the doze of dreamy contentment in which he passed the remainder of the drive until the lights of Lynton appeared, gleaming like a swarm of fireflies on the shoulder of the cliff. He thought then that he understood the cult of the tea leaf.

But he had still something to learn. A week or two later he and Mrs. Spectator attempted to travel to the little town of Broadway. At Eve-sham they were stayed by the absence of any sort of conveyance except a funereal-looking carrier's cart, the electric train having departed a few minutes before. They set out, therefore, to trudge the six miles afoot. The way was lovely enough, the placid Warwickshire country swimming in the golden afternoon light. But the way was long. Mrs. Spectator's courage failed her when Broadway was yet three miles away, and down she sat her, with an air of hopeless exhaustion, on the long grass beside the road. “Mr. Spectator,” she gasped, “I would sell my soul for a cup of tea!” The words were scarcely out of her mouth when her jaw fell. She looked as if she had seen a ghost. Then she began to laugh hysterically. “Is it”—she pointed with a shaky finger—“is it
real
?
” The Spectator looked behind him. Tiptoeing across the road came two little English girls in pinafores, bearing—yes, it
was
real—bearing cups of smoking tea. “Mother said,” began the elder, shyly, “would you like some tea? She was just pouring hers, and she thought you looked tired.” Mrs. Spectator declares that hereafter, whenever the tea craving seizes her, she shall simply recline upon the landscape and tea will be brought to her. So much for the humanizing influence of the cult....

When the Spectator wants to dine out and enjoy the full luxury of the experience, it is rarely to an American hotel or restaurant that he goes. The little foreign cafés, these provide brisk service when service is wanted, and complete obliviousness when it is not. The Spectator knows a little French place in Boston where this principle is understood to perfection. You may dine at six and smoke till ten, and not a waiter will cast an envious eye upon your table. It is this that as a nation we must learn—the fine art of idleness. It is for this reason that he advocates the teakettle in the counting-room, and inscribes upon his banners those memorable words of Colley Cibber's:
³
“
Tea!
thou soft, thou sober, sage, and venerable liquid, smile-smoothing, heart-opening cordial, to whose glorious insipidity I owe the happiest moments of my life, let me fall prostrate!”

1
[Certain British spellings have been amended. Ed.]

2
A.B.C. is Aerated Bread Company. In 1864, A.B.C. opened the U.K.'s first tearoom.

3
Colley Cibber (1671–1755) was an English playwright and Poet Laureate.

A Poem in Praise of Tea

BY
P
ETER
A
NTHONY
M
OTTEUX

Excerpted from its namesake, originally published in London in 1712
.
¹

Last Night my Hours on Friendship I bestow'd,

And Wine and Mirth a while profusely flow'd.

Soon as some Beauty's Health had walk'd the Round,

Another's Health succeeding Glasses crown'd.

But while these Arts to raise our Joys we use,

Our Mirth, our Friends, and ev'n ourselves we lose.

‘Tis vain in Wine to seek a solid Joy;

All fierce Enjoyments soon themselves destroy,

Wine fires the Fancy to a dangerous height,

With smokey Flame, and with cloudy Light.

From its Excess ev'n Wisdom's self grows mad;

For an Excess of Good itself is bad.

All Reason's in a Storm, no Light, nor Skies,

But the Red Ocean rolls before our Eyes.

Unhappy State! the Chaos of the Brain,

The Soul's Eclipse, and Exile of the Man.

From boist'rous Wine I fled to gentle Tea;

For, Calms compose us after Storms at Sea.

In vain wou'd Coffee boast an equal Good;

The Crystal Stream transcends the flowing Mud.

Tea ev'n the Ills from Coffee sprung repairs,

Disclaims its Vices, and its Virtue shares.

To bless me with the Juice two Foes conspire,

The clearest Water with the purest Fire....

...I drink, and lo the kindly Steams arise,

Wine's Vapor flags, and soon subsides and dies.

The friendly Spirits brighten mine again,

Repel the Brute, and re-inthrone the Man.

The rising Charmer with a pleasing Ray

Dawns on the Mind, and introduces Day.

So its bright Parent with prevailing Light,

Recalls Distinction, and displaces Night.

At other times the wakeful Leaf disdains

To leave the Mind entranc'd in drowsy Chains.

But now with all the Night's Fatigue opprest,

‘Tis reconcil'd to Sleep, and yields me up to Rest.

Hail, Drink of Life! how justly shou'd our Lyres

Resound the Praises which thy Pow'r inspires!

Blest Juice, assist, while I the Vision draw

Which then in Sleep with inward Eyes I saw!
²

Thy Charms alone can equal Thoughts infuse:

Be thou my Theme, my Nectar, and my Muse.

I saw the Gods and Goddesses above,

Profusely feasting with Imperial
Jove
.

The Banquet done, swift round the Nectar flew,

All Heav'n was warm'd, and
Bacchus
boist'rous grew.

Fair
Hebe
then the grateful Tea prepares,

Which to the feasting Goddesses she bears.

The Heav'nly Guests advance with eager haste;

They gaze, they smell, they drink, and bless the Taste.

Refresh'd and Charm'd, while thus employ'd they fit,

More bright their Looks, and more Divine their Wit;

At large each Goddess pleasing Censures flung.

For, ev'n above, the Sex will, right or wrong,

Enjoy their dear Prerogative of Tongue.

The drunken God, long courted, tastes at length:

Then swears the Liquor's damn'd for want of Strength.

How low, cried he, in quaffing are we sunk!

Will Stuff like this make Gods or Mortals drunk?

‘Twixt this and Wine how mighty are the odds!

Wine makes us drunk, and something more than Gods.

Rais'd with that Nectar o'er the Skies I rove,

And only to be drunk is to be
Jove
.

Now raving
Bacchus
,
reeling to his Place,

Crowns his Assertion with an ample Glass;

And
Hebe
then replies with modest Grace.

Immortal Pow'rs of Heav'n, and Earth, and Sea,

Permit Youth's Goddess to defend her Tea.

What Food, what Drink a Taste deprav'd can please,

Averse to Cure, and fond of its Disease!

The purest Air gross Mortals ne'er befriends,

And Heav'n itself cannot be Heav'n to Fiends.

Thus kindly Tea perhaps insipid seems

To Sense debauch'd by Wine's seducing Steams;

But sure, where-e'er these lov'd Abuses fail,

Tea, Temperance and Reason will prevail.

Wine proves most fatal when it most invites,

Tea most is healthful when it most delights.

Wine conquers Man with its pernicious Fumes,

Tea conquers Wine, tho' Wine the Man o'ercomes.

Wine but inflames the Brain it wou'd inspire,

Tea gives the Light, and yet excludes the Fire.

Relieve me, God of Physic, and of Lays,

And reach a Theme superior to my Praise.

Here
Hebe
ceas'd: The Thund'rer
³
with a Nod,

Bespeaks Assent of the Melodious God.

Tell, Muse, for sure no Mortal can rehearse

The hallow'd Utt'rance of the God of Verse;

Tell how of Tea the great Physician sung!

Words like his Theme flow'd sweetly from his Tongue.

At once the God two Attributes reveal'd,

His Sense enlighten'd, and his Numbers heal'd.

He sung of Rage, by Harmony controll'd,

And manly Clay with living Fire infoul'd.

Of Arts devis'd, of Plants for Wonders prais'd,

And Tea, whose Fame shoul'd o'er all Plants be rais'd.

None, says the God, shall with that Tree compare;

Health, Vigor, Pleasure bloom forever there;

Sense for the Learn'd, and Beauty for the Fair.

Tea both imparts: For, while it cheers the Mind,

Her Seat's refresh'd, and ev'ry Charm refin'd,

The Eyes, the Judgment with authentic Light

Receive their Objects, and distinguish right.

Bright are the Sallies of the rising Thought,

Sublime the Flights, yet regularly wrought.

Hence, then, ye Plants, that challeng'd once our Praise,

The Oak, the Vine, the Olive, and the Bays.

No more let Roses
Flora's
Brows adorn,

Nor
Ceres
boast her golden Ears of Corn.

The Queen of Love her Myrtles shall despise;

Tea claims at once the Beauteous and the Wise.

Think of the Rose, that inoffensive Sweet,

Of fragrant Gums, the Brain's luxurious Treat;

Or kinder Odors which in verdant Fields,

When newly cropped, the grassy Harvest yields.

Think ev'ry grateful Smell diffus'd in one,

And in Imperial Tea find all their Charms out-done.

Tea, Heav'ns Delight, and Nature's truest Wealth,

That pleasing Physic, and sure Pledge of Health:

The Statesman's Counselor, the Virgin's Love,

The Muse's
Nectar
,
and the Drink of
Jove
....

*****

...Soon as the Day in Orient Climes is born,

The wife
Chinese
with Tea salute the Morn.

And as my Beams, their Vigor to renew,

Sport in the Waves, and drink their Morning Dew,

So there each rising Nymph with Tea supplies

The intermitted Luster of her Eyes.

Serene and lovely as the new-born Ray,

Afresh they dazzle, and augment the Day.

Tea first in China did all Arts improve,

And, like my Light, still Westward thence they move.

Well might all Nations be by those out-done

Who first enjoy'd that Nectar and the Sun....

*****

...There, Chemists, there your Grand Elixir see,

The
Panacea
you should boast is Tea.

There, Sons of Art, your Wishes doubled find,

Tea cures at once the Body and the Mind:

Chaste, yet not cold; and sprightly, yet not wild;

Tho' gentle, strong, and tho' compulsive, mild:

Fond Nature's Paradox, that cools and warms,

Cheers without Sleep, and, tho' a Med'cine, charms.

Ye Sages, who, with weighty Notions fraught,

Tho' doz'd with Study, woul'd persist in Thought,

When the Lamp sickens, and the Moon-beams faint,

And trembling Sight obeys but with Constraint,

You know ‘tis Tea whose Pow'r new Strength allows,

And drives the Slumbers from your yielding Brows;

Night's conquer'd, and the weary Stars retire,

Yet still the Mind preserves her active Fire....

*****

...Immortals, hear, said
Jove
,
and cease to jar!

Tea must succeed to Wine, as Peace to War;

Nor by the Grape let Men be set at odds,

But share in Tea, the Nectar of the Gods.

1
[Certain British spellings have been amended. Ed.]

2
Motteux is about to describe a dream he had after drinking tea. It involves Jove, King of the gods and the god of thunder in Roman mythology; Hebe, the daughter of Zeus and Hera in Greek mythology who served as cupbearer on Mount Olympus; and “the drunken God” Bacchus.

3
“The Thund'rer” refers again to Jove, the god of the sky and thunder, who takes up Hebe's defense of tea.