TEA AS A STIMULANT.
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."
[Illustration: 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 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."
FOOTNOTES:
[2] "Bowles was in the habit of daily riding through a country
turnpike-gate, and one day he presented his twopence to the gatekeeper
as usual. 'What is that for, sir?' he asked. 'For my horse, of course.'
'But, sir, you have no horse.' 'Dear me!' exclaimed the astonished
poet; 'am I walking?' Mrs. Moore also told me that Bowles gave her a
Bible as a birthday present. She asked him to write her name in it; he
did so, inscribing it to her as a gift--_From the Author_. 'I never,'
said he, 'had but one watch, and I lost it the very first day I wore
it.' Mrs. Bowles whispered to me, 'And if he got another to-day, he
would lose it as quickly.' I met not long ago, near Salisbury, a
gentleman farmer who had been one of his parishioners, and cherished an
affectionate remembrance of the good parson. He told me one story of
him that is worth recording: one day he had a dinner-party; the guests
were kept waiting for the host; his wife went upstairs to see by what
mischance he was delayed. She found him in a sad 'taking,' hunting
everywhere for a silk stocking. After a minute search Mrs. Bowles found
that he had put _the two stockings on one leg_! Once when his own house
was pointed out to him, he could not by any possibility call to mind
who lived there."--_Hall_, "_Book of Memories of Great Men and Women of
the Age_."
[3] "With reference to the tea-drinking, of course there was such
a thing as excess and indigestion--but nobody ever heard of a man
kicking his wife to death because he had drunk tea; and no wife ever
complained of her home being made unhappy through her husband drinking
tea. There was not a judge on the bench who had not borne witness to
the fact that drunkenness was an incentive to crime. When the judges
began to admit that tea-drinking was increasing the criminal statistics
of the country, then Mr. Ford could come forward with his amusing
statement."--_Rev. Dr. Chadwick_, speech at the Diocesan Synod at
Armagh, October 24, 1883.
[4] "As tea did not come into England until 1610, and coffee until
1652, beer or wine was taken at all meals. The queen would only take
beer regularly. Her maids of honour breakfasted, or rather dined, off
meat and beer. Single and double beers were on all tables. In the year
1570 the scholars of Trinity College, Cambridge, consumed 2250 barrels
of beer, as appears from the State Papers of the time. Two tuns of wine
a month were accredited to the suite of Mary Queen of Scots during her
confinement in England."--"_The England of Shakespeare_," by E. Goadby.