"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."
Whatever objections can be urged against all other systems of
entertaining, including the expense, the bore it is to a gentleman to
have his house turned inside out, the fatigue to the lady, the
disorganization of domestic service, nothing can be said against
afternoon tea, unless that it may lead to a new disease, the _delirium
teamens_. There is danger to nervous women in our climate in too great
indulgence in this delicious beverage. It sometimes murders sleep and
impairs digestion. We cannot claim that it is always safer than opium.
It was very much abused in England in 1678, ten years after Lords
Arlington and Ossory brought it over from the meditative Dutchman, who
was the first European to appreciate it. It was then called a "black
water with an acrid taste." It cost, however, in England sixty
shillings a pound, so that it must have been fashionable. Pepys in his
diary records that he sent for a cup of tea, a "China drink which he
had not used before." He did not like it, but then he did not like the
"Midsummer Night's Dream." "The most insipid, ridiculous play I ever
saw in my life," he writes; so we do not care what he thought about a
blessed cup of tea.
In the middle of the sixteenth century, with pasties and ale for
breakfast, with sugared cakes and spiced wines at various hours of the
day, with solid "noonings," and suppers with strong potations of sack
and such possets as were the ordinary refreshments, it is not probable
that tea would have been appreciated. The Dutch were crafty, however;
they saw that there was a common need of a hot, rather stimulating
beverage, which had no intoxicating effects. They exported sage enough
to pay for the tea, and got the better of even the wily Chinaman, who
avowed some time after, in their trade with America, "That spent
tea-leaves, dried again, were good enough for second-chop Englishmen."
Jonas Haunay wrote a treatise against tea-drinking in Johnson's time,
and that vast, insatiable, and shameless tea-drinker took up the
cudgels for tea, settling it as a brain-inspirer for all time, and
wrote Rasselas on the strength of it. Cobbett wrote against its use by
the labouring classes, and the "Edinburgh Review" endorsed his
arguments, stating that a "prohibition absolute and uncompromising of
the noxious beverage was the first step toward insuring health and
strength for the poor," and asserting that when a labourer fancied
himself refreshed with a mess of this stuff, sweetened with the
coarsest brown sugar and diluted by azure-blue milk, it was only the
warmth of the water which consoled him for the moment. Cobbett claimed
that the tea-table cost more to support than would keep two children
at nurse.
The "Quarterly Review" in an article written perhaps by the most
famous chemist of the day, said, however, that "tea relieves the pains
of hunger rather by mechanical distention than by supplying the waste
of nature by adequate sustenance," but claimed for it the power of
calm, placid, and benignant exhilaration, greatly stimulating the
stomach, when fatigued by digestive exertion, and acting as an
appropriate diluent of the chyle. More recent inquiries into the
qualities of the peculiar power of tea have tended to raise it in
popular esteem, although no one has satisfactorily explained _why_ it
has become so universally necessary to the human race.
An agreeable little book called "The Beverages We Indulge In," "The
Herbs Which We Infuse," or some such title, had a great deal to do
with the adoption of tea as a drink for young men who were training
for a boat-race, or who desired to economize their strength for a
mountain climb. But every one, from the tired washerwoman to the
student, the wrestler, the fine lady, and the strong man, demands a
cup of tea.
To the invalid it is the dearest solace, dangerous though it may be.
Tannin, the astringent element in tea, is bad for delicate stomachs
and seems to ruin appetite. Tea, therefore, should never be allowed to
stand. Hot water poured on the leaves and poured off into a cup can
hardly afford the tannin time to get out. Some tea-drinkers even put
the grounds in a silver ball, perforated, and swing this through a cup
of boiling water, and in this way is produced the most delicate cup of
tea.
The famous Chinese lyric which is painted on almost all the teapots of
the Empire is highly poetical. "On a slow fire set a tripod; fill it
with clear rain-water. Boil it as long as it would be needed to turn
fish white and lobsters red. Throw this upon the delicate leaves of
choice tea; let it remain as long as the vapour rises in a cloud. At
your ease drink the pure liquor, which will chase away the five causes
of trouble."
The "tea of the cells of the Dragons," the purest Pekoe from the
leaf-buds of three-year-old plants, no one ever sees in Europe; but we
have secured many brands of tea which are sufficiently good, and the
famous Indian tea brought in by the great Exposition in Paris in 1889
is fast gaining an enviable reputation. It has a perfect bouquet and
flavour. Green tea, beloved by our grandmothers and still a favourite
with some connoisseurs, has proved to have so much theine, the element
of intoxication in tea, that it is forbidden to nervous people. Tea
saves food by its action in preventing various wastes to the system.
It is thus peculiarly acceptable to elderly persons, and to the tired
labouring-woman. Doubtless Mrs. Gamp's famous teapot with which she
entertained Betsy Prig contained green tea.
There is an unusually large amount of nitrogen in theine, and green
tea possesses so large a proportion of it as to be positively
dangerous. In the process of drying and roasting, this volatile oil is
engendered. The Chinese dare not use it for a year after the leaf has
been prepared, and the packer and unpacker of the tea suffer much from
paralysis. The tasters of tea become frequently great invalids, unable
to eat; therefore our favourite herb has its dangers.
More consoling is the legend of the origin of the plant. A drowsy
hermit, after long wrestling with sleep, cut off his eyelids and cast
them on the ground. From them sprang a shrub whose leaves, shaped like
eyelids and bordered with a fringe of lashes, possessed the power of
warding off sleep. This was in the third century, and the plant was
tea.
But what has all this to do with that pleasant visage of a steaming
kettle boiling over a blazing alcohol lamp, the silver tea-caddy, the
padded cozy to keep the teapot warm, the basket of cake, the thin
bread and butter, the pretty girl presiding over the cups, the
delicate china, the more delicate infusion? All these elements go to
make up the afternoon tea. From one or two ladies who stayed at home
one day in the week and offered this refreshment, to the many who came
to find that it was a very easy method of entertaining, grew the
present party in the daytime. The original five o'clock tea arose in
England from the fact that ladies and gentlemen after hunting required
some slight refreshment before dressing for dinner, and liked to meet
for a little chat. It now is used as the method of introducing a
daughter, and an ordinary way of entertaining.
The primal idea was a good one. People who had no money for grand
spreads were enabled to show to their more opulent neighbours that
they too had the spirit of hospitality. The doctors discovered that
tea was healthy. English breakfast tea would keep nobody awake. The
cup of tea and the sandwich at five would spoil nobody's dinner. The
ladies who began these entertainments, receiving modestly in plain
dresses, were not out of tone with their guests who came in
walking-dress.
But then the other side was this,--ladies had to go to nine teas of an
afternoon, perhaps taste something everywhere. Hence the new disease,
_delirium teamens_. It was uncomfortable to assist at a large party in
a heavy winter garment of velvet and fur. The afternoon tea lost its
primitive character and became an evening party in the daytime, with
the hostess and her daughters in full dress, and her guests in
walking-costume.
The sipping of so much tea produces the nervous prostration, the
sleeplessness, the nameless misery of our overwrought women; and thus
a healthful, inexpensive and most agreeable adjunct to the art of
entertaining grew into a thing without a name, and became the large,
gas-lighted ball at five o'clock, where half the ladies were in
_decolleté_ dresses, the others in fur tippets. It was pronounced a
breeder of influenzas, and the high road to a headache.
If a lady can be at home every Thursday during the season, and always
at her position behind the blazing urn, and will have the firmness to
continue this practice, she may create a _salon_ out of her teacups.
In giving a large afternoon tea for which cards have been sent out,
the hostess should stand by the drawing-room door and greet each
guest, who, after a few words, passes on. In the adjoining room,
usually the dining-room, a large table is spread with a white cloth;
and at one end is a tea service with a kettle of water boiling over an
alcohol lamp, while at the other end is a service for chocolate. There
should be flowers on the table, and dishes containing bread and butter
cut as thin as a shaving. Cake and strawberries are always
permissible. One or two servants should be in attendance to carry away
soiled cups and saucers, and to keep the table looking fresh; but for
the pouring of the tea and chocolate there should always be a lady,
who like the hostess should wear a gown closed to the throat; for
nothing is worse form now-a-days than full dress before dinner. The
ladies of the house should not wear bonnets.
When tea is served every afternoon at five o'clock, whether or no
there are visitors, as is often the case in many houses, the
servant--who, if a woman, should always in the afternoon wear a plain
black gown, with a white cap and apron--should place a small, low
table before the lady of the house, and lay over it a pretty white
cloth. She should then bring in a large tray, upon which are the tea
service, and a plate of bread and butter, or cake, or both, place it
upon the table, and retire,--remaining within call, though out of
sight, in case she should be needed. The best rule for making tea is
the old-fashioned one: "one teaspoonful for each person and one for
the pot." The pot should first be rinsed with hot water, then the tea
put in, and upon it should be poured enough water, actually boiling,
to cover the leaves. This decoction should stand for five minutes,
then fill up the pot with more boiling water, and pour it immediately.
Some persons prefer lemon in their tea to cream, and it is a good plan
to have some thin slices, cut for the purpose, placed in a pretty
little dish on the tray. A bowl of cracked ice is also a pleasant
addition in summer, iced tea being a most refreshing drink in hot
weather. Neither plates nor napkins need appear at this informal and
cosey meal. A guest arriving at this time in the afternoon should
always be offered a cup of tea.
Afternoon tea, in small cities or in the country, in villages and
academic towns, can well be made a most agreeable and ideal
entertainment, for the official presentation of a daughter or for the
means of seeing one's friends. In the busy winter season of a large
city it should not be made the excuse for giving up the evening party,
or the dinner, lunch, or ball. It is not all these, it is simply
itself, and it should be a refuge for those women who are tired of
balls, of over dressing, dancing, visiting, and shopping. It is also
very dear to the young who find the convenient tea-table a good arena
for flirtation. It is a form of entertainment which allows one to
dispense with etiquette and to save time.
Five-o'clock teas should be true to their name, nor should any other
refreshment be offered than tea, bread and butter, and little cakes.
If other eatables are offered the tea becomes a reception.
There is a high tea which takes the place of dinner on Sunday evenings
in cities, which is a very pretty entertainment; in small rural
cities, in the country, they take the place of dinners. They were
formerly very fashionable in Philadelphia. It gave an opportunity to
offer hot rolls and butter, escalloped oysters, fried chicken,
delicately sliced cold ham, waffles and hot cakes, preserves--alas!
since the days of canning, who offers the delicious preserves of the
past? The hostess sits behind her silver urn and pours the hot tea or
coffee or chocolate, and presses the guest to take another waffle. It
is a delightful meal, and has no prototype in any country but our own.
It is doubtful, however, whether the high tea will ever be popular in
America, in large cities at least, where the custom of seven-o'clock
dinners prevails. People find in them a violent change of living,
which is always a challenge to indigestion. Some wit has said that he
always liked to eat hot mince-pie just before he went to bed, for then
he always knew what hurt him. If anyone wishes to know what hurts him,
he can take high tea on Sunday evening, after having dined all the
week at seven o'clock. A pain in his chest will tell him that the hot
waffle, the cold tongue, the peach preserve, and that "last cup of
tea" meant mischief.
Oliver Cromwell is said to have been an early tea-drinker; so is Queen
Elizabeth,--elaborate old teapots are sold in London with the cipher
of both; but the report lacks confirmation. We cannot imagine Oliver
drinking anything but verjuice, nor the lion woman as sipping anything
less strong than brown stout. Literature owes much to tea. From Cowper
to Austin Dobson, the poets have had their fling at it. And what could
the modern English novelist do without it? It has been in politics, as
all remember who have seen Boston Harbor, and it goes into all the
battles, and climbs Mt. Blanc and the Matterhorn. The French, who
despised it, are beginning to make a good cup of tea, and Russia
bathes in it. The Samovar cheers the long journeys across those dreary
steppes, and forms again the most luxurious ornament of the palace. On
all the high roads of Europe one can get a cup of tea, except in
Spain. There it is next to impossible; the universal chocolate
supersedes it. If one gets a cup of tea in Spain, there is no cream to
put in it; and to many tea drinkers, tea is ruined without milk or
cream.
In fact, the poor tea drinker is hard to please anywhere. There are to
the critic only one or two houses of one's acquaintance where five
o'clock tea is perfect.