Karen Cronick
The custom
of English tea time has been described affectionately in novels and poetry as a
comforting ritual of family and social connection. Its objects, the steaming
kettle, and the table with its china tea-cups have become symbols of both
well-being and good manners. It is a table-ware that can be simply placed in
the kitchen, or more elaborately set out in the dining room.
I’m going
to have a bit of fun with this essay. In fact, more than an essay, it’s a
playground scamp through my storybook memory, and a few new poems I found on
the Internet.[1]
The English
began drinking tea between the XVII and 19th century, just as their island began
to turn into an imperial kingdom. Tea time became a refined domestic ritual. I
will begin, however, with a reference to coffee that they began to drink about
the same time. Coffee houses became places where the intellectuals gathered. These
emporiums became known as "penny universities" because philosophers,
playwriters, novelists, and scientists would meet there and discuss their
ideas. People like Francis Bacon, Thomas Hobbes, John Donne, Isaac Newton would
gather there, their conversations laying the foundations for the Enlightenment.
England was becoming the world’s first modern democracy. It never had a
constitution; it has maintained its monarchy since the tenth century[2],
and its parliamentary government is based on “common law” and tradition.
With time, however,
the English began to prefer tea over coffee. The two beverages are associated
with the idea of “empire” because their grains and leaves became available in
England due to the increasing presence of the English navy on the world’s seas.
International commerce grew, and colonial occupations began.
Although
this essay deals mostly with tea, I will begin with a poetic reference to
coffee, because both coffee and tea became associated with good manners and
genteel social customs.
Coffee was
the most popular at the beginning. It will be fun to begin with Alexander Pope.
He was born at the end of the XVII century. He wrote a satire on the traditions
and the glories of the Greek gods in his poem The Rape of the Lock (MaggieO,
n.d.), He used the style and tradition of classical Greek drama, like the story
of Zeus’ seizure of the princess Europa. In the Greek story, Zeus, the king of the
gods, fell in love with the Phoenician princess Europa. He transformed himself
into a white bull to capture her and carry her away to Crete.
In Pope’s
poem, however, the English Baron Lord Petre only snips a lock of Belinda's
beautiful hair in a living room gathering. It all happens in a genteel
aristocratic salon, satirizing patrician self-importance. Pope’s character, Belinda,
is protected by the sylphs but even so she loses her lock.
There are mock
battles in the poem, but they are really simple afternoon shenanigans, mocked
at one point as a card game (Canto III, Lines 94-98):
And now (as oft in some distemper’d State)
On one nice Trick depends the gen’ral Trick
An Ace of Hearts steps forth : King unseen
Lurk’d in her Hand, and mourn’d his captive
Queen.
He springs to Vengeance with an eager Pace,
And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace.
The cards
are the warriors in this salon battle. In this rarefied society, the
aristocrats deal and shuffle their decks, and eat and drink as though they were
divine creatures. Pope sets his battles in the manor’s parlor where they sip coffee
from warm cups. In this setting, Lord Petre approaches Belinda with his evil
scissors (Canto III. Lines 12-16):
And frequent Cups prolong the rich Repast.
Straight hover round the Fair her Airy Band ;
Some, as she sipp’d, the fuming Liquor fann’d,
Some o’er her Lap their careful Plumes
display’d,
Trembling, and conscious of the rich Brocade.
Coffee (which makes the Politician wise,
And see through all things with his half-shut
Eyes)
Sent up in Vapours to the Baron’s Brain.
He snips
off a lock of her hair and pandemonium ensues.
Then flash’d the living Lightnings from her
Eyes,
And Screams of Horror rend th’ aff righted
Skies.
Not louder Shrieks to pitying Heav’n are cast,
When Husbands, or when Lapdogs breathe their
last,
We can
leave Lord Petre and Belinda here to their comical battles. We have set the
stage for a review of England’s salon life with its beverages and good manners,
and can now concentrate on tea time. It is the beverage of the empire on which
the sun never sets[3].
Edmund Waller’s poem puts tea time directly in Buckingham Palace and its
overseas possessions.
Venus her Myrtle, Phrebus has his bays;
Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to
praise.
The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we owe
To that bold nation, which the way did show
To the fair region where the sun doth rise,
Whose rich productions we so justly prize.
The Muse’s friend, tea does our fancy aid,
Repress those vapours which the head invade,
And keep the palace of the soul serene,
Fit on her birthday to salute the Queen.
Tea-time is
a ritual of good company and delicious things to eat. It isn’t like breakfast
or lunch that are mostly nutritive, rather, it’s a time for cucumber sandwiches,
cakes, biscuits, creams, and, of course tea. Sometimes, a liquor is included
for the adults. It’s mostly a social
encounter such as Rupert Brookes described in the XIX century with his memories of how the people and the
objects come together in one happy, complete ritual:
When you were there, and you, and you,
Happiness crowned the night; I too,
Laughing and looking, one of all,
I watched the quivering lamplight fall
On plate and flowers and pouring tea…
Tea time
can include a whole, ample family and their friends, or it can be just tea-for-two
as in this poem by Marianna Arolin (MaggieO, n.d.).
She combines the kettle and cups of the ceremony with friendship, and they
become parts of the tea-rite. She evokes an almost infantile sensuality of flavors.
My copper kettle
whistles merrily
and signals that
it is time for tea.
The fine china cups
are filled with the brew.
There's lemon and sugar
and sweet cream, too.
But, best of all
there's friendship,
between you and me.
As we lovingly share
our afternoon tea.
Children
anticipate tea time with its flavors and relaxation. A.A. Millne describes this
cheery expectancy with his usual humor:
The king of Peru
(Who was Emperor too)
Had a sort of a rhyme
Which was useful to know,
If he felt very shy
When a stranger came by,
Or they asked him the time
When his watch didn’t go; […]
Or, whenever the Emperor
Got into a temper, or
Felt himself sulky or sad.
He would murmur and murmur,
Until he felt firmer,
This curious rhyme which he had:
Eight eights are sixty-four;
Multiply by seven.
When it’s done,
Carry one,
And take away eleven.
Nine nines are eighty-one;
Multiply by three.
If it’s more,
Carry four,
And then it’s time for tea
Tea time
is also an English morality play for children. King John's Christmas by A.A.
Milne (n.d.) makes this point.
King John was not a good man—
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air— […]
He stayed in every afternoon...
But no one came to tea.
Sometimes
the poets just have tea by themselves, but there is a sense of being
accompanied by the ritual itself. It goes beyond snacking, and we have the
feeling that tea time is a participation even when one is alone, or an
affirmation of English identity, as in this poem by Jessica Nelson North (MaggieO,
n.d.).
I had a little tea party
This afternoon at three.
'Twas very small-
Three guest in all-
Just I, myself and me.
Myself ate all the sandwiches,
While I drank up the tea;
'Twas also I who ate the pie
And passed the cake to me.
It’s a
custom in a defined, self-conscious culture, as Faith Greenbowl (MaggieO, n.d).
describes:
Steam rises from a cup of tea
and we are wrapped in history,
inhaling ancient times and lands,
comfort of ages in our hands.
Poetry for
children is filled with tea-time. This poem by Peter Dixon (MaggieO, n.d.)[4]
is a fantasy about children’s language and thinking. It has a sharp twist at
the end when the child realizes that a tea-bag can only be used once.
l'd like to be a teabag,
And stay at home all day -
And talk to other teabags
In a teabag sort of way . . .
l'd love to be a teabag;
And lie in a little box -
And never have to wash my face
Or change my dirty socks . . .
l'd like to be a teabag,
An Earl Grey one perhaps,
And doze all day and lie around
With Earl Grey kind of chaps.
l wouldn't have to do a thing,
No homework, jobs or chores -
Comfy in my caddy
Of teabags and their snores.
l wouldn't have to do exams
l needn't tidy rooms,
Or sweep the floor or feed the cat
Or wash up all the spoons.
l wouldn't have to do a thing,
A life of bliss - you see . . .
Except that once in all my life
I`d make a cup of tea!
Tea
drinkers may have fastidious tastes. In his poem, Snow Water, Michael Longley
(Bogart, 2015) describes how he prefers particular kinds of tea, and not
any-old water to brew it in.
A fastidious brewer of tea, a tea
Connoisseur as well as a poet,
I modestly request on my sixtieth
Birthday a gift of snow water.
Tea steam and ink stains. Single-
Mindedly I scald my teapot and
Measure out some Silver Needles Tea,
Enough for a second steeping.
Tea-time,
being a cozy custom and an identity vehicle, must still be enmeshed in the warp
and woof of the existential waverings of ordinary people. T.S. Eliot
(n.d.) has captured how hard it is to
say what one feels, and has connected this with the banal comings and goings
like tea-time and mannered encounters in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
[…] And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so
peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its
crisis? ….
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and
me,
Would it have been worthwhile, ….?
Tea time
is to be taken seriously even if it’s a casual custom and a marker of the time
of day. One doesn’t dress up for it, but one longs for it. It is a backdrop and
a stage for everything else. It helps to define the English, and reminds them
that they once ruled the waves.
THE
COMPLETE POEMS:
Rupert Brooke’s Dining-Room Tea
When you
were there, and you, and you,
Happiness crowned the night; I too,
Laughing and looking, one of all,
I watched the quivering lamplight fall
On plate and flowers and pouring tea
And cup and cloth; and they and we
Flung all the dancing moments by
With jest and glitter. Lip and eye
Flashed on the glory, shone and cried,
Improvident, unmemoried;
And fitfully and like a flame
The light of laughter went and came.
Proud in their careless transience moved
The changing faces that I loved.
Till suddenly, and otherwhence,
I looked upon your innocence.
For lifted clear and still and strange
From the dark woven flow of change
Under a vast and starless sky
I saw the immortal moment lie.
One Instant I, an instant, knew
As God knows all. And it and you
I, above Time, oh, blind! could see
In witless immortality.
I saw the marble cup; the tea,
Hung on the air, an amber stream;
I saw the fire’s unglittering gleam,
The painted flame, the frozen smoke.
No more the flooding lamplight broke
On flying eyes and lips and hair;
But lay, but slept unbroken there,
On stiller flesh, and body breathless,
And lips and laughter stayed and deathless,
And words on which no silence grew.
Light was more alive than you.
For suddenly, and otherwhence,
I looked on your magnificence.
I saw the stillness and the light,
And you, august, immortal, white,
Holy and strange; and every glint
Posture and jest and thought and tint
Freed from the mask of transiency,
Triumphant in eternity,
Immote, immortal.
Dazed at length
Human eyes grew, mortal strength
Wearied; and Time began to creep.
Change closed about me like a sleep.
Light glinted on the eyes I loved.
The cup was filled. The bodies moved.
The drifting petal came to ground.
The laughter chimed its perfect round.
The broken syllable was ended.
And I, so certain and so friended,
How could I cloud, or how distress,
The heaven of your unconsciousness?
Or shake at Time’s sufficient spell,
Stammering of lights unutterable?
The eternal holiness of you,
The timeless end, you never knew,
The peace that lay, the light that shone.
You never knew that I had gone
A million miles away, and stayed
A million years. The laughter played
Unbroken round me; and the jest
Flashed on. And we that knew the best
Down wonderful hours grew happier yet.
I sang at heart, and talked, and eat,
And lived from laugh to laugh, I too,
When you were there, and you, and you.
Edmund Waller’s poem:
Venus her Myrtle, Phrebus has his bays;
Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to
praise.
The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we owe
To that bold nation, which the way did show
To the fair region where the sun doth rise,
Whose rich productions we so justly prize.
The Muse’s friend, tea does our fancy aid,
Repress those vapours which the head invade,
And keep the palace of the soul serene,
Fit on her birthday to salute the Queen.
KING JOHN'S CHRISTMAS by A.A. Milne (n.d.)
King John was not a good man—
He had his little ways.
And sometimes no one spoke to him
For days and days and days.
And men who came across him,
When walking in the town,
Gave him a supercilious stare,
Or passed with noses in the air—
And bad King John stood dumbly there,
Blushing beneath his crown.
King John was not a good man,
And no good friends had he.
He stayed in every afternoon...
But no one came to tea.
And, round about December,
The cards upon his shelf
Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,
And fortune in the coming year,
Were never from his near and dear,
But only from himself.
Snow Water, by Michael Longley (Bogart, 2015)
A fastidious brewer of tea, a tea
Connoisseur as well as a poet,
I modestly request on my sixtieth
Birthday a gift of snow water.
Tea steam and ink stains. Single-
Mindedly I scald my teapot and
Measure out some Silver Needles Tea,
Enough for a second steeping.
Other
favourites include Clear
Distance
and Eyebrows of Longevity
Or, from
the precarious mountain peaks,
Cloud Mist
Tea (quite delectable)
Which
competent monkeys’ harvest
Filling
their baskets with choice leaves
And
bringing them down to where I wait
With my
crock of snow water.
My
copper kettle by Marianna Arolin (MaggieO, 2008)
My copper kettle
whistles merrily
and signals that
it is time for tea.
The fine china cups
are filled with the brew.
There's lemon and sugar
and sweet cream, too.
But, best of all
there's friendship, between you and
me.
As we lovingly share
our afternoon tea.
From AA
Millne: The King of Peru
(Who was Emperor too)
Had a sort of a rhyme
Which was useful to know,
If he felt very shy
When a stranger came by,
Or they asked him the time
When his watch didn’t go;
Or supposing he fell
(By mistake) down a well,
Or he tumbled when skating
And sat on his hat,
Or perhaps wasn’t told,
Till his porridge was cold,
That his breakfast was waiting
Or something like that;
Oh, whenever the Emperor
Got into a temper, or
Felt himself sulky or sad.
He would murmur and murmur,
Until he felt firmer,
This curious rhyme which he had:
Eight eights are sixty-four;
Multiply by seven.
When it’s done,
Carry one,
And take away eleven.
Nine nines are eighty-one;
Multiply by three.
If it’s more,
Carry four,
And then it’s time for tea
[2] The first king considered to be a monarch of all England was Athelstan (or Æthelstan), who consolidated the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms the beginning of the tenth century. He was crowned in 925. William the Conqueror was crowned as the first Norman king in 1066.
[3] The phrase "the empire on which the sun never sets" has described the British Empire because it was so big that some part of it was always in daylight. This phrase has also referred to the Spanish Empire in the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. Originally it described the Roman and Persian empires.
[4] I'd Like to be a Teabag from I'd Like to be a Teabag and other Poems. BBC Books
References
Bogart, Julie
(2015, March 31). Blog: A brave writer’s
life in brief. https://blog.bravewriter.com/2015/03/31/tuesday-teatime-a-poem-for-tea/
Brooke,
Rupert (n.d.). Dining room tea. All Poetry.
https://allpoetry.com/Dining-Room-Tea.
Eliot, T.S. (n.d.). The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. The Poetry Foundation. (T. S. Eliot,
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" from Collected Poems 1909-1962
by T.S. Eliot). https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock
MaggieO
(2008, June 20). Tea poems. Library Thing. https://www.librarything.com/topic/39088
Millne,
A.A. (1927/n.d.) Now we are six. A project Gutenberg eBook.
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/70516/70516-h/70516-h.htm
Pope,
Alexander (1896/2004). The rape of the lock. Sovereign Sanctuary Press.
http://93beast.fea.st.user.fm/files/section2/The%20Rape%20of%20the%20Lock.pdf
Richardson,
Bruce (n.d.). The First English Poem on Tea. Blog: The tea master’s blog. https://www.bostonteapartyship.com/tea-blog/first-english-poem-tea
