All About Coffee Part 103

Cowper refers to coffee but once in his writings. In his _Pity for Poor Africans_ he expresses himself as "shocked at the ignorance of slaves":

I pity them greatly, but I must be mum For how could we do without sugar and rum?

Especially sugar, so needful we see; What! Give up our desserts, our coffee and tea?

thus contenting himself, like many others, with words of pity where more active protest might sacrifice his personal ease and comfort.

Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), and John Keats (1795-1834), were wors.h.i.+ppers at the shrine of coffee; while Charles Lamb, famous poet, essayist, humorist, and critic, has celebrated in verse the exploit of Captain de Clieu in the following delightful verses:

THE COFFEE SLIPS

Whene'er I fragrant coffee drink, I on the generous Frenchman think, Whose n.o.ble perseverance bore The tree to Martinico's sh.o.r.e.

While yet her colony was new, Her island products but a few; Two shoots from off a coffee tree He carried with him o'er the sea.

Each little tender coffee slip He waters daily in the s.h.i.+p.

And as he tends his embryo trees.

Feels he is raising 'midst the seas Coffee groves, whose ample shade Shall screen the dark Creolian maid.

But soon, alas! His darling pleasure In watching this his precious treasure Is like to fade--for water fails On board the s.h.i.+p in which he sails.

Now all the reservoirs are shut.

The crew on short allowance put; So small a drop is each man's share.

Few leavings you may think there are To water these poor coffee plants-- But he supplies their grasping wants, Even from his own dry parched lips He spares it for his coffee slips.

Water he gives his nurslings first, Ere he allays his own deep thirst, Lest, if he first the water sip, He bear too far his eager lip.

He sees them droop for want of more; Yet when they reach the destined sh.o.r.e, With pride the heroic gardener sees A living sap still in his trees.

The islanders his praise resound; Coffee plantations rise around; And Martinico loads her s.h.i.+ps With produce from those dear-saved slips.

In John Keats' amusing fantasy, _Cap and Bells_, the Emperor Elfinan greets Hum, the great soothsayer, and offers him refreshment:

"You may have sherry in silver, hock in gold, or gla.s.s'd champagne ... what cup will you drain?"

"Commander of the Faithful!" answered Hum, "In preference to these, I'll merely taste A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum."

"A simple boon," said Elfinan; "thou mayst Have Nantz, with which my morning coffee's laced."

But Hum accepts the gla.s.s of Nantz, without the coffee, "made racy with the third part of the least drop of _creme de citron_, crystal clear."

Numerous broadsides printed in London, 1660 to 1675, have been referred to in chapter X. Few of them possess real literary merit.

"Coffee and Crumpets" has been much quoted. It was published in _Fraser's Magazine_, in 1837. Its author calls himself "Launcelot Littledo". The poem is quite long, and only those portions are printed here that refer particularly to "Yemen's fragrant berry":

COFFEE AND CRUMPETS

_By Launcelot Littledo of Pump Court, Temple, Barrister-at-law._

There's ten o'clock! From Hampstead to the Tower The bells are chanting forth a l.u.s.ty carol; Wrangling, with iron tongues, about the hour, Like fifty drunken fishwives at a quarrel; Cautious policemen shun the coming shower; Thompson and Fearon tap another barrel; "_Dissolve frigus, lignum super foco.

Large reponens._" Now, come Orinoco!

To puff away an hour, and drink a cup, A br.i.m.m.i.n.g _breakfast_-cup of ruddy Mocha-- Clear, luscious, dark, like eyes that lighten up The raven hair, fair cheek, and _bella boca_ Of Florence maidens. I can never sup Of perigourd, but (_guai a chi la tocca!_) I'm doomed to indigestion. So to settle This strife eternal,--Betty, bring the kettle!

Coffee! oh, Coffee! Faith, it is surprising.

'Mid all the poets, good, and bad, and worse.

Who've scribbled (Hock or Chian eulogizing) Post and papyrus with "Immortal verse"-- Melodiously similitudinising In Sapphics languid or Alcaics terse No one, my little brown Arabian berry,.

Hath sung thy praises--'tis surprising! very!

Were I a poet now, whose ready rhymes.

Like Tommy Moore's, came tripping to their places-- Reeling along a merry troll of chimes, With careless truth,--a dance of fuddled Graces; Hear it--_Gazette_, _Post_, _Herald_, _Standard_, _Times_, I'd write an epic! Coffee for its basis; Sweet as e'er warbled forth from c.o.c.kney throttles Since Bob Montgomery's or Amos Cottle's.

Thou sleepy-eyed Chinese--enticing siren, Pekoe! the Muse hath said in praise of thee, "That cheers but not inebriates"; and Byron Hath called thy sister "Queen of Tears", Bohea!

And he, Anacreon of Rome's age of iron, Says, how untruly "_Quis non potius te_."

While coffee, thou--bill-plastered gables say, Art like old Cupid, "roasted every day."

I love, upon a rainy night, as this is, When rarely and more rare the coaches rattle From street to street, to sip thy fragrant kisses; While from the Strand remote some drunken battle Far-faintly echoes, and the kettle hisses Upon the glowing hob. No t.i.ttle-tattle To make a single thought of mine an alien From thee, my coffee-pot, my fount Castalian.

The many intervening verses cover an unhappy termination to an otherwise delightful ball. He is sitting with his charming "Mary", about to ask her to be his bride, when the unfortunate overturning of a gla.s.s of red wine into her white satin gown, at the same time overthrows all his dreams of bliss, "for the shrew displaces the angel he adored", and he resigns himself to the life of "a man in chambers."

'Tis thus I sit and sip, and sip and think.

And think and sip again, and dip in _Fraser_, A health, King Oliver! to thee I drink: Long may the public have thee to amaze her.

Like _Figaro_, thou makest one's eyelids wink, Twirling on practised palm thy polished razor-- True Horace temper, smoothed on attic strop; Ah! thou couldst "_faire la barbe a tout l'Europe_."

Come, Oliver, and tell us what the news is; An easy chair awaits thee--come and fill 't.

Come, I invoke thee, as they do the muses, And thou shalt choose thy tipple as thou wilt.

And if thy lips my sober cup refuses, For ruddier drops the purple grape has spilt, We can sing, sipping in alternate verses, Thy drink and mine, like Corydon and Thyrsis.

Fill the bowl, but not with wine.

Potent port, or fiery sherry; For this milder cup of mine Crush me Yemen's fragrant berry.

Gentle is the grape's deep cl.u.s.ter, But the wine's a wayward child; Nectar _this_! of meeker l.u.s.tre-- _This_ the cup that "draws it mild."

Deeply drink its streams divine-- Fill the cup, but not with wine.

Prior and Montague inserted the following poetic vignette in their _City Mouse and Country Mouse_, written in burlesque of Dryden's _Hind and Panther_:

Then on they jogg'd; and since an hour of talk Might cut a banter on the tedious walk, As I remember, said the sober mouse, I've heard much talk of the Wits' Coffee-house; Thither, says Brindle, thou shalt go and see Priests supping coffee, sparks and poets tea; Here rugged frieze, there quality well drest, These baffling the grand Senior, those the Test, And there shrewd guesses made, and reasons given, That human laws were never made in heaven; But, above all, what shall oblige thy sight, And fill thy eyeb.a.l.l.s with a vast delight, Is the poetic judge of sacred wit, Who does i' th' darkness of his glory sit; And as the moon who first receives the light, With which she makes these nether regions bright, So does he s.h.i.+ne, reflecting from afar The rays he borrowed from a better star; For rules, which from Corneille and Rapin flow, Admired by all the scribbling herd below, From French tradition while he does dispense Unerring truths, 't is schism, a d.a.m.ned offense, To question his, or trust your private sense.

Geoffrey Sephton, an English poet and novelist, many years resident in Vienna, whose fantastic stories and fairy tales are well known in Europe, has written the following sonnets on coffee:

TO THE MIGHTY MONARCH, KING KAUHEE[350]

_By Geoffrey Sephton_

I

Away with opiates! Tantalising snares To dull the brain with phantoms that are not.

Let no such drugs the subtle senses rot With visions stealing softly unawares Into the chambers of the soul. Nightmares Ride in their wake, the spirits to besot.

Seek surer means, to banish haunting cares: Place on the board the steaming Coffee-pot!

O'er luscious fruit, dessert and sparkling flask, Let proudly rule as King the Great Kauhee, For he gives joy divine to all that ask, Together with his spouse, sweet _Eau de Vie_ Oh, let us 'neath his sovran pleasure bask.

Come, raise the fragrant cup and bend the knee!