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."
