A lot is thrown into the pot on the fire in the cabin in the morning, and there it stands simmering all day long, that those who want it may help themselves.
This is in sharp contrast to the method employed by Dr. Barter, the famous hydropathic physician at Cork, one of the cleverest men I ever met and one of the very few who never permitted medicine under any circumstances, relying on water, packing, and Turkish baths, with strict attention to diet.
He used to make tea by putting half a teaspoonful into a wire strainer which he held over his cup, and pouring boiling water upon the leaves, the contents of his cup became a pale yellow, to which he added a little milk and instantly drank it off, the whole process lasting but a few seconds. I remember he equally disapproved of the Russian method of drinking tea in a glass with lemon, of the fashionable way of letting the water 'stand off the boil' upon the leaves in a teapot, and of the Hibernian stewing arrangement alluded to above.
Personally I regard all hydros as so many emporiums of disease, an opinion in which I am singular, but that does not convince me I am wrong.
A bailiff once went to St. Ann's Hydro to serve a writ, and he told me afterwards that he served it on his victim in a Turkish bath, remarking:—
'And your heart would have melted within your honour in pity for the poor creature not having a pocket to put the document in.'
Which observation recalls to my mind the story of a gentleman in a Turkish bath asking a friend to dinner, and saying:—
'Don't mind dressing; come just as you are.'
Another misunderstood answer was that of the absent-minded man who entered a hansom and began to read a paper.
'Where to?' at last cabby asked laconically.