Take eight parts by weight of meal (Rumford says ‘wheat or rye meal,’ and I add, or oatmeal), and one part of butter. Melt the butter in a clean iron frying-pan, and, when thus melted, sprinkle the meal into it; stir the whole briskly with a broad wooden spoon or spatula till the butter has disappeared and the meal is of a uniform brown colour, like roasted coffee, great care being taken to prevent burning on the bottom of the pan. About half an ounce of this roasted meal boiled in a pint of water, and seasoned with salt, pepper, and vinegar, forms ‘burnt soup,’ much used by the wood-cutters of Bavaria, who work in the mountains far away from any habitations. Their provisions for a week (the time they commonly remain in the mountains) consist of a large loaf of rye bread (which, as it does not so soon grow dry and stale as wheaten bread, is always preferred to it); a linen bag, containing a small quantity of roasted meal, prepared as above; another small bag of salt, and a small wooden box containing some pounded black pepper; and sometimes, but not often, a small bottle of vinegar; but black pepper is an ingredient never omitted. The rye bread, which eaten alone or with cold water would be very hard fare, is rendered palatable and satisfactory, Rumford thinks also more wholesome and nutritious, by the help of a bowl of hot soup, so easily prepared from the roasted meal. He tells us that this is not only used by the wood-cutters, but that it is also the common breakfast of the Bavarian peasant, and adds that ‘it is infinitely preferable, in all respects, to that most pernicious wash, tea, with which the lower classes of the inhabitants of this island drench their stomachs and ruin their constitutions.’ He adds that ‘when tea is taken with a sufficient quantity of sugar and good cream, and with a large quantity of bread-and-butter, or with toast and boiled eggs, and, above all, when it is not drunk too hot, it is certainly less unwholesome; but a simple infusion of this drug, drunk boiling hot, as the poor usually take it, is certainly a poison, which, though it is sometimes slow in its operation, never fails to produce fatal effects, even in the strongest constitutions, where the free use of it is continued for a considerable length of time.’
This may appear to many a very strong condemnation of their favourite beverage; nevertheless, I am satisfied that it is sound; and my opinion is not hastily adopted, nor borrowed from Rumford, but a conclusion based upon many observations, extending over a long period of years, and confirmed by experiments made upon myself.
I therefore strongly recommend this substitute, especially as so many of us have to submit to the beneficent domestic despotism of the gentler and more persevering sex, one of the common forms of this despotism being that of not permitting its male victim to drink cold water at breakfast. This burnt soup has the further advantage of rendering imperative the boiling of the water, a most important precaution against the perils of sewage contamination, not removable by mere filtration.
The experience of every confirmed tea-drinker, when soundly interpreted, supplies condemnation of his beverage; the plea commonly urged on its behalf being, when understood, an eloquent expression of such condemnation. ‘It is so refreshing;’ ‘I am fit for nothing when tea-time comes round until I have had my tea, and then I am fit for anything.’ The ‘fit for nothing’ state comes on at 5 P.M., when the drug is taken at the orthodox time, or even in the early morning, in the case of those who are accustomed to have a cup of tea brought to their bedside before rising. Some will even plead for tea by telling that by its aid one can sit up all night long at brain-work without feeling sleepy, provided ample supplies of the infusion are taken from time to time.
It is unquestionably true that such may be done; that the tea-drinker is languid and weary at tea-time, whatever be the hour, and that the refreshment produced by ‘the cup that cheers’ and is said not to inebriate, is almost instantaneous.
What is the true significance of these facts?
The refreshment is certainly not due to nutrition, not to the rebuilding of any worn-out or exhausted organic tissue. The total quantity of material conveyed from the tea-leaves into the water is ridiculously too small for the performance of any such nutritive function; and besides this, the action is far too rapid, there is not sufficient time for the conversion of even that minute quantity into organised working tissue. The action cannot be that of a food, but is purely and simply that of a stimulating or irritant drug, acting directly and abnormally on the nervous system.
The five-o’clock lassitude and craving is neither more nor less than the reaction induced by the habitual abnormal stimulation; or otherwise, and quite fairly, stated, it is the outward symptom of a diseased condition of brain produced by the action of a drug; it may be but a mild form of disease, but it is truly a disease nevertheless.
The active principle which produces this result is the crystalline alkaloid, the theine,[18] a compound belonging to the same class as strychnine and a number of similar vegetable poisons. These, when diluted, act medicinally—that is, produce disturbance of normal functions as the tea does, and, like theine, most of them act specially on the nervous system; when concentrated they are dreadful poisons, very small doses causing death. The volatile oil, of which tea contains about 1 per cent., probably contributes to this effect. Johnston attributes the headaches and giddiness to which tea-tasters are subject to this oil, and also ‘the attacks of paralysis to which, after a few years, those who are employed in packing and unpacking chests of tea are found to be liable.’ As both the alkaloid and the oil are volatile, I suspect that they jointly contribute to these disturbances, the narcotic business being done by the volatile oil, the paralysis supplied by the alkaloid.
The non-tea-drinker does not suffer any of the five-o’clock symptoms, and, if otherwise in sound health, remains in steady working condition until his day’s work is ended and the time for rest and sleep arrives. But the habitual victim of any kind of drug or disturber of normal functions acquires a diseased condition, displayed by the loss of vitality or other deviation from normal function, which is temporarily relieved by the usual dose of the drug, but only in such wise as to generate a renewed craving. I include in this general statement all the vice-drugs (to coin a general name), such as alcohol, opium, tobacco (whether smoked, chewed, or snuffed), arsenic, haschisch, betel-nut, coca-leaf, thorn-apple, Siberian fungus, maté, &c., all of which are excessively ‘refreshing’ to their victims, and of which the use may be, and has been, defended by the same arguments as those used by the advocates of habitual tea-drinking.