All About Coffee

Not far from here a holy band of brethren had built their Humble home in a remote valley; their lot it was to chant Praises of God, and to load his altars with fitting gifts. Although throughout the night the deep-toned bell resounded With great din, and summoned them to the sacred temple, often The coming of dawn found them lingering on their couches, Having forgotten to rise in the middle of the night. So great was their love of sleep!

In charge of the sacred temple, revered and obeyed by his Willing brethren, was the master, an aged man, a heavy mass of white hair on head and chin. The shepherd, hastening, came to him and told him the story, Imploring his aid. The old man smiled to himself; but He agreed to go, and investigate the hidden cause of the miracle.

When he has come to the hills, he observes the lambs, together With their mothers, gnawing the berries of an unknown plant, And cries, "This is the cause of the trouble!" And saying no More, he at once picks the smooth fruit from the heavily-laden Tree, and carries it home, places it, when washed, in pure Water, cooking it over the fire, and fearlessly drinks a large Cup of it. Forthwith a warmth pervades his veins, a living Force is diffused through his limbs, and weariness is dispelled from his aged body. Then, at length, the old man exulting in the blessing thus found, Rejoices, and kindly shares with all his brothers. They eagerly At early night-fall, indulge in pleasant banquets and drain great bowls. No longer is it hard for them to break off sweet sleep and to leave their soft beds as formerly. O fortunate ones! whose hearts the sweet draught has often Bathed. No sluggish torpor holds their minds, they briskly Rise for their prescribed duties and rejoice to outstrip the rays of the first light.

You also, whose care it is to feed minds with divine eloquence And to terrify with your words the souls of the guilty, you also Should indulge in the pleasant drink; for, as you know, it Strengthens weakness. Keen vigor is gained for the limbs from This source, and spreads through the whole body. From this source, Too, shall come new strength and new power to your voice. You also, whom oft harmful vapors harass, whose sick brain the dangerous vertigo shakes, Ah, come! In this sweet liquid is a ready medicine And none other better to calm undue agitation. Apollo planted this power for himself, they say, The story is worthy to be sung.

Once a disease most deadly to life assailed the disciples of Apollo's Mount. It spread far and wide, and attacked the brain itself. Already all the people of genius were suffering with this Disease; and the arts, deserted, were languishing along with The workers. Some even pretended to have the disease, and Assuming feigned suffering, gave themselves over to an idle life. Unpleasing work grew distasteful, and deadly inertia increased Everywhere. It pleased all, now released from work and labors, To indulge in care-free quiet. Apollo, full of indignation, did not endure longer that the deadly Contagion of such easy ruin should creep over them thus. And, That he might take away from seers all means of deception, he Enticed from the rich bosom of the earth this friendly plant, Than which no other is more ready either to refresh for work the Mind wearied by long studies, or to sooth troublesome sorrows of the head.

O plant, given to the human race by the gift of the Gods! No other out of the entire list of plants has ever vied with you. On your account sailors sail from our shores And fearlessly conquer the threatening winds, sandbanks and Dreadful rocks. With your nourishing growth you surpass dittany, Ambrosia, and fragrant panacea. Grim diseases flee from you. To You trusting health clings as a companion, and also the merry Crowd, conversation, amusing jokes, and sweet whisperings.

The poet Belighi toward the close of the sixteenth century composed a poem, which, freely translated, runs:

In Damascus, in Aleppo, in great Cairo, At every turn is to be found That mild fruit which gives so beloved a drink, Before coming to court to triumph. There this seditious disturber of the world, Has, by its unparalleled virtue, Supplanted all wines from this blessed day.

Jacques Delille (1738-1813) the didactic poet of nature, in chant viof his "Three Reigns of Nature," thus apostrophizes the "divine nectar" and describes its preparation:

DIVINE COFFEE

Translation from the French

A liquid there is to the poet most dear, 'T was lacking to Virgil, adored by Voltaire, 'T is thou, divine coffee, for thine is the art, Without turning the head yet to gladden the heart. And thus though my palate be dulled by age, With joy I partake of thy dear beverage. How glad I prepare me thy nectar most precious, No soul shall usurp me a rite so delicious; On the ambient flame when the black charcoal burns, The gold of thy bean to rare ebony turns, I alone, 'gainst the cone, wrought with fierce iron teeth. Make thy fruitage cry out with its bitter-sweet breath; Till charmed with such perfume, with care I entrust To the pot on my hearth the rare spice-laden dust: First to calm, then excite, till it seethingly whirls, With an eye all attention I gaze till it boils. At last now the liquid comes slow to repose; In the hot, smoking vessel its wealth I depose, My cup and thy nectar; from wild reeds expressed, America's honey my table has blest; All is ready; Japan's gay enamel invites-- And the tribute of two worlds thy prestige unites: Come, Nectar divine, inspire thou me, I wish but Antigone, dessert and thee; For scarce have I tasted thy odorous steam, When quick from thy clime, soothing warmths round me stream, Attentive my thoughts rise and flow light as air, Awaking my senses and soothing my care. Ideas that but late moved so dull and depressed, Behold, they come smiling in rich garments dressed! Some genius awakes me, my course is begun; For I drink with each drop a bright ray of the sun.

Maumenet addressed to Galland the following verses:

If slumber, friend, too near, with some late glass should creep-- Dull, poppy-perfumed sleep-- If a too fumous wine confounds at length thy brain-- Take coffee then--this juice divine Shall banish sleep and steam of vap'rous wine, And with its timely aid fresh vigor thou shalt find.

Castel, in his poem, Les Plantes (The Plants) could not omit the coffee trees of the tropics. He thus addressed them in 1811:

Bright plants, the favorites of Phoebus, In these climes the rarest virtues offer, Delicious Mocha, thy sap, enchantress, Awakens genius, outvalues Parnasse!

In a collection of the Songs of Brittany in the Brest library there are many stanzas in praise of coffee. A Breton poet has composed a little piece of ninety-six verses in which he describes the powerful attraction that coffee has for women and the possible effects on domestic happiness. The first time that coffee was used in Brittany, says an old song of that country, only the nobility drank it, and now all the common people are using it, yet the greater part of them have not even bread.

A French poet of the eighteenth century produced the following:

LINES ON COFFEE

Translation from the French

Good coffee is more than a savory cup, Its aroma has power to dry liquor up. By coffee you get upon leaving the table A mind full of wisdom, thoughts lucid, nerves stable; And odd tho' it be, 't is none the less true, Coffee's aid to digestion permits dining anew. And what 's very true, tho' few people know it, Fine coffee 's the basis of every fine poet; For many a writer as windy as Boreas Has been vastly improved by the drink ever glorious. Coffee brightens the dullness of heavy philosophy, And opens the science of mighty geometry. Our law-makers, too, when the nectar imbibing, Plan wondrous reforms, quite beyond the describing; The odor of coffee they delight in inhaling, And promise the country to alter laws ailing. From the brow of the scholar coffee chases the wrinkles, And mirth in his eyes like a firefly twinkles; And he, who before was but a hack of old Homer, Becomes an original, and that 's no misnomer. Observe the astronomer who 's straining his eyes In watching the planets which soar thro' the skies; Alas, all those bright bodies seem hopelessly far Till coffee discloses his own guiding star. But greatest of wonders that coffee effects Is to aid the news-editor as he little expects; Coffee whispers the secrets of hidden diplomacy, Hints rumors of wars and of scandals so racy. Inspiration by coffee must be nigh unto magic, For it conjures up facts that are certainly tragic; And for a few pennies, coffee's small price per cup, "Ye editor's" able to swallow the Universe up.

Esménard celebrated Captain de Clieu's romantic voyage to Martinique with the coffee plants from the Jardin des Plantes, in some admirable verses quoted in chapter II.

Among other notable poetic flights in praise of coffee produced in France mention should be made of: "L'Elogé du Café" (Eulogy of Coffee) a song in twenty-four couplets, Paris, Jacques Estienne, 1711; Le Café(Coffee), a fragment from the fourth chant (song) of La Grandeur de Dieu dans les merveilles de la Nature (The Grandeur of God in the Wonders of Nature) Marseilles; Le Café, extract from the fourth gastronomic song, by Berchoux; "A Mon Café" (To My Coffee), stanzas written by Ducis; Le Café, anonymous stanzas inserted in the Macedoine Poetique, 1824; a poem in Latin in the Abbé Olivier's collection; Le Bouquet Blanc et le Bouquet Noir, poesie en quatre chants; Le Café, C.D. Mery, 1837; Elogé du Café, S. Melaye, 1852.

Many Italian poets have sung the praises of coffee. L. Barotti wrote his poem, Il Caffè in 1681. Giuseppe Parini (1729-1799), Italy's great satirical and lyric poet and critic of the eighteenth century, in Il Giorno (The Day), gives a delightful pen picture of the manners and customs of Milan's polite society of the period. William Dean Howells quotes as follows from these poems (his own translation) in his Modern Italian Poets. The feast is over, and the lady signals to the cavalier that it is time to leave the table:

Spring to thy feet The first of all, and, drawing near thy lady, Remove her chair and offer her thy hand, And lead her to the other room, nor suffer longer That the stale reek of viands shall offend Her delicate sense. Thee with the rest invites The grateful odor of the coffee, where It smokes upon a smaller table hid And graced with Indian webs. The redolent gums That meanwhile burn, sweeten and purify The heavy atmosphere, and banish thence All lingering traces of the feast. Ye sick And poor, whom misery or whom hope, perchance! Has guided in the noonday to these doors. Tumultuous, naked, and unsightly throng, With mutilated limbs and squalid faces, In litters and on crutches from afar Comfort yourselves, and with expanded nostrils Drink in the nectar of the feast divine That favourable zephyrs waft to you; But do not dare besiege these noble precincts, Importunately offering her that reigns Within your loathsome spectacle of woe! And now, sir, 't is your office to prepare The tiny cup that then shall minister, Slow sipped, its liquor to thy lady's lips; And now bethink thee whether she prefer The boiling beverage much or little tempered With sweet; or if, perchance, she likes it best, As doth the barbarous spouse, then when she sits Upon brocades of Persia, with light fingers, The bearded visage of her lord caressing.

This is from Il Mezzogiorno (Noon). The other three poems, rounding out The Day, are Il Mattino (Morning), Il Vespre (Evening), and La Notte (Night). In Il Mattino, Parini sings:

Should dreary hypochondria's woes oppress thee, Should round thy charming limbs in too great measure Thy flesh increase, then with thy lips do honor To that clear beverage, made from the well-bronzed, The smoking, ardent beans Aleppo sends thee, And distant Mocha too, a thousand ship-loads; When slowly sipped it knows no rival.

Belli's Il Caffè supplies a partial bibliography of the Italian literature on coffee. There are many poems, some of them put to music. As late as 1921, there were published in Bologna some advertising verses on coffee by G.B. Zecchini with music by Cesare Cantino.

Pope Leo XIII, in his Horatian poem on Frugality composed in his eighty-eighth year, thus verses his appreciation of coffee:

Last comes the beverage of the Orient shore, Mocha, far off, the fragrant berries bore. Taste the dark fluid with a dainty lip, Digestion waits on pleasure as you sip.

Peter Altenberg, a Vienna poet, thus celebrated the cafés of his native city:

TO THE COFFEE HOUSE!

When you are worried, have trouble of one sort or another--to the coffee house! When she did not keep her appointment, for one reason or other--to the coffee house! When your shoes are torn and dilapidated--coffee house! When your income is four hundred crowns and you spend five hundred--coffee house! You are a chair warmer in some office, while your ambition led you to seek professional honors--coffee house! You could not find a mate to suit you--coffee house! You feel like committing suicide--coffee house! You hate and despise human beings, and at the same time you can not be happy without them--coffee house! You compose a poem which you can not inflict upon friends you meet in the street--coffee house! When your coal scuttle is empty, and your gas ration exhausted--coffee house! When you need money for cigarettes, you touch the head waiter in the--coffee house! When you are locked out and haven't the money to pay for unlocking the house door--coffee house! When you acquire a new flame, and intend provoking the old one, you take the new one to the old one's--coffee house! When you feel like hiding you dive into a--coffee house! When you want to be seen in a new suit--coffee house! When you can not get anything on trust anywhere else--coffee house!

English poets from Milton to Keats celebrated coffee. Milton (1608-1674) in his Comus thus acclaimed the beverage:

One sip of this Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight Beyond the bliss of dreams.

Alexander Pope, poet and satirist (1688-1744), has the oft-quoted lines:

Coffee which makes the politician wise, And see through all things with his half-shut eyes.

In Carruthers' Life of Pope, we read that this poet inhaled the steam of coffee in order to obtain relief from the headaches to which he was subject. We can well understand the inspiration which called forth from him the following lines when he was not yet twenty:

As long as Mocha's happy tree shall grow, While berries crackle, or while mills shall go; While smoking streams from silver spouts shall glide, Or China's earth receive the sable tide, While coffee shall to British nymphs be dear, While fragrant steams the bended head shall cheer, Or grateful bitters shall delight the taste, So long her honors, name and praise shall last.

Pope's famous Rape of the Lock grew out of coffee-house gossip. The poem contains the passage on coffee already quoted:

For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned; The berries crackle and the mill turns round; On shining altars of Japan they raise The silver lamp: the fiery spirits blaze: From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, While China's earth receives the smoking tide. At once they gratify their scent and taste. And frequent cups prolong the rich repast Straight hover round the fair her airy band; Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned: Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed, 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 vapors to the baron's brain New stratagems, the radiant lock to gain.

Pope often broke the slumbers of his servant at night by calling him to prepare a cup of coffee; but for regular serving, it was his custom to grind and to prepare it upon the table.

William Cowper's fine tribute to "the cups that cheer but not inebriate", a phrase which he is said to have borrowed from Bishop Berkeley, was addressed to tea and not to coffee, to which it has not infrequently been wrongfully attributed. It is one of the most pleasing pictures in The Task.

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 worshippers 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 noble perseverance bore The tree to Martinico's shore. 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 ship. 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 ship 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 shore, 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 ships 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 glass'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 glass of Nantz, without the coffee, "made racy with the third part of the least drop of crème 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 lusty 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 brimming breakfast-cup of ruddy Mocha-- Clear, luscious, dark, like eyes that lighten up The raven hair, fair cheek, and bella bocaOf 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 cockney 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 tittle-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 glass 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 cluster, But the wine's a wayward child; Nectar this! of meeker lustre-- This the cup that "draws it mild." Deeply drink its streams divine-- Fill the cup, but not with wine.