All About Coffee by William H. Ukers (interesting novels in english TXT) 📖

the low branches, they began
To pull off the leaves with many a nibble, and to pluck the tender
Growth. Its bitterness attracts. The shepherd, not knowing this,
Was meanwhile singing on the soft grass and telling the story of his loves to the woods.
But when the evening star, rising, warned him to leave the field,
And he led back his well-fed flock to their stalls, he perceived
That the beasts did not close their eyes in sweet sleep, but
Joyous beyond their wont, with wonderful delight throughout the
Whole night jumped about with wanton leaps. Trembling with sudden
Fear, the shepherd stood amazed; and crazed by the sound, he
Thought these things were being done through some wicked trick of a neighbor, or by magic art.

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 vi of 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