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

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 boca
Of 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.

Prior and Montague inserted the following poetic vignette in their City Mouse and Country Mouse, written in burlesque of Dryden's Hind and Panther:

Then on they jogg'd; and since an hour of talk
Might cut a banter on the tedious walk,
As I remember, said the sober mouse,
I've heard much talk of the Wits' Coffee-house;
Thither, says Brindle, thou shalt go and see
Priests supping coffee, sparks and poets tea;
Here rugged frieze, there quality well drest,
These baffling the grand Senior, those the Test,
And there shrewd guesses made, and reasons given,
That human laws were never made in heaven;
But, above all, what shall oblige thy sight,
And fill thy eyeballs with a vast delight,
Is the poetic judge of sacred wit,
Who does i' th' darkness of his glory sit;
And as the moon who first receives the light,
With which she makes these nether regions bright,
So does he shine, reflecting from afar
The rays he borrowed from a better star;
For rules, which from Corneille and Rapin flow,
Admired by all the scribbling herd below,
From French tradition while he does dispense
Unerring truths, 't is schism, a damned offense,
To question his, or trust your private sense.

Geoffrey Sephton, an English poet and novelist, many years resident in Vienna, whose fantastic stories and fairy tales are well known in Europe, has written the following sonnets on coffee:

To the Mighty Monarch, King Kauhee[350]
By Geoffrey Sephton

I

Away with opiates! Tantalising snares
To dull the brain with phantoms that are not.
Let no such drugs the subtle senses rot
With visions stealing softly unawares
Into the chambers of the soul. Nightmares
Ride in their wake, the spirits to besot.
Seek surer means, to banish haunting cares:
Place on the board the steaming Coffee-pot!
O'er luscious fruit, dessert