Tea and Revolution: Nahum Tate's "Panacea"

As Americans celebrate Independence Day, I'm here once again to remind them of the debt American independence owes to English literature and history.  Stick in the mud.  Today, we look at a genuinely weird poem that allegorizes the Glorious Revolution of 1688 (an event that would lay the groundwork for the American Revolution nearly a century later) as a cup of tea.  So, pour yourself one -- milk first or last, doesn't matter to me -- and enjoy the show!

Text of "Panacea": https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A63046.0001.001/1:7?rgn=div1;view=fulltext

Transcript

We have great satisfaction to find . . . that Your Highness is so ready and willing to give us such assistance as they have related to us. We have great reason to believe we shall be every day in a worse condition than we are, and less able to defend ourselves, and therefore we do earnestly wish we might be so happy as to find a remedy before it be too late for us to contribute to our own deliverance. But although these be our wishes, yet we will by no means put Your Highness into any expectations which might misguide your own councils in this matter; so that the best advice we can give is to inform Your Highness truly both of the state of things here at this time and of the difficulties which appear to us.

As to the first, the people are so generally dissatisfied with the present conduct of the government in relation to their religion, liberties and properties (all which have been greatly invaded), and they are in such expectation of their prospects being daily worse, that Your Highness may be assured there are nineteen parts of twenty of the people throughout the kingdom who are desirous of a change and who, we believe, would willingly contribute to it. . . . 

That was an extract from the “Letter to William,” inviting the Dutch Prince William of Orange to invade England and overthrow King James II.   Written by six members of Parliament and a bishop, known as the Immortal Seven (and I’m sure they hoped they were so, given the unpleasant manner with which traitors were treated by 17th century monarchs), the letter was issued on June 30, 1688.  It outlines Parliament’s grievances against the king – especially his Catholicism and decadence –and suggests that James’ newborn son, a Catholic heir to the throne, is illegitimate.  Heady stuff.  

James certainly did little to dismiss fears of a dynastic Catholic tyranny.  Aggressively emulating the absolutist king of France, Louis XIV, James dissolved Parliament shortly after his ascension in 1685 – following the death of his brother, the restored Charles II.  He never recalled it.  He claimed the right to dispense with any laws he didn’t like.  He suspended anti-Catholic penal statutes and instituted a standing army – which ran against the norms of English liberty.  Icing on the cake: the army had a large Catholic officer corps.  Such a military presence confirmed fears that James intended to wrest England back to Rome by force of arms.

So, the Immortal Seven turned to the Dutch Low Countries for succor.  William was married to the king’s eldest daughter Mary, a Protestant, and so the signatories sought to install the couple as England’s king and queen, perpetuating a Protestant monarchy.  William gathered his forces in November of that year, landed at Devon.  James II bravely ran away.  The spring of 1689 saw Parliament confirm William and Mary as the king and queen of England.  This largely bloodless coup has gone down in history as The Glorious Revolution, a rather Whiggish term, to my mind, but the one with which we’re stuck.

Hello and welcome to the Classic English Literature Subcast, where a little more rhyme gets a little more reason.  Why am I talking about the Glorious Revolution today?  A fair question, dear listener.  I do so for two reasons: one, it’s a terribly significant historical event and we’re at about this point in our main survey of English literature.  Two: here in the good old US of A, it’s the 4th of July, when we Americans celebrate our emancipation from Mother England by eating too many hot dogs and drinking too much watery beer.  What’s Billy the Orange got to do with American Independence?  Another fair question. Loyal listeners may recall that on a previous 4th of July, I outlined the Tudor roots of American Independence – these mainly involved the political implications of Henry VIII’s break with the Roman Church and Luther’s theology which stressed individual conscience.  Today, I’d like to look at the Glorious Revolution in similar terms: how it transformed England into a constitutional monarchy by elevating the power of Parliament, in effect transferring a great deal of authority from the king or queen to the legislative body that, putatively at least, represents the people.

Like Thomas Jefferson’s “Declaration of Independence” some 90 years later, the Immortal Seven’s “Invitation to William” rests upon (in addition to Lutheran individualism) the philosophy of John Locke, which we discussed a few episodes ago.  In fact, Locke wrote his influential Two Treatises on Government to justify William and Mary’s enthronement.  Briefly, Locke argued against the divine right of kings, advocating a limited monarchy subject to a system of laws enforced by Parliament.  He rooted this in a social contract theory which asserted each individual’s natural rights of life, liberty, and property, which governments are bound to preserve.  Should they fail to do so, the people have the right to abolish such governments.   Note the assertion in the letter that the “people are so generally dissatisfied with the present conduct of the government in relation to their religion, liberties and properties (all which have been greatly invaded).”

But, while I do take a historical approach to literature in this show, that is not my main focus, so I’d like to take a look at a strange and all-but-forgotten poem that comes from this political upheaval.  It’s by Nahum Tate, an Irish-born writer whom we looked at for a Christmas episode – he’s the fella who wrote the first Anglican Christmas carol and, yes, the Royalist toady who rewrote Shakespeare’s King Lear with a happy ending.  The poem for today’s chinwag is called “Panacea” and it’s all about tea.

Yes, tea, that delightful potable which is now almost a metonym for English culture itself.  According to scholars Markman Ellis, Richard Coulton, and Matthew Mauger, “Panacea” is the earliest example of what they call a “tea exaltation poem.” I didn’t even know there were such things as tea exaltation poems, but I’m glad to have discovered this one first.  I’d hate to have erroneous expectations should I come across further tea-based verse.

Here’s a joke: Why didn’t Karl Marx drink Earl Grey?  Because all proper tea is theft!

Ah, thank you, thank you.  I’m here all week.  Tip your waitress.  Try the veal.

Anyway, Tate uses tea (weirdly) as a symbol for the curing of England’s great disease.  The word “panacea” means, of course, “cure all.”  So tea, in Tate’s allegory, is William of Orange, which will banish the fever that is James II.  

Here’s how it works: Tate describes England under James II as ailing or diseased, suffering from religious and political turmoil.  William’s arrival is described in almost miraculous, redemptive terms, bringing health, order, and divine favor.  See – all quite obvious when you think about it.  This poem was part of a vogue for courtly and public literary flattery, legitimizing the new regime by gilding it with divine and classical imagery.  Such lickspittling paid off for Mr. Tate, as he was made Poet Laureate in 1692.

I’ve seen “Panacea” described as a “mock epic,” but that doesn’t feel right to me.  I have my reasons, but I’d be teetering dangerously on the brink of exactly the kind of generic pettifogging about which I complained in our last episode.  I shall therefore withdraw – except to say that the poem is rather brief – even for a mock epic – and lacks a single cohesive narrative.

Tate does write in heroic couplets, which lends some grandeur to the verse, and, of course, lays on the allusive classicism with a trowel.  The poem is divided into two cantos – a canto is just a fancy way of saying “section of a long poem”; comes from the Italian for “song.”  Dante called them cantos in The Divine Comedy and Spenser in The Faerie Queene.  In a frame narrative, Canto 1 tells a story of the tyrant King Ki in China, who

Prophan'd the Throne, ill-boding Signs foreran,

And dreadful Prodigies his Reign began;

His monstrous Reign, which justly you may call

The most amazing Prodigy of All.

Discarding all the Sages of the Realm,

Rash unexperienc'd Youth he sets at Helm:

Till now, from all its ancient Frame estrang'd,

The Government into a Farce was chang'd.

If you’re keeping up, Tate here clearly alludes to James II.  I also feel like there’s a contrast implied with China’s traditional virtue, which we saw exoticized Francis Godwin’s utopian sci-fi tale “The Man in the Moon.”  While cataloging Ki’s outrages, Tate refers to “Graecian Worthies” and “Roman Gallantry” – perhaps lamenting the lost virtues of Greek democracy and Roman republicanism, with a handy swipe at Catholicism.  Following Ki’s exile, evil ministers harry the land:

The Provinces to Villains Hands assign'd,

Now, for one Tyrant lost, a thousand find;

While he absconds, his lewd Trustees of Pow'r,

The bleeding Vitals of the State devour,

What Riot wastes with Rapine they supply,

And Rapine drein'd, to Sacrilege they fly.

In order to restore order, the sages gather “to create / A Monarch, to Reform and Rule the State.”  OK, so the mandarins decide to appoint a king to heal the ailing kingdom – subtle Tate is not.  But these mandarins are all such virtuous men that none has the ambition to put himself forward.  And that’s when they discover tea, after consulting Confucius, growing in the desert, a miraculous “timely Cure of Publick Grief.”  Right, so the virtuous monarch is like tea, “a wondrous cure” given by “friendly Fate, / For last Distress of China's suff'ring State.”

Well, that all seems quite reasonable.  Canto II switches the action to a council of the Roman gods debating who shall be patron to this wonderful elixir.  You see, the sun god Apollo created tea

in Celestial Bow'rs,

Treated with fragrant Tea, th' immortal Pow'rs,

(That more than Nectar and Nepenthe pleas'd).

A divine council is a set piece in epic poetry.  Each of the gods and goddesses make their case in turn.  Minerva asserts that they should defer to Nature, who devised tea’s healing properties:

If Merit must to Majesty give place,

Immortals are in Mortals wretched Case,

And Vassals we, tho' of Celestial Race:

Let Nature in this Claim your Council Guide;

Since she for publick Use this Plant suppli'd,

Let Publick Use, ye Gods, the Cause decide.

Note she abjures the idea that “merit” must give place to “majesty” – it would make them wretched vassals.  The public should decide for themselves.  Venus pleads her case in quite parliamentary language, speaking of Senates, parties, open courts, and votes.

Thetis, the sea nymph and water goddess, makes the direct – though anachronistic – connection between tea and England:

Tis I that rule your watry World below;

To Mortals I the Arts of Commerce show,

To me your Albion does her Glory owe.

By Me her Fleets to Eastern Climates run,

And spread their Wings beneath the rising Sun.

Thus your Augusta's floating Grandeur's shown

On Seas and Shores to Ancient Fame unknown;

While Rome, the World's fam'd Mistress she excels,

As far as Thames above the Tyber swells.

Both Her's and Nature's Empire I sustain,

By Correspondence 'twixt her Earth and Main:

Her Tributary Streams, to me convey'd,

In just recruits are carefully repay'd:

Those Pastures where her Flocks and Herds are Bred,

Themselves are from my Bounty cloath'd and fed.

The Plant and Nymph, whose happy Nuptials give

This New-found Nectar, by my Bounty live;

From my fresh Stores the Nymph her cooling Dew,

And from my Salts the Plant his Vigour drew.

Well, now, that speech would get John Bull’s blood pumping!  Nearly as rousing as John of Gaunt’s “sceptered isle” speech in Richard II.  Thetis speaks of Albion – England – as a nautical empire greater than Rome, a bucolic paradise of justice and plenty – where they would quite enjoy a cup of tea.  William of Orange, to remember our allegory, but a nice hot drink as well.

Finally, Jupiter ends the debate, and declares that 

A Plant that can so many Virtues boast . . . 

too rich a Prize to be Ingross'd;

And to no single Goddess Lot should fall,

That merited the Patronage of All.

Ah, there is no single goddess of tea, no sole monarch!  Tea is for the people!  Uh, again – William as confirmed by Parliament.

Now, shall I be mother?

A strange poem, I think you’ll agree.  Even stranger when you consider that, in 1688, tea did not yet occupy the central place in English culture that it would come to.  Coffee was the far more common – and politically charged, incidentally – beverage.  Tea was, however, in the 1680s, increasingly associated with refinement, Protestant temperance, and social order—as opposed to the excesses of wine (associated with Catholic France and Stuart indulgence.  We should not, of course, assume England would become teetotal.  That would be silly).  Promoting tea as a fashionable medicinal beverage on the rise, supporters lauded its supposed ability to calm the nerves, clarify the mind, and balance the humors.  In that sense, William of Orange becomes a cup of political tea: gentle, refined, restorative.  And thus, the Glorious Revolution, as allegorized by Tate, is not a bloody purge—it’s a calm infusion of order and liberty.  Like tea, William is foreign—but healthful, welcomed, even necessary.

With that odd near-jingoistic interlude by Thetis, Tate offers tea as a vision for a Williamite future, a turn toward Protestant commercial expansion, including the growing influence of the East India Company and global trade.  Tea represented the new mercantile, maritime Protestant England, which William’s regime was eager to promote.  So, in the allegory, tea is not only a medicine—it’s a symbol of England’s new destiny: orderly, prosperous, globally connected.

It’s certainly a vision of the small-L liberal state based on individual rights and a free market.  It’s the vision we sort of live with today, especially as exercised by America’s not-yet-moribund hegemonic power.  That “rules-based international order” politicians bang on about starts getting its shape in 1688.  The myth of it, anyway.  To keep punching the bruise, you all probably have heard of the Boston Tea Party, one of the key events leading up to America’s rupture with Great Britain.  In 1773, a bunch of mad Massholes dressed up like Mohawks and dumped God’s own fortune of tea into Boston Harbor as a protest against taxes and tariffs.  We remember it as the first aggression against taxation without representation – sticking it to the man!  Right on!  The fact that Parliament had revoked the tea tax and arranged a scheme for the East India Company that would, in fact, make tea much, much cheaper did nothing to dampen the vandals’ enthusiasm.  Rather, it would undercut colonial tea smugglers as well as legitimate importers.  Mythologizing conspiracy theories is, alas, not endemic to 21st century America.

Right, so, anyway.  Happy 4th if you celebrate.  Just remember that Independence Day is not a sui generis conception – what it represents has deep roots in English religion, history, and politics.

Thank you for listening – I really appreciate it.  Before I sign off to slam my last few unclogged arteries shut with some hot dogs and beer, I want to give a grand shout out to a grand friend of the show Susan T., who has helped keep the red light lit with a very generous donation.  She’s a former nurse now working in health policy.  Such noble work, Susan.  Thank you for your gift and for your service.

If you’d like to donate, click the “Support the Show”.  I’d be much obliged.  Unlike other podcasts, there’s no staff or sponsor for the Classic English Literature Podcast – I’m the researcher, writer, host, producer, sound engineer, and treasurer.  Anything you can do would be most appreciated.  Additionally, you can leave a 5 star review on your podcatcher, share episodes and links, tell your friends.  If you’ve any comments or questions, send me a text – there’s a button on the episode page.  I’ve also got email, Facebook, Instagram, and YouTube.  If you’ve got complaints, please send those somewhere else.  Take care, everybody, and I’ll talk with you soon.