Of tea, what have I said?  That I have drank it twenty years, without hurt, and, therefore, believe it not to be poison; that, if it dries the fibres, it cannot soften them; that, if it constringes, it cannot relax.  I have modestly doubted, whether it has diminished the strength of our men, or the beauty of our women; and whether it much hinders the progress of our woollen or iron manufactures; but I allowed it to be a barren superfluity, neither medicinal nor nutritious, that neither supplied strength nor cheerfulness, neither relieved weariness, nor exhilarated sorrow:  I inserted, without charge or suspicion of falsehood, the sums exported to purchase it; and proposed a law to prohibit it for ever.

Of the author I unfortunately said, that his injunction was somewhat too magisterial.  This I said, before I knew that he was a governour of the foundlings; but he seems inclined to punish this failure of respect, as the czar of Muscovy made war upon Sweden, because he was not treated with sufficient honours, when he passed through the country in disguise.  Yet, was not this irreverence without extenuation.  Something was said of the merit of meaning well, and the journalist was declared to be a man, whose failings might well be pardoned for his virtues.  This is the highest praise which human gratitude can confer upon human merit; praise that would have more than satisfied Titus or Augustus, but which I must own to be inadequate and penurious, when offered to the member of an important corporation.

I am asked, whether I meant to satirize the man, or criticise the writer, when I say, that “he believes, only, perhaps, because he has inclination to believe it, that the English and Dutch consume more tea than the vast empire of China.”  Between the writer and the man, I did not, at that time, consider the distinction.  The writer I found not of more than mortal might, and I did not immediately recollect, that the man put horses to his chariot.  But I did not write wholly without consideration.  I knew but two causes of belief, evidence and inclination.  What evidence the journalist could have of the Chinese consumption of tea, I was not able to discover.  The officers of the East India company are excluded, they best know why, from the towns and the country of China; they are treated, as we treat gipsies and vagrants, and obliged to retire, every night, to their own hovel.  What intelligence such travellers may bring, is of no great importance.  And, though the missionaries boast of having once penetrated further, I think, they have never calculated the tea drunk by the Chinese.  There being thus no evidence for his opinion, to what could I ascribe it but inclination.

I am yet charged, more heavily, for having said, that “he has no intention to find any thing right at home.”  I believe every reader restrained this imputation to the subject which produced it, and supposed me to insinuate only, that he meant to spare no part of the tea-table, whether essence or circumstance.  But this line he has selected, as an instance of virulence and acrimony, and confutes it by a lofty and splendid panegyrick on himself.  He asserts, that he finds many things right at home, and that he loves his oountrv almost to enthusiasm.