"And oft, mild friend, to me thou artA monitor, though still;Thou speak'st a lesson to my heartBeyond the preacher's skill."Thou'rt like the man of worth, who givesTo goodness every day,The odor of whose virtues livesWhen he has passed away."When in the lonely evening hour,Attended but by thee,O'er history's varied page I pore,Man's fate in thine I see."Oft, as thy snowy column grows,Then breaks and falls away,I trace how mighty realms thus rose,Thus trembled to decay."Awhile, like thee, earth's masters burn,And smoke and fume around,And then like thee to ashes turn,And mingle with the ground."Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,And time's the wasting breath,That, late or early, we beholdGives all to dusty death."From beggar's frieze to monarch's robeOne common doom is passed;Sweet nature's work, the swelling globe,Must all burn out at last."And what is he who smokes thee now?A little moving heap,That soon, like thee, to fate must bow,With thee in dust must sleep."But though thy ashes downward go,Thy essence rolls on high;Thus, when my body must lie low,My soul shall cleave the sky."
"And oft, mild friend, to me thou artA monitor, though still;Thou speak'st a lesson to my heartBeyond the preacher's skill.
"Thou'rt like the man of worth, who givesTo goodness every day,The odor of whose virtues livesWhen he has passed away.
"When in the lonely evening hour,Attended but by thee,O'er history's varied page I pore,Man's fate in thine I see.
"Oft, as thy snowy column grows,Then breaks and falls away,I trace how mighty realms thus rose,Thus trembled to decay.
"Awhile, like thee, earth's masters burn,And smoke and fume around,And then like thee to ashes turn,And mingle with the ground.
"Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled,And time's the wasting breath,That, late or early, we beholdGives all to dusty death.
"From beggar's frieze to monarch's robeOne common doom is passed;Sweet nature's work, the swelling globe,Must all burn out at last.
"And what is he who smokes thee now?A little moving heap,That soon, like thee, to fate must bow,With thee in dust must sleep.
"But though thy ashes downward go,Thy essence rolls on high;Thus, when my body must lie low,My soul shall cleave the sky."
In Charles Butler's "Story of Count Bismarck's Life," a good anecdote is told of the Count and his last cigar:—
"'The value of a good cigar,' said Bismarck, as he proceeded to light an excellent Havana, 'is best understood when it is the last you possess, and there is no chance of getting another. At Königgrätz I had only one cigar left in my pocket, which I carefully guarded during the whole of the battle as a miser does his treasure. I did not feel justified in using it. I painted in glowing colors in my mind the happy hour when I should enjoy it after the victory. But I had miscalculated my chances.' 'And what was the cause of your miscalculation?' 'A poor dragoon. He lay helpless, with both arms crushed, murmuring for something to refresh him. I felt in my pockets and found I had only gold, and that would be of no use to him. But, stay, I had still my treasured cigar! I lighted this for him, and placed it between his teeth. You should have seen the poor fellow's grateful smile! I never enjoyed a cigar so much as that one which I did not smoke.'"
In European cities juveniles offer the smoker, at every street corner, a "pipe" or a "cigar light." The following description, entitled "Light, Sir," is from an English journal, and contains much interesting information on the various modes of lighting pipes and cigars.
"Light, Sir."
"Light, Sir."
"''Ere y'are, sir—pipe-light, cigar-light, on'y 'ap'ny a box—'ave a light, sir.' Every smoker of the larger cities knows the cry. Every tender-hearted smoker is familiar with the appeal, by day and by night, and remembers pangs of regret he has felt when the want of ha'pence or the repletion of his match-box has prevented his much-besought response. There is no need now to enlarge upon the sufferings, the adventures, the dangers of these peripatetic juvenile trades folk, sparse of clothes and food, and full of thematerial which may make or mar a nation; for all this was done, and even overdone, by the graphic sensationalists of the London penny dailies when Chancellor Lowe proposed a tax on matches. We may, upon occasion, feel for the manufacturers and venders of 'lights,' but more generally we find ourselves constrained to sympathize with the purchasers of such contrivances for the ignition of pipes and cigars. The smoking of tobacco is an art; an art which, in its proper exercise, requires much care, much prudence, and not a little skill. This is a proposition which must, from its very nature, be startling to non-smokers, and surprising to many smokers. The tobacco hater (invariably an illogical creature, who hates that which he knows not) will hold up hands in amazement, and sniff with the nose in contempt, to whom reply would be superfluous."With the smoker the case is otherwise. A German writer recently said that the English were better smokers than the Germans; because, whereas the German smoked incessantly, without rule, system, or moderation, the English smoked with care, with slow and appreciative lovingness, and the determination not to overstep the bounds of rational enjoyment. Had he known more of English smokers, he would not have made so wild a statement; and had he known English women better, he would never have attributed to their sweet influence the fancied superiority he describes in English as compared with German smoking. In truth, the art of tobacco using is nowhere more ignored, nowhere more contemptuously neglected than in these 'favored isles.' For one man who smokes with a reason, for a purpose, or by system, you shall find a thousand who smoke without either; and the result is that those who smoke have little defense, in the general way, for their practice, while those who condemn the habit have far better grounds for their opposition than they have ever yet been able to explain. To those who do know why they use tobacco, it is well-nigh incredible that so many of their fellow-smokers should be ignorant of the properties, the uses, the abuses, of the weed they burn and the fumes in which they delight. Yet, even this is not so surprising as the fact that so few of those who smoke—smoke much, often and constantly—should be ignorant of, or indifferent to, the conditions which are necessary to their own adequate enjoyment of the weed."You will see a man light a cigar so carelessly that one side of the roll will burn rapidly, with prodigious fumigationand giving out a dark and offensive cloud, while the other side remains untouched by the fire, only to wither and crackle and twist into uncouth shapes, until the smoker flings the cigar away, with an accompaniment of expletives which attach rather to his own stupidity than to the piece of tobacco he has so abominably abused. You will see another with a good pipe, laden with good tobacco, well lit, blowing incessantly down the mouth-piece and the stem until the moisture introduced with his breath into the bowl of his pipe effectually prevents the tobacco from burning, and puts out the fire; and then you will hear him lament that he should have paid so good a price for a pipe so bad that it 'fouls' before he has smoked a single hour. You will see another who, while he talks to his friends, allows his tobacco to go out every three or four minutes, so that at length his mouth is sore and his palate nauseated with the combined fumes of lucifer matches, burnt paper and exhausted tobacco dust; and he inveighs against the 'cabbage-leaf which that rascally tobacconist sold him for good Shag or Cavendish.' Another knows so little of the art of smoking that he never 'stops' his pipe, and so allows the light dust of the burnt weed to fly about him in flakes and minute particles, to the permanent damage of his own and his neighbors' clothes. But in nothing is the inartistic character of English smoking so conspicuously exemplified as in the use of 'lights.' Those who form the great majority of smokers amongst the English-speaking races seem to consider that, so long as their pipes are set alight, it matters not how or from what source the light is obtained. Thus, one will place his pipe-bowl in a flame of gas, and pull away at the stem till his tobacco is on fire; another will thrust the bowl into the midst of a coal fire, and when he sees a glow in the bowl withdraw it, and contentedly puff away; another stops an obliging policeman or railway guard, and ignites his tobacco by hard pulling at the flame of an oil-lamp; another will stick the end of a choice cigar into the bowl of a pipe filled with coarsest Shag, thus ruining the flavor of his 'prime Havana' forever; while yet another will light lucifer matches, and apply the blazing brimstone to his pipe or cigar, thus saturating the whole mass with sulphurous and phosphoretic fumes, to the ruin of the weed and the injury of his own health."How much wiser the West Indian negro, who takes a burning stick from the wood fire, and tenderly lights his weed therewith, or joyfully brings a handful of the white-hotashes in his thick-skinned palm, that 'massa' may fire his cigar! Or the travelling peddler or tinker, who, as he sits by the way-side, patiently wooes the sun with a 'burning-glass' till his tobacco ignites, or uses with equal prudence and skill the ancient but inimitable tinder-box.
"''Ere y'are, sir—pipe-light, cigar-light, on'y 'ap'ny a box—'ave a light, sir.' Every smoker of the larger cities knows the cry. Every tender-hearted smoker is familiar with the appeal, by day and by night, and remembers pangs of regret he has felt when the want of ha'pence or the repletion of his match-box has prevented his much-besought response. There is no need now to enlarge upon the sufferings, the adventures, the dangers of these peripatetic juvenile trades folk, sparse of clothes and food, and full of thematerial which may make or mar a nation; for all this was done, and even overdone, by the graphic sensationalists of the London penny dailies when Chancellor Lowe proposed a tax on matches. We may, upon occasion, feel for the manufacturers and venders of 'lights,' but more generally we find ourselves constrained to sympathize with the purchasers of such contrivances for the ignition of pipes and cigars. The smoking of tobacco is an art; an art which, in its proper exercise, requires much care, much prudence, and not a little skill. This is a proposition which must, from its very nature, be startling to non-smokers, and surprising to many smokers. The tobacco hater (invariably an illogical creature, who hates that which he knows not) will hold up hands in amazement, and sniff with the nose in contempt, to whom reply would be superfluous.
"With the smoker the case is otherwise. A German writer recently said that the English were better smokers than the Germans; because, whereas the German smoked incessantly, without rule, system, or moderation, the English smoked with care, with slow and appreciative lovingness, and the determination not to overstep the bounds of rational enjoyment. Had he known more of English smokers, he would not have made so wild a statement; and had he known English women better, he would never have attributed to their sweet influence the fancied superiority he describes in English as compared with German smoking. In truth, the art of tobacco using is nowhere more ignored, nowhere more contemptuously neglected than in these 'favored isles.' For one man who smokes with a reason, for a purpose, or by system, you shall find a thousand who smoke without either; and the result is that those who smoke have little defense, in the general way, for their practice, while those who condemn the habit have far better grounds for their opposition than they have ever yet been able to explain. To those who do know why they use tobacco, it is well-nigh incredible that so many of their fellow-smokers should be ignorant of the properties, the uses, the abuses, of the weed they burn and the fumes in which they delight. Yet, even this is not so surprising as the fact that so few of those who smoke—smoke much, often and constantly—should be ignorant of, or indifferent to, the conditions which are necessary to their own adequate enjoyment of the weed.
"You will see a man light a cigar so carelessly that one side of the roll will burn rapidly, with prodigious fumigationand giving out a dark and offensive cloud, while the other side remains untouched by the fire, only to wither and crackle and twist into uncouth shapes, until the smoker flings the cigar away, with an accompaniment of expletives which attach rather to his own stupidity than to the piece of tobacco he has so abominably abused. You will see another with a good pipe, laden with good tobacco, well lit, blowing incessantly down the mouth-piece and the stem until the moisture introduced with his breath into the bowl of his pipe effectually prevents the tobacco from burning, and puts out the fire; and then you will hear him lament that he should have paid so good a price for a pipe so bad that it 'fouls' before he has smoked a single hour. You will see another who, while he talks to his friends, allows his tobacco to go out every three or four minutes, so that at length his mouth is sore and his palate nauseated with the combined fumes of lucifer matches, burnt paper and exhausted tobacco dust; and he inveighs against the 'cabbage-leaf which that rascally tobacconist sold him for good Shag or Cavendish.' Another knows so little of the art of smoking that he never 'stops' his pipe, and so allows the light dust of the burnt weed to fly about him in flakes and minute particles, to the permanent damage of his own and his neighbors' clothes. But in nothing is the inartistic character of English smoking so conspicuously exemplified as in the use of 'lights.' Those who form the great majority of smokers amongst the English-speaking races seem to consider that, so long as their pipes are set alight, it matters not how or from what source the light is obtained. Thus, one will place his pipe-bowl in a flame of gas, and pull away at the stem till his tobacco is on fire; another will thrust the bowl into the midst of a coal fire, and when he sees a glow in the bowl withdraw it, and contentedly puff away; another stops an obliging policeman or railway guard, and ignites his tobacco by hard pulling at the flame of an oil-lamp; another will stick the end of a choice cigar into the bowl of a pipe filled with coarsest Shag, thus ruining the flavor of his 'prime Havana' forever; while yet another will light lucifer matches, and apply the blazing brimstone to his pipe or cigar, thus saturating the whole mass with sulphurous and phosphoretic fumes, to the ruin of the weed and the injury of his own health.
"How much wiser the West Indian negro, who takes a burning stick from the wood fire, and tenderly lights his weed therewith, or joyfully brings a handful of the white-hotashes in his thick-skinned palm, that 'massa' may fire his cigar! Or the travelling peddler or tinker, who, as he sits by the way-side, patiently wooes the sun with a 'burning-glass' till his tobacco ignites, or uses with equal prudence and skill the ancient but inimitable tinder-box.
Bringing a Light.
Bringing a Light.
"But this is the age of Fusees. What a name! When, in our youth, those longitudinal strips of tinder, semi-divided into innumerable transverse slips, all tipped with harmless, ignitable matter, first assumed the title, we had little notion of the atrocities which would come to be dignified by their name. This was soon after the world had been delighted by the Congreves, which drove Lucifer to the wall, and before English and German ingenuity had taught us to find 'death' in the box, as well as 'the pot.' The innocent old fusee had his faults, certainly. He would not always light; he had a bad habit of turning back on your finger-nail and burning its quick when you struck him; and he would occasionally light up, all by himself, and set fire to fifty of his fellows in your waist-coast pocket, or the tail of your best dress-coat. (Those were the days when waist-coats were gorgeous and tail-coats immense.) But what were these peccadilloes compared with the sins of the modern 'cigar-light?' 'Fusees,' forsooth! More like bomb-shells, military mines, torpedoes, and nitroglycerine trains. Who has not had them explode in his eye,on his cheek, down his neck, scarring his skin, burning holes in his coats and trousers, frightening passers-by, and doing all manner of deep-dyed devilment? Nor is this the worst. Those who will trust their skins, and their eyes, and their clothes to 'Vesuvians,' 'Flamers,' and the like, are not to be pitied; for they are more cruel to their tobacco than the fusees are to them. Our grievance is that so many engines of destructiveness and offensiveness should be so largely patronized by smokers, to their own discomfort, the ruination of their tobacco, the scandalization of gentle and simple, and the encouragement of vicious manufactures. Now, we are not going to particularize too closely, for fear of consequences. In these days, when a man may bring an action for libel because it has been said of him that he sells bad soup at a railway station, prudence is the better part of valor. But, just examine this heterogeneous pile of 'cigar-lights,' which rears its audacious head upon the table. Here are Palmers, Barbers, Farmers, Lord Lornes, Tichbornes, Bryants and Moys, Bells and Blacks, Alexandres, Bismarcks, King Williams, Napoleons, and scores of other varieties. Some light 'only on the box,' some light anywhere, some everywhere, and some nowhere. Some are on wood, some on porcelain, some on glass, some on dire deeds intent. There are vestas, safety-matches, patent flint-and-steel contrivances, with silver tubes and marvellous screws wherewith to put them out when they have served your turn. Some are excellent, many passable, still more intolerable. One of these times it may be worth while to speak of the good ones, but at present we care only to treat of those that are bad, and that briefly."Here's a 'Flamer'—we name no names—everybody seems to make flamers; and this one deserves his title. We want to light a peaceful pipe, and he bursts out in a fury like unto nothing on earth so much as Etna in convulsion, or the Tuilleries in petroleum blaze. But, if you have any respect for your tobacco, your lips, your nostrils, or your lungs, you will let him get rid of his flames before you apply him to your cigar; and, when you do venture so far, he drops off the stick and burns a hole in the carpet. Or, if you be daring enough to take a light from the flamer while he flames, you spoil your tobacco, foul your mouth, and get a taste of sulphur-suffocation such as Asmodeus might have were he to take a whiff of a smoke-and-fire belching chimney in the Black Country as he flies across that district by night.Haven't got a light? Glad of it. Try a Vesuvian-round, black and tipped with blue. There's a pyrotechnic display for you! Now, in with it, after the approved style illustrated by the two human hands engaged in lighting a cigar on the illuminated cover of the box. 'Ugh!' you say. Just so; you've got a mouthful of choice abominations, which will cost you much waste of saliva, several shivers, and the whole piece of tobacco you were about to enjoy. Here, put that away; take another, light it quietly with this wax-vesta, or this wooden 'spill,' or this screw of paper; smoke gently, don't let the fire out, and you'll be all right. In future, you may be wise enough to avoid cheap cigar-lights and pipe-lights, even for use in the streets. Our word upon it—they are far dearer than those which cost more."
"But this is the age of Fusees. What a name! When, in our youth, those longitudinal strips of tinder, semi-divided into innumerable transverse slips, all tipped with harmless, ignitable matter, first assumed the title, we had little notion of the atrocities which would come to be dignified by their name. This was soon after the world had been delighted by the Congreves, which drove Lucifer to the wall, and before English and German ingenuity had taught us to find 'death' in the box, as well as 'the pot.' The innocent old fusee had his faults, certainly. He would not always light; he had a bad habit of turning back on your finger-nail and burning its quick when you struck him; and he would occasionally light up, all by himself, and set fire to fifty of his fellows in your waist-coast pocket, or the tail of your best dress-coat. (Those were the days when waist-coats were gorgeous and tail-coats immense.) But what were these peccadilloes compared with the sins of the modern 'cigar-light?' 'Fusees,' forsooth! More like bomb-shells, military mines, torpedoes, and nitroglycerine trains. Who has not had them explode in his eye,on his cheek, down his neck, scarring his skin, burning holes in his coats and trousers, frightening passers-by, and doing all manner of deep-dyed devilment? Nor is this the worst. Those who will trust their skins, and their eyes, and their clothes to 'Vesuvians,' 'Flamers,' and the like, are not to be pitied; for they are more cruel to their tobacco than the fusees are to them. Our grievance is that so many engines of destructiveness and offensiveness should be so largely patronized by smokers, to their own discomfort, the ruination of their tobacco, the scandalization of gentle and simple, and the encouragement of vicious manufactures. Now, we are not going to particularize too closely, for fear of consequences. In these days, when a man may bring an action for libel because it has been said of him that he sells bad soup at a railway station, prudence is the better part of valor. But, just examine this heterogeneous pile of 'cigar-lights,' which rears its audacious head upon the table. Here are Palmers, Barbers, Farmers, Lord Lornes, Tichbornes, Bryants and Moys, Bells and Blacks, Alexandres, Bismarcks, King Williams, Napoleons, and scores of other varieties. Some light 'only on the box,' some light anywhere, some everywhere, and some nowhere. Some are on wood, some on porcelain, some on glass, some on dire deeds intent. There are vestas, safety-matches, patent flint-and-steel contrivances, with silver tubes and marvellous screws wherewith to put them out when they have served your turn. Some are excellent, many passable, still more intolerable. One of these times it may be worth while to speak of the good ones, but at present we care only to treat of those that are bad, and that briefly.
"Here's a 'Flamer'—we name no names—everybody seems to make flamers; and this one deserves his title. We want to light a peaceful pipe, and he bursts out in a fury like unto nothing on earth so much as Etna in convulsion, or the Tuilleries in petroleum blaze. But, if you have any respect for your tobacco, your lips, your nostrils, or your lungs, you will let him get rid of his flames before you apply him to your cigar; and, when you do venture so far, he drops off the stick and burns a hole in the carpet. Or, if you be daring enough to take a light from the flamer while he flames, you spoil your tobacco, foul your mouth, and get a taste of sulphur-suffocation such as Asmodeus might have were he to take a whiff of a smoke-and-fire belching chimney in the Black Country as he flies across that district by night.Haven't got a light? Glad of it. Try a Vesuvian-round, black and tipped with blue. There's a pyrotechnic display for you! Now, in with it, after the approved style illustrated by the two human hands engaged in lighting a cigar on the illuminated cover of the box. 'Ugh!' you say. Just so; you've got a mouthful of choice abominations, which will cost you much waste of saliva, several shivers, and the whole piece of tobacco you were about to enjoy. Here, put that away; take another, light it quietly with this wax-vesta, or this wooden 'spill,' or this screw of paper; smoke gently, don't let the fire out, and you'll be all right. In future, you may be wise enough to avoid cheap cigar-lights and pipe-lights, even for use in the streets. Our word upon it—they are far dearer than those which cost more."
The following description of "Home Made Cigars" is fromAll the Year Round, and will doubtless be read with interest by many growers of the weed who may recall similar scenes:
"'Apropos of cigars,' said Wilkins, lighting a second fragrant Havana with the stump of the first, 'let's go and see the farmer's establishment for making them. You see that field of tobacco over yonder? Old Standish raises his own weed, dries it in the big open sheds behind the barn, cures it—I don't quite know the whole process—and then has it made into sixes and short fives, Conchas and Cabanas, like a Cuban señor. I went over the establishment about a year ago, and it is worth seeing.'"We strolled first over to the tobacco field. The weed was then just at its full ripeness, and the long, flappy, delicately-furred green leaves bent gracefully over toward the ground, growing smaller and smaller the higher they were on the stout stalk. Few foreigners know that even as far north as New England, in the sunny valleys of Connecticut, sheltered as they are from the bleak east winds of the Atlantic and accustomed to a long and steady summer heat, tobacco is grown in large quantities, flourishes exuberantly, and is one of the chief sources of profit to the farmers. It needs a rich warm soil and careful tending; but it gives in its growth, a sentimental reward to the cultivator; for it comes up gracefully, rapidly, and beautifully, and is with some care, one of the most satisfactory crops to 'handle.' Having gazed at and tasted the thick leaves, we sauntered behind the barn, and there saw the long open shed, withbeams running parallel from end to end, where the gathered tobacco leaves were hung to be thoroughly dried by the sun.
"'Apropos of cigars,' said Wilkins, lighting a second fragrant Havana with the stump of the first, 'let's go and see the farmer's establishment for making them. You see that field of tobacco over yonder? Old Standish raises his own weed, dries it in the big open sheds behind the barn, cures it—I don't quite know the whole process—and then has it made into sixes and short fives, Conchas and Cabanas, like a Cuban señor. I went over the establishment about a year ago, and it is worth seeing.'
"We strolled first over to the tobacco field. The weed was then just at its full ripeness, and the long, flappy, delicately-furred green leaves bent gracefully over toward the ground, growing smaller and smaller the higher they were on the stout stalk. Few foreigners know that even as far north as New England, in the sunny valleys of Connecticut, sheltered as they are from the bleak east winds of the Atlantic and accustomed to a long and steady summer heat, tobacco is grown in large quantities, flourishes exuberantly, and is one of the chief sources of profit to the farmers. It needs a rich warm soil and careful tending; but it gives in its growth, a sentimental reward to the cultivator; for it comes up gracefully, rapidly, and beautifully, and is with some care, one of the most satisfactory crops to 'handle.' Having gazed at and tasted the thick leaves, we sauntered behind the barn, and there saw the long open shed, withbeams running parallel from end to end, where the gathered tobacco leaves were hung to be thoroughly dried by the sun.
Making Cigars.
Making Cigars.
"Then Wilkins conducted us for some distance along the river bank; we jumped into a boat and rowed perhaps half a mile, landing by the side of a little shop-like building, where we heard the hum of voices and the commotion of many busy persons. We entered and found ourselves in a long, low room, having wide tables ranged along the walls; here, working rapidly, were rows of chatty country girls, who, as they worked, laughed and talked, and now and then hummed a verse of some familiar ballad. Neatly packed piles of the dried and cured leaf lay upon the table before them."Each was armed with knives and cutters, and we watched the quick transformation of the flat leaves into the smooth and compact cigars. The tobacco grown upon the farm was, we discovered, only used as wrappers for the cigars. The good farmer imported, for the interior filling, a fine tobacco from Havana. Strips and little pieces of this the girls placed in the centre of the cigar, wrapping the Connecticut tobacco in wide strips tightly about it, then pasting each of the last with some paste in a pot by their side. It seemed to be done almost in an instant; the Havana slips were laiddown, cut and trimmed, and pressed into shape in a twinkling; the wrappers were cut as quickly; and, more rapidly than I can describe it, the cigar was made. These girls were mostly daughters of neighboring farmers, who received so much per hundred cigars made; intelligent, bright-eyed and witty; many of them comely, with rosy cheeks and ruddy health; educated at the common schools, and able, their day's work over, to sit down at the piano and rattle awayad infinitum."His stock of cigars thus made up, from the first sowing to the last finishing touch, the good squire (being Yankee-like, a sort of Jack-of-all-trades,) would have them put up in gorgeously labeled boxes, carry them to town, and sell them to retail dealers; not disdaining himself, twice or thrice a year, to go through the neighboring States with samples, and acting as his own commercial traveler."
"Then Wilkins conducted us for some distance along the river bank; we jumped into a boat and rowed perhaps half a mile, landing by the side of a little shop-like building, where we heard the hum of voices and the commotion of many busy persons. We entered and found ourselves in a long, low room, having wide tables ranged along the walls; here, working rapidly, were rows of chatty country girls, who, as they worked, laughed and talked, and now and then hummed a verse of some familiar ballad. Neatly packed piles of the dried and cured leaf lay upon the table before them.
"Each was armed with knives and cutters, and we watched the quick transformation of the flat leaves into the smooth and compact cigars. The tobacco grown upon the farm was, we discovered, only used as wrappers for the cigars. The good farmer imported, for the interior filling, a fine tobacco from Havana. Strips and little pieces of this the girls placed in the centre of the cigar, wrapping the Connecticut tobacco in wide strips tightly about it, then pasting each of the last with some paste in a pot by their side. It seemed to be done almost in an instant; the Havana slips were laiddown, cut and trimmed, and pressed into shape in a twinkling; the wrappers were cut as quickly; and, more rapidly than I can describe it, the cigar was made. These girls were mostly daughters of neighboring farmers, who received so much per hundred cigars made; intelligent, bright-eyed and witty; many of them comely, with rosy cheeks and ruddy health; educated at the common schools, and able, their day's work over, to sit down at the piano and rattle awayad infinitum.
"His stock of cigars thus made up, from the first sowing to the last finishing touch, the good squire (being Yankee-like, a sort of Jack-of-all-trades,) would have them put up in gorgeously labeled boxes, carry them to town, and sell them to retail dealers; not disdaining himself, twice or thrice a year, to go through the neighboring States with samples, and acting as his own commercial traveler."
This description, however, may not convey a correct idea of the exact mode of manufacture to many growers of tobacco in the Connecticut Valley inasmuch as many planters of the "weed" make the entire cigar (more particularly for their own use) wrapper, binder and filler wholly of seed-leaf tobacco, such cigars do not readily sell to the trade except at inferior prices which admit of but a small profit to the manufacturer. The following spicy article from the "LondonFigaro" may be interesting to all smokers as well as guide them in the selection of a good cigar.
"I am an imaginative person, and 'society' has treated me shamefully of late—its tangible delights are absent from me. Allow me, then, to console myself by the 'creations of smoke,' as Lord Lytton puts it. I am scouted by society because I am in love. I am told I look:
"As hyenas in love are supposed to look, orA something between Abelard and old Blücher."
And, moreover, I am an ugly man, but there was only a fortnight's difference in gaining a woman's love between John Wilkes and the handsomest man in England, courage, Jehu! I like idleness, because it shows that one can afford it; so I am puffing idly—ah! the balmy fragrance of this mild Havana! 'Oh! the effect of that first note from the woman one loves!' says one; 'Oh! the kiss on the dimpled cheek, the sound of the silver voice!' saysanother; but what can compare to the dreamy exquisite luxury of a good cigar? But, heavens, what am I saying? I am in love, and Julia reads the "Figaro!" The paleness of Flaxman's illustrations spreads over me—please, reader, look upon the sentiment as sarcastic. I am in a fog of smoke, and am quaffing claret from the silvered pewter. There's plenty of it; and no soul can say:
"That in drinking fromthatbeakerI am sipping like a fly.'
How changed from the long, long days ago, when I was a connoisseur in Parparillo cigars, brown-paper cigarettes, and cane cheroots! Then I fondly adored Sir Walter Raleigh as my earthly idol, for giving me tobacco—when I had the halfpence to buy it—and delighted in the story, told by queer Oldys, of Sir Walter's servant extinguishing the Virginny smoke that issued from his master's lips, by drenching him with ale. Alas! my idol is shattered by Hawkins. The Spaniards say, 'The lie that lasts for half an hour is worth telling.' History has lied for longer, by a considerable period. Fond even as I was of my brown-papered cigarettes when baccy failed, I must confess I never reached the stage attained by Sir Christopher Haydon's chaplain, William Breedon, parson of Thornton, in Bucks, who was so given to
"October store and best Virginia,"
that when he had no tobacco (and too much drink) he used to cut thebell-ropesand smoke them!
"The Polyglot—three parts—my text;Howbeit—likewise—now to my next."
"On Smoke.—It is a vulgar, ludicrous, and foolish custom to bite off the nose of a cigar. Don't be a Vandal—you are not a Sandwich Islander, about to chew yourKava. A cigar should be handled daintily; it is a fragile, graceful creature—don't mar its beauty. Tear off the twist, and the pleasure of smoking is at an end! The outer leaf becomes untwirled. Ere it is half finished, you have a ragged end between your lips—nasty, foul, and unsightly—through which the smoke comes in huge clouds to your mouth, instead of slender streams on the palate. 'How, then,' say you; 'prick it, or cut it, or what? Tear it not, cut it not; nor yet puncture it. Don't be frightened of the cigar—thrusting a half-inch alone into the mouth; but, when you begin, take a good half of it in the mouth; pull at it lustily for a few seconds,to open its pores; then draw it out, allowing but an inch to be held within the lips—believe me, you will enjoy it a hundred-fold more; and there are but few cigars that will not allow of their virtue being drawn though their leaves. Never bite the end off, and never use your cigar cruelly, by squeezing it, biting it, or re-lighting it. Cigar-holders, tubes, quills, and such like inventions, we despise. If you cannot bear the cigar in your mouth—aye, and enjoy it—you have no business with it: go back to your brown paper and cane!"What is the best beverage to imbibe whilst inhaling the precious weed? Momentous question! Coffee, or claret, says Jehu. I do not believe in bitter, as an accompanying liquid to a cigar. The Corporation of Christ-church, years ago, smoked cigars, and drank with them that then famous concoction known as 'Ringwood Beer.' What was the result? The first toast at every civic banquet held for years in that borough was gravely given out, and bumpered with due solemnity, as follows:—
"On Smoke.—It is a vulgar, ludicrous, and foolish custom to bite off the nose of a cigar. Don't be a Vandal—you are not a Sandwich Islander, about to chew yourKava. A cigar should be handled daintily; it is a fragile, graceful creature—don't mar its beauty. Tear off the twist, and the pleasure of smoking is at an end! The outer leaf becomes untwirled. Ere it is half finished, you have a ragged end between your lips—nasty, foul, and unsightly—through which the smoke comes in huge clouds to your mouth, instead of slender streams on the palate. 'How, then,' say you; 'prick it, or cut it, or what? Tear it not, cut it not; nor yet puncture it. Don't be frightened of the cigar—thrusting a half-inch alone into the mouth; but, when you begin, take a good half of it in the mouth; pull at it lustily for a few seconds,to open its pores; then draw it out, allowing but an inch to be held within the lips—believe me, you will enjoy it a hundred-fold more; and there are but few cigars that will not allow of their virtue being drawn though their leaves. Never bite the end off, and never use your cigar cruelly, by squeezing it, biting it, or re-lighting it. Cigar-holders, tubes, quills, and such like inventions, we despise. If you cannot bear the cigar in your mouth—aye, and enjoy it—you have no business with it: go back to your brown paper and cane!
"What is the best beverage to imbibe whilst inhaling the precious weed? Momentous question! Coffee, or claret, says Jehu. I do not believe in bitter, as an accompanying liquid to a cigar. The Corporation of Christ-church, years ago, smoked cigars, and drank with them that then famous concoction known as 'Ringwood Beer.' What was the result? The first toast at every civic banquet held for years in that borough was gravely given out, and bumpered with due solemnity, as follows:—
'Prosperation to this Corporation.'
Brandy is a perfect antidote to inebriation from beer, so we are told. The Corporation should have known this, and been awakened from their long and pleasant dream ofprosperation. Brandy I should hardly reckon amongst the drinks that ought to be with cigars, notwithstanding that Tennyson has asked:—
'For what delights can equal thoseWhich stir, with spirits, inner depths? &c.'
Brandy-and-water, gin, whisky, and the likes are only fit for those who nocturnally lay the foundation for matutinal 'hot coppers,' with the vilest shag in the most odorous of yards of clay. 'Smoking leads to drinking,' has been a favorite old woman's saying for time out of mind. How I hate old women's sayings! A grain—requiring to be picked out with a pin and microscope—of truth, with a bushel of bunkum or cant. How is it, that ever since the days of James I, of 'hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain' memory, there have always been carpers on the injurious effects of smoking? 'Nicotine!' they say, with a would-be-taken-for-know-all-about-it-air. Quite so; but, as recent investigations have proved that, so far as the actual 'poisoning' is concerned, it would take upwards of a thousand years to kill the most inveterate of healthy smokers, we have still time to breathe—and 'it please the pigs.'Mem.for pipers—French tobaccocontains the greatest, Turkish the least, per-centage of nicotine. Havana, two and one-half per cent."But an unique old woman of Jehu's acquaintance goes further still; boldly asserting that 'smoking is well for making good soldiers, well for making good sailors, well for making sometimes good lawyers; not so well for making good Christians.' Oh! ashes of Hawkins and Raleigh, shudder for the results of 'baccy on degraded human nature.' There must be a rarity of good Christians, then amongst the parsons; they are all fond of it. Dean Aldrich was, perhaps, tho greatest smoker of his day. His excessive attachment to this habit was the cause of many wagers. Here's one:—At breakfast, one morning, at the 'Varsity, an undergraduate laid his companion long odds that the Dean was smoking at that instant. Away they hastened; and, being admitted to the Dean's study, stated the occasion of their visit. The Dean replied, in perfect good humor, to the layer of the bet, 'You see, sir, you have lost your wager; for I am not smoking, but filling my pipe.' But—my cigar has reached its last dying speech, and there is but a drop left in the beaker.
Brandy-and-water, gin, whisky, and the likes are only fit for those who nocturnally lay the foundation for matutinal 'hot coppers,' with the vilest shag in the most odorous of yards of clay. 'Smoking leads to drinking,' has been a favorite old woman's saying for time out of mind. How I hate old women's sayings! A grain—requiring to be picked out with a pin and microscope—of truth, with a bushel of bunkum or cant. How is it, that ever since the days of James I, of 'hateful to the nose, harmful to the brain' memory, there have always been carpers on the injurious effects of smoking? 'Nicotine!' they say, with a would-be-taken-for-know-all-about-it-air. Quite so; but, as recent investigations have proved that, so far as the actual 'poisoning' is concerned, it would take upwards of a thousand years to kill the most inveterate of healthy smokers, we have still time to breathe—and 'it please the pigs.'Mem.for pipers—French tobaccocontains the greatest, Turkish the least, per-centage of nicotine. Havana, two and one-half per cent.
"But an unique old woman of Jehu's acquaintance goes further still; boldly asserting that 'smoking is well for making good soldiers, well for making good sailors, well for making sometimes good lawyers; not so well for making good Christians.' Oh! ashes of Hawkins and Raleigh, shudder for the results of 'baccy on degraded human nature.' There must be a rarity of good Christians, then amongst the parsons; they are all fond of it. Dean Aldrich was, perhaps, tho greatest smoker of his day. His excessive attachment to this habit was the cause of many wagers. Here's one:—At breakfast, one morning, at the 'Varsity, an undergraduate laid his companion long odds that the Dean was smoking at that instant. Away they hastened; and, being admitted to the Dean's study, stated the occasion of their visit. The Dean replied, in perfect good humor, to the layer of the bet, 'You see, sir, you have lost your wager; for I am not smoking, but filling my pipe.' But—my cigar has reached its last dying speech, and there is but a drop left in the beaker.
'I'll not leave thee, thou lone drop!'Twould be mighty unkind,Since the rest I have swallow'd,To leave thee behind.'
"Final exhortation. Choose the small, sound, tolerably firm, and elastic cigar: the dwarf contains stuff within which the giant hath not. Don't flatter yourself you're smoking cabbage, if not tobacco—its any odds on rhubarb!
'For me there's nothing new or rare,Till wine deceives my brain;And that, I think, 's a reason fairTo fill my pipe again.'"
Charles Lamb, "the gentle Elia" was during a portion of his lifetime a famous smoker. In a letter to Hazlitt he writes, "I am so smoky with last night's ten pipes, that I must leave off." It is said that he smoked only the coarsest and strongest he could procure. Dr. Parr inquired of him how he acquired his "prodigious smoking powers." "I toiled after it, sir," was the reply, "as some men toil after virtue!" Lamb was constant in his use of tobacco, and among all the great luminaries of English literature we know of none more addicted to the use of the pipe. Lamb might often be seen in his chambers in Mitre Court Building, puffing the coarsest weed from a long clay pipe, in company withParr who used the finest kind of tobacco in a pipe half filled with salt. It was no easy task to relinquish the use of tobacco and it cost him many a struggle and much determined effort. In writing to Wordsworth he says:—"I wish you may think this a handsome farewell to my 'Friendly Traitress.' Tobacco has been my evening comfort and my morning curse for these five years. I have had it in my head to do it (Farewell to Tobacco) these two years; but tobacco stood in its own light when it gave me headaches that prevented my singing its praises."
Lamb's poem is without doubt one of the finest pieces of verse ever written on tobacco, and seemingly contains both words of praise and dispraise—the latter however in some sense are insincere.
"May the Babylonish curseStraight confound my stammering verseIf I can a passage seeIn this word-perplexity,Or a fit expression find,Or a language to my mind,(Still the phrase is wide or scant,)To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!Or in my terms relateHalf my love, or half my hate;For I hate, yet love thee so,That whichever thing I show,The plain truth will seem to beA constrain'd hyperbole,And the passion to proceedMore from a mistress than a weed.Sooty retainer to the vine,Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;Sorcerer, thou mak'st us dote uponThy begrimed complexion,And for thy pernicious sake,More and greater oaths to breakThan reclaimed lovers take'Gainst women: thou thy siege do'st layMuch too in the female way,While thou suck'st the lab'ring breathFaster than kisses or than death.Thou in such a cloud do'st bind us,That our worst foes cannot find us.And ill fortune that would thwart us,Shoots at rovers shooting at us;While each man through thy height'ning steamDoes like a smoking Ætna seem,And all about us does express(Fancy and wit in richest dress)A Sicilian fruitfulness.Thou though such a mist dost show usThat our best friends do not know us,And for those allowed featuresDue to reasonable creatures,Liken'st us to feel ChimerasMonsters that, who see us, fear us;Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.Bacchus we know, and we allow,His tipsy rites, but what art thou,That but by reflex canst showWhat his deity can do,As the false Egyptian spellAped the true Hebrew miracle?Some few vapors thou may'st raise,The weak brain may serve to amaze,But to the reins and nobler heartCanst nor life nor heat impart.Brother of Bacchus, later born,The old world was sure forlorn,Wanting thee, that aidest more,The gods' victories than beforeAll his panthers, and the brawls,Of his piping Bacchanals.These, as stole, we disallowOr judge of thee meant: only thouHis true Indian conquest art;And, for ivy round his dart,The reformed god now weavesA finer thyrsus of thy leaves.Scent to match thy rich perfume—Chemic art did ne'er presume,Through her quaint alembic strain,None so sov'reign to the brain.Nature, that did in thee excel,Framed again no second smell.Roses, Violets but toysFor the smaller sort of boys;Or for greener damsels meant;Thou art the only manly scent.Stinking'st of the stinking kind,Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind,Africa, that brags her fois onBreeds no such prodigious poison,Henbane, nightshade, both together,Hemlock, aconite——Nay, rather,Plant divine of rarest virtue:Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;None e'er prospered who defamed thee;Irony all, and feigned abuse,Such as perplex'd lovers use,At a need, when in despair,To paint forth their fairest fair,Or in part but to expressThat exceeding comelinessWhich their fancies doth so strike,They borrow language of dislike;And instead of Dearest Miss,Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss,And those forms of old admiring,Call her Cockatrice and Siren,Basilisk, and all that's evil,Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, devil,Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor,Monkey, Ape, and twenty more;Friendly traitress, loving foe,Not that she is truly so,But no other may they know,A contentment to express,Borders so upon excess,That they do not rightly wot,Whether it be pain or not;Or, as men constrained to partWith what's nearest to their heart,While their sorrow's at the heightLose discrimination quite,And their hasty wrath let fall,To oppose their frantic gall,On the darling thing whateverWhence they feel it death to sever,Though it be, as they, perforce,Guiltless of the sad divorce.For I must (nor let it grieve thee,Friendliest of plants,That I must) leave thee.For thy sake, TOBACCO, IWould do anything but die,And but seek to extend my daysLong enough to sing thy praise.But as she who once hath been,A king's consort, is a queenEver after, nor will bateAny title of her state,Though a widow, or divorced,So I, from thy converse forced,The old name and style retain,A right Katherine of Spain,And a seat, too, 'mongst the joysOf the blest Tobacco Boys;Where, though I, by sour physician,Am debarred the full fruitionOf thy favors, I may catch,Some collateral sweets, and snatch,Sidelong odors, that give lifeLike glances from a neighbor's wife;And still live in the by-places,And the suburbs of thy graces;And in thy borders take delight,An unconquered Canaanite."
Thomas Jones, in the following neat little tribute to tobacco, pays a deserved compliment, not only to the plant, but to the great English smoker, "ye renowned Sir Walter Raleigh."
"Let poets rhyme of what they will,Youth, Beauty, Love or Glory, stillMy theme shall be Tobacco!Hail, weed, eclipsing every flow'r,Of thee I fain would make my bow'rWhen fortune frowns, or tempests low'r,Mild comforter of woe!"They say in truth an angel's footFirst brought to life thy precious root,The source of every pleasure!Descending from the skies he press'dWith hallow'd touch Earth's yielding breast,Forth sprang the plant, and then was bless'd,As man's chief treasure!"Throughout the world who knows thee not?Of palace and of lowly cotThe universal guest;The friend of Gentile, Turk and Jew,To all a stay—to none untrue,The balm that can our ills subdue,And soothe us into rest."With thee the poor man can abideOppression, want, the scorn of pride,The curse of penury,Companion of his lonely state,He is no longer desolate,And still can brave an adverse fate,With honest worth and thee!"All honor to the patriot bold,Who brought instead of promised gold,Thy leaf to Britain's shore;It cost him life; but thou shall raiseA cloud of fragrance to his praise,And bards shall hail in deathless laysThe valiant knight of yore."Ay, Raleigh! thou wilt live till TimeShall ring his last oblivious chime,The fruitful theme of story;And man in ages hence shall tell,How greatness, virtue, wisdom fell,When England sounded out thy knell,And dimmed her ancient glory."And thou, O Plant! shall keep his nameUnwither'd in the scroll of fame,And teach us to remember;He gave with thee content and peace,Bestow'd on life a longer lease,And bidding ev'ry trouble cease,Made Summer of December!"
"Let poets rhyme of what they will,Youth, Beauty, Love or Glory, stillMy theme shall be Tobacco!Hail, weed, eclipsing every flow'r,Of thee I fain would make my bow'rWhen fortune frowns, or tempests low'r,Mild comforter of woe!
"They say in truth an angel's footFirst brought to life thy precious root,The source of every pleasure!Descending from the skies he press'dWith hallow'd touch Earth's yielding breast,Forth sprang the plant, and then was bless'd,As man's chief treasure!
"Throughout the world who knows thee not?Of palace and of lowly cotThe universal guest;The friend of Gentile, Turk and Jew,To all a stay—to none untrue,The balm that can our ills subdue,And soothe us into rest.
"With thee the poor man can abideOppression, want, the scorn of pride,The curse of penury,Companion of his lonely state,He is no longer desolate,And still can brave an adverse fate,With honest worth and thee!
"All honor to the patriot bold,Who brought instead of promised gold,Thy leaf to Britain's shore;It cost him life; but thou shall raiseA cloud of fragrance to his praise,And bards shall hail in deathless laysThe valiant knight of yore.
"Ay, Raleigh! thou wilt live till TimeShall ring his last oblivious chime,The fruitful theme of story;And man in ages hence shall tell,How greatness, virtue, wisdom fell,When England sounded out thy knell,And dimmed her ancient glory.
"And thou, O Plant! shall keep his nameUnwither'd in the scroll of fame,And teach us to remember;He gave with thee content and peace,Bestow'd on life a longer lease,And bidding ev'ry trouble cease,Made Summer of December!"
The smoker of cigarettes is passionately attached to his "little roll" and regards this mode of obtaining the flavor of tobacco the best. The finest are made in Havana and, vast quantities are used by the Cubans and Spaniards. A writer in "The Tobacco Plant" gives this pleasing effusion in regard to them:—
"Your cigarette is a sort of hybrid—half-pipe and half-cigar; neither the one nor the other; neither the delight ofthe epicure nor the solace of the true tobacco-lover. Far be it from us to deny, or even to question, its value, its utility, or its charm. We have smoked too many to dream of treating them with scorn—cigarettes of Virginia shag, strong, pungent, luscious; of light and fragrant Persian, innocuous and soothing; cigarettes rolled by ladies' dainty fingers, compressed by elegant French machines of silk and silver, cut, stamped, and gummed by prosy, matter-of-fact, and even vulgar Titanic engines in great tobacco-factories. But the thorough-paced smoker renders to his cigarette only a secondary and diluted adoration: it is nice, it is delicate, it is pretty—a thing to be toyed with, to be fondled, even to burn one's fingers (or, perchance, one's lips) withal; but by no means an object to call forth a passion."But just as the world would be a tame and an insipid institution were all men's tastes alike, so the world of smokers would lose much of its romance were all the lovers of the weed of temperament too robust to love a cigarette. Brevity and sweetness are proverbially held to constitute claims upon the respect and admiration of the voluptuous, and to the cigarette these cannot be denied. There is something touching in the self-abnegation of a tobaccoite who will devote five mortal minutes and the sweat of his refined intelligence, with the skill of his delicate fingers, to the preparation of a tiny capsule of the weed, which burns itself to ashes in five minutes more. There is a butterfly-beauty about the cigarette to which the cigar and the pipe can lay no claim—a summer charm to stir the dreamy rapture of a poet, and to excite the Lotus-eating philosopher even to analogy. Just as the suns, and flowers, and balmy zephyrs of a century have gone to form the gauzy, multi-colored insect that flits across your path throughout a single summer's day, and then returns to dust and vapor, so the harvest of West-Indian and East-Asian fields, the long voyage of the mariner, the merchant's hours of soil, the steam-power and manual labor of the factory, the thoughtful calculations of the trader, the skill of the tissue-paper maker, all have gone, and more than these, to the creation of a fairy-cylinder of Tobacco, which glows, delights, expires, and meets its end in ten or fifteen fleeting minutes."
"Your cigarette is a sort of hybrid—half-pipe and half-cigar; neither the one nor the other; neither the delight ofthe epicure nor the solace of the true tobacco-lover. Far be it from us to deny, or even to question, its value, its utility, or its charm. We have smoked too many to dream of treating them with scorn—cigarettes of Virginia shag, strong, pungent, luscious; of light and fragrant Persian, innocuous and soothing; cigarettes rolled by ladies' dainty fingers, compressed by elegant French machines of silk and silver, cut, stamped, and gummed by prosy, matter-of-fact, and even vulgar Titanic engines in great tobacco-factories. But the thorough-paced smoker renders to his cigarette only a secondary and diluted adoration: it is nice, it is delicate, it is pretty—a thing to be toyed with, to be fondled, even to burn one's fingers (or, perchance, one's lips) withal; but by no means an object to call forth a passion.
"But just as the world would be a tame and an insipid institution were all men's tastes alike, so the world of smokers would lose much of its romance were all the lovers of the weed of temperament too robust to love a cigarette. Brevity and sweetness are proverbially held to constitute claims upon the respect and admiration of the voluptuous, and to the cigarette these cannot be denied. There is something touching in the self-abnegation of a tobaccoite who will devote five mortal minutes and the sweat of his refined intelligence, with the skill of his delicate fingers, to the preparation of a tiny capsule of the weed, which burns itself to ashes in five minutes more. There is a butterfly-beauty about the cigarette to which the cigar and the pipe can lay no claim—a summer charm to stir the dreamy rapture of a poet, and to excite the Lotus-eating philosopher even to analogy. Just as the suns, and flowers, and balmy zephyrs of a century have gone to form the gauzy, multi-colored insect that flits across your path throughout a single summer's day, and then returns to dust and vapor, so the harvest of West-Indian and East-Asian fields, the long voyage of the mariner, the merchant's hours of soil, the steam-power and manual labor of the factory, the thoughtful calculations of the trader, the skill of the tissue-paper maker, all have gone, and more than these, to the creation of a fairy-cylinder of Tobacco, which glows, delights, expires, and meets its end in ten or fifteen fleeting minutes."
Although the cigarette is not a favorite with us, still we admire its use as a sort of appendage to a good dinner, and as preparatory work for a "good smoke." The Spaniards have always been great lovers of their minute rolls, and withthem, no other method of burning tobacco appears so delicate or refined. Especially is this true among the ladies, who prefer "Seville cigarettes" to all others. Many smokers make their own cigarettes, sometimes using Havana tobacco, and sometimes making them of two or more kinds. An excellent cigar is made by using equal parts of Virginia and Perique tobacco, or equal parts of Havana and Perique. A fine flavored cigarette is also made from Yara and Havana tobacco, equal parts of each being used. Thos. Hood has signalized his attachment to cigar in the following pleasing little poem:—
THE CIGAR.
"Some sigh for this and that,My wishes don't go far;The world may wag at will,So I have my cigar."Some fret themselves to deathWith Whig and Tory jar;I don't care which is in,So I have my cigar."Sir John requests my vote,And so does Mr. Marr;I don't care how it does,So I have my cigar."Some want a German row,Some wish a Russian war;I care not. I'm at peace,So I have my cigar."I never see the Post,I seldom read the Star;The Globe I scarcely heed,So I have my cigar."Honors have come to menMy juniors at the Bar;No matter—I can wait,So I have my cigar."Ambition frets me not;A cab or glory's carAre just the same to me,So I have my cigar."I worship no vain gods,But serve the household Lar;I'm sure to be at home,So I have my cigar."I do not seek for fame,A General with a scar;A private let me be,So I have my cigar."To have my choice amongThe toys of life's bazar,The deuce may take them all,So I have my cigar."Some minds are often tostBy tempests like a tar;I always seem in port,So I have my cigar."The ardent flame of loveMy bosom cannot char,I smoke but do not burn,So I have my cigar."They tell me Nancy LowHas married Mr. R.;The jilt! but I can live,So I have my cigar."
"Some sigh for this and that,My wishes don't go far;The world may wag at will,So I have my cigar.
"Some fret themselves to deathWith Whig and Tory jar;I don't care which is in,So I have my cigar.
"Sir John requests my vote,And so does Mr. Marr;I don't care how it does,So I have my cigar.
"Some want a German row,Some wish a Russian war;I care not. I'm at peace,So I have my cigar.
"I never see the Post,I seldom read the Star;The Globe I scarcely heed,So I have my cigar.
"Honors have come to menMy juniors at the Bar;No matter—I can wait,So I have my cigar.
"Ambition frets me not;A cab or glory's carAre just the same to me,So I have my cigar.
"I worship no vain gods,But serve the household Lar;I'm sure to be at home,So I have my cigar.
"I do not seek for fame,A General with a scar;A private let me be,So I have my cigar.
"To have my choice amongThe toys of life's bazar,The deuce may take them all,So I have my cigar.
"Some minds are often tostBy tempests like a tar;I always seem in port,So I have my cigar.
"The ardent flame of loveMy bosom cannot char,I smoke but do not burn,So I have my cigar.
"They tell me Nancy LowHas married Mr. R.;The jilt! but I can live,So I have my cigar."
Lord Byron, a "good smoker" as well as a great poet, has immortalized his love of the cigar in the following graceful lines:—
"Sublime Tobacco! which from east to west,Cheers the tars labors, and the Turkman's rest—Which on the Moslem's ottoman dividesHis hours, and rivals opium and his brides;Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand,Though not less loved in Wapping or the Strand;Divine in hookhas, glorious in a pipe,When tipped with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe,Like other charms, wooing the caressMore dazzingly when dawning in full dress.Yet thy true lovers more admire by farThy naked beauties—Give me a Cigar!"
Having given a general description of the cigar and its mode of manufacture, we come now to a more particular account of the various kinds known as the best and of world-wide reputation. Standing at the head of the various kinds of cigars, either of the Old or New World, are those known to all smokers as:
Havanas.
Havanas.
These are, by common consent, the finest in the world. They possess every quality desirable in a cigar, and seemingly to its greatest extent. Grown in the richest portion of the tropical world, the leaf has a rich, oily appearance, and, when made into cigars, possesses a flavor as rich as it is rare. Unlike most tobaccos suitable for cigars, every taste can be met in the Havana cigars, its many varieties of flavor and strength suiting it alike to both sexes, and to the making of the delicate cigarette or the largest Cabanas. These cigars are made up of all the various colors and parts of the leaf, and also of all sizes common to the trade. In shape they are usually round, though sometimes pressed (flat), and in color are (according to our description) light and dark brown, light and dark red, straw colored and dark straw colored, and some other shades or strengths. It is necessary to have all the various shades of color in order to meet the demand for the various flavors desired. Without doubt a greater variety of flavors can be found among Havana cigars than in any other kind, owing to the many shades of color, which determines the strength and flavor of the cigar. The Havanacigar is made of a leaf tobacco well known for its good burning qualities, when properly cured and sweated,—burning with a clear, steady light, leaving a fine white or pearl-colored ash, according to the color chosen. These cigars rarely "char" in burning; certainly not, if made of good quality of tobacco and thoroughly sweat. If a full-flavored cigar is desired, choose the dark colors, and the lighter if a mild cigar is preferable. The lighter the color of the tobacco the lighter the ash and the milder the flavor of the cigar. Light-colored cigars usually burn freer and more evenly than dark ones. In selecting a cigar for its good burning qualities, choose those (if such are to be had) covered with white specks, or white rust; such cigars burn well, as white rust is found only on well-ripened leaves. Select a firm, well-made cigar—one that contains a good quantity of fillers—avoiding, however, in Havana cigars, one madetoonicely, as it is sometimes the case that superior external appearance is made to cover defects in the more important qualities.
Such a selection will insure a cigar of good quality; one that will hold fire and last the length of time appropriate to its size. A cigar should not be chosen simply because it is made well, and neither because its outside appearance (wrapper) is fine, both in color and quality of leaf; rather depend upon the manufacture of the brand. Havana cigars have as many distinct flavors as there are colors of the leaf, ranging from very mild to very strong.
The first great requisite of a cigar is its burning quality, and the second its flavor; without the first the latter is of little value. A cigar made from leaf that does not burn freely will not possess any desirable flavor, but will char and emit rank-smelling smoke, without any desirable feature whatever. When both of these qualities are in a measure perfect the cigar will prove to be good. There are two varieties, at least, known as non-burning tobacco, of which we shall speak hereafter. The flavor and burning quality of a cigar always determine its character, and are found in perfection in those made of fine even-colored leaf. Dark cigarshave a thicker leaf or more body, and consequently are stronger than light-colored cigars. When the cigar is made of fine, well-sweat tobacco, and contains the full quantity of fillers, the pellet of ashes will be firm and strong, and should possess the same color all through, if the filler, binder and wrapper are of the same shade of color. The finest-flavored cigars are those of a medium shade, between a light and a dark brown,—not so dark as to be of strong, rank taste, or so mild as to be deficient in a decided tobacco flavor, but simply possessing sufficient strength to give character to the cigar.