Chapter XIII: Preface (13)

Let us, then, take weeds and matches,
And a pipe――that is enough;
Tho’ it only be by snatches,
Spared from toil, we still will puff!

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. March, 1876.

――――

MEERSCHAUM.

Come to me, O! my meerschaum,
For the vile street organs play;
And the torture they’re inflicting
Will vanish quite away.

I open my study window
And into the twilight peer,
And my anxious eyes are watching
For the man with my evening beer.

In one hand is the shining pewter,
All amber the ale doth glow;
In t’other are long “churchwardens,”
As spotless and pure as snow.

Ah! what would the world be to us
Tobaccoless?――Fearful bore!
We should dread the day after to-morrow
Worse than the day before.

As the elephant’s trunk to the creature,
Is the pipe to the man, I trow;
Useful and meditative
As the cud to the peaceful cow.

So to the world is smoking;
Through that we feel, with bliss,
That, whatever worlds come after,
A jolly old world is this.

Come to me, O! my meerschaum,
And whisper to me here,
If you like me better with coffee
Than grog, or the bitter beer.

Oh! what are our biggest winnings
If peaceful content we miss?
Though fortune may give us an innings,
She seldoms conveys us bliss.

You’re better than all the fortunes
That ever were made or broke;
For a penny will always fill you,
And buy me content with a smoke.

WRONGFELLOW.

――――

THE PIPE AND THE QUID.

_An imitation of Longfellow’s “The Arrow and the Song.”_

I flung a pipe into the air,
And it fell down, I knew not where;
For many folks were near to me,
And so I did not stay to see.

I spun a quid up in the air,
And that fell down, I knew not where;
For ’twould require the strongest sight
To follow a quid in its erring flight.

Shortly I found my pipe again,
On the head of my uncle broke in twain;
And the quid I had not seen descend,
I found in the eye of my dearest friend.

WRONGFELLOW.

_Cope’s Tobacco Plant._ June, 1876.

――――:o:――――

ANOTHER MATCH.
(After _A. C. Swinburne_.)

If love were dhudeen olden,
And I were like the weed,
Oh! we would live together,
And love the jolly weather,
And bask in sunshine golden,
Rare pals of choicest breed;
If love were dhudeen olden,
And I were like the weed.

If I were what cigars are,
And love were like the case,
In double rows or single,
Our varied scents we’d mingle,
Both brown as Persian shahs are――
(You recollect _his_ face);
If I were what cigars are,
And love were like the case.

If you were snuff, my darling,
And I, your love, the box,
We’d live and sneeze together,
Shut out from all the weather,
And anti-snuffers snarling,
In neckties orthodox;
If you were snuff, my darling,
And I, your love, the box.

If you were oil essential,
And I were nicotine,
We’d hatch up wicked treason,
And spoil each smoker’s reason,
Till he grew penitential,
And turned a bilious green;
If you were oil essential,
And I were nicotine.

If you were shag of dark hue,
And I were mild bird’s eye,
We’d scent the passing hours,
And fumigate the flowers;
And in the midnight, hark you,
The Norfold Howards should die
If you were Shag of dark hue,
And I were mild Bird’s-eye.

If you were the aroma,
And I were simply smoke,
We’d skyward fly together,
As light as any feather;
And flying high as Homer,
His grey old ghost we’d choke;
If you were the aroma,
And I were simply smoke.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. August, 1876.

――――

ANOTHER BALLAD OF MORE BURDENS.
(_After Swinburne._)

The burden of false meerschaums: Fair to sight
Built up by scamps in a most fraudful way,
With glass for amber, can’t be seen at night,
But looketh what it is in truthful day.
And bowls that turn (with dirt) to dirty grey,
And narrow bores that all our jaws do tire,
And fill our souls with horrible dismay.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of bad ’Bacca: This is worse.
A burden with full fruit of mild swearing:
We drop the pipe to drop a gentle curse,
Six score between the morn and evening.
The quivering of the glands, the shuddering,
The wheezy grunts with which we do respire,
Makes “weed” seem horrid and a treacherous thing.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of burnt breeches: Nay, sit down;
Cover thyself and sleep; for verily
The market women all about the town
Behind thy back shall laugh and hoot at thee.
Like the red beet-root all thy face shall be;
That box of lights set thy coat tails on fire,
And burnt thee bare. Tarry till daylight flee.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of the missus: oh! her tongue
Shall let thee rest not, e’en upon thy bed;
For that her curtains at the window hung,
Of stale smoke smelling, fill her soul with dread.
With mutton cold thou shalt be often fed,
And drink cold grog, against thy warm desire,
And wear a broomstick round thy shrinking head.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of mean cadgers; thou shalt flee
All ways at once, but still they will be seen;
And at the thing thou seest thy face shalt be
Transmogrified, and not at all serene.
And thou shalt say of ’Bacca, “It hath been
Consumed by me;” and they shall whisper “Liar;”
And go their ways with chagrin turning green.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of sad Antis: Every day
They will prognosticate thy doom, and tell
Where thou art going to at last, and say
The place is warm and undesirable.
And swear that for a mile thy clothes do smell;
And preach to thee till thy whole soul doth tire;
Then, going, groan――just for a parting knell.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of the taxes: Spoiled is Spring,
With fragrant ’Bacca ’neath the growing trees,
To think of what we pay for this one thing,
The dearest physic for our miseries.
For, at each puff, the weeping smoker sees
His wreath fly up, away, and higher, higher,
Till thoughts of bankruptcy do make him freeze.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of the fusees: Some won’t light,
And some will spit out fire upon the hands;
The wretch who sells them slinketh in the night,
And counts his fortune in far, foreign lands
Where police are not, and where are no cab-stands,
While we still on his head heap curses dire
And blame the makers of the various brands.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

The burden of fierce headaches: When we must
Forsake the weed, altho’ ’tis our delight,
When all our eyes seem red with blinding dust,
And on our head a weight hangs day and night,
And our red faces, lo! are bloodless white;
When nothing in the world we do admire,
And folks do ask us when we last were tight.
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

L’ENVOY.

Smokers, and ye whom ’Bacca tickleth,
Heed what is here before the weed you fire;
You cannot smoke for ever. Where’s your breath?
_This is a cause of every smoker’s ire._

SINBURN.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. September 1876.

――――:o:――――

THE CIGAR-SMOKERS.

“‘Courage!’ he said, and pointed towards the land;
‘This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.’
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.”

THE LOTOS EATERS――_Alfred Tennyson_.

I.

“Land ho!” he cried “I see it now,” says he,
“This jolly breeze will fetch us soon to land.”
Towards night they got there, time for early tea,
A land where tea seemed ever smoking hot to stand.
Thick clouds of smoke, by sleepy breezes fanned,
Twined, serpent like, o’er all, in curves and twists;
The setting sun glared red and angry, close at hand,
And from his steaming brow fell off the mists,
As falls the sweat from boxers, boxing with their fists.

II.

A land of smokers! smoking fast were some,
Quick, restless puffers wand’ring to and fro;
And some, with drowsy eyes and senses dumb,
Rolled heavy smoke-clouds very long and slow.
The strangers saw the smokers come and go
Along the shore, in groups of eight and sometimes ten,
From somewhere up above to somewhere down below;
Strange, dingy faces, strongly-perfumed men,
Smelling as husbands when their wives ask, where they’ve been.

III.

The sun went out, the moon began to rise,
But could not shine; smoke rests on everything
And closes o’er the sea; the hum of flies
Is heard afar, and vast musquitoes sing,
Who buzz and nearer buzz, then ’light and sting;
A place where all things always sleepy feel!
And round about and in and out, on odorous wing,
With faces like an owl, and tail unlike an eel,
The red-eyed ghosts of old Tobacco-smokers steal.

IV.

Great leaves of that disgusting weed they brought,
And some chopped fine to chew, and also snuff,
Whereof they gave to each, but who once caught
The taste, from him the strangely-smelling stuff
Took all good sense, nor said he ever, “hold! enough;”
The ocean’s voice he heard as tho’ it spake
To some one else; his own grew thick and gruff,
And half asleep and scarcely half awake,
An everlasting puffing, puffing he did make.

V.

They sat them down upon the dingy shore,
Betwixt the moonlight and the moonlight’s ray,
And closed their eyes with heavy eyelids o’er,
And saw the “old folks’” faces far “at home” away;
But dark and dismal seemed the tossing bay,
Dismal the hammock’s swing, the boatswain’s cry.
Then one man said, “We won’t go home, to-day!”
And all at once chimed in, “Agreed say I;
Let’s all together not go home till by-and-by!”

CHORIC SONG.

I.

There’s sweet tobacco here, of every kind,
Sweeter than honey in the hollow tree,
Or sugar in the sugar-cane, you’ll find,
Or dew-drop in the hollyhock can be;
Cigars whose smoke floats lightly round the eye,
As round the buttercup the butterfly;
Cigars that one would die to smoke, then smoke to die!
Here lie long-nines beside,
And plugs no teeth have ever tried,
And all the earth is snuff too, far and wide,
And in the craggy rocks the cigarettos hide!

II.

Why leave dry land to sail on boiling water?
Why make our short lives, any longer, shorter
By still debating, while the minutes flee?
All folks smoke here; why only smoke not we?――
We who have smoked vile smoke as e’er was known,
And chewed vile chews on land and sea,
Still from a bad one to a worse one thrown!
Nor ever end our woes,
By snuffing up the nose,
Nor yield our senses to the potent spell;
Nor hearken to the song that o’er us goes;
“No joy that tongue can tell
Is like what enters thro’ the avenue of smell!”

III.

Hateful is the pea-green sky,
Hanging o’er the pea-green sea――
Life ends in smoke, oh! why
Should life all labor be?
Let us alone. We do not want to go!
Since life’s a vapor, smoke it all away!
Let us alone. We have no strength to row,
We won’t attempt it, anyhow, to-day.
Let us alone. What fun can sailors find
In climbing up a wave, and down behind?
All folks have rest excepting only tars,
Their work is always of the endless kind;――
Give us a smoke or sleep, sound sleep or good cigars!

IV.

How sweet it were, seeing the rising fog,
With half-cigar and half a smile,
Dozing in a half-and-half the while,
To dream and dream like yonder aged frog,
Which only leaves his hole, the smoky log,
To muse amid abandoned stumps near by;
Chewing Tobacco, here to lie
And see the waves rush up, our joy to share,
Clutching with eager arms the vacant air,
To grasp the sweets the scented breezes bear;
To give our minds up to it wholly,
To chase away blue-thoughted melancholy,
To put rich flavorous, antique fine-cut tobacco,
Into these pipes by steady use grown blacker;
Pressed down with thumb to make it stay;
Two pinches of black dust shut in a bowl of clay.

V.

Our wives and children are at home, ’tis true;
But we can do without them, I and you;
All things have undergone a change back there;
Our babes climb other knees; our shirts new husbands wear!
They would not know us now, so dirty grown:
So strong we smell they’d slam the angry door,
Thinking our souls upon the wings of smoke had flown,
Been puffed away upon this dingy shore,
Leaving behind the wasted stumps alone,
Fit on the ash-pile only to be thrown.
Let what is, be as ’tis, of course;
A wife is hard to reconcile;
We might be driven out by force;
’Tis hard to fix things, when they’ve run awhile;
’Twould be at best our labor for our pains;
He gains but little who a woman gains:
Sad work, for hearts worn out with household noise,
And arms grown lame long since with nursing baby-boys!

VI.

Tobacco-posies blossom high and low;
Tobacco-posies bloom where’er you go;
All day the breezes from the ocean dipping,
O’er hill and vale, on tireless tiptoe tripping,
Up and down the sandy beach the dust of the Tobacco blow.
We have done enough of rolling and of pitching, O!
Up the foremast, up the hindmast, in the musty hold below,
While the bellowing boatswain shouted his eternal “Yo heave ho!”
Let us take an oath and keep it, with an open eye,
In the land of the Tobacco still to live and lie,
On the bank, like pigs together, you and also I;
For they lie beside each other, and the slops are hurled
All around them in the gutter, while their tails are tightly curled
All around them――glad and happy, in a glad and happy world;
There they smile in comfort, dreaming over future joys,
Dreading neither thirst nor hunger, sun nor storm, nor roaring noise,
Swearing men, nor scolding women, barking dogs, nor tyrant boys.
But they smile, they smell a prospect of a dinner by-and-bye,
Steaming up, a preparation making in the kitchens nigh,
And their tail is full of meaning when it’s curled so high!
But the luckless race of human labor for their life,
Plant and dig and raise potatoes, mostly keep a wife;
Wife who scolds them late and early, more than one would think,
’Till they lose their senses nearly――some, ’tis whispered, take
to drink――
Swigging endless potions――others in Tobacco islands dwell,
Resting weary legs, at last, on beds of assfoodel.
Surely, surely, smoking is more nice than not-the chew,
Than life upon the great big ocean, with so much work to do;
Oh! bless you, brothers, yes of course, we’ll stay here, I and you!

This is taken from a small volume of American parodies,
entitled “_The Song of Milkan Watha_, and other poems,”
by Marc Antony Henderson, D.C.L. Cincinnati: _Tickell_
and _Grinne_. 1856.

――――

NICOTINA.
_After Tennyson’s “Oriana.”_

At a bal masqué in San Francisco a young lady appeared attired to represent _Nicotine_. Her dress was made of Tobacco leaves, her necklace was formed of cigars, and she carried a fan and a parasol constructed of the weed.

My liver’s out of order, oh!
Nicotina!
A cloudy gloom doth o’er me flow,
Nicotina!
When blossoms fall as white as snow,
I think of her of “Francisco,”
Nicotina!
I wriggle in my bitter woe,
Nicotina!

When the dark to light was growing,
Nicotina!
And the cock left off a crowing,
Nicotina!
Thin ones “oh”-ing, fat ones blowing,
All unto the ball were going,
Nicotina!
I, too, went, to my o’erthrowing!
Nicotina!

In the ball-room fill’d with light,
Nicotina!
(Some were downstairs getting tight,
Nicotina!)
While thine eyes entranced my sight,
Underneath the gay gaslight,
Nicotina!
I engaged you; you said “Right!”
Nicotina!

We danced in the whirling ball
Nicotina!
She loved my mask ’mong them all,
Nicotina!
She saw me slip, she heard me fall,
When out stepp’d a rival tall,
Nicotina!
He kicked me hard, and made me bawl,
Nicotina!

The villain dragg’d thee on one side,
Nicotina!
The bitter beast, he went aside,
Nicotina!
The darn’d brute, he glanced aside,
And took thee oft, my love, my bride,
Nicotina!
Thy dress, thy fan, and thee beside,
Nicotina!

Oh! narrow, narrow was the place,
Nicotina!
I call’d out as a donkey brays,
Nicotina!
Oh! dreadful looks were dealt apace,
There was no room for dancing ways,
Nicotina!
And flat I went upon my face!
Nicotina!

They tried to smash me where I lay,
Nicotina!
I couldn’t rise and get away,
Nicotina!
No more I thought to see the day,
They tried to smash me where I lay,
Nicotina!
They nearly turn’d my dust to clay,
Nicotina!

Oh! breaking ribs, that would not break,
Nicotina!
Oh! damaged nose, so snub and meek,
Nicotina!
She winketh, but she does not speak;
I rub the chalk dust from my cheek,
Nicotina!
And feel inclined away to sneak,
Nicotina!

I cry, “my corns!” none hear my cries,
Nicotina!
And, rueful, rub my blacken’d eyes,
Nicotina!
My face is like to boneless size,
Up from my chin unto my eyes,
Nicotina!
On thy programme my name it lies,
Nicotina!

Oh! cursed boot! oh! cursed blow,
Nicotina!
I was not happy lying low,
Nicotina!
All night my nose with blood did flow;
A quart it bled, and more, I know,
Nicotina!
A damaged man, away I go,
Nicotina!

When my old pipe is lit by me
Nicotina!
I crawl about and think of thee,
Nicotina!
I do not dare to look at thee,
I fear _him_, tall as forest tree,
Nicotina!
I “cuss” him, and his pedigree.
Nicotina!

H. L.

――――

O DARLING WEED!

O darling weed! my heart’s delight,
Dear plant, the apple of my sight,
Thou hast a ray so warm and bright
I know no charm so exquisite
As puffing out thy smoke so white.
It puts all troublous thoughts to flight,
Sending dull spirits left and right,
While yielding joy by day and night.

This is a parody of a little poem by Alfred Tennyson, published in 1833, but afterwards omitted from his works, probably because of the ridicule it received from Lord Lytton in “The New Timon”:――

O darling room, my heart’s delight
Dear room, the apple of my sight,
With thy two couches soft and white,
There is no room so exquisite,
No little room so warm and bright,
Wherein to read, wherein to write.
* * * * *

――――

THE WEED.

I come from vaunted root, and burn
To many a merry sally;
I sparkle, and to ashes turn,
Men’s spirits worn to rally.

Thrice thirty ills that press folks down,
I fumigate like midges;
In country, city, little town,
My charm some care abridges.

Yon chattering Stiggins with a craze,
In little sharps and trebles,
A hubbub makes in my dispraise――
Demosthenes, _sans_ pebbles.

Ay! chatter, with thy face of woe;
With bile and anger quiver;
Thus Antis come and Antis go,
But I’m smoked on for ever.

They go about, and fume and spout,
Against Tobacco railing,
With here and there a lusty shout,
And here and there a wailing.

I’m smoked on lawns and grassy plots,
By sportsmen in the covers;
My cloud’s blue as forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

There is not under moon and stars,
In this world’s wildernesses,
A plant that care more stoutly bars,
Or labour better blesses.

Behold my vapour curve and flow
Tow’rds where the pure clouds quiver;
Let antis come and antis go――
My smoke goes up for ever.

R. C.

_Cope’s Tobacco Plant._ March, 1874.

――――:o:――――

SONG FROM THE MIKADO.

The travellers who try in the spring,
Tra la!
To sell their cigars by the case,
Must find it a difficult thing,
Tra la!
When the shopkeeper won’t buy a thing,
Tra la!
And kicks them right out of the place,
And he kicks them all out of his place.
And that’s what they mean when they say or they sing:
“Oh, bother the trade we are having this spring,”
Tra la la la la la, tra la la la la,
Tra la la la la la lah!

――――:o:――――

The following can scarcely be termed _parodies_, they are poems in praise of Tobacco written in the newly-revived but old-fashioned Ballade metre.

BALLADE OF THE BEST PIPE.

I hear you fervently extol
The virtues of your ancient clay,
As black as any piece of coal.
To me it smells of rank decay
And bones of people passed away,――
A smell I never could admire.
With all respect to you I say,
Give me a finely seasoned briar.

Poor Jones, whose judgment as a whole
Is faultless, has been led astray
To nurse a costly meerschaum bowl.
Well, let him nurse it as he may,
I hardly think he’ll find it pay.
Before the colour gets much higher,
He’ll drop it on the grate some day.
Give me a finely seasoned brier.

The heathen Turk of Istamboul,
In Oriental turban gay,
Delights his unregenerate soul
With hookahs, bubbling in a way
To fill a Christian with dismay,
And wake the old Crusading fire.
May no such pipe be mine I pray!
Give me a finely seasoned brier

ENVOY.

Clay, meerschaum, hookah, what are they
That I should view them with desire?
I’ll sing, till all my hair is grey,
Give me a finely seasoned brier.

_The University News Sheet._ St. Andrews, N.B. March 3, 1886.

――――

THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.

When verdant youth sees life afar,
And first sets out wild oats to sow,
He puffs a stiff and stark cigar,
And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co.
He likes not smoking yet; but though
Tobacco makes him sick indeed,
Cigars and wine he can’t forego:――
A slave is each man to the weed.

In time his tastes more dainty are,
And delicate. Become a beau,
From out the country of the Czar
He brings his cigarettes, and lo!
He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.
Thus keener relish shall succeed
The baser liking we outgrow:――
A slave is each man to the weed.

When age and his own lucky star
To him perfected wisdom show,
The schooner glides across the bar,
And beer for him shall freely flow,
A pipe with genial warmth shall glow;
To which he turns in direst need,
To seek in smoke surcease of woe:――
A slave is each man to the weed.

ENVOI.

Smokers! who doubt or con or pro,
And ye who dare to drink, take heed!
And see in smoke a friendly foe:――
A slave is each man to the weed.

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

From Mr. Gleeson White’s collection of _Ballades and Rondeaus_. London, Walter Scott, 1887.

――――

IN A CLOUD OF SMOKE.
_A Rondel._

In a cloud of smoke when the lights are low
I half forget that I’m nearly “broke,”
And my cares and my sorrows they seem to go
In a cloud of smoke.

Ah, yes! ’tis a mystical “Basingstoke,”[25]
That guides my thoughts to a saner flow
So a fig to the Anti-Tobacco folk!

_Her_ tongue has no “measured beat and slow;”
She says that in fumes narcotic I soak;
But her withering scorn seems to softer grow
In a cloud of smoke.

From _Judy_. April 18, 1888.

――――

WITH PIPE AND BOOK.

With Pipe and Book at close of day,
O! what is sweeter, mortal, say?
It matters not what book on knee,
Old Izaak or the Odyssey,
It matters not meerschaum or clay.

And though our eyes will dream astray,
And lips forget to sue or sway,
It is “enough to merely _Be_,”
With Pipe and Book.

What though our modern skies be grey,
As bards aver, I will not pray
For “soothing death” to “succour” me,
But ask thus much, O! Fate, of thee,
A little longer yet to stay
With Pipe and Book.

From _Volumes in Folio_. By Richard Le Gallienne, author of “My Ladies’ Sonnets,” etc. London, Elkin Matthews, Vigo Street, W. 1889.

A dainty little Volume of Bookish Verses.

――――

LINES ON AN EMPTY TOBACCO-POUCH.

I, who was brisk and R T once,
Am C D now; become a dunce.
If U the reason would descry,
I’ll very quickly tell U Y.

I ne’er indulged in sad I――OOO!
When smoke was curling round my N――OOO;
But I am falling 2 D K,
Who could X L, no distant day.

I lack not T, or O D V,
But B 4 long my want U’ll C:
My pouch is M T; so, indeed,
I N V men with lots of weed.

I C U feel an interest
In what your poet would request;
There 4 I ask U 2 X QQQ
The plaint of my dejected M UUU.

I C U R the smoker’s friend;
Send me some weed, B 4 my end!
This craving I would fain ap PPP,
And smoke my pipe “O K” at EEE.

Declare I lived and died in peace,
If U should hear of my D CCC.
Erect an F-I-G of me,
And write this in my L-E-G.

Here lies a man of Letters, C,
Who shunned X S; and yet was E
Merry and YYY; a busy B,
Who never made an N M E.

From _Cope’s Tobacco Plant_. November 1871.

――――:o:――――

THE SMOKER’S ALPHABET.

A was an Anti-Tobacconist moke,
B was the ’Bacca his neighbours _would_ smoke,
C was the Counsel he forced on the world,
D was Derision, that at him was hurled.
E more Enlightened, would chuckle and say,
F “Fill your pipes, and puff nonsense away.”
G was a Guardsman, who lit a cigar;
H was the health that it never could mar.
I was an Irishman witty and gay,
J was the Joy that his pipe gave each day.
K was the Keel of the vessel that bore
L Lots of the “Weed” from Columbia’s shore.
M was the Mariner, chewing a quid,
N was a Noodle, who vowed “If he did,
O “Only ’Orrible qualms would arise.”
P was the Punch that he got ’twixt his eyes,
Q with the Quid; he turned sickly and wan,
R was the “Robert” who made him “move on.”
S was the Snuff, pungent, fragrant, and light,
T the Torment of Headache cured by it quite.
U the plant Universal, that is still
V the Victor over full many an ill.
W the Wealth, that its growers may hoard,
X is a Xebeck, with tobacco on board.
Y was a Yankee, who offered cheroots,
Z was a Zealot, who said “Fit for brutes!”
& the Yankee replied, “Brutes don’t talk, or wear boots.”

ANONYMOUS.

POEMS IN PRAISE OF TOBACCO.

In the following pages the poems are thus arranged――on Tobacco generally, on the Pipe, Cigar and Cigarette, and on Snuff. No poets have been found, however, to sing the praise of chewing Tobacco, a very old form of enjoying the weed. This habit is now principally confined to sailors, soldiers, policemen and others, whose duties compel them to remain in solitude for many hours at a stretch without the solace of a pipe. The following amusing letter shows the importance a sailor attaches to his Quid:――

GRAVESEND, March 24, 1813.

Dear Brother Tom;

This comes hopein to find you in good health as it leaves me
safe anckor’d here yesterday at 4 P.M. arter a pleasant
voyage tolerable short and a few squalls.――Dear Tom――hopes
to find poor old father stout, and am quite out of
pig-tail.――Sights of pig-tail at Gravesend, but unfortinly
not fit for a dog to chor.

Dear Tom, Captain’s boy will bring you this, and put
pig-tail in his pocket when bort. Best in London at the
Black Boy in 7 diles, where go acks for best pig-tail――pound
a pig-tail will do, and am short of shirts. Dear Tom, as for
shirts ony took 2 whereof one is quite wored out and tuther
most, but don’t forget the pig-tail, as I aint had a quid to
chor never since Thursday. Dear Tom, as for shirts, your
size will do, only longer. I liks um long――get one at
present, best at Tower-hill, and cheap, but be particler to
go to 7 diles for the pig-tail at the Black Boy, and Dear
Tom, acks for pound best pig-tail, and let it be good.

Captain’s boy will put the pig-tail in his pocket he likes
pigtail, so ty it up. Dear Tom, shall be up about Monday
there or thereabouts. Not so perticuler for the shirt, as
the present can be washed, but dont forgit the pig-tail
without fail, so am your loving brother,

_Timothy Parsons._

P. S.――Dont forget the pig-tail.

――――:o:――――

THE INDIAN WEED.

Many versions exist of the following very old song, and the history of it is somewhat contradictory and confusing. It has been ascribed to George Wither (1588-1667), and was originally published in 1631, in a volume entitled _The Soules Solace_, by Thomas Jenner. Another version was printed in 1672 in “Two Broadsides against Tobacco.”

One version commenced with the following stanza:

Why should we so much despise
So good and sweet an exercise
As, early and late, to meditate?
Thus think, and drink tobacco.[26]

The most usually accepted version runs as follows:――

The Indian weed withered quite,
Green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay,――
All flesh is hay:
Thus think, then drink tobacco.

The pipe that is so lily-white,
Shows thee to be a mortal wight,
And even such,
Gone with a touch:
Thus think, then drink tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high,
Think thou behold’st the vanity
Of worldly stuff,
Gone with a puff:
Thus think, then drink tobacco.

And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soul defiled with sin;
And then the fire
It doth require:
Thus think, then drink tobacco.

The ashes that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind,
That unto dust,
Return thou must,
Thus think, then drink tobacco.

The next is a more modern version:――

TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED.

This Indian weed now withered quite
Though green at noon, cut down at night,
Shows thy decay;
All flesh is hay;
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

The pipe, so lily-like and weak,
Does thus thy mortal state bespeak;
Thou art e’en such,
Gone with a touch:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high,
Then thou behold’st the vanity
Of worldly stuff,
Gone with a puff!
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

And when the pipe grows foul within,
Think on thy soul defiled with sin;
For then the fire
It does require:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

Thou seest the ashes cast away,
Then to thyself thou mayest say,
That to the dust
Return thou must:
Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

Some additional, but very inferior stanzas, were written by the Rev. Ralph Erskine, a minister of the Scotch Church, and printed in his _Gospel Sonnets_, about the end of the last century. This continuation has been called

SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.

“Was this small plant for thee cut down?
So was the plant of great renown,
Which mercy sends
For nobler ends.
Thus think and smoke tobacco.

“Doth juice medicinal proceed
From such a naughty foreign weed?
Then what’s the power
Of Jesse’s flower?
Thus think and smoke tobacco.

“The promise, like the pipe, inlays
And, by the mouth of faith, conveys
What virtue flows
From Sharon’s rose.
Thus think and smoke tobacco.

“In vain th’ unlighted pipe you blow,
Your pains in outward means are so,
Till heavenly fire
Your heart inspire.
Thus think and smoke tobacco.

“The smoke, like burning incense, towers;
So should a praying heart of yours
With ardent cries
Surmount the skies.
Thus think and smoke tobacco.”

――――

A CATCH ON TOBACCO.
(_Sung by four men smoking their Pipes._)

Good, good indeed;
The herb’s good weed;
Fill thy pipe, Will.
And I prithee, Sam, fill,
And yet sing still,
And yet sing still,
What say the learn’d?
What say the learn’d?
_Vita fumus, vita fumus!_

’Tis what you and I,
And he and I,
You, and he, and I,
And all of us _sumus_.

But then to the learned say we again,
If life’s a smoke as they maintain;
If life’s a vapour without doubt,
When a man does die,
He should not cry,
That his glass is run but his pipe is out.
But whether we smoke or whether we sing,
Let us be loyal and remember the King,
Let him live, and let his foes vanish thus, thus, thus,
Like, like a pipe, like a pipe of Spanish, thus, thus, thus,
A pipe of Spanish!

From “_Bacchus and Venus_.” 1737.

――――

INVOCATION TO TOBACCO.

Weed of the strange power, weed of the earth,
Killer of dulness――parent of mirth;
Come in the sad hour, come in the gay,
Appear in the night, or in the day:
Still thou art welcome as June’s blooming rose,
Joy of the palate, delight of the nose.

Weed of the green field, weed of the wild,
Foster’d in freedom, America’s child;
Come in Virginia, come in Havannah,
Friend of the universe, sweeter than manna:
Still thou art welcome, rich, fragrant and ripe.
Pride of the tube-case, Delight of the pipe.

Weed of the savage, weed of each pole,
Comforting,――soothing,――Philosophy’s soul;
Come in the snuff-box, Come in cigar,
In Strasburgh and King’s, come from afar;
Still thou art welcome, the purest, the best,
Joy of earth’s millions, for ever carest.

From _Nicotiana_, by Henry James Meller. London Effingham Wilson. 1832.

――――

VIRGINIA TOBACCO.

Two maiden dames of sixty-two
Together long had dwelt:
Neither, alas! of love so true,
The bitter pangs had felt.

But age comes on, they say, apace,
To warn us of our death,
And wrinkles mar the fairest face,
At last it stops our breath.

One of these dames, tormented sore
With that curst pang, tooth-ache,
Was at a loss for such a bore
What remedy to take:

“I’ve heard,” thought she, “this ill to cure,
A pipe is good, they say,
Well then, tobacco I’ll endure,
And smoke the pain away.”

The pipe was lit, the tooth soon well,
And she retir’d to rest――
When thus the other ancient belle
Her spinster mate addressed:――

“Let me request a favour, pray”――
“I’ll do it if I can”――
“Oh! well then, love, smoke everyday,
_You smell so like a man_!”

From _Gimcrackiana_, or Fugitive pieces on Manchester Men and Manners. Manchester, 1833. (Attributed to John Stanley Gregson.)

――――

AN IMITATION OF MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY.

“The lazy Earth doth steam amain,
And fumes and smokes beneath the rain:
The Rivers, Brooks, and Rivulets are
No less in smoke particular
At nightfall: and the storm blast loud
Is often wont to _blow a cloud_
Around the mountain-tops, and they
Do take delight in this same way;
And send a fiery fume from out
Their angry heights, and such a rout
Of burnt-up _ashes_, that do strow
Great cities in the plains below.
The _setting Sun_ is oft made dim
With smoky mists that circle him.
So all the world’s on _smoking_ bent,
And puffs and fumes to its content:
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the gaping pipes, for why
Should every creature smoke but I:
Why, man of morals, tell me why?”

From “_The Anatomy of Tobacco_: or Smoking Methodised, Divided, and Considered after a new fashion.” By Leolinus Siluriensis. London. George Redway, 1884.

AN ADDRESS TO THE CRITICS.

Critics avaunt――tobacco is my theme,
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam;
And you Court insects――flutter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within its scorching sphere.
Pollio, with flame like thine, my verse inspire,
So shall the Muse, with smoke, elicit fire;
Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff,
Yet all their claim to wisdom is――a puff.
Lord Fopling smokes not――for his teeth afraid;
Sir Tawdry smokes not――for he wears brocade.
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon;
They love no smoke, except the smoke of town.
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe――no matter,
Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter.
Its foes but show their ignorance, can he
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?

Citronia vows it has an odious stink,
She will not smoke, ye gods, but she will drink;
And chaste Prudella――blame her if you can――
Says――pipes are used by that vile creature man.
Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim,
For some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame――
Fame, of our actions, universal spring,
For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke――everything.

_Smoking and Smokers._ By W. A. Delamotte. 1845.

――――

A MANILLA SONNET.

Luscious leaf of fragrant savour,
Mild cheroot of choicest flavour,
Wafting incense to the sky,
Like the gales of Araby,
Let us press thee to our lips,
As the bee the honey sips;
Culling as our well-earned meed,
Joys from thee――thou heavenly weed!
Ere thy burnished lip we kiss,
Let us thus enjoy the bliss,
Lit by the promethean spark,
Kindled from the congreve dark;
In summer-house or country villa,
There’s nothing like a good Manilla!

From _A Pipe of Tobacco_, by E. L. Blanchard. London. H. Beal. (No date.)

――――

L’HEUREUX FUMEUR.

Certain fumeur courtisait une veuve,
Grâce à l’hymen, lorsqu’il fut dans ses lacs,
Pour te donner, lui dit-il, une preuve
De mon amour, je vais mettre en éclats
Si tu le veux, ma pipe toute neuve;
――Non, non; la pipe a pour toi trop d’appas;
Je ne la crains que lorsque je suis grosse:
L’odeur m’en plait quand je ne la suis pas;
Tu peux fumer. Notre époux, dans la Beauce
Comme héritier d’un oncle, avait des droits;
Il part. Suivant des conseils maladroits,
Dans un procès chicaneau vous l’enfourne;
Ce n’est qu’après absence de vingt mois,
Qu’à son logis un matin il retourne,
_Pipe_ à la bouche. Oh! qu’est ce que je vois?
S’écria-t-il en rentrant; quoi! commode,
Console içi! pendule, glace la?
D’ou viennent done ces meubles à la mode?
――D’un troc. Je vais te conter tout cela;
Mais――mon mari――ta pipe m’incommode.

PONS DE VERDUN.

――――

AN ENCOMIUM ON TOBACCO.

Thrice happy Isles that stole the world’s delight
And thus produce so rich a Margarite!

It is the fountain whence all pleasure springs,
A potion for imperial and mighty kings.
He that is master of so rich a store
May laugh at Crœsus and esteem him poor;
And with his smoky sceptre in his fist,
Securely flout the toiling Alchymist,
Who daily labours with a vain expense
In distillations of the Quintessence,
Not knowing that this golden Herb alone
Is the Philosopher’s admired Stone.

It s a favour which the Gods doth please,
If they do feed on smoke, as Lucian says.
Therefore the cause that the bright sun doth rest
At the low point of the declining West――
When his oft wearied horses breathless pant――
Is to refresh himself with this sweet Plant,
Which wanton Thetis from the West doth bring,
To joy her love after his toilsome ring:
For ’tis a cordial for an inward smart,
As is Dictamnum[27] to the wounded hart.
It is the sponge that wipes out all our woe;
’Tis like the thorn that doth on Pelion grow,
With which whoe’er his frost limbs anoints,
Shall feel no cold in fat, or flesh, or joints.
’Tis like the river, which whoe’er doth taste,
Forgets his present griefs and sorrows past,
Music, which makes grim thoughts retire,
And for a while cease their tormenting fire
Music, which forces beasts to stand at gaze,
And fills their senseless spirits with amaze――
Compared to this is like delicious strings,
Which sound but harshly while Apollo sings.

The train with this infumed, all quarrel ends
And fiercest foemen turn to faithful friends;
The man that shall this smoky magic prove,
Will need no philtres to obtain his love.
Yet this sweet simple, by misordered use,
Death or some dangerous sickness may produce.
Should we not for our sustentation eat
Because a surfeit comes from too much meat?
Should we not thirst with mod’rate drink repress,
Because a dropsy springs from such excess?
So our fair Plant――that doth as needful stand
As heaven, or fire, or air, or sea, or land;
As moon, or stars that rule the gloomy night,
Or sacred friendship or the sunny light――
Her treasured virtue in herself enrolls,
And leaves the evil to vainglorious souls.
And yet, who dies with this celestial breath,
Shall live immortal in a joyful death.
All goods, all pleasures, it in one can link――
’Tis physic, clothing, music, meat, and drink.

Gods would have revell’d at their feasts of Mirth
With this pure distillation of the earth;
The marrow of the world, star of the West,
The Pearl whereby this lower Orb is blest;
The joy of Mortals, Umpire of all strife,
Delight of Nature, Mithridate of Life;
The daintiest dish of a delicious feast,
By taking which Man differs from a beast.

ANONYMOUS. TEMP., JAMES I.

From _The Smoker’s Guide, Philosopher and Friend_, by a veteran of Smokedom. London. Hardwicke and Bogue.

――――

THE PATRIOTIC SMOKER’S LAMENT.

Tell me, shade of Walter Raleigh,
Briton of the truest type,
When that too-devoted valet
Quenched your first-recorded pipe,
Were you pondering the opinion,
As you watched the airy coil,
That the virtue of Virginian
Might be bred in British soil?

You transplanted the potato:
’Twas a more enduring gift
Than the wisdom of a Plato
To our poverty and thrift.
That respected root has flourished
Nobly for a nation’s need;
But our brightest dreams are nourished
Ever on a foreign weed.

For the deepest meditation
Of the philosophic scribe,
For the poet’s inspiration,
For the cynic’s polished gibe,
We invoke narcotic nurses
In their jargon from afar:
I indite these modest verses,
On a polyglot cigar.

Leaf that lulls a Turkish Aga
May a scholar’s soul renew,
Fancy spring from Larranaga,
History from honeydew.
When the teacher and the tyro
Spirit-manna fondly seek,
’Tis the cigarette from Cairo
Or a compound from the Greek.

But no British-born aroma
Is fit incense to the Queen;
Nature gives her best diploma
To the alien nicotine.
We are doomed to her ill-favour;
For the plant that’s native grown
Has a patriotic flavour
Too exclusively our own.

O my country, could your smoker
Boast your “shag,” or even “twist,”
Every man were mediocre
Save the blest tobacconist!
He will point immortal morals,
Make all common praises mute,
Who shall win our grateful laurels
With a national cheeroot!

_The St. James’s Gazette._

――――

ODE TO THE WEED.

When happy quite and cosy grown,
I feel for meditation ripe,
I need companionship, and so
I take a pipe.

When from the irksome cares of life
I pine to be removed far,
They vex no longer if I light,
A good cigar.

I realize what Eden was,
(Or some faint semblance of it get)
When “she” is with me, and I light
A cigarette.

Ah me! how much the spirits bless
Mankind. I fail when I begin
To count thy many gifts to me
Sweet “Nicotin.”

I wonder oft as I enjoy
Thy calm delights (and calm indeed),
How they can call thy resting place
By name “a weed.”

O, may the world in all its ills,
Ne’er have this greatest to confess,
That is, that it should e’er become
Tobaccoless.

R. W. ESSEX.

――――

AMOURETTES OF A SMOKER.

I flirted first with cigarettes
One windy, wild March day;
But found their fire, like fair coquettes,
Too soon consume away.

And then I wooed the mild cheroot,
As balmy as the south;
Inserting, after much dispute,
The big end in my mouth.

Awhile I dallied with cigars,
Havanna’s ripe brunettes;
And wafted incense to the stars,
In blue and spiral jets.

Shag, bird’s-eye, twist, and negro-head
This infant doth eschew;
And cavendish he hath “cut” dead:
But “_Chacun â son goût_.”

One Christmas on an ottoman
I sat, and some turkey
A fair girl brought me in a can――
Ister, a duck was she!

I bought a pipe, with amber tip,
Of Moses Abrahams;
Alas! one day I let it slip――
I’ll love no more mere-shams!

Now, all my youthful amour o’er,
I’m wed, and every day
With smoking holocausts adore
An idol made of clay.

GEORGE HILL.

――――

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

May the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,
If I can a passage see
In 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 any terms relate
Half my love or half my hate:
For I hate yet love thee so,
That, whichever thing I show,
The plain truth will seem to be
A constrain’d hyperbole,
And the passion to proceed
More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus’ black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer, that makest us dote upon
Thy begrimed complexion,
And for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take
’Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay
Much too in the female way,
While thou suck’st the labouring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost 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 heightening steam,
Does like a smoking Etna seem,
And all about us does express
(Fancy and wit in richest dress)
A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,
And, for those allowed features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken’st us to fell chimeras――
Monsters 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 show
What his deity can do,
As the false Egyptian spell
Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapours thou may’st raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god’s victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping Bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of _thee_ meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And, for ivy round his dart
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume
Chemic art did ne’er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sovereign to the brain.
Nature that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys,
For 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 foison,
Breeds 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 prosper’d who defamed thee:
Irony all and feign’d abuse,
Such as perplex’d lovers use
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or in part but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which 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 way 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, constrain’d to part,
With what’s nearest to their heart,
While their sorrow’s at the height,
Lose discrimination quite,
And their hasty wrath let fall,
To appease their frantic gall,
On the darling thing whatever
Whence 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, I,
Would do anything but die,
And but seek to extend my days
Long enough to sing thy praise.
But, as she who once hath been
A king’s consort, is a queen
Ever after, nor will bate
Any tittle 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 joys
Of the blest Tobacco Boys;
Where, though I, by sour physician,
Am debarr’d the full fruition
Of thy favours, I may catch
Some collateral sweets, and snatch
Sidelong odours, that give life
Like glances from a neighbour’s wife;
And still live in the by-places
And the suburbs of thy graces;
And in thy borders take delight
An unconquer’d Canaanite.

CHARLES LAMB.

――――

LORD BYRON ON TOBACCO.

Borne from a short frail pipe which yet had blown
Its gentle odours over either zone,
And, puff’d where’er winds rise or waters roll,
Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole,
Opposed its vapour as the lightning flash’d,
And reek’d, midst mountain-billows unabash’d,
To Æolus a constant sacrifice,
Thro’ every change of all the varying skies.
And what was he who bore it? I may err,
But deem him sailor or philosopher.
SUBLIME TOBACCO! which from East to West
Cheers the tar’s labour or the Turkman’s rest;
Which on the Moslem’s ottoman divides
His hours, and rivals opium and his brides;
Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand,
Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand;
Divine in hookahs, glorious in a pipe,
When tipp’d with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;
Like other charmers, wooing the caress,
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress;
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties――give me a cigar!

_The Island._

――――

A SHIELD OF ADAMANT.

For lack o’
Tobacco,
I’d die;
For cigars
O! my stars,
How I cry!
For a smoke is the shield
Before which troubles yield――
Enabling us cares to defy!

E. H. S.

――――:o:――――

EPITAPH

_On a young lady who desired that Tobacco might be planted over her grave._

Let no cold marble o’er my body rise――
But only earth above, and sunny skies.
Thus would I lowly lie in peaceful rest,
Nursing the Herb Divine from out my breast.
Green let it grow above this clay of mine,
Deriving strength from strength that I resign.
So in the days to come, when I’m beyond
This fickle life, will come my lovers fond,
And gazing on the plant, their grief restrain
In whispering, “Lo! dear Anna blooms again!”

POEMS ON THE PIPE.

Hail! social pipe――thou foe to care,
Companion of my elbow chair;
As forth thy curling fumes arise,
They seem an evening sacrifice――
An offering to my Maker’s praise,
For all His benefits and grace.

DR. GARTH.

SONNET TO A PIPE. (1690.)

“Doux charme de ma solitude,
Brulante pipe, ardent fourneau!
Qui purges d’humeur mon cerveau,
Et mon esprit d’inquiétude.
Tabac! dont mon ame est ravie,
Lorsque je te vois te perdre en l’air,
Aussi promptement q’un éclair,
Je vois l’image de ma vie;
Tu remets dans mon souvenir,
Ce qu’un jour je dois devenir,
N’étant qu’une cendre animée;
Et tout d’un coup je m’aperçoi,
Que courant après ta fumée,
Je passe de même que toi.”

Attributed to _Esprit de Raymond, Comte de Modène_.

_Translation of the above._

“Sweet smoking pipe, bright glowing stove,
Companion still of my retreat,
Thou dost my gloomy thoughts remove,
And purge my brain with gentle heat.

“Tobacco, charmer of my mind,
When, like the meteor’s transient gleam
Thy substance gone to air I find,
I think, alas! my life the same.

“What else but lighted dust am I?
Thou show’st me what my fate will be;
And when thy sinking ashes die,
I learn that I must end like thee.”

――――

TO A PIPE OF TOBACCO.

Come, lovely tube by friendship blest,
Belov’d and honour’d by the wise,
Come, fill’d with honest _Weekly’s best_,
And kindled from the lofty skies.

While round me clouds of incense roll,
With guiltless joys you charm the sense,
And nobler pleasures to the soul,
In hints of moral truth, dispense.

Soon as you feel th’ inlivening ray,
To dust you hasten to return;
And teach me that my earliest day,
Began to give me to the urn.

But tho’ thy grosser substance sink
To dust, thy purer part aspires;
This when I see, I joy to think
That earth but half of me requires.

Like thee myself am born to die,
Made half to rise and half to fall.
O! could I while my moments fly,
The bliss you give me, give to all.

From _The Gentleman’s Magazine_. July, 1746.

――――

CHOOSING A WIFE BY A PIPE OF TOBACCO.