Chapter III: Preface (3)

Why, what is this? The pipe gone out?
Well, well, the fire's out, too!
The dreams are gone--we're poor once more;
Life's pain begins anew.
'Tis time for sleep, my faithful pipe,
But may thy dreamings be,
Through slumbering hours hued as bright
As those thou gav'st to me!

ELTON J. BUCKLEY.

SIC TRANSIT.

Just a note that I found on my table,
By the bills of a year buried o'er,
In a feminine hand and requesting
My presence for tennis at four.

Half remorseful for leaving it lying
In surroundings unworthy as those,
I carefully dusted and smoothed it,
And mutely begged pardon of Rose.

But I thought with a smile of the proverb
Which says you may treat as you will
The vase which has once contained roses,
Their fragrance will cling to it still.

For the writer I scarcely remember,
The occasion has vanished afar,
And the fragrance that clings to the letter
Recalls--an Havana cigar.

W.B. ANDERSON.

THE BETROTHED.

"_YOU MUST CHOOSE BETWEEN ME AND YOUR CIGAR._"

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapor, musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at,--Maggie's a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must
pass.

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay,
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away,--

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown,--
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie my wife at fifty,--gray and dour and old,--
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead
cigar,--

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket,--
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the
socket.

Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider a while,--
Here is a mild Manilla,--there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion,--bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride.

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close.

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a _Suttee's_ passion,--to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths
withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their
hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy, who read of the tale of my
brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear.
But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and
Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey, or leave me bogged in the
mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful
fire?

Open the old cigar-box,--let me consider anew,--
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon _you_?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba: I hold to my first-sworn vows,
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse!

RUDYARD KIPLING.

ON A BROKEN PIPE.

Neglected now it lies, a cold clay form,
So late with living inspirations warm;
Type of all other creatures formed of clay--
What more than it for epitaph have they?

A VALENTINE.

What's my love's name? Guess her name.
Nina? No.
Alina? No.
It does end with "ina," though.
Guess again. Christina? No;
Guess again. Wilhelmina? No.
She reciprocates my flame,
Cheers me wheresoe'er I go,
Never forward, never coy,
She is evermore my joy.
Oh, the rapture! oh, the bliss!
When I met my darling's kiss.
Oh, I love her form to greet!
Oh, her breath is passing sweet!
Who could help but love her so?
Nicotina, mistress mine,
Thou shall be my Valentine.

ANON.

MY CIGARETTE.

My cigarette! The amulet
That charms afar unrest and sorrow,
The magic wand that, far beyond
To-day, can conjure up to-morrow.
Like love's desire, thy crown of fire
So softly with the twilight blending;
And ah, meseems a poet's dreams
Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending.

My cigarette! Can I forget
How Kate and I, in sunny weather,
Sat in the shade the elm-tree made
And rolled the fragrant weed together?
I at her side, beatified
To hold and guide her fingers willing;
She rolling slow the papers snow,
Putting my heart in with the filling.

My cigarette! I see her yet,
The white smoke from her red lips curling,
Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies,
Her gentle sighs, her laughter purling!
Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul
Ebbs out in many a snowy billow,
I too would burn, if I could earn
Upon her lips so soft a pillow.

Ah, cigarette! The gay coquette
Has long forgot the flame she lighted;
And you and I unthinking by
Alike are thrown, alike are slighted.
The darkness gathers fast without,
A raindrop on my window plashes;
My cigarette and heart are out,
And naught is left me but the ashes.

CHARLES F. LUMMIS.

THE PIPE CRITIC.

Say, pipe, let's talk of love;
Canst aid me? By my life,
I'll ask not gods above
To help me choose a wife;
But to thy gentle self I'll give the puzzling strife.

Thy color let me find,
And blue like smoke her eyes;
A healthy store her mind
As that which in thee lies,--
An evanescent draft, whose incense mounts the skies.

And, pipe, a breath like thine;
Her hair an amber gold,
And wrought in shapes as fine
As that which now I hold;
A grace in every limb, her form thy slender mould.

And when her lips I kiss,
Oh, may she burn like thee,
And strive to give me bliss!
A comforter to be
When friends wax cold, time fades, and all departs from me.

And may she hide in smoke,
As you, my friend, have done,
The failings that would choke
My virtues every one,
Turn grief to laughing jest, or painful thought to fun.

Her aid be such as thine
To stir my brain a bit.
When 'round this hearth of mine
Friends sit and banter wit,
She'll shape a well-turned phrase, a subtle jest to hit.

In short, my sole delight
(Why, pipe, you sputter so!),
Whose angel visage bright
(And at me ashes throw!)
Shall never rival fear. You're jealous now, I know.

Nay, pipe, I'll not leave thee;
For of thy gifts there's one
That's passing dear to me
Whose equal she'd have none,--
The gift of peace serene; she'd have, alas, a tongue!

WALTER LITTLEFIELD.

A SONG WITHOUT A NAME.

AIR: "_THE VICAR OF BRAY_."

'Twas in Queen Bess's golden days
That smoking came in fashion;
And from the court it quickly spread
Throughout the English nation.
The courtiers first the lesson learnt,
And burn'd the fragrant treasure;
And e'en the queen herself, 'tis said,
Would sometimes share the pleasure.
But this is true, I will maintain,--
And I am far from joking,--
Of all the pleasures men have found
There's none to equal smoking.

Then learned men and lawyers wise
And grave divines and doctors
Found smoking help'd to clear the brain,
And puff'd away in flocks, sirs;
Then business men and humble clerks
And laborer and peasant
By smoking care would drive away,
And make this life more pleasant.
For this is true. I will maintain,--
And I am far from joking,--
Of all the pleasures men have found
There's none to equal smoking.

And from these times we modern men
Great glory do inherit,
And wealth and learning and the strength
Which makes the English spirit.
We have no care, we fear no foe,
We pass our lifetime gayly,
But little think how much we owe
To great Sir Walter Raleigh.
For this is true, I will maintain,--
And I am far from joking,--
Of all the pleasures men have found
There's none to equal smoking.

W. LLOYD.

AD NICOTINA.

"_A CONSTRAINED HYPERBOLE._"

Let others sing the praise of wine;
I'll tolerate no queen
But one fair nymph of spotless line,
The gentle Nicotine.
Her breath's as sweet as any flower's,
No matter where it blows,
And makes this dull old world of ours
The color of the rose.

There's not a pang but she can soothe,
Nor spell but she can break,
And e'en the hardest lot can smooth,
And bid us courage take.
Fair Nicotine! thou dost atone
For many an aching heart;
And I for one will gladly own
The magic of thine art.

Ah, "friendly traitress," "loving foe,"
Forgive this loving lay;
For I, thy worshipper, would show
The sweetness of thy sway.
"Sublime tobacco!" may thy reign
Ne'er for one moment cease;
For thou, Great Plant, art kin to brain,
And synonym for peace.

E.H.S.

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 than 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 seldom conveys us bliss.

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

WRONGFELLOW.

I like cigars
Beneath the stars,
Upon the waters blue.
To laugh and float
While rocks the boat
Upon the waves,--Don't you?

To rest the oar
And float to shore,--
While soft the moonbeams shine,--
To laugh and joke,
And idly smoke;
I think is quite divine.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

"A FREE PUFF."

Do you remember when first we met?
I was turning twenty--well! I don't forget
How I walked along,
Humming a song
Across the fields and down the lane
By the country road, and back again
To the dear old farm--three miles or more--
And brought you home from the village store.

Summer was passing--don't you recall
The splendid harvest we had that Fall,
And how when the Autumn died,--sober and brown,--
We trudged down the turnpike, and on to the town?

Sweet black brierwood pipe of mine!
If you were human you'd be half divine,
For when I've looked beyond the smoke, into your burning bowl
In times of need
You've been, indeed,
The only comfort, sweetest solace, of my overflowing soul.
We've been together nearly thirty years, old fellow!
And now, you must admit, we're both a trifle mellow.
We have had our share of joys and a deal of sorrows,
And while we're only waiting for a few more to-morrows,
Others will come, and others will go,
And Time will gather what Youth will sow;
But we together will go down the rough
Road to the end, and to the end--puff.

ARTHUR IRVING GRAY.

MY MEERSCHAUM PIPE.

Old meerschaum pipe, I'll fondly wipe
Thy scarred and blackened form,
For thou to me wilt ever be--
Whate'er betides the storm--
A casket filled with memories
Of life's Auroral morn.

Thou once wert fair like ivory rare;
Spotless as lily white;
Thy curving lines, like tendril'd vines,
Were pleasing to the sight,
And in thine ample bowl there lurked
A promise of delight.

Like incense flung from censer swung
Before some sculptured shrine,
To float along with prayer and song
To realms of bliss divine,--
Ascend thy fragrant wreaths of smoke
And with my thoughts entwine.

Old pipe, old friend, o'er thee doth bend
The rainbow hues of life,
While sorrows roll across my soul,
And peace is turned to strife,
And Faith drifts o'er a sea of doubt
With desolation rife.

Alas, that man or pipe e'er can
Wax old or know decay;
Alas, that heart from heart must part,
Or Love can lose its sway.
And death in life should cast its pall
Athwart the troubled way.

Tho' love be cross'd, and friends are lost,
And severed every tie;
Tho' hopes are dead and joys have fled,
And darkened is the sky;
We yet can warm each other's hearts,
Old meerschaum pipe and I.

JOHNSON M. MUNDY.

A WARNING.

HE.

I loathe all books. I hate to see
The world and men through others' eyes;
My own are good enough for me.
These scribbling fellows I despise;
They bore me.
I used to try to read a bit,
But, when I did, a sleepy fit
Came o'er me.

Yet here I sit with pensive look,
Filling my pipe with fragrant loads,
Gazing in rapture at a book!--
A free translation of the Odes
Of Horace.
'Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth,
And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath
Of orris.

I longed for something that was hers
To cheer me when I'm feeling low;
I saw this book of paltry verse,
And asked to take it home--and so
She lent it.
I love her deep and tenderly,
Yet dare not tell my love, lest she
Resent it.

I'll learn to quote a stanza here,
A couplet there. I'm very sure
'Twould aid my suit could I appear
_Au fait_ in books and literature.
I'll do it!
This jingle I can quickly learn;
Then, hid in roses, I'll return
Her poet!

SHE.

The hateful man! 'Twould vex a saint!
Around my pretty, cherished book,
The odor vile, the noisome taint
Of horrid, stale tobacco-smoke
Yet lingers!
The hateful man, my book to spoil!
Patrick, the tongs--lest I should soil
My fingers!

This lovely rose, these lilies frail,
These violets he has sent to me
The odor of his pipe exhale!
Am I to blame that I should be
Enraged?
Tell Mr. Simpson every time
He calls upon me, Patrick, I'm
Engaged!

ARTHUR LOVELL.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

Says the Pipe to the Snuff-box, "I can't understand
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your face,
That you are in fashion all over the land,
And I am so much fallen into disgrace.

"Do but see what a pretty contemplative air
I give to the company,--pray do but note 'em,--
You would think that the wise men of Greece were all there,
Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of Gotham.

"My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses,
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear;
There is nothing but snivelling and blowing of noses,
Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear."

Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way,
And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging.
The Box in reply was heard plainly to say,
"What a silly dispute is this we are Waging!

"If you have a little of merit to claim,
You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian weed;
And I, if I seem to deserve any blame,
The before-mentioned drug in apology plead.

"Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own,
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus;
We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,
But of anything else they may choose to put in us."

WM. COWPER.

A LOSS.

How hard a thing it is to part
From those we love and cherish;
How deeply does it pain one's heart
To know all things must perish!

And when a friend and comrade dear
Is lost to us forever,
We feel how frail are all things here,
Since e'en best friends must sever.

I, too, have lost a friend, who broke
Its power when care was near me;
And troubles disappeared in smoke
When he was by to cheer me.

But as friends fall when valued most,
Like fruit that over-ripe is.
My loved companion I have lost,--
That friend my meerschaum pipe is!

_Judy_ (1873).

THE TRUE LEUCOTHOE.

Let others praise the god of wine,
Or Venus, love, and beauty's smile;
I choose a theme not less divine,--
The plant that grows in Cuba's Isle.

The old Greeks err'd who bound with bays
Apollo's brow; the verdant crown
He wore, when measuring their days,
Grew in the West, where he went down.

An idle tale they also told;
They said he gave them frankincense,
Borne by some tree he loved of old;
If so, he gave a mere pretence.

For the true offspring of his love--
Tobacco--grew far o'er the sea,
Where Leucothoe from above
Led him as honey leads the bee,

Till on that plant he paus'd to gaze
Some moments ere he held his way,
And cheer her with his warmest rays,
Heedless of time or length of day.

Then with a sigh his brows he wreath'd
With leaves that care and toil beguile,
And bless'd, as their perfume he breath'd,
The plant that grows in Cuba's Isle.

ANON.

THOSE ASHES.

Up to the frescoed ceiling
The smoke of my cigarette
In a sinuous spray is reeling,
Forming flower and minaret.

What delicious landscape floating
On perfumed wings I see;
Pale swans I am idly noting,
And queens robed in filagree.

I see such delicious faces
As ne'er man saw before,
And my fancy fondly chases
Sweet maids on a fairy shore.

Now to bits my air-castle crashes,
And those pictures I see no more;
My grandmother yells: "Them ashes--
Don't drop them on the floor!"

R.K. MUNKITTRICK.

WHAT I LIKE.

To lie with half-closed eyes, as in a dream,
Upon the grassy bank of some calm stream--
And smoke.

To climb with daring feet some rugged rock,
And sit aloft where gulls and curlews flock--
And smoke.

To wander lonely on the ocean's brink,
And of the good old times to muse and think--
And smoke.

To hide me in some deep and woody glen,
Far from unhealthy haunts of sordid men--
And smoke.

To linger in some fairy haunted vale,
While all about me falls the moonlight pale--
And smoke.

H.L.

MY MEERSCHAUMS.

Long pipes and short ones, straight and curved,
High carved and plain, dark-hued and creamy,
Slim tubes for cigarettes reserved,
And stout ones for Havanas dreamy.

This cricket, on an amber spear
Impaled, recalls that golden weather
When love and I, too young to fear
Heartburn, smoked cigarettes together.

And even now--too old to take
The little papered shams for flavor--
I light it oft for her sweet sake
Who gave it, with her girlish favor.

And here's the mighty student bowl
Whose tutoring in and after college
Has led me nearer wisdom's goal
Than all I learned of text-book knowledge.

"It taught me?" Ay, to hold my tongue,
To keep a-light, and yet burn slowly,
To break ill spells around me flung
As with the enchanted whiff of Moly.

This nargileh, whose hue betrays
Perique from soft Louisiana,
In Egypt once beguiled the days
Of Tewfik's dreamy-eyed Sultana.

Speaking of color,--do you know
A maid with eyes as darkly splendid
As are the hues that, rich and slow,
On this Hungarian bowl have blended?

Can artist paint the fiery glints
Of this quaint finger here beside it,
With amber nail,--the lustrous tints,
A thousand Partagas have dyed it?

"And this old silver patched affair?"
Well, sir, that meerschaum has its reasons
For showing marks of time and wear;
For in its smoke through fifty seasons

My grandsire blew his cares away!
And then, when done with life's sojourning,
At seventy-five dropped dead one day,
That pipe between his set teeth burning!

"Killed him?" No doubt! it's apt to kill
In fifty year's incessant using--
Some twenty pipes a day. And still,
On that ripe, well-filled, lifetime musing,

I envy oft so bright a part,--
To live as long as life's a treasure;
To die of--not an aching heart,
But--half a century of pleasure!

Well, well! I'm boring you, no doubt;
How these old memories will undo one--
I see you've let your weed go out;
That's wrong! Here, light yourself a new one!

CHARLES F. LUMMIS.

ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou, who when fears attack
Bidst them avaunt, and Black
Care, at the horseman's back
Perching, unseatest;
Sweet when the morn is gray;
Sweet when they've cleared away
Lunch; and at close of day
Possibly sweetest!

I have a liking old
For thee, though manifold
Stories, I know, are told
Not to thy credit:
How one (or two at most)
Drops make a cat a ghost,--
Useless, except to roast--
Doctors have said it;

How they who use fusees
All grow by slow degrees
Brainless as chimpanzees,
Meagre as lizards,
Go mad, and beat their wives,
Plunge (after shocking lives)
Razors and carving-knives
Into their gizzards.

Confound such knavish tricks!
Yet know I five or six
Smokers who freely mix
Still with their neighbors,--
Jones, who, I'm glad to say,
Asked leave of Mrs. J.,
Daily absorbs a clay
After his labors.

Cats may have had their goose
Cooked by tobacco juice;
Still, why deny its use
Thoughtfully taken?
We're not as tabbies are;
Smith, take a fresh cigar!
Jones, the tobacco jar!
Here's to thee, Bacon!

C.S. CALVERLY.

ON RECEIPT OF A RARE PIPE.

I lifted off the lid with anxious care,
Removed the wrappages, stripe after stripe,
And when the hidden contents were laid bare,
My first remark was: "Mercy, what a pipe!"

A pipe of symmetry that matched its size,
Mounted with metal bright,--a sight to see;
With the rich amber hue that smokers prize,
Attesting both its age and pedigree.

A pipe to make the royal Friedrich jealous,
Or the great Teufelsdroeckh with envy gripe!
A man should hold some rank above his fellows
To justify his smoking such a pipe!

What country gave it birth? What blest of cities
Saw it first kindle at the glowing coal?
What happy artist murmured, "Nunc dimittis,"
When he had fashioned this transcendent bowl?

Has it been hoarded in a monarch's treasures?
Was it a gift of peace, or prize of war?
Did the great Khalif in his "House of Pleasures"
Wager and lose it to the good Zaafar?

It may have soothed mild Spenser's melancholy,
While musing o'er traditions of the past,
Or graced the lips of brave Sir Walter Raleigh,
Ere sage King Jamie blew his "_Counterblast_."

Did it, safe hidden in some secret cavern,
Escape that monarch's pipoclastic ken?
Has Shakespeare smoked it at the Mermaid Tavern,
Quaffing a cup of sack with rare old Ben?

Ay, Shakespeare might have watched his vast creations
Loom through its smoke,--the spectre-haunted Thane,
The Sisters at their ghostly invocations,
The jealous Moor, and melancholy Dane.

Round its orbed haze and through its mazy ringlets,
Titania may have led her elfin rout,
Or Ariel fanned it with his gauzy winglets,
Or Puck danced in the bowl to put it out.

Vain are all fancies,--questions bring no answer;
The smokers vanish, but the pipe remains;
He were indeed a subtle necromancer,
Could read their records in its cloudy stains.

Nor this alone. Its destiny may doom it
To outlive e'en its use and history;
Some ploughman of the future may exhume it
From soil now deep beneath the Eastern sea.

And, treasured by soma antiquarian Stultus,
It may to gaping visitors be shown
Labelled: "The symbol of some ancient cultus
Conjecturally Phallic, but unknown."

Why do I thus recall the ancient quarrel
Twixt Man and Time, that marks all earthly things?
Why labor to re-word the hackneyed moral
[Greek: Hos phyllon genee], as Homer sings?
'[Omega][sigmaf] [phi][upsilon][lambda][lambda][omega][nu]
[gamma][epsilon][nu][epsilon][eta], as Homer sings?

For this: Some links we forge are never broken;
Some feelings claim exemption from decay;
And Love, of which this pipe is but the token,
Shall last, though pipes and smokers pass away.

W.H.B.

MY LITTLE BROWN PIPE.

I have a little comforter,
I carry in my pocket:
It is not any woman's face
Set in a golden locket;
It is not any kind of purse;
It is not book or letter,
But yet at times I really think
That it is something better.

Oh, my pipe, my little brown pipe!
How oft, at morning early,
When vexed with thoughts of coming toil,
And just a little surly,
I sit with thee till things get clear,
And all my plans grow steady,
And I can face the strife of life
With all my senses steady.

No matter if my temper stands
At stormy, fair, or clearing,
My pipe has not for any mood
A word of angry sneering.
I always find it just the same,
In care, or joy, or sorrow,
And what it is to-day I know
It's sure to be to-morrow.

It helps me through the stress of life;
It balances my losses;
It adds a charm to all my joys,
And lightens all my crosses.
For through the wreathing, misty veil
Joy has a softer splendor,
And life grows sweetly possible,
And love more truly tender.

Oh, I have many richer joys!
I do not underrate them,
And every man knows what I mean,
I do not need to state them.
But this I say,--I'd rather miss
A deal of what's called pleasure,
Than lose my little comforter,
My little smoky treasure.

AMELIA E. BARR.

Forsaken of all comforts but these two,--
My fagot and my pipe--I sit to muse
On all my crosses, and almost excuse
The heavens for dealing with me as they do.
When Hope steps in, and, with a smiling brow,
Such cheerful expectations doth infuse
As makes me think ere long I cannot choose
But be some grandee, whatsoe'er I'm now.
But having spent my pipe, I then perceive
That hopes and dreams are cousins,--both deceive.
Then mark I this conclusion in my mind,
It's all one thing,--both tend into one scope,--
To live upon Tobacco and on Hope:
The one's but smoke, the other is but wind.

SIR ROBERT AYTON.

'TWAS OFF THE BLUE CANARIES.

'Twas off the blue Canary isles,
A glorious summer day,
I sat upon the quarter deck,
And whiffed my cares away;
And as the volumed smoke arose,
Like incense in the air,
I breathed a sigh to think, in sooth,
It was my last cigar.

I leaned upon the quarter rail,
And looked down in the sea;
E'en there the purple wreath of smoke,
Was curling gracefully;
Oh! what had I at such a time
To do with wasting care?
Alas! the trembling tear proclaimed
It was my last cigar.

I watched the ashes as it came
Fast drawing toward the end;
I watched it as a friend would watch
Beside a dying friend;
But still the flame swept slowly on;
It vanished into air;
I threw it from me,--spare the tale,--
It was my last cigar.

I've seen the land of all I love
Fade in the distance dim;
I've watched above the blighted heart,
Where once proud hope hath been;
But I've never known a sorrow
That could with that compare,
When off the blue Canaries
I smoked my last cigar.

JOSEPH WARREN FABENS.

LATAKIA.

I.

When all the panes are hung with frost,
Wild wizard-work of silver lace,
I draw my sofa on the rug,
Before the ancient chimney-place.
Upon the painted tiles are mosques
And minarets, and here and there
A blind muezzin lifts his hands,
And calls the faithful unto prayer.
Folded in idle, twilight dreams,
I hear the hemlock chirp and sing,
As if within its ruddy core
It held the happy heart of Spring.
Ferdousi never sang like that,
Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay;
I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke,
And watch them rise and float away.

II.

The curling wreaths like turbans seem
Of silent slaves that come and go,--
Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime,
Whom I behead from time to time,
With pipe-stem, at a single blow.
And now and then a lingering cloud
Takes gracious form at my desire,
And at my side my lady stands,
Unwinds her veil with snowy hands,--
A shadowy shape, a breath of fire!

O Love, if you were only here
Beside me in this mellow light,
Though all the bitter winds should blow,
And all the ways be choked with snow,
'Twould be a true Arabian night!

T.B. ALDRICH.

MY AFTER-DINNER CLOUD.

Some sombre evening, when I sit
And feed in solitude at home,
Perchance an ultra-bilious fit
Paints all the world an orange chrome.

When Fear and Care and grim Despair
Flock round me in a ghostly crowd,
One charm dispels them all in air,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

'Tis melancholy to devour
The gentle chop in loneliness.
I look on six--my prandial hour--
With dread not easy to express.

And yet for every penance done,
Due compensation seems allow'd.
My penance o'er, its price is won,--
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

My clay is _not_ a Henry Clay,--
I like it better on the whole;
And when I fill it, I can say,
I drown my sorrows in the bowl.

For most I love my lowly pipe
When weary, sad, and leaden-brow'd;
At such a time behold me ripe
To blow my after-dinner cloud.

As gracefully the smoke ascends
In columns from the weed beneath,
My friendly wizard, Fancy, lends
A vivid shape to every wreath.

Strange memories of life or death
Up from the cradle to the shroud,
Come forth as, with enchanter's breath,
I blow my after-dinner cloud.

What wonder if it stills my care
To quit the present for the past,
And summon back the things that were,
Which only thus in vapor last?

What wonder if I envy not
The rich, the giddy, and the proud,
Contented in this quiet spot
To blow my after-dinner cloud?

HENRY S. LEIGH.

THE HAPPY SMOKING-GROUND.

When that last pipe is smoked at last
And pouch and pipe put by,
And Smoked and Smoker both alike
In dust and ashes lie,
What of the Smoker? Whither passed?
Ah, will he smoke no more?
And will there be no golden cloud
Upon the golden shore?
Ah! who shall say we cry in vain
To Fate upon his hill,
For, howsoe'er we ask and ask,
He goes on smoking still.
But, surely, 'twere a bitter thing
If other men pursue
Their various earthly joys again
Beyond that distant blue,
If the poor Smoker might not ply
His peaceful passion too.
If Indian braves may still up there
On merry scalpings go,
And buried Britons rise again
With arrow and with bow,
May not the Smoker hope to take
His "cutty" from below?
So let us trust; and when at length
You lay me 'neath the yew,
Forget not, O my friends, I pray,
Pipes and tobacco too!

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.

SWEET SMOKING PIPE.

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's the same!

What else but lighted dust am I?
Then shew'st me what my fate will be;
And when thy sinking ashes die,
I learn that I must end like thee.

ANON.

CIGARETTE RINGS.

How it blows! How it rains! I'll not turn out to-night;
I'm too sleepy to read and too lazy to write;
So I'll watch the blue rings, as they eddy and twirl,
And in gossamer wreathings coquettishly curl.
In the stillness of night and the sparseness of chimes
There's a fleetness in fancy, a frolic in rhymes;
There's a world of romance that persistently clings
To the azurine curving of Cigarette Rings!

What a picture comes back from the passed-away times!
They are lounging once more 'neath the sweet-scented limes;
See how closely he watches the Queen of Coquettes,
As her white hands roll deftly those small cigarettes!
He believes in her smiles and puts faith in her sighs
While he's dazzled by light from her fathomless eyes.
Ah, the dearest of voices delightfully sings
Through the wind intertwining of Cigarette Rings!

How sweet was her song in the bright summer-time,
When winds whispered low 'neath the tremulous lime!
How sweet, too, that bunch of forget-me-nots blue--
The love he thought lasting, the words he thought true!
_Ah, the words of a woman concerning such things_
_Are weak and unstable as Cigarette Rings!_

J. ASHBY-STERRY.

SMOKING SPIRITUALIZED.

The following old poem was long ascribed, on apparently
sufficient grounds, to the Rev. Ralph Erskine, or, as he
designated himself, "Ralph Erskine, V.D.M." The peasantry
throughout the North of England always called it "Erskine
Song;" and not only is his name given as the author in
numerous chap-books, but in his own volume of "Gospel
Sonnets," from an early copy of which this version is
transcribed. The discovery, however, by Mr. Collier of the
First Part in a MSS. temp. James I., with the initials "G.W."
affixed to it, has disposed of Erskine's claim to the honor of
the entire authorship. G.W. is supposed to be George
Wither; but this is purely conjectural, and it is not at
all improbable that G.W. really stands for W.G., as it was
a common practice among anonymous writers to reverse their
initials.

The history, then, of the poem seems to be this: that the
First Part, as it is now printed, originally constituted the
whole production, being complete in itself; that the Second
Part was afterwards added by the Rev. Ralph Erskine, and that
both parts came subsequently to be ascribed to him, as his
was the only name published in connection with the song. See
"Ballads of the Peasantry," Bell's edition. Variants of
this song will be found on pages 86 and 150 of the present
collection; the first is ascribed to George Wither, and
the other is taken from the first volume of "Pills to purge
Melancholy."