A Moonlight Reverie in Havana.
The insult direct in cigar etiquette is for the party to whom you apply for a light, to pass on and leave you with the remains of his cigar, or to intimate to you, by word or action, that he has no further use for it, and that you can throw it away. In Cuba, where cigars are plentiful, the usual custom is, when you ask for a light, even if the party be a stranger, to pull out your case and offer him a cigar, by way of recognizing the civility in stopping to accommodate you. The Spaniards are naturally a polite people, and the stranger stepping into the Louvre and other public places of resort in Havana, is struck at once with the marked contrast in this respect to familiar gatherings elsewhere. In no place is a cigar more enjoyable than in Havana. Seated upon the roof of one of the large hotels in that city in a bright moonlight night, within hearing of the dreamy roll on the beach: the regular throb of the sea, lulling one into quietness; the sigh of the summer breeze a lullaby to the senses; while a high-flavored prime cigar, as it wastes and floats away in air, is the fairy wand which opens the enchanted gates of Reverie and Imagination.
What need of a friend under such soothing circumstances? What need of the jolly camarade of former days to sigh back sigh for sigh, puff for puff, and wander in gentle reminiscences over the Lesbian labyrinth of the past, when Julia was most kind, or Cynthia, darling girl, delighted in the perfume of a capital havana? Here, in this quaint old city by the sea, is the place for dreams and reveries and the utter rendering of one's self up—to a good cigar. Is it not a place for reverie? Has not one with this most respectable weed, this prime havana, the concomitants of a thousand reveries? Will not one puff of that narcotic breath drowse deep all watching dragons, and make for him the sleeping beauties of his will? And, presto, there they are! and, oh! ye houris of the South, with what a smile and glance between the azure puffs! Well let me not forget myself. With a sterner morality he sees how the bending Bedouin fashions his pipe in the moistened ground; he sees the slender Indian reed with the flat bowls of Lahore and Oude, the pipe of the Anglo-eyed celestial, the red clay of Bengal, and the glittering gilded cups in which the dark-skinned races of Siam, the Malacca Isles, and the Philippines, love to enshrine their dreamy opium-haunted spirits of the weed. He sees how in the squatter's hut the old squaw sits by her hunter lord, and puffs at the corn-cob sweetness, and how by lonely ways the traveler rests and thinks of home, and in the blue smoke greets once more the faces of the loved, perhaps forever gone. He sees how the Esquimaux, with his hollow Walrus-tooth, makes bearable the stifling squalor of his den; or, sterner and graver still, some item of historic lore mingles rudely with his dreams, and elbows sharply the airy spirits of his smoke-engendered thoughts. Softly tremble in the delicate blue mist and the azure spirals from his old Virginia clay—the domes of a sea-bathed city. Loftily pierce the tall white minarets into the quivering heavens, while the solemn cypress throws its shade below. Before him, silent-paced as in a dream, files the weird array of Arab camels, bowing their long necks tufted with crimson braids, and measuring the brown sands of the desert with ghost-like tread. 'Tis the moon of Egypt and the waters of the Nile; 'tis the palm-bough waves for him; and women, free-limbed, with flashing eyes, and antique water-vases on their heads, move past him from the low-rimmed shadowy wells. And he sees them there and smiles.
By the Sea.
He sees on beach by the sea the summer idler sitting beneath the jutting rock, gazing far out upon the sea, yet ignoring the white sails that pass up and down before him, as well as the open volume upon his knee, while his thoughts float outward and upward with the graceful wreaths of smoke that encircle his head; and if of a practical turn, he listlessly wonders why, if his own delightful land furnishes some twentieth of the whole Tobacco produce of the world, and does honor to her native weed by being its mightiest consumer, why, in the name of all disasters, the product is so dear—ay, doubly dear? And thus as his pipe burns low, a hundred other statistics; then, knocking out his whitened ashes on the floor, he reads sedately (his pipe being out) that the "Tobacco plant furnishes ashes to the amount of one-fourth of its bulk, being a much greater proportion than that of any other vegetable product," and, moreover, that "Tobacco exhausts the soil at the ratio of fourteen tons of wheat to one of Tobacco!" Oh, base insinuation! But, as he relights his pipe, and the graceful vapor circles in fresh buoyancy and grace before him, he only, in his contented mind, retains that one supreme expression—"One ton of Tobacco!" Ah,
"Think of it, picture it
Now, if you can!"