Long may the plant good-will create,
And banish strife afar:
Our only cloud its incense sweet,
And this our only jar.
Scire Facias.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said;
I'll have to smoke, or I'll be dead?
If so, then let the caitiff dread!
My wrath shall fall upon his head.
'Tis plain he ne'er the Plant hath read;
But "goody" trash, perchance, instead.
Dear Cope, good night!—Yours, Master Fred.
That tobacco in one form or another has been patronized from the cottage to the throne, no one will deny who is at all acquainted with the history of the plant. And while it has had many a royal hater, it can also boast of having many a kingly user. A favorite of king and courtier, its use was alike common in the palace and the courtyard. It can claim, also, many celebrated physicians who have been its patrons, and among them the noted Dr. Parr. We give an anecdote of him showing his love of weed and wit.
The partiality this worthy Grecian always manifested for smoking is well known. Whenever he dined he was always indulged with a pipe. Even His Majesty, when Dr. Parr was his guest at Carlton Palace, condescended to give him a smoking-room and the company of Colonel C——, in order that he might suffer no inconvenience. "I don't like to be smoked myself, doctor," said the royal wit, "but I am anxious that your pipe should not be put out." One day, Dr. Parr was to dine at the house of Mr. ——, who informed his lady of the circumstance, and of the doctor's passion for the pipe. The lady was much mortified by this intimation, and with warmth said, "I tell you what, Mr. ——, I don't care a fig for Dr. P.'s Greek; he shan't smoke here." "My dear," replied the husband, "he must smoke; he is allowed to do so everywhere." "Excuse me, Mr. ——, he shall not smoke here; leave it to me, my dear, I'll manage it." The doctor came; a splendid dinner ensued; the Grecian was very brilliant. After dinner, the doctor called for his pipes. "Pipes!" screamed the lady. "Pipes! For what purpose?" "Why, to smoke, madam!" "Oh! my dear doctor, I can't have pipes here. You'll spoil my room; my curtains will smell of tobacco for a week." "Not smoke!" exclaimed the astonished and offended Grecian. "Why, madam, I have smoked in better houses." "Perhaps so, sir," replied the lady, with dignity; and she added with firmness, "I shall be most happy, doctor, to show you the rights (rites?) of hospitality; but you cannot be allowed to smoke." "Then, madam," said Dr. Parr, looking at her ample person; "then, madam,—I must say, madam,—" "Sir, sir, are you going to be rude?" "I must say, madam," he continued, "you are the greatest tobacco-stopper in all England." Of the clergy, Whatley was one of the greatest in intellect, and, as a smoker was devotedly attached to tobacco; his pipes, when out, served him for a book-marker. In summer-time he might be seen, of an evening, sitting on the chains of Stephen's Green, thinking of "that," as the song says, and of much more, while he was "smoking tobacco." In winter he walked and smoked, vigorously in both cases, on the Donnybrook road; or he would be out with his dogs, climbing up the trees to hide amid the branches a key or a knife, which, after walking some distance, he would tell the dogs he had lost, and bid them look for it and bring it to him.
Theory against Experience.
Of many warriors, none have been more devoted to the plant than Napoleon, Frederick of Prussia and Blücher the Bold. The following anecdote of the latter is one of the best of its kind: "As is well-known, Field-Marshal Blücher, in addition to his brave young 'fellows' (as he called his horsemen), loved three things above all, namely, wine, gambling, and a pipe of Tobacco. With his pipe he would not dispense, and he always took two or three puffs, at least, before undertaking anything. 'Without Tobacco, I am not worth a farthing,' he often said. Though so passionately fond of Tobacco, yet old 'Forwards' was no friend of costly smoking apparatus; and he liked best to smoke long, Dutch clay pipes, which, as everybody knows, very readily break. Therefore, from among his 'young fellows' he had chosen for himself a Pipe-master, who had charge of a chest well packed with clay pipes; and this chest was the most precious jewel in Blücher's field baggage. If one of the pipes broke, it was, for our hero, an event of the greatest importance. On its occurrence, the 'wounded' pipe was narrowly examined, and if the stem was not broken off too near the head, it was sent to join the corps of Invalids, and was called 'Stummel' (Stump, or Stumpy). One of these Stumpies the Field-Marshal usually smoked when he was on horseback, and when the troops were marching along or engaged in a reconnoissance, and eye-witnesses record that many a Stumpy was shot from his mouth by the balls of the enemy—nothing but a piece of the stem then remaining between his lips. Blücher's Pipe-master, at the time of the Liberation War, was Christian Hennemann, a Mecklenburg and Rostock man, like Blücher himself, and most devotedly attached to the Field-Marshal. He knew all the characteristic peculiarities of the old hero, even the smallest, and no one could so skillfully adapt himself to them as he. His duties as Pipe-master, Hennemann discharged with great fidelity; yea, even with genuine fanatical zeal. The contents of the pipe-chest he thoroughly knew, for often he counted the pipes. Before every fierce fight, Prince Blücher usually ordered a long pipe to be filled. After smoking for a short time, he gave back the lighted pipe to Hennemann, placed himself right in the saddle, drew his sabre, and with the vigorous cry, 'Forward, my lads!' he threw himself into the fierce onset on the foe.
On the ever-memorable morning of the battle of Belle-Alliance (Waterloo), Hennemann had just handed a pipe to his master, when a cannon-ball struck the ground near, so that earth and sand covered Blücher and his gray horse. The horse made a spring to one side, and the beautiful new pipe was broken before the old hero had taken a single puff. 'Fill another pipe for me,' said Blücher; 'keep it lighted, and wait for me here a moment, till I drive away the French rascals. Forwards, lads!' Thereupon there was a rush forwards; but the chase lasted not only 'a moment,' but a whole hot day. At the Belle-Alliance Inn, which was demolished by shot,—the battle having at last been gained,—the victorious friends, Blücher and Wellington, met and congratulated each other on the grand and nobly achieved work, each praising the bravery of the other's troops. 'Your fellows slash in like the very devil himself!' cried Wellington. Blücher replied, 'Yes; you see, that is their business. But brave as they are, I know not whether one of them would stand as firmly and calmly in the midst of the shower of balls and bullets as your English.' Then Wellington asked Blücher about his previous position on the field of battle, which had enabled him to execute an attack so fatal to the enemy.
Blücher, who could strike tremendous blows, but was by no means a consummate orator, and could not paint his deeds in words, conducted Wellington to the place itself. They found it completely deserted; but on the very spot where Blücher had that morning halted, and from which he had galloped away, stood a man with his head bound up, and with his arm wrapped in a handkerchief. He smoked a long, dazzling white clay pipe. 'Good God!' exclaimed Blücher, 'that is my servant, Christian Hennemann. What a strange look you have, man! What are you doing here?' 'Have you come at last?' answered Christian Hennemann, in a grumbling tone; 'here I have stood the whole day, waiting for you. One pipe after another have the cursed French shot away from my mouth. Once even a blue bean (a bullet) made sad work with my head, and my fist has got a deuce of a smashing. That is the last whole pipe, and it is a good thing that the firing has ceased; otherwise, the French would have knocked this pipe to pieces, and you must have stood there with a dry mouth.' He then handed the lighted pipe to his master, who took it, and after a few eagerly-enjoyed whiffs, said to his faithful servant, 'It is true, I have kept you waiting a long time; but to-day the French fellows could not be forced to run all at once.' With astonishment, Wellington listened to the conversation. Amazed, he looked now at the Field-Marshal, now at the 'Pipe-master,' and now at the branches of trees and the balls scattered all round, which made it only too evident what a dangerous post this spot must have been during the battle. The wound in Hennemann's head proved to be somewhat serious; his hand was completely shattered; and yet, in the midst of the tempest of shot, he had stood there waiting for his beloved master."[55]