Than all the breath of all the nine.
Cowper.
How dearly the late Poet Laureate, Tennyson, treasured his briar-root; how with his ‘silent friend’ he would seek seclusion, drawing unfailing solace from an inexhaustible tobacco jar, belongs to the social history of our times. In the fulness of their hearts, lovers of the weed have declared that in it they have found ‘the only thing in life that fumes without fretting.’ If to this excellence be added the further one of assuaging the fretful, we shall have the whole philosophy of smoking in a nutshell. Because of these rare virtues paterfamilias will now and then forego the social distinction of occupying the paternal chair that he may enjoy the comforts of a quiet pipe away from all the blessed cherubs of domesticity. For these, the idolised bachelor, weary of loving attentions (the ungrateful being!) will watch his opportunity for flight, and slipping away unseen, will make off to his favourite hiding-place. Briskly entering his den he surveys with twinkling eye his own undisputed domain, with pipe-rack and weeds, benches and books, rifle and rod, all in undisturbed (dis)order. Tenderly he handles his favourite calumet, bestows the pabulum of peace, and awaits the sweet solace which will soon dispel the worries and passions born of strife in life’s warfare.
Many an over-wrought brain has thus received the balm that stays the rash hand or the fevered spirit from hurrying to a reckless end. Surely no one need wonder at the smoker’s devotion to his pipe, nor be so uncharitable as to class his troubles and trials and their happy deliverance with the mere fancies of a lazy man in search of excuse for an idle habit. Let us not be hard on the smoker. Do we not all know men who would fain indulge in a social whiff now and then with their friends were it not for the warnings of an inward monitor who will not be trifled with? The man who had conquered Europe was himself conquered by a pipe of tobacco. An oriental pipe of wonderful beauty and inventive skill was presented to Napoleon by a Persian ambassador. Though he was an immoderate snuff-taker he had never smoked, but he would try this pipe. It was duly charged with tobacco and lighted, says Constant, but His Majesty, instead of drawing up the smoke in the usual way, merely opened and shut his mouth with mechanical regularity. Losing patience, he exclaimed, ‘Devils! There is no result!’ It was remarked that he had made the attempt badly, and he was shown how to smoke properly. But the Emperor simply reverted to his automatic performance; the pipe went out, and Constant was desired to relight it. This done, he again instructed his master in the proper method of smoking. Determined not to be balked again, the Emperor resolutely drew up the smoke, and, swallowing it, it came out by his nostrils and blinded him. As soon as he recovered breath he cried out, ‘Away with it! Oh, the hog! Oh, my stomach! My stomach turns!’ This was Napoleon’s first and last experience of smoking. Then let those whom St Nicotine favours thankfully own her benign sway and be comforted. The placid oriental, when his wives rave, or affliction smites him, will stroke his beard—if he have one—and thank Allah for the good gift
Which on the Moslem’s ottoman divides,
His hours, and rivals opium and his brides.
An old Persian legend, brought to light by Lieutenant Walpole, tells the story of a virtuous youth distraught at the loss of a loving wife. A holy man looks tenderly upon the disconsolate one, and tells him of a balm for his affliction. ‘Go to thy wife’s tomb, son of sorrow,’ says the anchorite, ‘and there thou wilt find a weed. Pluck it, place it in a reed, and put fire to it, then inhale the smoke thereof. This will be to thee wife and mother, father and brother, and, above all, will be a wise counsellor, and teach thy soul wisdom and thy spirit joy.’ The Homeric strain of this Eastern sage breathes of implicit faith in his native Shiraz tobacco. For doubtless he, a dweller in
… the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime;
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,