1830.] C 497 ] 



A CHAPTER ON CIGARS. 



How many are the moments in a man's life (let us philosophise for an 

 instant) when the mind, that metaphysical curiosity, that ethereal es- 

 sence, ever present and never visible, refuses to fix itself; when it floats 

 hither and thither like the thistledown, seeking some object whereon it 

 may find rest ; when it wanders about from parish to parish without 

 obtaining relief. There are times when neither an arm-chair with a fen- 

 der for a footstool nor a gossip with a pair of glancing eyes nor a stroll 

 by moonlight nor a song nor a bottle though ever so old nor a book 

 though ever so new can administer the particular balm which our fan- 

 cies or our faculties require. No ; there are certain periods of time, cer- 

 tain points of existence, when nothing in nature can enliven our droop- 

 ing senses, restore a tone and tranquillity to the mind, and perfectly sa- 

 tisfy all the wandering and undefined desires of the moment, but a pinch 

 a full, fresh, fervent pinch of snuff pungent and unadulterated. There 

 are occasions when the spirit of man turns in weariness from the won- 

 ders that surround it the glories of art, the enchantments of nature and 

 centres all its wants and wishes, soothes all its anxiety and disappoint- 

 ment, in a genuine Havannah. It is the only thing that precisely suits 

 his case. 



"Blessings on the man," says Sancho, "that first invented sleep." 

 But what wreaths shall we twine, what rewards shall we invoke, for the 

 head of him that first invented smoke ! Mysterious essence, emblem of 

 our existence, type of our desires and our dreams, our graceful vanities 

 and shadowy ambition ! A cigar - the very word has a fragrance in it. 

 The pen, as it writes, seems to acquire a rich brown hue, and pours 

 forth, instead of cold solemn syllables, oriental breath and delicious per- 

 fumes. Its odour transcends that of a rose, or a roast pig Nothing 

 in life is like the flavour of a real cigar, to those who know how to enjoy 

 it. All that smoke are not smokers. There are persons who prefer a 

 bad cigar to a good one, and who puff out as much cloud and vapour in 

 a year as Mount Etna, without tasting a particle of it. Some French 

 writer has said, that it is not every one that knows how to take a 

 walk. It may as truly be asserted that it is not every one that knows 

 what smoke is ! But to those who are in the secret, your initiated few, 

 to whom nature has given a finer sense of enjoyment, a divine per- 

 ception of the beautiful to these, the curling cloudy column that rises 

 from the lips is ethereal air, the element of a new life.. It springs up 

 as from an altar, and floats on the air like incense. Through the narrow 

 tube of a cigar gushes a full flood, a Nile of enthusiasm and delight, 

 refreshing the senses and refining the imagination. Really, when honours 

 and eulogies are showered upon objects whose claims upon our gratitude 

 are so very apocryphal, something should be said or sung of the merits 

 of a weed, that is hourly productive of a wise pleasure and a healthful 

 recreation. If Steele or Pope were living, instead of Sir Walter and 

 Wordsworth, the memory of this fragrant and familiar little ministrant 

 to our comforts would be enshrined in golden verse, and periods full of 

 grateful praise. 



But as all are not epicures, we will look at our subject in a less ele- 

 vated light, and regard it merely as the medium of an elegant courtesy, 

 a harmless indulgence, a simple but a social luxury. To Dr. Lardner, 

 or to any other learned labourer in science, who may assure us that 



M.M. New Series. VOL IX, No. 53. 3 S 



