The Anatomy of Tobacco

Front matter

The Anatomy of Tobacco

BOOKS BY ARTHUR MACHEN

THE HOUSE OF SOULS THE SECRET GLORY THE HILL OF DREAMS FAR OFF THINGS THINGS NEAR AND FAR HIEROGLYPHICS THE THREE IMPOSTORS DOG AND DUCK ORNAMENTS IN JADE THE LONDON ADVENTURE DR. STIGGINS THE SHINING PYRAMID THE CANNING WONDER THE ANATOMY OF TOBACCO

Introduction written for this edition

Introduction Written for this Edition

I struck me once, during a long meditation on literature, that every man who has written has had but one idea in his head. To the best of my recollection, the particular example in my mind at the time was Edgar Allan Poe, who executed a wonderful series of variations on one theme.

He had conceived the notion, I do not know whether as a sincere belief, or as a mere artistic topic, that death was not the swift, sudden and determinate stroke of most men's thoughts, and of science itself. The mourners about the bed might see the sick man cease to breathe, the doctor might say, "It is all over," and grant his certificate; but to Poe, this event, commonly perceived as death, was but the beginning of a slow and lingering process during which consciousness of a sort per- sisted, in which living and dying were hideously and awfully mingled. It is interesting, indeed, to trace this "pattern on the carpet" through very many of Poe's most famous stories, in forms of curious and intricate variety. It is latent in "The Fall of the House of Usher" it is patent in the dreadful tale of the man mesmerised in the act of death, it is openly prophesied in a story the title of which I have forgotten, wherein the dead man registers the slow changes in the process of consciousness, as the bodily tissue melts and decays. Dickens, on the other hand, had an idea simpler and more magnificent. He believed in God and all goodness, that is, that the end was well. He knew quite as much about hardships, scorn and poverty, stinks and sinks and stenches, lice and foul living of all sorts as the nastiest of the Russians; yet he knew that the end was well. The Marshalsea Prison was a horrible hole without doubt, just as Hell is a horrible hole on a much more splendid scale in Dante. But Dante's book is called "The Divine Comedy," and one cannot help feeling that the Marshalsea in "Little Dorrit" is a great adventure. To the rational man a black ravine of rocks with towering and machicolated walls above it, with no possibility of growing wheat in it, or of fetching profitable meals out of it, is a mere blank, dead stupidity of nature; it is not even horrible, but only silly and offensive, a joke in the worst taste. But to the super-rational man, such as Dickens; here is a place of wonder and terrors, fairies and demons, a place to shudder from, certainly, but a place to rejoice over also—as one sits by the shining hearth, behind the close shut door, many a mile away across the waste.

Most men, not merely authors, are men of one idea; putting it more pleasantly, we all have a bee in our bonnets; and I am inclined to think that the bee in my bonnet, or at all events the principal bee, is an acute relish of the infinite differences of life, even from the heights unto the depths. It is a favourite amusement of mine here in my garden in St. John's Wood, to pluck two leaves from a tree, two leaves that seem at a rough glance to be absolute duplicates, the one of the other. I have never taken the trouble to measure the two leaves, which appear to be exactly of the same length and breadth, with a graduated rule; but I have no doubt that if I did, I should find that there was a difference, though a very small one. But I trace the veins that intersect the substance of the leaves, and find always that no two leaves are exactly alike. There is a difference, a very slight difference, often; but always a difference. And so it is in all things, animate and inanimate. To me, every sheep in a flock is like every other sheep; but it is not so to the shepherd; and the huntsman distinguishes every foxhound from the other at a glance. And so it is in the crafts, though it is not so in our modern, machine-turned wares; and there, perhaps, is a legitimate reason for our love of the ancient thing, from the Gothic Cathedral to the hammered ironwork scrolls that sustain the sign of the village Inn. This variety, this diversity are the enchantment of life, and make the delight of art; and this second proposition—enunciated long ago by Bacon—may be reckoned my subsidiary or corollary bee.

But it is the earlier proposition that I now have in my mind: The infinite variety of all things, men included. I have before me a queer little book called: "The Anatomy of Tobacco: or Smoking Methodised, Divided, and Considered after a New Fashion. By Leolinus Silwriensis, Professor of Fumifical Philosophy in the University of Brentford." It bears the date 1884. It was written by me forty years ago, in the twentieth year of my age. And, I hope I need not add; it is as bad a little book as well can be. It is a hodge-podge of tobacco pipes and easy schoolboy scholarship, and Latin and Greek tags, and a great deal of Scholastic Logic, and a sort of thin skimming of philosophy obtained from Tennemann's "Manual of the History of Philosophy," and a good deal of the manner of that famous old book, Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy"; with all the odds and ends and scourings and rinsings of the poor mind that conceived it; a young mind that would have been gay, but was cast into a dismal prison. A bad little book, indeed, but distinctly a queer little book for a lad of twenty to write as a relief for all his troubles.

And here is my point. We have been talking about the strange variety of things; and I am making this "Anatomy of Tobacco" an exhibit and an instance in the argument. Here is a lad of twenty alone in the London of 1883. He is earning his living by teaching small children at a wage of twenty-five shillings a week; and twenty-five shillings a week did not go far, even in the London of forty years ago. He lives in a small room, about ten foot by six in measurement, at the top of a house in a quiet street. His diet is dry bread, green tea and tobacco. He chooses this in preference to the meal of the cheap eating-house, because the eating-house is nasty, and he hates nastiness above all things. How is this unfortunate going to make such a life in any way endurable? He is exiled from his old home, his old friends, and his old land; and, now and gain, his awful loneliness and dereliction overwhelm him with black horror. His little room is as a condemned cell, and if he goes out into the streets, there are the more terrible multitudes of the unknown; the lamplit crowds that remind him of the dark throngs that Dante saw below in torment, that go to and fro and hurry hither and thither without end or purpose or hope.

How gain some little drop of water of relief in such pains as these? The young man solved the problem by writing the aforesaid "Anatomy of Tobacco." Sad stuff, as I have said, but that is not the point. The point is that we are infinitely various; and here is an instance of a very distinct way out of a very common difficulty. Every lonely young man of twenty has his own individual solution for the problem; and here was mine. Life was made at worst endurable, and at best enjoyable—in a grim sort of way.

And it was probably the only solution—for me. I have said something of a mind that would have been gay, if it had not been cast into a dismal prison. I do not mean by that the little room in Clarendon Road, or the poor fare or the poverty. Once on a time I would have said that here lay the trouble; but it was not so. The dismal prison was myself; I lacked the faculty of ordinary human enjoyment, though I desired it. One or two people tried me with the theatre, with mild parties, with a little literary society; but it would not do. I found there was no balm for my soul in paying calls on Sunday afternoon; then a great sport in London. I did not want to talk to anybody about Irving and Ellen Terry; another great game of the day. I wouldn't go near the Fisheries or Healtheries Exhibitions: I should have found them essentially lonelier than a favourite walk of mine, a stroll about the arid waste of Wormwood Scrubbs. No; there was nothing for it but to write "The Anatomy of Tobacco"; and so it was done. I suppose I was somewhat in the case of a man who has a long grim job before him, a job that must be done, and yet scarcely can be done; a job that he knows well is to try him to the uttermost and beyond the uttermost; and the time is short.

This man sets out in the morning, silent and alone, with set lips, towards the place of the strong and heavy trial. He has not a word to fling to a neighbour as he goes on his way speechless; the bright booths at the fair mean nothing to him; he does not see the gay figures dancing in a ring, nor hear any sound of laughter nor of laughing music. He goes forward to fulfil his doom; silent and alone; for none can help him.

Only a short while ago, a distinguished man of letters who had been reading a book of mine, ("Far Off Things,") which gives some account of these old days, said to me: "I wouldn't have stood that lonely life you describe in your book. I would have gone to Wimbledon Common and waylaid Swinburne. I would have insisted on knowing him, whether he liked it or not."

I said nothing, seeing that I could not make him understand, and indeed I hardly understand myself. But I am quite clear that even the patronage of Swinburne would have done no good—to me.

But now, as to the bad little book, "The Anatomy of Tobacco," itself, apart I mean from its surface of chop-logic, cheap scholarship, easy parodies, and learned affectations. Is there anything at all behind this sufficiently unattractive surface? Somewhat to my own surprise, I begin to believe that there is a certain genuine emotion deeply latent beneath the bewildered text; nowhere patent indeed; least of all to the writer in the act of writing. But, very darkly hidden beneath all the verbiage, I think I can see a dawning glimmer of recognition of the great truth that everything is very good, that there is nothing common or unclean, not even an ounce of cheap tobacco.

You know out of what very odd and indeed unsavoury matters Rabelais made a book which is, essentially, a great song of joy and triumph, you know how Cervantes fashioned a madman's delirious and ridic- ulous misadventures into the greatest romance in the world, you know what Dickens did with Cockneydom and silly men and cold punch and a dirty, stinking prison in "Pickwick." All these three shewed that there is a wonder in everything, a vast and exquisite relish in everything; yes, even in the very meanest thing on earth. Strip the veils of illusions, and there is nothing common or unclean, for all things are rare, all things have the radiance of a certain secret star that dwells within them.

And so I according to my measure—God help!—endeavoured to shew that there are wonders, secrets, mysteries, rarities, delights even in an ounce of shag tobacco and a clay pipe, bought from the talkative man in the Goldhawk Road, by Shepherd's Bush Green.

May we be rewarded according to our good desires, and now condemned according to our evil works.

Preface

PREFACE.

Curious Reader,

Come with me, I pray, to the wooded hills and dreamy valleys of mine own Siluria. Leave the "chargeable noise of the great town," and stand with me on the mountain that I love, while the wind sweeps over the heather and bracken, bringing with it the salt of the far-away sea. Below us the country is extended; wave after wave of wood and meadow floating in the mist of the morning, and here and there a window-pane shoots back the rays of the mounting sun. In a valley to the east the smoke of a walled city, Caerleon, the metropolitan, arises; and on the yellow water beyond ships are passing in and out of harbour. Just beneath us, on the verge between heather and cornfield, stands an ancient house with mullioned windows that have withstood the storm of many a hundred year, and from its chimneys also a faint blue smoke rises straight till it meets the mountain wind. Here then let us stand awhile and mingle the golden clouds of Virginia with those of Siluria. For, mark me, we have got into a little hollow sheltered from the full strength of the breeze, and a beechtree that bends over us will give sufficient shade, though, like most of our mountain trees, it is somewhat stunted. Here we can smoke, and meditate, and dream, for a time at least, like to the gods of Epicurus, taking no heed for the turmoil of the world beneath us, but each man, rapt in his own fancies, weaves them into what he sees, and the whole is very sweet for him to remember hereafter in the midst of the streets, and noisome smoke, and clamour without end. More I say not; let my reader make his dreams for himself of what he may, and if they be even dreams of love I will reprove him not in this place; though in my lecture-room at Brentford it would be otherwise. So if in my book I speak somewhat harshly of Venus and her train, you, O reader, must remember that it is the Professor of Pipe Philosophy in his chair, and not the Silurian on his hills, who does so; and this because he will not tolerate any imperium which seems to threaten and diminish the honour of the Pipe and Jar.

Come with me, then, through our shady woods in summer, wander with me by our rivers and wandering brooks, let us drink deep of the life-giving breath of the mountains; and, so it be done moderately, of the cwrw that is without guile. And what the printer has set after this shall be to you my discourse by the way.

A. Ll. J. M.

Historical Introduction

Historical Introduction

I is a thing well known and ascertained that the ancient philosophers were wont to divide their teaching into two parts; of which one was the Esoteric or Acroamatic, and the other the Exoteric. Now the first of Esoteric was that which was taught to the innermost band of disciples, and contained things which were unfit for the hearing of the senseless and evil-minded crowd. But the second or Exoteric was that which was openly taught, and likewise put in writing, and so hath come down to our own days.

And in compiling this book I have thought well to imitate the example of these mighty men of old, and therefore have not writ at all of the Esoteric Doctrines of Pipe Philosophy, not being of a mind to lay open such high and weighty matters to the idle cavils and senseless animadversions that would most surely follow. Therefore doth this book treat alone of the Fumus Exotericus and not one whit of the Flamma Esoterica.

And they for whom this exposition is chiefly intended are those who deem themselves to have already gone through all human erudition, and to have nothing more to learn. For, unless I mistake, before they have digested many pages they will perceive themselves to have been woefully in the wrong, and that here is laid open a new land of science, set far beyond the limits of Ultima Thule. Nay, more, they will read of men and books before unknown; and some perchance in their pride and stiffneckedness will go so far as to dispute the existence thereof.

And at once to put an end for ever to all objections on the matter, I will demonstrate how it has come to pass that such weighty and erudite doctors as Gulielmus Septemhorologiensis, Johannes de Grotibus, Margites Dummerkopfius, and others have been hitherto unknown to mankind.

Know, then, that when it is said of Pythagoras, "With an elementary work on arithmetic in his pocket he visited the East for the acquirement of knowledge," only a part is told, and that a small one. For the truth is that after journeying through Persia and Arabia, and paying a short but lively visit to the land of the Anthropophagi, he proceeded still fur- ther East, until he came to the Seres or Chinese, whom he describeth as γένος παιδαριωδέστατον καὶ εὐτραπελὠτατον—a most childlike and bland race, at which blandness being pleased, he thought to remain there some while.

Now it appeareth that he had already formed his mysterious notions concerning the Divine Essence residing in numbers and sounds; and it was these same ideas that contributed not a little to the shortening of his stay in the country of the Seres. For some time after his advent there, his philosophic meditations on the multiplication table considered as a source of evil were rudely disturbed by a most hideous and awful tumult, which perturbed him not a little, since he perceived that if his disciples were ever to apprehend such a clamour, not only would they ascribe no divinity to sounds, but would even go to the opposite extreme. And on inquiring whence arose this fearful tumult he was answered in Columbarian Greek (the dialect used to communicate with foreigners) that it came from an instrument named the θῶμας-θῶμας, which Bossius conjectures may be probably identified with that which we now call the "tom-tom."

But a still greater discomfiture awaited our philosopher, and one which threatened to shatter and destroy the very citadel of his system—namely, the divine order and sequence of numbers both in matters terrestrial and celestial. For it happed that playing at astragaloi or dibs with one whom he describes as παιδαριωδέστατος καὶ εὐτραπελώτατος παντων—"of all men most bland and childlike," the cast of sea- born Aphrodite did fall to his opponent nine times in sequence; while he himself could throw nought but the obscene Bow-wow; and this although the bland one professed an entire nescience of the game and a willingness to be instructed in it. So perceiving that such an event could harmonise in no way with the eternal unities and reciprocities, Pythagoras fled straightway from that land, fearing to meet perchance with some greater mishap.

And going on ever to the rising of the sun he came at last to the country which we call Kamschatka, but which then was named Cynosimus or Dog's Nose, so reaching at last the verge of Asia would have doubtless returned to Greece without any material discovery (save only that the game of astragaloi or dibs containeth in it much food for thought when played by childlike men), but it fell out that walking the sea-shore he observed a strange and remarkable ship moored close to land. And the strangeness of that ship lay in this—that in place of a mast and sails, such as vessels were wont in those days to have, it was furnished with a tube of well-tempered iron, from whence spouted forth smoke, yea black smoke such as is dear to the heart of Below-Ground Zeus. And on the side thereof were inscribed the mystic characters ΠΟΛΙΤΗΣ.Αʹ, at which the heart of Pythagoras greatly rejoiced, for he perceived that now indeed the unities were about to commence. Also besides this he was 'ware of a melodious diapason which proceeded (as he relates) from the ship, exceeding sweet and thrilling, and likewise the noise as of a silver bell, mighty pleasant and tintinnabulous. And perceiving that the time was now come to dare all things in the cause of philosophy, and calling on the mystic Samothracian divinities ΤΙΝΔΑΑ, ΣΠΕΝΣΕΡ, and ΥΞΛΥ, he boldly ascended the ship. But the instant he touched the deck the noise that was pleasant and tintinnabulous ceased, and after pouring forth one profuse strain of unpremeditated art, likewise ceased the harmonious diapason; and by some mysterious power Pythagoras was borne away over that unknown sea.

Now concerning his voyage is no certain record, and although many weighty tomes have been written on the matter, the jejunality of this work doth not suffer me to treat of it; so suffice it to say that after a short and fair journey he was at last, with many diapasons and tintinnabulous rejoicings, landed on the opposite coast. But he had scarcely reached the land when a grave and reverend man accosted him, and hailing him nasiloquently as "stranger" gave him welcome. And after the first greetings were over, and the autochthon had ascertained at how many drachmas the πῆχυς Pythagoras had purchased his ἱμάτιον, he informed him that his name was Odysseus B. Podge, Prince of the Caucusidæ, and proposed that they should immediately fare unto an adjoining temple and pour libations to the deathless gods. And although it was early in the morning, when the Greeks were not accustomed to perform such rites, Pythagoras denied him not, and going to the temple honey-sweet wine was brought them, which Pythagoras affirms to have been in strength like unto a wall of stone, and they poured libations in the customary manner. But when Pythagoras made known unto the prince the intent and purpose of his voyage—namely, the seeking out of new and strange philosophies and observances—he sware a dreadful oath. For he sware by the eagle that spreads his wings widely extended over the land of the Setting Sun, by the Capitol wherein they cease not to worship the deathless gods, by all the wheeling Stars of heaven, and the griev- ous Stripes wherewith the gods plague men, that Pythagoras should accomplish his desire and return again to his native land.

And so indeed he performed his vow, and imparted to Pythagoras the whole theory and practice of Pipe Philosophy, and gave him of the herb that is more powerful than moly and sweeter than ambrosia; and after he had sojourned there a long while he again embarked on the magic ship, carrying with him much tobacco and many clay pipes, and so came again to Cynosimus.

From thence he went on his way rejoicing through the country of the Seres, nathless taking much care not to linger in the towns where they were wont to play the θῶμας-θῶμας, nor did he venture aught in the game of astragaloi or dibs, which in his heart he determined to forbid to his disciples as a game unbefitting a philosopher and utterly contrary to all unity and reciprocity.

So, to make a long matter short, Pythagoras returned home by way of Ægypt, then much perturbed by the cabals and discontents of an insolent soldier, who out of the malice of his heart persuading the common folk that they had a just claim to the management and enjoyment of their own country, incited them to revolt. And for a time it was like to have gone hard with Pharaoh, but he called on Gelon, Tyrant of Syracuse, to assist him in his hour of need. And Gelon, out of the greatness and benevolence of his heart, thinking not at all of any gain or reward accruing to himself, did presently send a mighty fleet of ships, furnished with many banks of oars, and armed with all manner of tormentuous engines, both petroboli and catapeltæ, by which the people of Ægypt were soon utterly overcome and smashed. And the counsellors of Gelon were no less wise at home than in the wars; for perceiving that the vulgar folk did in some sort animadvert on the sending of the ships, they employed certain machines of burnished steel, cunningly contrived for the purpose by geometers, wherewith they blinded the eyes of the people so that they might not perceive what was being accomplished.

But when the land was conquered and laid waste, and Pharaoh thought to have been received back to the throne, Gelon did, more scholastico, make perfect a juncture between his thumb and his nose, and so mocked him, bidding him journey to the City of the Waters of the Sun (which men do now call Bath), or if he liked not that, to the City of Palm Trees, which is Jericho. And so Pharaoh, being in the hieroglyphical language of Ægypt "done brown," ceased to reign, and Gelon of Syracuse reigned in his stead, and his descendants after him, even until the Gauls overran the whole world from Jerusalem to Madagascar.

And Pythagoras carefully considering all these matters, yet forgot not the multiplicity of chests of cedar-wood he bore with him, wherein was stored the precious herb. And in the dead of night he would often secretly light his pipe and smoke without hindrance, till the fumes being apprehended he was accused of gramarye, and so driven from the land. But when he came to Croton in Italy he called together such as he deemed worthy, and imparted to them the great secret whereat they rejoiced mightily, and proceeded to test the greatness thereof by experiment. And though at the first some were perturbed both in body and mind by reason of the virtue of the herb (it being of the kind poetically called ἡ οὐρὰ τοῦ σύος or the tail of the pig), yet, at last all attained to the dignity of good and sturdy Pipe Philosophers.

But notwithstanding the vows of secrecy which Pythagoras had laid on his disciples, it began to be noised abroad that there were certain men who inhaled the smoke of a herb which made them contented with all things; whereat the populace grew justly indignant, and as History telleth us (though, as is usual, it lies for the most part), burnt down the club of the Pythagoreans, and with it was destroyed all the tobacco which was stored therein. And from that time no man in Europe saw tobacco for nigh two thousand years, but yet the knowledge of it was kept alive by tradition and handed down till it was restored again. And when it was so restored, those wise men who had before known of it only by theory were able to ascertain empirically whether their ideas concerning it were true, and thus was formed the modern school of Pipe Philosophers. Yet by their assuming names such as Margites Dummerkopfius, Linalaudulus de Tamesi, Jacobulus Corvinus, and the like, and by their writing in such a way as shall only be understood by the initiate, their very existence hath been ignored and passed over.

But in the two thousand three hundred and forty-fifth year after the journey of Pythagoras at a chapter of the principal among the Pipe Philosophers it was determined that it would be well to promulgate in some way the aforesaid Philosophy; and the lot being taken the office fell upon me; and I have writ this book in discharge of the command.

In the name, therefore, of Dionysos Sabazios, Zagreus, Abraxas, Iao, Haix-Tetrax, and Damnemeneus: Κὸγξ ὅμπαξ; Farewell.

Book I.—Chapter I.

Book I

Chapter I

T Pipe Philosophy is divided into two parts, which must be dealt with separately and in no wise confounded.

Now the first part concerns itself with the matter (materies), and the second part with the manner (modus). The matter contains all things used in smoking, such as be pipes, tobacco, and so on; and the manner treats of the ways in which smoking can be considered. And since we cannot treat of the latter as it ought to be treated without a perfect knowledge of the former, it followeth of necessity that we must first consider at length the matter, and that being thoroughly digested, pass on to the manner.

Now, matter being taken first, it is proper that it should be reasonably anatomised and divided; and the division commonly in vogue is that into four kinds—namely (1) necessary matter; (2) contingent necessary matter; (3) contingent unnecessary matter; (4) impossible matter. And the meaning of these terms is as follows:—

|(1) | Necessary matter is that without which the act of smoking is impossible.

|(2) | Contingent necessary matter is that which, although not absolutely necessary to the act of smoking, is seldom wanting.

|(3) | Contingent unnecessary matter comprehends such things as convenient in smoking, but are wholly unnecessary.

|(4) | Impossible matter is that of which it is possible to inhale the fumes through a pipe; but since it is not tobacco, the inhaling of its fumes is not smoking, and with it it is impossible to smoke.

Now, to make reference to these four kinds of matter more easy, each hath had a memorial letter assigned to it as follows:—

Necessary Matter | |Q.

Contingent Necessary Matter | |U.

Contingent Unnecessary Matter | |I.

Impossible Matter | |D.

Which letters being compounded into one word Quid give the whole division of matter; or, as the Schoolmen do name it, the "Quidditas," which Quidditas being subdivided and cut up, appeareth in Synopsis, ut infra.