That Bewitching Vegetable

WE owe the following tale of Queen Elizabeth to one of the early colonists, ‘Colonel William Byrd of Westover, Virginia, Esqr.,’ in his story of establishing the boundary line between Virginia and North Carolina. We have amplified the tale a little.

Amadas and Barlowe brought back to England two Indians, some sweet potatoes and maize, and last — and seemingly least important — a certain plant which our Colonel calls a ‘bewitching Vegetable.’ The Indians called it ‘uppowoc.’ Walter Raleigh had financed the expeditions.

According to our Colonel: ‘Sir Walter made a present of some of the brightest of this bewitching Vegetable to his Roial Mistress for her owne Smoaking.’ It seemed like a proper and courteous act, but tragedy was lurking round the corner. For Elizabeth, like the ladies of to-day, sought to imitate the ways of mere man. Let all modest maids note this: that a penalty attaches to every departure from conventional ways. Elizabeth ‘smoaked’ three good whiffs of the burning, bright, bewitching vegetable; and then came trouble. She turned pale. Her maids hurried to her side. Some called for the leech; others cried, ‘Seek the ’pothecary,’ for ‘roial’ blood must flow to relieve such distress. Whisper spread that Raleigh had ‘poisoned his Roial Mistress!’ Alackaday! Those maids who favored Leicester wagged their tongues! For a brief space it seemed that a certain great ornament of the English nation would surely have his head chopped off, even as happened to him later when that royal hater of tobacco, King Jamie, sent him to the block — ostensibly for harrying Spaniards, but really for not bringing back gold. After some anxious moments Elizabeth recovered her composure and her complexion. Peace being now assured within the royal confines, the maids loudly applauded the heroism of their sovereign.

Then, to the consternation of all, the sovereign commanded the Countess of Nottingham ‘to try a pipe’! The Countess could do no more than emulate the example of her royal mistress. Therefore she too turned pale. Likewise those maids who also took a whiff. Some of the more artful ones feigned a greater degree of stricken stomach than was actually the case; but for one crowded hour much occurred in exclusive circles. And two noble red men from Virginia looked on, unmoved. ’T is likely that Sir Walter removed himself speedily from the presence. ’T were useless to quote to ladies at such a time that ‘it chears the Heart even of a Man that has a bad Wife, and makes him look down with great Composure on the crosses of the World.’

Some say that Columbus himself discovered this habit of the Indians to perfume themselves. Others say that when the Spaniards landed in South America the natives, as a defensive measure, — and it would seem to be also offensive, — spat tobacco juice in the eyes of the invaders. Some say Jean Nicot, a French ambassador to Portugal, carried tobacco to Catherine de’ Medici in 1560. And some say that Ralph Lane was the first who smoked in England. There is a tradition in the Greek Church that Noah was a heavy smoker; and it would seem plausible that the venerable navigator, at the end of a somewhat trying voyage, should seek solace in a pipe as well as the fruit of the vine. But certain it is that the Lord of Villemain, Jean Nicot, sent to the Queen of France some of the ‘bewitching Vegetable.’ Did Catherine de’ Medici, like Elizabeth Tudor, ever try to ‘smoake’? History is silent.

And thus during the reign of the Virgin Queen came the Indian weed uppowoc into vogue. All the gay gallants followed the fashion introduced by Sir Walter and swashbuckling captains like Price and Koet who ‘drank’ (meaning ‘smoked’) tobacco publicly in London. The tale is still told in the nursery how Raleigh’s servant, on first seeing smoke come from his master’s lips, fearing for his master, emptied a flagon of ale over him to put out the fire; and even the Pilgrim Fathers must have heard, as their little ships started for the New World, a jest then bandied in the streets of Plymouth — how a Welshman coming new to London, and seeing a swaggering gallant smoking, cried out, ‘O Jhesu! Man! Thy snout is burning!’ Hastening for a ‘bowle of beere’ he threw it in the other’s face to quench the flaming nose!

Shakespeare must have heard of these events, for he knew about the shipwreck of Sir George Somers in 1609. In The Tempest he speaks of the Bermoothes (the Bermudas), but there is no mention of Virginia. This is strange; but stranger still is his silence concerning the ‘ bewitching Vegetable,’ for at that time smoking was in vogue. Perhaps the myriad-minded poet and successful theatrical manager had no patience with the noisy gallants who smoked and swaggered on and off stage. And then that pawky ruler, James the First of England, Sixth of Scotland, had complimented him on his literary ability.

Shakespeare died in 1616, and in the same year, according to Jamie’s idea, a much more important matter happened; namely, the appearance of the first edition of the collected works (literary) of the king. Of these we are concerned only with the famous Counterblast to Tobacco, which Shakespeare undoubtedly read. Every lover of good tobacco should have a copy of the Counterblast framed and hung in his den. And as he blows smoke rings in the direction of the framed words he may picture himself as one of that noble army of contented, smoking burghers who puffed away and blew their smoke in the eyes of Wilhelmus Kieft, — William the Testy, the second governor of that then slow-moving burg, Nieuw Amsterdam, — thus disposing of the testy one’s order abolishing pipes. But the Counterblast has decided excellences as a bit of literature.

Jamie did his instructors credit; and on every page you can see old Geordie Buchanan’s teachings cropping out in his royal student’s exposition of the majors and minors of the argument; and the ‘fallacies’ of those who claimed, with a show of reason, ‘that this filthie smoake aswell thru the heat and strength thereof, as by a naturall force and qualitie, is able and fit to purge both the head and stomacke of Rhewmes and distillations, as experience teacheth by the spilling and avoyding fleame immediately after the taking of it.’

Jamie is nothing if not logical. Would a man because his ‘Liver is hote (as the fountaine of the blood) and as it were an oven to the stomacke’ — would such a man apply and ‘weare close upon his Liver and stomaeke a cake of lead’? No indeed, Jamie! You are quite right, and, although Shakespeare said it always gave him a ‘paine’ to appear at court, I think that most of us would be glad to appear and tell the king how correct and laudable these sentiments were and how beautifully expressed! Jamie was good at argument. When the philofumists (lovers of smoke) claimed that at best smoking could be but a minor offense, this ruler from the land of cakes and brither Scots met their argument thus: —

‘So is an Ant an Animal aswell as an Elephant; so is a Wrenne Avis as a Swanne; and so is a small dint of the Toothake a disease aswell as the fearefull Plague is.’

In a right royal way our misofumist (smoke hater) berated those of his subjects — there were many — who so far abased themselves as to imitate the beastly Indians.

‘Why do we not,’ he thunders, ‘aswell imitate them in walking naked as they doe?’ Why indeed, Jamie? But if you were here to-day you might wonder if forsooth the ladies were not trying to imitate the Indians in the matter of dress as well as smoking!

And he further fulminates: —

‘In preferring glasses, feathers and such toyes to golde?’ Woe betide the chap who tried to pass spurious coin on Jamie!

And finally he clinched the debate:

‘Yea! Why do we not denie God and adore the Devill as they doe?’ There was no answer. But two years later Sir Walter smoked his last pipe, and then, with a sigh of regret, laid it aside and walked to the block.

James, by the grace of God, and so forth, was of opinion that smoking was ‘a custome lothsome to the eye, hatefull to the Nose, harmefull to the braine, dangerous to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof neerest resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomelesse.’ Without bothering Commons or Lords he put a tariff of ‘Six shillinges and eighte Pence uppon everye Pound Waighte thereof, over and above the Custome of Twoo Pence uppon the Pounde Waighte usuallye paid heretofore.’

But neither James nor all the kings of Europe, nor Pope Urban VIII, who excommunicated every soul — as did also a later Pope — who used tobacco, nor the Sultan Amurath, nor prince nor potentate, could stop the practice. ‘To follow Follie and to feed on Smoake!’ Thus sang one of the minor poets; and that perhaps explains matters, for never yet did — and probably never will — act of government force men to forsake that dear mistress, Folly.