It was in the latter years of his life that Tennyson told Sir William Harcourt one day that his morning pipe after breakfast was the best in the day—­an opinion, by the way, to which many less distinguished smokers would subscribe—­when Sir William laughingly replied, “The earliest pipe of half-awakened bards.”

The companion burlesque line, “The earliest pipe of half-awakened birdseye” appears, with one from Homer and one from Virgil, at the head of Arthur Sidgwick’s poem in Greek Iambics, “+TO BAKCHO+,” in “Echoes from the Oxford Magazine,” 1890.

Sidgwick’s praise of tobacco, classically draped in Greek verse, occasionally of the macaronic order, is delightful.  He hails the pipe as the work of Pan, and the divine smoke as the best and most fragrant of gifts—­healer of sorrow, companion in joy, rest for the toilers, drink for the thirsty, warmth for the cold, coolness in the heat, and a cheap feast for those who waste away through hunger.  How is it, he says, that through so many ages men, who have need of thee, have not seen thy nature?  Often, he continues—­the verses may be roughly translated—­often, when I am in Alpine solitudes, tied in a chain to a few companions, clinging to the rope, while barbarians lead the way, carrying in my hands an ice-axe (+krustalloplega chersin axinen pheron+), and breathless crawling up the snow-covered plain—­then, when groaning I reach the summit (either pulled up or on foot), how have I rested, on my back on the rocks, charming my soul with thy divine clouds!  He goes on in burlesque strain to speak of the joys of tobacco when he lies in idleness by the streams in breathless summer, comforted by a bath just taken, or when in the middle of the night he is worn out by revising endless exercises, underlining the mistakes in red and allotting marks, or weighed down by the wise men of old—­Thucydides, Sophocles, Euripides, the ideas of Plato, wiles of Pindar, fearfully corrupt strophe of chorus, wondrous guesses of Teutons and fancies of philologists, when men swoon in the inexplicable wanderings of the endless examination of Homer, when the brain reels among such toil—­then he hails the pipe, help of mortals, and hastens to kindle sacrifices at its altars and rejoices as he tastes its smoke.  Let some one, he exclaims, bring Bryant and May’s fire, which strikes a light only if rubbed on the box—­

    +enenkato tis pur bruantomaikon+
    (+kausai d’ adunaton me ouchi pros kiste tribeu+)

and taking the best and blackest bowl, and putting on Persian slippers, sitting on the softest couch, I will light my pipe, with my feet on the hearth, and I will cast aside all mortal care!

Nor must the delightful verses by “J.K.S.” be forgotten, in which the author of “Lapsus Calami” sings of the “Grand Old Pipe”—­

    And I’m smoking a pipe which is fashioned
    Like the face of the Grand Old Man;

and the quaint similarity or comparison between the pipe and Gladstone, the “Grand Old Man” when “Lapsus Calami” appeared in 1888, is maintained throughout—­