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CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART
Fifth Series
ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832
CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)
NO. 45.—VOL. I. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1884. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE STORY OF A VAST EXPLOSION.
The greatest physical convulsion of recent times occurred on the
morning of the 27th of August last year, the scene of the catastrophe
being a small island in the Sunda Straits, which separate Sumatra and
Java. It is a region which there is much reason to regard as one of the
intensest foci of volcanic activity on the earth’s surface. The main
facts connected with this event, although slow in coming to hand, are
now fairly within the records of science. Krakatoa, the volcanic island
which a year or two ago was seven miles long by five broad, is about
thirty miles from the Java coast. When surveyed in 1868-69, the island
was found to be clothed from base to summit with a luxuriant growth of
forest and tropical vegetation, but uninhabited. A few weeks prior to
the eruption, the volcano, which had been dormant for two centuries,
gave signs of an awakening. On the 20th of May several shocks,
accompanied by loud explosions and hollow reverberations, startled the
inhabitants of the towns of Batavia and Buitenzorg, about ninety miles
distant.[1] These disturbances continued for the next three months with
more or less activity. On the 11th and 18th of August the energy of the
volcano increased, and there were symptoms of a crisis. On the 26th and
the night following, several eruptions took place, until the climax was
reached on the following morning. The submarine base of the mountain
then seems, according to all available evidence, to have literally
‘caved in.’ This was apparently accompanied by an influx of the sea
into the molten interior, the instantaneous development of superheated
steam, and then an explosion which, for its colossal energy, is
unparalleled in the annals of volcanic outbreaks.
The enormous power of this eruption can only be adequately understood
by its effects; these we now briefly summarise. The explosion itself,
according to Dr Verbeek, one of the Dutch Commission appointed to
investigate the nature and results of this catastrophe, caused the
north part of the island to be blown away, and to fall eight miles to
the north, forming what is now named Steer’s Island. Moreover, the
north-east portion of the island of Krakatoa was also hurled into the
air, passed over Lang Island, and fell at a distance of seven miles,
forming what is now known as Calmeyer Island. In proof of this, we have
the fact elicited by the newly made marine survey of the Straits, that
‘_the bottom surrounding these new islands has not risen_.’ This would
have been the case had they been upheaved in the usual way. Not only
so, but the bottom round these new islands shows a slightly _increased
depth_ in the direction of the submarine pit, nearly one thousand feet
deep, which now marks the place the peak of Krakatoa occupied prior
to the convulsion. But out of the midst of this deep depression there
rises ‘like a gigantic club’ a remarkable column of rock of an area
not more than thirty-three square feet, which projects sixteen feet
above the surface of the sea. The southern part is all that is now left
of the island of Krakatoa, and this fragment on its north side is now
bounded by a magnificent precipitous cliff more than two thousand five
hundred feet high. It has been thought by some, however, that the first
portion of the island was blown away on the evening of August 26th, and
that on the following morning the larger mass, answering to Calmeyer
Island, was shot out by an effort still more titanic.
The shock of the explosion was felt at a distance of four thousand
miles, being equal to an area of one-sixth of the earth’s surface—that
is, at Burmah, Ceylon and the Andaman Islands to the north-west, in
some parts of India, at Saigon and Manila to the north, at Dorey in
the Geelvink Bay (New Guinea) to the east, and throughout Northern
Australia to the south-west. Lloyd’s agents at Batavia, in Java, stated
that on the eve of this vast explosion, the detonations ‘grew louder,
till in the early morning the reports and concussions were simply
deafening, not to say alarming.’ So violent were the air-waves, due to
this cause, that walls were rent by them at a distance of five hundred
miles, and so great the volume of smoke and ashes, that Batavia, eighty
miles off, was shrouded in complete darkness for two hours. Nearly four
months after the eruption, masses of floating pumice, each several
acres in extent, were seen in the Straits of Sunda.
Paradoxical as it appears, the sound was sometimes better heard in
distant places than in those nearer the seat of disturbance. This
singular effect has been thus explained—assuming, for example, the
presence of a thick cloud of ashes between Krakatoa and Anjer, this
would act on the sound-waves like a thick soft cushion; along and above
such an ash-cloud the sound would be very easily propelled to more
remote places, for instance, Batavia; whereas at Anjer, close behind
the ash-cloud, no sounds, or only faint ones, would be heard. Other
explanations seem to be less probable, though not impossible.
Dr Verbeek states that within a circle of nine and a-half miles’
radius (fifteen kilomètres) from the mountain, the layers of volcanic
ash cover the ground to a depth of from sixty-five to one hundred
and thirty feet, and at the back of the island the thickness of the
ash-mountains is in some places even from one hundred and ninety-five
to two hundred and sixty feet, and that the matter so projected
extends over a known area of seven hundred and fifty thousand square
kilomètres (285,170 square miles), or a space larger than the German
Empire with the Netherlands and Belgium, including Denmark and Iceland,
or nearly twenty-one times the size of the Netherlands. Moreover, he
calculates that the quantity of solid substance ejected by the volcano
was eighteen cubic kilomètres, or 4.14 _cubic miles_. To give some
idea of the enormous volume this represents, we may take the following
illustration: the largest of the Egyptian pyramids has upwards of
eighty-two millions of cubic feet of masonry; it would therefore take
about _seven thousand three hundred and sixty of such structures_ to
equal the bulk of matter thrown out by this eruption. Some of this
matter was found to contain smooth round balls from five-eighths to two
and a-quarter inches in diameter, and composed of fifty-five per cent.
of carbonate of lime.
As may well be imagined, the final outburst by its awful energy gave
rise to a succession of air-waves. These we now know went round the
earth more than once, and recorded themselves on the registering
barometers or barograms at the Mauritius, Berlin, Rome, St Petersburg,
Valencia, Coimbra (Portugal), and other far-distant places. At
some points, as many as seven such disturbances were noted; other
instruments not so sensitive gave evidence of five, by which time the
wave had pretty well spent itself.
Having collected the observations made at all the chief meteorological
stations, General Strachey recently read a paper before the Royal
Society which, in his opinion, conclusively shows that an immense
air-wave started from Krakatoa at about thirty minutes past nine A.M.
on August 27th. Spreading from this common centre, the wave went three
and a-quarter times round the globe, and those parts of it which had
travelled in opposite directions passed through one another ‘somewhere
in the antipodes of Java.’ The velocity of the aërial undulations
which travelled from east to west was calculated at six hundred and
seventy-four miles per hour, those moving in the reverse direction at
seven hundred and six miles per hour, or nearly the velocity of sound.
But another effect of the eruption was a series of ‘tidal waves,’
so called—although the term is objected to because not strictly
scientific—which, like the air-wave, passed round the world. Whether
this was synchronous with the final explosion, it is not possible to
say. The highest of these seismic sea-waves, which was over one hundred
feet high, swept the shores on either side of the Straits, and wrought
terrible destruction to life and property. More than thirty-five
thousand persons perished through it; the greater part of the district
of North Bantam was destroyed, the towns of Anjer, Merak, Tjeringin,
and others being overwhelmed.
The initial movement of this destructive agent was undoubtedly of the
nature of a negative wave; but the best testimony to this is lost,
since those who witnessed it were its victims. The sudden subsidence
of so large an area of the sea-bottom in the Straits caused the sea to
recede from the neighbouring shores. This negative wave was, however,
seen by Captain Ferrat from his vessel, as she lay at anchor at Port
Louis. He states that towards two P.M. he saw the water in the harbour
roll back and suddenly fall four or five feet; and that, a quarter of
an hour afterwards, the sea returned with great violence to its former
level, causing his own and other vessels to roll terribly. The best
witness of this remarkable phenomenon, however, is Captain Watson, of
the British ship _Charles Ball_. His vessel was actually within the
Straits, and he states that he and his helmsman ‘saw a wave rush right
on to Button Island, apparently sweeping right over the south part, and
rising half-way up to the north and east sides fifty or sixty feet,
and then continuing on to the Java shore. This was evidently a wave of
translation and not of progression, for it was not felt at the ship.’
This latter movement, beyond question, must have coincided with the
great ‘tidal wave’ above mentioned, and which was felt at Aden, on the
Ceylon coast, Port Blair, Nagapatam, Port Elizabeth, Kurrachee, Bombay,
and half-way up to Calcutta on the Hooghly, the north-west coast of
Australia, Honolulu, Kadiall in Alaska, San Celeto near San Francisco,
and the east coast of New Zealand.
In this as in most other cases of volcanic disturbance, electrical
phenomena were observed. One vessel in particular, while passing
through the Sunda Straits, exhibited ‘balls of fire’ at her masthead
and at the extremities of her yardarms. Further, it was noticed at
the Oriental Telephone Station, Singapore, a place five hundred miles
from Krakatoa, that on raising the receiving instrument to the ears, a
perfect roar as of a waterfall was heard; and by shouting at the top
of one’s voice, the clerk at the other end of the wire was able just
to hear something like articulation, but not a single sentence could
be understood. On the line to Ishore, which includes a submarine cable
about a mile long, reports like pistol-shots were heard. These noises
were considered due to a disturbance of the earth’s magnetic field,
caused by the explosion, and reacting on the wires of the telephone.
We have now to refer to what has been a much debated question. From
about September to the beginning of the present year, remarkable
coronal appearances and sunglows were noticed in different parts of
the world, and especially the somewhat rare phenomena of red, green,
and blue suns. Observers such as Norman Lockyer, Dr Meldrum, and
Helmholtz maintained that the phenomena were due to volcanic dust at
a great altitude; others, and notably meteorologists, rejected this
hypothesis, and urged that the coloured suns were due to unusually
favourable atmospheric conditions, such colours being probably due
to the refraction and reflection of light by watery vapours. But the
theory that volcanic dust caused these appearances is fast gaining
ground, if it be not already an incontrovertible fact. The spectroscope
has shown that dust of almost microscopic fineness floating in the air
caused the sun to appear red. Such dust has already fallen, and the
microscope reveals the existence in it of salt particles. This, then,
is fairly conclusive evidence of the volcanic origin of such dust. That
ash particles were actually carried very far in the upper air-currents,
has already appeared from snow which fell in Spain and rain in Holland,
in which the _same components_ were found as in the Krakatoa ashes.
Dr Verbeek estimates that the height to which this fine matter was
projected ‘may very well have reached’ forty-five to sixty thousand
feet.
In a letter addressed to the _Midland Naturalist_ by Mr Clement Wragge,
of Torrens Observatory, Adelaide, South Australia, and dated July 17,
1884, the writer remarks that recently, when there were magnificent
sunsets, he obtained ‘a perfectly sharp, clean spectrum without a trace
of vapour-bands.’ And further, he is strongly of opinion that the
Krakatoa eruption is the primary cause of these wondrous pictures in
the Kosmos.
There can now be little doubt but that the green and blue suns and
exceptional sunsets observed in Europe, India, Africa, North and South
America, Japan, and Australia, were due to the Krakatoa eruption. The
enormous volume of volcanic dust and steam shot up into the higher
atmospheric zones by this convulsion are adequate to furnish the
chromatic effects above mentioned.
But we have better evidence still: these peculiar solar effects
followed a tolerably straight course to one which was in fact chiefly
confined to a narrow belt near the equator; the data now collected show
that on the second day after the eruption they appeared on the east
coast of Africa, on the third day on the Gold Coast, at Trinidad on the
sixth, and at Honolulu the ninth day. Finally, in a paper read by Dr
Douglas Archibald at the late British Association meeting at Montreal,
it was stated that ‘observations showed that the dates of the sunglows
began _earlier_ in Java, then apparently spread gradually away, the
dust being so high as to be in the upper currents, of which we know
little. These sunset glows were not seen before the eruption.... The
dust appeared to have travelled at a uniform rate, over two thousand
miles daily.’ ‘The topic,’ says Mr S. E. Bishop, writing from
Honolulu, ‘is an endless one. Many ask what is the cause of frequent
revivals of the red glows, such as the very fine one of August 19. It
seems merely to show an irregular distribution of the vast clouds of
thin Krakatoa haze still lingering in the upper atmosphere. They drift
about, giving us sometimes more, sometimes less, of their presence.
It is also not unlikely that in varying hygrometric conditions the
minute dust-particles become nuclei for ice crystals of varying size.
This would greatly vary their reflecting power, and accords with some
observations of Mr C. J. Lyons, showing that the amount of red glow
varies according to the prevalence of certain winds.’ Further facts are
coming to hand respecting this great natural convulsion.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The eruption of May was noticed in a previous article (Nov. 24,
1883).
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER LV.—SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY.
Soon after reading Mr Shield’s letter, Madge walked to Ringsford with
Pansy. There had been a thaw during the night, and the meadows and the
ploughed lands were transformed into sheets of dirty gray, dirty blue,
and reddish slush, according to the character of the soil, dotted with
patches of snow like the ghosts of islets in a lake of puddle. But the
red sun had a frosty veil on his face; by-and-by this puddle would be
glazed with ice, and the heavy drops of melting snow which were falling
slowly from the trees would become glittering crystal pendants to their
branches.
The two girls, their cheeks tingling with the bite of the east
wind, tramped bravely through the slush, with no greater sense of
inconvenience than was caused by the fact that they would be obliged to
perform the journey by the road instead of taking the short-cut through
the Forest.
They spoke little, for each was occupied with her own troublous
thoughts; Pansy did not know much of the sources of her friend’s
anxieties, and Madge had already exhausted the consolation she could
offer to her companion. On arriving at Ringsford they found Sam Culver
attending to his plants and greenhouses as methodically as if the
mansion stood as sound as ever it had done and the daily supply of
fruit and flowers would be required as usual.
Madge left Pansy with her father, and went on to the cottage. In the
kitchen she found Miss Hadleigh fast asleep in the gardener’s big
armchair. She would have left the room without disturbing her, but at
that moment Miss Hadleigh yawned and awakened.
‘Don’t go away; I am not sleeping.—Oh, it’s you, Madge. Isn’t this a
dreadful state of things? I haven’t had a wink of sleep for two nights,
and feel as if I should drop on the floor in hysterics or go off into a
fever.’
Miss Hadleigh had been relieved by a good many ‘winks’ during the
period specified, although, like many other nurses, she was convinced
that she had not closed her eyes all the time. Madge accepted the
assertion literally, and was instantly all eagerness to relieve her.
‘You must get away to Willowmere at once, and take a proper rest. You
are not to refuse, for I will take your place here and do whatever may
be required. You are looking so ill, Beatrice, that I am sure Philip
and—somebody else would consider me an unfeeling creature if I allowed
you to stay any longer.’
‘But it is my duty to stay, dear,’ said Miss Hadleigh a little faintly,
for she did not like to hear that she was looking ill.
‘And it is my duty to relieve you. Besides, Dr Joy has given us some
hope that it may be safe to remove your father to our house to-day; and
then you will be there, refreshed and ready to receive him.’
‘I suppose you are right—I am not fit for much at present,’ said Miss
Hadleigh languidly; ‘and you can do everything for him a great deal
better than I can. But I must wait till Philip comes—he promised to be
here early.’
‘You have heard from him, then?’
‘Heard from him!—he was here last night as soon as he could get away
from that nasty business he has been swindled into by our nice Uncle
Shield. He ought to have taken poor papa’s advice at the beginning, and
have had nothing to do with him.’
This was uttered so spitefully, that it seemed as if there were an
undercurrent of satisfaction in the young lady’s mind at finding that
the rich uncle who would only acknowledge one member of the family, had
turned out a deceiver.
Madge was astonished and chagrined by the information that Philip had
been out on the previous evening and had made no sign to her; but in
the prospect of seeing him soon, she put the chagrin aside, remembering
how harassed he was at this juncture in his affairs. There should
be no silly lovers’ quarrel between them, if she could help it. She
would take the plain, commonplace view of the position, and make every
allowance for any eccentricity he might display. She would help him in
spite of himself, by showing that no alteration of circumstances could
alter her love, and that she was ready to wait for him all her life if
she could not serve him in any other way. To be sure, he had said the
engagement was at an end; and Uncle Dick had not yet said that it was
to stand good. But she loved Philip: her life was his, and misfortune
ought to draw them nearer to one another than all the glories of
success—than all the riches in the world.
When he came, there was no sign of astonishment at her presence in the
temporary refuge of his father: he seemed to accept it as a matter of
course that she should be there. Neither was there any sign that he
remembered the manner in which they had last parted. To her anxious
eyes he seemed to have grown suddenly very old. The frank joyous voice
was hushed into a low grave whisper; the cheeks and eyes were sunken;
and there was in his manner a cold self-possession that chilled her.
Yet something in the touch of his hand reassured her: love was still
in his heart, although the careless youth, full of bright dreams and
fancies, was changed into the man, who, through loss and suffering, had
come to realise the stern realities of life.
They were for a time prevented from speaking together in private
because the doctors had arrived only a few minutes before Philip, and
he waited to hear their report. Dr Joy came out of the invalid’s room
with an expression which was serious but confident.
‘Our patient goes on admirably,’ he said. ‘You need have no fear of
any immediate danger; and in six months there will be only a few scars
to show the danger he has passed through. I am to stay here for a
couple of hours, and then I shall know whether or not we can move him
to Willowmere. By that time, too, I expect the ambulance we wrote for
last night will be here.—And you, Miss Hadleigh, you really must take
rest. I insist upon it. You will not make your father better by making
yourself ill. Go and get to bed. Philip and Miss Heathcote will do
everything that is necessary, and I shall be their overseer.’
Philip went to the stables to tell Toomey to bring the carriage
round for his sister. As he was crossing the little green on his way
back to the cottage, Madge met him. Although he had not observed her
approaching, his head being bowed and eyes fixed on the ground, he
took the outstretched hands without any sign of surprise, without any
indication that he understood the cruel significance of the ‘good-bye’
which had caused them both so much pain. Whatever hesitation she might
have felt as to the course she was to pursue was removed by his first
words.
‘You want to speak to me, Madge,’ he said in a tone of gentle gravity;
and then with a faint smile: ‘I am better than when you saw me last,
for I am free from suspense. My position is clear to me now, and I
feel that a man is more at ease when the final blow falls and strikes
him down, than he can be whilst he is struggling vainly for the goal
he has not strength enough to reach. It is a great relief to know that
we are beaten and to be able to own it. Then there is a possibility of
plodding on to the end without much pain.’
She was as much alarmed by this absolute surrender to adversity as she
had been by the strange humour which had prompted him to say that she
was free.
‘Yes, Philip, I want to speak to you,’ she said tenderly, and a
spasmodic movement of the hand which grasped hers, signified that the
electric current of affection was not yet broken. She went on the more
earnestly: ‘I am not going to think about the foolish things you have
said to me: I am going to ask you to give me your confidence—to tell me
everything that has happened during the last two days. Tell it to me,
if you like, as to your friend.’
‘Always my friend,’ he muttered, bending forward as if to kiss her
brow, and then drawing slowly back, like one who checks himself in the
commission of some error.
‘Always your friend,’ she echoed with emphasis, ‘and therefore you
should be able to speak freely.’
‘There is not much to tell you. The ruin is more complete than even I
imagined it to be, and the fault is mine. Your friend—I ought to say
our friend—Mr Beecham has made a generous offer for the business, and,
with certain modifications, will allow it to be carried on under my
management. This relieves us from immediate difficulties; and in a
short time Mr Shield expects to have recovered sufficiently from his
recent losses to be able to assist me in redeeming all that has been
lost.’
‘What gladder news could there be than this?’ she exclaimed with cheeks
aglow and brightening eyes; ‘and yet you tell it as if it gave you no
pleasure. Philip, Philip! this is not like you—it is not right to be so
melancholy when the future is so bright.’
‘Is it so bright? Are you forgetting how long it must be before I can
repay Mr Shield? before’——
He was going to say, ‘before I can ask you to risk your future in mine,
and what changes may take place meanwhile!’
The earnest tender eyes were fixed upon him, and they were reading his
thoughts, whilst she appeared to be waiting for him to complete the
interrupted sentence. She saw the colour slowly rising on his brow, and
knew that he was feeling ashamed of the doubt implied in his thought.
‘I want to tell you something,’ she said in her quiet brave way, ‘and
I hope—no, I _believe_ that it will take one disagreeable fancy out of
your head. I know that you did not mean what you said to me on that
dreadful evening.’
‘What else could a ruined man say?’ (This huskily and turning his face
aside.)
‘He could say that he trusted his friends. Even Uncle Dick is angry
with you for imagining that your misfortune could make any difference
in his feelings towards you. And for me, you _ought_ to say ... but
there, I am not going to speak about what you ought to say to me; I am
only going to tell you what I shall do.’
He looked quickly at her, and the eager inquiry on his pale face
rendered the words ‘What is that?’ superfluous.
‘I shall wait until you come for me; and when you come, I shall be
ready to go with you where you will, whether you are poor or rich. No
matter what anybody says—no matter what _you_ say, I shall wait.’
‘O Madge!’
He could say nothing more; the man’s soul was in that whisper. Their
hands were clasped: they were looking into each other’s eyes: the world
seemed to sink away from them; and the woman’s devotion changed the
winter into summer, changed the man’s ruin into success.
He drew her arm within his; and they walked past the blackened walls of
the Manor, and along the paths where they had spent so many pleasant
hours during his recovery from the accident with the horse, to the
place where he had thrown off the doctor’s control and got out of the
wheel-chair.
‘I am not so sorry now for what has happened,’ were his first words.
‘It is worth losing everything to gain so much.’
‘But you have not lost everything, Philip.’
‘No; I should say that I have won everything. I am glad to have saved
Wrentham from penal servitude, for his frauds have enabled me to
realise the greatest of all blessings—the knowledge that come what may
you can make me happy.’
‘And I am happy too,’ she said softly, their arms tightening as they
walked on again in silence.
By-and-by he lifted his head, and seemed to shake the frost from his
hair.
‘The doctor said I ought to have rest. I have got it from you, Madge.
I can look straight again at the whole botheration—thank you, my
darling.’ (A gentle pressure on his arm was the answer, and he went
on.) ‘The arrangement offered by Beecham is a very good and kind one,
which will enable me in course of time to clear myself whilst carrying
out my scheme; we can take a small house; Mr Shield will live with us,
and we must try to make him comfortable. Then we need not wait for the
end of next harvest, unless you still insist’——
‘No, Philip; when you bid me come to you, I am ready.’
CIGARS.
It has been abundantly shown by various writers that the Indians of
North America as well as elsewhere looked upon tobacco as having a
divine origin, as being a peculiar and special gift designed by the
‘Good Spirit’ for their delectation, and that it held a prominent place
in their visions of a future life in the ‘happy hunting-grounds.’ In
the present day, there seems to be an ever increasing dependence on—we
might almost say slavery to—the plant, whose soothing influences are
called in quest to counteract the effects of this high-pressure age.
There are not a few of its devotees who are quite at one with Salvation
Yeo in _Westward Ho_, who, when speaking of tobacco, says: ‘For when
all things were made, none was made better than this; to be a lone
man’s companion, a bachelor’s friend, a hungry man’s food, a sad man’s
cordial, a wakeful man’s sleep, and a chilly man’s fire. There’s no
herb like unto it under the canopy of heaven.’ We do not, however,
propose to discuss the opposing views held by the smoker and the
anti-smoker, but intend to restrict ourselves to some remarks on the
manufacture of cigars, which have been suggested by a recent visit to
the West Indies.
Of the endless varieties of cigars which are met with in various
tropical localities, the majority are used for local consumption, and
only find their way into England in very small quantities. The bulk of
our cigars are either Havana or Manila, European or British, and of
these it has been computed that considerably over two hundred million
are consumed annually in the United Kingdom. It is evident, therefore,
that the manufacture of this luxury is a business of great magnitude,
irrespective of the other forms of tobacco used; and if we remember
that the duty obtained from tobacco of all kinds puts nearly nine
millions per annum into the national exchequer, it becomes possible to
realise how much the comfort and happiness of a large number of Her
Majesty’s subjects depend on the products of the tobacco crop.
An Havana cigar of a good brand is deservedly looked upon as the _crême
de la crême_ of cigars; but, unfortunately, the number of good makers
as well as the possible production of first-class cigars is necessarily
limited. Thus the manufacture of the ‘Villar y Villar’ brand is stated
to be never more than twenty-five thousand daily; while that of ‘Henry
Clays’ is fully three times as many. For some time back there has
been a deterioration in Havanas, which has been variously accounted
for. It is asserted that, from the exhaustive nature of the crop,
guano or other artificial stimulants are largely used, and that the
flavour of the leaf has suffered in consequence. Besides, owing to the
increasing demand, tobacco has been grown on poor land unsuitable for
the production of the finest leaf, and even has been largely imported
into Cuba for the manufacture of ‘genuine’ Havanas. To those, however,
who cannot afford to buy the best brands, it is satisfactory to know
that a new source of supply is being opened up with great energy. The
climate and soil of some parts of Jamaica very closely resemble those
of Havana, and are well suited for the growth of the finest leaf. As
the Jamaica planters open up their virgin soil, it is safe to predict
that with growing experience they will improve in their manufactures,
while already they produce a cigar which compares favourably with any
but the best of Cuban make.
British cigars, like all other varieties, may be good, bad, or
indifferent. By British we mean cigars manufactured in this country
from the imported leaf; and as English capital can command the markets,
there is no reason why the best tobacco should not be obtainable for
importation. Using the same quality of leaf, a cigar can be produced
in this country at a much lower cost than if imported ready made.
We venture to think, notwithstanding popular prejudice, that a good
British cigar is preferable to an inferior foreign make. Pay a fair
price, and you will get a good article—home made, in spite of the
Spanish labels, which are always used either from affectation or in
order to deceive the ignorant. Much is heard about adulteration by
means of cabbage-leaves, &c.; but we believe that it is almost unknown
in this country. The fact that inferior tobaccos are so very cheap
makes fraud both unlikely and unnecessary. Adulteration, however, is
not unknown on the continent, where cigars can be obtained six and ten
for a penny; but the duty of five shillings per pound is fortunately a
bar to their importation into Great Britain. It is needless to say more
about continental cigars than we do about all cheap cigars, and that is
to recommend smokers to avoid them.
The manufacture of the finished article requires highly skilled
labour, and long practice gives the workman an amount of accuracy and
dexterity in producing cigar after cigar, alike in shape and size,
with a rapidity that is truly wonderful. After the leaves have been
properly cured, they are sorted according to size and colour. The
centre rib is then extracted, an operation requiring great care. Each
workman is seated before a flat board, and is supplied with a bunch
of perfect leaves and a pile of broken tobacco. With his fingers, he
quickly rolls up some broken pieces, inclosing them in one of the less
perfect leaves, forming what is called ‘the bunch.’ This he proceeds to
cover with the wrapper or perfect leaf, which he has already cut with
his knife to the required size. The most difficult part of the process
has now to be completed, namely, closing in the point. This he does by
modelling it with his fingers, quickly twisting the wrapper round it,
and fixing the end with a drop of gum. With one sweep of his knife—his
only implement—he trims the broad end, and the cigar is ready to be
carried to the drying-room, afterwards to be sorted and packed in boxes.
It is easier to know a good cigar when you smoke one than to describe
the points by which a good cigar may be selected. A good cigar,
however, should have a good wrapper or exterior; it should have a faint
gloss, not amounting to greasiness, due to the essential oil contained
in it; and it should have a fine hairy ‘down’ on its surface. In
addition to this, it should be firmly rolled, and yet not be hard, or
it will not draw well. When lighted it should burn evenly, and not to
one side; it should carry a two-inch ash without endangering your coat,
and if laid aside for three or four minutes, should still be alight
when taken up again. It is worth remembering the golden rule known to
the lovers of the fragrant weed, namely, when holding a lighted cigar,
always to keep the burning end turned upwards, so that the smoke may
escape into the air—never downwards, as that causes the smoke to pass
through the body of the cigar.
In concluding these brief remarks, it may not be amiss to say a word
or two about the markings which will be found on the boxes, and about
which a good deal of ignorance exists. On most boxes there are four
distinct markings, which have each their own significance. First comes
the brand proper, which consists either of the maker’s name or of some
fancy name adopted by the firm; such, for example, as Partagas, Villar
y Villar, Intimidads, Henry Clays, &c. The quality of the tobacco is
next indicated by Flor Fina, first quality; Flor, second quality, &c.
Various names, such as Infantes, Reinas, Imperiales, &c., are used to
represent the size or shape of the cigar. The fourth mark gives us an
idea of the strength or colour of the tobacco contained in the box; and
for this purpose the following terms are used—Claro, Colorado claro,
Maduro, &c. To attempt to give any advice to our readers as to the best
brands to buy would be beyond the scope of this paper. Experience will
soon teach them what to accept and what to avoid; what suits their
tastes and their pockets, and what does not.
ONE WOMAN’S HISTORY.