saccharine matter, which, for its own purpose,
the excise regards as adulteration. A case is
known where a dealer bought a box of Cavendish,
paid the duty, cleared it from the Custom
House, took it to his shop, and there had it
seized by the officers of excise. This being
the state of things, the consumer had either to
smuggle his foreign Cavendish or go without it.

But the Custom House, by being so sharp
upon the dealers, proved in the end too sharp
for itself. The one ton of tobacco upon which
it contrived to lay its hands did not pay the
cost of collection. The Exchequer, instead
of gaining by the heavy duty, sustained a
loss; for the smuggled tobacco escaped both
the customs and the excise. The smuggled
tobacco supplied the place of large quantities of
unmanufactured leaf, which would otherwise
have been imported under the minor duty of
three shillings and twopence a pound; and thus
the grasping policy of the Customs overreached
itself.

The moment Mr. Gladstone discovered this
notable triumph of the governmental art of how
not to do it, he resolved upon a sweeping reform.
It was a reform conceived in the same wise
spirit of political economy which has directed
all his great commercial measures. Adopting
the very opposite policy of his predecessors,
he sought to increase the revenues from
tobacco by reducing the duties, and removing
all vexatious and senseless restrictions.
The result was the Tobacco Duties Act of
1863.

The Richmond Cavendish Company, at Liverpool,
is the only large manufactory established
under the provisions of the new act. I cannot
say precisely where the building is situated
—for Liverpool is a topographical puzzle
which I have not yet been able to solve
—but it is somewhere near the docks. The
building comprises a large block of houses,
completely isolated, very convenient for the
officers of customs, who are thus enabled to
walk round, and see that no tobacco is being
taken in or out without paying toll to her
Majesty. The great door admits the raw
material neat as imported in barrels from Virginia.
Within, we find ourselves in a large shed filled
with tobacco-leaves, the contents of each barrel
standing upright in a solid mass after the hoops
and staves have been knocked away. From this
shed, the leaves, in bundles not unlike trusses of
hay, are carried into a large hall, where the
process of manufacture at once begins. The first step
is to strip the lamina from the thick stem which
runs down the centre. This is the work of
girls. The leaves are placed in baskets, and
carried into the preserving-room, the stalks
being left in a heap for another purpose. Now,
what do you think that purpose is? The stalks
of tobacco are usually ground into snuff; but the
British manufacturer has recently found a better
use for them. He sends them over to Holland
and Germany, where they are chopped up and
smoked as tobacco! The Dutchman and the
German are content to smoke the Englishman's
refuse. A compliment this to our British
wealth and luxury.

I have likened a eake of Cavendish tobacco
which we smoke, to a cake of confectionery which
we eat. The process of manufacture is identical.
The tobacco-cake, like the plum-cake, is mixed,
kneaded, put into a shape, and baked. Here
is the mixing-room, a rough place enough, but
filled with the fragrant odour of something
exceedingly nice. What is it? Stewed apples?
Everton toffee? Currant jam? A mixture of
all three, perhaps? The odour proceeds from
yonder caldron. I go up a few steps, peep into
its bubbling depths, and see what appears to be
a witch's broth of boiling pitch. It is a mixture
of refined sugar and various sweet liquors.
When a layer of tobacco-leaves has been spread
upon the floor, a ladleful or two of this sweet
liquor is sprinkled over the heap; then another
layer of leaves, and another sprinkling of the
liquor, until the heap is completed. This is
called " preserving." The leaves, when well
saturated with the contents of the caldron, are carried
into another room, where they are sprinkled with
rum and essential oils. The rum is the very
best old Jamaica, and some of the essential oils
cost five pounds a bottle. This precious
mixture, which smelt like pudding sauce, was
dispensed to the pampered leaves from a tin pail
with a whitewashed brush. What the essential
oils are I am unable to tell. That is
a secret of the manufacture. Receipts for
making Cavendish have been handed down, in
America, from one generation to another, and
one was shown to me which had been sold for
five hundred dollars. In America, however,
every man in the trade has some favourite
flavouring of his own, which he keeps secret.
When the leaves have been well sprinkled with
the flavouring, they are left to become
thoroughly saturated. They are then removed to
the machine-room, for what may be called the
kneading process. This is performed by means
of a long iron trough about two inches wide,
and a wheel driven by steam, which fits into
it. The girls who are employed in this work
place a certain quality of preserved leaves in
the trough, filling it from end to end, as a tin
might be filled with dough. The trough is then
pushed against the wheel, which presses the
tobacco into a long solid strip, resembling a
strap of leather. Prom this bench the straps
are removed to another, where girls cut them
into small cakes. At the next bench these
cakes are neatly wrapped in a leaf of dry
tobacco, and thrown into huge baskets. Lying
in these baskets, they look for all the world
like hunks of gingerbread; and smell like it.

The next process is done by means of an
hydraulic press. The cakes are placed in the
cells of a large iron frame, resembling in shape
and size the pudding-tins which we see in the
windows of cheap eating-houses, and upon this
is fixed a lid having on its lower surface
projecting parallelograms of steel adapted to fit
neatly into the cells. A number of these tins
are then placed, one on the top of another,