IN these days of austerity, the news that British MPs are entitled to free snuff when attending sessions in the House of Commons is likely to set nostrils flaring. Smoking has been outlawed in the Houses of Parliament since 1694-not for health reasons, but for fear of fire. For centuries, MPs seeking a mind-clearing hit of nicotine would help themselves to a pinch of snuff before standing up to speak.
In the Georgian age, when snuff was all the rage, the cost of the parliamentary supply was not to be sneezed at, but those who fear that the snorting of this finely ground tobacco by our own elected representatives is blowing holes in the budget can rest easy. The snuff available to them is a variety named English Rose from one of England's two remaining mills, Gawith Hoggarth of Kendal, Cumbria.
It's stored in a box fashioned from an oak beam rescued from the old debating chamber that was destroyed during the Blitz. The exact cost of maintaining the parliamentary snuff allowance is unavailable, but when figures were last made public, in 1989, consumption amounted to 1/2oz per year at a cost of 99p. You don't fund many libraries with that.
We might think of smoking bans as a development of our own health-conscious age, but they enjoyed a great vogue in the 18th century, too. In 1705, Richard 'Beau' Nash took over as Master of Ceremonies in Bath and promptly banned smoking in all the city's public rooms. Nash set the tone for fashionable gatherings. Until the 1850s, smoking would be frowned upon in all high-tone places, including gentlemen's clubs. The beneficiary of the banishing of pipes and cigars was the snuff trade. Thanks to Nash and other Georgian dandies, snuff became the tobacco of choice for High Society-the common people puffed, the aristocracy sniffed.
Denne historien er fra October 16, 2024-utgaven av Country Life UK.
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Denne historien er fra October 16, 2024-utgaven av Country Life UK.
Start din 7-dagers gratis prøveperiode på Magzter GOLD for å få tilgang til tusenvis av utvalgte premiumhistorier og 9000+ magasiner og aviser.
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Give it some stick
Galloping through the imagination, competitive hobby-horsing is a gymnastic sport on the rise in Britain, discovers Sybilla Hart
Paper escapes
Steven King selects his best travel books of 2024
For love, not money
This year may have marked the end of brag-art’, bought merely to show off one’s wealth. It’s time for a return to looking for connoisseurship, beauty and taste
Mary I: more bruised than bloody
Cast as a sanguinary tyrant, our first Queen Regnant may not deserve her brutal reputation, believes Geoffrey Munn
A love supreme
Art brought together 19th-century Norwich couple Joseph and Emily Stannard, who shared a passion for painting, but their destiny would be dramatically different
Private views
One of the best ways-often the only way-to visit the finest privately owned gardens in the country is by joining an exclusive tour. Non Morris does exactly that
Shhhhhh...
THERE is great delight to be had poring over the front pages of COUNTRY LIFE each week, dreaming of what life would be like in a Scottish castle (so reasonably priced, but do bear in mind the midges) or a townhouse in London’s Eaton Square (worth a king’s ransom, but, oh dear, the traffic) or perhaps that cottage in the Cotswolds (if you don’t mind standing next to Hollywood A-listers in the queue at Daylesford). The estate agent’s particulars will give you details of acreage, proximity to schools and railway stations, but never—no, never—an indication of noise levels.
Mission impossible
Rubble and ruin were all that remained of the early-19th-century Villa Frere and its gardens, planted by the English diplomat John Hookham Frere, until a group of dedicated volunteers came to its rescue. Josephine Tyndale-Biscoe tells the story
When a perfect storm hits
Weather, wars, elections and financial uncertainty all conspired against high-end house sales this year, but there were still some spectacular deals
Give the dog a bone
Man's best friend still needs to eat like its Lupus forebears, believes Jonathan Self, when it's not guarding food, greeting us or destroying our upholstery, of course