Pipe Aria and Coffee Cantata

Today's Friday entertainment from Virginia is for Huguenots comes in the form of two compositions by J.S. Bach in tribute to the pleasures of pipe tobacco and coffee.

First, the Coffee Cantata [Schweigt stille, plaudert nicht ("Be still, stop chattering"), BWV 211], which is a comic opera, as the title indicates. One may read the text in English here and more about the piece here. And now, for your listening pleasure, a portion of the Coffee Cantata:



Finally, the Pipe Aria is a composition that appears in Bach's Noten-Bchlein vor Anna Magdalena Bach ("Little Notebook for A.M.Bach") of 1725 as Erbauliche Gedanken eines Tobackrauchers: Sooft ich meine Tobackspfeife" ("Edifying Thoughts of a Tobacco-Smoker: Whenever I take my good pipe"). There is some uncertainty as to the author of the text, and a portion may be derived from another source; but Bach is a known poet, the theme is one that Bach appreciated, and the musical composition is certainly Bach's. There are various English translations, several of which are here provided for comparison, along with a peformance of BWV 515a (in G minor). One version ends: "On land, at sea, at home, abroad / I smoke my pipe and worship God." Enjoy!

Edifying Thoughts of a Pipe Smoker (Version 1)

Whene'er I take my pipe and stuff it
And smoke to pass the time away
My thoughts, as I sit there and puff it,
Dwell on a picture sad and grey:
It teaches me that very like
Am I myself unto my pipe.

Like me this pipe, so fragrant burning,
Is made of naught but earthen clay;
To earth I too shall be returning,
And cannot halt my slow decay.
My well used pipe, now cracked and broken,
Of mortal life is but a token.

No stain, the pipe's hue yet doth darken;
It remains white. Thus do I know
That when to death's call I must harken
My body, too, all pale will grow.
To black beneath the sod 'twill turn,
Likewise the pipe, if oft it burn.

Or when the pipe is fairly glowing,
Behold then instantaneously,
The smoke off into thin air going,
'Til naught but ash is left to see.
Man's fame likewise away will burn
And unto dust his body turn.

How oft it happens when one's smoking,
The tamper's missing from it's shelf,
And one goes with one's finger poking
Into the bowl and burns oneself.
If in the pipe such pain doth dwell
How hot must be the pains of Hell!

Thus oer my pipe in contemplation
Of such things - I can constantly
Indulge in fruitful meditation,
And so, puffing contentedly,
On land, at sea, at home, abroad,
I smoke my pipe and worship God.

Edifying Thoughts of a Pipe Smoker (Version 2)

Whenever I pick up my tobacco-pipe,
Stuffed with good tobacco
For pleasure and pastime,
It gives me a sad impression -
And leads to the conclusion
That I resemble it in many ways.

The pipe was made from clay and earth
And so was I.
One day I will be earth again -
It often falls from the hand
And breaks before you know,
My destiny is the same.

The pipe is usually not colored;
It remains white. So therefore,
One day when I am dying
My body will turn pale.
Once buried it becomes black, just like
A pipe that has been used for a long time.

When the pipe is lit,
One sees the smoke disappear instantly
In the free air,
Leaving nothing but ashes behind.
The glory of all mankind is consumed
And the body turns to dust.

So often it happens while smoking,
That the stuffer is not handy,
And instead the finger is used,
Then I wonder when I burn myself,
If the ashes make such pain
How hot will it be in Hades?

Since such is the case,
From my tobacco I can always
Erect enlightening thoughts.
Therefore, in comfort I smoke
On Land, at sea and at home
My little pipe, with devotion.

Edifying Thoughts of a Pipe Smoker (Version 3)

As oft I fill my faithful pipe,
To while away the moments glad,
With fragrant leaves, so rich and ripe,
My mind perceives an image sad,
So that I can but clearly see
How very like it is to me.

My pipe is made of earth and clay,
From which my mortal part is wrought;
I, too, must turn to earth some day.
It often falls, as quick as thought,
And breaks in tow, -- puts out its flame;
My fate, alas! is but the same!

My pipe I color not, nor paint;
White it remains, and hence 'tis true
That, when in Death's cold arms I faint,
My lips shall wear the ashen hue;
And as it blackens day by day,
So black the grave shall turn my clay!

And when the pipe is put alight
The smoke ascends, then trembles, wanes,
And soon dissolves in sunshine bright,
And but the whitened ash remains.
'Tis so man's glory crumble must,
E'en as his body, into dust!

How oft the filler is mislaid;
And, rather than to seek in vain,
I use my finger in its stead,
And fancy as I feel the pain,
If coals can burn to such degree,
How hot, O Lord, must Hades be!

So in tobacco oft I find,
Lessons of such instructive type;
And hence with calm, contented mind
I live, and smoke my faithful pipe
In reverence where'er I roam, --
On land, on water, and at home.