Concerning Cigarette Smoking: It hath been well observed by a certain
philosopher that this is a practice commendable enough, and pleasant to
indulge in, “when you’re not smoking”; wherein the whole criticism of
the cigarette is found, in a little room. Of the same manner of
thinking was one that I knew, who kept by him an ample case bulging
with cigarettes, to smoke while he was filling his pipe. Toys they be
verily, _nugæ,_ and shadows of the substance. Serviceable,
nevertheless, as shadows sometimes be when the substance is temporarily
unattainable; as between the acts of a play, in the park, or while
dressing for dinner: that such moments may not be entirely wasted. That
cigarette, however, which is so prompt to appear after dinner I would
reprehend and ban and totally abolish: as enemy to that diviner thing
before which it should pale its ineffectual fires in shame—to wit, good
drink, _“la dive bouteille”;_ except indeed when the liquor be bad, as
is sometimes known to happen. Then it may serve in some sort as a sorry
consolation. But to leave these airy substitutes, and come to smoking.
It hath been ofttimes debated whether the morning pipe be the sweeter,
or that first pipe of the evening which “Hesperus, who bringeth all
good things,” brings to the weary with home and rest. The first is
smoked on a clearer palate, and comes to unjaded senses like the kiss
of one’s first love; but lacks that feeling of perfect fruition, of
merit recompensed and the goal and the garland won, which clings to the
vesper bowl. Whence it comes that the majority give the palm to the
latter. To which I intend no slight when I find the incense that arises
at matins sweeter even than that of evensong. For, although with most
of us who are labourers in the vineyard, toilers and swinkers, the
morning pipe is smoked in hurry and fear and a sense of alarums and
excursions and fleeting trains, yet with all this there are certain
halcyon periods sure to arrive—Sundays, holidays, and the like—the
whole joy and peace of which are summed up in that one beatific pipe
after breakfast, smoked in a careless majesty like that of the gods
“when they lie beside their nectar, and the clouds are lightly curled.”
Then only can we be said really to smoke. And so this particular pipe
of the day always carries with it festal reminiscences: memories of
holidays past, hopes for holidays to come; a suggestion of sunny lawns
and flannels and the ungirt loin; a sense withal of something free and
stately, as of “faint march-music in the air,” or the old Roman cry of
“Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement.”
If there be any fly in the pipe-smoker’s ointment, it may be said to
lurk in the matter of “rings.” Only the exceptionally gifted smoker
can recline in his chair and emit at will the perfect smoke-ring, in
consummate eddying succession. He of the meaner sort must be content
if, at rare heaven-sent intervals—while thinking, perhaps, of nothing
less—there escape from his lips the unpremeditated flawless circle.
Then _“deus fio”_ he is moved to cry, at that breathless moment when
his creation hangs solid and complete, ere the particles break away and
blend with the baser atmosphere. Nay, some will deny to any of us
terrene smokers the gift of fullest achievement: for what saith _the_
poet of the century? “On the earth the broken arcs: in the heaven the
perfect round!”
It was well observed by a certain character in one of Wilkie Collins’s
novels (if an imperfect memory serveth me rightly) that women will take
pleasure in scents derived from animal emanations, clarified fats, and
the like; yet do illogically abhor the “clean, dry, vegetable smell” of
tobacco. Herein the true base of the feminine objection is reached;
being, as usual, inherent want of logic rather than any distaste, in
the absolute, for the thing in question. Thinking that they ought to
dislike, they do painfully cast about for reasons to justify their
dislike, when none really exist. As a specimen of their so-called
arguments, I remember how a certain fair one triumphantly pointed out
to me that my dog, though loving me well, could yet never be brought to
like the smell of tobacco. To whom I, who respected my dog (as Ben
saith of Master Shakespeare) on this side idolatry as much as anything,
was yet fain to point out—more in sorrow than in anger—that a dog,
being an animal who delights to pass his whole day, from early morn to
dewy eve, in shoving his nose into every carrion beastliness that he
can come across, could hardly be considered _arbiter elegantiarum_ in
the matter of smells. But indeed I did wrong to take such foolish
quibbling seriously; nor would I have done so, if she hadn’t dragged my
poor innocent dog into the discussion.
Of Smoking in Bed: There be who consider this a depravity—an instance
of that excess in the practice of a virtue which passes into vice—and
couple it with dram-drinking: who yet fail to justify themselves by
argument. For if bed be by common consent the greatest bliss, the
divinest spot, on earth, _“ille terrarum qui præter omnes angulus
ridet”;_ and if tobacco be the true Herb of Grace, and a joy and
healing balm, and respite and nepenthe,—if all this be admitted, why
are two things, super-excellent separately, noxious in conjunction? And
is not the Bed Smoker rather an epicure in pleasure—self indulgent
perhaps, but still the triumphant creator of a new “blend,” reminding
one of a certain traveller’s account of an intoxicant patronised in the
South Sea Islands, which combines the blissful effect of getting drunk
and remaining sober to enjoy it? Yet I shall not insist too much on
this point, but would only ask—so long as the smoker be unwedded—for
some tolerance in the matter and a little logic in the discussion
thereof.
Concerning Cigars: That there be large sums given for these is within
common knowledge. 1_d.,_ 2_d.,_ nay even 4_d.,_ is not too great a
price, if a man will have of the finest leaf, reckless of expense. In
this sort of smoking, however, I find more of vainglory and ostentation
than solid satisfaction; and its votaries would seem to display less a
calm, healthy affection for tobacco than (as Sir T. Browne hath it) a
“passionate prodigality.” And, besides grievous wasting of the pocket,
atmospheric changes, varyings in the crops, and the like, cause
uncertainty to cling about each individual weed, so that man is always
more or less at the mercy of Nature and the elements—an unsatisfactory
and undignified position in these latter days of the Triumphant
Democracy. But worst and fatallest of all, to every cigar-smoker it is
certain to happen that once in his life, by some happy combination of
time, place, temperament, and Nature—by some starry influence, maybe,
or freak of the gods in mocking sport—once, and once only, he will
taste the aroma of the perfect leaf at just the perfect point—the ideal
cigar. Henceforth his life is saddened; as one kissed by a goddess in a
dream, he goes thereafter, as one might say, in a sort of
love-sickness. Seeking he scarce knows what, his existence becomes a
dissatisfied yearning; the world is spoiled for him, its joys are
tasteless: so he wanders, vision-haunted, down dreary days to some
miserable end.
Yet, if one will walk this path and take the risks, the thing may be
done at comparatively small expense. To such I would commend the Roman
motto, slightly altered—_Alieni appetens, sui avarus._ There be always
good fellows, with good cigars for their friends. Nay, too, the boxes
of these lie open; an the good cigar belongs rather to him that can
appreciate it aright than to the capitalist who, owing to a false
social system, happens to be its temporary guardian and trustee. Again
there is a saying—bred first, I think, among the schoolmen at
Oxford—that it is the duty of a son to live up to his father’s income.
Should any young man have found this task too hard for him, after the
most strenuous and single-minded efforts, at least he can resolutely
smoke his father’s cigars. In the path of duty complete success is not
always to be looked for; but an approving conscience, the sure reward
of honest endeavour, is within reach of all.