Reader, are you given to cigar-smoking? The reason we put the question
is, that we should not like to offend you by any thing you might find
in our pages indicating a contempt on our part for this silly, and,
as we think, vulgar practice. If you be, then, pass over this short
article, or as our old Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when we came
to a passage which we could not construe, nor he neither, “skip and go
on.” But we feel tolerably certain you are not a smoker, or at least a
cigar-smoker or exhibiting-street-performer, for we are satisfied that
among the lovers of this now fashionable amusement we can count but few
as supporters of our little work, or of any other of a mental or literary
character--that renowned periodical called Paddy Kelly’s Budget, if it
be still in existence, excepted. It is the practice of unidea’d men
with unidea’d faces, who puff, not whistle--as the latter is no longer
a fashionable amusement--as they go, for want of thought, and as they
think to make them look manly and genteel! Well, heaven help their little
wit! You think, reader, perhaps, as we ourselves were till lately foolish
enough to suppose, that there must be a pleasure in this practice on its
own account, like that which madmen feel in being insane. But no such
thing. We have discovered that it is anything but an agreeable pastime,
and that it is indulged in solely from the love of distinction, which
is one of the peculiar characteristics of the human race, and which is
so strong in these cigar-smokers, that they actually, in the spirit of
martyrs, surrender both their minds, such as they are, and their bodies
also, to its influence. Such a desire is not only natural to us, but
praiseworthy: it is only the choice of means of gratifying it that is
unworthy and even contemptible. It will bear no comparison in point of
intellectuality with that of the fashionable dandies of our youthful
days, who used to promenade the streets and public places, playing
quizzes, that is, flat circular pieces of boxwood suspended on a string
by a kind of pulley, and which they kept in a sort of perpetual motion
with one or both hands, and sometimes even (great performers) with their
mouths; their arms see-sawing up and down, and their heads shaking like
those of the Chinese mandarins in the tea shops. This, though perhaps a
little grotesque, was a comical mode of attracting notice and obtaining
distinction. It was a healthy folly too, and required some human
intellect to practise it adroitly. A monkey or a dog, both of whom we
have seen expert smokers, could not, we are persuaded, be taught this; it
would be beyond their intelligence; and it had a touch of the odd, the
gay, and the ridiculous about it, that seemed to harmonize naturally with
our national character--and we are not ashamed to confess it, we were
ourselves great quizzers in our youth. But the cigar-smoking folly--it
is a dull, lifeless, stupid, silent, moping mania, wholly unbecoming an
Irishman, and inconsistent with the spirit, life, and animation that
should be characteristic of youth. Old as we are, we think of taking to
quizzing again, but we shall never fall into such a solemn absurdity as
smoking for applause. It would not suit our temperament.
But we have said that we had made the discovery that the practice of
cigar-smoking is any thing but a pleasant one in itself, and that it
is indulged in solely from ambitious motives, and an amiable love of
applause. Yes, reader, and we shall induct you into our knowledge of the
matter, by a true and faithful narrative of the incident which enabled us
to ascertain the fact.
We were lately coming along that favourite lounge of the cigar-smokers,
Sackville Street, when, arriving near Mitchell’s, two young well-dressed,
moustached, and imperialled dandies, stept out from that intellectual
emporium, each with a Havannah in his mouth, his hands in his “Dorsay”
pockets, and looking as grave as possible, evidently impressed with the
pleasing idea that they were the admiration and envy of all passers. They
proceeded before us in solemn slinge in the direction of the Rotunda,
we following in their wake, observant yet not observed; and before they
reached Earl Street, they were met by a mutual friend, with whom they
linked, putting him between them, to allow them the greater facility to
spit out, when the following colloquy ensued:--
_Friend._ Well, Tom, how goes the world with you? and, Dick, my boy, how
is every bit of you?
_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Well.
_Friend._ Are you long in town--eh?
_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- No.
_Friend._ How did you leave them all in the country?--how is the old
fellow?
_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Puff---- Well.
_Friend._ Oh, damn ye! there’s no getting a word out of you but a
monosyllable.
_Tom and Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- (And then each of them spat out.)
_Friend._ Why, Tom, you’ve become a great smoker.
_Tom._ Puff---- Puff---- Yaws.
_Friend._ And you too, Dick?
_Dick._ Puff---- Puff---- Ees. (The imperfect vocable being squeezed out
through his teeth at the left corner of his mouth.)
_Friend._ And do you find it agree with you, Tom--is it pleasant?
Tom here, after a few puffs, slowly draws one hand out of his pocket, and
taking the cigar out of his mouth, spits out, draws his breath, and after
a minute replies:
“No, _blast_ it; it always makes me sick.”
He then restores the cigar to his mouth and his hand to his pocket, while
his friend puts a similar interrogatory to Dick.
“And does it always make you sick too?”
Here Dick, having in like manner indulged in a few puffs, takes the cigar
out of his mouth, spits out at the other side, and drawing breath and
looking very pale, answers:
“Infernally!”
_Friend._ In the name of heaven, then, what do you both smoke for?
This, as one would have supposed, not an unnatural query, produced a
simultaneous stare of astonishment, mingled with contempt, from both the
smokers, as much as to say, “What an ass you must be!” and Dick, slowly
removing his cigar once more, and spitting out, answers,
“Why, how the devil can you ask such a stupid question--what do you
suppose?”
_Friend._ Suppose! why hang me if I can guess.
Here Tom took hold of his Havannah, and after spitting out on a lady
who was passing--but this was only an accident--replied for himself and
fellow puffer---- But let us pause a moment. Guess, reader, what it was.
Do you give it up? Well, then, here it is,
“Why, for the GAG, to be sure!”
This was enough for us. Our mind was enlightened by a new idea; and
leaving the gentlemen to follow their gaggery, we hurried home to dinner,
a wiser if not a better man.