CONFESSIONS OF A SMOKER

True smokers are born and not made.  I remember my grandfather with his snowy beard gloriously stained by nicotine; from my first years I never saw my father out of reach of his pipe, save when asleep.  Of what avail for my mother to promise unheard bonuses if I did not smoke until I was twenty?  By the time I was eight years old I had constructed a pipe of an acorn and a straw, and had experimented with excelsior as fuel.  From that time I passed through the well-known stages of dried bean-pod cigars, hayseed, corn silk, tea leaves, and (first ascent of the true Olympus) Recruits Little Cigars smoked in a lumberyard during school recess.  Thence it was but a step to the first bag of Bull Durham and a twenty-five-cent pipe with a curved bone stem.

I never knew the traditional pangs of Huck Finn and the other heroes of fiction.  I never yet found a tobacco that cost me a moment’s unease—­but stay, there was a cunning mixture devised by some comrades at college that harboured in its fragrant shreds neatly chopped sections of rubber bands.  That was sheer poison, I grant you.

The weed needs no new acolyte to hymn her sanctities.  Where Raleigh, Pepys, Tennyson, Kingsley, Calverley, Barrie, and the whimful Elia best of all—­where these have spoken so greatly, the feeble voice may well shrink.  But that is the joy of true worship:  ranks and hierarchies are lost, all are brothers in the mystery, and amid approving puffs of rich Virginia the older saints of the mellow leaf genially greet the new freshman, be he never so humble.

What would one not have given to smoke a pipe out with the great ones of the empire!  That wainscoted back parlour at the Salutation and Cat, for instance, where Lamb and Coleridge used to talk into the small hours “quaffing egg flip, devouring Welsh rabbits, and smoking pipes of Orinooko.”  Or the back garden in Chelsea where Carlyle and Emerson counted the afternoon well spent, though neither one had said a hundred words—­had they not smoked together?  Or Piscator and Viator, as they trudged together to “prevent the sunrise” on Amwell Hill—­did not the reek of their tobacco trail most bluely on the sweet morning air?  Or old Fitz, walking on the Deben wall at Woodbridge, on his way to go sailing with Posh down to Bawdsey Ferry—­what mixture did he fill and light?  Something recommended by Will Thackeray, I’ll be sworn.  Or, to come down to more recent days, think of Captain Joseph Conrad at his lodgings in Bessborough Gardens, lighting that apocalyptic pipe that preceded the first manuscript page of “Almayer’s Folly.”  Could I only have been the privileged landlady’s daughter who cleared away the Captain’s breakfast dishes that morning!  I wonder if she remembers the incident?[E]

[Footnote E:  The reference here is to Chapter IV of Joseph Conrad’s “A Personal Record.”  The author’s allusions are often sadly obscure.—­EDITOR.]