this evening i am morally a little unapproachable. i feel too good to be true. perhaps it would be possible for me to endure the company of mr. pecksniff; but that good man is dead, and i am lonely in a world that is not quite up to my moral handicap. for i have given up tobacco. for a whole day not a wreath of smoke has issued from my lips, not a pipe, or a cigar, or a cigarette has had the victory over me.... for a whole day! i had not realised how long a day could be. it is as though i have ceased to live in time and have gone into eternity. i once heard a man say: "dear me! how time flies!" it struck me at the moment as a true and penetrating remark, and i have often repeated it since. but now i know it to be false. i know that that man must have been a slave to tobacco, that subtle narcotic that gives the illusion of the flight of time. if he had the moral courage to follow my example, he would not say "how time flies!" he would say, as i do (with tears in his voice, and with a glance at his pipe on the mantel-piece), "how time stands still!" he would find that a day can seem as long as a year; that he can lengthen his life until he is terrified at the prospect of its endlessness.

i have been contemplating this thing for years. some day, i have said to myself, i will have a real trial of strength with this giant nicotine who has held me thrall to his service. long have i borne his yoke—ever since that far-off day when i burned a hole in my jacket pocket with a lighted cigar that i hid at the approach of danger. (how well i remember that day: the hot sunshine, the walk in the fields, the sense of forbidden joys, the tragedy of the burnt hole, the miserable feeling of physical nausea.) i have kicked against the tyranny of a habit that i knew had become my master. it was not the tobacco i disliked. far from it. i liked the tobacco; but disliked the habit of tobacco. the tendency of most of us is to become creatures of habit and to lose our freedom—to cease to be masters of our own actions. "take away his habits, and there is nothing of him left," says a character in some play, and the saying has a wide application. i did not possess a pipe: it was the pipe that possessed me. i did not say with easy, masterful assurance, "come, i have had a hard day (or a good dinner); i will indulge myself with a pipe of tobacco." it was the pipe which said, "come, slave, to your devotions." and though as the result of one of my spiritual conflicts i threw away my pipe and resolved to break the fall with an occasional cigarette, i found it was the old tyrannous habit in a new disguise. the old dog in a new coat, as johnson used to say.

there are some people who approach the question frivolously. the young man called john in the "breakfast table" is an example. when the lady in bombazine denounced tobacco and said it ought all to be burned, the young man john agreed. someone had given him a box of cigars, he said, and he was going to burn them all. the lady in bombazine rejoiced. let him make a bonfire of them in the backyard, she said. "that ain't my way," replied the young man called john. "i burn 'em one at a time—little end in my mouth, big end outside." similarly wanting in seriousness was the defence of tobacco set up by the wit who declared that it prolonged life. "look at the ancient egyptians," he said. "none of them smoked, and they are all dead." others again discover virtues to conceal the tyranny. lord clarendon, when he was foreign minister, excused the fact that his room always reeked with tobacco smoke on the ground that it was necessary to his work. "the art of diplomacy," he said, "is the judicious administration of tobacco." no one knew better how to handle a cigar case than bismarck, and it is no very extravagant fancy to see in the events of to-day the enormous fruit of an interlude of tobacco between him and disraeli in the council chamber at berlin.

there are some who say they smoke because it soothes their nerves, and others who say they smoke because it is an aid to social intercourse. it is true that you can sit and smoke and say nothing without feeling that the spirit of communion is broken. that was the case of carlyle and his mother and of carlyle and tennyson, brave smokers all and silent to boot. they let their pipes carry on a conversation too deep for words. and lesser people, as cowper knew, conceal their bankruptcy of words in wreaths of smoke:

the pipe, with solemn, interposing puff,

makes half a sentence at a time enough;

the dozing sages drop the drowsy strain,

then pause, and puff, and speak, and puff again.

and, while some say they smoke for company, others claim to smoke for thought and inspiration. "tobacco is the sister of literature," says sir walter raleigh, loyal in this to his great namesake who brought the good gift to our shores. heaven forbid that i should deny the debt we who write owe to tobacco, but i am bound to confess that brother literature did some handsome things before he found his sister. homer and euripides, virgil and horace wrote quite tolerably without the help of tobacco, though no one can read horace without feeling that he had the true spirit of the tobacco cult. had he been born a couple of thousand years later, what praises of the weed of havana he would have mingled with his praises of falernian!

but if we are honest with ourselves we shall admit that we smoke not for this or that respectable reason—not always even because we enjoy it—but because we have got into the habit and can't get out of it. and in this, as in other cases, it is the surrender of the will more than the thing yielded to that is the mischief. all the great systems of religion have provided against the enslavement of the individual to his habits. the ordinances of abstinence are designed, in part at all events, to keep the will master of the appetites. they are intended—altogether apart from the question of salvation by works—to serve as a breach with habits which, if allowed uninterrupted sway, reduce the soul to a sort of bondage to the body.

it is against that bondage of habit that i have warred to-day. i shall not describe the incidents of the struggle: the allurements of the tobacconists' shops—and what a lot of tobacconists' shops there are!—the insidious temptation of a company of men smoking contentedly after lunch, the heroism of waving away the offered cigarette or cigar as though it were a matter of no importance, the constant act of refusal. for this is no case of one splendid deed of heroism. you do not slay apollyon with a thrust of your sword and march triumphantly on your way. you have to go on fighting every inch of the journey, deaf to the appeals of gold flake and capstan and navy cut and the other syrens that beckon you from the shop windows. and now evening has come and the victory is mine. i have singed the beard of the giant. i am no longer his thrall. to-morrow i shall be able to smoke with a clear conscience—with the feeling that it is an act of my own free choice, and not an act of slavish obedience to an old habit....

how i shall enjoy to-morrow!