Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;And while in luxury’s dream I sink,Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!In this delicious hour of joy,Young Love shall be my goblet-boy,Folding his little golden vest,With cinctures, round his snowy breast;Himself shall hover by my side,And minister the racy tide!
Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;And while in luxury’s dream I sink,Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!In this delicious hour of joy,Young Love shall be my goblet-boy,Folding his little golden vest,With cinctures, round his snowy breast;Himself shall hover by my side,And minister the racy tide!
Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;And while in luxury’s dream I sink,Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!In this delicious hour of joy,Young Love shall be my goblet-boy,Folding his little golden vest,With cinctures, round his snowy breast;Himself shall hover by my side,And minister the racy tide!
Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury’s dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy,
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy,
Folding his little golden vest,
With cinctures, round his snowy breast;
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!
But when the influence of the spell is over, immediately they sink down as much below the level of ordinary mortals, as they were before raised above it. For a delightful exhilaration of body and mind, they now experience a sad reverse, in which they find much more pleasing music in the prudent advice of the apothecary, than in all the Odes of Anacreon. The cry is not then,
Let us drain the nectar’d bowl,Let us raise the song of soul—&c.
Let us drain the nectar’d bowl,Let us raise the song of soul—&c.
Let us drain the nectar’d bowl,Let us raise the song of soul—&c.
Let us drain the nectar’d bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul—&c.
But,
Let us drain thesaline dose,Let’s expel these humours gross.
Let us drain thesaline dose,Let’s expel these humours gross.
Let us drain thesaline dose,Let’s expel these humours gross.
Let us drain thesaline dose,
Let’s expel these humours gross.
Now, though poets have favoured us with many a canto on the raptures inspired by flowing bowls and sparkling goblets, they have rarely condescended to give us one line, if it were only by way of note, on the “state of the stomach” on the morning after one of those “nights and suppers of the gods.” Such a detail indeed was never intended for the divine art of poesy. It is a job not at all calculated for the lover of agreeable fiction, and hence the world hears little on the subject. Those after-reckonings are nevertheless serious, though unpalatable things. Pleasure here acts much like a tavern host, who remembers most accurately all the good things he provides, though his guests are both apt and willing to forget them. Every item is carefully put down, and must be paid for. I shall only say, that fortunate is he who takes warning in time. I might moralise on this theme in good set phrase, but the ground has been so well and so frequently beaten by others, that I forbear. With respect to such articles as opium and spirits, the “spirit of the age,” as I have already intimated, runs quite in an opposite direction to that of indulgence; and it is wisely considered that as those who can be temperate in the use of such ticklish commodities must owe a great deal to a happy temperament of constitution, and be few in number, whilst the greater part of mankind are not so felicitously moulded, the rule of teetotalism, viz., entire abstinence, is on the whole the safest and best. But there is one article in our pharmacopœia of stimulants, upon which there seems to be some difference of opinion, and with regard to which I should wish to record my humble opinion. I allude to the nicotian leaf-tobacco.
Now, I regret to say that a long and attentive study of the subject compels me to pronounce an unfavourable sentence on this article. Whatever value it may possess as a medicine—and that, in the present state of our knowledge, is not much—I must say that, as an instrument of luxury in ordinary use, it is unwholesome and injurious. To the physician it may be satisfactory to ascertain in what way, precisely, the injurious effect is produced; but it may suffice others to learn from experience and observation what is the actual result. It is obvious that tobacco causes an excitement of the nervous system, and thus disturbs the course of nature; but nature never is, and never can be, disturbed with impunity. To apply a stimulus to the system for which there is no natural demand, is to cause a waste of nervous energy, of which nature has need for her own legitimate purposes, and therefore to inflict an injury upon her, greater or less according to the amount of that uncalled for expenditure. To keep such an unnatural stimulus in constant action, is tantamount to the creation of a constitutional derangement of the functions, or the introduction of an actual disease into the body; and nobody will pretend to say that this is not injurious. To my simple apprehension, it is anti-hygeian practice with a vengeance. I am no physician, but I believe this to be the true theory of our subject, regarded in a physiological point of view, and it is decisive against the nicotian habit, however small the quantity of the article used may be. People are rather indisposed to believe that an “agreeable” sensation can be an “unwholesome” one; but unfortunately for poor humanity, and the popularity of us sages, nothing in nature is more certain than the possibility of such a conjuncture. It is not only certain, but, alas, commonly known by experience, that an agreeable thing may be unwholesome, and a pleasant sensation anything at all but a symptom of healthful action.
Again, people are apt to suppose that no injury is done to their health, because they are not sensible of the wound at the moment; but this also is a notion which we must class among vulgar errors. It is a matter of demonstration, not merely of hypothesis, that we may sustain most grievous injury of which we are not instantly sensible; nay, that so long a time may elapse after the impression has been imparted, that we become unable to trace the effect to its cause; and yet the relation of cause and effect stands sure, however ignorant or unconscious we may be of it. As an illustration of this position, I shall mention a case which came under my own observation. I was once acquainted with a gentleman, who at eighty years of age was what would be called a stout, healthy old fellow. He was certainly of a most robust constitution, and had never addicted himself to any habit “calculated to shorten life,” as they say at the Insurance Offices, saving and excepting that of taking snuff. Well, it has been said to me, “See how your anti-nicotian theory is set at defiance by this hearty old fellow. If tobacco be a slow poison, it must be, as was said of tea, very slow indeed, or how should we have such an exemplary octogenarian as this, ‘o’er all its ills victorious?’ He has been taking snuff all his life, and yet, you perceive, is nothing the worse for it.” Now, I did not perceive any such thing, but was well aware that the contrary was the case. I was of opinion, and am now fully convinced of the fact, that he suffered extremely, nay, intensely, from the habit, without himself or others being at all aware of it. I do not speak of a nose and face perpetually begrimed with snuff—of a waistcoat and inexpressibles embrowned and powdered all over with it—of the expenditure of pocket-handkerchiefs, and waste of time in nose-blowing—everlasting sneezing and coughing, &c.: such matters are mere trifles in the estimate of your professed snuff-takers; but I do speak of an habitual depression of spirits, and frequently an access of the most miserable melancholy, to which this gentleman was subject, and which I attribute to his inveterate habit of snuff-taking, and to no other cause. He would complain bitterly of his wretchedness on those occasions, and ascribe it to the skyey influences—the humidity of our climate, the fogs, and I know not what besides; but it was nothing but “the snuff.” Such intelligence would have doubtless been very unwelcome; for this very snuff—this actualfons et origo malorum, ay, “more snuff”—was his most favourite remedy and consolation under these distressing visitations! So much for our ignorance of causes.
The late Doctor Adam Clarke was a great enemy to the tobacco leaf, and published a strong paper in condemnation of it. He takes high ground upon the subject.
“That it is sinful to use it, as most do,” he says, “I have no doubt—if destroying the constitution, and vilely squandering away the time and money which God has given for otherpurposes, may be termed sinful. I have observed some whole families, and very poor ones too, who have used tobacco in all possible ways, and some of them for more than half a century. Now, suppose the whole family, consisting of four, five, or six, to have used but 1s. 6d. worth a-week, then, in the mere article of tobacco, nearly £200 sterling is totally and irrecoverably lost in the course of fifty years. Were all the attending expenses, such as appropriate implements, neglect of business, and other concomitants, taken into account, probably four times the sum would be too small an estimate.”
Captain Scott, in his interesting work “Rambles in Egypt and Candia,” says—
“All the Arab race are addicted to the use of the pipe, and to this pernicious habit may be traced the origin of most of their vices, and a great proportion of their misery.” And again, in a note, he observes—“Nothing tends so much as the pernicious and universal habit of smoking to retard all improvement amongst the natives of the East, producing habitual indolence, and occasioning an irreparable loss of time.” He calls it elsewhere the “predominant vice of Mahomedanism.” Now, with such warning and such examples before me, I own that I cannot contemplate the possibility of my countrymen becoming a nation of smokers, without the utmost pain. I would wish to put all parties, but especially the young, on their guard against the insidious and seductive approaches of the habit. The elegant pipe, the splendid snuff-box, and all the curious conveniences of tube, light, tobacco-pouch, and so on, are so many lures to the unwary; and many, by simply nibbling at these captivating baits, have been gradually led on, and at last turned into confirmed consumers. There is a temptation in the furniture of our fashionable snuff and cigar shops—“divans,” as they are called, which it is hard to resist. It would seem almost worth while to “consume,” for the sake of encompassing oneself with such beautiful toys; but I class all such resorts in the same category with the gin-palaces of London. Look to the end—observe what a confirmed habit of snuffing or smoking is—how wasteful, how enervating, how every way pernicious! The tyranny of it is dreadful. No man knows it thoroughly but he who has once been its slave. The craving of the nose once accustomed to be fed, for snuff—of the throat and fauces once seasoned to the use, for smoke—and of the teeth and gums once used to be drawn, for the reiterate chew—oh, it is dreadful!—and I say there is no remedy against the evil but teetotalism.
I have said nothing on those popular stimulants, tea and coffee, for, as generally used, I think they are both innocent, as they are certainly agreeable beverages. Let not my fair countrywomen, however, when they indulge in the “cup that cheers but not inebriates”—I mean the Howqua, or any other tea-mixture—aim at celebrity for preparing it over strong; for in this state, like other stimulants that we have been considering, I have no doubt that it is bad for weak nerves.
F.
People with one Idea.—There are people who have but one idea: at least if they have more, they keep it a secret, for they never talk but of one subject. There is Major C——; he has but one idea, or subject of discourse, Parliamentary Reform. Now, Parliamentary Reform is (as far as I know) a very good thing, a very good idea, and a very good subject to talk about; but why should it be the only one? To hear the worthy and gallant Major resume his favourite topic is like law-business, or a person who has a suit in Chancery going on. Nothing can be attended to, nothing can be talked of but that. Now it is getting on, now again it is standing still; at one time the Master has promised to pass judgment by a certain day, at another he has put it off again, and called for more papers; and both are equally reasons for speaking of it. Like the piece of pack-thread in the barrister’s hands, he turns and twists it all ways, and cannot proceed a step without it. Some schoolboys cannot read but in their own book; and the man of one idea cannot converse out of his own subject. Conversation it is not, but a sort of recital of the preamble of a bill, or a collection of grave arguments for a man’s being of opinion with himself. It would be well if there was any thing of character, any thing of eccentricity in all this; but that is not the case. It is a political homily personified, a walking common-place we have to encounter and listen to. It is just as if a man was to insist on your hearing him go through the fifth chapter of the Book of Judges every time you meet, or like the story of the Cosmogony in the Vicar of Wakefield. It is a tune played on a barrel-organ. It is a common vehicle of discourse into which people get and are set down when they please, without any pains or trouble to themselves. Neither is it professional pedantry or trading quackery: it has no excuse. The man has no more to do with the question which he saddles on all his hearers than you have. This is what makes the matter hopeless. If a farmer talks to you about his pigs or his poultry, or a physician about his patients, or a lawyer about his briefs, or a merchant about stock, or an author about himself, you know how to account for this; it is a common infirmity; you have a laugh at his expense, and there is no more to be said. But here is a man who goes out of his way to be absurd, and is troublesome by a romantic effort of generosity. You cannot say to him, “All this may be interesting to you, but I have no concern in it;” you cannot put him off in that way. He has got possession of a subject which is of universal and paramount interest, and on that plea may hold you by the button as long as he chooses. His delight is to harangue on what nowise regards himself; how then can you refuse to listen to what as little amuses you? The business admits of no delay. The question stands first on the order of the day—takes precedence in its own right of every other question. Any other topic, grave or gay, is looked upon in the light of impertinence, and sent to Coventry. Business is an interruption to it, pleasure a digression from it. As Cicero says of study, it follows the man into the country, it stays with him at home; it sits with him at breakfast, and goes out with him to dinner. It is like a part of his dress, of the costume of his person, without which he would be at a loss what to do. If he meets you in the street, he accosts you with it as a form of salutation; if you see him at his own house, it is supposed you come upon that. If you happen to remark, “it is a fine day,” or “the town is full,” it is considered as a temporary compromise of the question; you are suspected of not going the whole length of the principle. Is not this a species of sober madness more provoking than the real? Has not the theoretical enthusiast his mind as much warped, as much enslaved by one idea, as the acknowledged lunatic, only that the former has no lucid intervals? If you see a visionary of this class going along the street, you can tell as well what he is thinking of and will say next as the man that fancies himself a tea-pot or the Czar of Muscovy. The one is as inaccessible to reason as the other: if the one raves, the other dotes!—Hazlitt’s Table-Talk.
Comfortable Circumstances favour Foresight.—It is a most remarkable fact, totally at variance with what mighta prioribe expected, but confirmed by the universal experience of mankind, that the dominion of reason over the passions, the habit of foresight, and the power of forming a systematic plan for the conduct of life, are just in proportionto the degree in which the danger of immediate or the pressure of actual suffering has been removed from mankind. The savage who has no stock whatever for his support—who is in danger of immediate starvation, if his wonted supplies from the chase or his herds were to fail—is totally regardless of the future in every part of the world; while the rich man, whose subsistence and affluence are almost beyond the reach of chance, is incessantly in disquietude about the manner in which his subsequent life is to be spent. The certain prospect of instant death to himself and all that are dear to him, from the occurrence of a probable event, is unable to draw the attention of the one from the enjoyments of the moment; while the slight and improbable chance of a diminution in the smallest articles offuturecomfort, renders the other indifferent to the means ofpresentenjoyment which are within his reach.—Alison’s Principles of Population.
Appreciation.—After all, it is appreciation rather than praise that is delightful. An artist, for instance, how tired he must be of hearing his pictures called “beautiful, exquisite!”—of being told for the one hundredth time that he has surpassed himself; but let any one point out to him one of his own thoughts on the canvass, which he supposed likely to escape the general eye, and how grateful it is!
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Printed and published every Saturday byGunnandCameron, at the Office of the General Advertiser, No. 6, Church Lane, College Green, Dublin.—Agents:—R. Groombridge, Panyer Alley, Paternoster Row, London;SimmsandDinham, Exchange Street, Manchester;C. Davies, North John Street, Liverpool;Slocombe&Simms, Leeds;FraserandCrawford, George Street, Edinburgh; andDavid Robertson, Trongate, Glasgow.