How John B. Gough Gave up Smoking.
By John B. Gough
WHEN in Worcester, England, twenty-six years ago, I was the guest of a gentleman, a member of Parliament, who resided just opposite the city on the banks of the river, a delightful place, with a lawn, rockwork, and trees artistically planted. I was at that time a smoker, and though I never smoked in a gentleman’s house without an invitation, I deemed it necessary to have my smoke after dinner, if by any means I could get it with no annoyance to others. So after dinner I strolled down to the river-side, out of sight of the house, took out my cigars and matches and proceeded to light a cigar. The wind blew out the match. Another was tried and another. I took off my hat to shield it from the wind. It was of no avail. I got some brimstone down my throat, or something as bad; but the cigar would not ignite. Then I kneeled down close to the rock by the path at the side of the river, and with my hat off endeavored to secure the object. Now, I never go on my knees but I am reminded of prayer, and the thought came, “If any one should see me, they would probably think that some man had sought that retired spot for private devotion and that he was saying his prayers; and what am I doing? I am sucking away at a cigar, hoping to obtain fire enough from the match to get a smoke.—What would the audience say, who heard me last night, should they see me now? The inconsistency of my practice with my profession struck me so forcibly that I said, “I’ll have no more of it.” I rose from my knees, took cigars and matches and threw them into the river, and I never touched a cigar to smoke for eighteen years.—Sel.