ing was bad for growing boys; attempting
to delude myself by assuming, in presence of contemporaries of stronger
stomach, fine pose of disapproval; yet in my heart knowing myself a
young hypocrite, disguising physical cowardice in the robes of moral
courage: a self-deception to which human nature is prone.

So likewise now and again I had tasted the wine that was red, and that
stood year in, year out, decanted on our sideboard. The true
inwardness of St. Paul's prescription had been revealed to me; the
attitude--sometimes sneered at--of those who drink it under doctor's
orders, regarding it purely as a medicine, appeared to me reasonable.
I had noticed also that others, some of them grown men even, making wry
faces, when drinking my mother's claret, and had concluded therefrom
that taste for strong liquor was an accomplishment less easily acquired
than is generally supposed. The lack of it in a young man could be no
disgrace, and accordingly effort in that direction also had I weakly
postponed.

But now, a gentleman at large, my education could no longer be delayed.
To the artist in particular was training--and severe training--an
absolute necessity. Recently fashion has changed somewhat, but a quarter
of a century ago a genius who did not smoke and drink--and that more
than was good for him--would have been dismissed without further
evidence as an impostor. About the genius I was hopeful, but at no time
positively certain. As regarded the smoking and drinking, so much at
least I could make sure of. I set to work methodically, conscientiously.
Smoking, experience taught me, was better practised on Saturday nights,
Sunday affording me the opportunity of walking off the effects. Patience
and determination were eventually crowned with success: I learned to
smoke a cigarette to all appearance as though I were enjoying it. Young
men of less character might here have rested content, but attainment
of the highest has always been with me a motive force. The cigarette
conquered, I next proceeded to attack the cigar. My first one I remember
well: most men do. It was at a smoking concert held in the Islington
Drill Hall, to which Minikin had invited me. Not feeling sure whether my
growing dizziness were due solely to the cigar, or in part to the hot,
over-crowded room, I made my excuses and slipped out. I found myself in
a small courtyard, divided from a neighbouring garden by a low wall. The
cause of my trouble was clearly the c