“He, he, he!”
“Why, yes,” continued the curate, “I think it is a most excellent proposition; this melancholy affair requires a great deal of consideration. I never compose so well as I do with a pipe in my mouth: Mrs Dragwell says that she knows all my best sermons by the smell of them; d’ye take—Ha, ha, ha!”
“He, he, he!”
The pipes, with the addition of a couple of pots of porter, were soon procured from the neighbouring alehouse; and while the parties are filling them, and pushing the paper of tobacco from one to the other, I shall digress, notwithstanding the contrary opinion of the other sex, in praise of this most potent and delightful weed.
I love thee, whether thou appearest in the shape of a cigar, or diest away in sweet perfume enshrined in the Mereshaum bowl; I love thee with more than woman’s love! Thou art a companion to me in solitude. I can talk and reason with thee, avoiding loud and obstreperous argument. Thou art a friend to me when in trouble, for thou advisest in silence, and consolest with thy calm influence over the perturbed spirit.
I know not how thy power has been bestowed upon thee; yet, if to harmonise the feelings, to allow the thoughts to spring without control, rising like the white vapour from the cottage hearth, on a morning that is sunny and serene;—if to impart that sober sadness over the spirit, which inclines us to forgive our enemy, that calm philosophy which reconciles us to the ingratitude and knavery of the world, that heavenly contemplation whispering to us, as we look around, that “All is good;”—if these be merits, they are thine, most potent weed.
What a quiet world would this be if every one would smoke! I suspect that the reason why the fairer sex decry thee is, that thou art the cause of silence. The ancients knew thee not, or the lips of Harpocrates would have been closed with a cigar, and his fore-finger removed from the mouth unto the temple.
Half an hour was passed without any observation from our party, as the room gradually filled with the volumes of smoke which wreathed and curled in graceful lines, as they ascended in obedience to the unchangeable laws of nature.
Hilton’s pipe was first exhausted; he shook the ashes on the table. “A very melancholy business, indeed!” observed he, as he refilled. The rest nodded a grand assent; the pipe was relighted; and all was silent as before.
Another pipe is empty.—“Looking at this inventory,” said the curate, “I should imagine the articles to be of no great value. One fur cap, one round hat, one pair of plush breeches, one —; they are not worth a couple of pounds altogether,” continued he, stuffing the tobacco into his pipe, which he relighted, and no more was said. Nicholas was the third in, or rather out. “It appears to me,” observed he;—but what appeared is lost, as some new idea flitted across his imagination, and he commenced his second pipe, without further remark.