Mr. Forster!" cried the lady—"why, do you wish to die?"
"I was not exactly thinking about myself, my dear," replied
Nicholas—"I—"
"Depend upon it she'll last a long while yet," interrupted Mr. Hilton.
"Do you think so?" replied Nicholas, mournfully.
"Oh! sure of it; I stripped her the other day, and examined her all over; she's as sound as ever."
Nicholas started, and stared Hilton in the face; while Newton, who perceived their separate train of thought, tittered with delight.
"What are you talking of?" at last observed Nicholas.
"Of the sloop, to be sure," replied Hilton.
"I rather imagine that you came to consult about Mr. Thompson's effects," observed Mrs. Forster, angrily—"rather a solemn subject, instead of—"
"Ha, ha, ha!" ejaculated the curate, who had just taken the equivoque which had occasioned Newton's mirth.
"He, he, he!"
This last merriment of Mr. Dragwell appeared to the lady to be such a pointed insult to her, that she bounded out of the room, exclaiming, "that an alehouse would have been a more suitable rendezvous."
The curate twiddled his thumbs, as the eyes of all the party followed the exit of Mrs. Forster; and there were a few moments of silence.
"Don't you find her a pleasant little craft, Forster?" said Hilton, addressing Newton.
Nicholas Forster, who was in a brown study about his wife, shook his head without lifting up his eyes, while Newton nodded assent.
"Plenty of accommodation in her," continued Hilton.—Another negative shake from Nicholas, and assentient nod from Newton.
"If I thought you could manage her, Forster," continued Hilton—"tell me, what do you think yourself?"
"Oh, quite impossible!" replied Nicholas.
"Quite impossible, Mr. Forster! Well, now, I've a better opinion of
Newton—I think he can."
"Why, yes," replied Nicholas! "certainly better than I can; but still she's—"
"She's a beauty, Mr. Forster."
"Mrs. Forster a beauty!" cried Nicholas, looking at Hilton with astonishment.
Newton and Hilton burst into a laugh. "No, no," said the latter, "I was talking about the sloop; but we had better proceed to business. Suppose we have pipes, Mr. Forster; Mr. Dragwell, what do you say?"
"Ha, ha, ha!" roared the curate, who had just taken the last joke.
"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 meerschaum 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 this would be if everyone 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 forefinger 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.
Some ten minutes after this, Mr. Spinney handed the pot of porter to the curate, and subsequently to the rest of the party. They all took largely, then puffed away as before.
How long this cabinet-council might have continued, it is impossible to say; but "Silence," who was in "the chair," was soon afterwards driven from his post of honour by the most implacable of his enemies, a "woman's tongue."
"Well, Mr. Forster! well, gentlemen! do you mean to poison me? Have you made smell and dirt enough? How long is this to last, I should like to know?" cried Mrs. Forster, entering the room. "I tell you what, Mr. Forster, you had better hang up a sign at once, and keep an ale-house. Let the sign be a Fool's Head, like your own. I wonder you are not ashamed of yourself, Mr. Curate; you that ought to set an example to your parishioners!"
But Mr. Dragwell did not admire such remonstrance; so taking his pipe out of his mouth, he retorted—"If your husband does put up a sign, I recommend him to stick you up as the 'Good Woman;' that would be without your head—Ha, ha, ha!"
"He, he, he!"
"He, he, he! you pitiful 'natomy," cried Mrs. Forster, in a rage, turning to the clerk, as she dared not revenge herself upon the curate. "Take that for your He, he, he!" and she swung round the empty pewter pot, which she snatched from the table, upon the bald pericranium of Mr. Spinney, who tumbled off his chair, and rolled upon the sanded floor.
The remainder of the party were on their legs in an instant. Newton jerked the weapon out of his mother's hands, and threw it in a corner of the room. Nicholas was aghast; he surmised that his turn would come next; and so it proved—"An't you ashamed of yourself, Mr. Forster, to
