LITMIR.BIZ

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and the consequence was, that although he eventually laughed at a good thing, it was never at the same time with other people; but in about a quarter or half a minute afterwards (according to the difficulty of the analysis), when the cause had been dismissed for other topics, he would burst out in a hearty Ha, ha, ha!

      Mr Hilton was the owner of the sloop: he was a tall, corpulent man, who for many years had charge of a similar vessel, until by "doing a little contraband," he had pocketed a sufficient sum to enable him to purchase one for himself. But the profits being more than sufficient for his wants, he had for some time remained on shore, old Thompson having charge of the vessel. He was a good-tempered, jolly fellow, very fond of his pipe and his pot, and much more fond of his sloop, by the employment of which he was supplied with all his comforts. He passed most of the day sitting at the door of his house, which looked upon the anchorage, exchanging a few words with everyone that passed by, but invariably upon one and the same topic—his sloop. If she was at anchor—"There she is," he would say, pointing to her with the stem of his pipe. If she was away, she had sailed on such a day;—he expected her back at such a time. It was a fair wind—it was a foul wind for his sloop. All his ideas were engrossed by this one darling object, and it was no easy task to divert him from it.

      I ought to have mentioned that Mr Dragwell, the curate, was invariably accompanied by Mr Spinney, the clerk of the parish, a little spare man, with a few white hairs straggling on each side of a bald pate. He always took his tune, whether in or out of church, from his superior, ejecting a small treble "He, he, he!" in response to the loud Ha, ha, ha! of the curate.

      "Peace be unto this house!" observed the curate as he crossed the threshold, for Mrs Forster's character was notorious; then laughing at his own wit with a Ha, ha, ha!

      "He, he, he!"

      "Good morning, Mr Forster, how is your good lady?"

      "She's safe moored at last," interrupted Mr Hilton.

      "Who?" demanded the curate, with surprise.

      "Why the sloop, to be sure."

      "Oh! I thought you meant the lady—Ha, ha, ha!"

      "He, he, he!"

      "Won't you sit down, gentlemen?" said Nicholas, showing the way from the shop into the parlour, where they found Mrs Forster, who had just come in from the back premises.

      "Hope you're well, Mr Curate," sharply observed the lady, who could not be persuaded, even from respect for the cloth, to be commonly civil—"take a chair; it's all covered with dust; but that Betsy is such an idle slut!"

      "Newton handles her as well as any man going," observed Hilton.

      "Newton!" screamed the lady, turning to her son, with an angry inquiring look—"Newton handles Betsy!" continued she, turning round to Hilton.

      "Betsy! no; the sloop I meant, ma'am."

      Newton burst out into a laugh, in which he was joined by Hilton and his father.

      "Sad business—sad indeed!" said Hilton, after the merriment had subsided, "such an awful death!"

      "Ha, ha, ha!" roared the curate, who had but just then taken the joke about Betsy.

      "He, he, he!"

      "Nothing to laugh at, that I can see," observed Mrs Forster, snappishly.

      "Capital joke, ma'am, I assure you!" rejoined the curate. "But, Mr Forster, we had better proceed to business. Spinney, where are the papers?" The clerk produced an inventory of the effects of the late Mr Thompson, and laid them on the table.—"Melancholy thing, this, ma'am," continued the curate, "very melancholy indeed! But we must all die."

      "Yes, thank Heaven!" muttered Nicholas, in an absent manner.

      "Thank Heaven, 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

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