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.