“Ay, the older the better,” said Media, “and the more delicious the flavor imparted to the fumes inhaled.”

“Farnoos forever! my lord,” cried Yoomy.  “By much smoking, the bowl waxes russet and mellow, like the berry-brown cheek of a sunburnt brunette.”

“And as like smoked hams,” cried Braid-Beard, “we veteran old smokers grow browner and browner; hugely do we admire to see our jolly noses and pipe-bowls mellowing together.”

“Well said, old man,” cried Babbalanja; “for, like a good wife, a pipe is a friend and companion for life.  And whoso weds with a pipe, is no longer a bachelor.  After many vexations, he may go home to that faithful counselor, and ever find it full of kind consolations and suggestions.  But not thus with cigars or cigarrets:  the acquaintances of a moment, chatted with in by-places, whenever they come handy; their existence so fugitive, uncertain, unsatisfactory.  Once ignited, nothing like longevity pertains to them.  They never grow old.  Why, my lord, the stump of a cigarret is an abomination; and two of them crossed are more of a memento-mori, than a brace of thigh-bones at right angles.”

“So they are, so they are,” cried King Media.  “Then, mortals, puff we away at our pipes.  Puff, puff, I say.  Ah! how we puff!  But thus we demi-gods ever puff at our ease.”

“Puff; puff, how we puff,” cried Babbalanja. “but life itself is a puff and a wheeze.  Our lungs are two pipes which we constantly smoke.”

“Puff, puff! how we puff,” cried old Mohi.  “All thought is a puff.”

“Ay,” said Babbalanja, “not more smoke in that skull-bowl of yours than in the skull on your shoulders:  both ends alike.”

“Puff! puff! how we puff,” cried Yoomy.  “But in every puff, there hangs a wreath.  In every puff, off flies a care.”

“Ay, there they go,” cried Mohi, “there goes another—­and, there, and there;—­this is the way to get rid of them my worshipful lord; puff them aside.”

“Yoomy,” said Media, “give us that pipe song of thine.  Sing it, my sweet and pleasant poet.  We’ll keep time with the flageolets of ours.”

“So with pipes and puffs for a chorus, thus Yoomy sang:—­

    Care is all stuff:—­
      Puff!  Puff: 
    To puff is enough:—­
      Puff!  Puff! 
    More musky than snuff,
    And warm is a puff:—­
      Puff!  Puff! 
    Here we sit mid our puffs,
    Like old lords in their ruffs,
    Snug as bears in their muffs:—­
      Puff!  Puff! 
    Then puff, puff, puff;
    For care is all stuff,
    Puffed off in a puff:—­
      Puff!  Puff!

“Ay, puff away,” cried Babbalanja, “puff; puff, so we are born, and so die.  Puff, puff, my volcanos:  the great sun itself will yet go out in a snuff, and all Mardi smoke out its last wick.”

“Puffs enough,” said King Media, “Vee-Vee! haul down my flag.  There, lie down before me, oh Gonfalon! and, subjects, hear,—­when I die, lay this spear on my right, and this pipe on my left, its colors at half mast; so shall I be ambidexter, and sleep between eloquent symbols.”