Yusuf had gone out on horseback; he returned, and, after the usual compliments, we dined alone in a summerhouse, from which we had a fine view of the sea, and in which the heat was cooled by a delightful breeze, which blows regularly at the same hour every day from the north-west; and is called the mistral.  We had a good dinner; there was no prepared dish except the cauroman, a peculiar delicacy of the Turks.  I drank water and hydromel, and I told Yusuf that I preferred the last to wine, of which I never took much at that time.  “Your hydromel,” I said, “is very good, and the Mussulmans who offend against the law by drinking wine do not deserve any indulgence; I believe they drink wine only because it is forbidden.”  “Many of the true believers,” he answered, “think that they can take it as a medicine.  The Grand Turk’s physician has brought it into vogue as a medicine, and it has been the cause of his fortune, for he has captivated the favour of his master who is in reality constantly ill, because he is always in a state of intoxication.”  I told Yusuf that in my country drunkards were scarce, and that drunkenness was a vice to be found only among the lowest people; he was much astonished.  “I cannot understand,” he said, “why wine is allowed by all religions, when its use deprives man of his reason.”—­“All religions,” I answered, “forbid excess in drinking wine, and the crime is only in the abuse.”  I proved him the truth of what I had said by telling him that opium produced the same results as wine, but more powerfully, and consequently Mahomet ought to have forbidden the use of it.  He observed that he had never taken either wine or opium in the course of his life.

After dinner, pipes were brought in and we filled them ourselves.  I was smoking with pleasure, but, at the same time, was expectorating.  Yusuf, who smoked like a Turk, that is to say, without spitting, said,—­

“The tobacco you are now smoking is of a very fine quality, and you ought to swallow its balsam which is mixed with the saliva.”

“I suppose you are right; smoking cannot be truly enjoyed without the best tobacco.”

“That is true to a certain extent, but the enjoyment found in smoking good tobacco is not the principal pleasure, because it only pleases our senses; true enjoyment is that which works upon the soul, and is completely independent of the senses.”

“I cannot realize pleasures enjoyed by the soul without the instrumentality of the senses.”

“Listen to me.  When you fill your pipe do you feel any pleasure?”

“Yes.”

“Whence does that pleasure arise, if it is not from your soul?  Let us go further.  Do you not feel pleased when you give up your pipe after having smoked all the tobacco in it—­when you see that nothing is left but some ashes?”

“It is true.”

“Well, there are two pleasures in which your senses have certainly nothing to do, but I want you to guess the third, and the most essential.”