"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