careless majesty like that of the gods 'when they lie beside their nectar, and the clouds are lightly curled.' Then only can we be said really to smoke. And so this particular pipe of the day always carries with it festal reminiscences: memories of holidays past, hopes for holidays to come; a suggestion of sunny lawns and flannels and the ungirt loin; a sense withal of something free and stately, as of 'faint march-music in the air,' or the old Roman cry of 'Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement.'
If there be any fly in the pipe-smoker's ointment, it may be said to lurk in the matter of 'rings.' Only the exceptionally gifted smoker can recline in his chair and emit at will the perfect smoke-ring, in consummate eddying succession. He of the meaner sort must be content if, at rare heaven-sent intervals—while thinking, perhaps, of nothing less—there escape from his lips the unpremeditated flawless circle. Then 'deus fio' he is moved to cry, at that breathless moment when his creation hangs solid and complete, ere the particles break away and blend with the baser atmosphere. Nay, some will deny to any of us terrene smokers the gift of fullest achievement: for what saith the poet of the century?
