But even the squire had no opprobrium for the smuggler: gentry and
peasantry were at one in backing up the manly patriot who thwarted a
wicked Government, supplied Britons with the cup that cheers and their
country with a fine naval reserve and early information of Froggy’s
movements. The shores of Essex as of all Britain were honeycombed—apart
from their large natural resources and their ruins and haunted
houses—with artificial hiding-places, cellars, vaults, and secret
passages, and every man’s hand was against the Ishmael of the Customs
House. Farmers left their gates open at night to facilitate the
cavalcades and coaches-and-six, and were but little surprised to find
tea or tobacco coming up overnight on their fields like mushrooms. Even
parsons were disposed to regard such treasures as drifted their way as
heaven-sent flotsam, and Government circles themselves—in that era of
purchasable votes and votable purchases—had not the ethical
toploftiness which characterizes all Governments to-day. No, it was not
Boldero the Smuggler, but Boldero the Smoker that found himself hurled
into outer darkness the day poor shrinking Emma was borne off in her
father’s cart. “No puffing pirate shall cross _my_ threshold,” swore
Daniel, but the accent was on the puffing, not the pirate. For tobacco
had become tabu in the Wesleyan ranks: the godless practice of smoking
was formally forbidden to the ministers. Swiss Protestantism indeed had
once included its prohibition in the Ten Commandments. If Methodism did
not thus re-edit the Decalogue, its horror of the abomination was no
less keen, and a change of practice being always easier than a change of
heart, Daniel Quarles had poured a deal of spiritual energy into the
sacrifice of his pipe. The “rapscallion Boldero,” he declared, not only
sinned himself, but was the cause of sin in others, trafficking as he
did in the unholy weed. If Emma insisted on a “smoker,” wasn’t there the
miller at Long Bradmarsh, he inquired with grim facetiousness, meaning
that the grotesque Griggs had a vote by living in a house with a
chimney.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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