Oh, finer far Than fame or riches are The graceful smoke-wreaths of this cigar! Why Should I Weep, wail, or sigh? What if luck has passed me by? What if my hopes are dead, My pleasures fled? Have I not still My fill Of right good cheer,-- Cigars and beer? I like inns, and I like old ale, and all the old curious glasses, mugs and pewters which were so dear to our forefathers, and I begin this chapter in this way to forestall any possible charges of heresy that my narrative may call forth. I would almost go further, and say that my affection for such things is wholly a private matter concerning only myself, or, at least, no more than a few very intimate friends. That, I think, is how sentimentalism should be conducted. When it is managed otherwise, when it becomes a public thing, it becomes a public nuisance, besides being contemptible. But, as I have gone so far, I might as well go the length of admitting that I am addicted to the habit of collecting old drinking vessels, and I have allowed the disease to get the upper hand. I cannot pass a curio shop in which willow-pattern mugs, tapering glasses and "leather bottels" are displayed without a burning longing to possess them. I like to have these things about me, not merely as ornaments or to drink from, but for---- Well, when I come to think of it, I cannot quite say; there is not sufficient reason. That is enough to brand me an incurable curio-hunter. Curios and ancient drinking vessels are to me what the sea is to a sailor. It is a passion which has become interwoven with my blood and fibre, and I can never again wholly break loose from it. But all this is by the way; the point is, why do I commence this chapter by talking about such things? For the reason that in this chapter I am going to tell of a singular adventure in which a "black jack" loomed very solidly. It happened at Morcombe Lake. I will not write of this place. You must get it out of a guide-book, for the village is not a thing for fine words; it stirred me in no way. But it shall not be said that Morcombe Lake has not a small share of fame, for in this village is produced the famous Dorset Knob Biscuit, without which no Dorset table is really complete. Mr Moores, who "magics" butter, milk and sugar in his small bake-house and brings forth these golden-brown "Knobs," informs me that his family has been busy sending them out in tins for over a hundred years.