What need of a friend under such soothing circumstances? What need of the jolly _camarade_ of former days to sigh back sigh for sigh, puff for puff, and wander in gentle reminiscences over the Lesbian labyrinth of the past, when Julia was most kind, or Cynthia, darling girl, delighted in the perfume of a capital havana? Here, in this quaint old city by the sea, is the place for dreams and reveries and the utter rendering of one's self up--to a good cigar. Is it not a place for reverie? Has not one with this most respectable weed, this prime _havana_, the concomitants of a thousand reveries? Will not one puff of that narcotic breath drowse deep all watching dragons, and make for him the sleeping beauties of his will? And, _presto_, there they are! and, oh! ye houris of the South, with what a smile and glance between the azure puffs! Well let me not forget myself. With a sterner morality he sees how the bending Bedouin fashions his pipe in the moistened ground; he sees the slender Indian reed with the flat bowls of Lahore and Oude, the pipe of the Anglo-eyed celestial, the red clay of Bengal, and the glittering gilded cups in which the dark-skinned races of Siam, the Malacca Isles, and the Philippines, love to enshrine their dreamy opium-haunted spirits of the weed. He sees how in the squatter's hut the old squaw sits by her hunter lord, and puffs at the corn-cob sweetness, and how by lonely ways the traveler rests and thinks of home, and in the blue smoke greets once more the faces of the loved, perhaps forever gone. He sees how the Esquimaux, with his hollow Walrus-tooth, makes bearable the stifling squalor of his den; or, sterner and graver still, some item of historic lore mingles rudely with his dreams, and elbows sharply the airy spirits of his smoke-engendered thoughts. Softly tremble in the delicate blue mist and the azure spirals from his old Virginia clay--the domes of a sea-bathed city. Loftily pierce the tall white minarets into the quivering heavens, while the solemn cypress throws its shade below. Before him, silent-paced as in a dream, files the weird array of Arab camels, bowing their long necks tufted with crimson braids, and measuring the brown sands of the desert with ghost-like tread. 'Tis the moon of Egypt and the waters of the Nile; 'tis the palm-bough waves for him; and women, free-limbed, with flashing eyes, and antique water-vases on their heads, move past him from the low-rimmed shadowy wells. And he sees them there and smiles. [Illustration: By the sea.]