few lips to greet
them in the East. Cheroots, then; who is there amongst the masculine
dwellers of the land of "_musquitoes_ and myrtle," that affects not the
gentle cheroot? soft in its fragrance as the sigh of love! cheering in
its effects as the presence of woman in the hour of pain! seducing in
its influence as the eye of beauty! And whence gains the cheroot its
magical properties? Look back, if you please, to chapter twelfth of this
moving tale, and there you have it fully explained. It comes from the
_hand_ of woman! the same that presented the apple to Adam, and the
pitcher to Abraham, who in falling or fainting, in laughing or weeping,
still infuses the sweetness and acidity that makes the lemonade of life,
and in mixing the ingredients "gives it all its flavor!"

"Let the toast be dear woman!" "Hallo, old fellow, thought you were
asleep. Had something of a nightmare, eh? Been mumbling away as if the
supper didn't agree with you." "Well, your toast, with all the honors,
and then to bed." "Agreed."

"Let us go on board ship," proposed a seasoned mate, "the fast boat
shoves off at ten." "Agreed, agreed again," was chorused round the
table, and "one bottle more" of sparkling champagne being called for,
"success to the launch" was drank, and then a majority of the party
sought the boat, gained the ship, and turned in. "Let the toast be dear
woman," danced through my brain upon sparkling beams of champagne, and
the vibration of the nettles in the clews of my hammock plainly said or
sung--

"The wine that is mellowed by woman's bright eye,
Outrivals the nectar of Jove."

And I had a dream, which _was_ "all a dream." With Byron in his waking
"Dream," "I saw two beings in the hue of youth," and like his lovers,
they _were_ "standing upon a hill," and "both were young, and one was
_beautiful_." I do not know how in fitting words to tell my dream. But
as it was similar to his, oh that I could with his language, without
the imputation of plagiarism, set down what crossed my sleeping mind.
Besides, I have a dread of offending some readers in these
transcendental times, when lectures on mysterious subjects are given to
married ladies _only_, whose faces would tingle at the mere mention of
one of those English classics, from whose fount flowed "the well of
English undefiled." But to my dream. It was the age of early manhood,
boyhood still lingering on the face of a being who filled my mind until
it formed a part