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Isaac Browne thought, a century ago, that there was something in a pipe worth writing about, or he had never given us the following

“ODE TO A TOBACCO PIPE.

“Little tube of mighty power,

Charmer of an idle hour,

Object of my warm desire,

Lip of wax, and eye of fire;

And thy snowy taper waist,

With thy finger gently braced;

And thy pretty swelling crest,

With thy little stopper prest;

And the sweetest bliss of blisses

Breathing from thy balmy kisses.

Happy thrice, and thrice again,

Happiest he of happy men;

Who, when again the night returns,

When again the taper burns,

When again the cricket’s gay

(Little cricket full of play),

Can afford his tube to feed

With the fragrant Indian weed;

Pleasure for a nose divine,

Incense of the god of wine.

Happy thrice, and thrice again,

Happiest he of happy men.”

In Virginia’s native country, the pipe sticks closer to a man than his boots. An American is no more furnished without his pipe or cigar, than a house is furnished without a looking glass. To the native Indian, it supplies an important place; it becomes his treaty of peace—his challenge of war. It is the instrument of a solemn ratification, and the subject of more than one semi-sacred legend, which has woven about the heart of the Red-man.