Southport Telegraph

SKETCHES OF HABIT.

One Day and a Half in the Life of a Tobacco Chewer.

SATURDAY, July 22, 1813.

Took my hat for a walk, wife, as wives are apt to, began to load me with messages, upon seeing me ready to go out.— Asked me to call at cousin M's and borrow for her the Sorrows of Werter. Hate to have a wife read such namby pamby stuff -but must humor her whims, and concluded that I had rather she would take pleasure over Werter's Sorrows, than employ her tongue in making 'sorrow' for your humble servant.

Got to cousin M's door. Now cousin M. is an old maid, and a dreadful tidy woman. Like tidy women well enough, but can't bear your dreadful tidy ones, because I am always in dread while on their premises lest I should offend their super-superlative neatness by a bit of gravel on the sole of my boot or such matter.

Walked in. delivered my message, and seated myself in one of her cane bottom chairs, while she rummaged the book-case.

Forgot to take out my cavendish before I entered, and while she hunted, felt the tide rising. No spit box in the room. Windows closed. Floor carpeted. Stove varnished. Looked to the fire-place-full of flowers, and hearth newly daubed with Spanish Brown. Here was a fix Felt the flood of essence of cavendish accumulating. Began to reason with myself as to whether, as a last alternative. it were better to drown the flowers, redaub the hearth, or flood the carpet. Mouth in the meantime pretty well filled. To add to my misery she began to ask questions. “Did you ever read this book, —?” Yes ma'am, said I, in a voice like a frog from the bottom of a well, while I wished book, aunt, and all were with Pharaoh's host in the Red Sea. “How do you like it?' continued the indefatigable querist. I threw my head on the back of the chair and mouth upward to prevent an overflow. “Pretty well,' said I. She at last found the Sorrows of Werter and came toward me.— O dear! cousin Oliver, don't put your head on the back of the chair, now don't, you'll grease it, and take off the gilding.

I could not answer her, having now lost the power of speech entirely, and my cheeks were distended like those of a toad under a mushroom. Why Oliver,' said by persevering tormentor, unconscious of the reason of my appearance, 'you are sick, I know you are, your face is dreadfully swollen, and before I could prevent her. her hartshorn was clapped to my distended nostrils.As my mouth was closed imperdurably, the orifices in my nasal organ were at that time my only breathing place. Judge then, what a commotion a full snifter hartshorn created among my internal arrangements. I bolted for the door, and a hearty sneeze relieved my proboscis, and tobacco juice, all at once disgorged from my mouth, restored me the faculty of speech Her eyes followed me in astonishment, and I returned and relieved my embarrassment by putting a load on my conscience. I told her I had been trying to relieve the tooth ache by the temporary use of tobacco- while, truth to tell. I never had an aching fang in my head. I went home mortified

SUNDAY FORENOON

Friend A invited myself and wife to take a seat with him-to hear the celebrated Mr. — preach (invited by neighbor A. to his pew. Mouth as usual full of tobacco. and-horror of horrors! found the pew elegantly carpeted with white and green-two mahogany cricket-, and a hat stand-but no spit box. The service commenced- every peal on the organ was answered by an internal appeal from my mouth for a liberation from its contents—but the thing was impossible. I thought of using my hat for a spit-box-then of turning one of the crickets over-but I could do nothing unperceived. I took out my handkerchief. but found, in the plentitude of her officiousness, that my wife had placed one of her white cambrics in my pocket instead of my bandana.Here was a dilemma. By the time the preacher had named his text, my cheeks had reached their utmost tension, and I must spit or die. I arose, seized my hat, and made for the door. My wife-- confound these women, how they dog one about! imagining me unwell, she might have known better, got up and followed me out. Are you unwell, Oliver?" said she, as the door closed after us. I answered her by putting out the eyes of an unlucky log with a flood of hot pressed essence of cavendish. I wish,' said she. Mr. A. had a spit-box in his pew.' So do I.'— We footed it home in moody silence. I was sorry my wife had lost the sermon. but how could I help it? These women are so affectionate, confound them; no I don't mean so. But she might have known what ailed me, and kept her seat.

Tobacco! O tobacco! But the deeds of that day are not told yet. After the conclusion of the services along came Farmer Ploughshare. He had seen me go out of church and stopped at the open window where I sat. 'Sick to-day, Mr. —?'— 'Rather unwell,' answered I, and there was another lie to add to the account of tobacco. We had powerful preaching. Mr. , sorry you had to go out.' My wife asked him in, and in he came; she might have known he would, but women must be so polite. But she was the sufferer by it: Compliments over, I gave him my chair at the open window. Down he sat, and fumbling in his pocket, he drew forth a formidable plug of tobacco and commenced unwisting it Then you use tobacco,' said I. ' A leetle, occasionally,' said he, as he deposited from three to four inches in his cheek. I mentally pitied those who use more. A neat fence that of yours,' as flood after flood bespattered a newly painted white fence near the win. no. Yes."said I. 'but I like a darker color.' ss doI.' said Ploughshare, 'and valler suits my notion. It don't show dirt.' And he molished my carpet with his favorite color. Good, thought I, she will ask him dah, I guess We were now summoned to dinner. Farmer Ploughshare seated himself I saw his long fingers in the particular position in which a tobacco chewer knows how to put his digits when about to unlade. He drew them across his mouth; I trembled for the consequences, should he throw such a load upon the floor or the hearth. But he had no intention thus to waste his quid, and-shocking to relate-deposited it beside his plate on my wife's damask cloth.

This was too much. I plead sickness and rose. There was no lie in the assertion now, I was sick. I retired from the table, but my departure did not discompose Farmer Ploughshare, who was unconscious of having done wrong. I returned in season to see him replace his quid in his mouth to undergo a second mastication, and the church bell importunely ringing. called him away before he could use his plate for a spit-box-for such, I was persuaded, would have been his next motion.

I went up stairs, and throwing myself on the bed, fell asleep. Dreams of inundation. floods and fire, harassed me. I tho't I was burning and smoking like a cigar. I then thought the Merrimack had burst its banks and was about to overflow me with its waters. I could not escape, the water had reached my chin--I tasted it, it was like tobacco juice. I coughed and screamed. and awakening. found I had been to sleep with a quid in my mouth. My wife entered at the moment I threw away the filthy weed —· I luz, if I were you I would not use that stuff any more. I won't, said I. Neither fig nor twist, pigtail nor cavendish, have passed my lips since, nor ever shall they again.