SMOKERS' STORIES. 77 



booKS on the shelves, tables, chairs, and 

 floor, toiled away until he was fatigued. 

 These hours of labor were as absolutely 

 sacred as were Richter's. No human 

 being, unless upon an errand of life or 

 death, was allowed to intrude upon him 

 then ; but when his morning's work was 

 done, he was glad to see his friends sent 

 for them, indeed, or announced by a little 

 bell his readiness to receive them. As 

 soon as they entered, pipes were lighted. 

 Of these pipes he had a great store, 

 mostly presents from admirers and friends. 

 The visitor had his choice, be it a 

 hookah, narghile, meerschaum, or dhu- 

 deen. Tennyson was familiar with all 

 grades of smoking tobacco, and the guest 

 could select at will Latakia, Connecticut 

 leaf, Perique, Lone Jack, Michigan, Killi- 

 kinick, Highlander, or any of the English 

 brands. The poet himself followed the 

 good old plan of his forefathers, from 

 Raleigh downward. At his feet were a 

 box full of white clay pipes. Filling one of 



