In the eyes of her votaries St Nicotine’s virtues are rare and manifold. Indeed all sorts of pretty things have been said and sung in her praise, and as becomes a faithful devotee at her shrine the writer believes them all as implicitly—well, as a child believes fairy tales. Many a non-smoker when questioned about his indifference to her gracious influence has heaved a pensive sigh and lamented Dame Nature’s ill-usage in denying him the taste for the nicotian incense. Consolation comes not to him when told that the good genius has knit together a brotherhood who, regaled with her balmy breath, realize the touch of nature which makes the whole world kin; that on her approach petty vexations vanish into space, and fancy, untrammelled, roves in Parnassian bowers, or sees in the vapour rising from the bowl nebulous forms resembling those in the far-off starry sky. The demon of insomnia flies from her presence, and upon the sleepless she breathes ‘tired nature’s sweet restorer.’ Faith born of experience bears willing testimony to this priceless virtue. Once upon a time, too remote to recall the year, it befell the writer of these lines to suffer from the effects of insomnia. Wakeful nights followed by comatose days passed into months, and the relief the poet Young had wooed in vain still held aloof. At last fortune smiled. Walking with a friend one evening a cigar was proffered him. Not being a smoker he declined the weed. Again urged to try it (without any suggestion of its narcotic properties) he did so and smoked it to the end. That night he fell into a sleep so profound that on waking the next morning the hours that had fled seemed but as a moment. Years have rolled by since then, but not an evening has passed unsolaced by the gentle anodyne. Opponents of tobacco-smoking generally base their objection on the rather shaky ground of what they with emphasis term, ‘principle.’ A case of the kind cropped up a few years ago when Professor Huxley related the story of how he had become a convert to the creed of the tobacconist. It runs as follows:— ‘When I was a young man I went with a party of my friends to Holland. It happened that they were smokers and I was not. I did my best to fortify myself in determined resistance to the pernicious habit, which from my standpoint I looked upon as wholly indefensible. The tobacco plant belongs to a family of poisoners—certainly a poisonous family, what then could be said in its favour? Science and reason being opposed to it how could intelligent beings submit to its sway, and with so much assumed pleasure? Thus I mused with my back propped against the hotel wall where in a cosy room inside my friends were quietly enjoying themselves with their weeds and social gossip. I fought with myself. I fought against the seductive influence of the goddess, and failed. The flesh was too strong for philosophy: I crept in and joined them with my first cigar.’