by Liebault and Monardes. News of the potent influence of the weed, now commonly called the Ambassador’s herb, over bodily infirmity spread with amazing rapidity, and out of every nook and corner of the kingdom there flocked to the Ambassador sufferers of all sorts and conditions, praying to be healed of their _Noli me tangere_. Nicot’s garden was now a centre of attraction for fashionable loungers: his house had already become an infirmary; and great was the rejoicing when the maimed, the sick, and the wounded threw away their crutches, sound of body and full of faith. From the recital whereof it plainly appears that though names may change, poor humanity remains pretty much what it was in the beginning, and none wax so fat in fame or fortune as those who minister to its weaknesses. But Nicot’s work as a healer of the sick with the Indian weed was not yet completed; there were patients at home demanding his immediate attention. Hearing that Lady Montague was dying at St. Germains of an ulcer ‘bred in the breast,’ which of course was none other than our old friend _Noli me tangere_ in the form of cancer, and for which no remedy could ever be found, though the Countess of Russe had consulted on her friend’s behalf the most eminent physicians of the realm, Nicot, with commendable promptitude, despatched to the king a quantity of the weed, sending therewith precise instructions how to prepare and administer it. With this first instalment he wrote describing it as having a peculiarly pleasant taste, and oddly enough, he bestowed upon it his own name, saying, ‘Nicotiane est une espèce d’herbe de vertu admirable pour guérir toutes ulcères et autres tels accidents au corps humain.’ This letter is said to be still preserved in the Chateau Belem. To the Queen Mother he presented seeds of the plant which she caused to be sown in the royal gardens. This wondrous product of the new-found world, where all was strange and clothed in the garb of mystery, created a lively interest in France. But Europe had hardly yet emerged from the glamour of the Dark Ages, when every important event was governed by invisible agencies, and magic alone could explain the inexplicable. Catharine de Medici would secretly consult her magician before entering upon any of her numerous dark designs. Parenthetically it may be mentioned that George Buchanan, the Scotch philosopher and tutor to our James I., had so strong an aversion to Catharine de Medici that in one of his Latin epigrams, where he alludes to tobacco being called _d’herbe Medici_, he warns all who value their health to shun the herb, not that in itself it is hurtful, but being called by so vile a name it must needs become poisonous. A single instance may suffice to indicate the kind of interest the weed on its first introduction into France awakened in the French court. Gathered round the queen’s table are some of the brightest wits of the gay capital, discussing with eager curiosity the marvellous story