And, moreover, I am an ugly man, but there was only a fortnight's difference in gaining a woman's love between John Wilkes and the handsomest man in England, courage, Jehu! I like idleness, because it shows that one can afford it; so I am puffing idly--ah! the balmy fragrance of this mild Havana! 'Oh! the effect of that first note from the woman one loves!' says one; 'Oh! the kiss on the dimpled cheek, the sound of the silver voice!' says another; but what can compare to the dreamy exquisite luxury of a good cigar? But, heavens, what am I saying? I am in love, and Julia reads the "_Figaro_!" The paleness of Flaxman's illustrations spreads over me--please, reader, look upon the sentiment as sarcastic. I am in a fog of smoke, and am quaffing claret from the silvered pewter. There's plenty of it; and no soul can say: "That in drinking from _that_ beaker I am sipping like a fly.' How changed from the long, long days ago, when I was a connoisseur in Parparillo cigars, brown-paper cigarettes, and cane cheroots! Then I fondly adored Sir Walter Raleigh as my earthly idol, for giving me tobacco--when I had the halfpence to buy it--and delighted in the story, told by queer Oldys, of Sir Walter's servant extinguishing the Virginny smoke that issued from his master's lips, by drenching him with ale. Alas! my idol is shattered by Hawkins. The Spaniards say, 'The lie that lasts for half an hour is worth telling.' History has lied for longer, by a considerable period. Fond even as I was of my brown-papered cigarettes when baccy failed, I must confess I never reached the stage attained by Sir Christopher Haydon's chaplain, William Breedon, parson of Thornton, in Bucks, who was so given to "October store and best Virginia," that when he had no tobacco (and too much drink) he used to cut the _bell-ropes_ and smoke them! "The Polyglot--three parts--my text; Howbeit--likewise--now to my next."