ondon
_Figaro_" may be interesting to all smokers as well as guide them in
the selection of a good cigar.

"I am an imaginative person, and 'society' has treated me
shamefully of late--its tangible delights are absent from
me. Allow me, then, to console myself by the 'creations of
smoke,' as Lord Lytton puts it. I am scouted by society
because I am in love. I am told I look:

"As hyenas in love are supposed to look, or
A something between Abelard and old Bluecher."

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 w