that of the cigars manufactured by the Hija de
Cabañas y Carvajal at least forty per cent go
to England, thirty per cent to the United
States—California taking the largest quantity—
ten per cent to Brazil, five to Russia, five to
France, five to Spain, two to Germany, two to
Australia, leaving one per cent for Italy and
other fractional consumers of real cigars; and
yet the Italians are the most inveterate smokers
in Europe. They prefer, however, their own
home-made Cavours, which are a halfpenny
apiece and slowly poisonous, to the more wholesome
but more expensive Cabaña.

I forgot to state that, before I left the Cabaña
premises, I smoked and enjoyed very much a
full-flavoured regalia, for whose structure I had
myself selected the leaves, and which I saw
rolled, shaped, gummed, and pointed, with my
own eyes. It was like being at Joe's, in Finch
lane.

OLD STORIES RE-TOLD.

TWO ATTEMPTS TO ASSASSINATE KING GEORGE
THE THIRD.

I. PEG NICHOLSON'S.

ON the second of August, 1786, the year in
which Burke commenced his specific charges
against Warren Hastings, a levee was to be held
at St. James's.  Blue ribbons and diamond
stars, satin trains and ostrich plumes, were
arriving every moment, either by Pall Mall or St.
James's-street. Sedan-chairs and carriages were
crowding every avenue to the palace. The old
brick gateway gleamed with reflexions of scarlet
uniforms and waving feathers. New and old
titles, merited and unmerited rank, were there;
great generals, brave admirals, proud ladies,
great statesmen, all waiting for the honest and
well-intentioned but exceedingly narrow-minded
and obstinate king, who was every moment
expected by a cluster of equerries, chamberlains,
and gold and silver sticks, at the garden entrance
of St. James's.

A cloud of dust, a flash of swords, a roll of
wheels. The king. As the yeomen flung open
the door, and the king alighted from his post-
chariot, a little neatly dressed ruddy woman
pressed forward to present a paper (a petition).
As the king received it with kindly condescension,
the woman drew forth an ivory-handled,
half-worn-out dessert-knife, and struck at the
king's breast: the thin point bending on his
waistcoat. The poor crazed woman was making
a second stab, when a yeoman caught her arm,
and, at the same instant, one of the royal foot-
men wrenched the feeble weapon from her
powerless hand. The king, calm and unruffled
("preserving his temper and fortitude," as the
court papers expressed it, in their own gorgeous
way), exclaimed:

"I am not hurt; take care of the poor
woman; do not harm her."

The attempt at assassination was rather an
impotent one. A little crazed old woman, armed
with a limp worn-out dessert-knife, could hardly
play the part of Brutus. Still the attempt was
sufficient excuse for courtiers' flattery and for
twopenny congratulatory odes and fulsome
addresses running over with mouthy loyalty that
meant nothing. It procured the questionable
honour of knighthood for one or two provincial
mayors, it elicited a Te Deum speech from Mr.
Pitt, and it gave the London editors the cue for
a cut at the somewhat disappointed Jacobites,
who hurried to the old brick gateway to
congratulate King George, and returned to pull
down their blinds and slily drink "the white
rose over the water."

The stolidly brave king took the whole affair
in a royal sort of way; and ermine, blue ribbon,
diamond star, and all, held the levee with bland
cheerfulness. Noblemen and ambassadors, the
nanagers of the royal theatres, members of
parliament, and court officials, in and out of dress,
crowded round the throne to earn the smiles
and receive the gracious assurances on which
courtiers subsist. His august majesty, on opening
Peg Nicholson's petition (the people always
afterwards called her "Peg," in a half
affecionate way), found that it was headed in the
usual manner:

"To the King's Most Excellent Majesty,"
but the rest was an insane carte blanche.

Mr. Pitt, Lord Carmarthen, Lord Sydney, the
Earl of Salisbury, the Master of the Rolls, and
the Attorney-General, were instantly convened in
the council-chamber, and the old woman was
brought before them. Flies to the sugar-cask,
lawyers to a Chancery suit—what a stir about a
poor mad old servant, who had better have been
coached off at once to Bedlam, testified to by
competent doctors who had settled what sanity
was, and what it wasn't, and there an end!

Margaret Nicholson proved to be the daughter
of a man at Stockton-upon-Tees. She had
lived with credit in many respectable families,
including that of Lord Coventry, on
whose daughters she had waited. About six
years before, she had been servant to a Miss
Price, of Argyle-buildiugs, whose service she
quitted on pretence of having been left a
fortune. This was, probably, the commencement
of her insanity. She then turned sempstress
and mantua-maker, and also worked for Mr.
Watson, a hatter, in New Bond-street, whom
she frequently pressed to present petitions on her
behalf to the king, asserting that she had a
large claim upon the government. It was on this
point that she was insane. She had latterly
lodged for three years with Mr. Fisk, a stationer,
at the corner of Wigmore-street, Marylebone.
Her fellow-lodgers had observed that she was
odd, and that she muttered to herself over her
work.

Peg did not seem in the least embarrassed
before all the great people. Her answers were
like the answers of other monomaniacs:
sometimes sensible, sometimes incoherent. She said
she would answer no one but a judge about her
rights, for "they were a mystery" (which was
true enough). Being asked where she had lived
since she left her last place? she answered