With regard to the numerous varieties of snuffs that exist, we shall say nothing at present, merely observing that the principal kinds of their manufacture are under three classes. The first is the granulated, the second an impalpable powder, and the third the bran, or coarse part, remaining after sifting the second part. SELECT POETRY. TOBACCO. [_From a Book Published in 1618, called Texnotamia, or the Marriage of the Arts._] Tobacco's a musician--and in a pipe delighteth It descends in a close, thro' the organs of the nose, With a relish that inviteth. This makes me sing so-ho!--so-ho! boys-- Ho! boys, sound I loudly-- Earth ne'er did breed such a jovial weed, Whereof to boast so proudly. Tobacco is a lawyer--his pipes do love long cases, When our brains it enters, our feet do make indentures, While we scale with stamping paces. This makes me sing, &c. Tobacco's a physician--good, both for sound and sickly, 'Tis a hot perfume that expels cold rheume, And makes it flow down quickly. This makes me sing, &c. Tobacco's a traveller, come from the Indies hither,-- It passed sea and land, ere it came to my hand, And scaped the wind and weather. This makes me sing, &c. Tobacco is a critticke, that still old paper turneth-- Whose labour and care is as smoke in the aire, That ascends from a ray when it burneth. This makes me sing, &c. Tobacco is an _ignis fatuus_--a fat and fyrie vapour, That leads men about till the fire be out, Consuming like a taper. This makes me sing, &c. Tobacco is a whyffler, and cries huff, snuff, with furie; His pipes, his club, once linke--he's the wiser that does drinke,-- Thus armed I fear not a furie. This makes me sing so-ho!--so-ho!--boys-- Ho! boys sound I loudly; Earth ne'er did breed such a jovial weed, Whereof to boast so proudly. SNUFF. --A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles up The titillated nose, and fills the eyes And breast, till, in one comfortable sneeze The full collected pleasure bursts at last! Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be, for this, The only Christopher in my kalendar. Why but for thee the uses of the nose Were half unknown, and its capacity Of joy. The summer gale, that, from the heath, At midnoon glittering with the golden furze, Bears its balsamic odours, but provokes, Not satisfies the sense, and all the flowers, That with their unsubstantial fragrance, tempt And disappoint, bloom for so short a space, That half the year the nostrils would keep Lent, But that the kind tobacconist admits No winter in his work; when nature sleeps, His wheels roll on, and still administer A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.