“The lazy Earth doth steam amain, And fumes and smokes beneath the rain: The Rivers, Brooks, and Rivulets are No less in smoke particular At nightfall: and the storm blast loud Is often wont to _blow a cloud_ Around the mountain-tops, and they Do take delight in this same way; And send a fiery fume from out Their angry heights, and such a rout Of burnt-up _ashes_, that do strow Great cities in the plains below. The _setting Sun_ is oft made dim With smoky mists that circle him. So all the world’s on _smoking_ bent, And puffs and fumes to its content: Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the gaping pipes, for why Should every creature smoke but I: Why, man of morals, tell me why?” From “_The Anatomy of Tobacco_: or Smoking Methodised, Divided, and Considered after a new fashion.” By Leolinus Siluriensis. London. George Redway, 1884. AN ADDRESS TO THE CRITICS. Critics avaunt――tobacco is my theme, Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam; And you Court insects――flutter not too near Its light, nor buzz within its scorching sphere. Pollio, with flame like thine, my verse inspire, So shall the Muse, with smoke, elicit fire; Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff, Yet all their claim to wisdom is――a puff. Lord Fopling smokes not――for his teeth afraid; Sir Tawdry smokes not――for he wears brocade. Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon; They love no smoke, except the smoke of town. But courtiers hate the puffing tribe――no matter, Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter. Its foes but show their ignorance, can he Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree? Citronia vows it has an odious stink, She will not smoke, ye gods, but she will drink; And chaste Prudella――blame her if you can―― Says――pipes are used by that vile creature man. Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim, For some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame―― Fame, of our actions, universal spring, For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke――everything. _Smoking and Smokers._ By W. A. Delamotte. 1845. ―――― A MANILLA SONNET. Luscious leaf of fragrant savour, Mild cheroot of choicest flavour, Wafting incense to the sky, Like the gales of Araby, Let us press thee to our lips, As the bee the honey sips; Culling as our well-earned meed, Joys from thee――thou heavenly weed! Ere thy burnished lip we kiss, Let us thus enjoy the bliss, Lit by the promethean spark, Kindled from the congreve dark; In summer-house or country villa, There’s nothing like a good Manilla! From _A Pipe of Tobacco_, by E. L. Blanchard. London. H. Beal. (No date.) ―――― L’HEUREUX FUMEUR.