Among the Bashee group, and particularly on the island of Ibayat, the natives form very elegant and commodious pipes from different species of shells, the columella and septa of the convolutions being broken down, and a short ebony stem inserted into a hole at the apex of the spire. These are more generally formed of the shells known as the Bishop’s mitre (_Mitra episcopalis_) and the Pope’s mitre (_Mitra papalis_). Species of _Terebra_ and _Turbo_ are also converted into pipes. In China, where M. Rondot calculates that there are not less than 100 millions, and Abbé Huc 300 millions of smokers, pipes are made in immense numbers. Of these there are three kinds, the water pipe, the straight pipe, and the opium pipe. Chinese pipes, and indeed those of all the Indo-Chinese races, including the Tartars, Chinese, Koreans, and Japanese, are provided with a small metallic bowl, and usually a long bamboo stem; for with persons who are in the habit of smoking, at short intervals, all day long, a large bowl would be inadmissible. By inhaling but a pinch of tobacco on one occasion, they extend the influence of a larger pipe over a greater space of time. In such cases they suffer no inconvenience from the nature of the material of which the bowl is composed. Nations that smoke larger pipes adopt some other substance, as metal would become too hot; hence we have pipes of “Samian ware” in Turkey, “Meerschaum” in Germany, and “Clay” in England and other places. My “Uncle Toby” would have burnt his fingers with a Chinese pipe of nickel silver many a time and often; and it would have required a large amount of logic to have induced Doctor Riccabocca to have exchanged his companion (his pipe, not his umbrella) for a bowl of Japanese manufacture. Isaac Browne thought, a century ago, that there was something in a pipe worth writing about, or he had never given us the following “ODE TO A TOBACCO PIPE. “Little tube of mighty power, Charmer of an idle hour, Object of my warm desire, Lip of wax, and eye of fire; And thy snowy taper waist, With thy finger gently braced; And thy pretty swelling crest, With thy little stopper prest; And the sweetest bliss of blisses Breathing from thy balmy kisses. Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men; Who, when again the night returns, When again the taper burns, When again the cricket’s gay (Little cricket full of play), Can afford his tube to feed With the fragrant Indian weed; Pleasure for a nose divine, Incense of the god of wine. Happy thrice, and thrice again, Happiest he of happy men.”