There are almost an endless variety of snuffs, as of noses, the purest kind being the “Scotch,” made either entirely from the stalks removed from the leaf in the course of its preparation for the cigar, or of the stalks with a small quantity of leaf. The “Welsh” and “Lundyfoot” are affirmed to owe their qualities chiefly, if not altogether, to the circumstance of their being dried almost to scorching; hence they have received the appellation of “high-dried” snuffs. The “Rappees” and other dark snuffs are manufactured from the darker and ranker leaves. Scenting, which the dark snuffs undergo, also furnish names and procure customers for numerous varieties. There is a story current, that the celebrated “Lundyfoot” had its origin in an accident, one version affirming that the man who was attending to the batches got drunk, neglected his duty, and made his master’s fortune; another, that an accidental fire did that for the firm which in the other case it is affirmed that an extra glass of grog accomplished. There is nothing surprising in this, and either narrative may be true; most inventions of this kind, like the claying of sugar, had their origin in accidents. A certain quantity of snuff, in the preparation, gets overdone in some of the steps of the process, at some time or other, and the firm resolves, perhaps, as it is not altogether useless, to try and realize something for it. The peculiarity just tickles certain noses, and for the future they wish for none but _spoilt_ snuff; that which was at first spoilt accidentally, is now spoilt for the purpose, to supply the demands of the market at even a higher rate than ordinary, and the name of Lundyfoot becomes immortalized amongst old ladies through all succeeding generations. What other experiments and other accidents of over-salting or over-liming may have done, has not transpired; and who may be the next so to turn circumstances to account, that what would ordinarily be considered a misfortune, shall be turned to good fortune, time alone will reveal. John Hardham was Garrick’s under-treasurer, and kept a snuff-shop in Fleet Street, at the sign of the Red Lion, where he contrived to get into high vogue, a particular _poudre de tabac_, still known as Hardham’s 37. Stevens, while daily visiting Johnson in Bolt Court, on the subject of their joint editorship of Shakespeare, never failed to replenish his box at the shop of a man who was for years the butt of his witticisms. Hardham died a bachelor, September 20, 1772, and bequeathed £6000—the savings of a busy life—for the benefit of the poor of his native city, Chester.