Larey, who did not want acuteness, and perceived the aspect of things, affected no trifling degree of sulky indignation, as he replied. “And is it a name ye’r in want of, Sir? fait I should have thought it was the last thing you couldn’t give; without indeed, you’ve given all your stock to me already. You may even call it ‘Irish blackguard,’ stidd of one Michael Larey.”

‘Upon this hint he spake,’ and as many a true word is spoken in jest, so was it christened on the spot. The snuff was sent to England immediately, and to different places abroad, where it soon became a favorite to so great a degree, that the proprietor took out a patent and rapidly accumulated a handsome fortune. Such are the particulars connected with the discovery of the far-famed Lundy Foot or Irish Blackguard—for which we are indebted to a member of the Irish bar, who was a resident in Dublin at the time.

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.