One of the perks of writing a novel set in the 18th century is that tobacconists around the world will send you free boxes of snuff. Just because I’m working exclusively in quill and ink, everyone assumes I indulge in the Age of Enlightenment craze for snorting ground-up tobacco. Maybe my name got on a list when I ordered the powdered wig (it’s being made from my old beard, which I of course saved).

I can claim a legitimate interest in snuff because the narrator of my stories, Jonathan Plummer, is a peddler. He sells tins of the stuff, along with needles, scissors, cures for the clap, poems and sermons and news accounts from his own pen, and — out of the depths of his seemingly bottomless basket — certain materials of interest to the discerning adult reader. Snuff was omnipresent in old Newburyport. It was even produced locally: a snuff mill in Byfield, the maker of Pearson’s Red Top Snuff, operated from Colonial times until 1990.

Snuff has a place in personal history as well. When I was a small boy in England, Nanny, my fun-loving paternal grandmother who sang in pubs, would send me around to the newsagent’s shop for a tin of her favorite snuff, which she would occasionally share with me. I don’t remember a nicotine buzz or any particular flavor (even though the powdered tobacco is often mixed with menthol, aniseed, eucalyptus, or various fruits and herbs), just the immediate urge to sneeze. I was told that sneezing was the whole point. And if Nanny said it, I believed it.

So now I have all these snuffs arriving. The first package, from the Swedish company Gotland’s, contained several tins of a special autumn blend known as Höstsnus. It’s a sweet, fruity snuff that reminds me of apples and blackberries. Höstsnus is manufactured on a seasonal schedule that commences in Week 37 (early September) and ends on October 30. You can bet we’ll be handing these out to trick-or-treaters.

An English mixture that intrigued me is Hedges L260 (Mr. Hedges evidently had a life before he met Mr. Benson). “The menthol blast is borderline insane, but incredibly refreshing,” wrote one reviewer. Another customer commended it for its “nice pinchability.” I just had to try some. A pinch every morning turned into a pinch twice a day, and now I dip into the Hedges L260 about once every twenty seconds. It’s that refreshing.

Wilsons of Sharrow sent me a tin of its own minty snuff, a fine white tobacco-free powder you probably don’t want to pack in your airline luggage.

The most interesting item is a canister of something called Angelick Snuff. It appeared in my mailbox one morning, apparently hand delivered, with no hint as to its origin. The purple tin was slightly rusty, its print faded almost to illegibility, but the powder inside smelled heavenly, like lilacs and mother’s milk. When I Googled “Angelick Snuff,” I could find no manufacturer producing it, no vendor distributing it. There was only one reference at all, a newspaper advertisement from the 1700s. “Angelick Snuff,” the ad read —

[t]he most Noble Composition in the World, instantly removing all Manner of Disorder of the Head and Brain, easing the most excruciating Pain in a Moment; taking away all Swimming or Giddiness, proceeding from Vapours, or any other Cause; also Drowsiness, Sleepiness, all other Lethargick Effects; perfectly curing Deafness to Admiration, and all Humours or Soreness in the Eyes, wonderfully strengthening them when weak.

As I read these miraculous claims, I sensed the faint beginnings of a headache. I suffered from several other brain disorders as well — drowsiness, lethargy, and possibly deafness to admiration (I couldn’t be sure; I only knew I hadn’t heard any admiration in a while). What the heck, why not, I thought, as I pried the lid off the Angelick Snuff. I sprinkled a pinch of lavender-tinted powder on the back of my left hand and sniffed hard.

The walls of my study darkened into a roiling ocean. Saltwater blasted my face, and I leaned into a tremendous gale. I was the helmsman of a barkentine — which I somehow knew, without having to consult Wikipedia, was a sailing vessel with a square-rigged foremast and fore-and-aft rigged main, mizzen, and any other masts — and I was guiding her through an Atlantic storm. “Damn ye winds!” I shouted into the heavens. “Ye’ll not defeat me though ye blow and blow! Howl on, winds! Howl on!”

A minute later the winds died down and I was safe and dry in my study again. The headache was gone.