After a feast, the prudent and thrifty housewife will gather up the fragments that remain, if for no other purpose than to distribute them amongst the poor.

It was the constant habit of a certain elderly man of business, so long as he could stoop for the purpose, to pick up and stow away every pin and scrap of paper, or end of string, which he saw lying about on his premises. And when he could bend no longer to perform the operation himself, he would stand by the truant fragment, and vociferate loudly for one of his apprentices to come and “gather up the cord and string,” adding “’tis a pity they should spile.”

Approaching to the conclusion of our task, we have followed the old gentleman’s advice, and collected the odd pieces that have fallen to the ground in the course of our work, convinced that thrift is praiseworthy, and although only “Odds and Ends,” there may be enough of interest in them to warrant you in adding “’tis a pity they should spile.”

Tobacco ends in smoke. We began with the former, it is but a natural consequence that we should end with the latter. Somewhere we have read a “smoke vision of life.” Some people have but a smoky or foggy vision of life—they have sad eyes, poor travellers, and can see nothing for the fog that surrounds them—they live in a mist, and die without being missed. Forgive the transgression, good friend, the obscurity of the subject is to blame, and the pun was written before we had made ourselves aware of its presence. Let it pass on, it will soon be lost in the smoke. An old piper believes that there is generally something racy, decided, and original in the man who both smokes and snuffs. Outwardly, he may have a kippered appearance, and his voice may grate on the ear like a scrannel pipe of straw, but think of the strong or beautiful soul that body enshrines! Do you imagine, oh, lean-hearted member of the Anti-Snuff and Tobacco Club, that the dark apostle standing before us will preach with less power, less unction, less persuasive eloquence, because he snuffs over the psalm book, and smokes in the vestry between the forenoon and afternoon service? Does his piety ooze through his pipe, or his earnestness end in smoke? Was Robert Hall less eloquent than Massillon or Chalmers, because he could scarcely refrain from lighting his hookah in the pulpit? Answer us at your leisure—could Tennyson have brought down so magnificently the Arabian heaven upon his nights; dreamed so divinely of Cleopatra, Iphigenia, and Rosamond; pictured so richly the charmed sleep of the Eastern princess in her enchanted palace, with her “full black ringlets downward rolled;” or painted so soothingly the languid picture of the Lotos-eaters, if he had never experienced the mystic inspiration of tobacco? Could John Wilson—peace to his princely shade—have filled his inimitable papers with so much fine sentiment, radiant imagery, pathos, piquancy, and point, without the aid of his silver snuff-box? Deprive the Grants and Macgregors of their mulls and nose spoons of bone, and you cut the sinews of their strength—you destroy the flower of the British army. Pluck the calumet of peace from the lips of the red Indian, and in the twinkling of an eye your beautiful scalp will be dangling at his girdle. Tear his “gem adorned chibouque” from the mouth of the Turk, and the Great Bear by to-morrow’s dawn will be grinning on his haunches in Constantinople. Clear Germany of tobacco smoke, and Goethe would groan in his grave, Richter would revisit the glimpses of the moon, philology would fall down in a fatal fit of apoplexy over the folios of her fame, and poetry would shriek her death-shriek to see the transcendental philosophy expire. Shake the quids from the mouths of the merry mariners of England—cast their pig-tail upon the waters, and commerce would become stagnant in all our ports—our gallant war-fleet would rot at its stations, and Britain would never boast the glories of another Trafalgar. Tell Yankeedom that smoking is no more to be permitted all over the world, under penalty of death, and soon the melancholy pine forests would wave over the dust of an extinguished race. In fine, were the club to which you belong to succeed in its attempt, which it cannot, the earth would stand still, like the sun of old upon Gibeon, and the moon in the valley of Ajalon, and the planets would clothe themselves with sackcloth for the sudden death of their sister sphere!

There is extant, in an old work written three centuries since, a curious paragraph which we had well nigh forgotten. It refers to Canada. “There groweth a certain kind of herbe, whereof in summer they make great provision for all the yeere, and only the men use of it; and first they cause it to be dried in the sunne, then wear it about their neckes, wrapped in a little beaste’s skinne, made like a little bagge, with a hollow peece of stone or wood like a pipe; then, when they please, they make poudre of it, and then put it in one of the ends of the said cornet or pipe, and laying a coal of fire upon it, at the other end suck so long, that they fill their bodies full of smoke, till that it cometh out of their mouth and nostrils, even as out of the tonnell of a chimney.”

Methinks it had been well had every Canadian been also favoured with a Saint Betsy, as a companion in life, otherwise there had been fire as well as smoke. It is now some time since the inimitable Punch introduced Saint Betsy to the world, and that she may not altogether be excluded from our future “fireside saints,” we will give her legend a place in our “Odds and Ends.”

“St. Betsy was wedded to a knight who sailed with Raleigh, and had brought home tobacco, and the knight smoked. But he thought that St. Betsy, like other fine ladies of the Court, would fain that he should smoke out of doors, nor taint with tobacco smoke the tapestry, whereupon the knight would seek his garden, his orchard, and, in any weather, smoke sub Jove. Now it chanced, as the knight smoked, St. Betsy came to him and said, ‘My lord, pray ye come into the house;’ and the knight went with St. Betsy, who took him into a newly cedared room, and said, ‘I pray my lord henceforth smoke here, for is it not a shame that you, who are the foundation and prop of your house, should have no place to put your head into and smoke?’ And St. Betsy led him to a chair, and with her own fingers filled him a pipe; and from that time the knight sat in the cedar chamber and smoked his weed.”

No pipe, no smoke, no dreams! Never again, on a beautiful summer’s day would two young Ottoman swains sit smoking under a tree, by the side of a purling stream, hearing the birds sing, and seeing the flowers in bloom, to become the actors in a scene like that described in one of their own songs. By and bye came a young damsel, her eyes like two stars in the nights of the Ramazan. One of the swains takes his pipe from his mouth, and “sighing smoke,” gazes at her with delight. The other demands why his wrapt soul is sitting in his eyes, and he avows himself the adorer of the veiled fair. “Her eyes,” says he, “are black, but they shine like the polished steel, nor is the wound they inflict less fatal to the heart.” The other swain ridicules his passion, and bids him re-fill his pipe. “Ah, no!” cries the lover, “I enjoy it no more; my heart is as a fig thrown into a thick leafy tree, and a bird with bright eyes has caught it and holds it fast.”

Hearken to the story of Abou Gallioun, the father of the pipe-bowl, and then laugh if you will at the votaries of the marvellous weed. A mountaineer of Lebanon, a man young and tall, and apparently well to do, for his oriental costume was rich and elegant, established himself at Tripoli, in Syria. He resided at an hotel, and astonished every one with a bowl at the end of his pipe stem of enormous dimensions. Some days after his arrival he was seen to seat himself at the corner of a street, to rest the bowl of his pipe on the ground, and to take from his pocket a little tripod and a coffee-pot. Having filled his coffee-pot, he put the tripod upon the bowl of his pipe, and stood his coffee-pot thereon. He then proceeded to smoke, and at the same time to boil the water for his coffee. This sight caused the passers-by to stop, and a crowd collected in the street so as to obstruct the thoroughfare. The police came to clear the passage, and, at the same time, the Pacha was informed of the circumstance, and consulted as to what should be done. The Pacha gave instructions that as the stranger did harm to no one, he was to be allowed to make his coffee in the street, for the street was open to all, hoping that when it rained he would certainly go away. The police were, therefore, ordered to prevent any crowding around the mountaineer, and to take especial care that he received no insult, lest he should then complain to the Emir of the mountain of his ill-treatment. The mountaineer having heard of the instructions of the Pacha, continued to drink his coffee and smoke his pipe as before, in the presence of numbers of curious spectators. This exhibition continued daily, till the news penetrated into the harems, and the women came to see a man make his coffee upon the bowl of his pipe—a thing they had never before heard of, and which, till now, had never occurred.

The mountaineer loved to converse with the passers-by, when he told them that his pipe served him also at home for his baking oven, and that he had no other chafing dish in winter; that he filled the bowl twice a day, in the morning on rising, and in the evening on going to rest, to last him through the night; that he stopped very little, and during the night drank five or six cups of coffee. This stranger was surnamed Abou Gallioun, “father of the pipe-bowl,” and is still known by that name in Tripoli when they speak of him and his extravagance.

In general, the pipe bowls are of a certain size, so that they may last at least a quarter of an hour, and with slow smoking they will last half an hour, The tobacco does not burn rapidly if the smoker does not pull hard—this quiet kind of smoking generally characterizes the grave orientals. Their pipes are seldom extinguished of themselves unless laid down, because the tobaccos of the East have more body than other tobaccos. Abou Gallioun might then always rest assured that his pipe would never go out, although he held long conversations by day, and rose occasionally at night to take his coffee.

Tobacco is stated to have been imported into the Celestial empire by the Mantchoos; and the Chinese were much astonished when they first saw their conquerors inhaling fire through long tubes and “eating smoke.” By a curious coincidence this plant is called by the Mantchoos tambakou; but the Chinese designate it simply by the word meaning “smoke.” Thus they say they cultivate in their fields the “smoke-leaf,” they “chew smoke,” and they name their pipe the “smoke-funnel.”

The old proverb that “smoke doth follow the fairest,” is thus commented upon:——“Whereof Sir Thomas Brown says, although there seems no natural ground, yet it is the continuation of a very ancient opinion, as Petrus Victorius and Casaubon have observed from a passage in AthenÆus, wherein a Parasite thus describes himself—

There is extant in the East, an Arabian tale concerning the Broken Pipe of Saladin, which is taken from an author named Ali-el-Fakir, who lived in the times of Saladin, a tale which is often repeated among smokers in Syria. The Sultan, Salah-el-Din (called by us Saladin), was a great warrior, a lover of the harem, and at the same time pleasant. His court abounded with officers, servants, and slaves. Among his servants, who could best amuse him in his leisure moments, was a simple man to whom he had confided the care of his pipes, and whom he had made his pipe-bearer. All the Sultan’s pipes were of great value, owing to the oriental luxury which prevails in everything, and especially in everything belonging to the Sultan, who is considered the master of the world.

Saladin, in consequence of the climate of the south of Syria, generally passed his time in the gardens of Damascus, luxuriously seated upon rich Persian carpets and soft cushions, under a tree surrounded by his guards, and a numerous band of servants, who promptly obeyed his commands.

Under another tree, not far off, was the coffee-maker, ready to serve his master on the instant, for, like all other orientals, he was fond of this beverage; and Ramadan, the pipe-bearer, was commanded to be at hand, that he might execute his sovereign’s orders.

Between the tree under which the Sultan was reposing, and that under which was the stove of the coffee-maker, stood another tree, to which was tied a watch-dog, who was only let loose at night.

Saladin said to Ramadan—“Take my pipe, fill it, and bring it to me directly.” At that time tobacco was not smoked in the East, instead thereof they used TÈ bÉgh. Ramadan hastened to obey his master, but the dog, not well knowing him, set to barking at him as he passed on his way to the coffee-maker’s stove for the purpose of preparing there the Sultan’s pipe, and in return Ramadan shook his fist at him. When the pipe-bearer came back, the dog, recognizing in him the man who had lately menaced him, not being securely tied, loosened himself and sprang at him. Ramadan used the pipe to defend himself, the dog was beaten back, but the bowl, the stem, and the rich mouth-piece of the pipe were all broken in the encounter.

The facts were related to Saladin, who immediately ordered the dog to be summoned before him. The animal said nothing while Ramadan was continually charging him with the blame. “Thou seest,” said the Sultan, “that the dog appears docile. If thou hadst not threatened or frightened him he would have said nothing to thee. Thou shalt be tied up as the dog was, and the dog shall dwell with me.”

The guards chained up poor Ramadan to the tree where the dog had been fastened, and his appearance was very disconsolate. The dog became the favourite of the Prince, whom he recognized by his natural instinct, and for ever afterwards the Sultan swore by his dog.

The Mussulman delights in comparing the wisdom of this decision with the judgment of Solomon.

The recent remarks of one high in clerical authority, which came to light but too lately to have a more honourable position assigned them, must accordingly be scattered among the fragments. “Heaven forbid,” writes the reverend gentleman, “that I should ever see in England what I have more than once seen in France—a fine and gorgeously arrayed lady, with lavender coloured kid gloves, and a delicate little cigarette between her lips, expectorating in the most refined manner into a polished spittoon, and accompanying her male friends in inhaling the fumes of this noxious weed! No, our ladies have not countenanced the custom by example, but they have fostered it, cherished it, promoted it by their too much good nature, and allowed their husbands, brothers, and sons, and perhaps, their intended husbands, to enjoy their cigars in their presence, and even in their houses.”

Hearken still further. “I don’t scruple to confess that I sat down to the consideration of this subject strongly prejudiced, personally and socially, against this evil practice; but I rise from the examination of the facts of the case surprised at the magnitude of the abomination to which it gives rise. I cordially throw any influence I possess into the scale of those who are labouring to promote the total abolition of the custom among us, and I earnestly entreat all who think with me to exert their utmost efforts to stay the plague.”

King James is dead, poor man, otherwise this worthy Dean, most assuredly, would soon have become a Bishop. How unfortunate a circumstance it is that wise men will be born at a time when the generation who would have appreciated them most, is either extinct or in embryo.

We remember to have once heard an equally estimable clerical gentleman declare that he thought those words of Longfellow’s very descriptive of the effects of his customary “whiff:”——

With a fable of Krummacher’s, let this basket of fragments be filled, and finished—

“The angel of sleep and the angel of death, fraternally embracing each other, wandered over the earth. It was eventide. They laid themselves down beside a hill not far from the habitations of men. A melancholy silence reigned around, and the evening bell of the distant hamlet had ceased.

“Silently and quietly, as is their wont, the two kindly genii of the human race lay in confidential embrace, and night began to steal on.

“Then the angel of sleep rose from his mossy couch, and threw around, with careful hand, the unseen grains of slumber. The evening wind bare them to the quiet dwellings of the wearied husbandmen. Now the feet of sleep embraced the inhabitants of the rural cots, from the hoary headed old man who supported himself on his staff, to the infants in the cradle. The sick forgot their pains, the mourners their griefs, and poverty its cares. All eyes were closed.

“And now, after his task was done, the beautiful angel of sleep lay down again by the side of his sterner brother. When the morning dawn arose, he exclaimed in joyous innocency—‘Men praise me as their friend and benefactor. Oh what a bliss it is, unseen and secretly to befriend them! How happy are we, the invisible messengers of the good God! How lovely is our quiet vocation!’

“Thus spake the friendly angel of sleep. And the angel of death sighed in silent grief; and a tear, such as the immortals shed, trembled in his great dark eye. ‘Alas!’ said he, ‘that I cannot as thou, delight myself with cheerful thanks. Men call me their enemy and pleasure spoiler.’

“‘Oh, my brother,’ rejoined the angel of sleep, ‘will not the good also, when awaking, recognize in thee a friend and benefactor, and thankfully bless thee? Are not we brothers and messengers of one Father?’

“Thus spake he, and the eyes of the angel of death sparkled, and more tenderly did the brotherly genii embrace each other.”