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?