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.”