of the deed as the work of the redoubtable wolvereene, who had generally been supposed since the rencontre with Mr. Philips to have lurked in a wood two or three miles distant from the town. In the hope that the animal would return at dark to devour his prey, I repaired with a friend to the spot where the carcass lay, and watched for some hours after dark (both of us being well armed), but to no purpose, beyond our own disappointment; for the wolvereene (if such it were), having probably gorged itself during the day, had abandoned the carcass which by this time had become a mere skeleton; for though when it was first discovered the animal was fresh killed, it was even then one half devoured; whilst the bank on which it lay being so thickly covered with bushes and extending nearly to the small wood (the reported haunt of the wolvereene), it was very possible for that creature to have visited the spot unperceived, even during the day, and to have finished at his leisure what he had previously begun. Besides, it is a well-known fact that the wolvereene, though possessed of great power of enduring hunger, is capable of gorging an animal much larger than itself in two or three days' time; in this respect almost surpassing the boa constrictor.

It is singular enough that though 'the skin of this animal is well-known in the furriers' shops, its habits have never been fully described; naturalists seem to know but little of it beyond its name.

But I must regain the thread of my day's adventure to the Vale Cartier settlement, which I have almost lost in my digression with the "loup cervier" and "wolvercene."

After I quitted, in disappointment, the lone hut in the wood, an hour's walk brought me into the open country again; and thankful was I that the clouds, which began rapidly to obscure the starlight, had delayed their work, until I was freely out of the region of the wild gentry. The inhabitants scattered over the valley of the St. Charles were fast retiring to rest. Here and there I could discern lights burning in the houses, and sometimes had the mortification to find them cautiously put out, as

my footsteps were heard near the door. At one of these, however, I knocked; and, looking through the low glass window to ascertain if those within were sleeping or awake, I discerned a French Canadian farmer, apparently just returned from a day's chusse, at a considerable distance from his dwelling. The man held one of the long Spanish-looking guns (commonly used by the habitans) in one hand, and a candle in the other; and upon the table near which he stood, there lay a powder-horn and a pouch. He came to the door upon my summons, courteously enough; upon which, addressing him in French with a bare question regarding my route (by way of introduction), I received in return an answer after the well-mannered tone of his race; which, tempting me to open upon him my real business in the question, "Could he supply

me with horse and cart ?" a sudden change in the tide of things became perceptible. He who had been, not to say courteous, but polite, falsely presuming my country, either by my appearance or the accent of my French, turned angrily away, and muttering between his teeth, "Irlandois," stalked, gun and all, into an inner room, shutting to the door with an evident determination to leave my question unanswered. Somewhat wearied, but not altogether daunted by these fruitless efforts, I made still another trial, and then but another. In the first the lights were put out, and the family carefully closed in, the moment I knocked at the door; which so angered me, that, raising a tremendous din, I hammered with all my might against the door, expecting at least to find a head popped out of the window to inquire into the cause of such disturbance; but no, every thing remained as before, and even more still, from the contrast of my own angry summons; so giving them the benefit of an awful farewell salute (but, at the same time, fancying that these inmates who had so suspiciously questioned my right to hospitality, might take it in, as part of the account between us, to send a bullet after me in my retreat), I slipped cautiously behind a lonely barn, which ran from a short distance in front of the door of the house, nearly to the road-side, some forty yards from the dwelling-place, and

so got again to the highway. I had determined upon but one more trial, which made me cautious in selecting it, and, presenting myself at the window, by way of reconnoitre, I discerned within a young man and two women, evidently keeping later hours than the generality of their neighbours, for they were seated in comfortable enjoyment by their fireside.

Knocking at the doors having proved ineffectual, I thought I would this time make known my wants by means of the window; so calling to the man within, I begged he would come and speak to me at either one or the other. A muttered denial, however, given by a dogged shake of the head, and the churlish monosyllable, "No, no!" was all I could gain from him; until the women, probably discerning from my appearance that I was much fatigued, looked wistfully in their companion's face; a silent appeal in my favour, but a vain one; until the two, tauntingly upbraiding him with "vous avez peur, vous avez peur !" the man rose gingerly, and with slow, cautious step, approached the window.

To my question respecting a cart and horse, he informed me in as few words as possible that at a house a little farther on, there was a cart to be had, but, alas! there was no horse; and where there was a horse, the owner had no cart; the fact being, that they would not stir out of their bed to assist what they supposed to be an "Irlandois," were it to save his life; so seeing that all efforts to obtain a conveyance were ineffectual, I gathered up the little strength I had left, and proceeded the rest of the way (about ten miles) still on foot.

The whole valley was now in darkness, the inhabitants having all retired to rest; but a large fire, kindled by the Indians on the outskirts of the wood, which I understood to be at that minute in use for the manu

facture of maple sugar, burnt brightly, and served me as a beacon on my way. I had not proceeded far before I was met by a cart, leisurely driving along, with two Canadians in it. I ran joyfully forward, but to little purpose, for to all my entreaties to them to stop and take me in, I could get no answer; the horse was put to the top of his speed, and, with themselves, soon out of sight. Thus compelled, I blundered on the rest of the way upon foot, reaching my home at three o'clock in the morning, so completely exhausted, that I believe a mile farther would have knocked me up, or rather would have been "impossible," for "knocked up" I certainly was to the full extent of the word, having walked nearly forty miles without rest, and passed seventeen hours unable to obtain food; for, relying upon the chance of getting some conveyance by means of which I might finish my expedition with ease, I had set off wholly unprovided with a traveller's comforts, save and except a stout heart and a well-practised pair of legs.

In

In conclusion, it is but fair to say, that want of hospitality or even of politeness is not a general trait in the character of the French Canadians, for they excel in both these qualities. Their antipathy and fear of the Irish (for one of whom, no doubt, they mistook me) will account for the behaviour I have observed upon in the instance before us. broad daylight I have gone amongst these same people, experiencing from them nothing but the utmost kindness and attention, and often I have been surprised and delighted to find the habitan courteously and even gracefully performing the functions of host, guide, or ferryman, as might be required, without claiming or expecting the slightest compensation.

London, Feb. 20, 1846.

MY DEAR SIR,-Our good friend and patron, the publisher of this Magazine, has brought me your message from Rome, and your demand to hear news from the other great city of the world. As the forty columns of the Times cannot satisfy your reverence's craving, and the details of the real great revolution of England which is actually going on do not sufficiently interest you, I send you a page or two of random speculations upon matters connected with the literary profession: they were suggested by reading the works and the biography of a literary friend of ours, lately deceased, and for whom every person who knew him had the warmest and sincerest regard. And no wonder. It was impossible to help trusting a man so thoroughly generous and honest, and loving one who was so perfectly gay, gentle, and amiable.

A man can't enjoy every thing in the world; but what delightful gifts and qualites are these to have! Not having known Blanchard as intimately as some others did, yet, I take it, he had in his life as much pleasure as falls to most men; the kindest friends, the most affectionate family, a heart to enjoy both; and a career not undistinguished, which I hold to be the smallest matter of all. But we have a cowardly dislike, or compassion for, the fact of a man dying poor. Such a one is rich, bilious, and a curmudgeon, without heart or stomach to enjoy his money, and we set him down as respectable: another is morose or passionate, his whole view of life seen blood-shot through passion, or jaundiced through moroseness: or he is a fool who can't see, or feel, or enjoy any thing at all, with no ear for music, no eye for beauty, no heart for love, with nothing except money: we meet such people every day, and respect them somehow. That donkey browses over five thousand acres; that mad

man's bankers come bowing him out to his carriage. You feel secretly pleased at shooting over the acres, or driving in the carriage. At any rate, nobody thinks of compassionating their owners. We are a race of flunkies, and keep our pity for the poor.

I don't mean to affix the plush personally upon the kind and distinguished gentleman and writer who has written Blanchard's Memoir; but it seems to me that it is couched in much too despondent a strain; that the lot of the hero of the little story was by no means deplorable; and that there is not the least call at present, to be holding up literary men as martyrs. Even that prevailing sentiment which regrets that means should not be provided for giving them leisure, for enabling them to perfect great works in retirement, that they should waste away their strength with fugitive literature, &c., I hold to be often uncalled for and dangerous. I believe, if most men of letters were to be pensioned, I am sorry to say I believe they wouldn't work at all; and of others, that the labour which is to answer the calls of the day is the one quite best suited to their genius. Suppose Sir Robert Peel were to write to you, and, enclosing a cheque for 20,000l., instruct you to pension any fifty deserving authors, so that they might have leisure to retire and write "great" works, on whom would you fix?

People in the big-book interest, too, cry out against the fashion of fugitive literature, and no wonder. For instance,

The Times gave an extract the other day from a work by one Doctor Carus, physician to the King of Saxony, who attended his royal master on his recent visit to England, and has written a book concerning the journey. Among other London lions, the illustrious traveller condescended to visit one of the largest and most

remarkable, certainly, of metropolitan roarers the Times printing-office; of which, the Doctor, in his capacity of a man of science, gives an exceedingly bad, stupid, and blundering ac

count.

Carus was struck with "disgust," he says, at the prodigious size of the paper, and at the thought which suggested itself to his mind from this enormity. There was as much printed every day as would fill a thick volume. It required ten years of life to a philosopher to write a volume. The issuing of these daily tomes was unfair upon philosophers, who were put out of the market; and unfair on the public, who were made to receive (and, worse still, to get a relish for) crude daily speculations, and frivolous ephemeral news, where they ought to be fed and educated upon stronger and simpler diet.

We have heard this outcry a hundred times from the big-wig body. The world gives up a lamentable portion of its time to fleeting literature; authors who might be occupied upon great works fritter away their lives in producing endless hasty sketches. Kind, wise, and good Doctor Arnold deplored the fatal sympathy which the Pickwick Papers had created among the boys of his school: and it is a fact that Punch is as regularly read among the boys at Eton as the Latin Grammar.

Arguing for liberty of conscience against any authority, however great -against Doctor Arnold himself, who seems to me to be the greatest, wisest, and best of men, that has appeared for eighteen hundred years; let us take a stand at once, and ask, Why should not the day have its literature? Why should not authors make light sketches? Why should not the public be amused daily or frequently by kindly fictions? It is well and just for Arnold to object. Light stories of Jingle and Tupman, and Sam Weller quips and cranks, must have come with but a bad grace before that pure and lofty soul. The trivial and familiar are out of place there; the harmless joker must walk away abashed from such a presence, as he would be silent and hushed in a cathedral. But all the world is not made of that angelic stuff. From his very height and sublimity of virtue he could but look down and deplore

VOL. XXXIII, NO. CXCV.

the ways of small men beneath him. I mean, seriously, that I think the man was of so august and sublime a nature, that he was not a fair judge of us, or of the ways of the generality of mankind. One has seen a delicate person sicken and faint at the smell of a flower, it does not follow that the flower was not sweet and wholesome in consequence; and I hold that laughing and honest storybooks are good, against all the doctors.

Laughing is not the highest occupation of a man, very certainly; or the power of creating it the height of genius. I am not going to argue for that. No more is the blacking of boots the greatest occupation. But it is done, and well and honestly, by persons ordained to that calling in life, who arrogate to themselves (if they are straightforward and worthy shoe-blacks) no especial rank or privilege on account of their calling; and not considering boot-brushing the greatest effort of earthly genius, nevertheless select their Day and Martin, or Warren, to the best of their judgment; polish their upperleathers as well as they can; satisfy their patrons; and earn their fair wage.

I have chosen the unpolite shoeblack comparison, not out of disrespect to the trade of literature; but it is as good a craft as any other to select. In some way or other, for daily bread and hire, almost all men are labouring daily. Without necessity they would not work at all, or very little, probably. In some instances you reap Reputation along with Profit from your labour, but Bread, in the main, is the incentive. Do not let us try to blink this fact, or imagine that the men of the press are working for their honour and glory, or go onward impelled by an irresistible afflatus of genius. If only men of genius were to write, Lord help us! how many books would there be? How many people are there even capable of appreciating genius? Is Mr. Wakley's or Mr. Hume's opinion about poetry worth much? As much as that of millions of people in this honest, stupid empire; and they have a right to have books supplied for them as well as the most polished and accomplished critics have. The literary man gets his bread by providing goods suited to

the consumption of these. This man of letters contributes a police report; that, an article containing some downright information; this one, as an editor, abuses Sir Robert Peel, or lauds Lord John Russell, or vice versa; writing to a certain class who coincide in his views, or are interested by the question which he moots. The literary character, let us hope or admit, writes quite honestly; but no man supposes he would work perpetually but for money. And as for immortality, it is quite beside the bargain. Is it reasonable to look for it, or to pretend that you are actuated by a desire to attain it? Of all the quill-drivers, how many have ever drawn that prodigious prize? Is it fair even to ask that many should? Out of a regard for poor dear posterity and men of letters to come, let us be glad that the great immortality number comes up so rarely. Mankind would have no time otherwise, and would be so gorged with old masterpieces, that they could not occupy themselves with new, and future literary men would have no chance of a livelihood.

To do your work honestly, to amuse and instruct your reader of to-day, to die when your time comes, and go hence with as clean a breast as may be; may these be all yours and ours, by God's will. Let us be content with our status as literary craftsmen, telling the truth as far as may be, hitting no foul blow, condescending to no servile puffery, filling not a very lofty, but a manly and honourable part. Nobody says that Dr. Locock is wasting his time because he rolls about daily in his carriage, and passes hours with the nobility and gentry, his patients, instead of being in his study wrapt up in transcendental medical meditation. Nobody accuses Sir Fitzroy Kelly of neglecting his genius because he will take any body's brief, and argue it in court for money, when he might sit in chambers with his oak sported, and give up his soul to investigations of the nature, history, and improvement of law. There is no question but that either of these eminent persons, by profound study, might increase their knowledge in certain branches of their profession; but in the meanwhile the practical part must go on-causes come on for

hearing, and ladies lie in, and some one must be there. The commodities in which the lawyer and the doctor deal are absolutely required by the public, and liberally paid for; every day, too, the public requires more literary handicraft done; the practitioner in that trade gets a better pay and place. In another century, very likely, his work will be so necessary to the people, and his market so good, that his prices will double and treble; his social rank rise; he will be getting what they call "honours,' and dying in the bosom of the genteel. Our calling is only sneered at because it is not well paid. The world has no other criterion for respectability. In Heaven's name, what made people talk of setting up a statue to Sir William Follett? What had he done? He had made 300,000l. What has George IV. done that he, too, is to have a brazen image? He was an exemplar of no greatness, no good quality, no duty in life; but a type of magnificence, of beautiful coats, carpets, and gigs, turtle-soup, chandeliers, cream-coloured horses, and delicious Maraschino,-all these good things he expressed and represented and the world, respecting them beyond all others, raised statues to "the first gentleman in Europe." Directly the men of letters get rich, they will come in for their share of honour too; and a future writer in this miscellany may be getting ten guineas where we get one, and dancing at Buckingham Palace while you and your humble servant, dear Padre Francesco, are glad to smoke our pipes in quiet over the sanded floor of the little D

But the happy homme de lettres, whom I imagine in futurity kicking his heels vis-à-vis to a duchess in some fandango at the court of her majesty's grandchildren, will be in reality no better or honester, or more really near fame, than the quilldriver of the present day, with his doubtful position and small gains. Fame, that guerdon of high genius, comes quite independent of Berkeley Square, and is a republican institution. Look around to our own day among the holders of the pen: begin (without naming names, for that is odious) and count on your fingers those whom you will back in the race for immortality. How many fingers