paid at the rate of a penny a line, and as we can sell the same
paragraph to almost every paper, we sometimes pick up a very decent
day's work. Now and then the muse is unkind, or the day uncommonly
quiet, and then we rather starve; and sometimes the unconscionable
editors will clip our paragraphs when they are a little too rhetorical,
and snip off twopence or threepence at a go. I have many a time had my
pot of porter snipped off of my dinner in this way; and have had to
dine with dry lips. However, I cannot complain. I rose gradually in the
lower ranks of the craft, and am now, I think, in the most comfortable
region of literature.

"And pray," said I, "what may you be at present!" "At present," said
he, "I am a regular job writer, and turn my hand to anything. I work up
the writings of others at so much a sheet; turn off translations; write
second-rate articles to fill up reviews and magazines; compile travels
and voyages, and furnish theatrical criticisms for the newspapers. All
this authorship, you perceive, is anonymous; it gives no reputation,
except among the trade, where I am considered an author of all work,
and am always sure of employ. That's the only reputation I want. I
sleep soundly, without dread of duns or critics, and leave immortal
fame to those that choose to fret and fight about it. Take my word for
it, the only happy author in this world is he who is below the care of
reputation."

The preceding anecdotes of Buckthorne's early schoolmate, and a variety
of peculiarities which I had remarked in himself, gave me a strong
curiosity to know something of his own history. There was a dash of
careless good humor about him that pleased me exceedingly, and at times
a whimsical tinge of melancholy ran through his humor that gave it an
additional relish. He had evidently been a little chilled and buffeted