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 23, 1861.] great reward,” the better for our morals and manners. Men do not want reward for intelligence any more than for virtue, which is the fruit of intelligence: and it is an equal impertinence to offer reward in either case. In neither case is reward needed to impress the minds of observers; for intellect and goodness are more impressive in themselves than by any recommendation or adornment. The question, then, comes to this. Can anything be done to serve these intellectual princes? I should say “Yes;” but in our age and country not by princes, but by the nation.

Most eminent scientific and literary persons are, in a free country like ours, made wealthy as well as honoured by their own works: but where it is not so, I should like to see them set at ease by means of some permanent, regular resource which would afford them ease, unaccompanied by any pain. We ought to have a national fund, liberal and securely established, for releasing from pecuniary care and injurious restriction the scientific and literary benefactors whose works do not yield them returns in the form of money. Wollaston and Davy made fortunes (which they richly deserved) by their discoveries: but Dr. Priestley had to accept from friends the income necessary to enable him to pursue his chemical researches. Many branches of scientific pursuit are unremunerative, and require means to follow them up at all. The same is the case with some literary enterprises of the very highest value. While the popular novelist, traveller, divine, or poet makes a fortune by his writings, the author of a historical, philological, or honestly speculative work must give his time and labour without immediate return of money or fame, or the hope of it. It is instructive to observe how many of our most valuable works in these kinds were produced by men of private fortune. It will be a good day when we have a national fund, administered under responsibility to parliament, by which intellectual service shall be supported and recognised: and when that day comes, we shall hear no more of literary pensions from the Sovereign, by their very terms too mortifying to be offered or accepted, except as the lesser of two evils. Whatever is done, the main consideration must be, what the philosopher wants and desires. He wants and desires, above all things, liberty, with peace and quiet. As these are incompatible with Court life and its obligations, and with an artificial friendship between princes of two regions which have nothing in common, it is plain that the courtier-philosophers have made a mistake in the conduct of their life; and this seems to me to be shown, with entire clearness, in the five very different cases which I have ventured to detail.

2em

small hamlets of the Tchuvashes are scattered among the extensive forests, abounding in bears and wolves, of the region watered by the river Sesoura. During the nights the inhabitants are frequently roused from their sleep by the discordant howling of whole troops of wolves.

In the summer time, a single wolf will sometimes drive away and destroy half a score of sheep, a feat which he performs in the following manner. Observing that the sheep are feeding quietly in the near vicinity of a village, without the immediate care of a shepherd or other protection, the wolf creeps stealthily towards them, and when near enough, suddenly throws himself upon the flock; and seizing one of the sheep by the upper part of its neck, he runs alongside of it, guiding it to the wood, and all the while whipping the sheep with his own tail. The rest of the sheep are, at first, scattered on all sides in alarm, but soon collecting again, they draw out in a line, raise their snouts, and begin beating the ground with their front feet. Then recovering from their panic, and seeing their comrade running away with the wolf, they resolve to overtake them, and the whole flock hurries after the wolf. The wolf, in the mean time, having dragged and driven his victim into a convenient spot, throws it to the ground, and tears open its throat. The sheep, on reaching the wolf, again extend themselves in line, and begin stamping with their fore feet, looking on while the wolf is killing their companion.

It is known that, during the excessive heat of summer in those regions, the wolf eats no flesh, but feeds by lapping only the blood of his prey; and therefore, having slaughtered his victim, and drank his blood, the wolf throws himself again on the nearest sheep, which he kills as before. The sheep, scattered at first by his assault, collect again, and form in line, with their snouts in the air, and their fore feet beating the ground; then following the wolf, wherever he may have found it expedient to hurry his second victim, they stand, as before, in a close row, beating the earth, till he is ready for another rush upon them; when, precisely the same manoeuvres are repeated over and over again, till the wolf has destroyed them all.

The Tchuvashes practise a variety of methods for trapping wolves, among which is one by means of hurdles. They prepare two lines of hurdles, in a spiral form, leaving a space of about fourteen inches between them. The interior of this passage is lined with a quantity of sharp projecting points of strong brushwood, about six inches long, so disposed as not to point towards the opening, but to the centre of the spiral, offering therefore no impediment to a free entrance, but entirely preventing all possibility of drawing back. At the top, and in the centre of the spiral hurdle, they place, within a cage, a young pig, who keeps up all night a continual squeal.

The wolf, in winter, hungry enough to devour even the bass mats and ropes dropped by travellers on the road, hearing the cry of the pig, hastens to secure the savoury morsel. Ranging round the trap, he soon finds the opening, and creeps within. He finds the entry easy enough; but at the end of the spiral, he can neither turn, because of the narrowness, nor can he draw back, on account of the sharp prongs of the brushwood, which pierce into his back. In this position he must remain, hearing the tantalising cry of the pig over his head, till the Tchuvashe puts an end to his sufferings.