frock-coat, and swathed as to his spindle shanks with scarlet leggings.  Sitting by a small window at the farther end of the large, bare room, was the prettiest little Huronite damsel I ever saw, rather fair than dark, and very neatly attired in a costume partly Indian.  This little girl—­a granddaughter of the dirty old man, as that person informed us—­was occupied in tying up some small bundles of what the Canadians call racine—­a sweet-smelling kind of rush-grass, sold by them in the Quebec market, and used like sachets, for imparting a pleasant odor to linen garments.  After some conversation of a general character, the old man requested us to write our names in his visitors’ book, which was a long, dirty volume, similar in form to those usually seen upon bar-counters.  In this book we were delighted to find the autographs of many dear friends, of whom we little expected to meet with traces in this nook of the North.  Mark Tapley and Oliver Twist, for instance, had visited the place in company some two years before.  There could be no mistake about it; for there were the two names, in characteristic, but different manuscript, bound together by the mystic circumflex that indicated them to be friends and travelling-companions.  The record covered a period of ten years; but was that sufficient to account for the appearance of Shakspeare on its pages?  And yet there he was; and in merry mood he must have been, when he came to Lorette,—­for he wrote himself down “Bill,” and dashed off a little picture of himself after the signature, in a bold, if not artistic manner.  Our friend Titmouse was there, too, represented by his famous declaration commencing, “Tittlebat Titmouse is my name.”  He seemed to have taken particularly fast hold of the memory of the old Huron, who described him as a tremendous-looking, big person, with large black whiskers, and remembered having enjoyed a long pull at a brandy-flask carried by him.  Of course there can be no doubt about that man being the real Tittlebat of our affections.  Of the other signatures in the Huronite album, I chiefly remember that of M.F.  Tupper, which I looked upon at the time as a base forgery, and do aver my belief now that it was nothing else:  for the aged sagamore described the writer of that signature as a young, cheerful, and communicative man, who smoked a short, black pipe, and had spaniels with him.  Could my friend, could I, venture to inscribe our humble names among this galaxy of the good and great?  Not so:  and yet, to pacify the Huronite patriarch’s thirst for autographs, we wrote signatures in his brown old book; and if that curious volume is still in existence, the names of Don Caesar de Bazan and Sir Lucius O’Trigger, Bart., will be found closely linked together on a particular page with the circumflex of friendship.