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extremely rare, that he only knows him by that the Duke of Marlborough broke

name.

Baronius committed a strange error. In his Martyrology of the 24th January, he notices a Saint Ximoris, of whom St. Chrysostom and St. Jerome speak very highly; not reflecting that Ximoris is not a proper name, but an appellative which signifies a couple, or a pair; and the fact is, that one of these holy doctors spoke of two St. Martyrs, and the other of two Saints. A friend having pointed out this gross blunder, Baronius suppressed the edition as fast as he could, which has made it so rare.

Simon Grymeus (says Marville), mistook the celebrated geographer and astronomer Ptolomy, for one of the Kings of Egypt of this name.

Lord Bolingbroke imagined, that in those celebrated verses beginning with "Excludent alii," &c., Virgil attributed to the Romans the glory of having surpassed the Greeks in historical composition. According to this idea, those Roman historians whom Virgil preferred to the Grecians, were Sallust, Livy, and Tacitus. Everybody knows, or ought to know, that Virgil died before Livy had written his history, or Tacitus was born.

The erudite Struvius advises those who would learn the history of Ethiopia, to read the Ethiopic history of Heliodorus. The critic could not have read the work which he so warmly recommended, for this history is well known only to be a Romance, consisting of the adventures of two lovers!

Prosper Marchand has recorded a ludicrous mistake of Abbe Bizot, one of the principal medallic historians of Holland. Having met with a medal (struck when Philip II. sent forth his invincible Armada), in which was represented the King of Spain, the Emperor, the Pope, Electors, Cardinals, &c., with their eyes covered with a bandage, and bearing for inscription the verse of Lucretius:

O cœcas hominum mentes! O pectora cœca! Prepossessed with the false prejudice, that a nation persecuted by the Pope and his adherents could not represent them without some insult, he did not examine with sufficient care the ends of the bandages which covered the eyes, and waved about the heads of the personages represented in this medal, but rashly took them for asses' ears, and as such had them engraved!

A French translator, when he came to a passage of Swift, in which it is said

an officer; not being acquainted with this Anglicism, he translated it roué, as if the officer had been broken on a wheel.

A literary blunder of Thomas Warton is worth recording, as a specimen of the manner in which a man of genius may continue to blunder with infinite ingenuity. In an old romance he finds these lines, describing the duel of Sala.. din with Richard Cœur de Lion :

A Faucon brode in hand he bare,
For he thought he wolde thare
Have slayne Richard.

He imagines this faucon brode means a falcon bird, or a hawk; and that Saladin is represented with this bird on his fist, to express his contempt of his adversary. He supports his conjecture by noticing a Gothic picture, supposed to be the subject of this duel, and also some old tapestry of heroes on horseback, with hawks on their fists; he plunges into feudal times, where no gentleman appeared on horseback, without his hawk. After all this curious erudition, the rough, but skilful Ritson, inhumanly triumphed by dissolving the magical fancies of the more elegant Warton, by explaining a faucon brode to be nothing more than a broad faulchion, which was certainly more useful than a bird in a duel.

The facetious Tom Brown committed a strange blunder in his translation of Gelli's" Circe." When he came to the word starne, not being exactly aware of its signification, he boldly rendered it stares, probably from the similitude of sound; but the succeeding translator more correctly discovered starne to be red-legged partridges!

Mabillon has preserved a curious literary blunder of some pious Spaniards, who applied to the Pope for consecrating a day in honour of Saint Viar. His Holiness, in the voluminous catalogue of his saints, was ignorant of this one. The only proof brought forward for his existence, was this incription :

:

S. VIAR. An antiquary, however, hindered one more festival in the Catholic calendar, by convincing them that these letters were only the remains of an inscription erected for an ancient surveyor of the wards, and he read their saintship thus:—

PRÆFECTUS VIARUM.

An anecdote has been recorded of the monks in the dark ages, which was likely enough, when their ignorance was so dense. A rector of a parish going to

law with his parishioners about paving his church, quoted this authority from St. Peter:-" Paveant illi, non paveam ego;" which he construed," They are to pave (the church) not I. This was allowed to be good law by a judge, himself an ecclesiastic too! J. P. JUN.

MISCELLANIES.

TURNING A FACULTY TO ACCOUNT.

Ir is related of Sir Boyle Roche, that no man of his day enjoyed more esteem, on account of his perfect urbanity and amiable qualities in private life, or excited so much laughter by the oddities of which he was unconsciously guilty, in parliament. Of these the following are specimens:-He said, one night, during a stormy debate, that it was impossible for a man to be in two places at once, unless he was a bird or a fish! An opposition member having moved, that, for the purpose of illustrating one of his arguments, an enormous mass of official documents should be read, Sir Boyle Roche, with the most profound and unaffected gravity, proposed that as the Iclerk at the table would not be able to get through the papers before morning, a dozen or two of the committee-clerks should be called in to his assistance. "The documents may be divided among them," continued Sir Boyle; "and as they can all read together, the whole will be disposed of in a quarter of an hour." His speeches, on important topics, were prepared for him by Mr. Edward Cooke; and, as his memory was particularly retentive, he seldom committed himself, except when he rose to utter an original remark. One night, being unprepared with a speech, and yet feeling a strong inclination to deliver his sentiments, he retired to a coffee-house, in order to mould them into the form of an oration. While engaged in this fruitless attempt, he was accosted by Serjeant Stanley, a ministerial member, whose custom it was to rise, towards the close of a discussion, and deliver a long harangue, ingeniously compiled from the speeches of those who had addressed the house before him. For this debate, however, he was in a situation to speak earlier than usual, having with great labour, produced an original composition; prior to the delivery of which, he had stepped into the coffee-house, in order to refresh his memory by looking once more through the manuscript. This, unfortunately for himself, he hap

Sir Boyle

pened to drop, on retiring. snatched it up; and, after reading it twice or thrice (so powerful was his memory), found himself master of the whole. Hastening to the house, he resumed his seat, and delivered the speech with admirable correctness, to the unspeakable amazement and mortification of the proprietor, who, it appears, had not succeeded in catching the speaker's eye. Meeting Stanley again at the coffe-house, in the course of the night, Sir Boyle returned him his manuscript, with many thanks for what he was pleased to term the loan of it; adding, "I never was so much at a loss for a speech in my life; nor ever met with one so pat to my purpose; and, since it is not a pin the worse for wear, you may go in and speak it again yourself, as soon as you please."

CAMBRIDGE WIT.

Ar a college symposium, one of the party happened to tumble down, when a boon companion roared out, "How came you to fall,- -?" "Not-withstanding," hiccupped the prostrate, attempting to rise and begin a speech, which was marred by a hearty laugh at its first long and unpropitious word. An imitator, thinking to play off the same successful humour, stumbled into the next jolly meeting of the same kind, when, being luckily asked the same question, he knowingly said, "Nevertheless"—and stopped, astonished that no laugh followed his joke.

THE ENGLISH A POLITE PEOPLE! You arrive at Paris: how striking the difference between the reception you receive at your hotel, and that you would find in London! In London, arrive in your carriage!—that I grant is necessary-the landlord meets you at the door, surrounded by his anxious attendants: he bows profoundly when you alight, calls loudly for every thing you want, and seems shocked at the idea of your waiting an instant for the merest trifle you can possibly imagine that you desire. Now try your Paris hotel. You enter the court-yard: the proprietor, if he happen to be there, receives you with careless indifference, and either accompanies you saunteringly himself, or orders some one to accompany you to the apartment, which, on first seeing you, he determined you should have. It is useless to expect another. If you find any fault with this apartment-if you express any wish that it had this little thing, that it had not that do not for one moment imagine that your host is

likely to say with an eager air, that he will see what can be done-that he would do a great deal to please so respectable a gentleman. In short, do not suppose him for one moment likely to pour forth any of those little civilities with which the lips of your English innkeeper would overflow. On the contrary, be prepared for his lifting up his eyes and shrugging up his shoulders (the shrug is not the courtier-like shrug of antique days,) and telling you that the apartment is as you see it that it is for Monsieur to make up his mind whether he take it or not. The whole is the affair of the guest, and remains a matter of perfect indifference to the host. Your landlady, it is true, is not quite so haughty on these occasions. But you are indebted for her smile rather to the coquetry of the beauty, than to the civility of the hostess: she will tell you, adjusting her head-dress in the mirror standing upon the chimneypiece in the little salon, she recommends "Que Monsieur s'y trouvera fort bien, qu'un milord Anglais, qu'un Prince Russe, ou qu'un Colonel du-ieme regiment de dragons, a occupè cette meme chambre;" and that there is just by an excellent restaurateur, and a cabinet de lecture; and then-her head-dress being quite in order the lady, expanding her arms with a gentle smile, says "Mais aprés tout, c'est a Monsieur se décider." It is this which makes your French gentleman so loud in praise of English politeness. One was expatiating to me the other day on the admirable manners of the English. "I went," said he, "to the Duke of Devonshire's dans mon pauvre fiacre: never shall I forget the respect with which a stately gentleman, gorgeously apparelled, opened the creaking door, let down the steps, and courtesy of very courtesies!-- picked, actually picked, the dirty straws of the ignominious vehicle that I descended from, off my shoes and stockings." This occurred to the French gentleman at the Duke of Devonshire's. But let your English gentleman visit a French "grand seigneur!" He enters the ante-chamber from the grand escalier. The servants are at a game of dominos, from which his entrance hardly disturbs them; and fortunate is he, if any one conduct him with a careless, lazy air to the salon.

Bulwer's France.

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.

ON writing this word, we feel our breast fluttering beneath a clogging weight of fear, just as it did-we care not to say how many years ago. It is a strange

The

and a beautiful thing-first, innocent love. There is that in female beauty which it is pleasure merely to gaze upon; but beware of looking too long. lustrous black pupil contrasting with the pearly white of the eye and the carnated skin-the clear, placid blue, into which you see down, down to the very soul— the deep hazel, dazzling as a sunlit stream, seen through an opening in its willow banks-all may be gazed upon with impunity ninety-nine times, but, at the hundredth, you are a gone man. On a sudden, the eye strikes you as deeper and brighter than ever, or you fancy that a long look is stolen at you beneath a drooping eye-lid, and that there is a slight flush on the cheek, and, at once, you are in love. Then you spend the mornings in contriving apologies for calling, and the days and evenings in playing them off. When you lay your hand on the door bell, your knees tremble, and your breast feels compressed; and, when admitted, you sit, and look, and say nothing, and go away, determined to tell your whole story the next time. This goes on for months, varied by the occasional daring of kissing a flower, with which she presents you; perhaps, in the wild intoxication of love, wafting it towards her; or, in an affectation of the Quixotic style, kneeling, with mock-heroic emphasis to kiss her hand in pretended jest; and the next time you meet, both are as reserved and as stately as ever. Till, at last, on some unnoticeable day, when you are left alone with the lady, you, quite unawares, find her hand in yours; a yielding shudder crosses her, and, you know not how, she is in your arms, and you press upon her lips, delayed but not withheld, "A long, long kiss-a kiss of youth and love."

WEDDING RINGS.

THE singular custom of wearing wedding rings, appears to have taken its rise Before the celeamong the Romans.

bration of their nuptials, there was a meeting of friends at the house of the lady's father, to settle the articles of the marriage contract, when it was agreed that the dowry should be paid down on the wedding day, or soon after. On this occasion there was commonly a feast, at the conclusion of which, the man gave to the woman a ring as a pledge, which she put on the fourth finger of her left hand, because it was believed that a nerve reached from thence to the heart, and a day was then fixed for the marriage.

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Nor long since, an old beggar, named James, was in the daily habit of placing himself at the principal gate of a church in Paris. His manners, tone, and language, shewed that he had received an education far superior to that which is the ordinary lot of poverty. Under his rags, which were worn with a certain dignity, shone a still living recollection of a more elevated condition. This beggar also enjoyed great authority among the paupers belonging to the parish. His kindness, his impartiality in distributing alms among his fellowpaupers, his zeal in appeasing their quarrels, had earned for him well-merited respect. Yet his life and misfortunes were a complete mystery to his most intimate comrades, as well as to the persons attached to the parish. Every morning for twenty-five years, he regularly came and sat down at the same place. People were so accustomed to see him there, that he made, as it were, part of the furniture of the porch; yet, none of his fellow-beggars could relate

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the least particular of his life. one thing was known: James never set his foot in the church, and yet he was a catholic. At the time of the religious services, when the sacred dome resounded with hymns of devotion; when the incense, ascending above the altar, rose with the vows of the faithful towards heaven; when the grave and melodious sound of the organ swelled the solemn chorus of the assembled christians, the beggar felt himself impelled to mingle his prayers with those of the church: with an eager and contented eye, he contemplated from without, the solemnity which the house of God presented. The sparkling reflection of the light through the Gothic windows-the shade of the pillars, which had stood there for ages, like a symbol of the eternity of religion

the profound charm attached to the gloomy aspect of the church; ever inspired the beggar with involuntary admiration. Tears were sometimes perceived to trickle down his wrinkled face: some great misfortune, or some profound remorse, seemed to agitate his soul. In the primitive ages of the church he might have been taken for a great criminal, condemned to banish himself from the

assembly of the faithful, and to pass, like a silent shade, through the midst of the living.

A clergyman repaired every day to that church to celebrate mass. Descended from one of the most ancient families in France, possessed of an immense fortune, he found a joy in bestowing abundant alms. The old beggar had become the object of a sort of affection, and every morning the Abbé Paulin de St. C, accompanied with benevolent words his charity, which had become a daily income.

One day James did not appear at the usual hour. The Abbé Paulin, desirous of not losing this opportunity for his charity, sought the dwelling of the beggar, and found the old man lying sick on a couch. The eyes of the clergyman were smitten with the luxury and the misery which appeared in the furniture of that habitation. A magnificent gold watch was suspended over the miserable bolster; two pictures, richly framed, and covered with crape, were placed on a white-washed wall; a crucifix in ivory, of beautiful workmanship, was hanging at the feet of the sick man; an antiquated chair, with Gothic carvings; and among a few worn-out books lay a mass-book, with silver clasps; all the remainder of the furniture announced frightful misery. The presence of the priest revived the old man, and with an accent full of gratitude, the latter cried out

"M. Abbé, you are then kind enough to remember an unhappy man!"

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My friend,” replied M. Paulin, “a priest forgets none but the happy ones. I come to inquire whether you want any assistance."

"I want nothing," answered the beggar: "my death is approaching; my conscience alone is not quiet."

"A crime, an enormous crime; a crime for which my whole life has been a cruel and useless expiation; a crime, beyond pardon."

"A crime beyond pardon! there does not exist any! The divine mercy is greater than all the crimes of man.'

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"But a criminal, polluted with the most horrible crime, what has he to hope for? Pardon! There is none for

me.'

"Yes, there is," cried out the priest with enthusiasm; "to doubt it would be a more horrible blasphemy than your very crime itself. Religion stretches out her arms to repentance. James, if your repentance is sincere, implore the divine

goodness, it will not abandon you. Make your confession."

Thereupon the priest uncovered himself; and after pronouncing the sublime words, which open to the penitent the gates of heaven, he listened to the beggar.

"The son of a poor farmer, honoured with the affection of a family of high rank, whose lands my father cultivated, I was from my infancy welcomed at the castle of my masters. Destined to be valet-de-chambre to the heir of the family, the education they gave me, my rapid progress in study, and the benevolence of my masters, changed my condition; I was raised to the rank of secretary. I was just turned of twenty-five years of age, when the revolution first broke out in France: my mind was easily seduced by reading the newspapers of that period. My ambition made me tired of my precarious situation. I conceived the project of abandoning for the camp, the castle which had been the asylum of my youth. Had I followed that first impulse, ingratitude would have saved me from a crime! The fury of the revolutionists soon spread through the provinces; my masters, fearing to be arrested in their castle, dismissed all their servants. A sum of money was realized in haste; and selecting from among their rich furniture a few articles, precious for family recollections, they went to Paris, to seek an asylum in the crowd, and find repose in the obscurity of their dwelling. I followed them, as a child of the house. Terror reigned uncontrolled throughout France, and nobody knew the place of concealment of my masters. Inscribed on the list of emigrants, confiscation had soon devoured their property; but it was nothing to them, for they were together, tranquil and unknown. Animated by a lively faith in Providence, they lived in the expectation of better times. Vain hope! the only person who could reveal their retreat, and snatch them from their asylum, had the baseness to denounce them. This informer was myself. The father, the mother, four daughters (angels in beauty and innocence), and a young boy of ten years of age, were thrown together in a dungeon, and delivered up to the horrors of captivity. Their trial commenced. The most frivolous pretences were then sufficient to condemn the innocent! yet the public accuser could hardly find motive for prosecution against that noble and virtuous family. A man was found, who was the confi

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