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sanction of the translators of the Bible in the days of James I., who rendered Romans viii. 18, thus: “For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us.

То progress.-Americans have been ridiculed by some English writers for using this verb. It was in use in England in the time of Queen Elizabeth.


Some time since a gentleman sent his box to a working jeweller for repair; the embossed frame which surrounded the lid had become loose. The box was of silver, plain in its shape, but ornamented on the top with a group of figures, somewhat after the manner of Watteau, engraved upon the plate.

Upon removing the border, it was found necessary to take the upper part of the box entirely to pieces. While minutely inspecting the landscape and figures, the jeweller perceived, at the edge of the plate, which had been concealed by its frame, the name of William Hogarth. This naturally excited his attention, and he mentioned the circumstance to a neighbor, whom he knew to be thoroughly conversant with all matters of art. It was suggested by this gentleman that a few impressions of the subject should be taken off

, as he knew a great Hogarthian collector, and he might probably obtain something for the ingenious workman, who had a large family to support by one pair of hands. Some twenty copies were printed on India paper, the plate restored to its original destination, but so soldered and riveted to the exterior embossing as to prevent the possibility of its ever again being subjected to the process of the printing press.

The circumstances of the case were communicated, the twenty copies shown to the collector, Mr. W—, and their price demanded. Five pounds were named, and immediately paid. Mr. W—then carefully examined his purchase, selected the best impression, and threw the remaining nineteen into the fire, exclaiming, "Now I have in my possession a unique work of my idol's [Query, why not idol?]. No man can boast that he has a copy of this fete champêtre but myself, and I would not part with it for fifty pounds."

His feelings were less enviable than those of the person who had enabled him to possess this treasure. With what delight did he hand over the smaller sum to the honest workman, whose gratitude was equal to his surprise at such an unexpected Godsend.

The passion for destroying what is valuable in order to monopolize, instead of diffusing pleasure and information, is the vice of a virtuoso, and a proof of imperfect knowledge in a connoisseur.–From A Pinch-of Snuff, by Pollexenes Digit Snift, Dean of Brazen-Nose. London, Robert Tyas, 1840, p. 79.

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The circumstances which gave occasion to the composition of Shenstone's well-known lines on an inn, are thus narrated in a pleasing little volume* by his friend, the Rev. Richard Graves of Mickleton :

About the year 1750 (notwithstanding his reluctance to leave home), Mr. Shenstone had resolution enough to take a journey of near seventy miles across the country to visit his friend, Mr. Whistler, in the southernmost part of Oxfordshire. Mr. Whistler, with manly sense and a fine genius, had a delicacy of taste and a softness of manners bordering on effeminacy. He laid a stress on trivial circumstances in his domestic economy, which Mr. Shenstone affected to despise. As people in small families find it difficult to retain a valuable servant, Mr. Whistler made it a rule to prevent, as much as pessible, any intercourse with strange servants, and, without making any apology for it, had sent Mr. Shenstone's servant to a little inn in the village. This was a little disgusting, but unfortunately, while Mr. Shenstone was there, Mr. Whistler thought proper to give a ball and supper to two or three of the most respectable families in the neighborhood.

Mr. Shenstone (as he says in a letter on that occasion)

never liked that place. There was too much trivial elegance, punctilio, and speculation in that polite neighborhood. They do nothing but play at cards, and on account of my ignorance of any creditable game, I was forced to lose my money, and two evenings out of seven, at Pope Joan with Mr. P.'s children.

This disposed him to ridicule Mr. Whistler's great solicitude in preparing for his entertainment; instead, therefore, of paying any regard to the hints given him, that it was time to dress for their company, Shenstone continued lolling at his case, taking snuff, and disputing rather perversely on the folly and absurdity of laying a stress upon such trifies; and, in short, the dispute ran

* Recollections of some Particulars in the Life of the late William Shenstone, Esq.: London (Dodsley), 1788, 12mo.


so high, that although Shenstone suppressed his choler that evening, yet he curtailed his visit two or three days, took a cool leave the next morning, and decamped. Traversing the whole county, he reached Edge Hill that night, where, in a summer-house, he wrote the lines in question.

Both Shenstone and Whistler seemed afterwards conscious of their childish conduct on this occasion; each seemed solicitous to know how his account stood with the other. Whistler still expressed the highest regard for Shenstone, and Shenstone retained the same warmth of affection for his old friend until his death.

Mr. Graves remarks “ that there were more stanzas added to to this effusion afterward, which diminished the force of the principal thought." The additions are thus given in Dodsley's edition of Shenstone's Works, vol. i. p. 218, where the whole is inscribed :


To thee, fair Freedom! I retire

From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher

Than the low cot or humble inn.

'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign;

And every health which I begin
Converts dull port to bright champagne ;

Such freedom crowns it, at an inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate !

I fly from falsehood's specious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,

And chuse my lodgings at an inn.

Here waiter! take my sordid ore,

Which lacqueys else might hope to win;
It buys, what courts have not in store,

It buys me freedom at an inn.

Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found

The warmest welcome at an inn.

The statement of Mr. Graves, that the lines were written in a summer-house at Edge Hill (Mr. Jago's), is inconsistent with the title prefixed to these stanzas. Perhaps the lines so often quoted were all that were produced at Edge Hill; and the other stanzas may have been written afterwards at the inn at Henley.



“ Till how he did a dukedom gain,
And Robinson was Aquitain ? "

At the last coronation the Duke of Normandy, not Aquitain, was represented by Sir Thomas Robinson, a Yorkshire baronet, more generally known as “ Long Sir Thomas," on account of his uncommon height of stature; in allusion to which the following happy epigram was written :

Unlike to Robinson shall be my song,
It shall be witty, and it shan't be long.

A ludicrous anecdote is related of the introduction of Sir Thomas to a Russian nobleman, who persuaded himself that he was addressing no less a character than Robinson Crusoe.

Sir Thomas was a specious empty man, and a great pest to persons of high rank or in office. He was very troublesome to the Earl of Burlington, and when in his visits to him he was told that his lordship was gone out, would desire to be admitted to look at the clock, or to play with a monkey that was kept in the hall, in hopes of being sent for in to the earl. This he had so frequently done that all in the house were tired of him. At length it was concerted among the servants that he should receive a summary answer to his usual questions, and accordingly, at his next com

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