The study of the characteristics of notable personages, past and present, yields nothing more surprising-certainly nothing more humorous-than experiences of how frequently simplicity is closely allied to genius, and how often ignorance of the commonest things goes hand-in-hand with profound learning. The Duke of Wellington was largely endowed with that modesty or simplicity which makes a great man almost unconscious of his greatness. He met a lady friend who was going to see a model of the battle of Waterloo, and remarked to her, "Ah, you're going to see Waterloo! It's a very good model; I was at the battle, you know." Surveying a field of battle, he could detect almost at a glance the weak points in the disposition of the contending forces, but he could never tell whether his dinner was cooked well or ill. A first-rate chef was in the employment of Lord Seaford, who, not being able to afford to keep the man, prevailed on the Duke of Wellington to engage him. Shortly after entering the duke's service the chef returned to his former master and begged him, with tears in his eyes, to take him back, at reduced wages or none at all. Lord Seaford asked, "Has the duke been finding fault?" "Oh, no-he is the kindest and most liberal of masters; but I serve him a dinner that would have made Ude or Francatelli burst with envy, and he say nothing! I go out and leave him to dine on a dinner badly dressed by my cook-maid and he say nothing. Dat hurt my feelings, my lord!"

There is a story also told of Mr. Gladstone which would show that the true meaning of the old saying, "Do not mix your drinks," was unknown

to the great statesman. It is said to have been his habit to let the wines which were served in the course of dinner mobilize at his elbow, and during a pause in the conversation seize the glass that happened to be nearest. On one occasion Mr. Gladstone, who had refreshed himself as usual in this hap-hazard way, inveighed against the practice of mixing wines. It was respectfully pointed out to him that he had been guilty of this very act; but he explained, to his own satisfaction, that to mix wines was to fill up half a glass of champagne from the port decanter!

"Heckling," or the cross-examination of candidates for Parliamentary honors, is a favorite pastime in Scotland during election contests. Mr. John Morley was asked at one of his meetings during his wooing of the constituency of Montrose, "Are you in favor of the abolition of cess and stent?" He elevated his eyebrows, looked perplexed for a moment, and then came out, amid general laughter, with the whimsical confession, "Really, gentlemen, I don't know whether I am or not." A few moments later the right honorable gentleman had to make the dire admission that he did not know the difference between white and yellow trout. The meeting was rather pained. Another well-known M. P., addressing a political meeting some time ago, hoping thereby to create a little enthusiasm amongst the working men, exclaimed, "When the pollingday comes, you good fellows must stick to me like bricks!" A hardy son of toil, who knew from experience that bricks had no adhesive property, rose in the middle of the hall and said, "You mean like mortar, don't

you, sir?" Roars of laughter greeted

this correction of the ignorance of the candidate.

The following amusing extract from the lately published work, "Mr. Gregory's Letter Box"-which contains the correspondence of a gentleman who was for many years undersecretary for Ireland-shows that the ministers responsible for the good government of Ireland early in the century were so ignorant of the social condition of the country that they confounded the Ribbon Society-a widespread agrarian conspiracy-with the weavers of ribbon in England:

An amateur and somewhat officious informer writes to Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, February 19, 1818:

"I am an inhabitant of Ballycastle, where there is a great deal of Ribbon' work carrying on; there is not a night but they are met on the hills; and, as a good and loyal subject of His Majesty, I warn you that if some measures don't take place soon so as to quell them, I am afraid they'll murder us all in a short time. They are talking a great deal about rising all through Ireland before Easter, SO would advise you to take some measures that would put an end to the work, as I don't think there is 2 Catholics in Ireland that are not Ribbonmen."

Mr. Hobhouse writes with this to Mr. Gregory:

"I am directed by Lord Sidmouth to transmit to you the enclosed copy of a letter from a person giving information of an intended rising of the Ribbon Weavers near Ballycastle, and who, he states, hold nightly meetings on the Hills, and I am to desire that you will submit the same for the information of the Lord Lieutenant."

Mr. Gregory sends the letters to Mr. Peel, and says:

"Pray read these letters, and explain to Mr. Hobhouse that Ribbon Work in Ireland is a very different manufacture from weaving of Ribbons in England.”

Here is another instance, also from

Ireland, of official betrayal of colossal ignorance. In October, 1845, when the country was getting alarmed about the failure of the potato cropwhich ultimately led to the awful famine of 1847-Sir Robert Peel, the prime minister, wrote to Lord Heytesbury, the lord-lieutenant of Ireland, a letter on the situation, which he thus concluded: "At what period will the pressure be felt? Will it be immediate, if the reports of the full extent of the evil are confirmed, or is there a stock of old potatoes sufficient to last for a certain time?" The viceroy replied that he was assured "there is no stock whatever of last year's potatoes in the country." So little did the prime minister of England (who had been chief secretary for Ireland) and the lord-lieutenant of Ireland know of the nature and cultivation of the potato-upon which, at the time, the lives of millions of the Irish people depended-that they imagined it was possible to keep them in stock for years, like grain!

Absent-mindedness also seems to be a common failing among great men. An amusing story is told of the late Louis Pasteur, who so distinguished himself by his discoveries in regard to bacteria. While dining at his son-inlaw's one evening, it was noticed that he dipped his cherries in his glass of water, and then carefully wiped them before eating them. As this caused some amusement, he held forth at length on the dangers of the microbes

with which the cherries were covered. Then he leaned back in his chair, wiped his forehead, and, unconsciously picking up his glass, drank off the contents, microbes and all!

was, "To look in the glass." "Why, there is no glass there!" said the friend. "Bless me!" exclaimed Burrowes, "I did not notice that before." Then, ringing the bell, he called the servant and questioned him respecting the looking-glass which had been hanging on the wall. "Oh, sir," said the servant, "it was broken six weeks ago!" A certain learned professor at Cambridge is a very absent-minded man. A friend of his had been seriously ill. When he was convalescent the professor used to send him jellies and other delicacies. One day he took him a fine bunch of hot-house grapes. The old friends were very pleased to see each other, and were soon deep in à discussion. The professor, becoming interested, began absent-mindedly picking the grapes, taking one at a time till they were all gone. On going out of the door he called back to his friend, "Now, mind you eat those grapes; they will do you all the good in the world!" A well-known archbishop was also noted for his absentmindedness. Dining at home one evening, he found fault with the flavor of the soup. Next evening he dined out at a large dinner party. Forgetting for the moment that he was not in his own house, but a guest, he observed across the table to his wife, "This soup is, my dear, again a failure."

There are many amusing examples of the infantile ignorance of judges, such as the late Lord Coleridge's "Who is Connie Gilchrist?" Sir Henry Hawkins's "What is hay?" and Earl Halsbury's "Who was Pigott?" In a libel action by a lady journalist against Mr. Gilbert, a few years ago, Sir E. Clarke read from a book of the plaintiff's a description of Chopin's "umber-shaded hair." Lord Russell of Killowen's face assumed a look of blank astonishment. "What shade?" said he. "Umber-shaded," replied Sir

Edward. "Yes, but what shade is that?" pressed the chief justice. The British jury could stand it no longer. "Brown, my lord-brown," they all cried with one voice; and the case proceeded. Mr. Justice Ball, an Irish judge, was noted for his amusing manifestations of ignorance, but whether they were real or pretended has never been clearly established. He tried a case in which a man was indicted for robbery at the house of a poor widow. The first witness was the young daughter of the widow, who identified the prisoner as the man who had entered the house and smashed her mother's chest. "Do you say that the prisoner at the bar broke your mother's chest?" said the judge in astonishment. "He did, my lord," answered the girl; "he jumped on it till he smashed it entirely." The judge turned to the crown counsel and said, "How is this? Why is not the prisoner indicted for murder? If he smashed this poor woman's chest in the way the witness has described he must surely have killed her." "But, my lord," said the counsel, "it was a wooden chest!" Some men were indicted at the Cork Assizes for riot and assault before the same judge. The prisoners had beaten two laborers who were drawing turf from a bog belonging to an obnoxious landlord. One of the witnesses said, in the course of his evidence, "As we came near to the bog we saw the prisoners fencing along the road." "Eh! what do you say the prisoners were doing?" asked Mr. Justice Ball. "Fencing, my lord," "With what?" "Spades and shovels, my lord." The judge, looking amazed, said to the crown counsel, "Can this be true? Am I to understand that peasants in this part of the country fence along the roads, using spades and shovels for foils?" "I can explain it, my lord," said the counsel. "The prisoners were making a ditch.

which we call a fence in this part of the country."

Nearly all great scientific discoveries have been combated and misunderstood, even by great men. Admiral

Sir Charles Napier fiercely opposed the introduction of steam power into the royal navy, and one day exclaimed in the House of Commons: "Mr. Speaker, when we enter her Majesty's naval service and face the chances of war, we go prepared to be hacked in pieces by cutlasses, to be riddled with bullets, or to be blown to bits by shot and shell; but, Mr. Speaker, we do not go prepared to be boiled alive!" The last words he brought out with tremendous emphasis. Steam power in men-of-war, with boilers which at any moment might be shattered by an enemy's shot-this was a prospect the gallant sailor could not face. Yet in a few years Sir Charles Napier found himself in command of the largest steam navy that the world had ever seen. Lord Stanley (subsequently the great Lord Derby) presided over a select committee of the House of Commons to examine into the state of steam navigation. George Stephenson, the eminent engineer, who was examined, spoke of the probability of steamships crossing the Atlantic. "Good heavens, what do you say?" exclaimed Lord Stanley, rising from his seat. "If steamships cross the Atlantic I will eat the boiler of the first boat." That pledge was never redeemed.

In more recent years a Lord Chancellor, even after he had seen a theatre illuminated without candle or oil, poured ridicule on a scheme for "supplying every house in London with gas in the same manner as they are now supplied with water by the New River Company." Again, so eminent a chemist and gas specialist as Sir Humphry Davy himself is alleged to have said on one occasion

that it was as reasonable to talk of ventilating London with windmills as of lighting it with gas. It is an historical fact that, when the Houses of Parliament were first lighted by gas, more than one famous legislator was seen closely to scrutinize an exposed portion of the gas piping and then to touch it apprehensively, with the notion, evidently, that it might be hot enough to burn his fingers and endanger the neighboring woodwork.

The story of the comment of Cuvier, the celebrated French naturalist, on the definition of the word "crab," adopted by the committee of the French Academy employed in the preparation of the Academy Dictionary, is well known, but is always fresh and amusing. The definition was: "Crab, a small red fish which walks backwards." "Your definition would be perfect, gentlemen," said Cuvier, "only for three exceptions. The crab is not a fish, it is not red, and it does not walk backwards." The Royal Society is the English analogue of the French Academy. Many years ago a sailor who had broken his leg was advised to send to the Royal Society an account of the remarkable manner in which he had healed the fracture. He did so. His story was that, having fractured the limb by falling from the top of a mast, he had dressed it with nothing but tar and oakum, which had proved so wonderfully efficacious that in three days he was able to walk just as well as before the accident. This remarkable story naturally caused some excitement among the members of the society. No one had previously suspected tar and oakum of possessing such miraculous healing powers. Several letters accordingly passed between the Royal Society and the humble sailor, who continued to assert most solemnly that his broken leg had been treated with tar and

oakum, and with these two applications only. The society might have remained puzzled for an indefinite period had not the man remarked in a postscript to his last letter:

"I forgot to inform your honors, by tue way, that the leg was a wooden one!"

Rather a good story is told about Professor Huxley when he was delivering a lecture at the Literary and Philosophical Society, Newcastle-onTyne, some years ago. The subject was, "The Geographical Distribution of Fossil Remains of Animals"; and consequently numerous diagrams were required. Old Alexander, the porter of the institution, and quite a distinguished character among the members of the society, was assisting the professor to hang the diagrams. The screen on which the diagrams were hung was not very large, and Huxley, do as he would, could not succeed without the blank corner of one diagram overlapping the illustration of another one on which he placed great importance. What was to be done? The professor asked Alexander to bring a pair of scissors. The scissors were brought, but, as the joint was somewhat loose, the professor was not able to cut the paper, and he threw the scissors down in disgust, adding that they were useless. "Vera guid shears, professor," said Alexander. "I tell you they won't cut," said Huxley. "Try again," said Alexander; "they will cut." The professor tried again, and, not succeeding, said somewhat angrily, "Bring me another pair of scissors." Lord (then Sir William) Armstrong stepped forward and ordered Alexander to go and buy a new pair. "Vera guid shears, Sir Willlam," persisted Alexander, and, picking up the scissors from the table, and placing his thumb and forefinger into the handles, he stepped forward and asked Huxley how he wanted the

paper cut. "Cut it there," said Huxley, somewhat tartly, at the same time indicating the place with his forefinger. Alexander took hold of the paper, and, inserting the scissors, pressed the blades together and cut off the required portion as neatly as if he had used a straight-edge; then, turning to the professor with a rather significant leer and twinkle of the eye, said, "Seeance an' airt dinna ay gang thegither, professor!" Huxley and all present collapsed. Huxley put his hand into his pocket, and, taking out a sovereign, gave it to Alexander, adding at the same time, "You have done me." The same evening Alexander related the story with great gusto over a glass of whiskey to a friend. When asked how he dared make so free with such a distinguished man, he replied with great emphasis, "Lord, mon, they bits o' professor bodies ken naething at a' except their buiks!"

A few years ago the Duke of Argyll was taken suddenly ill while delivering a lecture in a hall in Edinburgh, with Lord Kelvin in the chair. "When the aged peer was carried down to one of the ante-rooms," wrote one of the Scottish newspapers, "one of the first things to be thought of was the lighting of a fire, and this task was tackled by the duke's host, Lord Kelvin. But instead of placing some paper in the grate and some wood on that, in the orthodox manner, he amazed the onlookers by desperate efforts to kindle a handful of sticks at a gas-burner!" Ordinary mortals, it was added, may be pardoned in taking some comfort to themselves on learning that "even so great a philosopher as Lord Kelvin does not know how to light a fire."

Every one remembers the story of Newton, who cut a large hole in his room door to let his big cat out and a small one for the use of the kitten. The same anecdote is told in Ireland in relation to the Rev. John