he converses in the style of a perfectly well-
educated man in the possession of all his
faculties."

The chances are that this gentleman Anglais
would conduct himself in a drawing-room not
quite so well as the groom he kicked publicly;
and that if a Frenchman were to insult him
grossly by words only, accompanying all sorts
of abuse with bows and smiles, he would feel
greatly flattered; for if this Englishman exist
at all, his taciturnity depends on ignorance of
French.

The following anecdote is told by the
author of the Paris letters in I'Assemblée
Nationale, and quoted by l'Industriel Calaisien:
—" Some days since, a manufacturer happened
to be dining with a magistrate. All the
guests were enjoying the lively talk of a
novelist, who also works for the theatre, and,
by the way, works exceedingly well. That
evening he was full of fun; his wit sparkled
like a discharge of fireworks. The dinner
went off like a flash of lightning." (This, you
perceive, is a French way of writing briskly
for the country newspapers.)

"When they had left the table, the
manufacturer took the novelist aside, and with
a bow said,

"Ah! Monsieur, how much you have
gratified me!"

"Monsieur!"

"No, really; you have a great reputation
for talent; but I did not expect to find you so
amusing."

"But, Monsieur!"

"Monsieur," continued the manufacturer,
"my wife is indisposed."

"Ah!"

"For some time past she has been dull and
out of spirits. Would you have the goodness to
come and dine with me one of these days?
You will amuse her."

"You believe that I shall amuse your
wife?"

"I do, indeed. Do come."

"Very well, Monsieur; but of course you
know the terms?"

The manufacturer stared at the novelist.
"The terms! " he repeated, like a man who
tries to understand what is meant.

"Certainly," replied the other, without
hesitation: " when I dine out—with a
manufacturer—that's five hundred francs."

"Ah!"

"To be sure! You manufacture chemicals,
or cotton goods, or beet-root sugar, or heaven
knows what; you sell those things, and get
your living by them, don't you?"

"Yes; but"—

"I," continued the novelist, " work my
brains, and I live by what I can spin out of
them; that's my merchandise, you understand.
When a gentleman invites me to
dinner, to amuse his wife, who is dull, that's
six hundred francs."

"What a capital joke!"

"No joke at all! Madame your wife is a
little low; Eh bien! send me the cash, and I
will come and divert her."

The dinner has not yet been reported.

PRINTED FORGERIES

Hoaxes, mystifications, forgeries, impostures
of every kind—whether for personal or
party purposes, or from mere mercenary
motives—had long ceased to be a novelty in
the literature of the Continent, before the
literary or learned of England became
addicted to the same pleasant pastime. In this
country, historians, antiquarians, critics, and
readers had long suffered from the injurious
effects of continental ingenuity—from the
elaborate writings of scholars who never had
any existence, and learned lights thrown upon
"historical " events which never came to
pass—before the perplexing and poisonous
fruit of these practices began to flourish in
our more sullen soil; and it is due to " a
neighbouring nation " to notice that the first
literary imposture which rises into the dignity
of a real, elaborate, uncompromising, and
mischievous forgery, was—an importation. George
Psalmanaazaar, the distinguished Japanese,
and historian of the Island of Formosa, if not
a Frenchman —which he is ascertained to
have been by education, and most probably
by birth—was certainly not a native of these
islands.

George Chalmers, the literary antiquary,
enlightened the curious public, some fifty
years since, with the discovery of what was
believed to be the first English newspaper,
the English Mercurie, date 1588. We are
indebted to Mr. Watts, of the British Museum,
for the exposure, a few years ago, of this
established and unquestionable forgery, which
seems to have been concocted by Dr. Birch,
assisted, perhaps, by his friends, the Yorkes,
with what motive we cannot even guess.

Daniel Defoe, at a later period, was a
master of a more harmless species of mystification.
Who, among the civilised and
sentimental even of the present day, does not—in
the face of all fact—believe in his heart in
Robinson Crusoe? There is one portion of
the history of this wonderful work which,
fortunately, we are not bound to believe—
namely the fraudulent appropriation by the
author of Alexander Selkirk's notes. This
calumny has been long since successfully
refuted. Some other of Defoe's "authentic"
narratives are not so well known. The
Adventures of a Cavalier during the Thirty Years'
War were long believed, even by eminent
authorities, to be literally and circumstantially
true. And true indeed they are, when we have
once set aside the fact that the cavalier in
question had no existence; for the rest, the
adventures are for the most part strictly
historical, and those for which there is no
direct authority are valuable probabilities
illustrative of the great contest in which the
cavalier is supposed to have taken part. In