road, is met by a robber, who, with a pistol at his head, demands of him his purse or his life.

The poor friar uselessly represents that his calling, announcing absolute destitution, must free him from such demands; he is compelled to yield, to put down his wallet filled with provisions, to empty his pockets, and to give up thirty-six francs, which he had collected as alms.

The robber was going away, satisfied with his booty, when the monk calls him back. . . "Sir," said he to him, "you have been good enough to spare my life; but on returning to my convent I run the risk of being maltreated, for perhaps they will not be willing to believe what has happened to me, unless you provide me with a proof, by firing a pistol-shot into my gown, in order to prove that I have resisted up to the last, and that there remained no other resource but to abandon the fruit of my collection." Willingly," said the robber; "spread out ... The robber fires, the Capuchin

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your cloak.' looks.

"But there appears almost nothing there." "It is because my pistol was only loaded with powder: I wished to frighten you more than to hurt you."

"That feeble mark will not be sufficient to excuse me; . . have you not another pistol better loaded?"

"No, truly."

"Ah, rascal!" exclaims the monk, "we are then on equal footing!" And the vigorous Capuchin collars the robber, fells him to the ground, thrashes him unmercifully, takes up again his wallet, his thirty-six francs, and returns in triumph to his monastery.

CXXXVII.

BACHELORSHIP.

A young man, eighteen years old, was undergoing the examination necessary for Bachelor of Arts. The examiner, opening at random the hand-book of the questions, lights upon the paragraph relating to the establishment of Christianity The examiner asked the young candidate if he knew what St. Paul was. "Yes, sir; he was an apostle."

"Tell me what St. Paul has done."

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Sir, he has .. he has written."

...

"Very good! and what has he written?"

"He has written

the Church.”

...

he has written about

"That's right. And can you mention to me any incident in his life?"

"Some incident in the life of St. Paul, sir? "Yes: do you not know an incident, a remarkable circumstance?"

"Sir."

F

"For instance, did not St. Paul keep the clothes of the Jews, while the latter were stoning

"Oh! yes, sir, he kept the clothes of the Jews while they were stoning Pontius Pilate.” “Can you tell us, sir, what kind of death Socrates died?"

One of his friends takes pity on him, and prompts him in a whisper: "hemlock!" (la cigüe).

"Socrates died of weariness, sir" (lassitude). "Good! let us pass on to Roman history: Who was the favourite of Tiberius?

No answer.

The friend prompts him:

"Sejanus" (Séjan).

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Sir, it was John" (c'était Jean), exclaims the candidate.

"Very good!.... Let us pass to modern history. Can you now mention to us the principal pulpit orators contemporary with Louis XIV.?” 'Bourdaloue, Bossuet, Fléchier."

"Do you not know one who has preached before those whom you have named?"

..

Again silence. . . . . The candidate thinks, and thinks again. . . . . His obliging friend prompts him again in a whisper: "Mascaron, Mascaron." Unfortunately the candidate only hears the final syllables of the word; he artlessly repeats: "Scarron!"

...

"Perfect! go to your seat."

"Wait," says an other examiner; "we must not startle this young man. I wager that if we question him quietly, we will obtain from him excellent answers. Come back, my friend, and don't be flurried. Where do you come from?" "I come from Chollet, sir."

"Very well; is it a fine country?"

"Yes, sir, there are rivers, meadows; the air is very fine."

"Better and better. What does your father do?"

"He is a linen manufacturer, sir; he makes table-napkins, and especially handkerchiefs. We send them all over France, and even to America."

"That's quite satisfactory."

"You see," added the professor, turning towards his colleagues, "that when we ask him things that he knows about, this young man replies very well. Return to Chollet, my friend; make linen, and give my compliments to your father."

CXXXVIII.

PRANKS OF A PAGE.

The little page Kapioff had laid a wager with the other pages, his companions, that that

tail which hung down the back of the emperor, Paul I., and before which the highest personages bowed, he would pull, like a common bell-rope,

at a full state dinner.

In fact, one day when the emperor was at table, surrounded by the imperial family and high dignitaries, Kapioff seizes the tail and pulls as if he was pulling a bell-rope.

The emperor utters a cry of pain and turns round in a fury: everybody trembles; the little page alone is there calm and tranquil.

"Who did that?" asked Paul, in a voice broken with rage.

"It is I, sire," answers the child; "this tail is always awry; I have put it in the middle."

"Well! you little rogue, can you not pull it less violently?" and nothing more was said about it.

The snuff-box adorned with diamonds which the emperor makes use of is sacred as the crown itself. It is forbidden to touch it.

Kapioff wagers that he will take a pinch from it.

One morning he approaches the table which is near the bed where the sovereign is still lying, and upon which the sacred box is found: he takes it boldly, opens it with a noise, thrusts his fingers into it, and whilst Paul, stupefied by such boldness, looks at him aghast, snuffs up his pinch noisily.