his mother tongue:  I know not the year, but it was about the middle of the last century.  I have a German translation of this grammar “Von Johann Lorenz Stuvenhagen:  St. Petersburgh, 1764.”  Grotsch, Jappe, Adelung, &c., have written on the Russian language.  Jappe’s grammar, Dr. Bowring says, is the best he ever met with.  I must make a query here with regard to Dr. Bowring’s delightful and highly interesting Anthologies.  I have his Russian, Dutch, and Spanish Anthologies:  Did he ever publish any others?  I have not met with them.  I know he contemplated writing translations from Polish, Servian, Hungarian, Finnish, Lithonian, and other poets.

Jarltzberg.

Pistol and Bardolph.—­I am glad to be able to transfer to your pages a Shakspearian note, which I met with in a periodical now defunct.  It appears from an old MS. in the British Museum, that amongst canoniers serving in Normandy in 1436, were “Wm. Pistail—­R.  Bardolf.”  Query, Were these common English names, or did these identical canoniers transmit a traditional fame, good or bad, to the time of Shakspeare, in song or story?

If this is a well-known Query, I should be glad to be referred to a solution of it, if not, I leave it for inquiry.

G.H.B.

EPIGRAM FROM BUCHANAN.

    Doletus writes verses and wonders—­ahem—­When there’s nothing in
    him, that there’s nothing in them.

J.O.W.H.

* * * * *

QUERIES.

CALVIN AND SERVETUS.

The fate of Servetus has always excited the deepest commiseration.  His death was a judicial crime, the rank offence of religious pride, personal hatred, and religious fanaticism.  It borrowed from superstition its worst features, and offered necessity the tyrant’s plea for its excuse.  Every detail of such events is of great interest.  For by that immortality of mind which exists for ever as History, or through the agency of those successive causes which still link us to it by their effects, we are never separated from the Past.  There is also an eloquence in immaterial things which appeals to the heart through all ages.  Is there a man who would enter unmoved the room in which Shakspeare was born, in which Dante dwelt, or see with indifference the desk at which Luther wrote, the porch beneath which Milton sat, or Sir Isaac Newton’s study?  So also the possession of a book once their own, still more of the MS. of a work by which great men won enduring fame, written in a great cause, for which they struggled and for which they suffered, seems to efface the lapse of centuries.  We feel present before them.  They are before us as living witnesses.  Thus we see Servetus as, alone and on foot, he arrived at Geneva in 1553; the lake and the little inn, the “Auberge de la Rose,” at which he stopped, reappear pictured