His figure was the living illustration of the ever true axiom: "_Extra Hungariam non est vita_,"-- an axiom which his fat red face by no means confuted,--while his heavy, stiffly waxed mustache seemed to add menacingly: "Leave the Hungarian in peace." He shared his seat with the clergyman, whose ecclesiastical office entitled him to that honor.

The reverend gentleman, however, was an extremely humble person, whom erudition had bent and warped to such a degree that one shoulder was lower than the other, one eyelid was elevated above its fellow, and only one half of his mouth opened when he gave utterance to a remark.

His part in the festive ceremony was the performance of the _beneventatio_; and although he had committed the speech to memory, he could not help but tremble at thought of having to repeat it before so grand a dame as the new mistress of the manor.

He always trembled whenever he began his sermons; but once fairly started, then he became a veritable Demosthenes.
"I only hope, reverend sir," jestingly observed the vice-palatine, "that it will not happen to you as it did to the _csokonai_, not long ago.
Some wags exchanged his sermon-book for one on cookery, and he did not notice it until he began to read in the pulpit: 'The vinegar was--' Then he saw that he was reading a recipe for pickled gherkins.

He had the presence of mind, however, to continue, '-- was offered to the Saviour, who said, "It is finished."' And on that text he extemporized a discourse that astounded the entire presbytery." "I shall manage somehow to say my speech," returned the pastor, meekly, "if only I do not stumble over the name of the lady." "It is a difficult name," assented the vice-palatine.