By a curious oversight in the first two editions (p. 41) Jove was made to gaze on Troy from Samothrace; it was rightly altered to Neptune in the third; and “eagle eye of Jove” in the following sentence was replaced by “dread Commoter of our globe.”  The phrase “a natural Chiffney-bit” (p. 109), I have found unintelligible to-day through lapse of time even to professional equestrians and stable-keepers.  Samuel Chiffney, a famous rider and trainer, was born in 1753, and won the Derby on Skyscraper in 1789.  He managed the Prince of Wales’s stud, was the subject of discreditable insinuations, and was called before the Jockey Club.  Nothing was proved against him, but in consequence of the fracas the Prince severed his connection with the Club and sold his horses.  Chiffney invented a bit named after him; a curb with two snaffles, which gave a stronger bearing on the sides of a horse’s mouth.  His rule in racing was to keep a slack rein and to ride a waiting race, not calling on his horse till near the end.  His son Samuel, who followed him, observed the same plan; from its frequent success the term “Chiffney rush” became proverbial.  In his ride through the desert (p. 169) Kinglake speaks of his “native bells—­the innocent bells of Marlen, that never before sent forth their music beyond the Blaygon hills.”  Marlen bells is the local name for the fine peal of St. Mary Magdalen, Taunton.  The Blaygon, more commonly called the Blagdon Hills, run parallel with the Quantocks, and between them lies the fertile Vale of Taunton Deane.  “Damascus,” he says, on p. 245, “was safer than Oxford”; and adds a note on Mr. Everett’s degree which requires correction.  It is true that an attempt was made to non-placet Mr. Everett’s honorary degree in the Oxford Theatre in 1843 on the ground of his being a Unitarian; not true that it succeeded.  It was a conspiracy by the young lions of the Newmania, who had organized a formidable opposition to the degree, and would have created a painful scene even if defeated.  But the Proctor of that year, Jelf, happened to be the most-hated official of the century; and the furious groans of undergraduate displeasure at his presence, continuing unabated for three-quarters of an hour, compelled Wynter, the Vice-Chancellor, to break up the Assembly, without recitation of the prizes, but not without conferring the degrees in dumb show:  unconscious Mr. Everett smilingly took his place in red gown among the Doctors, the Vice-Chancellor asserting afterwards, what was true in the letter though not in the spirit, that he did not hear the non-placets.  So while Everett was obnoxious to the Puseyites, Jelf was obnoxious to the undergraduates; the cannonade of the angry youngsters drowned the odium of the theological malcontents; in the words of Bombastes: 

“Another lion gave another roar,
And the first lion thought the last a bore.”