the book is faithfully printed. This kind of
attestation is also found in some French works.
In a few are found the names of the correctors.
The police of the press in Madrid appear to
be less particular in their relations with
foreign countries; for, in eighteen hundred
and forty-six, all the printed envelopes of the
Madrid papers which were sent to the editor
of the Daily News ran as follows:— "She
Edictor of the dacly Nevves, 90 Heet Streez."
I must record, in honour of the ingenious postman
who was charged with conveying them to
their destination, that they never miscarried.

Allowance must, however, be made for
printers who have to exercise their art in a
language unfamiliar to them. I, therefore,
am not so highly irritated as some authors
of my acquaintance, when I find, in French
words where n and u occur, that the wrong
letter is invariably selected by the English
typographer. French authors are not I hope
so susceptible in this matter as they are
in most others, or I should greatly pity the
frantic state of rage into which they ought to
be thrown at the way in which the British
tongue is mutilated in print when they
attempt a quotation from our literature. I
met with one the other day, in a late number
of the Revue des Deux Mondes, where the
alteration of a single letter produced a very
ludicrous effect. The writer, being
sentimental, and at Venice, was disposed to quote
Byron, and began with the first line of the
fourth canto of Childe Harold. He probably
wrote it correctly enough, but the printer
rendered it as follows:

J stood at Venice on the bridge of sighs.

Now when a man says J. did so and so, one
thinks that Jones, or Jackson, or Johnson
did it, but if the subject be poetical, I leave
you to imagine what becomes of the poetry.
Anglo-French is ridiculous enough, but I am
inclined to think that French-English is even
more so. For fear of disturbing the entente
cordiale, I shall not cite any examples just
now, but as I am not withheld by the same
scruples in regard to the dominions of King
Bomba, let me give the following specimen
of Neapolitan English, which was copied not
long ago from a printed advertisement in one
of the Neapolitan newspapers. It is necessary
to observe that the word "Fine-Hok"
corresponded to "Belle-vue" in the French of
the parallel (explanatory) column, but it was
not stated that cabaret in the one language,
and pot-house in the other, would have
better expressed the true character of the
establishment.

Restorative Hotel Fine Hok kept by Frank Prosperi
facing the military quarter at Pompeii. That Hotel
open since a very few days is renowned for the cleanless
of the apartments and linen for the exactness of the
service and for the excellence of the true French
cookery. Being situated at proximity of that regeneration,
it will be propitious to receive families, whatever,
'which will desire to reside alternatively into that town
to visit the monuments now found and to breathe
thither the salubrity of the air. That establishment
will avoid to all travellers, visitors, of that sepult city
and to the artists (willing draw the antiquities) a great
disorder occasioned by tardy and expensive contour of
the iron whay people will find equally thither a
complete sortment of stranger wines and of the kingdom,
hot and cold baths, stables, coach-houses, the whole at
very moderated prices. Now all the applications and
endeavours of the Hoste will tend always to correspond
to the tastes and desires of their customers which will
require without doubt to him into that town the
reputation whome, he is ambitious.

These Bellevues, or Belvederes, are dangerous
things to meddle with. A lady of my
acquaintance once saw an announcement in the
window of an hotel at Basle that it possessed
"A Belvedere that likes to take a walk."

Foreign editions of English books abound
in misprints, though very frequently they are
not mere errors of the press, but arise from
editorial misconception of the real meaning.
I have a small pocket edition of Childe
Harold, published by Campe of Nuremberg,
in which occur the following variorum
readings. In canto three, stanza eighty-two,
are these lines:—

They made themselves a fearful monument
The wreck of old opinions— things which grew,
Breathed from the breath of time:—

Fearful is printed frightful, and breath bird.
Again, in stanza one hundred and eighty-one,
canto four, where the poet, apostrophising the
ocean, says of the oak leviathans that sail on
it, "These are thy toys"— for this last word
the German printer substituted tops, by
which, I confess, I was at first rather puzzled,
until it struck me that whip-tops or peg-tops
must have been in his mind's eye when he
thought of ships becoming the sport of wind
and wave. Before Byron is dismissed, I must
speak of one of the strangest misprints that,
perhaps, has ever occurred; for it was
committed without being discovered by the
author— sensitive as we know he was— or by
the public who have, for years, admiringly
quoted the lines. The stanza which follows
the one last cited runs thus:—

Thy shores are empires, chang'd in all save thee—
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them when they were free,
And many a tyrant since;—

A skilful critic was, very recently,
reading this passage, and when he came to
"Thy waters wasted them," he paused.
Wasted what? Where is it on record that
the Mediterranean sea has wasted the shores
that surround it? What part of the coast—
European, Asiatic, or African— has been
overwhelmed by the tide, and then left desolate?
The ruins of Tyre are still a landmark;
the rock of Salamis still overlooks the wave;
the site of Carthage remains. Tyrants may
have wasted those shores, but the waters
never. There must, then, be some mistake.
Could the critic have access to the original
manuscript? It was produced and examined:
and, as much to the surprise of all present as,