"It is now said— and, I may add, is believed in
the best-informed quarters—that the Emperor
had resolved to declare the Count de Morny
the legitimate son of King Louis of Holland
and Queen Hortense, and consequently his own
brother." In lifting the type for a different
edition, the comment upon this paragraph had
unfortunately been left behind; for, after
disposing of the Count de Morny, the
correspondent continued the adventure of Cardinal
Wiseman as quietly as if nobody else's affairs
had interposed to render it doubtful. Another
misprint en bloc crept, a few weeks since,
into a leading weekly journal. A passage
from the Times was quoted respecting the
deficiencies in the camp at Balaklava. The
description was a most painful one. After
speaking of the wants of the army, which
was stated to be perishing on account of the
absence of all things by which life is
supported, the quotation went on to say: "We
cannot glance over the letters before us without
discovering more and more deficiencies."
And then this list appeared: "11,160cwt.
bristles, 70,000 cwt. rags, 3680 cwt. sailcloth,
1180 cwt. oil, 7987 cwt. mats, 6090 cwt. raw
hides, 5100 cwt. of tar, 3600 cwt. feathers,
400 cwt. potash, 555,012 timbers, 21,065 oak
timbers for ship-building, and 2136 lasts
pipestaves." Bristles and rags! Plenty of
both in the camp, no doubt; but the
enumeration of these articles belonged to a
paragraph in the next column, where the exports
from Memel were detailed.

These are a few out of the host of
misprints which might be accumulated were
only a few of "the gentlemen who write with
ease," and are printed with difficulty, to send
their experiences to Household Words. In
conclusion, just now, merely to show that
there has been no invidious selection in the
instances cited from the London press, it may
be mentioned that our own printer, in a proof
of an article for a recent number of this
journal, converted a very distinguished judge
into "Mr. Justice Nightman."

BIRTHDAYS.

BIRTHS, Marriages and Deaths! This
sentence is succinct enough in all conscience;
'tis as short as a hunting mass; and yet it
comprises in its three brief acts the whole
drama of life. Of the acting copy of that
drama, be it understood, there is a great folio
edition locked up in a certain library to
which humanity is denied access; and in that
volume of the human comedy there are
prologues and epilogues, exits and entrances,
stage directions, and variorum notes that we
wiss not of; but we, in our limited appreciation,
are confined to being spectators of (and,
in our turn, actors in) the three-act epopœa
of birth, of marriage, and of death. The
comedy is played out with a due attention to
the unities and exigences of scenic effect and
spectacle. There is a grand birthday fête in
the first act; a bridal chorus in the second,
with maidens clad in white, and scattering
flowers; then the stage darkens, and the
green curtain goes down upon all the dancing
and glitter, and there is nothing left but
darkness and the night-watchers.

Birthdays! What a joyous stream of
melody runs through that gay first act of the
play! The instruments of the musicians are
in excellent tune; the lamps burn brightly;
the scenery and dresses are new and glittering;
the audience are in capital humour,
predisposed to be pleased, and prognosticating
all sorts of good things for the piece and its
actors. See, here is the Infant Roscius,
the Young Garrick, the Sucking Sappho.
What thunders of applause greet these
juvenile debutants on the imperial stage!
Alack, how often it must happen that Roscius
comes to shame, and Garrick is "goosed,"
and Sappho makes a bad end of it, pelted
with oranges and half-pence, before the end
of the third act! But, clap or hiss, the end must
come, and the bell ring, and the curtain fall.

Birthdays! Are they not one of the
three great legacies inherited equally by all
the children of humanity? Nokes has his
birthday as well as the Norman-descended
Earl; and Nokes, or Smith, or Briggs, may
keep their birthdays with as much joy and
merry-making, as kings and queens with
their salutes of an hundred guns and one.

When a man dies, if he be a pauper,
we pack him up in a deal box, and "rattle
his bones over the stones" to the pauper
burial- ground, where we bury him like
so much rubbish to be shot; if he be a
prince, we wrap him up in velvet, and gold,
and stuff his poor dead body full of sweet
herbs, and make a herald brag about his
empty titles over his grave. We have
nodding plumes, "rich silk scarves and mutes,"
gilt nails, cherubim's heads, and silver-gilt
plates, for the wealthy or noble "party;" we
have the hospital dead-house, the parish shell,
the contract coffin, the maimed rites, and the
drunken grave-digger, for the poor man;
just as in France they have the deep-mouthed
serpent, the shrill choristers, the Dies iræ, the
incense, the master of the ceremonies with
his silver chain and ebony baton, and all the
bricabrac of the Pompes funèbres, for
Monsieur; and for plain Jean or Pierre just a
croque-mort or two, a dingy bier on wheels,
with a driver in rusty boots, and a battered
cocked-hat, a scant service of bad Latin
hastily mumbled, and an asperging brush for
holy water, like a stunted hearth-broom.
But though a man can as certainly bring no
more into the world than he can carry
anything out, there is in the first birthday of
royalty little difference between that of Jack
Ragg the crossing-sweeper. There may be a
difference in the locale, and guns may fire
when the child is born; but that is all. A
few magging crones are gratified with the
first view of Mrs. Ragg's first, as my Lord