And M. Amand Saintes is a Frenchman, and a most erudite man. The Celebrated Frau Bettina von Arnim, who dared to translate into English and to print in Berlin (apud Trowitzsch and Son, 1838), under the new title of _Diary of a Child_, her own untranslateable letters to Goethe, had at least the very good excuse of her nationality for her peculiar English, the choicest, funniest, maddest, and saddest English ever penned on this planet or in any other, and of which I hope "N. & Q." will accept some small specimens, taken at random among thousands such. To begin with the opening address: "_To the English Bards_. "Gentlemen!--The noble cup of your mellifluous tongue so often brimmed with immortality, here filled with odd but pure and fiery draught, do not refuse to taste if you relish its spirit to be homefelt, though not home-born." "BETTINA ARNIM." We will next pass to the "Preamble": "The translating of Goethe's Correspondence with a Child into English was generally disapproved of. Previous to its publication in Germany, the well-renowned Mrs. Austin, by regard for the great German poet, proposed to translate it; but after having perused it with attention, the literate and the most famed bookseller of London thought unadvisable the publication of a book that in every way widely differed from the spirit and feelings of the English, and therefore it could not be depended upon for exciting their interest. Mrs. Austin, by her gracious mind to comply with my wishes, proposed to publish some fragments of it, but as no musician ever likes to have only those passages of his composition executed that blandish the ear, I likewise refused my assent to the maiming of a work, that not by my own merit, but by chance and nature became a work of art, that only in the untouched development of its genius might judiciously be enjoyed and appraised." Our next and last is taken from p. 133.: "From those venturesome and spirit-night-wanderings I came home with garments wet with melted snow; they believed I had been in the garden. When night I forgot all; on the next evening at the same time it came back to my mind, and the fear too I had suffered; I could not conceive, how I had ventured to walk alone on that desolate road in the night, and to stay on such a waste dreadful spot; I stood leaning at the court gate; to-day it was not so mild and still as yesterday; the gales rose high and roared along; they sighed up at my feet and hastened on yonder side, the fluttering poplars in the garden bowed and flung off their snow-burden, the clouds drove away in a great hurry, what rooted fast wavered yonder, and what could ever be loosened, was swept away by the hastening breezes." (!!!). P. S.--Excuse my French-English. PHILARETE CHASLES, Mazarianaeus Paris, Palais de l'Institut. * * * * *