they should write as they would speak to each other if they were present that is, with that openness, that ease, agreeableness, and even negligence, which a familiar conversation either requires or permits. A letter to a superior should be respectful; to an equal, frank and open; and to a friend, light and playful. In a word, propriety should be the pole-star of a letterwriter, and the character of propriety is to adapt itself to persons, circumstances, times, and situations.

As ease and perspicuity are the most valuable ornaments of conversation, they are also the simplex munditiis of letter-writing-the most simple, and, at the same time, the most elegant character that can possibly belong to the epistolary style. As we speak, so should we write, for no other purpose than that of communicating our thoughts to each other. The choice and propriety of terms ought, therefore, to be the first consideration of a letter-writer; for if he use terms which admit of two meanings, he can have no certainty that they will be understood in the sense which he pretended to

affix them.

Precision is another quality of letter-writing, which seldom can be dispensed with, unless we choose to dispense with propriety; for it requires no argument to shew, that we cannot make our thoughts or wishes understood too soon. Precision, however, differs from ease and perspicuity in this principal feature, that the latter qualities of style belong to letters of every possible description, while precision is confined to a certain class. It is a class, however, that embraces all the different species of letter-writing, except two, namely, those of love and friendship. The truth of what Gres set says, will be quickly recognized by every lover TENT

puerilities, these repetitions will still possess a latent charm, which love only can can either appreciate or perceive.

The same may

be affirmed of friend

ship. It is a talker, and delights in words. As it loves confidence, it seeks to be acquainted with every thing. Love is not so ambitious of knowledge; it regards only the secrets of the heart, and the state of its affections. It looks to the beloved object alone, not to the relation that exists between it and others. Friendship is not so easily satisfied. It must be acquainted with the sentiments and ideas, the fears and hopes, the projects of every day, the dreams of every night, the interests of the family: in a word, every thing connected with the object of its solicitude.

It embraces every thing; it must know every thing; nor can it rest satisfied, until the entire soul is laid open to its view. The epistolary style, therefore, can be subjected to no rules, with regard to love and friendship; and it reminds us of St. Augustin's answer, when asked, what was the most proper manner of addressing the Supreme Being. "Love," said he, "and you may address him afterwards as you please.” This expression may be properly applied to lovers and to friends. He who writes under the impulse of the heart may say every thing he pleases, and in what manner he pleases. Nothing can displease: nothing can be out of place; or, at least, nothing will appear to be so. Love is blind, and friendship is indulgent.

Rules and instructions can avail us, therefore, only in letters, which participate of neither of these affeetions; they are useful, however, in every other species of epistolary communication; for in all except these two alone, precision is not only a merit, but a strict obligation. Prolixity is inconvenience, and diffusion, verbiage.

"Precision, however, must not lead us to obscurity. Extremes meet, and obscurity is generally the result of too much precision. J'evite d'etre long, et je deviens obscur.

This should be carefully avoided. To transform a commission which we give, a fact which we relate, an

idea which we communicate, a or

sentiment

the most indulgent hearer; but to

is evidently to mistake the principal intention of epistolary commerce. Obscurity, however, is not the only ill that results from extreme precision; for it likewise degenerates into dryness and insipidity another rock from which the letter-writer should carefully keep aloof. He who speaks wishes to be heard; he who writes wishes to be read; and as we quickly move the cup from our lips if it has not some tincture of sweetness, so also is the attention soon wearied, if not supported by a certain agrément, or felicity of style. We must not, how ever, seek to captivate attention by those measured, harmonious periods from which the orator derives such important advantage.

Long and sonorous periods, in a familiar conversation, would fatigue

more intolerable. He who reads is sooner disgusted than he who hears, because he perceives more calmly, and, consequently more clearly, the absurdity of such affectation. The brief style, or, in other words, that style which unites brevity with propriety of expression, is, therefore, peculiarly adapted to epistolary communications. We should reject those parentheses, which interrupt the principal sense by unnecessary ideas, and which embarrass it, under the pretence of rendering it more evident. If a developement be necessary, let it follow in the next sentence, rather than suffer it to arrest the progress of the discourse.

Finally, the epistolary style should be light, but not bounding; rapid, but not laconic; and free, but not licentious.

(The Sequel of No. Ir was on a calm and placid evening at the close of the year, when I rambled forth, after a few months' absence, in the neighbourhood of the spot that was endeared to my recollection by the eventful exit of the unfortunate young officer. It had been my intention to rove through some of the delightful and enchanting walks with which it abounds, and meditate on the amazing power, and infinite benevolence of Deity, displayed as they are, more legibly in scenery like this; what matchless skill may we not trace in the formation of the majority of insects, that dart continually to and fro in the sun-beams, unable to contain themselves for very excess of happiness;---oh! how the heart leaps with joy to witness their dwarf but not the less positive pleasure; six thousand years, and day by day of each, hath his beneficent eye beheld my riads of myriads feasting on his bounty; oh! blest employment!

worthy of a God!

But there was a tint of melancholy, that involuntarily associated itself with these gratifying meditations,

1. Vol. 81. p. 410.)

and it was in vain I strove against it. The forms, that moved around me, appeared not to be actuated by the animation and spirit of life, but passed and repassed mechanically; even the occasional glances of beautiful bright eyes, as the light form of rural beauty glided by me, were insufficient to call my mind from the gloom of departed days; --- there thought seemed to settle, and under the impulse of this feeling I resolved on visiting the spot, that was doubly hallowed, as the altar where the pledge of earliest love had first been offered, and since having become the resting-place of one of those youthful wretched beings:-a tear stood in my eye as I thought on what they were on what they are-on their hapless love (as Marianne emphatically termed it) a love so tender -so true-and so disastrous.-I stood beside the grave with a degree of solemn veneration-it was newly made-the turf was neat and flourishing here and there might be seen the faded flowers, that the kind hand of affection or delicate friendship had scattered round it.-A neat

unobtrusive head-stone bore (by his own particular desire) this in3scription

194 1894, bas bavoadoan 1690 vain memory of Lieut. William H Jud Aet. 20, Obiit. May 16, 1812.0 In the midst of life we are in death."

It was one of those mementos that speak to the heart, having for its object not so much the eulogy of the dead, as the benefit of the living; and was a tribute of warmest affection, not the offering of heartless dostentation.p

On a small eminence, a few yards to the right, stood the little yew-tree of which, on his death-bed, he spoke with such deep and animated feeling it was fresh and green, and the gentle zephyr sighed as it swept through its foliage. The setting sun was half buried in the horizon, and his shorn beams fell obliquely on this interesting little mound thus too he shone upon their earliest Vows; then it was in the spring, when all nature seemed bursting into life; and all in unison; the budding trees-the verdant turf-the opening flowers the joyous birds the southern winds-spoke with one general voice of future bliss---but not for them--there seemed, to my mind, to have been something ominous in the situation: it was a foolish is a field

vain. My imagination bore me back to that period, when he was pouring forth his soul to Marianne a few moments ere he breathed his last-The hand that so fervently clasped her is powerless, the eye that so fondly marked her is closed, the tongue, the vehicle of thought, is mute,---and the bosom, that beat with the glow of purest and fondest emotion, that throbbed so wildly, that foreboded so darkly, that loved so tenderly--is quiet as the turf that coldly wraps it or ni sur 29

The clanking monotones of the church-yard gate, swinging to and fro on its worn hinges, warned me of an intruder. It was poor Joseph the sexton--a feeble, grey-headed, infirm, old man; who, even in the winter of his days, seemed to possess the spirit and vivacity of spring

not that he was (as many of his calling are) devoid of feeling; but, possessing that generous warm-hearted disposition that glows at the happiness of another, he had never been long without catching the spirit of sympathy from some blest companion or acquaintance, when there was nothing in his own circumstances to call forth his feelings of exhilaration; and, moreover, the lines having fallen to him," for the most part, "in pleasant places, if he had not

human dust. t. Now, the same peace was written on the face of nature; but it appeared more like the peace of death than the quiet harmony of blest existence. The sear and yellow leaves Hed, one by one, in silence to the ground; the brown enclosures of late gathered corn---the chilly air the leaves of various flowers withered and strown---the desolation that was creeping over all-only the yew-tree, with its graves beneath, was still the same. dibus

I thought on the youth who slept beneath my feet---on the quiet repose he now enjoyed---and I could not but contrast the tumultuous tenor of his bustling life with the stillness of his grave his melancholy presentiments have now met their sad realization---and that heart which but a few months ago was wildly agitated with gloomy doubts and fears, is at rest now--the mightiest waves of human weal or woe sweep over it in

vate him, he had experienced little to depress him. He was the chronicler of the village, reputed a calcu lator of destinies, caster of births, watcher on St. Mark's eve, and was generally supposed to be aware of the deaths and marriages of the coming year; it was even currently reported he kept a register, that took a prospective view of these important 11b6w7931s blu

Occurrences.

Anxious to learn something concerning the fate of Marianne, I stepped towards him, and entered sinto conversation." Yours is a rural plot of ground--a place which, after all the storms of life, the proud and the ambitious might wells covet... where the melancholy and plaintive heart might desire to be laid, and calmly sleep the sleep of death!"? "Aye, aye, sir, his reply

we've a pretty wasd enough

and many's the weary heart that sleeps soundly under it. I've known some in my days," continued he, hiş

grey locks trembling as

he spake, Ive known some in my days that have found a softer pillow liere than ever the world afforded. You knew Lieutenant W. H." said I. "Ah! poor fellow but I shall know him no more-and that's a sorrow I did sometimes think, when I should die and leave old Margaret, he was the man that Providence sent to befriend her it seems like a dream--here am I, crawling among the graves of my juniors---every stone, as it stares me in the face, seems so say, what art thou doing above ground?' and often fancy, I am but like a late watcher, that should have been sleeping in the dust of the earth long before now." There is a disposition in the heart of the mourner, that seeks to identify itself with the sorrows of others; and, under the impulse of this disposition; poor Joseph wound into the story of the fate of William his own griefs.

66 But Marianne," continued I, does she still reside at

She poor dear creature! no--no -not now.”4 She used to come every night and sit where you are sitting but she never wept---there for hours would she sit and gaze on that little hillock-I've watched her many a time I tried at first to console her, but she sighed so heartbrokenly I thought she did not like it, so I never after spoke to hershe would have stayed all night if they had not come for her, and when she went she would turn at every two or three steps and look, and sometimes go back to the grave again, and then"-the tear rolled down the furrows of his aged cheek -he paused a moment- and there kneeling down and kissing the turf, would afterwards rise and suffer herself to be led home. I remember," continued he, I shall never forget the last time; she was to set out for Lisbon the next day---she came alone, and not as before, in deep mourning, but all in white-on entering the church-yard, she looked around to see that there were no observers having spent some time in strewing flowers round the grave-she knelt and seemed to pray then, taking some rosemary from her bosom, she placed

it at the head, Silkedaintive

hymn-she sat and talked-I crept edcrept near unobserved, and heard her saying, I sing the worms away they will not feed on thee--but listen to my song the roses lilies--harebells---rosemary, and flowers and herbs of every scent and hue, all die for sorrow on thy grave-the sun looks mournfully upon it--and dirges sound in every whispering breeze--I go---oh! that I could but, might but die die now, and sleep in peace beside thee-no---I must not---on the Lusian sands my charnel house must be'--she then turned quickly round, and, seeing me, fainted and fell across the mound-next day they set out, she and her mother--and three weeks ago her mother came home, Marianne died the day they arrived at Lisbon" "What!" exclaimed I, "t "the beautiful-the lovely-the accomplished Marianne gone to the grave of true

188