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into icicles by the coldness of unimaginative people-living picces of clock-work, who dare not themselves utter a word, or lift up a little finger, without first weighing the important point, in the hair balance' of propriety and good breeding.

It is equally delightful to let the pen talk freely, and unpremeditatedly, and to one by whom we are sure of being understood; but a formal letter, like a ceremonious morning visit, is tedious alike to the writer and receiver-for the most part spun out with unmeaning phrases, trite observations, complimentary flourishes, and protestations of respect and attachment, so far not deceitful, as they never deceive any body. Oh the misery of having to compose a set, proper, well worded, correctly pointed, polite, elegant epistle!-one that must have a beginning, a middle, and an end, as methodically arranged and portioned out as the several parts of a sermon under three heads, or the three gradations of shade in a school-girl's first landscape!

For my part, I would rather be set to beat hemp, or weed in a turnip-field, than to write such a letter exactly every month, or every fortnight, at the precise point of time from the date of our correspondent's last letter, that he or she wrote after the reception of ours-as if one's thoughts bubbled up to the well-head, at regular periods, a pint at a time, to be bottled off for immediate use. Thought! whạt has thought to do in such a correspondence? It murders thought, quenches fancy, wastes time, spoils paper, wears out innocent goose-quills" I'd rather be a kitten, and cry mew! than one of those same" prosing letter-mongers.

Surely in this age of invention something may be struck out to obviate the necessity (if such necessity exists) of so tasking-degrading the human intellect. Why should not a sort of mute barrel-organ be constructed on the plan of those that play sets of tunes and country dances, to indite a catalogue of polite epistles calculated for all the ceremonious observances of good breeding? Oh the unspeakable relief (could such a machine be invented) of having only to grind an answer to one of one's "dear five hundred friends!"


Or, suppose there were to be an epistolary steam-engine -Ay, that's the thing-Steam does every thing now-a-days. Dear Mr. Brunel, set about it, I beseech you, and achieve the most glorious of your undertakings. The block-machine at Portsmouth would be nothing to it-That spares manual labour—this would relieve mental drudgery, and thousands

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yet unborn But hold! I am not so sure that the female sex in general may quite enter into my views of the subject.

Those who pique themselves on the elegant style of their billets, or those fair scribblerinas just emancipated from boarding-school restraints, or the dragonism of their governesses, just beginning to taste the refined enjoyments of sentimental, confidential, soul-breathing correspondence with some Angelina, Seraphina, or Laura Matilda; to indite beautiful little notes, with long-tailed letters, upon vellum paper with pink margins, sealed with sweet mottos, and dainty devices, the whole deliciously perfumed with musk and attar of roses-young ladies, who collect "copies of verses," and charades-keep albums-copy patterns-make bread seals-work little dogs upon footstools, and paint flowers without shadow-Oh! no-the epistolary steamengine will never come into vogue with those dear creatures-They must enjoy the "feast of reason, and the flow of soul," and they must write-Ye gods! how they do write! But for another genus of female scribes-Unhappy innocents! who groan in spirit at the dire necessity of having to hammer out one of those aforesaid terrible epistles-who having in due form dated the gilt-edged sheet that lies outspread before them in appalling whiteness-having also felicitously achieved the graceful exordium, "My dear Mrs. P." or "My dear Lady V." or "My dear-any thing else," feel that they are in for it, and must say something— Oh, that something that must come of nothing! those bricks that must be made without straw! those pages that must be filled with words! Yea, with words that must be sewed into sentences! Yea, with sentences that must seem to mean something; the whole to be tacked together, all neatly fitted and dove-tailed, so as to form one smooth, polished surface! What were the labours of Hercules to such a task! The very thought of it puts me into a mental perspiration; and, from my inmost soul, I compassionate the unfortunates now (at this very moment, perhaps,) screwed up perpendicular in the seat of torture, having in the right hand a fresh-nibbed patent pen, dipped ever and anon into the ink-bottle, as if to hook up ideas, and under the outspread palm of the left hand a fair sheet of best Bath post, (ready to receive thoughts yet unhatched,) on which their eyes are rivetted with a stare of disconsolate perplexity, infinitely touching to a feeling mind.

To such unhappy persons, in whose miseries I deeply sympathize Have I not groaned under similar horrours, from the hour when I was first shut up (under lock and key, I believe,) to indite a dutiful epistle to an honoured aunt? I remember, as if it were yesterday, the moment when she who had enjoined the task entered to inspect the performance, which, by her calculation, should have been fully completed-I remember how sheepishly I hung down my head, when she snatched from before me the paper, (on which I had made no further progress than "My dear ant,") angrily exclaiming, "What, child! have you been shut up here three hours to call your aunt a pismire ?" From that hour of humiliation I have too often groaned under the endurance of similar penance, and I have learnt from my own sufferings to compassionate those of my dear sisters in affliction. To such unhappy persons, then, I would fain offer a few hints, (the fruit of long experience,) which, if they have not already been suggested by their own observation, may prove serviceable in the hour of emergency, Let them or suppose I address myself to one particular sufferer-there is something more confidential in that manner of communicating one's ideas-As Moore says, "Heart speaks to heart"-I say, then, take always special care to write by candlelight, for not only is the apparently unimportant operation of snuffing the candle in itself a momentary relief to the depressing consciousness of mental vacuum, but not unfrequently that trifling act, or the brightening flame of the taper, elicits, as it were, from the dull embers of fancy, a sympathetick spark of fortunate conception-When such a one occurs, seize it quickly and dexterously, but, at the same time, with such cautious prudence, as not to huddle up and contract in one short, paltry sentence, that which, if ingeniously handled, may be wiredrawn, so as to undulate gracefully and smoothly over a whole page.

For the more ready practice of this invaluable art of dilating, it will be expedient to stock your memory with a large assortment of those precious words of many syllables, that fill whole lines at once; "incomprehensibly, amazingly, decidedly, solicitously, inconceivably, incontrovertibly." An opportunity of using these, is, to a distressed spinner, as delightful as a copy all m's and n's to a child. "Command you may, your mind from play." They run on with such delicious smoothness. !

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I have known a judicious selection of such, cunningly arranged, and neatly linked together, with a few monosyllables, interjections, and well chosen epithets, (which may be liberally inserted with good general effect,) so worked up, as to form altogether a very respectable and even elegant composition, such as amongst the best judges of that peculiar style is pronounced to be "a charming letter!" Then the pause the break-has altogether a picturesque effect. Long tailed letters are not only beautiful in themselves, but the use of them necessarily creates such a space between the lines, as helps one honourably and expeditiously over the ground to be filled up. The tails of your g's and y's in particular, may be boldly flourished with a "down-sweeping" curve, so as beautifully to obscure the line underneath, without rendering it wholly illegible. This last, however, is but a minor grace, a mere illumination of the manuscript, on which I have touched rather by accident than design.~ I pass on to remarks of greater moment.





If ever you should come to Mōdena,
(Where among other relicks you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you
And look awhile upon a picture there.

"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

* An anonymous poem, published in London, 1822.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart—

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With scripture-stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor-
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child-her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panick spread.

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