rity-I have not sought to develope thy mystery-I have only worshipped thee in the bright sun-in the soft moon-in the green fields-in human nature-in my friends-in my wife -my children! Art thou satisfied with such worship-the worship of the heart?"" Oh-no-no-he is not he cannot be what do you mean by the spirit of nature ?" interrupted his wife. "That which produced this world and myriads of others-that which produced thee, my sweet Emily, and my beloved children."-"My dear father," cried Laura, her countenance brightening with renewed hope, 66 we shall meet again in heaven," he prest her to his bosom, and, with a voice rendered almost inarticulate by emotion, said, "I hope so, if there be a heaven, I am sure so and now my sweet children, to you I will confess what human pride would still urge me to conceal, that I would give up all, even this last hour of your endearments, to purchase a thorough conviction that we should meet again— I go without fear, but I go cheerlessly, I would purchase the hope that brightens your brow, my Laura,' continued he, as he convulsively prest her fingers." I am without fear,' repeated he, "but without hope," and relaxing the grasp by which he held his daughter's hand, he sank upon his pillow. The sun had scarcely sunk below the horizon-the attendant clouds, still in gorgeous splendour, lingered to tint with varied beauty the western heaven; the same delicious air still played around his forehead-he had spoken but an instant before, and he will never speak again, he will wake no more to rejoicing-he will no more watch for and hail the returning spring, the eternal reproduction of nature-no-that form of manly beauty will shortly be food for worms-the fire of that eye is fled that often would persuade before his tongue gave birth to eloquence-how soon will all recollec tion of him be banished from the earth-he who apparently was the centre of a little world, dealing sunshine or discontent, as he directed or denied his approving glance.-It is singular to consider that a unit taken from the sum of human beings makes no alteration in the general law; and that the broken hearts of his nearest and dearest connections go for nothing in the scale of general happiness. It was soon found that his sleep was that of death. Lady Seldon had given the lesson she sought to give, but not in the way she intended-her children's opinions were no longer wavering-their father had confessed, unasked, that to the good atheism is not happiness-he himself lamented most earnestly that he felt no belief in a future state of existence-there had been for him through -life no consolatory feeling to sooth his sorrow at the death of a friend; for he had no hope in an eternal reunion-he believed that all things must have birth, and flourish, and then pass away as though they had never been-but although they clung to the hope their father was denied, yet did their religion differ greatly from Lady Seldon's; they would contend that there were better arguments than force in favour of christianity that it was a Christian's duty to heal, and not to wound; to forgive, and not to revile; to look with pity on those, who were denied the consolations of religion; to regret there was one vast source of happiness unopened to them, and not to hunt them down, as is but too often the case, perverting the course of justice to satisfy implacable vengeance on victims incapable of resistance. This enlightened Christianity they found most conducive to happiness-and the sneers of the world, and the reproofs of their mother, never afterwards induced them to alter their principles. HUMANITATI AMICUS. ON THE EPISTOLARY STYLE. THERE are few persons who experience the necessity of delivering an oration, or of composing a dissertation or a poem: while there is scarcely an individual who has not occasion, at one time or other, to write a letter. A knowledge of letterwriting should, therefore, be placed among the elements of a useful education. It is of particular importance in the education of females; for, if we except the few whose minds are directed to literary pursuits, the rest require only an acquaintance with letter-writing. To them literature, properly speaking, is a mere object of curiosity, so that it is from an ignorance of the epistolary style alone, that they can experience any inconvenience. We use the word ignorance, because it is of much greater importance to them to avoid faults than to become acquainted with beauties. We seldom make any observation on a letter written in a simple style; but we cannot well avoid smiling at the affectation of excellence. Style may be termed the order in which we present our thoughts, and the manner in which we express them. The sublime style consists in grand and generous conceptions, expressed with energy and dignity; in bold and impassioned sentiments, clothed in a brilliant and lively colouring. Of this style we meet with numerous examples, in the funeral orations of Bossuet, and in the Athalia and Phaedrus of Racine. When, on the contrary, we have only to describe the milder affections, free opinions, details incapable of elevated emotions or of daring images, we should then employ that tempered style, which interests us in Vertot, and charms us in Fenelon. † If we seek for models of the simple style, we should study Fontaine, or Sevigné. In perusing these writers, we are enchanted with that delicious negligence of manner, which captivates our attention without seeming to command it; with expressions, which nature alone seems to have dictated; with that easy communication of sentiment which makes one soul known to another; and where the heart seeks not to veil itself in the mask of the understanding. The epistolary style, however, must not be supposed incapable of elevation and warmth. Of this, the Letters of Rousseau are sufficient evidences. But as they were intended for the press, they are letters more in name than in destination. They are either dissertations, or descriptions of travels, or romances, written in the epistolary form. In a word, they are works, subjected to the different laws which literature imposes on these different species of writing. We here talk only of private letters, with which the public are supposed to be unacquainted, and the sole object of which is to transmit to him, who receives them, the thoughts of the person by whom they are dictated. They are intended for those who are deprived, by their absence, of that pleasure and information which they would derive from our presence. The advantages of this distant commerce of thought is happily expressed by Eloisa, in her Epistle to Abelard, by Colardeau. Ecris moi, je le veux. Ce commerce enchanteur, Aimable epanchement de l'esprit et du cœur, Cet art de converser sans se voir, sans s'entendre, Ce muet entretien si charmant et si tendre, L'Art d'ecrire, Abelard, fut sans doute inventé Par l'amante captive, et l'amant agité. From this definition, or rather description of the epistolary style, arise all the rules to which it is subjected. These rules are few, and may all be reduced to one. a letter and its reply is merely a conversation between two who are absent, * Also in the Paradise Lost of Milton. As 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 per spicuity 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: L'esprit n'est jamais las d'ecrire, When the hand, therefore, only obeys the impulse of the heart, a letter may, without inconvenience, extend to four pages. Love delights in affections, protestations, and repetitions. Should its inattentive pen retrace incessantly the same ardours, the same oaths, bagatelles, and even puerilities, these repetitions will still possess a latent charm, which love only can either appreciate or per ceive. The same may be affirmed of friendship. 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 affections; 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, or a sentiment which we express, into an enigma, 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 1 the most indulgent hearer; but to him who peruses a letter, it is still 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. SKETCHES FROM NATURE, No. 3. (The Sequel of No. It 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.-Istood 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 and unobtrusive head-stone bore (by his own particular desire) this inscription: In memory of Lieut. William H——, Aet. 20, Obiit. May 16, 1812. "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 ostentation. 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. The clanking monotone 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, 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 birdsthe 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 fool-"in pleasant places," if he had not ish thought, earth is a field of graves -every step we take we tread on human dust. 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 fled, 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. 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 met with much in his career to elevate 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 occurrences. Anxious to learn something concerning the fate of Marianne, I stepped towards him, and entered into conversation. "Yours is a rural plot of ground---a place which, after all the storms of life, the proud and the ambitious might well covet--where the melancholy and plaintive heart might desire to be laid, and calmly sleep the sleep of death!" "Aye, aye, sir," was his reply,--"we've a pretty bit of ground enough ---and many's the weary heart that sleeps soundly under it. I've known some in my days," continued he, his |