ABOUT LETTERS, ETC.

YES, gentle Reader, (I like that old phrase-it brings us so closely together)—Yes, I do think it is one of the greatest delights of a man's life to read and write letters-true conversational, off-hand letters; and for my part I am well repaid for my walk of two miles, by even the receipt of one letter; and if I have two I am happy for two or three days I have to transport myself back among all my old friends, and imagine myself holding converse with them, face to face. Blessings be upon him who first invented mails and postoffices. I think that he, whoever he was, deserves a statue to his memory on every turnpike road in the country. What is the worth of a conqueror's name, compared with that of his who has given so vast an increase of happiness to thousands and tens of thousands. I wonder that the ancients never established mails and stage-coaches; and yet they found a way of managing without them no doubt.

Reader, I have seated myself at Ned's table for the purpose of talking; and as I am a rambling, digressive kind of person in conversation, you will, nay, you must allow me to be so in my converse with you. I say this, for I was about to remark, that it is strange how much more it requires to make us comfortable, than was needed by the old Romans and Greeks-glass windows, chimneys, mails and stage-coaches, and a multitude of other conveniences-how could we do without? And yet the ancients had them not. I know not how much more virtuous the world may be than it was in the times of Cicero; but it is certain, that with respect to comfort and refinement, we enjoy a life of nearly double the value of theirs. How in the world could they have got on though without newspapers and magazines? By the way, what a glorious editor Cicero would have made! what a splendid essayist! what a glorious satirist !—though I question if the weapons of warfare used among editors in our times, would not have been too gross and rough for his sublime spirit. Cicero's satire was no broad sword-cutting down from head to heel-wielded with both hands, and swung with all strength-no; it was like Saladin's scimitar, dividing and penetrating everything it touched-passing through without being felt, until the red blood flowed from the deep wound. I think Cicero the very prince of satirists-unequalled and unapproachable; and indeed I believe that I respect him more than most men, in every way. His courage has been called in question; but I

doubt if it will not be found that in moral courage he was perfect, though in physical courage he might be wanting. Ask history how he died, and then call in question his courage. What is it he says of himself? I have forgotten almost'Fearful in foreseeing dangers-not in enduring them.' But his letters-who will call their character in question, though some may doubt of his. Of all letters ever written, I think Cicero's the most perfect, both in style, as mere writing, and as familiar, epistles. Of all things in the world, I think it is the hardest to write a good letter for the world to read; and of all things in the world, the easiest to write a good letter to a friend. It is but putting your pen to the paper, and going on as you would to your friend personally-dropping from one subject to another naturally and easily, as you would if you were all alone with him at night by a good fire, or, if in summer, with your window open to the pleasant air, with one hand on his shoulder, and the other on the wine-glass. So would I write a letter; and whoever would do so would never complain-'I am no letter-writer.' And yet how many always write a letter as if it were an essay for the New Monthly-erasing here, and supplying there, dotting every i, and crossing every t with the most exact precision. Oh, deliver me from a formal letter! I say that any one can write a letter, and so I would say that any one can perform his part in conversation, anywhere, and before any person, but they will not be at ease; there is a feeling of oppression upon them, like the stifling coal damp, and what they fear they shall not do well, they do not at all. Now I wonder whether it be a general rule that a person who excels in light conversation, excels too in writing a friendly letter. I believe so; and this shows me another path to digress into-by the way, what a pleasant liberty this is of digressing. I do delight to leave the broad high-way of the world, and go into its green and shady by-paths. I delight to go out of the common road in everything to wander about under the green trees, and dip my feet in the cold brooks that we find sprinkled about everywhere; and not to plod on straight forward forever in one beaten track. What though we do lose now and then a mile, that portion of our journey is its pleasantest part. There are things to be sure, where a direct aim is indispensable-in a thorem in geometry, for example, or an argument upon a metaphysical question; but in a letter or an essay like this, on I would journey, as you do sometimes down a pleasant stream in the country-winding about among the trees-now with the sun shining out on your skiff-now with the shade of

some great oak cooling your brow-now seeing on the shore some fairy spot of green herbage-and now some bank of pure white sand. Give me such a voyage, and no canal-boat; give me the journey over hill and dale, and no stage-coach; the bound through a snow bank, and not the trot over a McAdamized road. And so it is in other things. I would sit for hours and hear the pleasant warblings, and cadences, and graces poured out from Hanna's flute, or rolled off by Kendall's horn, but not to listen to the ever same notes of a barrel organ. Lady Morgan says, that in this consists the excellence of Rossini's music; so I think. I hate this repetition of one thing-this sameness. I like the beautiful variety of the nightingale far better than the continual sameness of the robin; and I half like Lady Morgan for that same remark, though she is no particular favorite of mine-Reader of mine-gentle Reader-is it not strange how one thinks? I was just going on with a train of thought then. This is why I like modern poetry, it is just like modern music-all change and variety; and then, as Shelley is always in my mind when I think of poetry, I took him for an example, and then came back to me the subject which, if I have not forgotten, 1 promised to treat upon-namely, Letters; and I said to myselfwhat a glorious letter-writer Shelley would have made! Well I wonder if Shelley ever wrote any letters-it would be a glorious feast to read them. The letters of Shelley-what a transcript of his mind they must be; his whole soul poured out to his friends; pages burning and sparkling with thoughts which none but those who like him are able to conceive.

But of letters-I have hardly said two words upon them yet. There is the letter from home-from parents, sisters or brothers. Who has not received them, joyed over them, or wept over them? Every one-ay, every one. I recollect, as Antony says, the first time ever I received one; I was at a boarding-school-those prison houses for the young and lighthearted. I was dispirited and discontented; and who is not the first time he leaves home and goes among strangers. I was generally a good scholar-very; but then I was going backward. I was careless and reckless of advancement, and many were exulting over me as a new scholar. I was down towards the lower part of the class-had been scolded half a dozen times for my laziness; and the teacher, who knew me, and had told his boys that I was a capital scholar, began to look very blue upon me; little cared I-very little. Well, directly there came a letter from home-from my mother. Mothers do write the best letters in the world-talking away

to me about everything that I desired to hear, till I felt at home, where I was, with the certainty that I could receive a letter every fortnight, till I was quite reconciled. That night I slept soundly; and in three days I was at the head of my class, and in a fortnight acknowledged to be the best scholar in school for my age. That was my first letter from home.

I once had a friend, by name Irving-we were living in Boston, and he had become dissipated. He had lost at play; he had suffered himself to be conquered by intoxication. Í had talked with him in vain-reasoned with him in vain. It was of no use; and he might now have been among the lowest dregs of humanity-a grovelling, brutish being, fit only to congregate with misery and vice, but for one simple circumstance. He had left me about seven one night, to pass his evening in his usual manner-left me in anger, and I had just set myself down to writing, when the door opened and Irving walked in. He came up to the table and offered me his hand-" Titcomb," said he, "forgive me for the trouble I have given you-can you?" "Yes," said I, as I took his hand. "You look bewildered-I am myself again-read that letter and you will know the cause." It was from his sistera tender, affectionate letter-full of sisterly love. It reformed him, and he is now the pride of that sister, and the delight of all who know him.

One more. I had a friend who was a lieutenant in the army during the last war. He was called out one morning, suddenly, to march about twenty miles with his company, and it was three days before he returned. Directly after his arrival again at camp, the post came in with letters; he received one from his mother, and was surprised at being informed that it was written for the sake of undeceiving him with regard to the last letter she had written—that, she said, was to inform him of the death of the young lady to whom he was engaged but that, after she was supposed to be dead, and the letter was despatched, she had recovered her animation, and was now pronounced out of danger. Now here was a queer occurrence-he had received no letter for a month before. However, he called in Pat, his Irish servant, who was busy rubbing his sword-"Pat," said he, "have I had a letter this day or two?" Pat suspended operations upon the sword for a moment, looked at his master in great perplexity, and at length said " By the hokey, liftenant, myself don't know that." "Don't know that! here it seems a letter ought to have come day before yesterday." "Oh, murther, captain!" uttered Pat, dropping his sword and making his exit, but re

turning directly with the knapsack which he had borne on the march, and from whose depths he pulled out the identical letter. "This," said my friend, "was the only time that ever I was glad that I had not received a letter from home." It seems that Pat, in the hurry of marching, had thrust the letter into the knapsack and forgotten it. This time, however, he escaped a scolding for his carelessness.

Next to a letter from home, comes that from a friend—a careless, wrinkled sheet, with here and there an omission or a blot. I would as soon read a dissertation on political economy, as read a letter as many will write-so nice, so precise, as if friends were to measure out thought in geometrical lines and parallelograms. A letter from your friend-how gloriously it brings him before you, or carries you back, till you remember either the quiet times you have spent with him in his room or yours, or in your common room, which is a thousand times better, conversing with each other, looking at each other, reading to each other from some gorgeous poetShelley perhaps, or Coleridge-till you were away from the world, up with them in the clouds, and in the sky of poetry. Oh! it is coming again upon your home, and you can well say with the ancient mariner-“Oh, dream of joy."

I think that one of the greatest pleasures of life is recollection. On the whole, I think we can consider this life as a pleasant one. I believe that it is like our weather-with now and then a storm-now and then a cold day, or our north-easterly winds-those villanous blood-hounds, going through you like a pointed icicle-but generally we enjoy pleasant weather. So it is with life-at least with its earlier days. Sometimes, truly, comes the cold storm of adversity, or the blue devils make a lodgment upon your mind; but even in this case, as old Seneca says "Juvat meminisse actes labores"-troubles past are pleasures. There is much philosophy in that remark. By the way-to digress again, and to defend the character of Seneca-he is accused of weakness for weeping in a storm; but it is a strange circumstance that heroes among the Romans were more easily excited to tears than those of our day. Half of the brave men in Tacitus have yielded to that weakness. I question whether it was considered a disgrace. A brave man might then weep nor be called womanish.

But to get back again to letters. I said I thought recollection one of the greatest pleasures of life; so I do. I already dream of things past with great pleasure. I like to sit down and dream over such things by the hour together. By