sat 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 observinces of good breeding? Oh, the unspeakable relief (could uch a machine be invented) of having only to grind out an an wer to one of one's "dear, five hundred friends !"

5. 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 labor; this would relieve mental drudgery, and thousands yet unborn .. but hold! I am not so sure the female sex in general may quite enter into my views of the subject.

6. Those who pique themselves on the elegant style of their billets, or those fair scriblerinas just emancipated from boarding-school restraints, or the dragonism of their governess, 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 mottoes, 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 foot. stools, aud paint fil‹ wers without shadow-oh! no! the epistolary steam-engine 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-yes! and how they lo write !

7. 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 out spread before them in appalling whiteness, having also felice tously 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! Ok, 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 dovetailed so as to form one smooth, polished surface!

8. What were the labors 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 perpendicularly in the seat of torture, having in their 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 riveted with a stare of disconsolate perplexity infinitely touching to a feeling mind.

9. To such unhappy persons, in whose miseries I deeply sympathize.... Have I not groaned under similar horrors, from the hour when I was first shut up (under lock and key, I believe) to indite a dutiful epistle to an honored 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 farther 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 learned 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 expe rience), which, if they have not already been suggested by their own observation, may prove serviceable in the hour of emergency.

10. Let them or suppose I address myself to one particu

lar 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 unimport ant operation of snuffing the candle in itself a momentary relief to the depressing consciousness of mental vacuum, but not unfreqnently that trifling act, or the brightening flame of the taper, elicits, as it were, from the dull embers of fancy, a sympathetic 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 han dled, may be wiredrawn, so as to undulate gracefully and smoothly over a whole page.

11. 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 spinster, 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!

THOMAS HOOD, born in 1798; died, 1845. One of the best of the later English humorists. His poetry is indeed characterized by the true marks of genuine humor, which is ever based on real pathos and refined sensiility.

1. How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose, their books,

Are snared by anglers,-folks that fish with literary

Hooks,-.

Who call and take some favorite tome, but never read it through;

They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken:

Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my "Bacon;"

And then I saw my "Crabbe," at last, like Hamlet, back ward go;

And as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my "Rowe."

2 My "Mallet" served to knock me down, which makes me thus a talker;

And once, when I was out of town, my "Johnson" proved a "Walker."

While studying, o'er the fire, one day, my "Hobbes," amidst the smoke,

They bore my "Colman" clean away, and carried off my "Coke."

They pick'd my "Locke," to me far more than Bramah's patent worth,

And now my losses I deplore, without a "Home" on earth. If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing "Swift," as quickly went my "Steele."

Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated;

But what is strange, my "Pope" himself is excommuni

cated.

My little "Suckling" in the grave is sunk to swell the ravage;

And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose, -a "Savage."

Even Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen hands

upon;

Though ever since I lost my "Foote," my "Bunyan" has been gone.

My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppress'd; my Tay. lor," too, must fail;

To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offer'd "Bayle."

1 "Prior" sought, but could not see the "Hood" so late in front;

And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," oh! where was my "Leigh Hunt"?

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not "Tickle"

touch;

And then, alack! I miss'd my "Mickle," and surely Mic kle's much.

"Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," nor even use my "Hughes ;"

My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my "Livy" has eloped.

b. My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks, And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," there's gray upon my locks;

I'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my "But ler" fly;

And when they ask about my ail, 'tis "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide;

For oh! they cured me of my "Burns," and eased my "Akenside."

But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn, For, as they never found me "Gay," they have not lef me "Sterne."

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