but his thought, and has to come near you personally, so as to thrust the apex in your face if you do not.

Educated men ought to be more generous and not so prodigal of harsh verdicts. Often without a blush, do they send to the tomb of the Capulets, talents far superior to their own, and others see it and recognize their motives. The writer of this, presented in disguise a fine extract from Burke to a professional man not a thousand miles off, and saw it perfectly anatomized. Jeffrey was glad to eat his own words afterwards, when he discovered the object of his truculent criticism, in the irritated Byron. An anonymous article of our own grand Mr. Irving, was once dreadfully hacked and mutilated by a fussy little critic, and reminds us of Walter Scott's big dog Maida, who never lost his gravity when yelped about, by the little terriers who followed him.

Now don't be alarmed; reviews are indeed necessary, but let not the function of eliminating error and exposing it with the spirit of Cato, of an impartial and necessary censorship, lapse into a "green eyed jealousy," and Calmuck assault on mere style, into the temper of Procrustes who would crush down in his vice and render monotonous thoughts which would spring back on removing the pressure, as elastic as ever.

Poor Coleridge was eccentric in style, and never had any peace from some who did not scruple to steal his life-fire to enkindle humanity at large, and glorious is it that now he is loved and appreciated; for often was he made to feel that like Petrarch nature had made him different from other people-" singular d' altrà genti."

He was accused by those who were not worthy of his notice, of repetition, an unjust charge, which, if true even, is to his honor, for he did not steal from others, and it is said, a certain divine race of horses recruit their fainting powers after a heat, by opening one of their own veins with their teeth.

We have remarked that there are three styles of writing, all of equal merit, which should get along without jostling,-which redeem the world's intellect from painful sameness and idiosyncrasy, and give light and shade to an otherwise staring uniformity.

One preliminary remark and we will consider briefly these styles and their intrinsic worth.

Tersness and immediate conviction is the grand aim of all styles of writing which do not aim at a poetical result. The novel writer may amplify, for he must be an artist, he wishes to please, not to convince. The effective writer will not wrap flowers of rhetoric about

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the sword and blunt its force; he may have polish, but it is that of the Damascus blade, not for ornament, but to facilitate its thrust.

And now, the style of the Metaphysician. This must of necessity be Spartan, alphabetical, and uniform Stern logic is rather hostile to the afflatus animi, or moments of visions. A strict terminology with a thin edge that Saladinlike shall cut a cushion with a sword, and split a metaphysical hair with a broad-axe at ten paces—an eager search after the most homely expressions as being common to the most minds, not as always the most significant, or best understood by literati, but by the unlearned, for moral truth must be hewn out for the whole race by these necessary masons, whose office and just pride it is by a process flinty and dry, it is true, to lay the ground-plans of the world's thoughts and heart, the substratum of all rational action and science-and they wish their words to be so plain that he who runs may read, for they write to prompt to religion, sincerity and heart-work, not so much to delight and adorn the intellect, as to content and sublimate the soul. Hence this cold style is a touchstone of sincerity, the diamond is within the rugged ore and must be sought for with tears and faith; and there are no beauties external, or fabrics to beguile into a moment's listlessness or skepticism. With nothing in style to divert, the true heart comes at once to the summum bonum.

Let us revere then this method so self-sacrificing for us, that looks to the ends rather than to the means.

And the smooth style of the essayist is of equal worth. The world's ruggedness is relieved by expanse of smooth lakes and verdant lawns. The gentle stream, meandering quietly through the meadows gives grace and beauty to the landscape. In the long run, it is as useful and as ornate, as the tumbling cataract or mountain torrent, but we would not forego the latter, and nature's complete taste ordains both. We wish not all monotony, or all things rugged or grotesque. Differences in style, after all, are but differences in constitution. Addison, Goldsmith, and Irving, are men of gentle temper, of unyielding good humor, of a constant equilibrium, who can step aloof from the smoke and din of events, retire into an elegant abstraction and look speculatively out upon human nature, not ascetical, but yet retiring, preferring to paint and quote humanity free from the vexation of its political and social duties, rather than center into a valorous sympathy with it, and fight its battles against oppressions, despots, false prophets, and infidel philosophy. They are too amiable and graceful for pungent dispute, a kind of Non-resistants in letters, our worthy conser

vatives and antiquaries, who keep the dust off of antique tomes, and garner up the maxims and beauties of past intellect. Others reform and prophesy, and hew out the "Simplons for society to advance; they smooth the rugged ways, relieve the friction, wreath the wheels, and write its history."

Now we beg pardon for alleging one fault against this class of writers-it is, that they, of all others, are the most ungenerous critics. Seeking to detect the elegancies, or ridiculous features in literature and social life, they come to regard their own style as the central idea, the only standard, and all deviations are more or less heresies; hence they look not to the warm, impassioned soul, couched in a writer's style, a brusque word, or inelegant phrase shocks and condemns. They believe themselves a golden zone, and the outside belts are frigid. They are apt to forget that men's minds are not all run in the same mould; that to make some strong writers adopt their own central standard would ruin them; that if they themselves show life in their style, others might have the form but not the animus, and you would think of Socrates' remark when he saw a beautiful woman, "What a pity such a beautiful woman should be a walking statue." Thus is there danger of bowing at the shrine and fulfilling genuflections while the spirit escapes unnoticed. Rochefocault well says, "A man who is always well satisfied with himself is seldom so with others, and others are as little pleased with him." Criticism should always then be reluctant.

Finally, the style of the original Writer.

Now we do not like Carlyle's wholesale coinage of words. But do not extinguish him for that. If they are jagged, they are only the stalactites of a deep cave, and they may hurt our heads, but the deep cave would not be so wonderful without them. After all, the oddities of some original writers are not in their words, but in their thoughts; strike out their quaint words and the thought is denuded-lost. There is somehow a strength in his shaggy phrases as mysterious as in Samson's hair. Thomas Fuller, Junius, and a host of writers, wrote in simple words enough, and yet are accused of bombast, and why it is in their thoughts, and they designed it to be-they had an end to attain. The very oddity of writers secures attention, while others are quietly inurned in dust upon the shelf. Novelty strikes us, and we demand it. Common gold-leaf binding we are tired of, and we take up sooner the odd, antique bound volume, just because it is odd. Remove what is severely termed gasconade in some French writers,

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and their power of aggression evaporates. Confine the swollen thoughts of Victor Hugo, Michelet and Lamartine within the old smooth groove channels, and all angles, fretwork, and impetus is lost. The fact is, there are many men of many minds." Men are at issue not so much on style as on thoughts, and to think to make men write alike, is like the above mentioned robber, Procustes, extending his captives on an iron bedstead, stretching the short and cutting off the too long a process very destructive to some, though a reason of freedom to others.

but

Let no one condemn a writer superficially, or look at mere phrases, go under the surface and examine the force and strength of thought. Qui hæret in literâ, hæret in cortice." Whoever clings to the letter clings to the bark, says an old proverb, and it is true.

We have preferred to write in this sociable way, not in a captious or advice-giving spirit, but with a desire to soften the asperities of our College intercourse, to lower our self-conceit, and to ascertain our true bulk. We may all learn something from each other, and we may all learn, too, to be careful about building in our pride airy fabrics that will tumble in ruins around us, a year after we graduate.

An article of more thought would have been gratifying to us, as we take leave of the " Lit;" but we have sacrificed our ambition here to a sense of usefulness.

T.

A VERY great number of years ago,

How many precisely I really don't know,

(But if anxious for dates, go elsewhere to learn 'em,)
There dwelt in the midst of the "Mare Internum,"
On an island of very contracted dimension,

Unworthy a moment of our attention,

(A spot that we Yankees would scarcely have linked on,
But in those ancient days there was many a thing done
That we in our time could hardly have winked on,
And this little island was then called a kingdom)—

There dwelt an old chap who was King of the place-
Now he had a young daughter with a very fair face,
And a form the very ideal of grace,

The heiress apparent to the throne of Phaecia,

And her name do you ask? Well, it was n't Lucretia,
Nor any sweet name that pronouncing I'd please you,
But a simple, harsh, rough, unpoetical name,
That would n't excite the most transient flame--

Though so fair, yet Nausicaa, (thus we are taught,)
Had what we should consider a serious fault,
Though perhaps in those days it was n't so thought—
She was not very neat--(and I blush to relate it,
Though bound as a truthful narrator to state it)--
She was not very neat in the care of her wardrobe,
And her clothes showed the need they were in, of a hard rub.
But one night in a dream the "gleaming eyed goddess," a
Person of whom we read much in the Odyssey,

Stood by her bedside, and whisperingly told her that
If she hoped to be married before she should older get,
If she ever expected the young men to propose,
She had better reform and wear better clothes.
"On this hint" she acted, as the old darky said
When brought up to trial for daring to wed
An innocent white girl, of wonderful charms,
Who had cast herself into his rascally arms,
Beguiled by hearing him spinning his yarns-
On this hint she acted, and the damsel turned over,
And Bridget who slept in the garret above her,
Heard a deep resolution that she'd have a lover

Ere the light of the next washing day should be over-
And from this strong purpose no power should move her.
Well, washing day came-of course it was Monday;
Though I'm not informed that those heathen knew one day
From another; or even knew how to keep Sunday.
After breakfast was over, and the dishes all washed,
To her royal paternal Nausicaa rushed—

"Pa, please your Majesty, I wish you'd tell John
To get up a cart and put the dirty clothes on,
And take me and Bridget down to the pond-

There's a heavy week's washing, too much for one,

And if she does n't have help, Bridget won't get it done."

The monarch looked down from his lofty throne,

And answered in royalty's gentlest tone,

While his face with a smile of benignity shone"Does our daughter think she oughter?

Then we would n't wish to thwart her,