ent gallantry, and no longer witness of the anomaly of the same man—a pattern of true politeness to a wife, of cold contempt or rudeness to a sister; the idolater of his female mistress; the despiser of his no less female aunt or unfortunate-still female-maiden cousin. Just so much respect as a woman derogates from her own sex, in whatever condition placed her handmaid or dependent-she deserves to have derogated from herself. on that score.

What a woman should demand of a man in courtship, or after it, is, first, respect for her as she is a woman; and next to that, to be respected by him above all other women. But let her stand upon her female character as upon a foundation; and let the attentions incident to individual preference be so many pretty additaments and ornaments-as many and as fanciful as you please-to the main structure. Let her first lesson be, with sweet Susan Winstanley, to reverence her sex.Elia.

DISTANT CORRESPONDENTS.

(In a Letter to B. F., Esq., at Sydney, New South Wales.)

My Dear F: When I think how welcome the sight of a letter from the world where you were born must be to you in that strange one to which you are transplanted, I feel some compunctious visitings at my long silence. But, indeed, it is no easy effort to set about a correspondence at our distance. The weary world of waters between us oppresses the imagination. It is difficult to conceive how a scrawl of mine should ever stretch across it. It is a sort of presumption to expect that one's thoughts should live so far. It is like writing for posterity; and reminds me of one of Mrs. Rowe's superscriptions, "Alexander to Strephon in the Shades."

Epistolary matter usually comprises three topics: News, Sentiment, and Puns. In the latter I include all non-serious subjects; or subjects serious in themselves, but treated after my fashion, non-seriously. And first for News. In them the most desirable circumstance, I suppose, is that they shall be true. But what security

can I have that what I send you for truth shall not before you get it unaccountably turn into a lie? For instance, our mutual friend P. is at this present writing -my Now-in good health, and enjoys a fair share of worldly reputation. You are glad to hear of it? This is natural and friendly. But at this present readingyour Now he may possibly be in the Bench, or going to be hanged, which in reason ought to abate something of your transport (ie., at hearing he was well, etc.), or at least considerably to modify it.

Not only does truth, in these long intervals, unessence herself, but (what is harder) one cannot venture a crude fiction for fear that it may ripen into a truth upon the voyage. What a wild, improbable banter I put upon you some three years since-of Will Weatherall having married a servant-maid! I remember gravely consulting you how we were to receive her (for Will's wife was in no case to be rejected); and your no less serious replication in the matter; how tenderly you advised an abstemious introduction of literary topics before the lady, with a caution not to be too forward in bringing on the carpet matters more within the sphere of her intelligence; your deliberate judgment—a rather wise suspension of sentence-how far jacks and spits and mops could be introduced as subjects; whether the conscious avoiding of all such matters in discourse would not have a worse look than the taking them casually in our way; and in what manner we should carry ourselves to our Maid Becky-Mrs. William Weatherall being by: whether we should show more delicacy and truer sense for Will's wife by treating Becky with our customary chiding before her, or by unusual deferential civility paid to Becky as to a person of great worth, but thrown by the caprice of fate into a humble situation.

There were difficulties, I remember, on both sides, which you did me the favor to state with the precision of a lawyer, united to the tenderness of a friend. 1 laughed in my sleeve at your solemn pleadings, when lo! while I was valuing myself upon this flam put upon you in New South Wales, the devil in England-jealous of any lie-children not his own, or working after my copy-has actually instigated our friend (not three days. VOL. XV.-14

since) to the commission of a matrimony which I had only conjured up for your diversion. William Weatherall has married Mrs. Cotterel's maid. But to take it in its truest sense, you will see, my dear F, that News from me must become History to you; which I neither profess to write, nor, indeed, care much for reading. No person, unless a diviner, can with any prospect of veracity conduct a correspondence at such an arm's length.

Then as to Sentiment. It fares little better with that. This kind of dish, above all, requires to be served up hot, or sent off in water-plates, that your friend may have it almost as warm as yourself. If it have time to cool, it is the most tasteless of all cold meats. I have often smiled at a conceit of the late Lord C. It seems that travelling somewhere about Geneva, he came to some pretty green spot or nook, where a willow or something hung so fantastically and invitingly over a stream-was it? or a rock ?-no matter: but the stillness or the repose, after a weary journey, 'tis likely in a languid moment in his Lordship's not restless life, so took his fancy that he could imagine no place so proper, in the event of his death, to lay his bones in. This was all very natural and excusable as a sentiment, and shows his character in a very pleasing light. But when from a passing sentiment it came to be an act; and when by a positive testamentary disposal his remains were actually carried all that way from England, who was there-some desperate sentimentalists excepted that did not ask the question, Why could not his Lordship have found a spot as solitary, a nook as romantic, a tree as green and pendent, in Surrey, in Dorset, or in Devon? Conceive the sentiment boarded up, freighted, entered at the Custom House (startling the tide-waiters with the novelty), hoisted into a ship. Conceive it passed about and handled between the rude jests of tarpaulin ruffians—a thing of its delicate texture the salt bilge wetting it till it became as vapid as a damaged lustring. Trace it then to its lucky landing at Lyons, shall we say-I have not the map before me --jostled upon four men's shoulders-baiting at this town-stopping to refresh at t'other village-waiting a

passport here, a license there-the sanction of the magistracy in this district-the concurrence of the ecclesiastics in that canton; till at length it arrives at its destination, tired out and jaded, from a brisk Sentiment into a feature of silly Pride or tawdry, senseless Affectation. How few Sentiments, my dear F, I am afraid we can set down, in the sailors' phrase, as quite seaworthy.

Lastly, as to the agreeable levities which, though contemptible in bulk, are the twinkling corpuscula which should irradiate a right friendly epistle-your Puns and small Jests are, I apprehend, extremely circumscribed in their sphere of action. They are so far from a capacity of being packed up and sent beyond sea, that they will scarce endure to be transported by hand from this room to the next. Their vigor is at the instant of their birth. Their nutriment for their brief existence is the intellectual atmosphere of the by-standers. A Pun hath a hearty kind of present ear-kissing smack with it; you can no more transmit it in its pristine flavor than you can send a kiss. Have you not tried in some instances to palm off a yesterday's pun upon a gentleman, and has it answered? Not but it was new to his hearing, but it did not seem to come new from you. It did not seem to hitch in. It was like picking up at a village alehouse a two-days'-old newspaper. You have not seen it before, but you resent the stale thing as an affront. This sort of merchandise, above all, requires a quick return. A pun and its recognitory laugh must be co-instantaneous. The one is the brisk lightning, the other the fierce thunder. A moment's interval, and the link is snapped. A pun is reflected from a friend's face as from a mirror. Who would consult his sweet visnomy were it two or three minutes (not to speak of twelve months) in giving back its copy?

I am insensibly chatting to you as familiarly as when we used to exchange good-morrow out of our old contiguous windows in pump-famed Hare-Court in the Temple. My heart is as dry as that spring sometimes turns in a thirsty August, when I revert to the space that is between us; a length of passage enough to render obsolete the phrases of our English letters before

they can reach you. But while I talk, I think you hear me-thoughts dallying with vain surmise

64

Aye me! while thee the seas and sounding shores hold far away."

Come back before I am grown into a very old man, so as you shall hardly know me. Come before Bridget walks on crutches. Girls whom you left as children have become sage matrons while you are tarrying there. The blooming Miss W-r (you remember Sally Wr) called upon us yesterday, an aged crone. Folks whom you knew die off every year. If you do not make haste to return, there will be little left to greet you of me or mine.—Elia.

HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead;
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her, together.

A springing motion in her gait
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit.

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:-if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,
She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool;
But she was trained in nature's school-
Nature had blest her.