This, by way of illustration. The Jay style sounds the best: the dollar-a-page style pays the best. But the dollar-a-page system is a very bad one for the well-being of our newspaper and periodical literature, simply because the chief inducement is on the wrong side. If an author receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a page, he will write a page as a matter of course; and, as a matter of course, the quality of what he writes will be depreciated in geometrical proportion. For the same thing, said in few words, is ten times more effectual than when said in many words. No doubt, different subjects require different handling, and more space is needed for some than for others. An essay is not necessarily too long because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but periodical and newspaper writing demands compactness, conciseness, concentration; and the fact of being paid by measurement, is a writer's ever-present temptation to disregard this demand. The conceit of estimating the value of an article by its length and rating the longest at the highest price, is about as wise as to estimate a man by his inches instead of his intellect. Certain names there are in the literary world, which carry great weight in a reader's regard, independently of the quality of the contributions. If a Sir Walter Scott were to write for the _North American Review_, he would temporarily elevate the reputation of the Review, however carelessly he might throw his sentences together. But, theoretically, the articles in our periodical literature are anonymous; and, practically, they stand on their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the question that a system which offers a money premium for the worst fault in periodical writing--to wit, prolixity--should not deteriorate the character of such writing. Much more might be said on this subject; but, to the wise, a word is sufficient. And it would ill become one who is endeavouring to recommend conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by diffuseness. WORDS FOR MUSIC. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. I. I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, Who was born in the shade The witch-hazel-tree made, Where the brook sang a song All the summer-day long, And the moments, like birdlings went by,-- Like the birdlings the moments flew by. II. I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace, Who replied to my vow, Neath the hazel-tree bough: "Like the brook to the sea, Oh, I yearn, love, for thee." And she hid in my bosom her face-- In my bosom her beautiful face. III. I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide; Wooed and won in the shade The witch-hazel tree made, Where the brook sings its song All the summer day long, And the moments in harmony glide, Like our lives they in harmony glide. "THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS." (PASSAGES FROM A MANUSCRIPT SERMON.)