never were its waters clearer, more translucent, or more musical. This is indeed the peculiar beauty of a feminine style--choice and elegant words, but such as are familiar in well-bred conversation; words, not used scientifically, but according to their customary signification. It is from being guided wholly by usage, undisturbed by extraneous considerations, and from their characteristic fineness of discernment with regard to what is fit and appropriate, as well as from their being much less influenced by the vanity of fine writing, that sensible, educated women have a grace of style so rarely attainable by men. What are called the graces of composition are often its blemishes. There is no better test of beauties or defects of style than to judge them by the standard of letter writing. An expression, a phrase, a figure of speech, thought to be very splendid in itself, would often appear perfectly ridiculous if introduced in a letter. The rule of the cynic is a pretty good one, after all: _In writing, when you think you have done something particularly brilliant, strike it out._ We are pretty well persuaded that authors are but poor judges of their own productions. They pride themselves on what they did with most labor. It is not good praise of any work to say that it is 'elaborate.' An author's letters are not apt to be labored, 'to smell of the lamp;' and they are, therefore, in general, his best specimens. In letter writing there will be found a facility, a freedom from constraint, a simplicity, and a directness, which are the capital traits of a good style. Of Shakspeare it is said, in the preface to the first edition of his works: 'His mind and hand went together, and what he thought he uttered with that easiness, that we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers.' Shakspeare did not, therefore, 'Write with fury, and correct with phlegm;' but he wrote straightforwardly and naturally, as they do who assiduously practise letter writing. THE YEAR. Come, gentle Snowdrop, come; we welcome thee: Shine, fiery Crocus, through that dewy tear! That thou, arrayed in burnished gold, may'st be A morning star to hail the dawning year. Now Winter hath ta'en Summer by the hand, And kissed her on her cheek so fair and clear; While Spring strews bridal blossoms o'er the land To grace the marriage of the youthful year. The blackbird sings upon the budding spray, I hear the clarion tones of chanticleer, And robins chirp about from break of day,-- All pipe their carols to the opening year. The butterfly mounts up on jewelled wing, Risen to new life from out her prison drear: All Nature smileth;--every living thing Breaks forth in praises of the gladsome year. Down in the sheltered valley, Mayflowers blow,-- Their small, sweet, odorous cups in beauty peer Forth from their mother's breast in softened glow, To deck the vestments of the princely year.