love, two hearts-full; of sense, three grains; of nonsense, an unlimited quantity; of moral, a very small quantity for fear of nausea; of wit, one salt-cellar full; of puns, a gross; of marriage, quantum suff. Let these ingredients be well mixed, and spread upon tissue of plot.-N. B. To be used immediately, as they will not keep.

III. To make a Gothic Story.

Take of the best lambent blue flame, as much as will not be extinguished by a gust of wind through a dilapidated corridor; of mouldering skeletons, well dried and blanched, a vault full; of rusty daggers, one haft and two blades; of hair-standing-at-end, one wig; take also as many tremulous moon-beams as will discover the above; add divers mysterious noises; and a few ghosts with bloody fingers, or wounded hearts, or sable shrouds ; place the patient in the middle of these, and if the story is not sufficiently Gothicised, add a little more of the blue flame, two chains clanking, and a band of robbers.

IV. To make a Speech.

Take a score of figures of all descriptions, tropes, metaphors, similes, &c.; make them into sentences, and let those be rounded as nicely as possible, for in that form nonsense is more easily swallowed and digested, and affords no handle for an opponent. Add on the question under consideration, as few words as possible, for though in the hands of able practitioners, that is useful and salutary, yet he will be more secure from failure, who makes use only of the drug called "general ideas."

A. H.

ON CHEPSTOW CASTLE, MONMOUTHSHIRE.

Within yon turret's moated walls,

Within yon castle's mould'ring halls,

How chang'd that scene, that stately tower,
That princely court, that lordly bower!
Who can view without a tear,

All that rests and slumbers here?
Where oftentimes, in days of old,
There feasted many a baron bold,

The flow'r of English chivalry ;
But now neglected and forgot,
Beneath yon chancel's roof they rot-
And hush'd the sound of revelry.

But many a fleeting day has sped,

Since these were number'd with the dead;
And many a change these towers, I ween,
Of masters and of times have seen;
Full often has that massy door
Repuls'd the fury of the war;
Oft has the soldier's-bugle horn,
That usher'd in the smiling morn,
The conqu❜ring foe defied.

The boatman, at the break of day,
Hath sped in fear his wat'ry way
Along the silver tide.

On yonder hill has Cromwell stood,
And bade the plain be red with blood;
And bade the cannon's fiery breath,
Launch the swift messengers of death.
And hark: Rebellion's trumpet-call
Is answer'd from the castle-wall;
But now no drum, or trumpet's swell,
Is heard along the winding dell,

Where the mighty met their fate;
No warrior's cry, no charger's tread,
Disturbs the slumbers of the dead-
Yon camp is desolate.

No sound is heard o'er hill or dale,
Save the sound of the passing gale ;
But e'en this solitude has might

To charm the mind with stern delight;
But though all warlike sounds have fled,
Here sleep the ashes of the dead ·
For yonder tree with ivy crown'd,
Spreading a fearful shade around,

Just serves the spot to show,
Where, beneath the unhallow'd soil,
Resting from his warlike toil,
A soldier sleeps below.

The peasants oft, with silent dread,
O'er yon meadow quickly tread;
And as the evening shades advance,
Cast around a fearful glance,
For many a dreadful tale is told,
Of deeds of blood in days of old;
And often, in the raven's moan,
Deems that he hears a dying groan

That oft was heard before;
The boatman, as he passes by,
Views the place with fearful eye,

And thinks of days of yore.

ON GOOD WRITING.

My dear Mr. Bouverie;

As every thing which takes place in this, if I may so call it, our little kingdom, is of particular interest to me, whether we surpass our adversaries in cricket, whether we are celebrated for hard pulling, or whether, though last, not by any means the least, in my estimation, we are renowned for good composition, both in prose and verse; I have taken the liberty, after having perused with the strictest attention every paper in The Eton Miscellany, and likewise being most earnest in my wishes for

its success, of addressing the following hints to you, which, if you think them worthy of insertion, are perfectly at your disposal; and I can only humbly hope that they may be of use to your more regular correspondents. Without, therefore, any further explanation, let me briefly give you, what I consider to be the more essential rules of Good Writing. In the first place, in my opinion, the characteristics of a perfect composition, whether it be an epic poem, or merely a familiar letter, are, just sentiments, regular order, and elegance of style. Secondly, every thought must be properly adapted to the subject, and contain something as new and ingenious, interesting and important, as possible. These last, however, are qualities in which, I am afraid, writers too often fail, their composition, in too many instances, being unequal; at one time rising into superior merit, at another, suddenly falling below mediocrity, either the expressions being too flippant, or the detail too elaborate. As I said before, therefore, every thought should contain something new and ingenious, interesting and important; besides which, our remarks should be acute, rational, and judicious our arguments, logical and conclusive. Thirdly, as we are continually disgusted by those injudicious writers, who confound and promiscuously crowd words and phrases together with more than poetical licence, and do it in violation of correct style, even where the expressions ought to be clothed in the clearest and purest language, and where the judgment ought to confine itself to the most accurate and explanatory discrimination of those ideas which are susceptible of the minutest ambiguity. As this is too often the case, a regu

lar method, or what is called by Horace "lucidus ordo," must be strictly observed in the arrangement of our ideas. Our sentiments and observations must follow one another in regular gradation; that is, the latter must confirm and illustrate the former, and throw additional light on the subject. Confusion often, too often, arises from the want of a methodical arrangement of our ideas, which alone is sufficient to condemn a book; for the mind, if it has to labour to find out the direct meaning of every sentence, becomes wearied and fatigued, and rejects, perhaps, a valuable work, because it is deficient in perspicuity, the first and most essential beauty of style. If our ideas are promiscuously thrown together, the whole composition must inevitably become nothing better than a confused incoherent rhapsody; it will resemble an edifice which, although consisting of the best materials, can never be pleasing to the eye, if wanting in proportion, regularity, symmetry, or any of the important requisites of architecture. Fourthly, the last essential ingredient in good writing is elegance of style. There must be no ungrammatical expressions, no obscure or embarrassed sentences, no mean or vulgar remarks (which always disgust the reader), no pompous or pedantic phrases; but every thing should be written easily, naturally, and gracefully. The inimitable Mr. Addison perfectly agrees in the opinion, that elegance of style is that which adorns and recommends good sense, where he observes that there is as much difference between seeing a thought expressed in the language of Cicero, and that of an ordinary writer, as there is between viewing an object by the light of a taper, and the light of the

sun.