are not surpassed by Shakspeare, or by any one else who ever dared touch the English tongue.  There may be phrases which shall be palaces to dwell in, treasure-houses to explore; a single word may be a window from which one may perceive all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them.  Oftentimes a word shall speak what accumulated volumes have labored in vain to utter:  there may be years of crowded passion in a word, and half a life in a sentence.

Such being the majesty of the art you seek to practise, you can at least take time and deliberation before dishonoring it.  Disabuse yourself especially of the belief that any grace or flow of style can come from writing rapidly.  Haste can make you slipshod, but it can never make you graceful.  With what dismay one reads of the wonderful fellows in fashionable novels, who can easily dash off a brilliant essay in a single night!  When I think how slowly my poor thoughts come in, how tardily they connect themselves, what a delicious prolonged perplexity it is to cut and contrive a decent clothing of words for them, as a little girl does for her doll,—­nay, how many new outfits a single sentence sometimes costs before it is presentable, till it seems at last, like our army on the Potomac, as if it never could be thoroughly clothed,—­I certainly should never dare to venture into print, but for the confirmed suspicion that the greatest writers have done even so.  I can hardly believe that there is any autograph in the world so precious or instructive as that scrap of paper, still preserved at Ferrara, on which Ariosto wrote in sixteen different revisions one of his most famous stanzas.  Do you know, my dear neophyte, how Balzac used to compose?  As a specimen of the labor that sometimes goes to make an effective style, the process is worth recording.  When Balzac had a new work in view, he first spent weeks in studying from real life for it, haunting the streets of Paris by day and night, note-book in hand.  His materials gained, he shut himself up till the book was written, perhaps two months, absolutely excluding everybody but his publisher.  He emerged pale and thin, with the complete manuscript in his hand,—­not only written, but almost rewritten, so thoroughly was the original copy altered, interlined, and rearranged.  This strange production, almost illegible, was sent to the unfortunate printers; with infinite difficulty a proof-sheet was obtained, which, being sent to the author, was presently returned in almost as hopeless a chaos of corrections as the manuscript first submitted.  Whole sentences were erased, others transposed, everything modified.  A second and a third followed, alike torn to pieces by the ravenous pen of Balzac.  The despairing printers labored by turns, only the picked men of the office being equal to the task, and they relieving each other at hourly intervals, as beyond that time no one could endure the fatigue.  At last, by the fourth proof-sheet, the author too was wearied out, though not contented.  “I work ten hours out of the twenty-four,” said he, “over the elaboration of my unhappy style, and I am never satisfied, myself, when all is done.”