The war in which we are engaged has brought forth whole hosts of correspondents. They come not single spies, but in battalions. None of these letters, so far as we have read, can boast of any striking or peculiar excellence. Their great fault is their immense prolixity. Their words far outnumber their facts. An editor having once complained to a writer of the inordinate length of his composition, the writer replied that he had not had time to make it shorter. This is doubtless the trouble with our army letter writers. They are forced to write currente calamo—sometimes on the heads of drums, and not unfrequently are such epistles as full of sound and fury and as empty as the things on which they are written. The best of these correspondents so far is the somewhat ignominious Mr. Russell, of the London Times; the only one, indeed, who has achieved a reputation. Mr. Charles Mackay, his successor (heu! quantum mutatus ab illo), writes letters that are poorer, if possible, than his poems; he has just sufficient imagination to be indebted to it for his facts. As for his opinions, he seems to gather them, like a ragpicker, from political stews, reeking with the filth of treason and foul with the garbage of secession.

So far as literary merit goes, we regret to give our verdict in favor of correspondents for the Southern journals. They write with greater facility, greater elegance, and greater force than our own too voluminous reporters. But, as much as they have figured, it is not probable that they will live in print. They are like exhalations over a battle field—touched briefly by the hues of sunlight, then fading, rolling off, and vanishing in the distance.

Of all the methods of acquiring a good English style, there is no practice so beneficial as that of frequent and familiar letter writing. Because your object in writing to a friend is to make yourself perfectly clear to him, therefore you make use of the simplest, plainest, readiest words—and such are ever the best for an essay, sermon, lecture, or even oration. This practice imparts ease and perspicuity, and it teaches that writing ought to be and may be as little difficult as conversation. It teaches every one not to say anything till he shall have something to say. A want of something to say is generally not felt in writing letters, especially by ladies; but it would seem to be a great pity that there are so many words in our language; for, whenever one desires to say anything, three or four ways of saying it run in one's head together, and it is hard to choose the best! It is quite as puzzling to a lady as the choice of a ribbon or a—husband. But let us earnestly advise all fair letter writers to lessen their perplexity by restricting themselves to words of home manufacture. They may perhaps think it looks prettily to garnish their correspondence with such phrases as de tout mon cœur. Now, with all my heart is really better English; the only advantage on the side of the former expression is that it is far less sincere. French silks and French laces may be superior, but it is much better to make use of the English language. Whenever there is any doubt between two words or expressions, choose the plainest, the commonest, the most idiomatic. Let ladies eschew fine phrases as they would rouge; let them love simple words as they do native roses on their cheeks. A true lady should be emulous to deserve that praise which the old poet Chaucer bestows on his Virginia:

'Though she were wise as Pallas, dare I sain
Her faconde eke full womanly and plain,
No contrefeted terms hadde she
To semen wise; but after her degree
She spake; and all her wordes more or less
Sounding in virtue and in gentilesse.'

Exquisite examples of this pure, mother English are to be found in the speeches put by Shakspeare into the mouths of his female characters.

'No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot more free;'

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.