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New-York Institution for the Blind.

DEAR CORA: -- The murmurs of the Genesee are in my thoughts to-night, and voices dear as home-words, have been falling on my ear, till I seem again surrounded by those who pitied and loved me long ago; whose homes were ever open for my reception, and their hands were never wearied with ministering to my wants.

The impressions of sound are much deeper and more lasting than those of sight, consequently the memories of the blind are always keepsakes of the heart. Another year has gone by, and I have yet no abiding place, save in the sympathies of friends -- but like the wounded oyster who lines his shell with pearl, I would, by gentle love, make the dwellings I inhabit more pure and white. We cease to live when we have no longer something to do or bear; then why flee from ill, or pity those who suffer? Dews of the night are diamonds at morn, so the tears we weep here may be pearls in heaven; and we have little cause to mourn over the wreck of hopes, when it opens the heart to a brighter sunshine, whose warm light melts its ice to running streams, and covers its crags and cliffs with blossoms, and plants along its rough ways trees whose fruits and leaves are for the healing of the nations.

On Thanksgiving day, through the kindness of Mr. Dean, I heard Mr. ---. New-York has many eloquent men, but I have never heard one whose style is so richly beautiful, whose words are so select, and whose zeal seems so perfectly what the apostle calls according to knowledge. Tolerant towards all denominations, liberal in his views, more than cordial in his feelings, he seems to have a heart that could gather in all the world, and yet have room to spare.

I love such spirits; they are the lights of the age; beings whom heaven has destined "to leave foot-prints on the sands of time;" way-marks to all who would be wise, great, and good.

Mr. --- is but a few weeks home from Europe, and his imagery seems fresh as the sunny vales of England, grand as the glaciers of Switzerland, sublime as the scenery of the Rhine, clear and enrapturing as Italy's bowers where her time-honored painters drew, and where the sons of genius from all lands go to worship at the shrine of Art.

For a northern Thanksgiving dinner, roast turkey is always first in the bill of fare. My friend Mr. B---, with whom I dined, is a right true son of Johnny Bull as ever lived; whole-souled, whole-hearted, speaks always what he thinks, acts just as he feels, and his hospitality makes one as perfectly at home as himself. Mrs. B--- reminds me of what I once heard a Swede say of his countrywoman, Frederica Bremer; in the character of all persons, we ever find some one or more distinguishing trait, but in the soul of Frederica heaven has happily blended all excellence.

In the afternoon Mrs. B--- and I visited the paintings at the Art Union; she was eyes for me, and beautifully described all she saw. The most clever thing in the exhibition is the Mother's Prayer, which, while you gaze upon it, seems to breathe, as though touched by the pencil but now. I know not which to envy most, the purchaser or the artist, who, by the way, is an American. Another fine thing is the "Young Mechanic," by Mr. Smith, of Ohio; but perhaps the most famous work of all, is the "Voyage of Life," by Mr. Cole. The design is the Stream of Life, bearing on its rippled bosom a little boat, and in it an infant and an angel to guide. Farther on, the impetuous youth seats himself at the helm, dashes furiously on amidst rocks and breakers, so on down to tranquil old age, where all is calm and peaceful, and from the spirit-world which opens above, angels have come to beckon him away.

On our way from the gallery we chanced to pass the old Blind Harper, whose voice, like the strings of his worn harp, was trembling in the breeze; and while I listened to his sacred song, he seemed so like the weary pilgrim I had just heard described waiting on the boat, I almost fancied the angels above watching the close of his strain, to present him a new harp, tuned for ever to the praise of God and the Lamb. *****

At our last examination I met your friend Mr. G---, of Brooklyn, who is ever a welcome visitor at the New-York Institution for the Blind. His voice is a sort of watchword, at which the little folks quit their play, leave school and music, and run to greet him. Oh! could you see him once throw down his rolls and bundles filled with new dresses, &c., and to their infinite delight unburden his generous pockets of crackers, nuts, apples, and candies, some falling upon the floor, after which they all scramble, playing the kitten, as Mary says when she drops her ball, until they find them.

As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are God's ways above our ways; it is not the most useful who stay longest in the world, or to whom the power of doing good is longest preserved. Mr. G---, you are aware, is well known as a philanthropist, and a lover of mankind. No heart sympathizes more deeply with suffering than his, and no hand is open more readily and more widely to relieve it.