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Not long since, through the kindness of Mr. Townsend, of this city, I had the pleasure of hearing Dr. Dewey, who has lately returned from Washington. I had heard the remark that he was not so eloquent in the pulpit as with his pen; that, like Goldsmith, he could reason best when alone; but a more eloquent and heart-healing discourse I have seldom heard. In consequence of declining health he is about closing his ministerial labors and works of love; but he will leave with his people a name set round with good deeds, like a diadem of honor. *****

Institution for the Blind.

MY EVERE DEAR ELIZA: -- I planted you in my heart long ago; it was then a garden plot, fresh and green, and full of blossoms. But now, how changed! Mildew and death are there, and frosts cold and frigid have turned its leaves, and sleety winds have shaken them to the ground. And yet, dearest, you stand now as then, firm and beautiful. Like the oak, you have spread your branches, and I in my weariness come to repose in their shade.

Eliza, many times the moon has waned since I wrote to you; but loving as her beams on the hills, are my memories of the Seneca, and those who dwell by its shore. I have been ill. Health is indeed a precious gift, without it we can hardly be happy within ourselves, or useful to those around us. Suffering the will of God, and doing it, are very unlike; but in every condition we have something to be grateful for. Indeed, I doubt, if we are ever so placed that we have not more smiles for the day, than tears for the night, and more cause for joy than mourning. Watchful spirits are at every post. Angels with folded pinions are in every path, indeed the world is full of them. Our feet never stumble, want never approaches, and ills of any kind are seldom long in the way, but some Samaritan hand lifts us out of them. No night is so dark that our Father's smile cannot cheer it, and no place is so barren, so far removed, that his blessings and mercies cannot reach it. And how rich and bountiful they come. New every morning, fresh every evening, and repeated every moment of our lives.

It is November. The frost has bitten the forest leaves, and the trees are robed in Autumn's bleeding hues. The day-god is in the sky, gladdening all the world, but oh, he sheds no light for me. Nothing strikes the chord of responsive memories like music. Eliza this morning the Band are in the chapel, playing Love Not, and the variations; and without the winds are blowing a sort of trumpet accompaniment; now, the tide of their rich harmony ebbs and flows along the borders of my soul, kindling my thoughts, and making my pulses beat quicker. Now they are scattering Mozart's Requiem on the air. Oh, Heaven be always thanked for an atmosphere that may be formed into sweet sounds. Looks of love are bright things, but words are far more dear. The former play upon the heart, like moonbeams upon the waters, but the latter sink down into it, thence coming forth in blossoms and clustering fruits, like seeds lost in the earth. No wonder the deaf Beethoven by gesturing words exclaimed, "all the pleasures of sight and sense, all my eyes ever saw, would I give for one whisper to my heart."

Rochester, Oct., 1846.

DEAR CLARA: -- 'Tis Autumn, and to-day the winds howl mournfully among the trees. Four long weeks I have been pillowed on a sick couch, and though with much of its drapery around me, I can to-day sit in an easy chair. Fever still burns on my cheeks, and my brow is pressed with throbbing pain. Last night they fed me opium, and I slept a pleasant sleep. I dreamed of other days. I thought that we again, arm in arm, paced the halls of the old seminary, and talked confidingly of bright realities in the future. The chime of the welcome school-bell again rang in my ears, and I heard the halls echo with the familiar tread of many feet, and mingling voices, all buoyant with hope and love.

This morning I engaged a friend to write for me, while I fancy myself whispering in your ear the story of all that grieves me, and wrings every joy from my heart. "Truth is often stranger than fiction," and the tale I shall tell you needs no coloring. Clara, I am blind! for ever shrouded in the thick darkness of an endless night. And now, when I look down the current of coming years, a heavy gloom settles on me, almost to suffocation. Is there any sympathy in your heart? Oh then weep with me, for now, like an obstinate prisoner, I feel my spirit struggling to be free. But oh, 'tis all in vain, 'tis all over, misery's self seems stopping my breath, hope is dead, and my heart sinks within me. Clara, I am in a land of strangers too. Stranger voices sound in my ears, and stranger hands smooth my brow, and administer to my wants. I see them not, but I know they have learned the laws of kindness. I love them, and pray Heaven to hold them in remembrance.

But let me change the subject. The first year after we parted at school, my love of knowledge increased every day. I continued Italian with a success that pleased me. I read various French authors, besides translating most of the Old Testament Scriptures, reviewed Rollin, &c.