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Institution for the Blind, January, 1847.

THIS hour I sit me down to write you in a little world of sweet sounds. The choir in the chapel are chanting at the organ their evening hymn -- across the hall a little group with the piano and flute are turning the very atmosphere into melody; but Fanny, the poetess, is not there. Many weeks her harp and guitar have been unstrung, and we fear the hand of consumption is stealing her gentle spirit away. In a room below, some twenty little blind girls are joining their silvery voices in tones sweet and pure as angels' whispers. And ah! here comes one who has strayed from their number the twentieth time to-day, clambering her little arms about my neck for a kiss. Earth has no treasure so heavenly as the love of a sinless child. Man seldom welcomes you farther than the fair vestibule of his heart, but a child invites you within the temple, where alone the incense of unselfish love burns upon its own altar.

'Tis evening -- the moonbeams gladden all the hills, the stars are out and I see them not -- once my poor eyes loved to watch those wheeling orbs, till they seemed joyous spirits bathing in the holy light of the clear upper skies: -- but now they are not lost to me; fancy, with a soul-lit look, often wanders in the halls of memory, where hang daguerreotypes of all that is bright and beautiful in nature, from the lowest flower that unfolds its petals to the sunbeams, up to the cloud-capt mountain and the regions of the starry sky -- whence she plumes her pinions, boldly entering upon new and untried legions of thought; passes the boundary of the unseen, to far-off fields where "Deity geometrizes," and nebular worlds are ever springing into new life and glory; and upwards still to the spirit land, where all are blessed and lost in present joys, till happiness, forgetful, numbers not the hours. There my thoughts love to linger, till with the angels I seem to come and go, wandering by joy's welling fountains and glad rivers of delight!

But oh! this is truth and not fancy. My life is a "night of years," and my path is a sepulchred way; on one side sleeps MY FRIEND, and on the other lies buried for ever a world of light, and all its rays revealed: the smiles of friends and all their looks of love, without which the heart knows no morning. The Saviour wept at the grave of his friend, and I know he does not chide these tears; they are the impearled dews of feeling which gather round a sorrowed heart. But where God sends one angel to afflict, he always sends many more to comfort; so I have many angel friends who love me well. Their gentle hands lead me by pleasant ways, and their tuneful voices read to me, and the kindness of then-words makes my heart better. Oh ! tell me; when summer gladdens the world and vacation gladdens me, shall I again be on the banks of the Genesee, the while loved and blessed by the warm hearts of Rochester?

Lake Cottage, November, 1847.

MY DEAR LIZZY: -- It is not pleasant to be blind. My poor eyes long to look abroad upon this beautiful world, and my prisoned spirit struggles to break its darkness. I would love dearly to bonnet and shawl myself and go forth to breathe the air alone, and free as the breeze that fans my brow. But as Milton once said to his favorite daughter, "It matters little whether one has a star to guide or an angel-hand to lead;" and, Lizzy, we must learn to bear, and blame not that which we cannot change. The journey of life is short. We may not atop here long, and sorrow and trial discipline the spirit, and educate the soul for a future life; and those upon whom we most depend, we love most. A good English writer says, "Let thy heart be thankful for any circumstance that proves thy friend."

Two summers have come and gone since my William died in Rochester. We brought him here and laid him down in the grave to sleep, close by his childhood-home, where the quick winds and white waves of Ontario come swelling to the shore; and nigh above its silvery bosom, clouds, dove-like, are hanging. One moon had hardly waned, when the angels came again, and while I slept darkened my weeping eyes for ever. Oh! Lizzy, was sorrow ever so deep? was misery ever so severe? Hope departed, and an unyielding blight settled on all the joys my heart had wed. "Passing away" is truly a part of earth. It lends a deathlike air to our gay enjoyments, and mingles sorrow with our cups of bliss. It stops for ever our happy labors, and frustrates our choicest plans. Those whom we learn to love, die, and the cold earth presses the lips we have loved to kiss, and freezes the hearts tuned to beat in unison with our own. Lizzy, evermore I am blind, and a wanderer, but not homeless. I have God for my father, the angels for friends, and Jesus an "elder brother." The pure homes in many hearts, too, are mine -- dwellings dearer than all the world beside.

This morning finds me at Mr. Ledyard's delightful "Lake Cottage," where Lombard poplars lift their tapering tops almost to prop the skies; the willow, locust, and horse-chestnut, spread their branches, and flowers never cease to blossom. Maggie is my kind amanuensis. Now she reads to me -- gives me her arm for a walk. Now, with her harp and tuneful voice, she unchains the soul of song, the while covering all my thoughts with gladness, till I almost forget my "night of years," and live in a land where ever swells with melody the air, and sorrow and tears are unknown, save such as pitying angels weep. With Maggie all joys are less than the one joy of doing kindness. Her smile makes the sunshine of many hearts; the cloudless dawning of their new enjoyments.