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My dear husband, you were my idol. I lived only for you and myself. Happy-O, how happy in your love. I forgot the hand that "loaded me with benefits," that showered blessings in such profusion upon me! I needed all the chastisement I have received, to arouse me from my forgetfulness and ingratitude. But O, what cause for humiliation, and regret,that until my heart-strings were breaking, I should never think of consecrating myself to Him, who has done so much for me! Dearest husband, avoid my example as you would avoid the pangs of remorse, and perhaps, final destruction.

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I have been a source of great unhappiness to you, my dear husband, ever since we were united. Had you found a wife free from such defects as I have un

fortunately had, how happy had you been! My only consolation is, that it was my sincere and constant wish to please you, however far I came short of it. O, forgive me, for every pang I ever cost you, and think of me with kindness and lenity, when my many imperfections can trouble you no more!

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Dr. Miller came in, and caught me in the act of writing, and he peremptorily forbids it. But how can I entirely refrain? Perhaps I may never speak to you again, and I think it will be a consolation to you to receive a letter as from the grave of her you have loved so faithfully. And least, it is a comfort to me to write, and tell you again and again, of the love and gratitude that swell my heart. I I think of you, and pray for you, and the dear children all the time. * *

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I know I need not enjoin it on you, my dearest husband, to be kind to my father; and to consider him, during life, as a parent. It is very touching to see him now. He retains his wonted self-command, but looks heart-broken at the prospect of losing his last remaining child. O, strive to console him, in his utter loneliness! May he be sustained by Almighty strength. Ah, how unworthy am I of all this love and regret !—

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Permit me to request, dearest, that you will praise the children when they do well. The human heart needs commendation for its encouragement in the path of rectitude; and we have the example of our blessed Saviour, and his inspired apostles, to warrant its usefulness and propriety. May I further request, that you leave them not too much to the care and instruction of others. yourself, can train them up to virtue and No one, like piety.

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regret. How could I be so unfeeling then?-Forgive me, O, forgive me, dear

est husband!

To you I commend them. To God I commend both them and you.

"The shadows lengthen as my sun declines."

My heart, at times, sinks in my bosom like lead. When the paroxysms of fever pass away, a most distressing lassitude follows. O, that you were with me! O, that I might be permitted to breathe my last breath on your kind and affectionate bosom! But if it is otherwise ordered, thy will, O Father, be done!

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Dear husband, we shall meet again! Beyond the grave all looks bright and glorious. Here, the shadow of death rests upon every thing. However good, however beautiful, however precious any thing may be, that fearful shade is by, to blast and destroy. But there is life!life in unfading vigor, and bloom, and purity! You must-you will give your heart to the gracious Redeemer, that you may be made "meet to partake of the inheritance of the saints in light," and then in what blessedness shall we meet to part no more-forever!-Precious, cheering, sustaining thought!

My fluttering heart, my trembling hand, and the irregular characters that I trace, admonish me that what I do, must be done quickly. Once more, dearest husband, permit me to express to you, the deep, the ardent the fathomless love I bear you. O, that I could once again gaze on your face, with a long-long look of love and gratitude!—O, that I could hear you prononnce my full forgiveness.

Were it not for parting with you, the dear children and my father, I should feel no shrinking from death. O, supply a mother's place to those helpless ones.

The latter ended thus abruptly. No doubt Helen hoped to write more, but her strength failed. Had the heart of Mr. Howard been capable of deeper love and regret, or more bitter self-upbraiding, than it already knew, this effusion from that warm, affectionate, and childlike heart, now cold and silent in the grave, would have produced it. Repeatedly he laid it aside, as more than he could bear; but would seize it again with as much eagerness, as if its contents would rend the cloud of darkness in which he was enveloped,- -or restore tɔ him his lost treasure.

The life of a mourner would be short indeed, did he always feel as during the first months of bereavement, but our infinitely wise and benevolent Creator has so constituted us, that the bitterness of grief will pass away. As time rolled on, the agony of Mr. Howard's sorrow subsided, but he was always a mourner. Helen was enshrined in his heart, and there was no room for a new love. In vain were attractions displayed to the still young and elegant widower; he saw them not. In vain was deep sympathy expressed for the motherless condition of his children; he understood not its purport. And when, two or three years after Helen's death, Mr. Atwood himself inquired, if his happiness would not be promoted by marrying again,' he ended the subject for ever by saying

"Never mention it, my dear sir. Helen was too gentle, too good, too lovely for me!-too gentle, too good, too lovely for earth! I never deserved such a treasure: but having possessed her, could I ever hope to love another?"

"Besides," pursued he, mentally, "I could never treat another so barbarously as I did her; and should I treat a successor more tenderly, would not those gentle eyes ever be looking on me, in their sorrow, that it was not thus with her! No Helen-cruel and unfeeling as

I was, I loved thee-and I will love theethee alone-till we meet in Heaven!"

To Mr. Atwood, Mr. Howard was ever the tenderest and most sympathizing of sons; to his children the most devoted of fathers. The latter grew up under his government, his instruction, and his example, all he could wish: and among the many lessons le taught them, he failed not to enforce the truth-that no correctness of principle, no rectitude of conduct, can supply the place of kind

ness, gentleness, and urbanity of manner. That in all our intercourse with our fellow-creatures;-in all the relations of life, we must make it manifest, that it is as painful to reprove, as to be reproved ; and that it affords as much pleasure to commend, as to be commended. That if we would be truly good, and live to make others happy, we must look with lenity on their defects,—and with severity, and an unforgiving spirit, only on our own.

THE WINDS OF CHILDHOOD.

Friend, scoff not at your golden youth!
We're all weak, and vain, and poor!
Hear the sad sea waves dim and far,
Over them glimmers faint the star

Of youth, toward the eternal shore!

Brother, your youth was a lovely dream-
Think not the schemes of after years
Will bring you peace; the man may be
A river running toward no sea:

May have for laughter, sobs and tears!

The days of youth!-they were golden days

The dreams of youth!-they were golden dreams;

O laugh not brother; heaven was then

Bluer than ever it is to men,

And we heard the noise of enchanted streams!

So gleams from the skies-come once again

And the heart is hard and cold no more! Who laughs at youth has a narrow soul! For the winds of childhood bend and roll

To the peaceful, happy, heavenly shore!

HOOPED DRESSES.

WITH A PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF EUDORA'S HOOPS, AND THE CONSEQUENT DESPAIR AND AFTER ADVENTURES OF FLUR DEPAY, ESQUIRE.

To Bong Garcong at Megapolis, Greeting:

Behold O Bong, unhappy resident of the city, I seize the stylus and my best quire of note paper, intent upon inditing you an epistle touching the many pleasant things which have occurred to your friend at his present place of sojourn.

You know how I left you twirling your new ivory-headed cane, the head of which you are accustomed from time to time to rest gracefully against your teeth, as Bong Garcong only can-you know how I bade you reluctant farewell, and came hither to the country lands, to delight myself, long weary of town gaieties, and immense routs and balls, in quieter scenes, and more serene and healthful enjoyments. You will no doubt recollect my numerous allusions before my departure, to the trying character of repeated entertainments, extending themselves far into the ensuing morning, and you may also recall my various, and belligerent remarks touching the manners and costume of town beauties. Well, I have spent my Christmas here, after the good old fashion, with immense fires and abundant wassail, and I am prepared to jot down two or three remarks, upon the said festivities, and those who participated in them.

Do you know, O Bong, that your friend has been the victim of circumstances, the sufferer from precisely what he tried to escape by coming hither? O my Garcong! when will the good old times return? The reign of hoops and shawls is inaugurated here, as perfectly as in that brilliant society which you adorn with your graceful ease, and insouciant humor. I think I see you now, protesting against my criticism, and declaring with mild dignity that you wear a shawl, and that

invari

ably makes her appearance at evening assemblies in the most gigantic and captivating of hoops. But what can I say? You know my passion for observation:my coextensive liking for a laugh, a sou

rire (have clemency, O Bong, for my poor French;) you know I say that I am nothing if not critical, and that I am a licensed knight of the Golden Pen, privileged to direct my lance at whatever amuses me, or makes me think. So I return to my first observation, that I expected, here, to have bid farewell for the nonce to shawls and hoops-in which expectation I have been miserably disappointed. We are a great nation, our State a nation in herself:-but we are not quite perfect. Our young ladies are surely such as the wide world might safely be challenged to surpass :-but, even our country damsels are not angels. If they are, they have forgotten their wings, and inserted beneath the immemorial angelic costume of flowing drapery as of the last century, such a profusion of skirts and hoops, and -'s and 's that your friend has failed to, perceive the resemblance. What the above straight lines to which the plural s is appended, represent, I for one, O Bong, will never divulge, not even to yourself: my modesty, that quality upon which I am accustomed above all, to pride myself, will not permit me to write down such words as petticoat, peignoir, and under tunic general. With these things, I have nothing to do, and I touch them not, being one of the profane. But with hoops I have more than any one else to do, and I will tell you why.

Don't whisper it, O best of Bongs,neither breathe it in the pauses of the music or the talk, when, twirling gracefully your Colonel Newcome moustache, as only you can twirl it, best champagne induces you to be communicative. Do not tell even Miss, O friendly Garcong, but the reason why I take so deep an interest in hoops, is simply that Eudora wears them. Do you know Eudora? No? Unhappy man!-thrice unblessed child of city haunts! Until you have seen her, life has not been lived at all!-her pres

ence is like sunlight, and she breathes into the languid pulses glorious music, crammed with perfume, and instinct with golden splendor, such as Dian radiated when she swooned through the rippling shadow of the wood, on an occasion, which thou, O classic Bong, art no doubt well acquainted with. Her lightest smile is purer and more entrancing far than moonlight on the fields of the fall-and when she moves towards you, you are tempted to draw back, and hide yourself from that entrancing beauty and splendor, as the finest stars obscure themselves in presence of the fair young moon of evening, rounding up her crescent, and opening, as it were from bud to blossom, into the full moon of womanhood. Admire my beautiful description, best of Garcongs, and do not for a moment dream that you would not retreat-your star not fade and glimmer away even like the rest! You fancy that instead of drawing back, you would place one delicately white-kid-gloved hand behind your back, the other hand upon your spotless rolling waistcoat and so, dimly smiling, conscious of your killing tout ensemble, make your bow, and hold your place before the queen. O Bong, thou art mistaken-much mistaken. Her eyes would slay you, or if any of your presence of mind was left, the simplest word she uttered would unnerve you. Her opinion on the temperature of the room would echo in your ears like melting music, with divinest cadences, and when you went home afterwards, wrapped to the nose in your warm shawl, the fine assembly would all disappear, and nothing would remain in your memory but Eudora's eyes! You don't believe it? Well try, my friend;-or rather don't try, for the humble individual who now addresses you, would prefer monopolizing her. Not that he is afraid of you, O Garcong, with all your graces he is afraid of no body, whatsoever, but he would rather have Eudora's whole attention.

I came back from my lengthy comment upon the young lady in question, to the original subject of my remarks. As I have said, Eudora is a fairy:-but she wears hoops.

Can you comprehend the possibility of a being such as I have described, wearing any thing at all? I assure you on my fashionable honor, that it never occurred to me, until the other day, that she wore anything. It seemed to me that her brilliant costume was like the bright plumage of a tropical bird-a part of her, inseparable from her person. Whether Eudora had any feet I even doubted, and as to -'s and -'s, the possibility O Bong, has never yet been in the least impressed upon me. But Eudora does wear hoops. Melancholy and depressing reflection-those graceful and entrancing outlines are all due to hoops. I found it out very simply. She was passing through a doorway, in which I stood making myself useful to a young lady who was at her seventh plate of salad, when-as yet unconscious of her presence-I experienced a violent pain in-well, in a portion of my person. I turned, and saw the dazzling vision of Eudora pass me, and disappear-and then I felt a conviction, an irrepressible conviction in the depths of my mind that even she wore hoops.

I have been, since that time, depressed. I have doubted all things, and, have, I am told, lost much of that fascinating gaiety and good humor which make my society more agreeable than that of any man of my time, yourself, O Bong, being of course excepted. Here, raising my pen for a moment, and plunging my mental vision far into the city, and into your quiet apartment near the Megatherium club, where you sit perusing thoughtfully the London Times or some old number of the "Newcomes," telling with the aid of Doyle's illustrations (Doyle the immortal author of "Brown, Jones and Robinson") the adventures of Clive, the "pleasure and passion and darling joy" in run. ning after Ethel-casting my eyes backward I say to the city haunts, and being with you in spirit, as well as opposite you in your leathern chair; I think I hear you express surprise that I should be depressed upon finding Eudora guilty of so trivial a failing as a penchant for the latest modes. You say, inaudibly, that this is nothing very heinous, that

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