we were within twenty miles of our destination, it became clearly necessary to put this child to bed. But she got over it with the same good humor, tied a handkerchief around her head, and came out into the little gallery with the rest. Then such an oracle as she became in reference to the localities! and such facetiousness as was displayed by the married ladies, and such sympathy as was shown by the single ones, and such peals of laughter as the little woman herself, who would just as soon have cried, greeted every jest with!

At last, there were the lights of St. Louis, and here was the wharf, and those were the steps; and the little woman, covering her face with her hands, and laughing, or seeming to laugh, more than ever, ran into her own cabin, and shut herself up. I have no doubt but, in the charming inconsistency of such excitement, she stopped her ears, lest she should hear "him" asking for her; but I did not see her do it. Then a great crowd of people rushed on board, though the boat was not yet made fast, but was wandering about among the other boats, to find a landing-place; and everybody looked for the husband, and nobody saw him, when, in the midst of us all, Heaven knows how she ever got there, there was the little woman, clinging with both arms tight around the neck of a fine, good-looking, sturdy young fellow, and clapping her little hands for joy as she dragged him through the small door of her small cabin, to look at the child, as he lay asleep.

DON

DONALD G. MITCHELL.

ONALD GRANT MITCHELL was born in April, 1822, in Norwich, Conn. In 1841, at the age of nineteen, he was graduated at Yale College. Having passed three years on a farm, he sailed for Europe. In 1846 Mitchell returned to this country, and studied law in New York. In 1847 he published Fresh Gleanings; or A New Sheaf from the Old Fields of Continental Europe. This work he published under the nom de plume of "Ik Marvel," a name which he had used in his agricultural articles in the Albany Cultivator. In 1848, he went to Europe again, and while there, wrote The Battle Summer, which was published in 1849 in New York. A series of sketches called The Lorgnette, satirical of city life, appeared anonymously, in 1850; Dream Life in 1851. He served as United States consul at Venice from 1853 to 1855. Upon returning to this country, he took up his home on his model farm, "Edgewood," near New Haven, Conn. Besides the works named, he published Fudge Doings in 1854; My Farm of Edgewood, 1863; Wet Days at Edgewood, 1864; Seven Stories, with Basement and Attic, 1864; Doctor Johns, a novel, 1866; Rural Studies, 1867; and Pictures of Edgewood, 1869.

Mr. Mitchell has been popular upon the lyceum platform.

His writings are very interesting. His style is pure and worthy of careful study. His Reveries of a Bachelor, from which we have taken "Letters," contains a "contemplative view of life," in which are many "pathetic scenes tenderly arrated."

Letters.

Blessed be letters!-they are the monitors, they are also the comforters, and they are the only true heart-talkers. Your speech, and their speeches, are conventional; they are molded by circumstances; they are suggested by the observation, remark, and inLuence of the parties to whom the speaking is addressed, or by whom it may be overheard.

Your truest thought is modified half through its utterance by look, a sign, a smile, or a sneer. It is not individual; it is not integral; it is social and mixed, half of you, and half of others. It bends, it sways, it multiplies, it retires, and it advances, as the talk of others presses, relaxes, or quickens. But it is not so with letters: there you are, with only the soulless pen, and the snowwhite, virgin paper. Your soul is measuring itself by itself, and saying its own sayings: there are no sneers to modify its utterance, -no scowl to scare, nothing is present but you and your thought.

Utter it then freely-write it down-stamp it-burn it in the ink!—There it is, a true soul-print!

Oh, the glory, the freedom, the passion of a letter! It is worth all the lip-talk of the world. Do you say, it is studied, made up, acted, rehearsed, contrived, artistic? Let me see it then; let me - run it over; tell me age, sex, circumstances, and I will tell you if it be studied or real; if it be the merest lip-slang put into words, or heart-talk blazing on the paper. I have a little paquet, not very large, tied up with narrow crimson ribbon, now soiled with frequent handling, which far into.some Winter's night I take down from its nook upon my shelf, and untie, and open, and run over, with such sorrow and such joy,-such tears and such smiles, as I am sure make me for weeks after, a kinder and holier man.

There are in this little paquet, letters in the familiar hand of a mother what gentle admonition-what tender affection!-God have mercy on him who outlives the tears that such admonitions