Looking over an accumulation of olJ letters - what u strange mixture oT fedings tliat induces - heart-sickness too oftoa predomiitaut as ono sighs, ': Ah ! for the chango, twist now and theu !" " I liuvo a little packot," says the autlnr of " Dream life," "not very largo, tied up whh uarrow crimson ribbon, now soiled with frequent handling, wliich, far iuto souie winter's night 1 take down from its nook upon my shelf, and untie, and open and run over with sueli sorrow, and such joy, such tears and smilos, as I am sure make me for weeks at'ter a kioder atid botter man. Tbera are in this little packet letters in the familiar hand of u mother. What geutio udmouition ! - What tender affection ! God have mercy upon him who outlives the tears that sueh admoiiilions and such affections cali up to tho eye ! Tliere are others in the budget, in tho delicate and uniform hand of a loved and lost sister - written whcu shc and you were full of glee, and the best mirtli of youthfulness. l)oes it banu you to reeall tho mirthfulness; or, to trace again for tho hundredth time, that sorawliog postscrlpt at ihe bottom, with its ft so earefuily dotted, and i;s gigantic fs so earefuily crossed, by the gigantio hand of a little, brolher?" - Well says Buhver Lytton, in his best last novel - ".My novel'' wortliily dubbcd - - that "a thought written in warm, sunny life, and theu puddenly rising up to us, wheo the hand that traced, and the heart that eheiished it are dust - is verily a gh; st. It is a likcness struck off of the fond hutuau bcing, and surviving it. l'ar more truthful thau bust or portrait, it bids us seo the tcar flow, and pulse beat. What gtios't can the churehyard yield to us like the writing of the dead?