if I did but know that you, my little Agatha, were joyful and a little better. We can not, however, expect very much at this time of the year. I kiss mamma's hand, and thank her for that dear letter, and embrace you across the great waters.

LETTER VI.

Westborough, December 2d, 1849. MY DEAR LITTLE AGATHA,-I now write to you from a little town near Boston, while waiting for the rail-way train, which at five o'clock will take us, that is to say, myself, Mr. and Mrs. S., their little son Eddy, and Professor Bergfalk, whom I induced to come with us. He must not begin here to bury himself among books as he did in Sweden: he must go abroad, and see a little of life and mankind here to begin with, and celebrate the festival of Thanksgiving-one of the really national festivals of the Americans-in the heart of the state where it arose, and where it still is cordially maintained. When winter comes, he may read to his heart's content in his beloved books. The truth is, Bergfalk was not hard to persuade, but came willingly and with pleasure.

I wrote to you last in New York during my warfare there. It was very troublesome to me, and did not mend at Brooklyn. Strangers came from morning to evening, and, though many amiable people were among them, I longed many a time merely to lie down and sleep. I must, however, tell you of the occasions when the interest of the moment chased away all drowsiness and fatigue, and made me more awake than ever. Among these stands foremost the evening of Channing's improvised lecture. Last Sunday evening Channing was fully himself, and his discourse poured forth like a clear, rushing river, logical, perspicuous, glorious in subject and in elaboration.

It was to me a spiritual feast. He started with the idea of a personal God in opposition to that of the pantheist, every where and nowhere; developing from that divine personality the thence derived doctrine of duty, of social law, of beauty, of immortality as applicable to every man, to every human society, and proved how merely upon this ground Christian Socialism, or Christian community, could become stable, could advance humanity to its highest purpose. Channing did not this time interrupt himself once; he did not replace a single word, carried along by a continued inspiration, sustained by an enthusiasm without extravagance, without passion, never violating the law of beauty, and with a polemical creed which never wounded the divine law. He merely once said, in a somewhat sharper tone, that the "person who did not in his own breast become conscious of the duality of human nature, who did not combat with a lower self, is either without humanity, or is deeply to be pitied."

The hall was quite full of people, and the profoundest attention prevailed. At the close of the oration a circle of congratulating friends gathered around Channing. I saw even the speaker of the former evening, Mr. H. James, go forward to Channing, lay his hand upon his shoulder, as if caressingly, as he said "You have done me an injustice; you have misunderstood me!" He seemed pale and agitated, but perfectly kind.

I went in a little carriage alone with Channing from Brooklyn to New York this evening, and remarked how desirous he seemed of dissipating his thoughts and occupying them with subjects foreign to that of the lecture. Now, as he took me back to the carriage, and we were about to separate (he was to remain in New York, and I was returning to Brooklyn), I could not avoid saying to him, "How happy you must have felt this evening!"

"Yes, oh yes!" he replied, with a half sigh; "but then I have wounded Mr. James !"

Afterward he extended to me his hand, with his beaming smile, and said,

"We shall meet in the morning!"

But when comes that morning? We have now parted for a long time. But it is true, that if one ever meets a spirit like that of Channing, it must be felt like a meeting in the morning.

I recollect one evening party at the S.'s with especial pleasure. There were a sufficiency of space, air, flowers, and some remarkably agreeable people. A noble, handsome Miss S. recited a poem with much pathos of voice, but otherwise altogether quietly. She and her handsome sister wore real chrysanthemums in their hair. One most charming young girl played on the piano one of her own compositions, full of sweet feeling. Young C. sang. They danced also. It was a gay, agreeable party, where each performed some social duty, and where all seemed to enjoy life, and each other's society.

On Monday morning we set off, taking our way through Connecticut. I left New York and Brooklyn with many an unanswered letter of invitation, many unvisited schools and institutions coming speeding after me, as if to lay hold upon me! I had a bad conscience. I actually ran away from the battle of people. I could not do otherwise. If I had been two people, I could not have answered all the invitations, calls, etc., and I am only one! But I shall return to New York. I must yet see something more of its best and of its worst; among the latter, that portion of the city which is called "Five Points," from five streets coming together at one place, and where the lowest and the most dangerous population of the city has its abode. I asked Mr. D., in joke, whether he would go through the "Five Points" with me. He answered decidedly, "No." Ah! Il bello è il buono is not there to be met with. But beyond the beautiful and the good seek I for truth and for reality in every thing and every where. I must

also make myself somewhat better acquainted with the five points in the refined life of New York; for I know that there, as in all great cities, is also to be found in the life of the higher class the five ugly and dangerous points. As the first point, I reckon the long and tiresome dinners.

New York appears to me outwardly a plodding and busy city, without beauty and interest. There are beautiful and quiet parts, with beautiful streets and dwellings; but there the life in the streets is dead. On Broadway, again, there is an endless tumult and stir, crowd and bus tle, and in the city proper people crowd as if for dear life, and the most detestable fumes poison the air. New York is the last city in the world in which I would live. it is also to be regarded merely as a vast hotel, a caravanserai both for America and Europe. Besides, it is true that I always felt myself there in such a state of combat and so fatigued, that I had not time to look around for any thing beautiful. But, thank Heaven! I know Brooklyn, and there I could both live and sleep.

But

And now let us proceed on our way through the valleys of Connecticut to the small homes of New England, the home-land of the earliest pilgrims.

In the afternoon we reached Hartford. We were invited for the evening to Mrs. Sigourney's, the author of "Pleasant Memories from Pleasant Lands ;" and here I shook hands with the whole town, I believe-from the bishop, a handsome old prelate, to the school-girl, and played my usual part in society. Mrs. Sigourney, a very kind little sentimentalist, but a very agreeable lady, dressed in green, about fifty years old, with a good motherly demeanor, would perforce keep me with her all night, and I could not go back to my excellent chamber at the hotel, which I would so gladly have done, where I might rest and have been silent. In the morning, however, I forgot the little annoyance in breakfast and conversation with my kind hostess and her agreeable, only daughter

The sun shone into the room, and the whole had the character of a good home made warm by love. In such homes I always do well, and I should have liked to have stayed longer with Mrs. Sigourney had it been possible. At parting, she presented me with a handsome volume of her collected poetical works, and therein I read a poem called "Our Country," for which I could have kissed her hand, so beautiful was it, and so noble and so truly feminine is the spirit it breathes. As coming from a woman and a mother, there is great beauty in the following address to her native land:

Ah, beautiful and glorious! thou dost wrap
The robes of Liberty around thy breast,
And as a matron watch thy little ones
Who from their cradle seek the village school,
Bearing the baptism on their infant brow
Of Christian faith and knowledge; like the bud
That, at the bursting of its sheath, doth feel
Pure dews, and heavenward turn.

There is thy strength,

In thy young children, and in those who lead
Their souls to righteousness. The mother's prayer
With her sweet lisper ere it sinks to rest—
The faithful teacher 'mid a plastic group-
The classic halls, the hamlet's slender spire,
From whence, as from the solemn gothic pile
That crowns the city's pomp, ascendeth sweet
Jehovah's praise; these are thy strength, my land!
These are thy hope.

Oh, lonely ark, that rid'st

A tossing deluge, dark with history's wrecks,

And paved with dead that made not heaven their help,
God keep thee perfect in thy many parts,

Bound in one living whole.

After those pleasant morning hours I was obliged again to see people, and was therefore taken out by my hostess in a carriage to see the town, which appears to me to be well built and well situated. The public buildings are the largest and the most ornamented of any in the town. But every thing, both within and without, testifies of