fable of the fox; he is the very impersonation of health. The air is peculiarly bracing to me here in the city. After my convalescence, I sprang up like Jonah's gourd in a night. I am delighted with the city, pleased with the society, and happy in my own home. I would give half the trees in " Hickory Grove" to see you in the city next summer. Do come down. Love and kisses to Elzar and Emory.

XI. TO MRS. BROWN.

PHILADELPHIA, May 6, 1846.

MY DEAR SISTER,-I don't well see how you can raise much of a hue and cry against me, if I do rebuke you with an occasional silence, since you have fallen into the same condemnation. Why, I would just as quick think of getting a word from Jupiter as you.

I see I have the figure exactly. The deities speak only through their priestess; but in the absence of this appendage, you speak through your priest.* If I were your officer, I would resign. Then I guess the dumb would speak. I don't believe in his petting you into silence and indifference.

When brother Elzar's last letter reached us, I ran through it with great avidity, and then Emory's, and then hastily turned over the page, mentally ex

*Rev. P. E. Brown.

had

claiming " Here comes sister's!" but not a dent, nor a dash, nor a "mark of esteem," appeared, to indicate that you had touched the paper. I turned back, and ransacked every corner, to see if you sent love, or any kindly remembrance; but, mortifying as it was to my self-esteem, I found that you had not taken the least notice of me, and I had to learn I was not quite so consequential as I had imagined. Now sister B., if you will sometimes "set your mark," I will be satisfied with that hieroglyphic! Brother Elzar's letter was the best I have received yet. It contained more real information than all I have got from home since I left. There was one bit of news more choice than the rest, which Elzar had the audacity to usher in with a shout, as if he were announcing a triumph of arms—“ Father and Mother are here!" Well, what of that? Is not every one at liberty to choose his own company? For my part, I am not fond of so much ceremony! Anson wrote me that they had been very gay this winter. I suppose they think, now I am gone, some one must be young; so they have taken it upon themselves to fill my place; determined, John Quincy-like, to enjoy a "green old age.' This is just what I like. I monopolize all the enjoyment I can; and that, thank Heaven! is a large share; and I want others to do the same.

Last week brother Thales wrote us, that our dear brother in M. is constantly bleeding at the lungs. This is painful, but I hope not immediately dan

gerous. Last winter, when I was sick in New York, I had a profuse hemorrhage from the lungs; (do not tell our family, for it would give them a great deal of anxiety!) but now I am as well as I was before, and better. I think there is a chance of brother O.'s getting up again; but if he should never, I do not know of a woman better calculated to struggle with the world than D.

Tell brother Elzar he is very kind in interesting himself about my health; but Mr. C. is more vigilant than forty doctors. He still keeps me in leading strings, and every suggestion from friends only shortens my chain. So if Elzar does not want to deprive me of all liberty, I hope he will change the subject in his next letter. If the wind steals through the casement like a breeze from the better land, I must be hustled off into some corner, where the sweet air of heaven can never visit me. If the day is so fine as to woo all the world abroad, and me too, I must be smothered with as many clothes as a Chinese. If I think to "eat and make merry," as we are commanded, (are we not?) I must push aside the rich pastry, and tempting pudding, and regale myself, perhaps, like Victoria, upon a little "stale bread." I reckon he forgets I am a daughter of Eve.

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XII.

TO B. LINDSLEY, ESQ.

PHILADELPHIA, June 25, 1846.

MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER,-" The best of the wine at the last of the feast!"

So I suppose

you reckon on an extra treat. I fear, however, you will be disappointed; though I would gladly raise as glowing a goblet to your lips as ever pressed those of a friend. My vintage is all from the same vine; and whatever may be the advantages of age, you will certainly have the benefit of it.

I used to suspect sometimes that you intended giving me an agreeable surprise in the form of a letter; but a sober second thought always told me that, like Diogenes, you would quicker ask me to "stand out of your sunshine;" so I have comforted myself with the thought, that one of these days I would storm your battery, and you would either have to fire back or surrender.

I rather think it is my turn now to enter a charge of neglect, for I wrote Thales more than six weeks ago, and no answer yet. I have to laugh sometimes, to think how sister B.'s shoulders escape the lash, while I must be trained up to the post, and take my chastisement without flinching. I have often heard it said, that flogging never made a child any better; so you have hit upon another plan to cure me of my negligence, rebuking me with silence. Now this is the most effectual plan you could devise, though I do not like to own it, for fear you will adopt

this mode altogether.

When I do not hear from

you in a long time, I begin to wonder what is the reason you don't write. Sometimes I conjecture you have taken offense at something I have written in my last; and then I set myself to calling up every sentence that shadows of a frown or pleasantry; and having satisfied myself on that point, I next conclude some family affliction has befallen you, and I wait in fearful suspense until I hear from you. Do not keep me hung up much longer. If you are displeased, give it circulation in the form of a letter. The greatest injury it can do, will be to elicit a few sparks, if it come in contact with any combustible, and its fire will be but of ephemeral duration. If you are sick, I want to know it; and if neglectful, why acknowledge that; for you will find yourself in the best company, and I shall be one of the party.

Brother M. writes me that at home no body misses me at all. "Sour grapes!" Possibly, however, it is true; for astronomers say, when the light of a distant luminary is extinguished, its radiance continues streaming down to us for many years; and I have thought, no doubt my star continues to glitter in the family constellation, unless W. O. has placed her sign over it, and stolen away my birthright. If she has, I will come home and wage war with her directly.

Philadelphia is one of the most beautiful cities in the Union. The streets are regular and broad, and