by railroad, and from thence to Wheatland in a carriage furnished by a friend. The little school was there still, taught by a young girl. She was evidently embarrassed on seeing strangers, and the more so when informed who we were, and the occasion of the visit; but she demeaned herself with great propriety, and after conversation, asked me to make an address suited to the circumstances, which I attempted; but my heart choked my utterance, my voice was almost inaudible, my eyes filled with tears, and I found myself a child. How could it have been otherwise? I was an aged and white-haired man, with care and bereavement written on my forehead, standing where I had stood more than forty years before, when I had known neither. And where were the little confiding flock I had parted with in April, 1822? Alas! many had gone forever! perhaps death had the majority! The living were scattered worldwide by the strange events of life, and could never be gathered with their teacher until the final day! I remembered my favorite, Delia Stone, with her bright, blooming face, and her trim red flannel dress, but no one there could remember her. I inquired for others of my pupils, but echo answered "Where?” I went up to the former mansion of your father, Elder Stone, who used to call me "the Master," where your dear mother so often remembered me with doughnuts and pies while I “boarded round." The old house was there; but it had been abandoned by the owner for a more ambitious structure. The chimney had been taken from the venerated mansion; the hearthstone, the gathering-place of affection, had been removed, and all was full of desolation. Not a face did I see that I could recognize, nor did I find one who remembered me as the schoolmaster of an age gone by. It was a day to me full of strange and mingled emotions; my heart leaped with joy at the pleasant memories, and bled afresh to think their realities had passed away forever.

Though my head has been bleached by the frosts of sixtytwo winters, I have been blessed with excellent health; can read by night or day without glasses; am as straight and vigorous, though not as lithe and sprightly as when you knew me. I send you some of my speeches, and, if agreeable to you, shall be glad to correspond with you, for we evidently entertain the friendship and mutual regard of our spring-time.

I am pleased to know that you have offered up your sons upon the altar of our country, for it is one of the noblest spectacles of mortal existence to see a mother thus devote and dedicate her children to save her country. May He who "tempers the wind to the shorn lamb" shield and protect them, and restore them safe to your arms, to be the stay and solace of your declining years. We have no sons to send to the war, but have many near and dear friends engaged in the conflict.

There is with me something sacred in the purity of early friendships, before the heart has become cold, selfish, and distrustful-full of cankering cares and disappointments; but when the good genius which guided our childhood and youth bears sway in the heart over prejudice and passion-oh, does not something whisper in us that the pure in heart shall meet again, far away beyond this bleak existence; where the skies are fadeless; where the affections flow out from the gushing wellsprings of eternity? Shall we not "know each other there," and in Heaven renew our early associations and affections, where the tendrils which unite our hearts will never, as here, be severed and bleeding. What was it but that divinity which "swells eternal in the human breast," that prompted you to write me after a separation of more than forty years? What is it that draws out my heart to you after so long a period? It is that pure and unselfish friendship, which is the redeeming feature in fallen man, and of which of a truth we may say, " Of such is the kingdom of Heaven."

This long and crude epistle, written amidst the press of engagements, and frequent interruptions, will nevertheless tell you how much I am and ever have been interested in you; how sincerely obliged I am to you for remembering and addressing me; how anxious I am to hear further from you, and to assure you that when I go near you (and I occasionally go West) I shall call to see you. Mrs. D. and all my family unite in a feeling of great interest for one for whom I cherish so lively a regard, and my wife joins me in an urgent invitation for you to visit us when you come to this section of the country. I hope you will keep me advised of your address, that I may occasionally communicate with you.

May that Being who has preserved us from youth to age,

and permitted this interchange, bless, protect and cherish you and yours, and may you still remember with regard the teacher of the little school.

Yours affectionately,

D. S. DICKINSON.

P. S.-I send you my photograph, and also one of our pet boys. I have yours of 1822, more complete in every feature, and lineament than art can ever produce, in my "mind's eye,' and no representations of the present original by an artist can ever displace that, as it is one of the visions of early friendship. I shall be pleased to learn how Time has dealt with you, if convenient and agreeable.

MR. DICKINSON TO MRS. WESTCOTT.

THE ORCHARD. Christmas Morning, 1862.

MY DEAR SISTER LUCIE-The beautiful and tasteful present you were kind enough to send me as a Christmas offering deserves the acknowledgment of a heart warmed and gratified by the memorial of affection. Will you accept it, with the assurance of a brother's love, commencing when you were a child, and neither weakened by time, nor chilled by care, nor obscured by age; but increasing with time, and growing stronger with years.

No ordinary tendril of affection, my dear sister, has bound you to my heart, through a long life, chequered by vicissitude; and to-day you seem nearer and dearer than ever. May we both be spared to each other, and to those who love us, to a goodly age; and when the fragile pitcher of life shall be "broken at the fountain," may we and those whom death cannot divide drink together the waters of life eternal. The love I bear you, and the remembrances of your sympathy, will burn with a pure and constant glow even in death.

Your affectionate brother,

D. S. DICKINSON.

MR. DICKINSON TO MRS. MYGATT.

THE ORCHARD, Christmas Morning, 1862.

MY DEAR MARY—I accept your beautiful present of a cross with affectionate emotion, and return you the warm tribute of a father's heart. That I may ever indulge a lively remembrance of the sentiments which prompted a gift so appropriate, and walk in a way which the symbol admonishes, is the prayer of my heart.

Your affectionate father,

D. S. DICKINSON.

MR. DICKINSON TO COLONEL PAINE.

ALBANY, January 7, 1863.

MY DEAR COLONEL-Your favor of the 31st ult. is before

me, and I once again sit down to write you.

* ** * * *

I was so shocked and humiliated by the perfidy which the result of the election showed existed in the Union organization, betraying it to death, that I did not feel like saying anything to any one. The defeat in itself was of no consequence, but the causes which produced it are enough to fill the mind of every honest man of every party with concern. I much more fear my dear sir, the demoralization of the day than I do all other causes combined. It threatens us more than the rebel armies and foreign intervention together. I hold and cling to all my Democratic ideas, but I do not propose to join nor act with the bastard, stultified, jobbing, disloyal gang, who control the Democratic party. Neither do I belong to the Republican organization. It is my mission to rally the masses if I can to put down this rebellion, and I shall be found with those who go most directly and energetically to that end,-making that the one paramount idea, and everything else subsidiary and incidental.

If my advice and programme had been followed in the Legislative address, the Union organization could not have been broken. But there were schemes of political and personal

ambition to be provided for, and hence the course pursued. As they did not take my plan, I fought as well as I could on theirs, and the result is before us.

I wrote you last summer of my visit to Wheatland. There was a favorite young lady who attended that school, for whom I had often inquired; we were then intimate friends, but had not heard from each other in more than forty years. She wrote me ten days since from Iowa, saying she had read and heard much of me as a public man; but never suspected I was her Wheatland teacher until last summer, when she read some newspaper biography, and thought I might be the same. She had just read a speech of mine which so interested her, that she determined to write and ask me. Her letter caused me deeper emotion than any event for many years. I gave her a long, and perhaps interesting account of much that had transpired since I was a rustic boy, unknown except to a few friends of a school district at home, and the one where I taught, and she a beautiful girl of seventeen, full of life and hope, but now a widow with sons in the war-one fallen, another in a hospital, and a third in the field. It can interest none as it does the parties, but to us it is full of emotion.

Allow me, if not too late, to wish for Mrs. Paine, yourself and family, all the kind suggestions of the season, and many happy returns. Mrs. D. is in New York with our daughter. Sincerely yours,

Col. N. E. PAINE.

D. S. DICKINSON.

MR. DICKINSON TO MRS. MYGATT

ALBANY, January 10, 1863.

MY DEAR MARY-Thank you, my dear, for your kind note by Charlie, and the rest.

Your mother and Lydia are "walking Elysian fields amid ambrosial flowers" in the housekeeping line. Your mother is delightfully situated for her; free from care and noise, and, if she can content herself to stay away from me, is a thousand times better off than she would be here, where there are so many smoking, drinking, swearing, snoring politicans, that they