E. M. R."

We have many other letters from which we might make similar extracts,
but our purpose in making the above was to give us an opportunity to say
to our friends, that our bark is again ready for sea, with the
flattering prospect of making a pleasant voyage, and that our sails are
trimmed and need but the favoring breeze to speed it on its way.

* * * * *

Original.

COUSIN MARY ROSE; OR, A CHILD'S FIRST VISIT.

BY GEORGIANA MAY SYKES.

How capricious is memory, often retaining through life trivial and
transient incidents, in all the freshness of minute details, while of
far more important events, where laborious effort has been expended to
leave a fair and lasting record, but faint and illegible traces
frequently remain!

Far back in my childhood, so far that I am at a loss where to place it,
is a little episode, standing so far apart from the main purport of its
history, that I do not know how it happened, or whether the original
impression was deepened by its subsequent recurrence. This was a visit
to the village of W----, the home of my Cousin Mary Rose.

I remember distinctly the ride; short it must have been, since it was
but four or five miles from home, but it seemed long to me then. There
was great elation of spirits on my part, and no particular excitement;
but a very sedate pace on the part of our old horse, to whose swinging
gait a monotonous creaking of the old-fashioned chaise kept up a steady
response, not unharmonious, as it was connected in my mind with the idea
of progress. I remember the wonders of the way, particularly my awe of a
place called Folly Bridge, where a wide chasm, filled with many
scattered rocks, and the noisy gurgle of shallow water, had resulted
from an attempt to improve upon the original ford. Green fields, and
houses with neat door-yards, thickened at last into a pretty village,
with a church and school-house, stores and workshops. Then, turning from
the main street, near the church, we took a quiet lane, which soon
brought us to a pause, where our wheels indented the turf of a green
slope, before the gate of a long, low dwelling, half buried in ancient
lilac trees. This was the home of Aunt Rose, who, though no veritable
aunt of mine, was one of those choice spirits, "to all the world akin,"
around whose memory lingers the fragrance of deeds of kindness. Here, by
special invitation, I had come on a visit--my _first_ visit from hom