Solitude of the heart must, in some measure, ever adhere to those who outlive their relatives and early friends. Yet my daughter, who is the only being, with the exception of her little ones, in whose veins my blood flows, had for nine years after her marriage a residence so near, that we often met, and by daily sketches of journalizing letters I still keep her sympathies fresh in my heart, and lead a new, or double life in hers. Faithful in every duty, and self-forgetful almost to a fault, the light of her countenance, and the flitting of her robes when she enters my door, are like those of an angel. The taper of filial love still glows amid the gaslight of stronger loves, and she spares me those droppings from newer and more intense affections which my lone heart gratefully receives. If she cannot "take the children's bread, and cast it under the table," yet the crumbs that fall from her free hand give nutriment and joy. Recently she has become a resident of western New York, and I add the simple effusion that sprang forth at the
DEPARTURE OF THE ONLY CHILD.
Bid not farewell, love!
Pass from my door
As one whose returning
An hour may restore;
Use no parting phrases,
But let the smile speak,
