poetical Quakeress, and now and then she introduces a line or two of beautiful poetry into her conversation, but always appropriately, and agreeably. I feel refreshment and repose from her very presence. Mrs. J. makes me experience the same with her cold baths, the fresh originality of her character, and those disputes which, to my great amusement, I almost always hear between her and Dr. Hebbe—and above all by the delicious peace and freedom which she affords me in her excellent home.
It is Sunday, and I have remained at home from church to rest and converse with you. It is very hot, but the sycamore-tree outside my window casts a shadow, and all is kept cool by the green Venetian shutters.
And now you are indeed with mamma at Årsta, my little Agatha, and are living out in the summer air and among the flowers. May everything else at home afford you summer benefit also, and enable you to enjoy your rural life!
Here everything is again in perfect warfare. President Taylor reposes in his quiet grave, sincerely lamented by his nearest friends, and by his comrades on the field of battle. His funeral was performed with some pomp, but much less than that of Colhoun in Charleston, and attracted much fewer spectators. Political parties seemed to prepare themselves for renewed combat over his grave, and those impulses which his death seemed to have called forth in Congress towards the consideration of subjects higher than selfish and worldly interests, appear now buried with him. Mr. King, the senator from Alabama, is now the Speaker in place of Mr. Fillmore, and occupies the post with somewhat more acerbity of manner and considerably less grace. Newspaper articles are now showered down on Fillmore, who has all at once become the greatest man of the United States, scrutinising
