{"character_count": 2671, "word_count": 473, "ccnet_language_score": [0.9616000056266785], "ccnet_perplexity": [2194.5], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
know of nothing more calculated to bring
back the nearly faded dreams of youth-the
almost obliteratcd scenes and passions OF our
boyhood-and to recall the brightest and
best associations Of those days


When the young blood ran riot in the veins,


And boyhood made us sanguinc-


nothing that more easily conjures up the al
ternate Joys and sorrows of maturer years
the fluctuating visions that have fioatcd be-
fore the restless imagination lii times gone
by, and the breathing forms and inanlmate
objects that wound themselves around our
hearts, and became almost necessary to our
existence, than the perusal OF old letters.
They are the memorials OF attachment-thc
records of affection-the speaking-trumpet
through which those whom we esteem hail
us from afar. They seem halowcd by the
brothers grasp, the sisters kiss, the fathers
blessing, and the mothers love. When we
look on them, the friends whom dreary seas
and distant leagues divide from us are again
in our presence. We see their cordial looks
and hear their gladdening voices once more.
| The paper has a tongue in every character
it contains-a language in its very silentness.
They speak to the souls of men like voice
from the grave, and are the links of that
chain which connects with the hearts and
svmpathies of the living an evergreen re-
membrance of the dead. ! have one at
this moment before me, which, although
time has in degree softened the regret that
felt at the loss of him who penncdit, dare


scarcely look upon it. 1t calls back too
forciblv to my remembrance its noble-mind-


ed mthor-thc treasured friend of my ear


liest and happiest days, the sharcr OF my


pueric but innocent joys. l think OF him as


he then was--the frec-the spiiited-the


gav-the welcome guest in every circle
where kind feeling had its weight, or frank
ness and honesty had influence; ard, in an
instat comes the thought of what he now
is; and pale and ghastly images OF death are


lowering round me. l see him, whom low
ed, and priced, and honoured, shlunk into
: poor and wasting ashes. mark stranger
5 closing his powerless litls--a stranger follow
, ing him to the graye-and | cannottrust my


self again to open his last letter. 1t wa!
written but short time before he fell a vic
: tim to the yellow fever in the West Indies
t and told me, in the affecting language o
n Moore, that


Far beyond the western sea,


n Was one whose heart Remembered me,
5 On hearing of his death, wrote some stan
y zas which have prescrvcd-not out OF an.


pride in the verses themselves, but as TO
ken of esteem for him to whom they wer
!. addressed. and true transcript OF my feel
n ines at the time they were composed.