In music he had also made considerable proficiency, and after an honorable discharge from the institution, in 1838, he returned to his native town, where he employed his time in teaching music, and those handicrafts which he had learned at the institute. Being desirous that all laboring under similar privations should share the benefit which these institutions afford, he at length embarked as an itinerant lecturer, endeavoring to awaken public interest in behalf of the blind. Feeling deeply impressed with the idea expressed in the Garden of Eden, namely, "that it is not good for man to be alone," he sought and obtained the hand of one who has thus far strewn the rugged pathway of his life with flowers. In alluding to this event, he thus beautifully remarks: "I could tell you of one who, free from the intense selfishness in which so many hearts seem shrouded, with graces of person made more attractive by a brilliant intellect, and a heart of untainted purity, left her father's halls, and the society of her early asociates, to share the humble lot of one who could never see her face, or return her glance of deep affection. It was not that she was actuated by a morbid sensibility, nor with the thought that she was making any greater sacrifice than if she had shared the destiny of one less unfortunate. No! It was because she honored him whom she loved; because her education had made her superior to vulgar prejudices, that she was willing to adorn the humble home of a blind man." In 1847, he published a work in 12mo, comprising over four hundred pages of prose and verse, entitled "A Blind Man's Offering," of which he has person ally sold about eighteen thousand copies. This pro duction has been favorably reviewed, and everywhere received and read with interest. We cannot better recommend it to our readers, than by giving the fol lowing, which is, we think, a just example of the el egant style in which it is written : MUSIC. "The man that hath not music in his soul, And is not moved by the concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils." There is but one universal language, one idiom, by which we can express those feelings, sentiments and ideas common to all. This language, this idiom, is music. It pervades all nature. And it is this which seems to connect us, by a thousand mystic ties, to every created thing, and makes us feel, in our silent, contemplative moments, a sympathetic relationship with every object by which we are surrounded, or with which we have been associated. The tree, beneath whose shade we played in our childhood, why is it that we yet remember it? And why do we yet feel that between it and us there once existed a strange but undefinable companionship? Never, amid the din and noise of the world, the selfishness and activity of life, can we entirely forget the music of its rustling leaves, or the thoughts it awakened, as it echoed, at quiet evening, the vesper hymn of the flowers, or answered, at noonday, to the song of the rills. Why is it that we yet retain recollection of those we love, when their image no longer dwells in our mind? It is the music of the voice divine, that can never die. For the tones of love survive the glance of affection. O Music! divinest of all the arts! deepest of alı mysteries! In thee is embalmed the memory of the past, and from thee comes the hope of the future. Thou only revealest the coming blessedness of the race; thou only prophesiest of universal harmony. The phenomena of light, like that of sound, is the result of innumerable vibrations. Everything in nature seems to be in perpetual agitation, and each, in its own way, is ever chanting a gladsome strain, that blendeth in a common chorus, to the Maker of all. From the low song of the flowers, so sweet and plaintive, to the chorus of the spheres, so grand and majes tic, there is perpetually ascending to the Fountain of all, a hymn of gratitude and praise. In this univer. sal harmony, there is but one exception, one discord. Of all created things, man alone mars this pæan of nature. Yes, "the harp of a thousand strings," made capable of such high music, formed for such divine strains, withholds its tribute to the universal harmony, or mars with its broken cadence. The heart of humanity, from which once issued such holy melodies, where is now its primeval min strelsy? Over its broken strings sweeps no more the spirit of love. The fiend of selfishness has broken the instrument, made by the hand of God for the holiest purposes; and where erst an angel caroled, there shrieks a demon. Sad and mournful comes the dirge from him who should have foremost sung the glad some song in nature's universal orchestra. O man! must it ever be thus? Must thou forever sing, in broken strains, the requiem of thy departed joys—of thy lost glory? Shall there gush no more from out thy heart that deep delight that made thy early Eden vocal with thy praises? Shall thy wondrous voice, formed for such lofty eloquence, be tuned no more in unison with nature? Must thy bitter wailing never cease? and all thy life seem but a mockery? No! it shall not always be thus with thee, What the world most needs is a benefactor; one who shall expound to our race the laws of harmony, the observance of which shall place men in true relationship to each other and to nature. A poet or a prophet, whose burning words shall awaken, in the mighty heart of humanity, a deeper consciousness of its unity and its harmonies, that shall kindle once more in the bosom of man the flame of seraphic minstrelsy, and revive again those beautiful affinities that once united him to all intelligences. Then will music, the divinest of all the arts, become what it once was -the medium of all true thought and expression. There are times, when oppressed by the conceptions and aspirations of the soul, we strive in vain for utterance. There are no words that can convey our ideas. Then it is that we have recourse to music, for it is then only that we can truly understand its significance and power. We strive to make ourselves heard and understood, but our yearnings and our struggles meet with no response. The dark world is too much engrossed in its selfishness and sensuality. We commune only with the voices of the past, with the spirits of the departed. Are we sad and sorrowful, we crave the deep sympathy of Beethoven. If we would raise ourselves above this poor life, and catch a glimpse of a higher destiny, we listen with gratitude and admiration to Mozart and Hayden. There are a host of others, who come at our bidding, and with their deep, impassioned strains assuage our griefs and elevate our joys. It is at such times that we cease to be conscious of that dark pall that, from our infancy, hath vailed from us the beautiful in earth and sky. From my earliest days I have felt within me 2 striving to be free, that music can only adequately express: a longing for a deeper sympathy, a closer communion with the good, the true, the beautiful. In childhood, those blessed and balmy days, when the fragrance of the flowers and the music of the |