some of the thoughts that are crowding my brain and swelling my heart, and dive a little deeper into things than the minions of fashion, who hit them upon the surface and play with the bubbles?

And apropos of fashion, what do you think of it generally? and more especially the female devotees-those gay butterflies, fluttering through the gaudy parlors of this temple of fashion and folly! Think you that a really genuine heart beats beneath the folds of each gorgeous silk or velvet; or that many ideas have birth within those heavily laden (externally) heads? Is there a soul there? I doubt it. Not but that each fair one has her peculiar affections to a degree, and some little warmth about the region anatomically denominated the heart. For example: a fashionable wife has a husband; likes him well enough; he is a good sort of man; foots the bills, and asks no questions. Or, a gay widow, with several et ceteras, really is very fond of them, but they are much better at home; morals would be contaminated at a hotel, (entre nous, they would scare off the beaus). Then, a mincing, simpering, flirting young lady has a beau, her own especial favorite, him whom she allows to squeeze her hand the longest-who accompanies her oftenest to the theatre, concert, or what not. She has half said yes, but won't decide, though he really has "such sweet eyes ;" and she believes she will marry him, if she can't do better! What a heterogeneous mass is here assembled; what a conglomeration of follies; what a variety of animals in the human menagerie !

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And not only our sex, but the men. Vain, flattering, light, deceptive, empty (pockets as well as heads), coxcombish fellows, that are to be seen here! Look at that veni, vidi, vici specimen, as he pauses at the door, levels his glass at a dress (not the wearer in it), pronounces it stylish, pretty; addresses some trifling words to a feminine; to an indifferent question gives a worse answer; then saunters on to utter the same vapid nonsense to some other belle, and rehearse the same parody upon the noblest enjoyment of life-social and intellectual intercourse between the sexes. "Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness!" sigh I, rather than a palace in a world peopled by such bipeds. Give me but a small circle of earnest natures, whose warmth of manner is not thə exuberance of vanity, or the effervescence of wine, but the natural outpouring of a candid nature; whose professions are sincere; and

whose souls, purified from the dross of worldliness, are alive to nobler aims than the pursuit of fashionable folly.

With this admirably written and most suggestive criticism, I will fold my sheet, and save Mobile as a postscript to this. To confess the honest truth, I am not yet entirely here; although body, trunk, &c., are snugly bestowed in the "Battle House." I cannot yet decide whether I have acted more like a fool or a heroine, in resisting all those plantation invitations. The beautiful and classic pleadings of the fair Iberian Creole, are almost as irresistible as the song of the Lurelei in the legend of the Rhine. Recedingly yours.

P. S.-Love to New-Orleans in general; and to in particular.

to

and to

MY DEAR

LETTER No. XVII.

STEAMER ST. CHARLES, ALABAMA RIVER,
February 28, 1858.

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WHEN a celebrated French philosopher asked a celebrated French philosophress if, in her opinion, the woman ever lived whose virtue was impregnable, she naively and wisely answered, "c'est selon." This is

my reply to the question: Is the trip from NewOrleans to Mobile a pleasant one? Five years ago, when I crossed the placid lake in company with a handsome and gallant New-York gentleman, with no regrets behind me, and all my hopes before me-(I was younger then)-Pontchartrain was sleeping serenely in the lovely, lustrous moonlight, and the voyage was fairy-like and beautiful. But now, how changed! The winds and waves were tumultuous, and there was neither moon nor star-light to relieve the darkness resting upon the face of the deep. It was a wild, rough night, and the "Cuba" was rudely buffeted; but, thanks to my stars, (and stomach,) I was able to preserve my equilibrium, although the demon of sea-sickness was madly rioting among the crowd of passengers.

On leaving the wharf, my attention was attracted by an act of sentimental gallantry worthy of notice. A tall young gentleman, whose face and name are familiar to the guests of the St. Charles, stood, like a statue, at the end of the pier, holding aloft a snowy handkerchief, which "fluttered in the breeze," until both the flag and the flag-staff were lost in the distance. This compliment might have been intended for one "whom modesty forbids me to mention ;" but truth compels me to add, that a fair Mobile belle sat

leaning over the rail of the vessel, looking very sadly and very earnestly at the fading figure so pertina ciously "seeing her off." The pale beauty looked still paler half an hour afterwards, as she staggered to her stateroom and called for the chambermaid-and a basin! Love is no antidote for sea-sickness; but it is a question if sea-sickness is not an antidote for lovea temporary one, at least.

At half-past ten o'clock A. M., the next day, we landed at Mobile--a pleasant cotton city of some thirty thousand inhabitants-where the people live in cotton houses and ride in cotton carriages. They buy cotton, sell cotton, think cotton, eat cotton, drink cotton, and dream cotton. They marry cotton wives, and unto them are born cotton children. In enumerating the charms of a fair widow, they begin by saying she makes so many bales of cotton. It is the great staple -the sum and substance of Alabama. It has made Mobile, and all its citizens. Next to the cotton interest, the accomplished Madame Levert is the "peculiar institution," and particular attraction of the place —a rare and radiant woman, who embodies and expresses in her charming person the richness, sweetness, brightness, and exuberance of the sunny South. Long before the arrival of the boat, her servant was waiting at the wharf with a warm note of welcome,

in a rose-tinted envelope, inviting your "fair correspondent" to her pleasant and hospitable home. The room in which "Lady Emeline," Mrs. Bremer, and many other "world-noted women," had rested and written, was, as they say in Spain, "at my disposition "—the water in the pitchers, and a magnificent bouquet of garden roses on the table. And here I might dwell upon the thoughtful kindness, the delicate considerations, the artistic surroundings, that lend a nameless grace to the poetic home of this warmhearted, noble-minded woman. But I will not. Let the sweet sanctuary of domestic life be forever veiled from the gaze of an unsympathizing world, and the fire-side of the gifted in heart and soul be as sacred from intrusions as the bridal-room of joy, or the darkened chamber of sorrow.

And here, too, I was delighted, and yet startled, to meet my old friend, "John Phenix," one of the wittiest of wits and most genial of gentlemen. Poor fellow! He has been very ill, with an obliquity of vision that sees everything double; and that, too, upon a strictly cold water regimen! But he is better now; and although unable to read or write, (a great loss to himself and to the world,) his conversation is an exhilarating stream of humor; and his sparkling spirits are as good as a tonic. In body he