But this will not be the last I shall see or hear of this procession. I know that, an hour later, the mourners will have dried their tears, and that they who went to the grave, marching slowly and with sober countenances, to the movement of the Dead March, will return to the quick tempo of "Champagne Charlie," or some other musical abomination. Have we no respect for the dead! Is it creditable to common humanity to go through the streets uttering a funereal lie--to shovel a man into his grave, and, while the grave-maker is patting the turf with his shovel, to come trotting home to the music of a ribald Casino song? Is human life of no more account than this? Is the life of our friend of so little consequence, when compared with the nonsense and delusions of this world, that we leave him and all recollections of him with the grave-maker? Is there no sober, serious thought for us in the new-made grave? If there is not--if, when a man dies, he dies like a horse, only to be shoved out of sight, the quicker the better, that we may not be delayed any longer than possible from the exactions of business and distractions of pleasure--I pray that those who have these public funerals in charge, may at least consult the feelings of some, to whom such inconsiderate and irreverent unconcern for the dead is a fearful shock. April 17, 1869. _A CHILD'S STORY--THE THREE ROSES._ I write to you to-day with a certain sort of sadness, and yet not mourning as one without hope. I think one can become strongly attached to inanimate things, and, after associating with them for years, come to invest them with certain human attributes, and even to love them. They grow to be part of one's self, and reflect, in some degree, the individuality of the possessor. I have now sat for nearly three years at the old desk before me, in the same old corner, with the same blank prospect of brick walls and the little patch of blue sky no bigger than the lace handkerchief which swings from your finger, my dear Madame, and discoursed each week upon all sorts of pleasant topics in my careless way, always satisfied if here and there you might find a little flower worth laying away in your memory as a souvenir. Many of you who started on our journey through the World of Amusement are with me still, but some have left and gone up higher to the Beautiful Country; and one cruel summer which killed so many birds and blighted so many flowers, we all travelled with heavier hearts, thinking of the little ones whom the jealous angels enticed away, and some of us could hardly see the way for a time for the black shadow of the valley and the mists which were in our eyes.