Blindness is sometimes, but, we are happy to say, not very often, accompanied by deafness--utter deafness. Blindness is a sad calamity; but when blindness and deafness meet in the same object, what a deplorable picture presents itself to every feeling heart! Blind, deaf, mute! Christian reader, reflect--by what means, by what process, shall access be gained to the undying mind? How can we, by human means, instil into the soul the glad tidings of salvation, demonstrate the corruptness of human nature, the necessity of a new birth, the efficacy of prayer, and the perfections of the triune Jehovah? Think of an immortal soul imprisoned in such a rayless, silent tenement, debarred from all acquaintance with the world around, except as far as feeling may go, and taste and smell. But God often works in a mysterious way, and perhaps communicates light to the mind, when the visual orbs are sealed up in darkness, and the invitations of Christ cannot be heard from the lips of his pious minister--the good shepherd, who is commanded to care for the little ones of the fold. Oh! how thankful to our gracious God ought we to be, for the full use of all our senses--those inlets to the knowledge either of good or of evil, nay, of both; but let us say, "I and my house will serve the Lord!" The following account is condensed from the "American Annals of Education," and from captain Basil Hall's "Travels in North America." It refers to the deeply touching and most interesting case of Julia Brace, a deaf, dumb, and blind American girl, who resides in the Institution for the Deaf and Dumb at Hertford, Connecticut: "Julia Brace was seized with typhus fever at four years of age; during the first week of her illness she became blind and deaf; she retained her speech for about a year, (the tongue acting mechanically, according to acquired muscular habit,) frequently repeating her letters, and spelling the names of her acquaintance; but she gradually lost it, and seems now condemned to perpetual silence. For three years she continued to utter a few words; one of the last was 'mother' (that word clung to her tongue; it was the earliest she heard and spoke, and the last that died on her lips!) At first she was unconscious of her misfortune, and imagined that a long night had come upon the world. At length, in passing a window, she felt the sun shining warm upon her hand, and she made signs indicating she was aware of it; she was governed by her mother, by means similar to those employed in the case of Mitchell. At first she was exceedingly irritable, but she became at length habitually mild, obedient, and affectionate. At nine years of age she was taught to sew, (wonderful the conjunct operation of the nerves of sensibility and muscular sense!) and since that time to knit. Julia Brace, who is now nearly thirty years of age, is supported in the Hertford Asylum, in part by the contributions of visitors, and in part by her own labours in sewing and knitting. A language of