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Mary, life is what we make it; shut out from all that is external, we are pretty much the creators of the world we live in. Let us see to it then, that we be good creators. Since day and night are the same, we can as well people our minds with the beams of the one, as the clouds of the other; as well call back images of joy and gladness, as those of grief and care. The latter, however, may sometimes be our guests to sup and dine, but let them never be permitted to lodge with us. We came forth in childhood's morn to gather dowers, and because on our way we have dropped a few, we will not sit down and weep over the lost, but rather amuse ourselves by counting and admiring those we have left.

Blindness makes us painfully dependent; but God forbid our hearts murmur, or our lips complain. "The earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof." The cattle upon a thousand hills are his; running waters and green pastures are in his hands, and even now, he may be leading us hither, by ways we have not known! In the love and sympathy of friends, who every where hasten to do us kindness, we have a well-spring of pleasure, inexhaustible as the good feelings of the human heart. Cora is an angel of patience, Mary, or I had not written you so long a letter. Her little hand must be weary, though she says no, and when I complain of troubling her, she folds her arms around my neck and whispers, afflicted friends are our ministering spirits -- for us they languish -- for us they die.

Mary, it is four by the clock, and I fancy myself again in the Institution parlor, drumming a piano lesson, as if noise were its only object. Now opens the door; Kitty, Libby, Josey, and Susa, all in the same breath inquire, Mr. Dean? Mr. Dean? No; he has not come yet; away they run and presently return with some dozen more; now they are not mistaken; his well-known tread in the hall they heard, and his voice guides them to his arms; some are in his lap, others hang around his chair; all expect a kiss, a kind word; yes, and something more. -- Look! what has he now for these, his pet children? Pine-apples, bananas, figs, oranges! These with a father's fondness he divides, answering meantime their many questions of the people who grow and gather such delicious fruits; how preserved, where procured, &c. -- But where is Charley, the pet of all the house? forgive the little rogue, he has gone trudging up the long stairs with a heart full of complaint to Miss Wild, that his apron-pockets ain't "bigger enough." Patting them on the head affectionately, Mr. Dean says, go away now my children to your play, while I read a little to these larger girls; bless his heart! some choice book we know, perhaps just from the press; and as we sit encircled round, hour after hour goes unheeded by, till late in the evening we bid him good night at the yard gate. It is a long walk to Mr. Dean's mansion, but happy thoughts, like good society, always annihilate time and distance. Oh! Mary, is it not heart-mending to live over in after time, seasons of such rich enjoyment. I often wonder who comes to read for you on Sabbath evenings, now our friend Mr. Murray has made his home in Oswego. We never forget those to whom we have been truly kind; so we will hope thoughts of those whom his frequent visits made so happy, will come to him sometimes even there. Yesterday, two Canaries were presented me; one I shall bring to you, and the other to Ann. Their voices are equalled in sweetness by none but your own. Pardon me, if I flatter, but I could not compliment their musical powers more, or describe them to you better. -- Remember me kindly to all in the Institution, and say, in the month of roses I shall again be with them. Good-by, Mary.

New-York Institution for the Blind.

FRIEND CARRIE, -- In the light of many memories I sit me down to write you. The holidays came, and all were again abroad for a little season of pleasure, and I need not tell you that the Institution began to seem lonely enough, to those too far from home and friends to share with them the recreations of the season; when to my delight Mr. H. M. Whitney, of Rochester, came and escorted me over to Brooklyn. The old Dutch custom of devoting the first day of the New Year exclusively to calling, for the gentlemen, is still kept up with much enthusiasm in New-York and Brooklyn. For this one day in the year at least, the ladies do turn democrats, and with open doors and hearts receive with free toleration, all those who choose to look in upon them. It is a nice way too of adding new acquaintances to one's list; for instance, if there chance to be a strange family in the neighborhood, or church, and a gentleman, by introduction or otherwise, pays the lady a New Year's call, she soon after, if the acquaintance be a desirable one, returns the obligation by calling at his house.

There was never a brighter winter morning than dawned with the new year. Broadway was one grand masquerade. Proteus had less shapes than the fashions of its equipage.