all our paper Periodicals with pleasure, for sake of the
flowers and the stars. Suppose them all extinct, and life would be like
a flowerless earth, a starless heaven. We should soon forget the seasons
themselves--the days of the week--and the weeks of the month--and the
months of the year--and the years of the century--and the centuries of
all Time--and all Time itself flowing away on into eternity. The
Periodicals of external nature would soon all lose their meaning, were
there no longer any Periodicals of the soul. These are the lights and
shadows of life, merrily dancing or gravely stealing over the dial;
remembrancers of the past--teachers of the present--prophets of the
future hours. Were they all dead, spring would in vain renew her
promise--wearisome would be the long, long, interminable
summer-days--the fruits of autumn would taste fushionless--and the
winter's ingle blink mournfully round the hearth. What are the blessed
Seasons themselves, in nature and in Thomson, but Periodicals of a
larger growth? They are the parents, or publishers, or editors, of all
the others--principal contributors--nay, subscribers too--and may their
pretty family live for ever, still dying, yet ever renewed, and on the
increase every year. We should suspect him of a bad, black heart, who
loved not the Periodical Literature of earth and sky--who would weep not
to see one of its flowers wither--one of its stars fall--one beauty to
die on its humble bed--one glory to drop from its lofty sphere. Let them
bloom and burn on--flowers in which there is no poison, stars in which
there is no disease--whose blossoms are all sweet, and whose rays are
all sanative--both alike steeped in dew, and both, to the fine ear of
nature's worshipper, bathed in music.

Only look at Maga! One hundred and forty-eight months old! and yet
lovely as maiden between frock and gown--even as sweet sixteen! Not a
wrinkle on cheek or forehead! No crow-foot has touched her eyes--

"Her eye's blue languish, and her golden hair!"

Like an antelope in the wilderness--or swan on the river--or eagle in
the sky. Dream that she is dead, and oh! what a world! Yet die she must
some day--so must the moon and stars. Meanwhile there is a blessing in
prayers--and hark! how the nations cry, "Oh! Maga, live for ever!"

We often pity our poor ancestors. How they contrived to make the ends
meet, surpasses our conjectural powers. What a weary waste must have
seemed expanding