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!"