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"The next morning all had vanish'd, or my wandering miss'd
the place."

And she never found it again!

We cannot resist quoting some of the concluding stanzas of this exquisite poem, full of a sad and sweet truthfulness.

"I have lost-oh many a pleasure-
Many a hope, and many a power-
Studious health, and merry leisure-
The first dew on the first flower!

But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower!
All my losses did I tell you,

Ye perchance would look away;

Ye would answer me Farewell!' you,
Make sad company to-day;

And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.”

For God placed me like a dial
In the open ground, with power;
And my heart had for its trial,

All the sun and all the shower!

And I suffered many losses, and my first was of the bower."

We could read or repeat this beautiful little poem, a thousand times without feeling weary, partly from sympathy and association, having had a somewhat similar vision in our own childhood, that we never realized. Whether we originally dreamt of, or actually saw such a place, we could never quite determine, but the former appears to be the most probable, since no one can recollect it but ourselves. Sometimes to this day, we are asked laughingly, "Do you remember the Fountain ?" And the past rises up dim and faded like an old picture, but growing more and more distinct the longer we gaze upon it. Memory is a capricious painter, dipping her magic brush alternately in light and gloom. Now glowing and lifelike in her fairy delineations, and anon, tracing only a pale, shadowy outline, which we lack the power to fill up. Still visible at times in the Gallery of the Past, is a sweet and tranquil picture, representing an ancient Fountain, different from anything we ever saw elsewhere, whose waters, like those of Siloam, "flow softly." It is situated in a green, quiet valley bounded by rocks, with doves dwelling in the clefts, and sweeping to and fro over the landscape, like white winged spirits. We were never quite sure whether they were birds or angels!

As children we were continually talking of this ancient Fountain, and pleading to be taken there once again. If we travelled by chance into a strange place, it was always the first thing in our thoughts-the first question upon our lips-" Are

we going to the Fountain ?" A green, sunny vista unexpectedly opening, made our hearts beat with a sudden rapture; but we never saw the Fountain or the Doves in reality, and of late years, have ceased even to dream of them.

A celebrated authoress pleasantly relates, as among some of the very earliest reminiscences of a spoiled and petted childhood, the very natural idea that there never was any one half so beautiful and clever as her little self, and goes on to add, with a strange mingling of humour and pathos, how this too common idiosyncracy was gradually obscured by the trials and disappointments of after life.

A friend of the above, whose christian name was Alice, used to fancy that there was but one such appellation in all the world; and many were the passionate and indignant tears which she shed upon being introduced to a little girl of her own age who had usurped her name, as she persisted in terming it, nor could she be persuaded to regard her unoffending companion in any other light but that of a rival. Her childish animosity was at length appeased by her being distinguished in future as "Mamma's Alice," by which endearing appellation she is still known in her early home.

It is strange how soon some children begin to think and feel. A well-known writer upon education, says, "I have seen an infant in arms quiver the lip, and at length melt into tears when her sister played a slow affecting tune; and a little boy of three years old, when his mother, as he sat on her lap, sang to him a Scottish ballad about a girl who wandered over the mountains covered with snow, without shoes and stockings, burst out weeping, and wanted to give her his."

A lady who had the misfortune to lose her mother, when about three years of age, distinctly remembers how this dear parent used to lie down on the bed beside her, either singing her to sleep, or relating little histories or fairy tales. Sometimes she tried to teach her a hymn, or a psalm, but the child liked the fairy tales best. She can remember also that when they walked out together, the moon seemed to follow them, and that she used to look back to see if it was coming. "Somehow," she adds, "the moon always shone then!" In all probability, the careful mother only suffered her darling to venture out when the evening was particularly fine.

We heard a laughable anecdote the other day, the narrator of which stated, that, as a child, nothing could persuade her but that she had only to make the attempt, in order to be able to fly

like the birds. Repeated failures could not succeed in convincing her of the contrary, and the illusion was only dispelled at length, by a severe fall down a flight of stone steps, having attempted in her childish presumption to fly from the top to the bottom. "The lesson," she added, " was not without its moral; but my proud aspiring spirit required many such before it was content to tread in the common and useful track of every-day life, from which it was continually winging its ambitious flight, and receiving many a fall in consequence.

A dear friend of our own, who resided in early life in a wild, mountainous district, chiefly celebrated for the luxuriant profusion of the brilliant, and intensely blue flowers of the gentiana, which grew there in great abundance, had a childish superstition, that the color of the skies arose from their being also covered like the earth with these radiant blossoms, and would not have gathered, or set her foot upon one for the world! She always wept to see them fading away; it seemed a link between her and heaven. The same child, when little more than three years old, having been rebuked for some slight fault, suddenly disappeared; and after many hours anxious search was found at length, kneeling upon the summit of a steep rock, which she had climbed up, every one marvelled how, thinking to be nearer God, and that he would take her away, for which she had prayed very earnestly. For many years it was her constant resort in all her childish troubles, let the weather be ever so inclement. A sweet type of that "Rock in a weary land," which was to be her comfort and rejoicing in after years.

"When I was a child," writes a late author, "a red and stormy sunset always made me unhappy. I used to think that God was angry with me about something. The sunshine, I imagined to be His smile, and hailed it as a sure token of love and reconciliation. I either fancied, or some one had told memost probably the latter that the moon watched over little children, and always felt safe and happy slumbering beneath its tranquil beams."

A friend of ours has in her possession a small Indian figure, which bears the singular appellation of "The left one!" a name given by herself on her first arrival in England, being at that time about three years of age. There was in all probability, something in the attitude of the figure, which must have reminded her of those hand-mills so common in the East, and generally turned by two women, one on either side. The beau-i tiful scriptural allusion to this custom was evidently in the

child's mind, although imperfectly understood-"Two women shall be grinding at the mill; the one shall be taken and the other left." And so that solitary figure got the name of the "left one," and is known by no other to this day.

Speaking on the subject of childish reminiscences, we find that there are very few who have not some to relate—some singular idiosyncracy concerning themselves or others, at which we laugh or weep alternately. It has been our endeavour in the present paper to rescue a few of these from oblivion; and it is possible that their perusal may awaken the memory of many others in the hearts of our readers. The subject is deeply interesting, and opens a wide field to the imagination, being well worthy the attention of both the poet and the philosopher.

SONG.

WHEN memory's magic power displays,

Some scene within the past;

Connected with our darker days,

Once sadly overcast;

The thought of all the sorrows then
That press'd upon the brow;

Doth doubly make us joy again,

If we are happy now.

When parted from the heart we love
That's destin'd for our own,

Then memory's blessed power we prove,
Which leaves us not alone;

Oh! who would heed departed care?
Let each accomplished vow

Grow sweeter from the days that were,
To those who're happy now.

May all that look for future bliss
Amid the present gloom;
Take hope to cheer them on to this,
Life's sunny spot of bloom;
For it can brighter scenes reveal,
And cheer the drooping brow;

On every heart then let it steal
To make us happy now.

THE CURATE OF GLEN-BEVILLE.

(Continued from page 32.)

Ravensworth sighed for the presence of one to share his home with him, to be the sunshine of his dwelling, the charm of his winter fireside, whose life he would seek to make happy, whose wishes he would consult and gratify-one to think of him with confidence, to entwine round him for support and mutual affection, to have a congenial taste and mind, to share with him one heart, one hope, one thought. The lady, whom he would have selected as his partner-like a flower cherished with much care-had received too costly a nurture to be roughly taken from her luxurious home. This idea damped his hopes, but did not diminish love-that grew stronger as the barrier between him and his coveted object appeared greater and more insurmountable.-" Yet," he said internally, "I have heard of bright and gifted beings leaving court and castle to link their destinies with those on whom the Star of Fortune had not beamed-on those even who have been pursued by resistless fate, and toiled on through the desert of life. I have known that these noble creatures have clung devotedly to the heart that has been bowed down by misfortune, and have scorned the gayer and alluring scenes of life for the beloved. Yet how dare I say she loves me? her smile attracts, her eyes encourage me. She evinces a desire to please me, and our opinions and many of our tastes accord. With all this, I cannot flatter myself I am beloved, though it is a sweet hope. I cannot confide in Ethel; she has a natural reserve and that does not encourage such an important declaration as mine-and perhaps she may conclude me presumptuous. However, patience! some little incident may reveal the reality of her feelings, and the discovery of her unsolicited love will be a higher gratification.

These were the thoughts of Sydney Ravensworth one summer evening as he obeyed the summons of his friend, Mr. Mordaunt, who was the possessor of the neighbouring mansion, called Oakwood. The approach to this neglected mansion was through an avenue of stately oaks. The park contained a few deer, so long unused to the sight of horsemen and carriage, and so seldom driven from the pathway by even a pedestrian, that when a human being became visible, they started off in all their native wildness. As Ravensworth passed the ponderous gates, they at once perceived him, and bounded in alarm and

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