springs from the divinity within us—for God is love. We admire the man who hesitates not to recall with raptures, even when descending the downhill of life, the first faint radiance of an early-kindled flame, and its steady advance to a consuming fire; the stolen interview, the secret billets, the longer letters; the watchings for the glimmer of light in her distant apartment, for fail many a night, when none but the pale stars were looking down upon the summer's sward or the winter's enow; and, thrice-blessed moment! when, all doubt vanished, all aspirations realized, that fond girl placed her soft, warm hand in his; when, with wild audacity, he clasped her to his bosom; when, for the first time, their lips were joined, and their two souls, like dew-drops, rushed into one. Of how many thousands will this be the experience, before these pages shall become forgotten records! How will even aversion melt to final pity, and ridicule be transformed into admiration, and admiration into love! 'Delicate girl,' wrote a keen observer of human nature, many years ago, 'delicate girl, just budding into womanly loveliness whose heart for the last ten minutes has been trembling behind the snowy walls of thy fair and beautiful bosom, hast thou never remarked and laughed at an admirer, for the mauvaise honte with which he hands to thee a book, or thy cup of half-watered sou-chong? Laugh not at him again, for he will assuredly be thy husband.' Yes! he will tremble for a few months more, as he stands beside thy music-stool, and join no others in the heartless mockery of their praise; but when every voice which has commended thy song, is hushed, and every note which thou hast clothed in ethereal music, is forgotten by all beside, to him it will be a theme to dream upon in his loneliness, and every look which thine eye vouchsafed to him, will be laid up as a sacred and a holy thing, in the inmost sanctuary of his secret soul. Thou wilt see, in a short time, that the tremulousness of his nerves is only observable, when his tongue is faltering in his address to thee; pity will enter into thy gentle heart, and thyself wilt sometimes turn the wrong page in thy book of songs, and strike the wrong note on thy piano, when thou knowest that his ears are drinking in thy voice, and his eyes following thy minutest action. Then will he, on some calm evening, when the sun is slowly sinking behind the west, tell thee that without thee he must indeed be miserable; that thou art the one sole light which has glowed and glittered upon 'life's dull stream.'
There follow a few pretty and fanciful lines, written, as we gather from a correspondent, by a child , who has not yet reached her thirteenth year. She is the daughter of Mr. Thomas Mathews, of the National Theatre, whose début, the last season, at that establishment, in the part of Apollo, elicited general applause:
THE ORIGIN OF THE SNOW DROP.
An ingenious machinist in France once obtained a patent for an automaton 'crieur,' that was well adapted for selling property of all descriptions. The machine performed every relative duty of the most experienced auctioneer, with significant and appropriate actions, without the wonted noise and nonsense. When set in motion, it called the
