blood rushed to my heart—­and, shuddering, I started on my feet, felt no fatigue, knew of no wound, and joined my party.  I had not seen this flower for ten years! but it probably saved my life—­an European officer, wounded and alone, might have tempted the avarice of some of the numerous and savage followers of an Indian army.  In the cooler and calmer hours of reflection since, I have often thought that this appearance was a mere phantom, an illusion—­the offspring of weakness:  I saw it but for a moment, and too imperfectly to be assured of reality; and whatever I believed at the time seems now to have been a painting on the mind rather than an object of vision; but how that image started up.  I conjecture not—­the effect was immediate and preservative.  This flower was again seen in Spain:  I had the command of an advance party, and in one of the recesses of the Pyrenees, of the romantic, beautiful Pyrenees, upon a secluded bank, surrounded by a shrubbery so lovely as to be noticed by many—­was a cowslip.  It was now nearly twenty years since I had seen it in Mysore:  I did not start; but a cold and melancholy chill came over me; yet I might possibly have gazed long on this humble little flower, and recalled many dormant thoughts, had not a sense of duty (for we momentarily expected an attack) summoned my attentions to the realities of life:  so, drawing the back of my hand across my eyes, I cheered my party with, “Forward, lads,” and pursued my route, and saw it no more, until England and all her flowery meadows met my view; but many days and service had wasted life, and worn the fine edge of sensibility away; they were now before me in endless profusion, almost unheeded, and without excitement; I viewed not the cowslip, when fifty, as I had done with the eyes of nineteen.

* * * * *

THE CHRISTMAS BOX.

This is the happiest title in the whole list of annuals.  There is nothing sentimental or lachrymose in it; but it is warm and seasonable, and done up in a holly-green binding, it is all over old Christmas.

The first story in the volume is Old Christmas; one of the gems or sweets is Garry Owen, or the Snow-Woman, by Miss Edgeworth, for it abounds with good sentiment, just such as we should wish in the hearts and mouths of our own children, as a spice for their prattle.

We pass over L’Egotiste Corrigee, par Madame de Labourt—­pretty enough—­and the Ambitious Primrose, by Miss Dagley.  Then a Song, by Miss Mitford; and a Story of Old Times, by Mrs. Hofland; and the Tragical History of Major Brown, a capital piece of fun; and Pretty Bobby, one of Miss Mitford’s delightful sketches.  The Visit to the Zoological Gardens is not just what we expected; still it is attractive.  Major Beamish has accommodated military tactics to the nursery in a pleasant little sketch; and the proverb of Much Coin Much Care, by Mrs. R.S.  Jameson is a little farce for the same stage.