The flowers are the periodicals of the earth—­the stars are those of heaven.  With what unfailing regularity do the Numbers issue forth!  Hesperus and Lucifer! ye are one concern!  The pole-star is studied by all nations.  How beautiful the poetry of the moon!  On what subject does not the sun throw light!  No fear of hurting your eyes by reading that fine, clear, large type on that softened page.  Lo! as you turn over, one blue, another yellow, and another green, all, all alike delightful to the pupil, and dear to him as the very apple of his eye!  Yes, the great Periodical Press of heaven is unceasingly at work—­night and day; and though even it has been taxed, and its emanations confined, still their circulation is incalculable; nor have we yet heard that Ministers intend instituting any prosecution against it.  It is yet Free, the only free Power all over the world.  ’Tis indeed like the air we breathe—­if we have it not, we die!

Look, then, at 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!”