of their own desolation, and to rear their giant shapes to a heaven of lead, whose clouds sluggishly and ponderously move, like marble islands, in an atmos phere of hopeless depression, stagnant and unmoving. Love is the sun of the moral world; which revives, invigorates, calls into life, and illumines all objects; gives strength to the weak, fire to our plans and purposes, brings about great things, and is at once the mainspring and grand mover of all that is not only sweet, graceful, and beautiful in our constitution, but noble, bold, and aspiring. Love's darts are silver; when they turn to fire in the noble heart they impart a portion of that heavenly flame which is their element. Love is of such a refining, elevating character, that it expels all that is mean and base; bids us think great thoughts, do great deeds, and changes our common clay into fine gold. It illuminates our path, dark and mysterious as it may be, with torchlights lit from the one great light. Oh, poor, weak, and inexpressive are words when sought to strew, as with stars, the path and track of the expression of love's greatness and power! Dull, pitiful, and cold; a cheating, horny gleam, as strung stones by the side of precious gems, and the far-flashing of the sparkling ruby with his heart of fire! The blue eyes of turquoises, or the liquid light of the sapphire, should alone be tasked to spell along, and character our thoughts of love.

RECOLLECTIONS.

BY MRS. NORTON.

Do you remember all the sunny places,

Where in bright days, long past, we played together?
Do you remember all the old home faces

That gathered round the hearth in wintry weather?
Do you remember all the happy meetings,

In Summer evenings round the open door

Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings And clasping hands whose pulses beat no more?

Do you remember them?

Do you remember all the merry laughter;
The voices round the swing in our old garden:
The dog that, when we ran, still followed after;
The teasing frolic, sure of speedy pardon:
We were but children then, young, happy creatures,
And hardly knew how much we had to lose —
But now the dreamlike memory of those features
Comes back, and bids my darkened spirit muse.

Do you remember them?

Do you remember when we first departed
From all the old companions who were round us,
How very soon again we grew light-hearted,

And talked with smiles of all the links which bound us ? And after, when our footsteps were returning,

With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain;

How our young hearts kept boiling up and burning,
To think how soon we'd be at home again,

Do you remember this?

Do you remember how the dreams of glory
Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure;
How we thought less of being famed in story,
And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure.
Do you remember in far countries, weeping,

When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought to mind,
Old happy thoughts, which till that hour were sleeping,
And made us yearn for those we left behind?

Do you remember this?

Do you remember when no sound 'woke gladly,
But desolate echoes through our home were ringing,
How for a while we talked-then paused full sadly,
Because our voices bitter thoughts were bringing?
Ah me! those days those days! my friend, my brother,
Sit down and let us talk of all our woe,

For we have nothing left but one another;

Yet where they went, old playmate, we shall go

Let us remember this.

THE LAST CAB-DRIVER.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

OF all the cabriolet-drivers whom we ever had the honor and gratification of knowing by sight and our acquaintance in this way has been most extensivethere is one who made an impression on our mind which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our bosom a feeling of admiration and respect, which we entertain a presentiment will never be called forth again by any human being. He was a man of most simple and prepossessing appearance. He was a brown-whiskered, white-hatted, no-coated, cab-man ; his nose was generally red, and his bright blue eye not unfrequently stood out in bold relief against a black border of artificial workmanship; his boots were of the Wellington form, pulled up to meet his corduroy knee smalls, or at least to approach as near them as their dimensions would admit of; and his neck was usually garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief. In summer he carried in his mouth a flower; in winter,

a straw - slight, but to a contemplative mind, certain indications of a love of nature, and a taste for botany.

His cabriolet was gorgeously painted-a bright red; and wherever we went, City or West End, Paddington or Halloway, North, East, West, or South, there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts at the street corners, and turning in and out, among hackney-coaches, and drays, and carts, and wagons, and omnibuses, and contriving by some strange means or other, to get out of places which no other vehicle but the red cab could ever by any possibility have contrived to get into at all. Our fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should have liked to see

it in the circle at Astley's! should have performed such

Our life upon it, that it evolutions as would have

put the whole company to shame - Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.

Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both these are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned minds. The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful process, which, when well performed, is essentially melo-dramatic. First, there is the expressive panto. mime of every one of the eighteen cabmen on the stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground. Then there is your own pantomime in reply — quite a little ballet. Four cabs immediately leave the stand, for your especial accommodation; and the evolutions