FIRST THINGS. FIRST things, in themselves, are frequently inconsequential; but their newness and their position, with regard to other things, give them an arbitrary value, which intrinsically they are destitute of. They always possess a peculiar interest, and are frequently the subject of serious, and oftentimes of pleasurable, recollection. They are as starting-posts, whence we have set out in the varied business of life; and through all its chequered scenes, its pleasures and its pains, we recur to them with satisfaction. We measure the distance we have travelled; we recount the circumstances that have, during our journey, arrested our attention, and the obstacles that have impeded our progress. The difficulties and facilities which we have met with are again recalled to life; and we review them carefully; but at length we look through the long vista which they form, to the various first things of their several associations; and there we instinctively rest, wrapt up in contemplation! The philosopher, when his dearest objects are accomplished, his most ardent desires fulfilled; when he is advanced to a high pitch of scientific exaltation, takes pleasure in recounting the labours of the way, and the years, when, unnoticed and unknown, he was plodding onwards in the ways of science, and casting eager glances to the temple of fame, his experiments, successful and unsuccessful, and the reward of his labours; but his first experiments, and the first association of his boyish genius, are not forgotten. The military hero, covered with glory, and sinking in years, can somewhere find a loop-hole, notwithstanding the crowding recollections of his most daring and most brilliant enterprizes, through which to peep at his first entrance on his career. And amongst the marvellous relations which he makes, at the fireside, of his retirement, he bestows some pains on the story of his first battle! The achievements of the general are great; those of the cornet are interesting! With what emotions of pleasure must the statesman, as his lengthened shadow reminds him that the evening of his day is fast approaching, look back upon the events of that day. Perhaps its dawning was sunless; the black clouds spreading the vast expanse of the heaven of his hopes; but as the time of business drew on, a faint ray pierced the heretofore impenetrable barriers, spreading as far as it reached a modest brightness. His day advanced; the clouds gradually disappeared; his prospects brightened, and as the sun began his declination, he enveloped him in a blaze of glory: and, with the exception of passing clouds, and the thunder storm of the summer's day, the sun has gladdened his career to the present moment, the time of his serenity. And though he recalls his noontide, and his afternoon splendour, as more glorious, he recollects the first glimmer of brightness, as far more interesting; this was the harbinger of a day, which brake in gloom, but declines in glory. A first thing to which I recur with pleasure, and which is often present to my thoughts, is-My First Appearance in Print. This is a momentous time with all expectant writers, as well as with those who have gone through the ordeal. Some one has well remarked, that a first appearance in print creates a new era in the life of a poet. Previously, his light was hidden under a bushel, or a bed; and the flowers of his fancy spread their various hues; but he alone saw them, or enjoyed their fragrance. But, stimulated to try his luck in the lottery of a newspaper letter-box, he writes: the subject, perhaps, his mistress; his signature some " Juvenis," or " Nihil," or probably an initial " Y. Z.:" and oh! what are the thrilling emotions which agitate him, from the time of transcribing his manuscript, and putting it into the box (which frequently, alas! unlike a more fabulous one, has not hope at the bottom !) till that of the newspaper's appearance. How are his waking hours filled with thoughts of his poetry, and his sleeping hours intersected with dreams, favourable and unfavourable! Once, perhaps, he is awoke with the horrible idea of seeing " Poet's Corner" engrossed by another! or, when the shades are more beneficent, he dreams that he has indeed appeared in print! But, at length, the time of publishing draws on-the morning, the hour; his watch is lugged from its resting-place time after time, the newsman is unusually late; but when the well-known rap resounds through the hall, the poet, reckless of troubling the maid on ordinary occasions, flies to the door, receives the arbitrator of his fate, and, after encountering the trouble of unfolding a wet newspaper, finds the desired spot. He is bewildered, his eyes swim, and he almost reels; but he reads, and finds himself in print. I say not this of myself. My first appearance in print was as a prose writer; my subject, provincial politics. I recollect the impatience with which I awaited the time of publication; and I recollect obtaining the newspaper, and there was my letter in full. I read and re-read it, I know not how many times; and I felt as I never felt before or since; the smile of selfcomplacency shone upon my features; for I was an author. My subject was not ephemeral; and doubtlessly I knew it. I cannot recount the books which, in imagination, wrote, or the correspondence which, on the same principle, I entered into. They were, like my happiness, visionary. But candour will excuse my sentiments; they were boyish; I was then in my teens. I remember that my first letter was not solitary; but in none of my after-appearances in print, through any medium, have I felt half the pleasure as in that my first. First love has in it something peculiarly heavenly; but when, in consequence of its being supplanted by a more reasonable and more enduring, though not purer passion, we look back upon it, as disinterested observers, it appears in all its poetic loveliness. It is under these circumstances that it assimilates most to the love of angels! and its object becomes as a flower too pure and too holy to be defiled by mortal touch. It is a task of no mean importance to trace the workings, the rise, the progress, and decline, of our boyish pas sion; its object, a beautiful, unconscious girl, destined, by ourselves, to be awakened to the existence of love. What a tremulous emotion runs through her whole frame, as she endeavours to interpret the expressive glances of her youthful lover! And when a collision of events introduces him to her, (for frequently he has not assurance to introduce himself,) what a thrilling moment is that of the declaration on his part, and the acceptation on hers! If its bliss were purchaseable, gladly would I give, if I possessed them, all the riches, power, and pomp, of earthly regality. The kiss-the first reciprocal kiss-has more in it than the obedience of millions. My first love is covered with the dust of years; the cares of business have long engrossed my attention, and have thrown a mantle over it. But even now I have a recollection of it, and of its sweet emotions. My life is a journey. In one of its earlier stages I passed a beautiful cottage: a rose-bush climbed up its door posts, and hung about its windows. I saw and admired it. Its buds were putting forth, and their fragrance was wafted to me; I went to it and kissed it; I visited it often; I saw its buds in their childhood; I watched their growth; and my life became bound up with their life; I saw them in their full flower, their full blown beauty, and I longed to call them mine! but the boon was denied me; and with a heavy heart and tearful eye I resumed my journey; but, to the present moment, the gentle breezes waft me, ever and anon, its well-beloved sweets; and as I inhale them, gratitude fills my bosom; but I sigh that I cannot call that rose-bush mine! Such is my first love. It deserved a tribute of affectionate remembrance; and now I pay it. Oh, will-she, once the everpresent angel of my inmost thoughts, read this? If so -but it's too much. What will be the emotions of a disembodied spirit, in its first entrance into the world of felicity, is unknown. But we may suppose it, as being lost amid the glory of the scene, and overcome with the varied emo tion of the moment. What must be its imaginings, as it begins to inhale the atmosphere of the blessed, and is led into the presence of cherubim and seraphim, and even of the great Creator himself! With what awe will it be struck, on hearing the first blast of Michael's trumpet, summoning the assembled myriads to pay their wonted devotion before the Eternal's throne! But the subject is too vast and too momentous for human comprehension. The spirit must be changed and fitted for the overwhelming glories of the place. "This corruption must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality," or the transition from earth to heaven, from "a house of clay" to "a house not made with bands," would be insupportable! To understand it, and to fit ourselves to give the relation, we also must pass our first day in heaven. U.C.K.L'E. ON PAINTING PORTRAITS OF UNKNOWN PERSONS Oн man of canvass, paint, and brushes, rise, |