much more reasonable cause of regret than not being the former.

A birthday is oftentimes a harvest-day of affectionate remembrances and tokens of good-will. Would that on this day I could give to others half the gratification that others have given me! How kindly do I feel towards my several correspondents, whose communications are full of free-hearted desires for my welfare!

Wishing me happy hours in endless store,

True friends, good health, all honour; nay, yet more,-
That heaven-lit hope and God-descended peace
Which still remains when all things earthly cease.

Birthdays include all days in the calendar, for there is not one in the revolving year that is not a high-day and a holiday to some rejoicing heart, or a day of mournful recollection to some sorrowful spirit, as the birthday of one estimated and loved. Parents exult in the birthdays of their children, and children in those of their parents. A fond mother remembers with tears that it is the natal day of a son who is abroad, perhaps tossing on the billowy deep, or settled in some distant locality; and an affectionate father calls to mind, with a sob which he vainly tries to suppress, that it is the birthday of a dear daughter in heaven,-a day which, though now shrouded with gloom, used to be kept with festivity and rejoicing. Our birthdays while we are here will be remembered by ourselves, and

perhaps when we are gone they will be borne in mind by others.

Who is there that has not, on many occasions, wished that he could soar towards the firmament and look down on the manifold pursuits and occupations of mankind? Could I now see the yearly jubilee of others' birthdays, what a chequered scene would be spread out before me! Hundreds who win their bread by daily toil are too much occupied in the hard, every-day duties and cares of life to think much of their birthdays; while others are altogether absorbed by the return of a season which brings to them so much of pleasure.

Just now I see in my fancy what I have often seen in reality, (and few who have witnessed it are likely to forget it,) the bright, beaming, bustling birthday of the sovereign, as it used to manifest itself at the general post-office, when mail-coaches, instead of mail-carts, were in fashion. A life, a cheerfulness, a merriment, prevailed around, and the "birthday" was visible in every face. The procession with horses in new harness and gay riband rosettes, the coachmen and guards in their flaring red coats, and the postmen riding before, made London alive. St. Martin's-le-Grand, Cheapside, St. Paul's Churchyard, Ludgate-hill, Fleet street, the Strand, and Parliament street, seemed to be keeping holiday. And then it was an animating sight, when the busy crowd assembled at night, to

see the mails take their departure, piled up with leathern bags, the guards, armed with their blunderbusses, strapping them firmly together. As one says, "There go the Plymouth and Canterbury coaches up the street, and there go the York, the Birmingham, and the Holyhead, down the street, with a dozen others, hurrying and driving along in different directions; coachmen and guards in their red coats, whips cracking, horses prancing, wheels clattering, horns blowing, and mail-coaches and mail-carts rattling over the stones-one of the noisiest, the busiest, and the most cheerful sights in all London."

And now rises in my memory a birthday scene, in which a rosy band of cottage children were the happy actors. It was in a dreamy nook-a wornout quarry, sheltered from the hot sunbeams; a peaceful place, garlanded with woodbines and hanging plants, and where all day long were to be heard the hum of bees and songs of joyous birds. Around it grew straggling brambles laden with blackberries. There, grouped together, the happyhearted children enjoyed their mimic feast, their acorn cups before them. Just as I looked down upon them from the high banks above, a sister wreathed her arms about the neck of her chubbycheeked little brother. Amid many fair things, those children were the fairest. Love reigned among them, and the kiss went round. It was a

gladdening sight, for that childish revel had in it a more real pleasure,

A joy more sweet, and innocent, and pure,

Than wealth can buy, or festive halls secure. Pleasant it is to see a bright, sparkling, lovable being, just mingling the girl with the woman, preparing her plans and marshalling her friends for her coming birthday. If she be a little interested in the new dress in which she is to appear, call it not by the ugly name of vanity. If for a season her heart is occupied in the varied amusements in which her guests are to engage, think her not of necessity either trifling or worldly-minded. It is an accredited season of rejoicing—a privileged holiday. We of the gray hair are not to mould the world after our own antiquated fashion; we are not to knit our brows and truss up the bodies and souls of the young with our own fancied forms of propriety; but rather, remembering our youthful days, to allow elbow-room for the more buoyant emotions of those who are younger than ourselves. Play, throbbing pulse; beat, happy heart; and a blessing light on the hours of your recreation! Young men and maidens, rejoice in the season of your youth; but never may your buoyant birthdays unfit you for the graver duties of life, or hinder you in your way to heaven.

Sometimes a birthday finds us recovering from an illness that has pulled down our strength and

blanched our cheeks. How delightful in such a case, wearied with the fever-laden atmosphere of a sick-chamber, from the opened casement to breathe the morning air, to look forth with strange delight, and then to wander abroad! Grateful to our senses are the commonest sights and sounds; how pleasant is the sunbeam, how balmy the breeze, how sweet the music of the birds! Our upturned eyes are moist with grateful tears. It is our birthday; again we are come forth to mingle with a bright and joyous world, and our hearts are filled with thankfulness and our mouths with praise.

As I before intimated, aged people, even though of cheerful disposition, have shadowy thoughts on their birthdays. They find themselves a year or two older than they had imagined, and look grave at the discovery. While noting down these remarks, I cannot choose but talk a little to myself.

"And now, my soul, another year

Of thy short life is past;

Thou canst not long continue here,
And this may be thy last,"

is very suitable language for my lip and my heart. I have one friend who has reached her ninety-third year; but how many have I had who were beckoned away to another world before they had reached my Few and far between are the friends of my earlier days, and those who have been called away greatly outnumber those that remain.

age!