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.