b MYSTERIES OF MEMORY. 



ble and omnipotent. It is this that makes the landscape of the 

 by-gone time seem greener and fairer to the eye than any we 

 710W gaze upon ; this that makes the very echo of the olden song 

 come back upon the ear with a thrilling luxury of sound with 

 which no strain of novelty is laden, and that invests the sweet 

 phantasm of early love with a robe of holiness never appertaining 

 to the new-formed tie. 



" Et Ton revient toujours, toujours 

 A ses premieres amours !'* 



iS^. Pierre says truly, " Our first affections are likewise the last. 

 They accompany us through the events with which human life 

 is variegated. They re-appear in old age, and then revive the 

 sensibilities of childhood with still greater force than those of 

 mature age." Seen through the visionary arcade of years, the 

 haunts of our youth appear steeped in the hues of the rainbow — 

 in sunshine and loveliness, unsullied with the shades or the 

 coldness of reality. Memory has turned alchymist, and all is 

 transmuted into gold. Bound in beguiling spells, we rove 

 through the enchanting vista, and return to recollection only to 

 sigh, with heaviness, for " Auld lang syne .'" Well, indeed, may 

 the poetess exclaim — 



*' Long ago ! oh, long ago ! 

 Do not these words recall past years, 

 And scarcely knowing why they flow, 

 Force to the eyes unbidden tears ? 

 Do ye not feel as back they come. 

 Those dim sweet dreams of olden days, 

 A yearning to your childhood's home ? 

 Peopled with tones of love and praise — 

 Long, long ago !"* 



Memory ! mysterious power ! what bringest thou not back on 

 thy untiring wings ? Joy and hope, and youth, and loveliness, 

 the forms that are no more, and the dreams of confidence and 

 love. Eyes pure as they are bright, and fond looks, sweet tones, 

 and smiles of content, and tears without sorrow, soft and refreshing 

 as the dew that lies on the green branch through the long hours 

 of the night. The young love thee, but theirs is a precarious 

 attachment; the present is for ever rising up to rival thy 

 creations, when the morning of life is, what it was destined, the 

 season of happiness ; alas ! for that youthhood which with 

 glance reverted, finds pleasure only in the shades of the past ; 

 it is a tree untimely withered, a rose snapped ere it blooms, a 



* The Hon. Mrs. Norton. 



