annual, some
biennial, some triennial, and there are perennials that seem to live for
ever--and yet are still periodical--though our love will not allow us to
know when they die, and phoenix-like reappear from their own ashes. So
much for Flowers--typifying or typified;--leaves emblematical of
pages--buds of binding--dew-veils of covers--and the wafting away of
bloom and fragrance like the dissemination of fine feelings, bright
fancies, and winged thoughts.

The Flowers are the periodicals of the earth--the Stars are the
periodicals of heaven. With what unfailing regularity do the numbers
issue forth! Hesperus and Lucifer! ye are one concern. The Pole-star is
studied by all nations. How popular the poetry of the Moon! On what
subject does not the Sun throw light? No fear of hurting your eyes by
reading that fine clear large type on that softened page. As you turn
them over, one blue, another yellow, and another green, all are alike
delightful to the pupil, dear as the very apple of his eye. Yes, the
great Periodical Press of heaven is unceasingly at work--night and day;
the only free power all over the world--'tis indeed like the air we
breathe--if we have it not, we die.

Look, then, at all paper periodicals with pleasure, for sake of the
Flowers and the Stars. Suppose them all extinct, and life would be like
a flowerless earth, a starless heaven. We should soon forget the
Seasons. The periodicals of the External would soon all lose their
meaning, were there no longer any periodicals of the Internal. These are
the lights and shadows of life, merrily dancing or gravely stealing over
the dial; remembrancers of the past--teachers of the present--prophets
of the future hours. Were they all dead, Spring would in vain renew her
promise--wearisome would be the interminable summer days--the fruits of
autumn tasteless--the winter ingle blink mournfully round the hearth.
What are the blessed Seasons themselves, in nature and in Thomson, but
periodicals of a larger growth? We should doubt the goodness of that
man's heart, who loved not the periodical literature of earth and
sky--who would not weep to see one of its flowers wither--one of its
stars fall--one beauty die on its humble bed--one glory drop from its
lofty sphere. Let them bloom and burn on--flowers in which there is no
poison, stars in which there is no disease--whose blossoms are all
sweet, and whose rays are all sanative--both alike steeped in dew, and
both, to th