As for the women!--who shall tell the real story of the middle age of women?--of the confident coquette, who one day turns away to punish her slave, and finds, when she relents, that his eyes are fixed upon her daughter?--of the bewildered inspection of the mirror, that still tells a fluttering tale of curves and colours, though startled experience shows the eyes of men turning in preference to crude, red-elbowed girls, obviously her inferior in grace and charm?--of the shock of finding that the world is no longer much interested in her--the amazement of the discovery that the handsome lads see little difference between a woman of thirty-five and one of fifty?--of the shame-faced misery of learning that the passion, which she has virtuously resolved to repulse, is given in reality to her niece? Her charm, her sweetness, her well-preserved beauty is as nothing beside mere raw youth. Undeveloped figures, flat chests, blotchy complexions, are of more value than her rounded mellow loveliness. She is pushed from her throne by giggling girls, who stare at her in hard contempt and wonder openly what the old creature does lingering belated in this galley. Though she be called "a fine woman" still, men of all ages will turn from her to dote upon an empty-headed debutante. Her comprehension and sympathy, her wit and her learning are less enthralling than the vapid babblings of red-cheeked misses just out of pinafores. Her heart is as young as ever; she knows herself capable of a finer, nobler passion and tenderness than the girl can dream of, yet the selfish, egotistic emotions of the self-confident chit awake a rapture that would be dulled by the richest warmth she could give. "Age, I do abhor thee: Youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is _young_!" That she in her turn elbowed the preceding generation from its place comforts her not at all. Oh, for again one hour only of the splendid domination of youth--one rich instant of the power to intoxicate!... There is nothing for it but to keep such things to one's self, and jog on quietly and respectably to the end. One has had one's turn. * * * * * That mad girl Spring has passed up this way With a hole in her pockets, For here lies her money all strewn in the grass-- Broad dandelion ducats. She'll be needing this wealth ere the end of the year For a warm winter gown, Though now she's content with a breast-knot of buds And a violet crown. She heard in the green blooming depths of the wood The voice of a dove, And she dropped all these flowering coins as she ran To meet summer and love. 'Twill not serve you to gather from out her wild path All your two hands can hold-- Only youth and the Spring may buy kisses and mirth With this frail fairy gold. February 18. An Arabian Looking-glass.