Then, by the power of the telescope, we roam into other systems— “World beyond world in infinite extent, Profusely scattered o’er the blue expanse,” and orbs so remote as to reduce to a mere span the distance between us and the Georgium Sidus; and revel in all the gorgeous splendour of rings, and moons, and nebulæ, the poetry of heaven. Is there not an exquisite romance in the closing of the barometrical blossoms; of the white convolvulus, and the _anagallis_ or scarlet pimpernel; of the sun-flower, and the leaves of the _Dionæa_ and _mimosa_? Is there not poetry in the delicate nautilus, with its arms dropped for oars; in the _velella_ and purple _physalia_ expanding their membranous sails; and the beautiful fish-lizard, the _Proteus_ of transparent alabaster, found in the wondrous cavern of Maddalena, among the Styrian mountains; and even in the _Stalactytes_ of Antiparos, as glittering as the gems and crystal pillars of Aladdin’s palace? Are not these more beautiful because they are _true_, and better to be read than all the impersonations of mythology, or that voluptuous romance which would endow a flower with the fervour of sense and passion? IDA. I have ever wondered that a scholar, like Darwin, should have so wasted time with his “Loves of the Plants.” For the study of nature and the discoveries of science are ever vain, if they lift not the heart in adoration. The insect, that fans the sunbeam with its golden wing, or even the flower that opes its dewy eyes to the light, are unconscious worshippers of the Divine Being. The Epicurean, who weeps for a decaying body, but mourns not for a lost soul, will enjoy these beauties of nature with a heart faithful to his creed, that pleasure is the only good; but the Christian feels that, when he chips a stone, or culls a flower, he touches that which comes fresh from the hand of its Creator. How full is nature, too, of mute instruction! the simplest incident is a lesson, if we will but learn it. You see that fading blossom floating on the surface of the stream. That inanimate type of decaying beauty shows, to the reflective mind, that even in the summer of life the flower of existence will lose its youthful lustre, and float down the stream of time into the depths of eternity. But tell me, Evelyn, may not the influence of that science that magnifies the lights of heaven (created to _rule day and night_) into habitable worlds, weaken the influence of faith in holy writ?