Or what could philosophy have done for her? Science has only reference to this life--its eagle eye has never caught a ray reflected from that which is to come. Matter may be tortured by methods, varied with infinite ingenuity; but every secret thus disclosed only relates to _matter_--there is nothing of spirit brought to light in all the experiments of the chemist, in all the observations of the astronomer, in all the gropings and searching investigations of the geologist; for, though he reveals past time--ay, almost a past eternity--the strata of the earth, with their world of organic wonders, which record the transpired history of our planet in imperishable hieroglyphics, tell nothing of the future. The ocean, with its buried wrecks and its countless treasures; the mountain, over which the mighty deep once rolled its undulating expanse, and there deposited its myriads of living creatures; the desert, which heaps its ocean of sand over entombed cities, once the glory of the earth----But why should we go on?--everything speaks of the past, but not a whisper comes from creation's breast of what is to come. The Bible alone discloses the mighty secret. May all, therefore, find it what it proved to be to May Darling: light, when all is dark--hope, when all is despair--pleasure in pain--life in death. It was upon her that a nameless rustic bard, who had been an admirer, composed the following lines:-- "She faded like a flower That wastes by slow decay; Not snatch'd in an untimely hour, But wither'd day by day. 'Twas sad to see those charms, So heavenly once, decay'd; And oh! to blight thee in our arms, In bridal robes array'd! But Heaven commenced with thee Whilst yet below the sun; And, ere the mortal ceased to be, The seraph had begun. Calm, then, on Nature's breast, In dreamless sleep, sleep on, Till angel voices break thy rest In music like thine own!" I CANNA BE FASHED! OR, WILLIE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS. "Here's a bonny day, sir," said old Willie Grant, "and the Whitadder's in excellent trim--will ye get your gad and your creel, and we'll awa see what sort o' sport there is. If I'm no mistaen, the trouts will rise as fast as ye throw the line to-day." "Oh, I canna be fashed," said the individual to whom he spoke.