" In sootli I know uot why T nm so sad; It wc:rics me ; you say it wearie you ; Bul liow I cauglit, fmiud it. or carne hy it, What ttuff'tis inaile ot', wliercof'il Ãs born, I am to Icani. - SliaUspeire. The philosophy of that malady of the mind sometinier called hc blues, notwithstanding the successful researches of modern science, is still Ãn :he secret chainbers of Nature's mysteries - among the arcana which no irreverent investigatoi has been able to grasp. The sources of that river o( sorrow that sornelimes burs,t3 unexpectedly in upon the soul, and deluges it with gloom, are in a wilderness as yet unexplored by any advenlurer. These feelinga of sabness visit us without warning of tbÃ«ir appioach. Like the wind, we know not whence they come, or whither tl)ey go. And their presence in the heart is not alvvays known by the outward appearance For " Ã¼ft the laugliing braw of joy Concenls the l'emt of puil) ." We are trained to appear different from wlmt we are. We divide ourselves into two parts - the inivard and the outward, and these portions ofourbein,, like the poles of the magnet, are often oppositely charged. So lhat when the spirit is laden with sorrow, almost sinking beneath its burdens, the countenance often beams as with joy. And the feding that promptes this deeption is one of benevo- lence. We conceal the aching heart, because "it wearies" others to see us sad.