is evaporized.

'The fire which mounts the liquor till it runs o'er,
In _seeming_ to augment it, _wastes_ it.'

The use and value of passion is not as a subject of contemplation in
itself, but as it breaks up the fountains of the great deep of the
heart, or displays its might and ribbed majesty, as the stability of
mountains is best seen with the restless mist quivering about them, and
the changeful clouds floating above them.

We have thus naturally arrived at the fact that Truth, another of the
Divine Attributes, must make part of all art that would interest
humanity; that the soul rejects violence, or the falsehood of
exaggerated description.

'Sanctify your soul like a temple,' says Madame De Stael, 'and the angel
of noble thoughts will not disdain to occupy it.' If the rays of
'Wisdom' were reflected through the rainbow of artistic beauty by the
devout artist, he would again be, as of old, the Prophet; and the arts
would find, in typification of the Divine Attributes, ceaseless
variety, marvellous unity. Then might he stand before his Maker as the
anointed high priest of nature, winning entrance into her mysteries and
holy symbols, using his glorious gifts to lead his brethren back to God;
and the artistic human word might become, in its appropriate sphere, the
humble and devout interpreter of the Word Eternal!

REMEMBRANCE.

Last night, emerging from the glaring gaslight into the starlight
beautiful and dim, there came, borne to me by the night wind, a gay
young voice, blithely carolling the sweet strains of a well-remembered
song, familiar to me long years ago in another and distant clime. It was
a simple ballad, one heard most frequently in my youth, old when I was
young; it was like a voice from the dead--a thought from the shrouded
past appealing to my soul. There was something so solemn and strange, so
mystically spiritual in the fact that a stranger in a strange land
should possess the power to conjure up for me a world of saddest
memories, that I half fancied at first (pardon an old man's dreaming)
that one who had lived long ago, and died before her prime, seeing now
as those see where the mists of pride and passion are dispelled forever
by the light of unshadowed truth, conscious now of the deep and lasting
wrong she had done herself and me, that _she it was who was now singing
to me through the lips of the lad_, striving to cheer the loneliness she
had caused, and comfort my desola