sent it. It is part
of the spirit within us, and we find it in everything around us. It is
the veil of "Isis" which science, her worshipper, is ever trying to
lift, but cannot. The muse of Inspiration pours forth her melodious
voice, like the nightingale, in the darkness and the shady covert. We
listen to her song with entranced ears; a few whose spirits are "finely
touched," try to repeat it; but who has ever seen her; the soul that
animates, the spirit that inspires! Our life itself is a mystery--the
Past and Future--are they not the wings of the Spirit of Time which are
brooding over our Present? When they are lifted--when the mighty pinions
are outspread for flight--_then_ the shadows will flee for ever, for the
great Daybreak of Eternity will have begun!

[Illustration: SCIENCE LIFTING THE VEIL OF ISIS.]

Without the spirit of mystery, the mother of enquiry--of romance, the
days of pilgrimage would be ended. If it is a mere matter of rest, and
of oiling the wheels of the machine for a fresh grind, Mudport-on-Sea
will do well enough; but Mudport-on-Sea can never satisfy the hunger of
the curious soul for the beautiful; the marvellous; all that is in
itself lovely, or that has lived in the past, and caught a brighter
glow from its rainbow reflections. One spot of ground may content the
naturalist, or the Buddhist sage, for one can find a world of wondrous
thought in the smallest leaf--a microcosm in a dew-drop; and the other
can send his soul off on aerial pilgrimages, though his body may be in
chains! But we are not all either natural or transcendental
philosophers; our appetite requires not one leaf, but many, for our
powers of assimilation are not great enough to draw spiritual sustenance
from one alone; and so, like the caterpillar, when we have finished our
leaf, we crawl to another.

"But this spirit of curiosity, or unrest, is all owing to lack of
self-culture," cry some. Perhaps it is--some of it. No doubt the cocoon
stage of rest and self-development is higher, and nearer to the ultimate
perfection--the winged creature which soars above where others
crawl--but until we are fit to be cocoons, and evolve butterflies, we
must be content with our caterpillar instincts.

People speak scornfully of "mere curiosity," but it is only worthless
when it bears no fruit. Curiosity, in itself, is a healthy, natural
instinct, which we see to perfection in the small child. Toddie's speech
in "Helen's Babies," "Want to s