beside the roaring ocean, this blaze represents the only
receptacle more vast than ocean. We say, "unstable as water." But there
is nothing unstable about the flickering flame; it is persistent and
desperate, relentless in following its ends. It is the most tremendous
physical force that man can use. "If drugs fail," said Hippocrates,
"use the knife; should the knife fail, use fire." Conquered countries
were anciently given over to fire and sword: the latter could only
kill, but the other could annihilate. See how thoroughly it does its
work, even when domesticated: it takes up everything upon the hearth
and leaves all clean. The Greek proverb says, that "the sea drinks up
all the sins of the world." Save fire only, the sea is the most
capacious of all things.

But its task is left incomplete: it only hides its records, while fire
destroys them. In the Norse Edda, when the gods try their games, they
find themselves able to out-drink the ocean, but not to eat like the
flame. Logi, or fire, licks up food and trencher and all. This chimney
is more voracious than the sea. Give time enough, and all which yonder
depths contain might pass through this insatiable throat, leaving only
a few ashes and the memory of a flickering shade,--pulvis et umbra. We
recognize this when we have anything to conceal. Deep crimes are buried
in earth, deeper are sunk In water, but the deepest of all are confided
by trembling men to the profounder secrecy of flame. If every old
chimney could narrate the fearful deeds whose last records it has
cancelled, what sighs of undying passion would breathe from its dark
summit,--what groans of guilt! Those lurid sparks that whirl over
yonder house-top, tossed aloft as if fire itself could not contain
them, may be the last embers of some written scroll, one rescued word
of which might suffice for the ruin of a household, and the crushing of
many hearts.

But this domestic hearth of ours holds only, besides its drift-wood,
the peaceful records of the day,--its shreds and fragments and fallen
leaves. As the ancients poured wine upon their flames, so I pour
rose-leaves in libation; and each morning contributes the faded petals
of yesterday's wreaths. All our roses of this season have passed up
this chimney in the blaze. Their delicate veins were filled with all
the summer's fire, and they returned to fire once more,--ashes to
ashes, flame to flame. For holding, with Bettina, that every flower
which is broken