f
propagation, withering quickly when that purpose is attained. The
butterfly and the flower are both beautiful. Yet, after all, they are
inferior forms of life, and man is higher, though he does not exhale
fragrance and usually possesses no velvet wings."

"Is it so absolutely certain that man is superior? For my part I envy
the butterfly and the flower, which perish in the full glory of youth,
beauty, and love. That is the way I have always imagined an existence
worth living. A dazzling display of fireworks. A sudden flashing,
flaming, crackling, and detonating amid the darkness. A triumphant
ascent of glittering balls and serpents, before whose splendid hues the
stars of heaven pale. At every rain of fire and explosion, a rapturous,
ah! and a thunder of applause from the gaping Philistines, who are in a
tumult of ecstasy at the sight, and thus, without cessation, have flash
follow flash, and report report, in a continual increase of magnificence,
until the closing piece on whose marvellous splendour darkness must fall
with no transition. That is life. That is happiness. But the rockets
must always be fully charged. Otherwise they will not fly upward amid
universal admiration to the stars, but fizz a little, hop up with
ridiculous effort, fall plump, and go out pitifully in a malodorous
smoke. A dismal end."

Robert was silent a moment, evidently pursuing his picture in his mind.
Then, as if it were the final result of his train of thought, he added:

"Yes, Doctor, if you could only put a fresh charge into a half-exploded
rocket."

The doctor smiled.

"To remain always young, we need only do at every age what harmonises
with it."

Linden looked disappointed. But Thiel, without allowing himself to be
disturbed by it, continued:

"Are you not young at twenty? Well, play with a humming-top in the
streets at that age, and every one who passes will exclaim: 'What an old
clown! Aren't you ashamed of yourself?' At fifty you consider yourself
old. If, at fifty, you are a commander-in-chief or a chancellor,
everybody will say: 'So young a general; a minister so young!'"

Linden rose and went to the window. Thiel followed, laid his hand on his
shoulder, looked him directly in the eye, and said very earnestly:

"Believe me, dear Baron Linden, that is the secret of perpetual
youth--there is no other. A man in the forties is not old--unless he
cannot resolve to give up the conceits of a page."

"Al