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8 the eye of the sage, but the heart of the poet, till he deemed that to him was given the key of their mysteries, and that he read on their bright scroll the secrets of the future. His life had for years been devoted to one mystic search—the discovery of the philosopher's stone—and, like most of the enthusiasts in that wild pursuit, he firmly believed that every hour brought him nearer to an immortality upon earth, which in reality drew him closer and closer to the grave. Enduring poverty—at least privation—unremitting in his toil at the furnace, or his watch upon the night—worn, withered, and become what would now be but an object of derision—that pale alchemist was happier than many of those whose triumphs over science in our day win the gold medal, and the alphabet for an array to their name. He sufficed unto himself; no mortification, that inevitable result of competition, embittered even success.

I do believe there is no existence so content as that whose present is engrossed by employment, and whose future is filled by some strong hope, the truth of which is never proved. Toil and illusion are the only secrets to make life tolerable, and both of these were his.

He had, too, his own small sphere of usefulness; for his advice and medicines were eagerly