observed, Science invariably ends by carrying the day;’ if he is giving you ‘a recipe for making gold,’ he ends by breaking a lance with the seekers for gold. This is true of me,” added my visitor, “‘Vita Ignis corpus Lignum.’ By the way,” said he, “you tell me you are preparing a little work for the Sette of ‘Odd Volumes.’ Give up this question of the ‘Philosopher’s Stone’: surely there are other themes of ordinary every-day life, of far more general interest.”
(Here I saw a little figure of Cupid had pierced my lattice window, and was flying across the room with his eyes fixed on me.)
“What think you of ‘Love,’ and ‘Sentiment’? Are such things known among you now?” I noticed the eyes of the philosopher fill as he said this, and, standing erect, he exclaimed:—
“Away,”[1] my dear Brother Alchymist,
