ses of suggestive thought, which he will find profusely lying in his
daily paths. This key will not only open for him many of the rarest
caskets in which art stores her gems, but will also unclose some of the
ineffable wonders of God's mystically tender creation. 'My son, give me
thy heart!' is written in God's own hand on everything He hath made.

'To me, the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.'

The absence of that mental vision which unites the visible to the
invisible is not only ruinous to the art of the present age, but also to
its faith, and, consequently, to its happiness. Thousands, feeling
themselves in a narrow world while they unceasingly long for the
infinite, rush into rash and wicked suicide, that they may thus escape
from the contradictions and complicated pangs of the finite. The rays of
light from the everlasting sun of wisdom and love are indeed forever
falling round us, but we no longer bear the prism of faith which would
decompose them for us, giving them such direction as they fall upon the
symbolic, the relative, that we might read in their three-fold splendor
the symbolized, the Absolute. The human soul was created for the
enjoyment of God, and, consequently, touches the infinite at every
point, and the health and well being of the spirit are far more
concerned in its exploration than in any of the vaunted discoveries
which it is at present making for the comfort of the body in the
material world.

As the limits of the horizon are constantly enlarging before the eyes of
one who ascends a mountain, so does the moral world, of which the
physical is but the symbol, unroll its immense perspectives of light and
love before the gaze of the rapt seeker of truth.

'Deep love lieth under
These secrets of time;
They fade in the light of
Their meaning sublime.'

The infinite is the vast background from which all life projects; upon
whose unity the immense variety of the world is sketched. As understood
or sought by the finite, it is the central fire, the burning heart of
art; it is the _last_ line in all our horizons; the _last_ shade in all
our colors; the _last_ note in all our concerts; the alpha and omega of
all true genius. It aspires in the last sigh of the mortal as he
lingeringly leaves its dim manifestations upon earth: it lightens in the
first smile of the immortal as its full fruition greets him in the
presence of his God!