I expected to be even more interested in the essay on "The Equipoise of Passion," remembering the intense character of his amatory verse. But the philosophical terms were so numerous that I found myself at a loss as to his meaning at times. His treatment of the subject was quite different; for whereas (he explained) speech was a physical attribute and destined to give place to some other method of affinity, love was psychical in its essence, and hence immortal. But he maintained that moderation should control spirit no less than matter, and that either undue exaltation or a lack of sentiment were inconsistent with the noblest type of altruism. Love in order to be perfect must be rational and cognizant, as he expressed it. The beloved object should be enthroned, but without exaggeration, and yet with ecstasy. The defect of love as it at present existed was that it was either an hallucination or a bargain. This should not be; but on the other hand the equipoise of passion like the equipoise of religion,--of which it was in his opinion the peer, and with which it was in a certain sense blended,--was attainable only by exceptional souls. The equipoise of speech or of raiment or of appetite was within the grasp of an average human being, but only a few spirits in a generation enjoyed the perfection of love. This was the crown of his philosophy; but it was here that he felt the need of further investigation before endeavoring to demonstrate the remedy by means of which this number might be increased, so as finally to include all earnest souls. An immature statement would impair the authority of the more elemental truth he had sought to establish; but he hoped in a subsequent volume to complete the exposition of this last step in his system. III. I rapped at Miss Kingsley's door on Wednesday evening with some trepidation, but with a sense of pleasurable excitement. I felt that her entertainment was sure to be very unlike those to which I was accustomed. In the first place, the idea of combining home and business quarters in one apartment was new to me, and seemed slightly incongruous. The Studio Building was large, and she had doubtless a host of neighbors who lived in the same manner; but they were a class with whom I was wholly unacquainted. Miss Kingsley's rooms were in the top story where, as I reflected, she could enjoy fresh air and escape the everlasting tinkling of the horse-cars and rattle of vehicles in the street below. She opened the door herself, and her face assumed its most radiant expression as she recognized me. "This is too delightful, Miss Harlan!" I found myself face to face with several people whom she hastened to introduce. The only familiar name was that of Mr. Paul Barr, which I instantly recollected to have seen on the dedicatory page of Mr. Spence's volume of poems. The inscription read, "To my soul's brother, Paul Barr," and hence I gazed at the stranger with interest.