of inclination, for my ambition burned as strongly as ever; but to live was a necessity. The gods gave me patience, and I toiled for livelihood, and for means to give me leisure to resume my search. The gods have blessed me in both: we are beyond fear of want, and I have, at last, discovered the secret which led me on, like a will‐o’‐the‐wisp, for all these years. Here it is to bless us—me, for my toil, and you, wife, for your patience and long‐suffering! I was cruel in those early years. Many a time since then have I acknowledged it. But I was possessed—eaten up too much with my own mad hopes and visions to be able to see a wife pinched and starved. Heaven knows, wife, what your thoughts were in those days! You never spoke, and I dare not ask. Now I may be able to repay—who knows? At least the secret is found, whatever it may lead to. If it was ever known to the world before I know not; but I have heard the scholars say, that the most ancient people, the Egyptians, in their days of power, were skilled in works beyond the comprehension of these days. Yet their knowledge is all buried, forgotten, lost, like their temples and cities. What they knew and discovered will have to be sought for again. Thus this matter of mine may once have been known well enough, when the world was ages younger, in the days of the giants. Let that be or not; it is of no consequence to me or any one. It is enough for me to think, that no one lives and breathes who saw, or ever heard, of such a glass cup as this which now I hold. What would you say, now, if it were impossible to break this vessel? What would the wealthy patrician think, if his costly glass treasure, goblet, or heirloom should be of such composition that his careless slaves should be powerless to harm it?—that the delicate fabric, exquisitely cut and designed, brilliantly pictured and tinted, instead of being dashed to fragments on his floor by the clumsy fingers of a slave, should be so durable as to survive the mishap, and be lifted again, with nothing worse than a dent, which a skilful artist could restore? And of the priceless gem of the artist, so of the humble vessels of the kitchen. That stray fragment of glass which set my brain on fire, and gave me five‐ and‐twenty years of toil and unceasing thought, by some strange trick of chance, had been fused with certain properties in certain proportions. Chance had accomplished what it has taken me all these years to find out, and there, at last, its composition is developed. Watch now and you shall see how this piece of glass is matched by none in existence!’