The intellect is stimulated by the statement of truth in a trope, and the will by clothing the laws of life in illusions. But the unities of Truth and of Right are not broken by the disguise. There need never be any confusion in these. In a crowded life of many parts and performers, on a stage of nations, or in the obscurest hamlet in Maine or California, the same elements offer the same choices to each new comer, and, according to his election, he fixes his fortune in absolute nature. It would be hard to put more mental and moral philosophy than the Persians have thrown into a sentence:-- "Fooled thou must be, though wisest of the wise; Then be the fool of virtue, not of vice." THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. Tritemius of Herbipolis one day, While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, Alone with God, as was his pious choice, Heard from beneath a miserable voice,-- A sound that seemed of all sad things to tell, As of a lost soul crying out of hell. Thereat the Abbot rose, the chain whereby His thoughts went upward broken by that cry, And, looking from the casement, saw below A wretched woman, with gray hair aflow, And withered hands stretched up to him, who cried For alms as one who might not be denied. She cried: "For the dear love of Him who gave His life for ours, my child from bondage save, My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves In the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit waves Lap the white walls of Tunis!" "What I can I give," Tritemius said,--"my prayers." "O man Of God!" she cried, for grief had made her bold, "Mock me not so; I ask not prayers, but gold; Words cannot serve me, alms alone suffice; Even while I plead, perchance my first-born dies!" "Woman!" Tritemius answered, "from our door None go unfed; hence are we always poor. A single soldo is our only store. Thou hast our prayers; what can we give thee more?" "Give me," she said, "the silver candlesticks On either side of the great crucifix; God well may spare them on His errands sped, Or He can give you golden ones instead." Then said Tritemius, "Even as thy word, Woman, so be it; and our gracious Lord, Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice, Pardon me if a human soul I prize Above the gifts upon His altar piled! Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child." But his hand trembled as the holy alms He laid within the beggar's eager palms; And as she vanished down the linden shade, He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed. So the day passed; and when the twilight came He rose to find the chapel all a-flame, And, dumb with grateful wonder, to behold Upon the altar candlesticks of gold! THE MOURNING VEIL. Then in life's goblet freely press The leaves that give it bitterness, Nor prize the colored waters less, For in thy darkness and distress New light and strength they give