motionless stagnant lake, above which the branches of the forest met and
mingled, forming perpetual night. This was the Fountain of Oblivion.
Upon its brink the Student paused, and gazed into the dark waters with a
steadfast look. They were limpid waters dark with shadows only. And as
he gazed, he beheld, far down in their silent depths, dim and
ill-defined outlines, wavering to and fro, like the folds of a white
garment in the twilight. Then more distinct and permanent shapes
arose,--shapes familiar to his mind, yet forgotten and remembered
again, as the fragments of a dream; till at length, far, far below him
he beheld the great City of the Past, with silent marble streets, and
moss-grown walls, and spires uprising with a wave-like, flickering
motion. And, amid the crowd that thronged those streets he beheld faces
once familiar and dear to him; and heard sorrowful, sweet voices
singing, O' forget us not! forget us not!' and then the distant,
mournful sound of funeral bells, that were tolling below, in the City of
the Past."

* * * * *

* * * * *

An artist is speaking:

A person may be a true artist, who has never made a stroke with a brush.
Any one who can blend colors harmoniously or produce effective contrasts
in dress, or even in so trivial a thing as fancy work, is an artist.
Again, one may _paint_ for years without the slightest knowledge of, or
taste for true art. In painting a portrait, something more is required
than the mere likeness, something besides pink and white prettiness.
Perhaps in two or three centuries an artist is born, one who in painting