"There," said he, "is the Great Carbuncle of the White Mountains."

I gazed with no little interest at this mighty gem, which it had
been one of the wild projects of my youth to discover. Possibly it
might have looked brighter to me in those days than now; at all
events, it had not such brilliancy as to detain me long from the
other articles of the museum. The virtuoso pointed out to me a
crystalline stone which hung by a gold chain against the wall.

"That is the philosopher's stone," said he.

"And have you the elixir vita which generally accompanies it?"
inquired I.

"Even so; this urn is filled with it," he replied. "A draught would
refresh you. Here is Hebe's cup; will you quaff a health from it?"

My heart thrilled within me at the idea of such a reviving draught;
for methought I had great need of it after travelling so far on the
dusty road of life. But I know not whether it were a peculiar
glance in the virtuoso's eye, or the circumstance that this most
precious liquid was contained in an antique sepulchral urn, that
made me pause. Then came many a thought with which, in the calmer
and better hours of life, I had strengthened myself to feel that
Death is the very friend whom, in his due season, even the happiest
mortal should be willing to embrace.

"No; I desire not an earthly immortality," said I.

Were man to live longer on the earth, the spiritual would die out of