Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer,
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
--Edgar Poe.
[Illustration A] golden censer swings in the Temple of Life, making holy
its halls and grateful its corridors. This fountain of our well-being is
Duty. There is little true pleasure in the world which does not flow,
either directly or remotely, from its depths.
It shall be the object of this volume to point out and name a few of the
balms which burn in this Unseen Censer--a few of the lines of action
which render our memories sweet and forever pleasant if they be wrapt in
such perfume.