It was some time after I had entered this paradise, and been welcomed by angels, I was seated within the enclosure of a marble pavilion, and dreamily gazing out upon the sunny slope, when I became conscious of the presence of the missionary I had met in the valley, who spoke these words and vanished: “My son, life is earnest; thou hast queried why thou canst not write the soul-stirring poems of the past. It is because thou art inactive. Look about thee, and see if there is nothing to do, if not for thyself, for some other in need. Wouldst thou become noble and grand? Then work for it. In _this_ world the harvest comes only to him who plants and tends the seed.” I was confounded and confused. Stung into activity, I waited for no one, but hastened from the place and from the wonderful garden. I determined to do something, to go somewhere; but I knew not what course to pursue. Soon I felt a desire to return to earth and see what was going on there. Perhaps I could find something to do, or some inspiration for poesy. Ah, I knew not that I was still weak, and unable to cope with temptation; that I was again destined to fall into the mire. But thus it was; yet, thank God, for the last time! Of that I will inform you in my next chapter. CHAPTER XXIII. THE POET’S COUNCIL. Again I appeared to be drawn toward the earth. Recollections of old associations began to revive in my mind, and I felt a desire to return, and once more mingle with mortal life, urged on by the thought that perchance I should there find something to do. Impelled onward by an inner impulse, I soon found myself in the crowded streets of a vast city: every thing looked familiar, and when I espied the glittering cross of St. Paul’s gleaming through the smoke and dust, I knew that I was again in the heart of London. Nobody appeared to take any notice of me; all were hurrying on, intent upon their own affairs, and I was as one virtually alone, even in the crowded, teeming mart of a vast metropolis. I threaded my way leisurely along (for since I had entered the material plane again the reckless impetuosity that sped me on had vanished), pausing now and again to watch the tide of restless, surging humanity, as it flowed along, with no definite aim or end in view, when I was brought to a sudden stand-still, by hearing my own name pronounced by one of two gentlemen just in front of me. “Yes,” said he, “we are going to hold a little social levee at the club tonight, and to pay our tribute of respect to the memory of Critchley Prince. Poor fellow, he was his own worst foe, and he blotted his own career; but the works he left, and the songs he sung, show his to have been a gifted, sympathetic soul. For that reason we have drawn up a set of resolutions, and have determined to call our meeting together this evening, in honor of the departed poet. You had better make one of us.”