I gazed around, and it dawned upon me who these people were. I saw the calm, pure features and love-lit eyes of Felicia Hemans, of Elizabeth B. Browning, of Letitia Landon, and others well-known to me from the melodious outpourings of their spirits. There were Dryden, Thompson, and Pope,—once little, misshapen Alexander Pope, now grown straight, lithe, and willowy with no discontent upon his features, even sitting at the feet of Addison, absorbing the reflected light of that stately presence. I could not understand what was going on. I heard nothing but a low, sweet, rhythmic sound proceeding from the dais, which was unintelligible to me, though, from the interested looks of those present it was evidently not so to them. I had advanced no farther than to the inner side of the curtain, for I dared not intrude upon that celestial company. I again glanced at myself, and as the contrast between my faded, dust-worn, shabby appearance and the fresh purity and sweetness of these harmonious souls flashed upon me, together with the thought that, had I done more and been more in the past, I too might have been seated here with this angelic host, in place of creeping in like an outcast and an alien, I covered my face and fled from the apartment and the place. I next found myself standing upon a sandy shore, watching and listening to the roar of the surging waves as they came rolling in to my feet. All was wild and tempestuous. How I had come here I could not tell; through what tortuous, devious paths I had wandered I could not explain. I felt that I had passed through a fiery furnace. I was still scathed and smarting from the sting of accusing memory. I felt a touch upon my shoulder, and turning gazed into a pair of kindly, sympathetic eyes, the eyes of one whom I felt was to be my friend and brother; of one whose name shall yet be sung throughout the length of Old England; one who passed from earth a few years before myself, at the early age of thirty-two. I gazed into the eyes of Robert Brough, poet and friend. Instantly I knew I had met one who would assist and teach me what my spirit required. “I have come to help you,” he said, grasping my hand in a hearty clasp; “I have long followed you, I was at the Poet’s Council, and saw you enter. Noting your movements, watching the expression of your countenance, I understood your condition, and when you rushed forth I followed, feeling that I might be able to assist you. I have since kept you in sight, but owing to the clouds that enwrapped you, I have been heretofore unable to make my presence known. Now that the force of your emotions is spent, and you are beginning to grow calm and collected, I come to offer you my assistance, and to show you how to nobly retrieve the past, and find perfect peace for your soul. Will you accept my aid?” I grasped the hand still holding my own, and cried in a voice choked with emotion: “I will! I will! only show me the way, and I will follow you?”