Engaged in the work I had chosen, I had no time for regrets. Retrospection became no longer a scourge, but a guide, which, by showing me wherein I had erred, pointed out the true way to amendment; and in striving to gain knowledge of the higher, better way of living,—the way of the spirit, bound to no avenue of sensual life, but seeking the intellectual haunts of wisdom and truth,—I found peace of mind, and, in seeking to bring happiness to others, I became truly happy myself. Again I stood in the Temple of Art; again I found myself in the Poet’s Chamber, but no longer an outcast and an alien. Indeed, I was greeted as one whose coming was expected, and welcomed with a warm cordiality and royal fervor that was very refreshing to my soul. The same kingly company was assembled, but augmented by a number of other souls, rich with their freight of poetic imagery. The assembly was not composed entirely of my own countrymen and women, as heretofore; for among that mighty throng could be seen the smiling, open, intelligent faces of Thomas Moore, the sweet singer of the Emerald Isle, and Robert Burns, he who found his best inspiration amid the rugged heights and heather-crowned hills of Scotia’s land. Many others were present, whom I failed to recognize, clad in the flowing robes and purple vestments of the Roman period, or in the classic garments of ancient Greece. But England’s delegation was a large one, numbering those of every century and age: Pope and Spenser, Johnson, Cowley, and Butler, Dryden, Gay, Thomson, and Young,—not the sad, melancholy, pensive Edward Young of earth, but the radiant, calm, contented Edward Young of spirit life; gentle Henry Kirke White, liberty-loving Thomas Campbell, and stouthearted, staunch, and true Walter Scott, who, though not English born, yet seemed very near to me. Addison, whom I had mentioned as occupying the seat of honor before, now sat low at the feet of him who occupied the position of the Master of Ceremonies, and whom I recognized as the true, loyal, long-suffering, yet monarch-crowned soul, Milton. At his right was to be seen the lofty brow, and bold, fearless, speaking countenance of William Shakespeare; while, at the left, Dryden seemed to be acting as assistant or secretary. In my experience of spirit power and possibilities, I had learned to understand and interpret the waves of thought flowing from soul to soul; therefore I was at no loss to understand the purport and purposes of this convention. It was a gathering of kindred souls, met to communicate the loftiest thoughts and sweetest aspirations to each other, thus dispensing the bountiful gifts of the spirit to all who would partake.