I cannot describe to you the rich, ennobling thoughts, clothed in their draperies of sweetest imagery, which flowed from the soul of him who presided, into ours, the recipients’; nor the grandeur and sublimity of the ideas with which he threaded, like brands of shimmering pearls, the network of his discourse. But all was grand and glorious, beyond the power of mortals to conceive. At the close of his remarks, the company clustered into knots, discussing the discourse, comparing experiences, or revealing to each other the secret depths of their poetic souls, from which were to be drawn lines, glowing with the beauty and fragrance of harmonious lives. It was then I discovered that every soul that is attuned into harmony with the inner life, that dwells in sympathy with the Divine Mind, as manifested in his outer creations of will, in his natural expressions of love and beauty, is in itself a poem of rare delicacy and power; a living, breathing, animated poem, thrilled with the magic power of thought, and stamped with the eternal glory of individualized liberty; that every poetic soul is itself the production of the Infinite Mind, that must make itself heard in lines of glowing, inspiring thought along the pathway of human toil and suffering, and cannot fail to arouse the hidden energies and sleeping possibilities of power of those it comes in _rapport_ with. It was then I was made supremely blest by being taken by the hand by such souls as Cowper, Byron,—my boyhood’s ideal,—Burns, Scott, Campbell, Moore, Mrs. Browning, Felicia Hemans, and others, and welcomed to this haunt of the beautiful and the good. And I cannot convey to you my exquisite sense of pleasures when my hand was again grasped by that of my helper and friend, Robert B. Brough, and I was enabled to bless him for the avenues of tranquility and peace he had opened out to me. But I must not linger here, although sweet and pleasant to me are these reminiscences of actual life in the spheres. Leaving the Poets’ Chamber, I visited in turn the Musicians’ Gallery, the Sculptors’ Hall, and the Artists’ Studio. It is impossible for mortal hands to pen a description of what is to be seen and heard in them. Words fail, and language grows cold and unmeaning before the splendid achievements of the upper world. Imagine, if you can, all the sweetest sounds your soul has ever heard or dreamed of, blended into one harmonious whole, swelling louder, clearer, and sweeter, or melting away into the far-off distance, like the gentle fading of a glorious sunset, absorbed by a finer and more ethereal beauty of azure brightness, and you will have a faint conception of the music and the singing of the spheres.