May read in Nature's open book, need we
To prove that this is so. When we recall
The countless wonders of the Universe,
From merest atom to the glorious sun,
And stars, and planets, in their order, all
In perfect harmony upborne,—and earth,

So fraught with beauty, grandeur, light, and life,—
All, all proclaim One over-ruling Hand.

But this, does this assurance give that we,
The vale of death once passed, shall live again?
That in a higher, purer sphere, our souls
Shall mingle in communion sweet, and know,
As we, in this life present, one another know?
Momentous questions these, that ever rise

And constant audience seek. "T is true, the words
Of revelation come belief to claim-

All doubt dispel; yet few, methinks, are there

Who do not crave more light. Whence shall this come?
Whither to end all doubt, seek we for proof?

Not, surely, in the grovelling passions of
The carnal heart, that drag to lowest depths
And darkness dire; but upward, upward, where
The mental vision scope may take afar,
Without obstruction from the earth below.
We can ascend. United by the bonds
Of love, and taking for our guide the rule-
The Golden Rule that never leads astray-
Our souls may rise to regions clear, so full
Of heavenly light that 'twixt eternal life
And this, no barrier appears.

CHAPTER III.

POETRY AN INSPIRATION: MR. STODDARD'S RATHER STARTLING ASSERTION TO THE CONTRARY.

WHOEVER has read Sir Edwin Arnold's "Light of the World" will doubtless have observed that, in his introduction to it, Richard Henry Stoddard makes the rather startling assertion that what has heretofore been generally received as an admitted fact, that real poetry is an inspiration, is, after all, in his estimation, only "a delusion which was fostered by immature rhymesters to palliate their shortcomings and impart dignity to their trivialities." This would appear to be taking direct issue with the author of the oft-repeated epigram that "poets are born, not made,” and he adds that poetry "is now as universally recognized to be an art as painting, sculpture, or music, and the rules to which it conforms have been gathered from the practice of the masters and formulated into a system of critical laws, which not to know is to know nothing of poetry." Undoubtedly, what passes for good poetry, so far as sense and rhythm are concerned, may be composed without any special inspiration, but I am inclined to believe that in order to the production of the most perfect spirituelle character of poetry, the author himself must. be inspired above any help from art or "system of critical laws," just, for instance, as a mere mechanical performer on a musical instrument, with little or no ear for harmony of sound, may touch every note correctly without the ability to thrill the listener like an Ole Bull or a Bischoff. Says Cicero, "Nascimur poetæ, fimus oratores." We are born poets; by education we may become orators.

Let us hear also what the "Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" says of his experience:

"A lyric conception hits like a bullet in the forehead. I have often had the blood drop from my cheeks when it struck, and felt that I turned as white as death. Then comes a creeping as of centipedes running down the spine; then a gasp and a great jump of the heart; then a sudden flush, and a beating of the vessels of the head; then a long sigh, and the poem is written. . . . I said written, but did not say copied. Every such poem has a soul and a body, and it is the body of it, or the copy, that men read and publishers pay for. The soul of it is born in an instant in the poet's soul. It comes to him a thought tangled in the meshes of a few sweet words-words that have loved each other from the cradle of the language, but have never been wedded until now. . . . No wonder the ancients made the poetical impulse wholly external-goddess, muse, divine afflatus, something outside always. I never wrote any verses worth reading. I can't. I am too stupid. If ever I copied any that were worth reading, I was only a medium."

...

Undoubtedly the art of poetry may be acquired, but without that inspiration which comes to the aid of every true poet, what is produced is little, if any, better than rhymed prose. Emerson calls it "that dream power which every night shows thee is thy own; a power transcending all limit and privacy, and by virtue of which a man is the conductor of the whole river of electricity."

As an appropriate conclusion to these hasty comments let us turn to Sir Edwin Arnold's proem preceding his beautiful poem:

"The Sovereign Voice spoke once more in my ear:
'Write, now, a song unstained by any tear!'

'What shall I write?' I said. The Voice replied,

'Write what We tell thee of the Crucified!'

'How shall I write,' I said, 'who am not meet

One word of that sweet speaking to repeat?'
'It shall be given unto thee! Do this thing!'

Answered the Voice: 'Wash thy lips clean and sing!"

WASHINGTON, D. C., May 10, 1891.

CHAPTER IV.

CROSSING THE OCEAN.

New Sensations-Singular Coincidence-Ocean Hymns.

For one who has never been out of sight of land, it is no slight undertaking to come to a fixed determination to cross the Atlantic. Speaking for myself, I am free to acknowledge that, when, in the year 1867, I began to think seriously of it-propelled by no imperative order or business, but moved mainly by a desire for rest and to see something of the Old World-it required all the resolution at my command to make up my mind actually to engage my passage and prepare for the voyage. In fact, even after I had reached this determination, and had selected my state-room on the good steamship Fulton, Captain Charles H. Townsend, to sail from New York to Havre on the 11th of May, it was not until we were fairly set out upon the great deep-no land in sight-that I came gradually to realize the actual truth that surely, beyond doubt, I was leaving my own country to set foot on another and far distant continent. . . . I was now keenly sensible to the truth of the remarks of Madame de Staël, that "It becomes a much more serious matter to quit one's country when in going away it is necessary to cross the sea. Everything," she adds, "is solemn in a voyage of which the ocean marks the first steps: it seems that an abyss opens behind you, and that the return may be forever impossible. Moreover, the sight of the sea always makes a profound impression; it is the image of the Infinite which attracts the soul incessantly, and in which, without cessation, the soul appears to lose itself."

Out to sea! Only they who have bidden adieu to home and dear friends, and thus, as it were in a dream, found

themselves on the bosom of the great deep, with no land nor a living thing outside their vessel in sight, save a flock of gulls-our constant companions much of the way over and back-can realize the feeling which I now experienced. It was a new sensation, one of the remarkable characteristics of which is a feeling, I may say, of utter helplessness as regards all human support. I am happy, however, to observe that this experience was to me a source of joy on account of the realization-more vivid, if possible, than ever before-of the Omnipotent Presence. . . .

On both Sabbaths going over-we had a long passage― there were religious services in the saloon, and, if I may judge from the interest and solemnity apparent on every countenance, there was on the part of all present—and there were few or no absent passengers on that occasion-a deep and increased feeling of dependence on the Almighty arm, a sincere and hearty thankfulness for His merciful care of us, which can never be effaced from our memories. It is, indeed, a fact, not a little singular, perhaps, that this feeling found utterance in two hymns composed by two of the passengers-Henry F. King and his father-without either knowing the intention of the other, which hymns were sung at those meetings, all who could sing joining in them, having supplied themselves with copies thereof. The first (the son's composition), to the tune of "America," was sung as follows:

Our Father, hear our prayer,
As we are gathered here,
To worship Thee.

Keep us, a little band,

Well in Thy guiding hand,

And bring us safe to land
Beyond the sea.

We give our thanks to Thee,

Gratefully, willingly,

For all Thy care