l very well to anticipate the fact
which 'eye hath not seen,' etc. But men need the prospect of an eternal
joy they know of, as much as they needed that awe-inspiring Jehovah
should outwork in love-inspiring Christ. In view of this, among other
joys set before him, the extra-earnest worker, in public or private, can
more easily deprive himself of that amount of social intercourse with
the other sex which he craves. Such can suffice themselves with
occasional glances of the complementary portion of mankind; and as they
hurriedly pass seraphic faces in the street, they wave the hand of the
spirit after them, saying: 'I prithee, O thou wonder, art human or no?'
'O you sweet beautiful! 'the king's business requires haste. Providence
has set our lives so far apart we cannot hear each other speak.' But
you will be a woman, and I will be a man, forever. In paradise, I will
read wonderful things in those and other such eyes, and wonder at you
forever. _Vale! vale!_'

There is a poet claiming to be of the supernal life--especially of the
supernal conjugal--who has written 'epics' and 'lyrics,' of which I must
honestly say, as Emerson, I believe, once honestly said of some of the
writings of Swedenborg: 'I read them with an unction and an afflatus
quite indescribable.' They lift one to the empyrean like nothing else I
know of outside the Bible. There is such a saintly purity; such a
wondrous, rich, mellow joyousness; such bounding elasticity of spirit;
such an evidently irresistible gush of song in the heart; such broad
catholicity of religion, that, to some, it seems impossible that they
could have been written anywhere but under the perpetual midsummer skies
of paradise. It may show poor taste, but to me, in those regions of the
upper ether wherein Tennyson, Mrs. Browning, and Shelley grow
wing-weary, he soars on strong, free pinion. His 'imaginings,' if such
they are, of immortal life, as much surpass in plausibility and
naturalness those of Milton, Dante, and Virgil, as the acting of a
first-class theatre surpasses that seen in the old monkish 'mysteries.'
This writer, T. L. Harris, has won much recognition in both hemispheres;
would win much more if he appeared simply as a poet, and did not claim a
seer faculty, making many positive statements that cannot be verified.
He certainly comes up to Aristotle's standard, where he says: 'The
object of the poet is not to treat the True as it really happened, but
as it should have hap