A large proportion of our writers are devoted to what you would here term transcendental thought, a kind of literature which lies between poetry and music, which awakens a feeling of ecstasy, and gives, as it were, wings to the soul.

The poets who sang upon earth during the last century, of whom Shelly, Keats, and Byron are an English type, and Halleck, Pierrepont, Dana, and Willis the American representatives, are among the most inspired and far-reaching of our present writers of poetry and song.

Our literature has one great advantage over that of earth, in that our separate nationalities become merged in one grand unit.  We do not need translators, as we have adopted a universal written language.  There are some writers who still retain, as I have said, the modes adopted on earth, but those who have been resident any length of time in the spirit sphere employ the plan of writing by signs, which are understood and acknowledged by every nationality.

I should like, in closing, to introduce an extract from an old volume which I found in a library in the city of Spring Garden.

It was written by Addison during his sojourn in that city, in the year 1720, and is in the form of a letter, supposed to be written to a friend on earth.  In it he essays to portray the expansion of mind he has experienced in his new home through the magnetic influence of thought language: 

“Behold the far off luminary suspended millions and billions and trillions of miles in space; then turn the eye yonder and see that infinitesimal point of vegetation, earth—­a speck, countless multitudes of which heaped and piled together would form but a point compared with that majestic sun!

“Yet behold it move and expand beneath the long fibrous rays which that effulgent orb sends down through so many billions of miles to the place of its minute existence.  Even as that poor little existence shoots out its fibres to meet those rays which have travelled such great lengths, so a spirit in the spheres feels the quickening, effulgent rays thrown out by the brain of some prophet or poet existing millions and billions and trillions of miles away on some distant spirit planet, and his thought expands and enlarges beneath the warming action of that far-off brain, until it assumes a shape and form which its own emulation never prophesied.”

BYRON.

TO HIS ACCUSERS.

I.

  My soul is sick of calumny and lies: 
  Men gloat on evil—­even woman’s hand
  Will dabble in the mire, nor heed the cries
  Of the poor victim whom she seeks to brand
  In thy sweet name, Religion, through the land! 
  Like the keen tempest she doth strip her prey,
  Tossing him bare and wrecked upon the strand,
  While vaunting her misdeeds before the day,
Bearing a monument which crumbles like the clay.