the word _love_, and
I could reason about it in my mind, but I could not call up the memory
of what the feeling of it was like. The blackness grew and grew. I hated
life fiercely. I hated the very possibility of a God who had created me
a blot, a blackness. With that I felt blackness begin to go out from me,
as the light had gone before--not that I remembered the light; I had
forgotten all about it, and remembered it only after I awoke. Then came
the words of the Lord to me: 'If therefore the light that is in thee be
darkness, how great is that darkness!' And I knew what was coming: oh,
horror! in a moment more I should see the faces of those I had once
loved, dark with the blackness that went out from my very existence;
then I should hate them, and my being would then be a hell to which the
hell I now was would be a heaven! There was just grace enough left in me
for the hideousness of the terror to wake me. I was cold as if I had
been dipped in a well. But oh, how I thanked God that I was what I am,
and might yet hope after what I may be!"

The minister's face was pale as the horse that grew gray when Death
mounted him; and his eyes shone with a feverous brilliancy. The draper
breathed a deep breath, and rubbed his white forehead. The minister rose
and began again to pace the room. Drew would have taken his departure,
but feared leaving him in such a state. He bethought himself of
something that might help to calm him, and took out his pocket-book. The
minister's dream had moved him deeply, but he restrained himself all he
could from manifesting his emotion.

"Your vision," he said, "reminds me of some verses of Mr. Wingfold's, of
which Mrs. Wingfold very kindly let me take a copy. I have them here in
my pocket-book; may I read them to you?"

The minister gave rather a listless consent, but that was enough for
Mr. Drew's object, and he read the following poem.

SHALL THE DEAD PRAISE THEE?

I can not praise Thee. By his instrument
The organ-master sits, nor moves a hand;
For see the organ pipes o'erthrown and bent,
Twisted and broke, like corn-stalks tempest-fanned!

I well could praise Thee for a flower, a dove;
But not for life that is not life in me;
Not for a being that is less than love--
A barren shoal half-lifted from a sea,

And for the land whence no wind bloweth ships,
And all my living dead ones thither blown--
Rather I'd kiss no more their precious lips,
Than