I

I.

THE SONS OF GOD.

TAKE in my hand a sheet of fair, white writing

paper, and enter the studio of a photographer. Handing to him the paper I request that he will make me a photograph of it.

His surprise is natural, and I am prepared for the remonstrance, "But, sir, there is nothing on it to photograph.'

"Be it so," I reply; "call it simply an experiment, but oblige me by performing it."

Accordingly the stainless sheet of paper is pinned against the wall; the camera is adjusted; and the plate, after an instant's exposure to "nothing," is duly carried off to that mysterious little dark room in which the lovers of this gentle craft delight.

Thus being for a few minutes left alone I take up a book that lies on the table; and somewhat idly turning the leaves I come upon these words, "When

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the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy." Who were these sons of God, these stars of the morning? Perhaps they were a company of angels that came down to witness the beauty of the new created world. Perhaps-ah! we may wonder and question, but we cannot answer. And yet, still turning the leaves of the book, the fancy grows upon me until, linking thought to thought, I come upon another passage that seems the very record of their song.

And now the vision is complete before me. I can see them as they stand in shining ranks on the margin of the great sea. I can hear their voices as they cry, "Thou coveredst the deep as with a garment, the waters stand in the hills; at Thy rebuke they flee, at the voice of Thy thunder they are afraid." And now on mighty wings I see them pass over sea and strand and fruitful plain, until, reaching some great mountain range, the song is again raised, "The trees of the Lord are full of sap; even the cedars of Lebanon which He hath planted; wherein the birds make their nests.” And yet again, behold, as from the heights they see the wide horizon stretched before them and the sun sinking beyond the distant hills: "Thou makest darkness that it may be night, wherein all the beasts of the forest do move; the lions roaring after their prey do seek their meat from God; the sun ariseth, they haste them away

together and lay them down in their dens; man goeth forth to his labour."

"Man goeth forth to his labour." And so the vision fades from before me; the book is closed; the shining ranks are seen no more; I am again alone in the worka-day world. It only remains for me to extract from my purse the price of my photograph of "nothing," and then-when suddenly a voice is heard from within the little room, "But, sir, there really is something!" And so it proves: the plate, in utter disregard of the old saw, that "out of nothing, nothing can come," is showing lively signs of chemical action, and in another minute the photographer places in my hands the image of the sheet of paper, on which are distinctly traced these words: "Seeing the Invisible."

"Seeing the Invisible"-it is a contradiction in terms. Yes, truly, and yet the expression is not without justification.

Let us consider it for a moment. We are all familiar with different methods of secret writing. As children we may have written what we were pleased to call mysterious messages, with milk-as innocent as ourselves -and then, holding them to the fire, have exulted to see them deepen into brown. But that is not seeing the invisible; it is making the writing visible in order that we may be able to see it. Here however the writing is unchanged; the paper from which the photograph

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was taken lies before me now, fair and white still. If anything is written upon it the eye cannot discern it; it is invisible from first to last; and yet we not only know what is there but we see it with our eyes, and that by a process which leaves it still invisible.

"Seeing the Invisible." But how came the words there? That is a question so easily answered that I will leave it for a moment while I place side by side with it the greater question-Whence came that other vision which in an instant filled the dull waiting-room with light, and peopled it with celestial shapes? The sheet of white paper stares at me from the wall, but I do not see it, or it has become the first star that trembled over Paradise. The pages of a book rustle between my fingers, but I do not hear them-I hear only the rushing of mighty wings-and then-oh, the pity of it! The photographer can fix his image; he comes from the dark room into the daylight holding it in his hand. But I the light fades from before me-the rush of wings is heard no more—the star dies out in the darkness-where is my vision?

Questions such as these crowd in upon the mind when we think of the nature of the poet's vision or the painter's dream. And it is that we may find some answer to them that I approach this subject.

And I approach it through these two types, the one

drawn from the material, the other from the spiritual world.

For it is the essential nature of Art to deal with both these worlds. Like the great angel of the Apocalypse, Art stands with one foot upon the earth, one foot upon the sea, its head encircled with a rainbow, and in its hand a book in which are words written. And the words written therein are the thoughts of men-about themselves; about the beautiful world in which they live; about Him who they say did make them in the ages past, and who they believe will judge them in the ages yet to come. So that Art is a record of the human mind; a witness of the evil and the good that we have done. But Art is more than a record; it is a camera, looking into which we can see the image of the soul; its aspirations after that which is good; its mighty passions; its conflict with evil; its agony when hurled back into darkness; its tremulous return to light. And like as it is a mirror of the soul, so Art is also a record and a witness of the glory of the natural creation. I have dared to call it the one universal language which has never been confounded. But Art does not speak to us about itself. If Nature has nothing to say to us Art must be eternally dumb.

Ah, but Nature does speak to us, whether we listen or not; and Poetry is not so much a cry in our ears as a momentary stilling of the roar of the world; Art