quenched the
ashes of the pyre with red wine, as if the blood of the god-given vine
could hearten the spirit that yet hovered near. Over my ashes let no
wine be poured, but read me such verses high and valiant, that if my
soul yet lingers undelivered from the earth's attraction it may be
regenerated and set free into a braver life.

And let the lonely man be an assiduous frequenter of the playhouse, for
the drama will also open the world's heart to him, and that by a plainer
and less elusive speech. Seated in the theatre among his kind, he knows
a deeper pleasure than other men; for while to these the changing scene
brings remembrance or anticipation of familiar things, to him it reveals
whole vistas of life which, except in dreams, his feet may never tread.
When the curtain is rung down, and he goes out into the street, for a
while at least his existence is transformed. All those front doors
aligned in their innumerable sequence, which in daylight or darkness he
passes when he wanders alone, are now no longer barred against him; they
open at the touch of his fancy, and he sees within the light of
homeliness, where father, mother, and child weave round warm firesides
their close conspiracies of affection. At last he knows what is passing
behind those bars; like an old family friend he takes his place by the
fire and receives as of right the confidences which in his real lonely
life never find their way to his ears. He helps the lovers to build
their cloudy castles, he reasons away the parents' care, he goes
up-stairs with a shaded candle to look in upon the children sleeping.
Good women unlock the jewel-caskets which are their souls; happy maidens
are sisterly with him; strong men grapple him to their hearts and call
him friend. He that was vagabond has now innumerable homes, and of the
faces that fleet by him out of doors there are always some which seem to
give him greeting.

These secret and unavowed alliances transfigure the unlovely streets,
and light in the cavernous blank houses many a glowing and familiar
hearth. As he goes on, careless of distance or direction, he is now
inwardly busy with fresh and delightful dreams. He plights his troth and
earth is Eden; he imagines brilliant hours for the dream-children who
go by his side, holding each of his hands. And if the visions change,
and sorrow or sin pass in over a familiar threshold, what generous
abnegation, what pity, what righteous wrath does he not know, un