Bulwer strikes the same profound fact of experience in heroic enterprise, in his “Terror of the Threshold.” The reformer, however, confident in virtue and assured of the goodness of his undertaking, naturally trembles at critical stages of revolution in opinions and institutions long established and interwoven with the existing order of society, for the risk of introducing new truths may well check the current of a wise man’s zeal. If I pull down, he will say, this temple whose ceremonial, though barbarous and blinding, yet supports the morals of the worshiper and the present order of the social system, will the liberty and light bestowed avail for the designed improvement, or will they only unsettle the securities of law and prove occasions of disorder and licentiousness? The brave bigot and fiery enthusiast know nothing of this indecision. The cautious hesitation which springs from solicitude for the best ends and most expedient means, never troubles their stubborn bluntness of purpose nor abates their boasted consistency of action. But the regular procedure of Providence is marked by regard for the influence of conditions and the established law of progress. In these things the highest benevolence meets impediments and suffers modifications and even submits to postponement to avoid defeat; and the agents and instruments of the world’s regeneration have their Gethsemanes as well as their triumphs and transfigurations. Nothing in language, scenery or costume irreverently asserted the allusions which I am exposing. I do not know that either playwright, performer or spectator was concerned about or even conscious of the significant symbolism of the fable and its circumstantial exposition in the play. It was produced as a beautiful dramatic spectacle. Apart from any mystical meanings, it was a perfect luxury of scenic entertainment. It was so regarded by the visiters, and probably was designed for nothing more; but to me the analogy was a surprise and a delight, growing at every step of the development. It struck me first when I saw the knight and his brave squire standing on the threshold of the enchanted hall, after their victory in the wilderness. With equal zeal, truthfulness and devotion they had battled with the formidable foe, but with very different aims and apprehensions. The difference was most manifest when they stood in the presence of the enchanted family. The knight, breathless with awe and melting with compassion, showed how tenderly and reverently he felt the moral and mental bondage which struck his opened vision; but the squire, though so faithful and loyal as a follower, and efficient as a servant, had yet not the penetration of a seer; and the preposterous spectacle of princes, counselors, knights, esquires, priests, soldiers, pages, artisans, musicians, dancers, slaves, retainers—every class and calling among men—all arrested in mid-action, and slumbering for a century amid the luxury and