of faith; and audible to the dying martyr through the yielding bars of his mortal prison-house, in strains of exulting joy till then unheard and unimagined.” “Thou must go forth alone, my soul, thou must go forth alone,— To other scenes, to other worlds, that mortal hath not known, Thou must go forth alone, my soul, to tread the narrow vale; But He, whose word is sure, hath said His comforts shall not fail. His rod and staff shall comfort thee across the dreary road, Till thou shalt join the blessed ones, in Heaven’s serene abode.” Mr. de Quincey has finely said of solitude, that, although it may be silent as light, it is, like light, the mightiest of agencies; for solitude is essential to man. “All men come into this world _alone_; all leave it _alone_. Even a little child has a dread, whispering consciousness, that, if he should be summoned to travel into God’s presence, no gentle nurse will be allowed to lead him by the hand, nor mother to carry him in her arms, nor little sister to share his trepidations.” King and priest, we are further reminded, warrior and maiden, philosopher and child, all must walk those mighty galleries alone. The solitude, therefore, which this author describes as in this world appalling or fascinating a child’s heart,[43] is but the echo of a far deeper solitude, through which already he has passed, and of another solitude, deeper still, through which he _has_ to pass: reflex of one solitude—prefiguration of another. Crabbe says of man that, feeling his weakness, it is his habit to run to society, to numbers,— “Himself to strengthen, or himself to shun; But though to this our weakness may be prone, Let’s learn to live, for we must die, alone.”