and narrow cell and cankerous chain, to breathe free air in this
enchanted atmosphere. The sick man leaves his weary pillow, and
finds strength to wander hither, though his wasted limbs might not
support him even to the threshold of his chamber. The exile passes
through the Hall of Fantasy to revisit his native soil. The burden
of years rolls down from the old man's shoulders the moment that the
door uncloses. Mourners leave their heavy sorrows at the entrance,
and here rejoin the lost ones whose faces would else be seen no
more, until thought shall have become the only fact. It may be
said, in truth, that there is but half a life--the meaner and
earthier half--for those who never find their way into the hall.
Nor must I fail to mention that in the observatory of the edifice is
kept that wonderful perspective-glass, through which the shepherds
of the Delectable Mountains showed Christian the far-off gleam of
the Celestial City. The eye of Faith still loves to gaze through
it.

"I observe some men here," said I to my friend, "who might set up a
strong claim to be reckoned among the most real personages of the
day."

"Certainly," he replied. "If a man be in advance of his age, he
must be content to make his abode in this hall until the lingering
generations of his fellow-men come up with him. He can find no
other shelter in the universe. But the fantasies of one day are the
deepest realities of a future one."

"It is difficult to distinguish them apart amid the gorgeous and
bewildering light of this ball," rejoined I. "The white sunshine of
actual life is necessary in order to test them. I am rather apt to