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man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with the solemn flight of angel-wing, they fled through deserts of darkness—through wildernesses of death, that divided the worlds of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers, that were quickening under prophetic motions from God. Then from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleeply film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them, they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment the blazing of suns was around them. Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetitions and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways-horizontal, uprightrested, rose, at altitudes by spans—that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates. Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below! Above was below, below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable, height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite, suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose—that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy—other heights and other depths--were coming, were nearing, were at hand! Then the man sighed, and stopped, shuddered, and wept. His overladened heart uttered itself in tears, and he said, 'Angel, I wi go no further; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God's house. Let me lie down in the grave, and hide me from the persecution of the infinite; for end I see there is none.' And from all the listening stars that shone around issued a choral voice, The man speaks truly: end there is none, that ever yet we heard of.' * End, is there none ?' the Angel solemnly demanded: and is this the sorrow that kills you ?'

But no voice answered, that he might answer himself. Then the Angel threw up his glorious hands to the heaven of heavens, saying, “ End is there none to the universe of God. Lo! also there is no beginning.””

There is one article in his miscellanies we ought not to pass over, upon Jean D'Arc, which is full of manly earnestness, tender sympathy, and deep pathos. Well has he told her tale. He tells us how, when a man was not to be found in the crisis of a nation's history, a woman came forward, clad herself in armour, stood in the breach of danger, mingled in the shock of armies, and even gave her body to be burned, that from its ashes might spring up the seeds of liberty. Such a heroine was Jean D'Arc. We behold her as she comes forth from beneath the shadows of her native mountains, where silently her soul laboured in travail for the sorrows of her people, and where she had nursed those great thoughts under the inspiration of which sprung up armed men, who knew how to fight and to die-thoughts which gave her soul that unconquerable energy and will, which death itself could not intimidate, to proclaim her mission and to execute it. We see her cleaving her way through her enemy's legions, penetrating their strongholds, and leading on the Dauphin to be crowned at Rheims. We see her again in the toilet of Death, preparing for immortality. Let anyone

read this article without tears if they can. Such tears will do the heart good ; they are not the simperings of sentimentality as evaporate over the pages of the last new novel, or “such tears as tender lawyers shed,” for they evoke the highest sympathies of our nature, springing as they do from the deep fountain of the heart.

Yet there is one thing objectionable in this article, viz., a wild display of humour, dancing like sunbeams upon the bosom of some dark waters—the scene of an awful tragedyor like a troop of merry children, gaily frolicking in the house of mourning and tears. There is evidently a struggle in the mind of the author to repress it, sometimes even by tears; but now and then it breaks out. We see it dancing even beneath the scaffold and upon

the funeral pyre; yet it is not like the hollow laughter of those fiends who stood around their victim, exulting in their barbarity and revelling in their cruelty as they beheld her clad in fire. He does not laugh at her, but at her tormentors, who could do no more—who could not touch her beauteous spirit as it winged its way to another tribunal, there to stand in judgment against her false witnesses and executioners.

Thus have we endeavoured to give a rapid sketch of De Quincey's mind and writings. We feel that we have not done justice to his great powers in these faint jottings of ours; yet this man's life was imperfect, and his works are fragmentary; the deadly effects of opium paralysed his efforts for writing any monumental work; what he has done is not commensurate to what he might have done. He has not been a great teacher, one of the pioneers of his age, clearing barriers, and removing mountains to prepare the way for the grand march of humanity. But he has been more an interpreter than a teacher; more an instructor and pleasing companion than a guide. He has nestled into the brains of our greatest thinkers, and interpreted to us their thoughts; having been more a labourer at the mint than the mine, working up the sterling metal into current use. His translations have enabled us to shake hands with brethren whom we knew not; the living, who to us were dead; and the dead who cannot die. Those who wish to become acquainted with the ancient and modern philosophies, whether of the Egyptian, Grecian, Latin, or German schools, let them peruse carefully the writings of Thomas De Quincey; for, as a subtle thinker, a clear reasoner, with a richly stored and well cultivated mind, with an eye to see, a heart to feel, and moreover, a strong poetic sympathy to enlighten and render these truths manifest, he is, we think, second to none of our modern writers.

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